Broken Veil (Harbinger #5)(40)

“Are we going to Ploemeur?” Cettie asked.

Owen shook his head, saying nothing. When she’d asked him where he had learned to fight so well, he’d remained equally silent.

Soon the carriage entered a dense wood. Shadows filled the carriage, and night sounds—the clicking of unseen insects and the hooting of owls—filtered in through the open window. The breeze had also become noticeably cooler. Cettie’s companions sat comfortably in the silence, but she sensed a presence waiting for her in the woods. Her nerves went taut, her worries growing. In her experience, darkness had always brought the Myriad Ones. Yet she felt a little safer in Owen’s presence, and not just because of his swordsmanship.

After some time, Owen lifted his sword pommel and used it to tap the roof. “Stop here, please.”

The driver obeyed, and the carriage slowed to a halt.

They were in the middle of the woods, and the feeling of sentience Cettie had picked up on originated directly to the left of the carriage. She clenched her hands together, subduing a shudder, and shot a worried look at Owen.

“We’ll walk the rest of the way,” Owen said. “We’re almost there.”

He opened the door and disembarked, then helped Curtis down the long jump before extending a hand to Cettie to help her down as well. His palm was weathered and rough, but it was also warm and comforting. As a child, she used to hold Fitzroy’s hand, and that simple connection had given her courage to face the unknown.

“Wait for us here,” Owen said to the driver. “We’ll be gone an hour or so.”

“As you say, my lord,” said the man from his perch.

“This way,” Owen said, leading her and Curtis through the trees. He was guiding them directly to the source of the feelings.

“What is this place?” she whispered, her throat tightening.

“It’s the gateway back to your home,” he said.

“It feels . . . dangerous,” Cettie said.

“It is dangerous,” Owen answered. “As long as you’re with me, you’ll be safe. But the magic here is powerful. That you can sense it means you’re Fountain-blessed.”

She gave him a sharp look. “Fountain-blessed? Like in the stories?”

“They’re not stories,” Owen answered.

“But how can I be Fountain-blessed?” Cettie asked. “I’m not from this world.”

“Come and see.”

She mustered her courage and followed him. There was no trail, but she didn’t need one, nor did she need Owen to guide her. She could sense the magic of the place—ancient, powerful, and dangerous—both drawing her to it and warning her away. She felt a vivid sense of wrongness being there, like a Leering was trying to bar her entry. Somehow Owen’s presence prevented it from affecting her.

They reached a small grove, and Cettie heard the lapping sounds of a waterfall. Through the parting of the trees, she saw a myriad of stars—the sky was absolutely swollen with them. There was a shambling oak tree nestled amidst dark shapes she assumed were boulders. Water was streaming from the base of the tree. As they approached, she saw a smooth stone plinth and a metal bowl that gleamed silver in the starlight.

Her breath slowed as she stared at the strange place. She was positive she’d never been there before, and yet it felt strangely familiar. It was an eerie sensation. As she peered into the blackness of the boulders—a cave, she realized—she remembered the Fear Liath and trembled violently.

Owen put his hand on her shoulder. “Nothing will hurt you here. Stand near me.”

She sidled closer to him, trying to calm herself.

“Curtis. Fetch the bowl and fill it with water.”

“All right, Papa.” The boy obeyed promptly and went to the plinth. He lifted the bowl, which was heavy for someone of his size, and grunted as he carried it to the darkness at the mouth of the boulders. She heard the sound of the water sloshing inside the bowl. It quickly filled. Then the boy, weighed down by his burden, began to approach.

“Watch,” Owen whispered to her. “But you might want to cover your ears.”

Cettie quickly did so.

The boy tipped the contents of the bowl onto the plinth. She could hear the water splashing onto the surface, see the stone turning slick. After quickly setting down the bowl, he rushed to join them. And then a crack of thunder split the sky, so loud that she cowered. The boom shook her ribs, her heart, and momentarily deafened her. A high-pitched squeal came, followed by a vibrating thrum of magic that was so deep and pervasive she could only describe the sensation as being plunged underwater. It felt as if the whole world were a musical instrument, and some giant hand had plucked the strings.

And then it began to hail.

Cettie dropped to her knees as the huge chunks of ice slammed into the grove. They came in torrents, the ice hissing as it smashed into trees and boulders. Yet none of it touched her, or Owen, or Curtis. All three stood in the maelstrom, protected by a power she did not comprehend. After the storm, things settled peacefully.

Light filtered into the grove, accompanied by peaceful music and the chirping of birds. The light, which reminded her of a sunrise, came from the cave made by the boulders. Lowering her hands from her ears, she stared at the light. It revealed the hidden colors of the grove, the moss on the tree trunk of the massive oak, the thick clumps of mistletoe drooping from the laden branches. The boulders could be seen as well, glistening and wet, the ice nearly melted already.