So many of King Drew’s nobles are disaffected, Trynne thought sadly. Her father had tamed all of the men instead of destroying them. But they resented him for it. She could feel that seething emotion bubbling beneath their veneer of goodwill at the gathering.
The procession stopped as the hymn the chapel choir was singing reached its culmination. She had stopped on a black tile on the checkered floor, and that felt unlucky, so she shuffled her steps until her slippers were touching a white one. Then she turned her eyes to friendlier faces. Iago and his wife were beaming with love and joy for their daughter, who would become the most powerful woman in all the realms. Standing in the same line, Fallon was looking at her. He winked and then made an exaggeratedly grotesque face—his attempt to make her break countenance. That boy could never be serious, even during such a solemn occasion! She gave him an icy look before shifting her gaze back to the assembled lords. There was Duke Ramey with his balding pate, stifling a yawn on his clenched glove. She also saw Lord Amrein, the king’s chancellor and master of the Espion, his eyes darting to the various spies planted throughout the hall acting as guests and bodyguards. He looked very worried, as if he were expecting an archer to suddenly appear.
Trynne felt her father’s magic joining the turbulent waters of the fountain. She sensed it like an ever-present feeling of comfort. Her father was one of the most powerful Fountain-blessed in all the kingdoms. The only ones who were stronger in the Fountain were possibly Trynne’s mother and the Wizr Myrddin himself.
She caught sight of the Wizr as they began ascending the steps to the fountain. He was a dumpy-looking fellow that looked more like a wandering pilgrim than an all-powerful Wizr. He wore sandals that were chafed and broken and exposed some hairy ankles. His middle was girded with a leather belt, and his dark hair was silvered at the ears and thick and wavy. Myrddin had a prominent nose and a jaw lined with slight stubble. She’d always been fascinated by his crooked walking staff that looked as if it was a massive root that had been wrung and twisted. The top had a mushroom-shaped end. A sword hung from the massive belt spanning his hips. The pommel had the design of an eight-pointed star on it, and the metal was beaten and battered.
Trynne’s attention was jarred from the Wizr when the procession came to a stop again. At that time, they were to leave Genevieve. If it had been left up to Trynne, they would have just dropped the train in a heap, but the ladies of court were particularly attuned to such details, so she helped the others neatly arrange the gauzy fabric. Morwenna caught her eye and offered a private smile before leaving the steps and joining her parents amidst the crowd.
With everything in order, Trynne joined her father’s side and reached for his hand. Against her best intentions, she glanced at Fallon, who was wagging his eyebrows at her and giving her a mocking smile. It made her want to stomp on his other foot.
The anthem finished with a swell of voices, instruments, and pitch that made the vaulted ceiling ring. Trynne tried not to fidget, but she was ready for the ceremony to be finished. She was eager to get back to the palace to see the new table in the throne room.
As the music calmed, the deconeus began to speak in a sonorous voice that made Trynne want to writhe in frustration. But then she caught sight of Myrddin again, and it put her in mind of how well Fallon had mimicked the Wizr’s voice. Myrddin did have an odd manner of speech; his Ceredigic was heavily accented, and he often spouted off words and phrases that no one else understood. She’d asked her father if he was Genevese because he was so fat. Owen had told her many stories about Dominic Mancini, and she’d come to associate Myrddin with the wily spy in her imagination. Her father had laughed at that and said that Myrddin was from another world. In that other world, he was called a Wayfarer, not a Wizr. He’d also whispered to her that despite his ill-looking aspect, he was more than capable with his twisted staff and sword. Anyone who could handle weapons earned Trynne’s respect. She knew that he was, miraculously, the same Wizr who’d served the original King Andrew, the ruler who had brought all the kingdoms together. His return had helped Drew achieve the same accomplishment.
Growing increasingly bored with the ceremony, Trynne glanced across the various faces again, deliberately avoiding Fallon. Her eyes settled on Morwenna. What was the other girl thinking at that moment? Did she crave the crown for herself? Trynne imagined that her life had not been easy. Her father, who had been king, was relegated to the office of duke. No one willingly gave up power, but the girl could have no memory of her father’s previous glory. Morwenna had not been raised at court and had seldom traveled outside of Glosstyr. Despite Morwenna’s renowned beauty, which stirred Trynne’s jealousy, Trynne had heard her name mentioned before in a teasing way. Some claimed she’d been born out of Lady Kathryn’s pity for the crushed king. Others argued Severn had used his twisted power with the Fountain to persuade Morwenna’s mother to love him—and the girl would never have existed if he hadn’t committed that grave wrong. Having been teased herself because of her face, Trynne felt some sympathy for Morwenna.