“Have your king’s spies had any success in locating your father?” Sunilik asked her as they marched through the palace.
“None at all,” Trynne answered worriedly. It brought back a memory she would as soon forget. It was she who had found her father’s severed hand in the grove in the woods outside of Ploemeur.
It had still been wearing the invisible ring that had marked him as the protector of Brythonica, Trynne’s mother’s duchy. That ring now graced the hand of Captain Staeli, whom her father had chosen as the new protector before his disappearance. The captain was also the man Trynne had put in charge of training the Oath Maidens in Averanche.
Despite the murmurs about his strange disappearance, the world believed Owen Kiskaddon had been abducted at the Battle of Guilme. Only Trynne and a few others knew the truth, that someone had summoned him to the grove by magic and then violently attacked him. The Fountain-blessed hunter they had brought to the grove to track him had found no trail.
“It is a shame, truly. Thank you for coming to see my daughter to safety. I owe Kingfountain a debt I cannot easily repay.” He added in a melancholy tone, “I will miss this oasis,” gazing back at the great hall of the palace. “It has been in my family for several generations. But what the Fountain gives us, it can then take away.”
Samrao, who had preceded them out the door, came rushing back to them, his eyes wide with panic, his chin quivering with fear. “Master!” he choked out. “He’s here!”
They all stopped in their tracks. Samrao pointed, his arm trembling violently, to the front door. “He’s at the fountain!”
“Who? Gahalatine?” the king demanded.
Samrao nodded in abject terror.
Trynne felt Fountain magic surge through her. Someone had uttered “ekluo,” the word of power that disarmed other magics. Distance limited the word’s power, but she felt she was near the epicenter of its scope. The glowing stones in the palace dimmed, and shrieks of terror began to fill the air.
Trynne watched as the main doors of the palace were wrenched open. Her heart was beating violently in her chest, but the magic of the word of power had bypassed her. One of her own gifts from the Fountain, one that her father shared, made it impossible for other magics to affect her or those who stood near her.
“I need a veil,” Trynne whispered to Sunilik. Large beads of sweat had popped up on his furrowed brow. He made a quick gesture to Sureya, who removed her own veil and hastily covered Trynne with it. Though Trynne could sense the invisible ley line just beyond the door, running east to west, she was not close enough to invoke its power to take them away. It was too late to get any closer.
Gahalatine entered the palace.
Sureya cowered behind Trynne as the Overking of Chandigarl strode into the hall. Trynne hadn’t expected to encounter him on this visit, and it made her knees tremble with fear. She recognized his size and bearing, having witnessed his meeting with King Drew after the disastrous Battle of Guilme. He was not wearing battle armor this time, but a fancy knee-length tunic that was more suitable for Chandleer than her own garb. The collar was open, revealing the three leather straps around his neck. Just as she remembered, one was strung with a claw or fang, another with a circular metal device, and the last with a ring. Gahalatine was nicked with scars from a multitude of battles, and his dark hair looked almost like quills. His beard was trimmed close. He was remarkably handsome.
There was a huge, cavernous supply of Fountain magic inside him that radiated from him with intensity. He was flanked by a Wizr, not Rucrius—the Wizr who had visited King Drew’s council in Kingfountain and almost drowned the city by diverting the river—but another man with a sallow face and a pointed beard and darkened pockmarks across his cheekbones.
The Wizr pointed his staff at Sunilik and murmured something to Gahalatine.
Nodding in acknowledgment, Gahalatine marched up to Sunilik boldly. There were no guards with him, but he didn’t look the least bit concerned about his safety.
“Lord Sunilik,” Gahalatine said in a wary tone. He offered a polite bow of his head. When Trynne had last heard him speak, his voice had boomed like thunder. He was much taller than the ruler he faced and only half his age, but he had the presence and bearing of a man accustomed to being respected and obeyed. Trynne felt Gahalatine’s magic begin to creep into the room, spilling out of him like slow syrup. She was standing near enough that she felt it too, but it split around her like a wave around a rock, not able to come near.