The Silent Shield (Kingfountain #5)(89)

Trynne did not know how long she slept, but her dreams were peaceful. She was walking along the shore of the Glass Beach, hand in hand with Fallon. They spoke of childhood and their adventures together in Ploemeur. He reminded her of the magnolia trees and how he had caught her around the waist and twirled her around. His words brought back the memory and the dizziness, and her heart throbbed with love.

They sat down on the beach together, listening to the crashing of the surf. She loved that sound, loved everything about that place—the salty smell of sea air, the noise of gulls, the long wings of pelicans, and the little pips of sandpipers. She looked over at Fallon, but Gahalatine was sitting there in his stead, arms crossed around his knees, the wind tousling his hair. She was confused by the transformation.

Where had Fallon gone? She heard the sound of boots crunching in the sand and turned her head. Fallon was walking back toward the stone steps leading away from the beach. There was a woman standing in the distance, her black hair flowing in the wind. Trynne wanted to call out in warning, feeling a sudden panic in her heart.

Her eyes blinked open and she was instantly disoriented, not recognizing the furs and cushions on which she slept. Gahalatine was sitting on a cushion on the floor near her, head propped on one hand, writing with a quill and ink on paper. The sound of the quill head scratching the paper was soft as his hand moved swiftly across the page.

She blinked and lifted herself up on her arms. “When did you return?” she murmured, her voice quavering, her emotions still charged by the dream. She wiped her mouth on the back of her hand.

He glanced over at her. “You were resting so peacefully,” he said, “I dared not disturb you. So I started writing up orders to be executed after we spoke again. My heart is burning in my chest, Tryneowy. You spoke the truth. You spoke of your pain. I’m honored that you would still accept me, even after all that has happened.”

He cocked his head to one side, sighing deeply.

“Truth is like a double-edged sword. Is that not one of the teachings of the Fountain? It cuts through soul and spirit, joints and marrow. How did you know to strike me there, where I am most vulnerable?” He blinked rapidly, still not looking at her, his mind far away.

“As I thought about the things you told me, Tryneowy, I felt the truth of your words. I’m not certain I could have endured them had they been spoken by any other person.” He looked at her then, his eyes full of sorrow and anguish. There were tears quivering on his lashes.

“Surely . . . surely you are right. About everything. There is no atonement I can make for the loss of your brother. Were Rucrius here right now, I would slay him myself for such a crime. I can still defeat this castle, even with the blizzard summoned by the hollow crown. But I cannot take the crown itself by force.”

Trynne edged close enough to rest her hand on his shoulder. He jolted when he felt her touch and looked up at her shamefacedly. He covered his mouth with one hand, closed his eyes, and began stroking the stubble on his chin.

“My treasury is, as you say, depleted. The Mandaryn convinced me that this exploit would succeed, that our coffers would once again be overflowing.” He shook his head slightly, then gazed up at her. “I assume Sunilik is the one who told you. He saw through the illusion. He has warned me repeatedly. I’ve relied on his counsel.” He stared into her eyes. “Just as I would like to rely on yours. Is there anything else you learned about Chandigarl? Any other truths about my empire that I do not recognize?”

Trynne sat down beside him and smoothed some of her hair back from her face. “There is something about the zenana,” she said. “When I visited it, I sensed . . . I’m not sure what it was.”

Gahalatine sat up as well, crossing his legs and nodding encouragingly. “Go on. I have felt it as well.”

“I don’t know what it is. But I fear it comes from these Mandaryn. The men who wear the silver masks to hide themselves. Some of them have been sighted in our kingdom. Always secretly. They come and go in stealth.”

He looked startled. “I’ve authorized no such incursions. Rucrius would have much to answer if the dead could speak. He was the ruler of the Mandaryn.” He paused, then added, “They do not wear the silver masks as a disguise, but to hide the marks on their faces.”

Trynne furrowed her brow. “What marks?” she asked, but even as she said it, she remembered the dark lines she’d noticed on the face of the man who’d confronted her and Sunilik.

“The Mandaryn use an ancient magic that causes sigils to creep from their chests up their necks and to their faces. Such markings frightened the women of the zenana, so the men were kept masked. Rucrius gave a special name to the Mandaryn assigned to the zenana. He called them the Dokht Mandar—or the daughters of the Mandaryn—for their duty was to treat the women as their daughters. They were in charge of finding a suitable wife for me.” He pursed his lips and gave her a knowing look. “I was never comfortable with any of their selections. The women were all beautiful, skilled at conversation, music, and poetry. But they all felt . . . wrong.”

Trynne felt something tugging inside her mind. “Something is not right about that place,” she said again.

“Is that all?” he asked her gently.

She thought once more about her dream, the ache she’d felt as she watched Fallon walk away. Then she shook her head no. She was not ready to confide that part of herself yet.