Trynne felt a ripple from the Fountain in her heart, warming her against the cold of the night. “Very,” she answered with a smile.
“Then Polidoro told me something that filled me with hope. Eredur never would have reclaimed his throne all alone. The people wanted him to be king, not Warrewik. Not an Occitanian prince. The one who helped my grandfather win back his crown was his poisoner, Ankarette Tryneowy. Sometimes I forget that you were named after her. I’m glad you are with me, Trynne. Good night.”
His words warmed Trynne more than her blanket. He was a kindhearted man—a good and true leader—and she had to believe that he was right, that they would prevail.
“Good night, my lord.” Trynne laid her head down on her arm again and fell asleep immediately.
She wasn’t sure how long she slept before being jostled awake. It was still dark, in the fullness of night.
Drew’s hand was on her shoulder. A man stood by the king holding a small shielded lantern. She didn’t recognize him, but she noticed the Espion ring on his hand.
“Trynne,” the king whispered. She rose quickly, her muscles aching and weary.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, trying not to groan.
“This man is an Espion from Glosstyr. He says Gahalatine’s fleet, the one that sacked Legault, has landed at Blackpool. Duke Severn is under attack. The battle started at sunset.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Trapping the Boar
It was a bruising ride from the yew forest to Blackpool. Trynne wished the old Wizr board had never been destroyed, that they could observe the pieces and see which were black and which were white. The kingdom was besieged and what they lacked most was information. Drew had asked for Trynne’s advice on whether she thought Severn had joined his daughter in betraying them. If they hastened to Blackpool, would they be greeted with a trap?
In Trynne’s mind the solution was obvious. Speed was essential. If Severn were loyal, their arrival might aid him. If he were false, knowing sooner would be better. Either way, an enemy army could block the road to Dundrennan, and it was critical that they reach the mountain fortress as soon as possible.
Going to Blackpool would only help their cause.
They had roused the sleeping troops with word of the conflict. The marching soldiers were told to move quickly, to abandon their camp and to get on the road under the pale moonlight. Riders from the Espion were dispatched to bring the duke word that support was on its way. The king’s presence was to be kept a secret.
Trynne was still weary, but at least she’d managed a little sleep. Despite her dwindling reserves of magic, she was ready for a fight.
Dawn found them on the road. As Trynne rode alongside the Oath Maidens, she could sense the tension that hung in the air. They had trained to go to battle. Blackpool might be the first opportunity to face their enemies. There was excitement. There was also fear.
The small army from Averanche marched up the road. This was the army of Captain Staeli, a proven battle commander. His eyes were radiant with emotion. He looked eager for a fight, to prove the mettle of the women he had relentlessly trained and the men who had served under him so courageously.
Midmorning, a rider from the Espion arrived with news that the battle was still under way. Severn would not quit the field even though he was overmatched. His soldiers had fought hard all night long, refusing to quit. The field was littered was corpses, it was said, and the enemy had nearly encircled Severn’s forces. The town was occupied by Gahalatine’s army, but Severn would not quit the battlefield.
Trynne’s stomach roiled with worry as they rode hard toward Blackpool, trying desperately to arrive in time. When they crested the hill that spread down to the plains surrounding the city, Trynne could see the shore and the fleet in the harbor. She was reminded of the story of how Lady Evie had once set a trap for Eyric Argentine in that very place.
This battlefield was much larger.
It was clear to her from the vantage of the summit that this was a one-sided battle. Severn’s army was going to lose. She could see that more soldiers were still unloading from Gahalatine’s ships. There was a never-ending flood of them, like the surf that hammered the shore. The stains of death were everywhere. She could see the strewn bodies in the field below, the snapped battle standards, could hear the moans of the wounded and the dying.
Duke Severn was down to his last hundred men, if that. His army was surrounded, and she thought she could spy the old king in the thickest part of the fighting. He had no horse. None of them did.
Severn was trying to stem the tidal flood by himself and she thought she knew why. Before the Battle of Guilme, her father had confronted him about the men in silver masks—the Mandaryn, she now realized—who had been infiltrating Glosstyr. Surely Gahalatine had determined that this was a weak point of the realm. But Severn would not have it said that his duchy had been won through treachery. He would rather die than be remembered as a traitor.