by Jeff Wheeler
“I can’t believe he’s gone,” Drew said. He stood by the chair at the end of the table, gripping it so hard his knuckles were white.
“I think I just supposed he would be with us the whole time,” Trynne’s father said. “It never occurred to me that he might be called away elsewhere.” He sighed. “I should have foreseen it.”
Drew gave him a sidelong look. “You can’t always predict everything, Lord Owen.”
He nodded. “I wonder that Sinia didn’t tell me. Perhaps the Fountain warned her not to.” He seemed to suddenly realize that Trynne was still there. “You’d best return and tell your mother this news.” He bent down and kissed her hair, and she hugged him fiercely, stifling a sob.
“Shhh, lass,” he soothed, stroking her back. “In some games of Wizr, it is impossible to predict the outcome. We are not defenseless. No enemy has conquered this city since before the first Argentine ruled it. There is a massive river protecting us, not to mention multiple rings of walls and hills. If Gahalatine or another ruler seeks to conquer us, he will have to earn it.”
She looked up at his face, the fear of losing him unbearable at the moment. But she would be brave. She would be a soldier, like him. Unable to speak, Trynne nodded and then mastered herself. Standing straight, she gave him another hug.
“Give your mother my best regards,” the king said, smiling kindly at her. “She’s my only Wizr piece now. I will need her counsel more often, I think. Your father leaves notes for her in the waters. I may have him start including mine now.” He grinned.
“Yes, my lord,” she said.
He waved aside the pleasantry. “You’ve been in Kingfountain so often over the years, Lord Owen. I know you miss your wife and your other lands. You are as steadfast as Duke Horwath was in service of his king. I miss that old man still. I was just a little boy when I first came here,” he said, looking up at the stone buttresses holding up the ceiling. Then he smiled to himself. “And so were you, Lord Owen. Sometimes I feel as if the true owner of the castle is the Fountain, and we are just here as its guests.”
Her father let go of Trynne and started pacing. “We are more than just pieces in a game,” he said. “At least, that is my hope.”
Trynne bade her father and the king good night and then hurriedly walked to the chapel where the small fountain awaited her. An Espion trailed her the entire way, keeping a discreet distance. She wondered how she was ever going to accomplish anything with so many people minding her. There was news to share with her mother. There were tears to shed on her pillow where no one could see them. Her emotions were wrung out and she was weary.
Trynne stepped over the lip of the fountain and stood amidst the dry stones. In her mind, she thought of Ploemeur and prepared to utter the word of magic that would bring her there.
But before she could, she heard another voice mutter it. A man’s voice.
And suddenly her muscles were locked and she felt as if she were drowning.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Broken Ones
The sensation of drowning sent ripples of panic through Trynne’s body. She was falling through the magic, being pulled down as if into the very depths of the sea, and the crushing weight of it was squeezing her chest, her legs, her throat. Unable to move, unable to see through the dizzying vortex, she cried out in her mind for something to cling to, something to stop the fall.
The magic ended in a jarring crash that left her collapsed on a cobblestone floor. Even though the ground was solid, the world seemed to pitch up and down, and she knew she wouldn’t be able to stand for several moments. A strange blue light masked her surroundings, and the sound of sandals scuffing on stone hung in the air. Her stomach gave her only a moment’s warning before heaving her dinner onto the floor. She knelt, pressing her hands against the stone, and allowed the convulsions to ripple through her as her bowels constricted. Her lungs expelled water to join the sickening mess.
“Ach, I forget that happens sometimes to those who are new at it,” Myrddin muttered. He was busily shuffling around, his voice moving this way and that.
The fear in Trynne’s heart began to ebb. Her blurry vision was sharpening, but her strength was too spent for her to lift her head, so she stared down at the tiles beneath her. She rubbed her lips on the back of her wrist, feeling better after vomiting so hard. The seasick feeling was settling and the whirling of the room was slowing down, like a wagon wheel coming to rest on its axle after being upended.
She saw a pair of sandaled feet by her, and then Myrddin thrust a flask toward her. “Drink this, little sister. Fresh water.”
She gratefully accepted it, then uncorked the stopper and quickly drank. The taste was leathery, but it was satisfying and helped remove the flavor of bile from her mouth. She handed it back to him, still unable to fully lift her head. There was a pattern on the tile floor, she noticed, a mosaic of sorts. The shape was an octagon with a large cross through it. It was made of light and dark tiles and pieces, not the traditional black and white of a Wizr board. She had never seen the symbol before.
