“My name is Fidelis.”
“The Pry-rian word for ‘faithful,’” the queen answered, raising her eyebrows. “Curious. Are you Pry-rian, then? That is my heritage.
My father was a mighty prince who was slain by the King of Comoros. As a baby, I was sent to Sempringfall Abbey to be raised a wretched. A nameless one. Unwanted.” Her voice betrayed deeper emotion. She paced slowly in front of Trynne, eyeing her guardedly.
“Even my name was stolen from me. I worked in the laundry as a lavender. I was called Hillel, but that was not my true name. Let me see your hand.”
Trynne frowned, feeling more and more uncomfortable. “My lady?”
“Your hand. Now.”
Trynne hesitated, but though she was fearful the queen would see what Martin had seen in her, she had no recourse other than to open her hand.
The queen gripped Trynne’s wrist and examined her palm, looking for something. The urge to pull away, and the knowledge that she could not, was maddening. The queen stroked her finger along Trynne’s palm.
“You have calluses like a knight,” the queen said. “But you are no maston. I thought you were.” She released her grip and Trynne pulled her arm back, feeling vulnerable and worried.
“I am not,” Trynne said, shaking her head.
“A pity, then. All the mastons have fled. They fear me, and rightly so. But where are they? Where did they flee to? It is a great mystery.”
The noise of bootsteps hurrying down the hall announced the arrival of another person. Trynne risked a glance back and saw Martin approaching, his eyes livid, his face twisted into a frown.
“You were attacked?” he said, his voice throbbing with concern.
“I was not,” she said disdainfully. “My new knights were there to protect me. You chose them well. They defeated both kishion.”
“Two?” Martin shouted in outrage.
“Yes, there were two. This one detected them.” She gave Trynne a pleased nod.
Martin gave Trynne a grateful look. “Well done, lad. One of them was carrying this,” he said, holding up a folded note. The seal was broken off. He handed it to the queen. “I cannot read this, my lady. You must.”
The queen frowned and snatched the note from his hand. Her eyebrows furrowed as she perused the contents. Martin gazed at her, a look of relief evident and naked on his face. It was not feigned; he looked as if he had truly been frightened for her safety. She
realized that Fallon’s instincts were right—something bound these two together.
The queen’s nostrils flared. “They were sent by the Aldermaston of Dochte Abbey,” she hissed, crumpling the letter in her fist. Her hand shook with rage. “The Aldermaston sought to kill me?” She started to pace, her expression that of someone who had been betrayed by a friend. “Condemned by his own hand. So he has betrayed me as well. So be it.”
Pure hatred flooded her eyes. “Ready my ship, Martin. I want to depart with the morning tide. We sail for Dahomey at once.
Tomorrow. Have someone rouse the king and get him ready. Carry him aboard if he’s too drunk to walk.” Her words were full of derision and venom. “If the Aldermaston has sided with Dieyre over me, then he will suffer the consequences. He will suffer as he made so many others suffer.” Trynne saw the tendons in the queen’s hand straining as she crushed the letter. “Rouse the castle, Martin. If I do not sleep, no one will. We must be under way at once.”
“Aye, my lady,” Martin breathed, bowing his head in submission.
The queen whirled and stormed back into her room, slamming the door behind her.
When Martin finally lifted his head, he gave a cunning grin.
“Soon enough for you?”
It surprised Trynne how quickly the queen’s orders were obeyed.
The entire castle was roused from slumber to prepare for the journey. By the time the sun was rising, Trynne and Fallon were on the deck of the flagship of the fleet, a hulking four-masted galleon that could have been a Genevese man-of-war. But it was nothing compared to Gahalatine’s massive treasure ships, nor was the fleet anywhere near as large.
The queen was finally bedded down in the royal suite. Her husband had literally been carried aboard and was too addled with cider to do more than moan in discomfort. Martin barked commands like a seasoned sailor, and the squeal of pulleys and the stretching noise of ropes mixed with the cries of the myriad gulls swooping overhead. The vessel lurched from the harbor and entered the wide river heading downstream toward the sea.