by Jeff Wheeler
She snapped back to her own time, her body starting to tremble with the emotions the vision had released. Trynne would soon be going to a battlefield of her own.
“And now for the sword belt,” Staeli said, wrapping the leather belt around her waist. There was a ring in the back and two rings on the front, which held scabbard straps. In lieu of a shield, Trynne would use two swords at once as she had trained to do.
She saw Staeli in the mirror over her shoulder, appraising the armor. He frowned and tightened some of the straps.
“How does it feel in the shoulders?” he asked her, looking at the reflection.
“Well enough,” she answered, bringing her elbows and arms together. The pieces of metal slid with her motion, providing for movement. The hilts of the twin swords protruded from her hips. She stared at herself again.
“Am I ready for this?” she breathed out loud to herself as her hands dropped down to the hilts. They felt comfortable, ordinary. She had trained for years. She had sworn the five oaths and could feel the magic rippling inside her, waiting to be called on.
“Aye, lass,” Staeli said, his grim expression turning into one of approval. He gave her a fierce grin.
Trynne smiled.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Siege of Guilme
Trynne wondered if her brother, Gannon, understood what was really happening as he hugged Owen good-bye. It had been several years since their father had defeated Brugia in battle. Papa knelt on the flagstones in his chain hauberk and new tunic bearing the badge of his house. The raven-marked scabbard was belted to his waist, but it didn’t offer Trynne much comfort. Her mother was never wrong. Owen pressed a kiss to his son’s flaxen hair and rose, his mouth tight.
“You’re to be the man in my absence,” Owen said to his son, putting his hand on the lad’s shoulder. “I was made a duke when I was your age,” he added in an undertone, his voice throbbing. Owen’s parents were gathered in the small assembly, along with his siblings and their children, all of whom lived in Ploemeur. Owen hugged his parents next.
“However many men this foreign king has brought against us, Son,” said Owen’s father grimly, “you show him our mettle.”
His mother embraced him next, pressing a kiss to his clean-shaven cheek. Her skin was pale and wrinkled, and her dark hair was losing its battle against the gray. “Bless you, my boy. You are still my miracle.”
Owen smiled sadly at the comment, then kissed her in return. Owen’s parents and siblings were still unaware of Sinia’s prophecy. Owen had confided to Trynne that he felt it best, since they had already suffered so much guilt over the years he’d spent as a boy hostage to King Severn.
Trynne felt her heart aching with sorrow, but she was determined to be brave. She had to show her father that she was equal to the task. He finished embracing the rest of his family and then turned to her. There was a smile he gave her, one that was unique to her alone. Trynne favored him with one of her crooked smiles in return and then gave him a subdued hug, even though she felt like sobbing into his tunic. She wished she could tell him that she was an Oath Maiden; she wished she could tell him everything. He took her hands and kissed her knuckles.
“I will miss you,” he whispered right before kissing the hair at her ear.
That nearly undid her, but she blinked rapidly and summoned her courage once more. “I love you,” she said simply, squeezing his hand in return. “Ankarette is my namesake, so I know she’d want me to remind you of the advice you’ve always given me.” Her voice was a little choked, but she mastered it. “The most important gift is discernment. To know the heart of your foe. I think you’ve always had it. But I ask the Fountain to give you an extra portion.”
Owen smiled with gratitude. Then he sighed. “Into the cistern?” She had always loved listening to the stories of his childhood. Lady Evie was the one who had taught him to be brave and to jump into the unknown.
“I would jump in with you. If I could.”
He tousled her hair. “I wouldn’t let you. But thank you, Trynne. I love you. I didn’t know the full meaning of that sentiment until I held you for the first time.” He pinched her chin. Then he turned and hooked arms with Sinia.
Trynne saw her mother was also struggling to maintain her composure, but she did so with grace and determination.
Owen cast his gaze around the chamber once more, staring at the faces of those he loved best. His eyes were shining, close to tears, and it wrenched Trynne’s heart to see him that way. It looked as if he might break apart at any moment, but the Fountain must have been giving him strength to turn his emotions into purpose.
