The King's Traitor (Kingfountain #3)(19)
The weather could not have been more perfect, which made for a pleasant ride through the countryside. The air had the salty tang of the sea to it, for Brythonica was a jagged inlet along the coast of Occitania, full of grottos and lagoons and sweet-smelling eucalyptus trees that were towering and ancient. Etayne rode at his side, hooded and mysterious, as they crossed the border between Averanche and Brythonica. Shortly after entering the domain, they were hailed by warriors bearing the Raven tunic of Brythonica, but the border guards were totally outnumbered by Owen’s men. When they learned Duke Kiskaddon was coming to meet the duchess, they blanched, let him pass, and undoubtedly sent riders dashing ahead to forewarn their ruler.
The land was full of rolling hills and valleys, lush parks, and manors with sculpted gardens that reminded Owen of Tatton Hall. The roads crisscrossed through spacious fields full of line after line of thick green berry bushes. There were strawberries, thimbleberries, honeysuckle, currants, and bilberries. The variety of colors and smells was pleasant and inviting, and Owen was impressed by the industry he saw. Everywhere he looked, foragers were working their way down the orderly rows, gently collecting the berries into small boxes strapped to their bodies. At the edges of the fields yet more peasants stacked crates of berries into wagons for shipment to the port cities. Despite all the work, there was a calm, comforting feeling in the air.
Several leagues into the countryside, they came across a road running alongside one of the game parks. The forest was thick and overgrown. It would have been difficult for horses to pass. Owen felt a strange sensation as he stared at the majestic eucalyptus and redwood trees, almost as if the forest were alive and gazing back at him. He saw squirrels rushing through the undergrowth, some climbing the trees and perching on limbs, their huge gray tails swishing as they moved. There was a ruckus from the birds lodged in the high branches.
After passing the woods, they reached another valley filled with even more farms and lush fields. These were more heavily populated than the ones Owen had seen earlier in the day. There were beautifully built villas occupying each hilltop, but no fortifications could be seen, and their walls appeared to be made of wood and plaster rather than stone. They were retreats, not structures intended for safety. Owen hadn’t seen a single castle along the journey, which gave the land a vulnerable feel. It would be easy to march an army on the packed-earth roads. The only natural barriers were the occasional woods, but those wouldn’t be suited for soldiers. A heartsick feeling struck him at the thought of this beautiful place being trampled and ravaged by war.
As they traveled deeper into the country, Owen felt the unmistakable sensation of the Fountain all around him, but there was no obvious source. There were none of the massive rivers and waterfalls that marked Ceredigion, and while each villa appeared to have a fountain in the courtyard, they were too distant to be heard. The lapping of the canals was so gentle it was almost unnoticeable. The gentle murmur of the Fountain seemed to be coming from the land itself, which he had never experienced before. He sensed it in the peasant farmers working joyfully in their gardens. He heard it in the air of music coming from the small villages. He saw maypoles and flowered garlands. There were many children dashing around, playing games. Their voices seemed to conjure the magic of the Fountain. In his mind’s eye, he imagined what it would have been like to grow up here, playing in such a carefree way, basking in the magic of this land.
Owen turned to look at Etayne, only to catch her gazing longingly at the scene.
“Do you feel it?” he whispered to her.
Her eyes were serious, almost sad. “I feel it everywhere,” she answered softly. “What is this place?”
Owen shook his head, not certain what to make of it—a sensation that only heightened as they continued to ride into the land, intent on reaching the capital of Brythonica by nightfall. The valleys and hills were so idyllic it almost felt sacrilegious to ride hastily past them. Peasants working near the roads lifted their caps and waved at the strangers, as if totally unconcerned by the foreign soldiers in their midst. Owen spied an old man resting against the trunk of a eucalyptus, surrounded by sunny-haired grandchildren, one of whom was peeling long strips of bark from the tree. The grandfather tickled a squealing girl, which made Owen smile despite his desire to appear stern.
The peasants weren’t dirty and unkempt. They were cheerful, hardworking, and exuded a sense of calm and safety that didn’t make sense considering the apparent lack of protection.
Ahead loomed another wood, but this time, the road went through the middle of it. It would be an ideal place for a trap, and Owen’s gut began to clench with wariness. He gave orders for ten men to ride on ahead and ten to remain at the edge of the woods to alert them of an ambush. There were ravens in the trees, their black plumage stark against the silver bark and green glossy leaves. Several cawed and fluttered from branch to branch. Owen had the unmistakable feeling of being watched.
“So many ravens,” Etayne muttered curiously. At her words, about a dozen lifted into the air simultaneously. Owen felt a sudden, piercing dread that the birds would attack them, but they flew away instead, their path hidden by the upper boughs.
As Owen entered the woods, he felt a shudder pass through him. The sense of the Fountain was incredibly strong in the woods. The feeling was ancient, implacable, powerful. It was like being in the grip of a shadow. The hair on the back of his neck and arms stood up with pronounced gooseflesh. His men seemed to be infected by his mood, their eyebrows scowling as they began searching the trees on each side of them.