The King's Traitor (Kingfountain #3)(40)

Icy chunks began to crash into the plinth and the detritus all around, growing bigger and bigger by the moment. Etayne shrieked in pain as they started to strike her. Owen’s heart beat wildly in his chest, and he felt he’d made a terrible, life-threatening mistake. The hail hammered down on them relentlessly, but strangely, Owen did not feel the wetness strike him. In fact, none of the ice struck him.

“We need shelter!” Owen bellowed amidst the deluge. The woods were farther back, and they’d find some protection there. The boulders behind him were all curved and rounded. He didn’t see any pockets or small caves that would offer them shelter.

A walnut-sized chunk of ice struck Etayne on the head and she crumpled to the ground. The hail beat down on her mercilessly.

Owen bellowed in surprise and rushed over to her, watching the pelting stones hammer down on her body. He knelt by her side and scooped up her legs, intent on running into the woods for protection, but the ground was full of pebble-sized hailstones and he heard a rushing noise coming from the sky that made him shudder and quake. It was as if a waterfall of hail had opened above the plinth and they were caught in the rapids. Owen pulled her tightly against him and covered her body with his own, waiting to die. Death was the only outcome. He had tampered with magic beyond his ken; he had opened up a flood that would destroy all of Brythonica.

The hailstorm came down on him, but somehow, he was protected against it. He was freezing and trembling, with water dripping into his face, but the chunks of ice did not strike him. Was Etayne even alive? Her face was crushed against his chest as he clutched her tightly to him, shielding her from the devastating storm he’d unwittingly summoned.

He would protect her for as long as he was able, but he felt certain he would drown. They were both going to die.

And then the storm ended as suddenly as it had started. He shook with cold, unable to believe that somehow he’d been reprieved from death. The magic swirled around him, and he noticed his scabbard was glowing. The raven etched into it was made of livid fire, a fire that slowly faded and could only be seen by the user. That whisper of insight had come from the Fountain to his mind.

His scabbard, which the Maid of Donremy herself had used in all her famous battles, had protected him. He had found it in the cistern at the palace of Kingfountain, one of the lost treasures of a bygone age.

“Etayne! Etayne!” he pleaded, pulling her away. Her face was pale. There was blood coming down her ear.

Then the trilling songs of birds filled the air. Owen jerked his head up and saw that the oak tree near the waterfall was completely barren of leaves. It had been stripped clear by the violent storm. Some of the branches had crashed down as well. But birds were alighting on the bare limbs, singing the most beautiful song he’d ever heard. These weren’t ravens—they were songbirds—and as he hugged Etayne to his chest, his heart wanted to weep from the purity of their music.

The song melted the ice in moments. Owen blinked, watching the heaps of sharp-edged ice vanish. Amidst the song, he heard the clomp of hooves coming from the woods.

Owen bent his ear to Etayne’s lips, listening closely for the sound of her breath. She was breathing; thank the Fountain, she was breathing. “Etayne, someone’s coming. Etayne!” He tried to jostle her shoulders, but she remained limp.

Turning his head, Owen saw a horse as black as night coming from the woods. The rider was garbed in black armor and a matching helmet that concealed his face. Fixed to a spear on the horse’s bridle was a pennant, also black, with a white raven on it. The spurs on the knight’s boots poked the horse’s flanks, making it snort and start up the terrain directly toward Owen. The knight drew his sword with his right hand, steadying the spear and pennant with his left.

Owen wanted to get Etayne to safety, but he could sense the knight’s ill intent as he charged up the hill.

Gently, Owen settled Etayne onto the muddy ground, cradling her head on her arm. He rose, grimacing, and stepped away from her as the knight closed the distance between them. Owen unsheathed his sword.

“I have no quarrel with you,” Owen said, summoning the magic of the Fountain to him. His reservoir was full of power. He sensed, however, that his words were utterly futile.

A mist of steam snorted from the horse’s nostrils.

And then the rider charged at him, his spear lowering toward Owen’s heart.





CHAPTER FOURTEEN


The Knight at Dawn




The ground shuddered from the charging mount, its nostrils flaming with white mist as it raced toward him. Owen blinked rapidly, drawing upon the Fountain’s magic. His eyes narrowed on the mystery knight’s spear, and he tightened his grip on his sword, angling it slightly forward. If he parried wrong or misjudged, he would be skewered. It was no longer time for thinking. It was time for instinct. For survival.

He moved away from Etayne’s limp body, forcing the knight to change position. The spear wavered slightly. His magic revealed much about the man’s weakness. This knight was battle-hardened with expert reflexes, but his left ankle was a source of pain. Owen could sense it throbbing now, even from this distance. The horse had weaknesses too—it was experienced, but it was nervous about Owen and his magic. The steed’s natural trepidation would be an asset so long as the beast didn’t collide with him.

Owen brought his sword up to an overhanging guard, both hands twisting the pommel fiercely—one over the other—the blade poised above his head. He walked crossways, moving slightly downhill. It was much easier to strike a stationary target, and Owen had no intention of being easy prey.