The Forsaken Throne (Kingfountain #6)(16)

Lord Amrein was lying on the ground, a jagged wound on his skull and blood covering most of his face. He looked like a dead man. Trynne gasped with shock, but she could not absorb what her eyes saw.

The presence of another Fountain-blessed drew her gaze to the cleft of the riven boulder, and she caught the swish of a pale-colored silk skirt. It looked familiar and she squinted, trying to make out the shape as the person disappeared into the cave beyond the great rock.

She took a few steps and then saw Gahalatine struggling to sit up. His big shoulders were trembling with weakness and he pitched forward again. She felt the throb of his Fountain magic, but it felt wrong—like a bubble that popped each time it attempted to coalesce. Hurrying to his side, she knelt in the melting ice, soaking her skirts.

She looked at his face, his brow twisted into a rictus of pain.

There were chunks of ice in his hair, along with a matting of fresh blood. She wrapped her arms around him and invoked a healing word, pouring some of her magic into him.

Some of the soldiers were upright now, gazing at the tree and listening to the anthem from the beautiful birds. But only a few had managed to stand. Most lay still. Many, she realized, were unbreathing. Marshal Soeur was among the dead. Her breath hitched, but she would not let herself cry. Where was Reya?

“Where am I?” Gahalatine muttered, wincing, staring around the grove in shock and confusion. Her magic was working through him, repairing the injuries he’d sustained during the hailstorm.

“You’ll be all right,” she said soothingly, choking on the words.

She stroked his shoulder and then wrapped her arms around him, wanting to both give comfort and take it. “You weren’t meant to come to this place. Why did you come here?”

He turned his head, gazing up at the skies as if afraid of them.

He looked shaken and fearful. Then he looked at her, his eyes tracing her features. There was no anger or hatred in them now. Just fear and worry and confusion. He struggled to sit up and was successful this time. She couldn’t stop holding him.

“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.