Trynne reached out with her magic, sensing for weakness, for vulnerability, and found plenty. The woman had trained in the arts of war for years, but she was so accustomed to the protection of her armor and her magic that she had mostly trained for attack, not defense. She was fearful now, recognizing that she was no match for Trynne’s skill with a blade. She was full of Fountain magic, but there was something different about it . . . that was when Trynne realized that Gahalatine and his champion shared their store of magic. They were siblings.
And now Gahalatine’s sister was in danger. Trynne attacked viciously, hitting her arm guards, shoulders, driving her back step by step, the shimmering blade of ancient kings like a storm in her hand. She felt the two Wizrs behind Gahalatine use their magic against her, but their spells simply shot past her, driven to the side. Trynne continued to push the woman farther and farther back and then made a quick strike at her wrist, sending her sword clattering to the floor.
“Stop!” Gahalatine shouted, his eyes blazing with panic as Trynne pressed her blade to his sister’s bare neck. His hand was outstretched. His shout came with all the force of his magic, but it could not sway her. He stared at Trynne, stared at the smudges on her face, and slowly his eyes widened in recognition and surprise.
Trynne yanked down her chain hood, revealing her face, her hair.
“Yes,” Trynne said to him, glaring at him. “It is I. Do you yield?”
An exultant smile spread on Gahalatine’s face. His worry at seeing his sister murdered was ebbing. Perhaps he believed Trynne wouldn’t kill her. He lowered his outstretched palm, but still held it out before him, as if coaxing friendship from an angry wolf.
“It is you,” Gahalatine said. “I’d not suspected. Yes, I will discuss terms with you. After vanquishing your king’s champion, I was going to insist he send you out to discuss terms of surrender.”
Trynne gave him a glowering look. “We have no intention of surrendering, my lord.”
A reckless sort of smile shone on his mouth. “Then treat with me, Tryneowy. My sister is your king’s hostage. Come back to my pavilion with me, and we will broker a truce between our kingdoms. You and I. If we cannot come to terms, then I will exchange you for my sister and we will continue this war. But I believe—I dare even hope—that one word from you will resolve this. Will you come?”
Trynne lowered the sword deliberately and looked back at King Drew, seeking his orders.
There was a new look of hope in Drew’s eyes when he met her gaze. “I empower you, Trynne Kiskaddon, to negotiate on my behalf.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Submission
It was like a river current was tugging her away. The scene was almost unreal. Captain Staeli on the floor, unmoving, his face turned away from her, his tunic soaked with blood. He was lost to her. Fallon was also one of the fallen, gripping his wounded knee as he stared at her in horror. He knew she was being swept away from him. Morwenna looked broken, defeated. Trynne gazed at them, one by one, and then walked to Drew and handed him Firebos. The king looked vulnerable, but there was still hope in his eyes. He was depending on Trynne to find a way to stop the violence from spreading further.
She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself, and then turned back and crossed the hall to Gahalatine, who stretched out his hand to her. His sister had risen, her armor broken and split from Trynne’s attack. Her eyes were fierce and angry, but she had accepted her brother’s decision. She remained behind.
When Trynne reached him, Gahalatine took her hand in his, gazing down at her with concerned but eager eyes. “Albion,” he said to one of the Wizrs, “take us to my pavilion.”
“It will be done, dread sovereign,” the Wizr replied meekly. He withdrew a Tay al-Ard from beneath his tunic and rested his hand on Gahalatine’s shoulder.
The rushing motion felt like falling, but it only lasted an instant. The dawn’s light revealed the spacious and luxurious tent. The curtains were spun of a golden cloth that nearly glowed. There were embroidered curtains inside, separating the enormous space into rooms, well-appointed changing screens wrought of iron and plated with gold leaf, and camp chairs arranged around tables heaped with grapes, pears, and fruits with speckled skins that she’d never seen before. Garlands of flowers hung from poles, and there was even a monkey, tethered to an ornate padded pole, calmly eating one of the grapes. There was a throne-like chair in the middle of the room, showing this to be a makeshift audience hall. It was immaculately clean. The pavilion made her feel like she was in Chandigarl, but the air was cold and the wind gusted through invisible cracks.