The table was at least a foot thick and held up by stump-like struts. It would have taken fifty men to carry it, and only magic could have brought it into the throne room.
The twelve chairs surrounding the table could only be the work of master craftsmen. Each chair had its own personality, and to her eyes, they almost looked like wooden Wizr pieces.
Her lips parted with admiration and wonder. It was the original Ring Table from the legends of King Andrew. It had to be. Myrddin had brought it back. She’d never imagined that it was carved from a living tree or that a tree could grow so big.
“But they do,” said Myrddin in his strange accent. “Trees, that is.” With all the commotion, she hadn’t noticed him sidle up next to her and Gannon. He gripped his gnarled staff, resting both of his hands on it. He had tufts of hair growing from his nose that she could see all too well as she stared up at him. She hated being so short.
“Where did you hide this table for so long, Myrddin?” she asked him politely.
“Pfah, far, far away, sister. It’s been in an abandoned castle in the mountains that no one knows of and no one can get to. It was never from this world, child. Do you know why the king will sit here instead of a throne? What do you think, little sister?”
It was amusing that he always called her “sister” despite being centuries older than her parents, but she’d grown accustomed to Myrddin’s ways. “Because he will be equal with the others,” she answered, looking up at him again. Sometimes his breath smelled very bad, but it wasn’t offensive this time. He was thousands of years old, according to her father, so perhaps he couldn’t help it.
“True, true,” he said, clucking his tongue and gazing across the table. There was a strange look in his eye, a sadness. “How like men to elbow their way to glory, eh, little sister? Most men are pethets.” He pursed his lips and frowned. “Always seeking to grab something that isn’t theirs simply because they want it.” He reached into a pouch at his waist and withdrew an apple that was a curious color. She was used to juicy red apples, but this one had streaks of gold and pink in it. Myrddin handed the apple to her brother, and Gannon’s eyes lit up as he crunched into it.
“Mmmmm!” the boy mumbled around a mouthful of fruit. Trynne smiled and tousled his hair. The thought that Fallon might be watching her from across the room, ready to mock her, flashed through her head, and the smile faded.
“My mother is here, Myrddin,” she said, looking up at him. “She just arrived.”
“I know,” he answered, nodding sagely. Then he winked at her and rocked on his sandaled feet. “I saw it on the Wizr board,” he whispered.
The magic Wizr board was King Drew’s most secret and powerful weapon. It was the means by which Trynne’s father had defeated King Severn before she was born. The pieces on the set represented real people, each playing a role in a game of kingdoms that had been underway for centuries. The stakes of the game were terrible, for if a king forsook the ways of Virtus or was defeated without any heirs, their kingdom would be swallowed up by the Deep Fathoms as surely as Brythonica would be if the Montforts failed to renew the protection invocations. It had happened to ancient kingdoms like Atabyrion and Leoneyis. The point of the Wizr game wasn’t to defeat and destroy enemies. It was to maintain a dynasty for as long as possible. The game was being played by the Argentine family and had been played for several hundred years. No one knew how the first Argentine king had acquired the board. Some said that his wife, the Queen of Occitania, had stolen it from her first husband and given it to him. There was no mention of the Wizr set in the histories. Yet its power controlled fate.
The wedding of King Drew and Queen Genevieve would mean that the game would be able to continue. But there were others who were determined to see it end.
Trynne had seen the Wizr board in its ancient chest—her parents had shown it to her—but she did not know where it was hidden.
“Do you know why my mother came?” she asked Myrddin.
“Aye, lass. I do.”
“Will you tell me?” she pleaded.
“Should I tell you, little sister?” he answered, arching one of his shaggy eyebrows.
She frowned, conflicted. “I wish you would. Maybe I can help?”
The Wizr chuckled to himself. “Maybe indeed, little sister.” He sighed. “Maybe indeed. It might be best to let things run their course. A lot has changed since I last walked these dusty roads. The faces are new, but they are the same. Like that one,” he said, dipping the end of his staff forward. “The Prince of Brugia. Now he is a pethet.” He shook his head. “Look at how he swaggers. Never satisfied.” He sniffed. “He considers himself diminished because his father swore fealty to the king. He is still the heir of his father’s lands, no? He still wears his thallic clothes, the preening sop.”