“Please, if you’ll allow me,” he said in a low, regretful tone. “I am sorry, Lady Tryneowy.” He looked down, abashed, then met her gaze again, and she could see that he was roiling with discomfort. “I am sorry about your father. I know the Espion will do their best to find him. But I wanted to personally assure you that if he is somewhere in Brugia, I will do everything in my power to restore him to his rightful place.” He swallowed, and she could tell there was more he wished to say, so she remained quiet. “I resented him . . . I’m ashamed to admit it now. He was an honorable man. He came to the defense of Brugia when he was needed most. My kingdom has lost—” His throat seized up as he battled with tears. But he mastered himself, keeping his voice calm and steady. “It is no matter what we lost. We all lost much to our enemies. Some have whispered that your father betrayed us. I hold no credence to such tales and will punish any who besmirch his good name. I also apologize for my unkindness toward you.” He grimaced. “I woefully regret my words to you. And I appreciate the undeserved kindness that you demonstrated to me in Occitania. I am in your debt, and humbly seek your pardon.”
She could tell his little speech had been carefully thought over and possibly rehearsed, but it was obvious that it came from his heart. It left her speechless with wonder.
He bowed curtly to her and started to withdraw, but she caught his sleeve. When he winced and flinched with pain, she realized he was concealing a wound in his arm.
“I’m sorry,” she apologized, but he waved off the attempt.
“It is nothing, truly,” he said, waiting guardedly for her to speak.
“You lost your father, my lord,” she said with sympathy. Over the years she had watched Prince Elwis with his father. Grand Duke Maxwell had often been exasperated by his son’s vengeful attitude. Perhaps there were some unspoken regrets the young man harbored. “I grieve for your loss. He was a good man.”
The young duke gave her a pained smile. “That is kind of you.” He glanced around the room as the noise started to subside. “It seems the council is coming to order. I’d best find a place to sit down.”
Trynne gave him a polite nod, still reeling with surprise at his humbled demeanor. She felt someone’s eyes on her and looked over to see Fallon watching her with wide eyes. He had witnessed the entire exchange and looked chagrined. Trynne gave him a cool look in return and took her seat at the table.
The room settled into silence. Trynne had never had her own seat at the table before, and it felt both unfamiliar and uncomfortable. Silence hung in the air, along with a cloud of despair. So many things had happened in the chamber . . . She wanted to rub her hand along the polished wood of the Ring Table.
King Drew rose and leaned forward, resting his palms on the table. The hollow crown glinted in the torchlight. He cast his gaze around the table.
“My lords and ladies,” he began. “I bid welcome to the new members of my council. I recognize Duke Elwis of Brugia, who sits in the seat of his father. I recognize the Lady of Averanche, Tryneowy Kiskaddon.” His voice throbbed with emotion as he spoke her title. He hung his head a moment, mastering his own face. The empty seat, the Siege Perilous, sat there like an oversize Wizr piece. “On our wedding day, a few years ago, some of you remember that Lady Sinia arrived rather suddenly.” He rubbed his chin, squinting at the memory. “She came bearing news of this terrible tragedy. She had a premonition, of sorts, that our kingdom would be invaded. That her husband would be lost to us. My pain cannot equal hers, but I feel it keenly still. I have known that I would lose my champion, my defender, my friend. Now that the bitter dregs are in the cup, I must name another. Gahalatine has given us but a brief reprieve before his engine of war rouses like a tempest. If we continue to fight and squabble amongst ourselves as we hitherto have”—his gaze raked Fallon’s face, which went scarlet with mortification—“if we are proud and concerned only for ourselves and not the common well-being”—his next glance was for Elwis, who did not even flinch at the rebuke—“then we will lose all. We have already lost a goodly number of knights, archers, and stalwart soldiers. The number of wounded is nearly beyond counting. Gahalatine’s army lost only a tithe in comparison. We cannot win this forthcoming contest unless we fight with all of our strength, all of our will, all of our ingenuity. In Ceredigion, we have a history of facing down larger forces than what we find ourselves up against now. I do not fear their numbers. I fear our own weakness more.”