But if there were any Dochte Mandar in the castle, they might be drawn to its power.
She stared at herself, wiping her mouth, and the delay festered inside her. Even a few days seemed too long to wait.
“Can we trust Martin?” Fallon asked, adjusting his sword belt on his hips. He looked gallant and darkly handsome in his new uniform.
The tips of her ears began to burn and she looked away.
“Trust is a stronger word than I’d use,” Trynne answered. “The delay weighs on me too. But if Martin can help us get to Dahomey faster, it’s worth being patient.” Feeling bashful, she paused and then added, “Let me change next.”
He nodded and she took her tunic and armor and slipped behind the changing screen. She had not felt this self-conscious while they were traveling in the woods, but the room was so cramped and sparse in comparison.
“My first instinct is that he is trustworthy,” Fallon said, his voice ghosting over the partition. “If they had an Espion in Comoros, he would be part of it. He’s highly trained, probably even better than Staeli. His accent reminds me of home. You?”
“I noticed that too,” Trynne said, tugging off the chain hauberk and wincing as it rattled. She hurriedly put on the tunic and was amazed at the quality of the velvet. The design was much more flamboyant than the ragged tunics they’d been given in the barracks.
“That probably puts you at ease.”
“I was always more at home away from Edonburick,” he admitted. “Someone is coming.”
She had noticed the sound of rapid footfalls as well. Working fast, she lashed her sword belt around her waist.
Martin barged right into the room, huffing and muttering. “You were seen,” he grumbled.
“By the queen?” Fallon asked with concern.
“No, by one of her handmaids. By the time the queen went to the window, we were gone. She has just asked me to bring you both to her.” He did not sound pleased. “Och, this doesn’t bode well for either of you.”
Trynne stepped around the side of the changing screen, working on the shoulder-guard strap. “Why not bring us to the ship bound for Dahomey now?”
Martin rubbed his eyes. “No, that would be unwise. The hunter is patient. The prey is careless. The handmaid nearly swooned,” he said, eyes flashing daggers at Fallon. “You’ve roused my lady’s curiosity, and she . . . the queen is a hetaera. Have you ever been in the presence of one before, lad?”
Fallon looked chagrined by the compliment the lady-in-waiting had inadvertently given him, but he managed to look humble instead of proud. “Yes. Does she wear a kystrel?”
Martin shook his head. “No. The king wears hers. He’ll do or say anything she bids him to. He’s a jealous sort, but he’s impotent against her power.” He gave Fallon a respectful nod. “You’re not as wet behind the ears as you look.”
“Thank you, grandfather,” Fallon said provokingly.
Martin chuffed, folding his arms across his chest as he started to pace. “Well, delaying your meeting will only heighten her anticipation. Best to get it over with quickly. Like setting a broken bone.”
Fallon approached Trynne and patted her back softly, his hand thumping against the Tay al-Ard she had secured to her belt beneath the cape. The reminder that they had a ready escape route only made her feel marginally better. He gave her a knowing smile and gestured for her to go first.
The corridors were lit by torches to dispel the evening gloom.
The palace looked tranquil, something that was belied by the tension in the air. Their boots clicked against the smooth marble tiles—a noise that was drowned out as they approached the sound of music and laughter. The guards stationed there opened the doors for them, and a raucous peal of laughter escaped—the sound setting Trynne’s teeth on edge.
The air was thick and hazy with smoke. The room was full of nobles and ladies wearing fancy doublets and ceremonial swords that were so thin they would likely shatter if struck against metal.
Titters and giggles from painted faces flooded Trynne’s senses. But a sickening feeling permeated the room, one that was instantly recognizable.
She had felt it before in the zenana in Chandigarl. There it had been covert and subtle; here it practically flooded the hall. She sensed the magic of kystrels coming from multiple sources. Her hand lowered to the hilt of one of her swords, and her eyes scanned the room, searching for the danger she felt but could not see. Then she noticed that all the women in the room had strange tattoo-like markings on their throats and faces, even the servants. From the kystrels, she realized in a spark of intuition. It was a sign of the magic’s taint. It had to be.