Quivel’s eyes widened in surprise, and his mouth gaped open, quivering as if he was seeking the words that would earn the king’s forgiveness.
“I’ve never had a more cunning or clever man serve me,” the king said. “Faithful. I’ve never seen the like. Well, not since all the mastons departed!” he added with a chuckle. Then his eyes narrowed angrily. “Get out.”
“My lord, let me—”
“Get out!” Dieyre snapped.
Quivel looked like a beaten pup as he skulked out of the tent with his two guards, the Tay al-Ard still stuffed into his belt. Trynne turned and looked at her father, saw him staring at her. His magic reached out and swelled around her, probing her for weaknesses, for information. He could sense her power, just as she could sense his and the king’s. She saw his eyes narrow slightly, but he looked at her with an utter lack of recognition. As if she were a stranger with no connection to him at all.
Her heart pounded in her chest. She feared she’d not be able to speak. Here, at last, was her father . . . and he didn’t recognize her.
“And so here you are,” the king said, sauntering up to them and grinning with conceit. “You were both seen at the Leering marking the trail. Stiev told me, of course. He always tells me things. My quiet warrior. A young man and a young woman lost in the woods, following my trail of Leerings.” He crouched down near Trynne, looking at her profile, at her face. He had a familiarity about him, as if he normally treated everyone as though they were long-lost friends.
“You could almost pass for a boy, but I have a discerning eye. You’re a lass in disguise.” He scrunched his nose. “Are you come to warn me that my kingdom is about to be destroyed? Or did you simply miss boarding the ships with all the other mastons?” He offered a small, resentful chuckle, but he didn’t look like he wanted or expected an answer.
Trynne did not understand what he meant. But she used her magic to test him. To lay bare his soul. He was skilled with the sword, much more so than most of the champions of the Gauntlets back home. He was proud of his skill, proud of his reputation. His body was lean and hard and muscled. He had cat-quick reflexes and a penchant for fighting unfairly. But his greatest weakness was inside his mind. He had tried to win a woman’s love and she had spurned him, even though she had loved him in return. The regret was a bruise on his soul that couldn’t heal. In Trynne’s mind, she could see the girl’s face emblazoned in Dieyre’s thoughts like a burning torch.
He still pined for the girl. He would do anything to get her back.
“Quivel said he saw you through the Leering in Dochte,” Dieyre said, straightening and folding his arms imperiously. “How is Hillel?
The imposter queen. I know who she really is—a wretched, nothing more.” He smirked as he said it. “I remember the first time I met her.
Poor waif. So tongue-tied. Though women usually are around me.
Have these two brought to my tent, Stiev. We need to find out why Quivel was being so sneaky. I’d bash in the faces of every Dochte Mandar if I could, only I need them.” The last bit was said resentfully.
“I will, my lord,” Owen said. The king exited the tent, leaving two guards behind.
Trynne’s father came and knelt before her, studying her with wary interest. He reached for her arm to help her rise. His touch brought so many feelings swimming through her.
“Father,” she breathed softly, willing him to believe her, to trust her.
To remember her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Discernment
Owen’s hand froze, his eyes widening with shock at her whispered word. Father. Trynne felt the Fountain magic stirring with her, a spark of it moving unbidden to his hand, still holding her arm. He gasped, his eyes staring at her face. Not with recognition, but with hopefulness, with eagerness.
“Do you know me?” he asked tremulously, his voice husky and soft.
“Know you?” she said with tears catching in her throat. “You are my father. And we have come a great distance to find you. To save you from this place.”
His hand still loosely grasped her elbow, and magic flowed more freely between them, binding them together. She felt it emanating from the Leering she leaned against. Somehow the magic was confirming her words, enabling her to speak the truth with convincing power.
“Who am I?” he whispered huskily, his expression rife with desperation and relief.
“Your name is Owen Kiskaddon,” Fallon said with deep respect.
“You were practically a father to me as well. This is your daughter, Tryneowy. But you always called her Trynne.”