He raised his eyebrows. “Then you must empower someone else to make the lesser decisions for you.”
“I am waiting until my mother returns,” Trynne said, gazing at the sea. There had been no word for months. Each time Trynne invoked the magic of the protections, she silently prayed to the Fountain that Sinia would return. Until then, Trynne was trapped in Ploemeur, a hostage to her own promise and the fears and concerns of her people. Every time she returned from Kingfountain after consulting with Drew and Genevieve, the people looked relieved. No, that word wasn’t strong enough. They were absolutely terrified whenever she left. If something happened to her, they knew Brythonica was doomed. It would be drowned by the Deep Fathoms just as the kingdom of Leoneyis had been before it. The evidence of that fate lay beneath their very feet. The beautiful beads of polished glass had been stained-glass windows once, in the kingdom that had long since been destroyed.
“She may not return for some time still,” Thierry said. “Might I make a suggestion?”
“Please, Thierry. I am so busy of late that I do not have time to think of solutions to my problems. As you clearly saw this afternoon, I’m drowning.”
“We all see it,” he answered sadly. “Running a duchy was always a burden meant for two. For one person to run two?
Unthinkable. And since your . . . your husband”—she could hear the disapproval in his voice—“has been too preoccupied with his problems to visit you, you must call upon capable, trustworthy people. Take your aunt Jessica, your mother’s lady-in-waiting. Her husband is a sensible man and a proud Brythonican. Lady Jessica has served your mother well, but she is also a Kiskaddon. Send her to Westmarch and let her and her husband stay at Tatton Hall for the time being. Let her hear the cases brought to her and she can give her recommendations for solutions that serve both duchies.
“Your mother put great power and trust in Marshal Brendon Roux in ruling the realm. His family was most experienced in the arts of war. Most do not know this, but his father was the squire of the Maid of Donremy during the wars between Occitania and Ceredigion. You need someone like him, my lady. But we cannot simply wait for such a person to appear.” He paused and met her gaze. “I would humbly ask that you let me share this burden with you. I know how your mother thought and the way she would decide.
The only reason I have not mentioned this before was because I feared it would be presumptuous on my part to recommend myself.”
She hugged herself, feeling a shiver run through her. After her family’s combined duties and responsibilities had fallen on her shoulders, she’d felt the need to perform them on her own. But to what end? The work was wearing her down to the point of exhaustion. She would much rather be searching for her father than listening to boring speeches and reports of the latest conflicts
between the relief ships sent to Chandigarl and the Mandaryn. The Mandaryn had seized all the cargo and wouldn’t dispense the goods to the suffering people unless the goods were brought in on treasure ships bearing their own flags. Their machinations infuriated her.
“I will heed your counsel, Thierry,” Trynne answered. “Will you send word for my aunt to come and see me this evening? Then draft the delegation of my authority and I will sign it. Thank you for helping me make it through these difficult months.”
He put his hand on her shoulder. “My lady, you have experienced grief that is unsurpassed in recent memory. Some of the people . . . some of the citizens have begun calling you the Lady of Sorrows.” He cast a wary look at her. “Perhaps I shouldn’t say so, but others are saying that your family has been cursed by the Fountain.”
They had been strolling slowly along the shore, staying just beyond the grasping reach of the foaming surf. Her guards had kept the area clear for them, but they must have allowed someone to pass. A man was walking across the beach toward them, someone she did not recognize.
Thierry noticed her gaze and turned to follow it. “That is Aumbale of the Espion if I’m not mistaken.”
Trynne did not recognize him, but they met him partway.
Aumbale had a strong stride and wore a tunic splattered in mud and riding gloves that he tugged off and stuffed into his belt as he approached. He’d not shaved for several days and looked saddle-weary.
“My lady,” he said, bowing stiffly and producing a letter. “I come from the Star Chamber at the behest of my master, Lord Amrein. I left three days ago. I watched him pen this note with my own eyes before he fixed the seal. I’m certain the news will be coming at my heels. Your husband, Lord Gahalatine, arrived in Kingfountain by treasure ship. He awaits you there.”