“Farewell, my children,” Sinia bid them, her voice betraying the ache in her heart.
A moment later they were gone.
It would take a fortnight for her father’s army to reach Guilme. Sinia, who had remained at Kingfountain to advise Queen Genevieve, informed her of the progress through messages left in the fountain. Each morning, Trynne returned to Averanche to train the ladies the queen had sent to her. She practiced in her new armor, getting used to the heft and feel of it. She had also sewn a war banner for herself—a horse’s head painted blue. Because of her many duties in Averanche and Brythonica, her grandparents had assumed the primary responsibility for her brother’s care, and he enjoyed the time spent with his cousins. But he missed his mother deeply, and Trynne found herself consoling him at the end of each day. She spent time reading him stories from The Vulgate. He liked the adventures and the names of the heroes from the past, especially the Fountain-blessed ones. Often he’d fall asleep while she read, his face a picture of peace that melted her heart. She imagined that her father might have looked like Gannon as a child, except for the dark hair with the tuft of white. Seeing her brother in that way filled her with tenderness.
It was an agonizingly long fortnight. Gahalatine’s army was encamped outside the city of Guilme. Strangely, it had not yet begun to test the city’s defenses. The fleet of treasure ships blockaded the harbor, preventing aid from reaching the city by water. Grand Duke Maxwell and Prince Elwis had set up camp within a league of Guilme to keep an eye on the hostile army. Reinforcements arrived every day as King Drew’s army began to build. Despite the detailed reports, Trynne longed to be at the camp herself.
She spent time studying the charts with the ley lines to determine the course of her arrival. She could disembark from the ley line anywhere along the strand, although it would be easier to arrive at a fountain. There was a village west of Guilme along the same line where she could purchase a horse, though she imagined they would be costly during a time when the army would need them.
And then the word she had been patiently awaiting finally arrived. Owen’s forces had reached Maxwell’s camp with the king.
Trynne rode toward the encampment atop a blue roan with a dark mane and speckled hide. She wore the ring on her finger that would enable her to disguise her appearance, but she didn’t want to attract attention from Morwenna or her father or any other Fountain-blessed by using it yet. She’d painted half her face with woad, just as she had at the Gauntlet in Marq. Most of the soldiers were decorated somewhat in mud and dirt from the long march across the kingdom. Smoke from cook fires choked the hazy sky. She’d arrived later in the day than she’d expected, but her mother had told her that was common when traveling on the east–west ley lines.
No one tried to stop Trynne or ask her questions. Everywhere she looked, soldiers were setting up small tents. Many were just sleeping on blankets on the ground. Her father had chosen to camp with his army, separated from Gahalatine’s host by a river and a single stone bridge. It was on higher ground and overlooked the plains where the enemy was camped. Trynne hoped that their position afforded them some advantages.
When Trynne reached the hub and summit of the camp, a hilltop thick with shaggy eucalyptus, twisted pine, spear-like cypress, and a strange fernlike plant with purple flowers, she could finally see the coast and the city down below. It was imm
ediately clear why her father had chosen the hillside for his camp. It gave an unparalleled view of the battlefield, plus it was far enough from the enemy—and the city—to be defensive, but not steep enough to make communications difficult. Soldiers had been tromping up and down the hill all day to share the view of the enemy and to prepare for the coming conflict.
From atop her roan, she stared down in awe and fear.
Guilme was a sizable city built on a bay fed by the main river that formed a protection for the king’s army. The walls were formidable and full of towers and spires that bore the flag of Brugia. It was a hilly city full of elegant manors and crowded streets that were arranged in orderly rows. From her vantage point, Trynne could see the streets were deserted. Most of the inhabitants were skulking indoors, no doubt.
