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 immediately 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.