“Are you feeling better?” she asked her brother, but he looked miserable and pale. He shook his head and wiped his nose on his sleeve.
The walk to Kingfountain passed in a blur as Trynne’s mind whirled through the many possibilities. There was no way she could guess at the news, which only made her discomfort worse. Gannon, as she sometimes called him, was too young to be hounded for information. Although he was still sick, he was curious about everything and started tugging on her hand, eager to approach a vendor with a string of sausages. She reined him back and continued her hurried pace toward the palace.
“Is everything well, my lady?” asked a voice at her shoulder. It was Davyn Staeli, her Espion bodyguard. He wore no badge or insignia marking him as the duke’s man. His brown hair was balding on top and his beard was trimmed. Two swords were belted to his waist, a long sword and a shorter one, and he used both with equal proficiency. The buckles on his leather tunic front were cinched and proper. He was a meticulous man, her own personal shadow. Though he usually kept a discreet distance, he must have sensed her grave mood, her hurry.
“I don’t think so, Captain Staeli,” she murmured, casting him a worried look. “Father wouldn’t tell me.” He frowned at her words, his dark eyes brooding, and then dropped back a few paces. Still, he followed her more closely, a hand on the hilt of his short sword. She saw him make a few surreptitious nods, which indicated the presence of other unseen Espion.
Her parents had insisted that she have a personal guard after the attack. Sometimes it bothered her that she was watched night and day, but at such a vulnerable moment, she was grateful for Captain Staeli’s reassuring presence.
When she and Gannon reached the palace, there was much noise and celebratory commotion in the king’s hall. Gannon shrank a little from the tumult and started to cough. The corridors were thick with servants bustling through with trays of meats and a variety of cheeses. Pitchers of wine and mead were also brought forth in a constant flood, giving the air a sour smell amidst the scent of the crushed pine needles strewn about.
While the festering worry would not allow her any peace, Trynne still felt a thrill of excitement as she entered the king’s hall. There was no mistaking its transformation. She had come to Kingfountain many times throughout her childhood, but this was a massive change. The dais and throne were gone, and an enormous table stood in their place. Gannon tugged on her hand, wanting to get closer, eyeing it with great interest, and she let the lad drag her over to it.
As Trynne approached the gleaming polished wood, she realized that she was staring at the round of a massive tree. The circumference was not a perfect circle because of the irregular bends caused by the natural growth of the tree over time. It defied her imagination that a tree of such width could exist in nature. Three grown men could have lain on the table, end to end, and there still would have been room for a child at the farthest point. How tall must the tree have originally been? The visitors of the palace were all gathered around it, mesmerized by the sight. Twelve straight-backed chairs were arrayed around the table.
“Trynnee, can I climb on that chair?” Gannon asked, reverting to a pet name he used to call her when he was younger. He tried to yank his hand free of hers, but she kept a firm grip.
“Not now, Gannon. Shhh! Wait until Father arrives.” She knelt down by him and put her arm around his shoulder.
“Trynnee?” ghosted a voice over her shoulder. She glanced back, only to see Fallon’s sardonic smile.
In no mood to banter with him, she straightened and then punched his arm as hard as she could. “Stay away from me, crepe master,” she said with a snarl and then tugged Gannon’s hand and walked around to the far side of the table. She was furious and worried at the same time and felt ready to snap like a dog if anyone came near her. She tried to distract herself by tending to her brother.
“It’s cut from a tree,” she explained to him, bending low to speak into his ear over the commotion. “See this dark ring? It’s the bark. Then there’s a lighter ring. I don’t know what it’s called, but it’s part of the growth layer. Each ring in the wood marks a year of growth.” She reached out with her finger and touched the glossy surface of the table. It had been varnished and stained and sanded to a marble shine. There were splits and cracks in the inner rings, but there were so very many of them—perhaps more than a thousand. She rested her palm on the smooth, cool wood, allowing herself to feel the wonder of the thing.