It was not the size of Gahalatine’s fleet that had made Trynne gasp, but the bulk of the ships that had transported them. She had never seen such waterborne monstrosities in her life. They had been called treasure ships, but that did not do them justice at all. She had often visited the harbor at Ploemeur and seen the Genevese trading vessels docked there. One of these treasure ships would have occupied the entire wharf. Each had nine masts with sails that looked large enough to capture the wind and hold it fast. The ships of Kingfountain looked like rowboats in comparison. The ocean surrounding Guilme was teeming with similar ships, more than she could easily count, and each had a cortege of smaller vessels hunkering near it like barnacles.
“By the Fountain,” Trynne whispered aloud, shaking her head. She no longer wondered how Gahalatine moved such massive numbers of men.
“Impressive sight, isn’t it?” said a soldier nearby, seeing her gawk.
She collected herself and nodded.
“The king’s spies are still tryin’ to count the size of the army camped below us down there.” The soldier grimaced and shook his head. “Don’t think a man can count that high. Thank the Fountain that Lord Owen is on our side.”
“You from Westmarch?” Trynne asked the young man.
“Aye,” he said proudly.
“Do you know Captain Staeli?”
“Sullen Staeli? Course!”
“Where are his men camped?”
“Yonder, midway down the hill,” he said, pointing in that direction. Trynne squinted and saw the banner of Averanche.
She tapped the flank of her roan and started down through the brush. As she went around, she saw that fortifications had been erected, mostly pickets topped with sharpened stakes. Soldiers were hard at work digging trenches and clearing ground. They looked confident and stubborn as Trynne passed them. Their morale was high even in the face of such a host. That was promising.
The color of the ocean was dazzling, reminding her of Ploemeur. She had told her grandparents that she would be traveling for the next few days. Everyone at Kingfountain would be waiting for news of the battle, news that would travel by bird and rider. Or be delivered by the king’s poisoner. Trynne tried to sense the presence of Fountain magic but could not.
She rode down the hill to the camp of Averanche and her forces. Again, she found herself ignored. It was no surprise seeing a mounted knight in such a camp. Men were sharpening swords and spears with whetstones. A few were sparring in the gathering darkness.
Trynne arrived at the captain’s pavilion and dismounted. One of the guards approached her.
“Orders?” he asked her, holding out his hand.
“Is Captain Staeli here?” she asked in a husky voice.
She was their lady, and yet no one recognized her. Just as her father had taught her, people were fooled by what they were conditioned to believe.
“Inside,” the guard said.
Trynne nodded and then followed him into the pavilion, not needing to duck her head at the flap because she was so short.
Staeli’s hauberk was dusty and travel-stained beneath his tunic. He wore a chain hood, as did she, and his beard was unkempt and scraggly. When he saw her, there was a little start of surprise, and then he dismissed the other soldiers in the tent.
After they were gone, he said, “I had a feeling I might see you today.”
“You know I couldn’t miss this,” she answered with a look of determination.
“It’s decent ground,” he agreed, smiling wryly. “They know we’re here, of course. They’ve waited patiently for us to arrive.” His emphasis on the word “patiently” made Trynne look at him warily. “Yes, they are waiting for us.”
“What do we know so far?” she asked. “Their ships are massive.”
“Aye. The cut of the sails is strange. I can’t imagine the speed they must get with so many masts. How they must ride the sea.”
“What else?”
Staeli folded his arms and started to pace. “Gahalatine surrounded his army with wagons. They put up the nets each evening while it’s still light.”
“Nets?” Trynne asked in confusion.
Staeli nodded. “Their army drags these spiked nets between the wagons and fastens them to the ground to impale anyone who tries to climb over. Gives them protection, you see. From a night raid. They’ve heard of Lord Owen. Their camp is disciplined. They’ve brought enough food to feed such an army. They’ve even brought docks with them! The ships come back and forth every day, rotating soldiers and bringing provisions. It’s highly organized. We’ve not seen anything like it.”
Trynne rubbed her mouth. “What about Gahalatine? Has he been seen?”
