“What is this place?” Gahalatine murmured, gazing at the silver bowl chained to the stone plinth. At the riven boulder, at the oak tree that was now full of leaves and glistening mistletoe. The magic of the grove always revived it following the storm.
“It is a sacred place,” she answered, gazing around for a sign of Captain Staeli. Where was the grove’s defender? The magic was supposed to summon him in the case of intruders. “Why did you come here, my lord? Why didn’t you go straight to the palace with Reya?”
She saw Lord Amrein’s chest rise and fall and nearly sobbed with relief. She noticed that another body lay crumpled beside Lord Amrein. It was her friend’s small form.
“I don’t know,” Gahalatine said, shaking his head. “I don’t remember coming here.” His eyes searched her face, as if he wanted to say something to her but was ashamed.
The song of the birds vanished and the birds with them. She rose and hastily went back to Lord Amrein, sinking back down to her soaked knees. Judging by the scene laid out before her, the Espion master had protected Reya with his own body and borne the brunt of the storm. His life seemed to be ebbing before her eyes. Trynne touched him, invoking the same words of healing. His wound was more grievous than Gahalatine’s had been, so she had to pour more of herself into him, draining her stores of magic. Then she saw the Wizr Albion, sprawled out on the ground. She hadn’t sensed his magic, and the reason was instantly clear. His face was pale, his eyes frozen open.
He was dead.
Keeping her hand on Lord Amrein’s back, she continued to feed magic into him, fusing his crushed skull. His wounds were mortal.
She poured as much power as she dared into him. It had weakened her. She touched Reya’s neck, sighing with relief when she felt the throb of her friend’s heart. Then she rose and stalked toward the cave. She’d seen the shadowy figure disappear into its depths, but she didn’t feel the presence of someone Fountain-blessed coming from it. Reaching out with her defensive magic, she probed the darkness of the interior. It was empty.
This was where her father had disappeared. Clenching her fists, she stared at the gap in the rock. The empty rock. Somehow it had stolen from her again. What was the key to this place’s strange magic?
Trynne approached the cave, but she felt a strange throbbing of warning not to enter it. Something would happen to her if she gave in to temptation. It was a warning from the Fountain. Her curiosity and pride almost made her ignore it, but she had taken an oath to obey the Fountain. Trynne backed away from the stone and went back to Gahalatine, who was standing now, gazing at the bodies of the fallen in shocked abhorrence.
“I’m sorry this happened,” she said, shaking her head. “I’d left orders for your party to be kept away from this place. I was going to explain it to you, my lord, when we spoke.”
He was looking at her oddly. All his anger and negativity were gone. He looked confused more than accusing. “Where am I?” he asked her.
“You’re in Brythonica, my lord,” she said, fresh worry blooming in her chest.
The name seemed to mean nothing to him. Nothing at all.
“Brythonica,” he sighed, gazing around the grove in wonderment.
Then he shifted his focus back to her. “And you are the mistress of this grove?” he asked.
The awful truth crashed down on her like an avalanche.
Gahalatine’s memories had been stolen from him—like her father.
Like Dragan.
“I am,” she answered. “What is your name?”
He looked at her helplessly. “I . . . I cannot remember.” He walked in a slow circle, gazing at the towering trees. “I remember nothing. I don’t know . . . who I am.” He finished the circle and looked at her pleadingly. “Can you help me? I need to remember. You know me? You recognized me, yes? Who . . . who are you?”
Trynne’s heart shrank with pain. “I am your wife, my lord,” she said forlornly.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Ignominious
Wounded and dead alike were brought to the palace at Ploemeur.
The scale of the disaster was almost incomprehensible. Trynne was devastated by all the injuries and death. There was no doubt at all that it had been a deliberate attack, orchestrated by her enemies, and yet the Wizr Albion had been killed as well. Surely a simple shield spell could have saved him from the ravages of the ice storm.
It felt as if a game of Wizr were in progress, only she was blind to all the moves.
Healers tended to the injured. Reya had revived but had swooned soon afterward from dizziness. The soldiers who had survived were frightened and in a state of shock from the calamity that had befallen them. Gahalatine was befuddled with confusion.