“Where did you bring me, Myrddin?” Trynne asked hoarsely. She coughed against her fist and found her voice again. The room was shadowed and dark, lit only by blue stones glowing in the wall. The place had a run-down feeling, and beneath the stench of her sick, there was the stale smell of an ancient crypt. The stones beneath and around her were mottled with broken pieces. The room was a small cupola, but there was an arch on one wall leading to a dark corridor beyond.
“This is an in-between place,” Myrddin said. As she looked up, she saw he was wearing a traveling cloak and had a large sack with a strap across his chest. He gripped his gnarled walking staff in one hand and the pommel of a sword in the other. He looked prepared for a long journey.
“In between what?” she pressed. “Why am I here?”
Myrddin crouched on one knee to bring himself down to her level. “I don’t have time to explain all this, little sister. The Fountain bids me go, and so I must, but it has also bidden me to speak to you ere I go too far. Your king is in danger, and I will not be there when he faces it. You must do so. He has enemies who seek the hollow crown. The Fountain wills you to be his champion, his protector.” Myrddin sighed and shook his head. “So much I want to say, but so much I cannot. Heed me, little sister. The fate of Ceredigion rests upon your shoulders. If you fail, the Deep Fathoms will reclaim not only Kingfountain, but all the territories the king has gathered into his peace. You cannot fail. I could not see how you could fulfill your destiny, not when there is so little time before it will come to pass. But your words triggered a memory. The Oath Maidens!” He smiled confidently and with energy. “You must bring the order back, to restore it anew. There will be many men who will seek to undermine you. They are pethets. If you do not stand by the king in his hour of need, then all will be lost and ruined.” He wagged his finger at her. “But if you are an Oath Maiden, you will be able to stand.”
She gazed at him in bewilderment. “I can hardly stand now. What are you saying, Myrddin?”
“Anthisstemi,” Myrddin whispered, gripping her elbow and helping her rise. As he uttered the word of power, Trynne felt strength fill her legs and wash away all of her queasiness and discomfort. She was refreshed and suddenly alert, her mind cleared of the fog of the journey.
“I do not have time to explain this all to you, little sister,” he continued, keeping his hand on her elbow. His voice was hard and determined. “Brachio, I would that I did! I must obey the Fountain’s summons. You were meant to be an Oath Maiden. One of the Broken Ones. If you accept the oaths, you will be empowered by the Fountain to do the work it has for you. You will be tempted to violate the oaths. You must not!” His eyes were fervent, almost wild. “There are grave consequences, sister. If you accept the oaths, the Fountain will personally guide you and direct you. You will be an emissary of its will, like the Maid of Donremy. She was an Oath Maiden too. But the people in her day were not ready to follow her. They we
re unworthy of it, so she was taken and executed. Her heart was broken. To be an Oath Maiden, to be a Broken One, you must endure hardship and suffering and not flinch from it.” He screwed up his brow and said the next words in almost a whisper. “No pain that we suffer, lass, no trial that we experience is ever for naught. Hardships teach us qualities we can get in no other way. Like patience, faith, fortitude . . . and humility. These are the true principles of Virtus. All that we endure, especially if we endure it patiently,” he added, wagging his finger at her again, “builds up our character, it purifies our hearts, and it expands our souls.” He paused, sighing deeply. “It makes us more worthy to be called the children of the Fountain. Now I have told you the Fountain’s will for you. I have delivered my warning that once you go down this path, you cannot go back upriver. If you forsake your oaths, there will be terrifying consequences. You are only fifteen. This is a heavy burden to put on you, but those even younger than you have had to bear it. The Fountain will not force you to accept it. But this it commands me to offer you. Will you accept it?”
Trynne stared at the Wizr, her heart near to bursting at his words. She felt the magic of the Fountain surrounding them, felt its power behind the words he had used. He was speaking on behalf of the Fountain, inviting her to become what she had always dreamed.
She wanted to say yes. But she felt completely overwhelmed. “Will I be able to tell my parents?” she asked.
Myrddin stared at her, pausing a moment, as if listening.
“No,” he answered curtly.
The answer hurt as if he had stabbed her, and she winced. It would be a painful decision. “Is there no one I can tell?” she said in anguish.
Myrddin stared at her, his lips pursed in a frown. He released her elbow and settled his meaty hand on her shoulder. “The queen. She must know that you are to be her husband’s protector. The Fountain also bids me to let you tell Captain Staeli. He is loyal to you, little sister. You will learn how much before your journey is over.”
Trynne felt a surge of relief and a prick of apprehension at the same time. What did that mean? From the look in Myrddin’s eyes, she dared not ask.
“Will you accept this?” he asked her forcefully.
“I will,” she answered, and as she did, she felt the grating feeling of stone again, a feeling of destiny that was accompanied by the determination to succeed. In her heart, she experienced the swelling of the Fountain’s approval. It was such a powerful feeling that it made her eyes well with tears.