“Lady Morwenna is the only one who knows what he looks like. She’s been down in the camp and back. She says he’s there, not on the ships, but they haven’t started besieging the city yet either. After they set up camp, they’ve simply waited for us to arrive.”
That didn’t make any sense to her. “Besieging a city is no easy matter. They’ve blockaded the harbor, which prevents reinforcements from arriving by sea. I thought they would have tried to take the city before we arrived to have some defense against us.”
Staeli tapped his nose. “Lord Owen thinks they do this deliberately as a show of skill and cunning. They plan on sieging the city and attacking our army at the same time.”
The news filled her with apprehension.
“They’re going to attack us on a hill while starting a siege on Guilme?”
Staeli raised his hands. “It sounds foolhardy and a trifle overconfident, don’t you think? But it’s the only thing that makes sense. We don’t see any siege engines down in camp. No battering rams.”
“They have Wizrs,” Trynne reminded him grimly. “Many Wizrs.”
“Exactly,” Staeli said. “In other words . . . we don’t know what they are capable of. Lord Owen wants to test them, to attack them where they are instead of waiting for them to attack us. There is some secret strategy he’s betting on. He’s not telling anyone, even the king. All companies have been told to make ready at a moment’s notice. It may even happen tonight.”
Trynne squeezed her sword pommels tightly, her stomach bubbling with excitement.
Staeli continued, “I have a small tent ready for you, as you requested. I hope you’re well rested, because you probably won’t be getting much sleep. It’s up the hill but not all the way to the king’s camp at the summit. I’ll send a squire to bring you to your tent. He’ll wait on you. The lad’s name is Jerrison.”
Trynne thanked him, then couldn’t help but ask, “This hill is a really good vantage point. But why would Gahalatine have left it unprotected?”
Staeli shrugged. “We don’t know. I suppose we’ll find out soon.”
Dusk was falling as Trynne followed Jerrison up the path. The boy gripped the reins of her roan. He was about fourteen or fifteen, with sandy brown hair that was cropped close as a soldier’s. A lanky young man with smudges of dirt on his face, he chattered with her about Averanche and how much the city below reminded him of his home. He asked where she was from, but she evaded the question.
“There is the tent,” Jerrison said, pointing to a small ten
t pitched up the windy trail amidst a copse of eucalyptus. Trynne wondered if Staeli had chosen that place because it resembled a piece of hillside in Brythonica. “I’ll brush down the horse and then fetch you some dinner. What was your name again?”
“Sir Ellis,” Trynne said huskily.
The hillside was still full of soldiers coming in and out with orders from the command pavilion. It was a cool evening. In the distance, a bank of fog was starting to roll in. Trynne frowned, wondering if it would come ashore, and if it did, how it could impact her father’s plans.
She saw a tall, dark-cloaked man striding along the main road just below her. But it was the silver mask he wore that made her eyes fix on him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Fog of War
When she saw the silver mask, she felt a strong urge to follow the man. The squire Jerrison was handling the reins of her roan as he led it farther up the hill.
She patted the animal’s withers and then said firmly, “I’ll return shortly for dinner. Thank you, Jerrison.”
“It’s my pleasure to serve,” said the lad offhandedly, his eyes focused on his work. The roan snorted hungrily as Trynne angled her steps down the small scrub-choked path. The cowled figure was disappearing into the gloom, so Trynne hurried to catch up.
The foot traffic had lightened somewhat, and a few men carried torches against the gloom. Trynne noticed that the man in the mask averted his face when they approached. Not far down the path, around a bend in the neck of the road, the hooded figure slipped off the trail into the woods and started mounting the hill toward King Drew’s encampment. Trynne gritted her teeth and increased her stride. What nonsense was he planning?
The destination wasn’t far from her own tent, she realized. There was another tent settled in the copse of eucalyptus, without a banner or watchmen guarding it. The fabric glowed from a light inside, but it was too thick for her to make out any shapes other than bulky shadows. The tent was tall and round, with an iron spike protruding from the apex. The hooded man ducked into the entrance of the pavilion and disappeared.