Sinia’s lips tightened. “You have such potential with the magic,” she said. “You’re depleted right now, but I can sense the vastness of your reservoir. You remind me of your father at this age. Your powers will grow.”
Trynne felt frustrated by the promise she’d made not to tell her secrets. How she longed to tell her mother that she was an Oath Maiden, following the Fountain’s directives. She was not supposed to be a Wizr. And perhaps Morwenna was not supposed to be a poisoner either.
She licked her lips, trying to find her courage to speak up for herself. But she didn’t know what to say.
“What is it?” Sinia asked. She set the book down and approached Trynne, taking her hands and squeezing them. “You look conflicted. Is it because of what you heard about Fallon and Morwenna?”
A stab of anguish went through her. “What do you mean?”
Her mother squeezed her hands again and then stroked her shoulder. “As a parent, it’s difficult to know what to say or when to say it. Our family is already coping with so much. We didn’t want to concern you with court gossip.”
“Fallon likes her,” Trynne said, feeling her heart was going to break. “But she doesn’t like him. She told me so herself.”
Sinia gave her a pained smile. “But it still hurts, doesn’t it?”
Trynne squeezed her eyes shut, trying not to cry. “Is this how you felt?” she whispered, gazing at her mother, seeing the shared pain in her eyes. “You fell in love with Father from your visions of the future. But he didn’t know who you were. Or that you were meant to be together. At least you knew, though.” A sickening feeling came into her stomach. She wondered that she hadn’t thought of it before. “Do you know . . . do you know who I’m going to marry?”
Sinia stared at her, her eyes filling with tears. She nodded, but it was not a pleased look. It was not a delighted look. It was full of sadness, which made Trynne feel even worse. What did it mean?
“Mother?” she gasped in a questioning tone.
Sinia shook her head and turned around. “I cannot tell you what I’ve seen.” When she looked back at her, her expression was full of resolve.
There was that scraping feeling again, that sensation of something ineffable happening. It rumbled through Trynne like an earthquake. Sinia’s eyes widened with surprise. She blinked a few times, the faraway look of a vision.
“We must go to Kingfountain,” Sinia said, taking Trynne’s hand firmly. “A Wizr will arrive from Chandigarl. I saw both of us in the throne room with your father and the king. We must leave at once; the city is in peril!”
For her mother to leave Brythonica unprotected was a sign the peril was real. When Sinia did leave to consult with the king, which happened more and more often lately, Trynne was always put in charge of the duchy. This time, mother and daughter traveled together, and it was Sinia’s power that brought them through the fountain waters. Trynne’s brother, Gannon, was still in Ploemeur, of course, so there was an heir.
Being back at Kingfountain filled Trynne with excitement, but she was also worried about what they would face. A Wizr from Chandigarl? Such a thing had never happened before.
They walked hurriedly to the throne room, where the guards admitted them without comment. The king and queen were at the Ring Table, conferring with Owen and some of the other lords of the realm.
“Lady Sinia?” King Drew asked with confusion, seeing her there.
Owen jerked his head up and started to walk around the huge table toward them.
“What is it?”
“He’s coming,” Sinia said breathlessly, an edge of panic in her voice.
The torchlight in the great hall flickered. A darkness seemed to descend, like a shadow blocking out the sun. Shivers shot down Trynne’s arms. The mood in the chamber shifted palpably.
A man suddenly appeared out of the aether.
What struck Trynne first was the power of his presence. She could feel the Fountain magic emanating off him in waves, both from his person and the magic artifacts he carried. He was nearly seven feet tall, but very slender and tapered. His long, white-blond hair fell past his chest, and his intricately designed tunic was held closed by a spider-shaped brooch embedded with a jewel that sizzled with energy. He gripped a staff that was as tall as his chin and ended in a sphere wreathed in roots. The man’s hand gripped just beneath the ball, drawing attention to a huge turquoise ring on his middle finger. The scarab-shaped bauble dominated his hand, almost like an insect attached to him. His eyes were blue and possessed a strange glow. His skin was quite pale, but he was muscled and fit and wore a curved sword at his hip, suspended by a leather belt with the raven symbol on it. The tunic fell well past his knees and was covered by a burgundy velvet jacket that collected on the floor around him like a cloak.