“There is the tent,” Jerrison said, pointing to a small tent 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.
She was standing off the main road, perfectly visible to any passersby. Inside the tent, she thought she heard a muffled voice. What should she do next? Wait for the man to come out? Should she go inside and challenge him? Try to find a way to warn her father?
The sounds of the camp wafted in on the night breeze. The grinding of steel on stone. The shared laughter of comrades eating dinner. The rustling of the leaves. The wind also brought the smell of smoke and the briny scent of the sea. It reminded her of home. She didn’t know what to do, and the hesitation only increased her trepidation.
Better to confront the trouble directly. Time was not an ally at the present.
Steeling her courage, she gripped the hilt of one of her twin swords and marched up to the tent. She tried to be quiet, but the cracking of twigs and hiss of the tall grasses announced her well before she got there.
The tent was still, no murmuring noise. She reached out with her magic probe for danger, letting it ripple from her. There was only one person inside who was armed, and he was standing to the side of the tent opening with a sword in a defensive posture, clearly expecting trouble.
She drew her sword and then barged into the tent. If the man attacked her, she was ready to defend herself. The Fountain magic whirled up in a cocoon around her. She would wait to be attacked. Her power was strongest then.
There was a small brazier and a lamp at the center of the tent, but her eyes immediately flew to the right side. Fallon stood by the entrance, sword held upright as if he were going to strike her on the head with the pommel.
Fallon.
But he hesitated when he saw her. Trynne walked deeper into the tent so she could turn to face him. She avoided the center pole that kept the tent from collapsing. Immediately, she invoked the ring on her finger and disguised her features, giving herself a slightly altered appearance of a soldier with a woad-painted face.
“Sir Ellis?” Fallon said in surprise, lowering the sword.
“Prince Fallon,” Trynne said in her lower voice. Warily.
Fallon wore a boiled-leather tunic over his hauberk. Why did he not wear the badge of the Pierced Lion marking him as a man of Dundrennan?
“What are you doing here?” Fallon demanded in confusion. “You are the young man I met in Marq, are you not?”
“I am, my lord,” Trynne replied, trying to understand what was going on. Where was the man with the silver mask? She realized instantly that Fallon was alone. He must have been wearing the disguise, and confusion and distrust began to swell inside her heart.