The Hollow Crown (Kingfountain #4)(4)

Trynne blinked. “I don’t . . . remember,” she said, feeling suddenly nervous. “Are my parents still gone?”

The surgeon nodded. “Yes. They left earlier this evening. Your mother may not be back until morning. You say you can’t . . . remember?”

“No,” Trynne said, growing more worried by the moment. “It hurts.”

“I’m sure it does,” he said. “I can give you some herbs for the pain.”

Trynne nodded, but the motion made her head hurt even worse. “Did you bring me the pie?” she asked Fallon, smiling broadly. Her mouth felt distorted. “I should have gone with you.”

The look on Fallon’s face startled her. His eyes were wide with . . . was that fright?

“What’s wrong, Fallon?” she asked.

The boy looked at the doctor in obvious confusion. “What’s wrong with her?”

“I don’t know, lad,” the surgeon said.

“What do you mean? It hurts, but I’ll be all right,” Trynne said. She tried to sit up, but the doctor pushed her back down.

Fallon was still staring at her worriedly. “Your mouth isn’t moving. On that side,” he said, pointing at the left side of her face.

Her left eye also hurt a lot, and she realized that she hadn’t blinked once since awakening.

“Her smile . . . it’s gone,” Fallon whispered, still pointing.

In that moment, Tryneowy Kiskaddon realized that something truly terrible had happened to her.





Life teaches us through contradictions. If you don’t get what you want, you whine; if you get what you don’t want, you suffer; even when you do indeed get what you want, you grieve because you cannot hold on to it. The mind wants to be free of change, free of pain, free of the obligations of life and of death. But change is law and no amount of pretending will alter that reality. Change is the great teacher. Pethets refuse to be taught.

Myrddin





PART I

Wizr





CHAPTER ONE


The Royal Wedding




Trynne stared at herself in the mirror, tortured by what she saw there. No amount of healing, no amount of magic, not even her father’s prized scabbard had been able to restore the smile she had lost. In the six years that had passed since that night in Ploemeur, her smile had never fully returned. And she had never felt the loss so keenly as she did on the day of Genevieve Llewellyn’s wedding, standing in the dressing room of the beautiful woman who was to become the Queen of Ceredigion that very afternoon.

She did not often gaze at her own reflection. There were no mirrors in her room because she didn’t wish for the constant reminder. Staring at herself now, she tried to focus on her other features—the blue-green eyes that were more her mother’s, and the chestnut curls that favored her father. Still, there was no denying that at thirteen, she was short, thin as a rail, and decidedly unbeautiful. At least that was how she saw herself.

“Trynne?” Genevieve asked, snapping her attention back to the moment. The queen-to-be’s mother, Queen Elysabeth Victoria Mortimer Llewellyn—called Lady Evie by the Kiskaddon family—was also standing behind the princess’s chair, scrunching up her face at the handful of hair she was working into intricate braids. That critical function would not be trusted to servants, not on such an occasion.

“Yes, my lady?” Trynne asked.

Genevieve smiled prettily at her. “Don’t be so formal. We’ve known each other far too long. You must still call me Genny, even after the coronation.” She reached over her shoulder to clasp Trynne’s hand. “Your mother isn’t coming to the wedding, correct?”

Trynne nodded. “My little brother is still rather sickly,” Trynne said, thinking of the coughing six-year-old she’d left behind several days ago. “She didn’t want to leave him with our grandparents. If he rests and starts to feel better, she will try to come for the ceremony at Our Lady.”

Genevieve smiled again. “I’ll not forget the first time I went to Our Lady,” she said with a sigh. “I fell in the river and Lord Owen saved my life. I still shudder to think of it.” There was a slight tremor at her words, and Trynne could not resist the urge to smile. It was such a natural thing, so normal for most people. Her eyes darted to the mirror again, and she saw the right side of her lips had quirked up, revealing her teeth. But the left side was flat, unresponsive, giving her a mischievous look. Her heart throbbed with anguish at what had been stolen from her.

The Queen of Atabyrion’s hands were working feverishly at the braids, but she had glanced up and seen the darkness fall on Trynne’s countenance. “I understand from Owen that they never discovered for certain who attacked you,” she said with compassion in her voice.

Trynne shook her head. “Everyone believes it was a thief named Dragan. Lord Amrein found a note that had been tucked into his luggage after he’d arrived in Ploemeur. ‘A daughter for a daughter’ was all it said.” She smoothed the beautiful fabric of Genevieve’s dress, feeling the ripples of tiny seed pearls and the smooth, elegant brocade. Dragan’s own daughter, Etayne, had been the king’s poisoner years before. Trynne didn’t know all the details, only that the woman had died saving Owen’s life.