“How, then?” Trynne asked hopefully.
“Actually, it was Myrddin who helped us get to the answer. Long ago. Sometimes we can learn about them from the Fountain. Not in whispers. But by circumstances we face. Those circumstances reveal the weakness we never knew we had.”
Sinia smiled once more, gazing at the gray-green horizon. “And then we are no longer blind to them.”
Trynne swung the glaive high, and Captain Staeli caught it, jammed it down, and followed through with a knife toward her ribs. She twisted, trapping his arm, but he levered her backward, nearly making her fall. His counter was perfectly timed.
She released his hold and stepped back, feeling the sweat streak down her cheeks. Her training clothes were sodden from their lengthy practice. She twirled the glaive around as he watched her movement, preparing himself for her attack.
“Well done, Captain. This weapon can strike from either end. Be ready.”
“I’ve seen well enough what it can do,” he grunted, his eyes intense and focused.
The door of the training yard creaked open and Farnes limped into the yard with the help of a walking staff. Trynne stilled her weapon and straightened, turning to face her herald as she saw he had come with news.
“My lady,” Farnes said in his wheezy voice. “Several ladies have arrived at the castle. Some are young. Others are much older. The queen sent them. You mentioned, when you returned, that you were expecting some . . . visitors?”
Trynne gave him a broken smile. “I am. Let them come and see.”
Sometimes we put walls up not to keep people out, but to see who cares enough to break them down.
Myrddin
EPILOGUE
The Hidden Vulgate
Morwenna Argentine smoothed her hand across the ancient page of the wrinkled vellum, staring at the marks and runes and feeling the overwhelming giddiness that always came when she read from it. The book was ancient, bound in fraying leather with sigils and wards on the cracked spine. Whoever had created it had been a master Wizr, one who had lived a very long life. It was a compendium of the words of power, what they did, and how they were invoked. It was a book of intrigue, of subtlety, of the machinations of power. It should never have been created. And yet it was hers.
She still remembered the day she had discovered it in the hidden vaults of the poisoner school in Pisan. It was the school’s deepest secret, and no one had really understood its significance until Morwenna came along. Only the masters of the school knew of it. But she was good at ferreting out secrets. And with the book, she had discovered an entirely new world. The book had probably been stolen again and again over the ages. It was The Hidden Vulgate. The keeper of secrets. The lore of the Wizrs. Her mastery of the craft had seemed miraculous to everyone else, but with the book, she knew information it would have taken ten lifetimes to acquire piecemeal.
Her sly smile turned into an angry frown. Yet despite all her knowledge, all her skill at intrigue, events had wobbled out of control at Guilme. The wagon cart of her destiny had crashed. She was still furious about it. So close—she had come so close to achieving her aim!
She sensed Fountain magic coming up the stairs of the poisoner’s tower. With a thought and a wave of her hand, the book vanished. It was still there, but it was invisible and insubstantial. She rose from the chair and walked to the window, gazing down at the autumn-shrouded grounds of Kingfountain from its lofty spire. It was the highest tower in the palace. If she willed it, she could cause storms to rage down on the inhabitants. The thought made her feel smug, but she silenced it. She was not invulnerable yet. Another threat loomed. Another person she had to destroy.
The door of the tower was locked, of course, but no lock was a match for Dragan.
The thief carefully opened it and stepped inside, then shut it quietly behind himself. The illusion of invisibility sloughed off him like hunks of snow. He stood at the doorway, eyeing her with satisfaction.
“Do you have the ring?” Morwenna asked, turning around and facing him.
“I do indeed, my lady,” Dragan said slyly. “It wez worth fifty thousand before, but I’m sure it is worth more now. Interest, sez I.”
“You know I despise your disguise as an illiterate,” Morwenna said. “You play the role so often I think you’ve forgotten who you truly are. Or where you come from.”
Dragan shrugged noncommittally. “How much is it worth to you, my dear?”
“A king’s ransom, certainly,” Morwenna said with a hint of mockery. “Let me see it.”
“I knew you’d be anxious, my love,” Dragan said. He made a wave of his hand, a parlor trick really, and a gold ring seemed to appear from behind his earlobe. “This is the wedding band,” he said with a growl of disgust. “On the left hand.”