Trynne heard the sound of approaching footsteps and saw the bob of the lantern light on the wall moving toward them.
“It’s here in the water with us,” she said. “Quiet, they’ll hear!”
She reached out and summoned the armor with her magic. As with all treasures hidden in the Deep Fathoms, only a Fountain-blessed could draw it out. The armor materialized once again within the ripples, and Trynne reached into the water and hefted the breastplate. As she drew it from the water, the weight of it surprised her, and she nearly stumbled forward. Captain Staeli caught her and then grabbed the top of it with his hand and hoisted it over his shoulder like a sack of grain.
“Is someone there? Who is there?” called a voice in Occitanian. The light from the lantern was going to reach them in moments.
Trynne quickly assembled the other pieces, handing some to the captain and gathering others to herself. The sounds of the footsteps were nearly upon them when she grabbed Staeli’s hand again and summoned the Fountain magic to conceal them and whisk them back to Averanche.
Back inside her private chamber, racing to beat the brightening sky, Tryneowy Kiskaddon stood before a tall mirror, adjusting the arm bracer and flexing at her elbow. The armor was sturdy, but it was surprisingly light once she had it on, and it fit her perfectly. Was it a coincidence that the Maid of Donremy was her own height and build?
The armor was dented and scuffed, even though it was polished. It had seen battles.
“Now for the breastplate,” Staeli said, standing behind her. “The rivets tighten here and here. You won’t be able to arm yourself in this, you realize? It takes two to put on a full suit.”
“I’ll find a way,” Trynne said, unconcerned. She was usually loath to look at herself in the mirror, but seeing herself in a suit of armor made her feel giddy with excitement. Two overlapping pieces of metal met at the apex of the breastplate and were sculpted and shaped into a decorative design.
She twisted her torso as Staeli encased her in the breastplate like a crab shell.
“I don’t like this part,” he said, pointing to the small gap between the breastplate and the shoulder guard. “A broadhead arrow could pierce right here.” He clucked his tongue and shook his head in wonderment.
At his words, Trynne felt a momentary dizziness as the wellspring surged up inside her, filling her with the screams and groans of a long-ago battle. For a moment, she was the Maid of Donremy, feeling the pain of the arrow piercing her as she was carried off the field. The smell of blood overwhelmed her, as did the noise and confusion. The terror of the field was real.
She snapped back to her own time, her body starting to tremble with the emotions the vision had released. Trynne would soon be going to a battlefield of her own.
“And now for the sword belt,” Staeli said, wrapping the leather belt around her waist. There was a ring in the back and two rings on the front, which held scabbard straps. In lieu of a shield, Trynne would use two swords at once as she had trained to do.
She saw Staeli in the mirror over her shoulder, appraising the armor. He frowned and tightened some of the straps.
“How does it feel in the shoulders?” he asked her, looking at the reflection.
“Well enough,” she answered, bringing her elbows and arms together. The pieces of metal slid with her motion, providing for movement. The hilts of the twin swords protruded from her hips. She stared at herself again.
“Am I ready for this?” she breathed out loud to herself as her hands dropped down to the hilts. They felt comfortable, ordinary. She had trained for years. She had sworn the five oaths and could feel the magic rippling inside her, waiting to be called on.
“Aye, lass,” Staeli said, his grim expression turning into one of approval. He gave her a fierce grin.
Trynne smiled.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Siege of Guilme
Trynne wondered if her brother, Gannon, understood what was really happening as he hugged Owen good-bye. It had been several years since their father had defeated Brugia in battle. Papa knelt on the flagstones in his chain hauberk and new tunic bearing the badge of his house. The raven-marked scabbard was belted to his waist, but it didn’t offer Trynne much comfort. Her mother was never wrong. Owen pressed a kiss to his son’s flaxen hair and rose, his mouth tight.
“You’re to be the man in my absence,” Owen said to his son, putting his hand on the lad’s shoulder. “I was made a duke when I was your age,” he added in an undertone, his voice throbbing. Owen’s parents were gathered in the small assembly, along with his siblings and their children, all of whom lived in Ploemeur. Owen hugged his parents next.