She saw the lord marshal straining, the sword held helplessly over his head. The others were still on the ground, staring at her, and she could see the look of devotion in Thierry’s eyes, his outrage at the foreigner’s insult.

And then an idea struck her as clearly as a ringing bell. The Fountain whispered it to her; she knew it had.

“I thank you for coming all this way,” Trynne answered, walking forward. “By tangling the ley lines, you have made it difficult for you to leave as well.”

“Do you think that I fear a wisp of a girl such as you?”

“No,” Trynne answered. “But you should.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN Defending Ploemeur

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Defending Ploemeur

Trynne’s idea came from the staff the Wizr Rucrius held. It was clearly his strongest weapon, and she could sense the nature of the Fountain magic it possessed. It could shatter stone and split rock. She sensed its power was from the Deep Fathoms itself. Having been raised in Ploemeur, she knew the power that earthquakes held over water—and what a tidal flood could do to a host of ships caught in its path. Her own fleet was out at sea, so they would not be dashed onto the rocky shores of the coast. The Chandigarli fleet would be.

She needed to get the staff from him.

Facing three Wizrs at once would be madness.

Her only hope was to distract Rucrius enough that she could wrench the staff from him. The idea came to her at once: the word of power that could restore life also had other uses . . .

“Nesh-ama,” Trynne breathed softly, invoking the power while her strength was at its fullest. She directed the spell at the tunics of the castle soldiers, each bearing the Raven sigil.

There was an awful croaking noise as the ravens lifted off the fabric, first fluttering flatly and then coming to life, turning into enormous birds. The black plumage and raking claws rushed to the center of the audience hall, the birds’ beaks snapping at the turbans and hair of the three Wizrs of Chandigarl. Trynne used the sudden commotion to rush forward, spinning her blade in the circular pattern she had practiced for years, forming a whirlwind of steel.

Rucrius’s mouth contorted into a snarl of anger. He met her, swinging the staff down at her to interrupt the movement of her blade. She felt the jolt of the staff as it struck her, felt its power bunch up to throw her back across the room, but its magic could not be used against her. Next, the Wizr reversed the blow and tried to strike her stomach with the other end of the staff. She knew the reversal move well and blocked it with her blade. Then, turning in a corkscrew move, she flipped around and kicked him in the face.