“Kneel once more, little sister,” the Wizr said. “And prepare to receive your oaths. There will be five. If you honor them, then someday you will receive four more. After you have proven yourself a true Oath Maid.”
She dropped down to one knee. “What is it like, Myrddin? How will I feel?”
He smiled again with that knowing smile. “You will never be the same again.”
When Trynne awoke in her own bed well before sunrise, she wondered if it had all been a dream. The sheets had their familiar smell, and the pillows were just the right softness. She blinked into the shadows and gloom, full of memories of what had transpired with Myrddin. Had it only been a flight of fancy?
“My lady, are you awake?”
It was Captain Staeli’s voice coming from the shadows. It was time to head out to the training yard.
“I am. I’ll be down shortly.”
“Very well, my lady.”
Trynne pushed herself up in bed, her stomach tingling with apprehension. How could she know whether it had truly happened? And then she felt it rising up inside her, an awareness not just of the distant calls of songbirds or the muted rumble of the surf. No, it was an awareness of the lives of countless others who had shared her calling. As she closed her eyes and bowed her head, she could almost hear the screams and ringing steel of ancient battlefields. Myrddin had called it the “wellspring,” the source of the Fountain that had collected all the lives and experiences of others, which she could tap into and drink from. She no longer felt like a girl of fifteen. She carried with her the wisdom of ages past. Oath Maidens had once protected Leoneyis. And they had all been destroyed by a king who’d forsaken his oaths. After he had murdered the last one, the Deep Fathoms had drowned his entire kingdom.
Then she remembered the oaths—the promises she had sworn over a handful of small stones. Five oaths in all, though she would ultimately be asked to take four more. They were the origins of the code of Virtus, the symbol of true knights. Oath Maidens were the defenders of the kingdom. Their strength came from protecting others, not from seeking to harm. Each of the five oaths whispered into her mind. If she failed in any of them, there would be dire consequences.
Never slay a man with a spear or arrow. In return, she could not be slain by such herself. Never take a life unawares or out of revenge. Never hearken to greed or take a bribe. Never swear an oath falsely. Never refuse to serve when the Fountain calls—even at the peril of life and loved ones.
The memory of the oaths made her breath come quickly. She hastily stole away from the inviting sheets and put on her training garb, her mind whirling with the snatches of memory from lives of women she didn’t know, but who were suddenly a part of her. Her fingers tightened the lacings of her leather tunic, and she wrapped the girdle around her waist and cinched the buckles. Her leather bracers were on the floor and she stooped down and strapped them on next, then tied her hair back with a band. She breathed in and out slowly, trying to master the churning tide of images that came and went with each breath. Myrddin had said that it would take time to grow accustomed to the insights and flashes sent to her by the Fountain. Patting her stomach to quell her nerves, she marched away from the changing screen and joined Captain Staeli in the hall.
He never spoke much, just followed her down to the yard, performing his duty with efficiency and honor.
When they reached the training yard, she was nervous and a little breathless.
“It’s been a few days since we trained with daggers,” Captain Staeli said as he walked in front of her to the weapons chests. “You’ve done well with underhand attacks, but today we will do overhand.”
She felt a smile tug at her mouth. In her mind, flowing like water, she instantly knew all the variations of knife fighting that had ever been taught or tried. She supposed this would be as good an opportunity as any to demonstrate to him that she was different.
Brugia, the Fountain whispered to her. You will compete in the Gauntlet. Bring him with you.
Yes, Trynne answered in her thoughts, accepting the charge.
Captain Staeli rummaged through one of the chests and withdrew a long-bladed dagger. “This was made in Atabyrion,” he said, examining it. “Fair blade. See the diamond shape near the hilt?” He handed it to her. “Now, hold it with the blade downward, along your forearm—yes, exactly like that.”
Trynne stepped away from him into the yard, summoning her Fountain magic into a trickle of power.
“Let’s see how you do for starters,” he said, hunching his shoulders as he came at her with an underhand thrust. He began to feint toward her, as if he were a street brawler with only a dagger. “How would you use the blade to defend yourself? Just see what comes naturally to you.”
Trynne nodded to him, keeping herself perfectly still and not mimicking his aggressive posture. She could sense which attack was a feint and which was real, so she didn’t waste energy pacing or stepping from foot to foot. Trynne kept the blade up near her face, watching his entire body at once.
She saw the look in Staeli’s eyes as he noticed her unusual posture. Then he lunged at her.
Since she was the one defending, the magic rushed in to aid her. Trynne deflected the attack with the dagger, then stepped around and trapped his arm against her side. Dropping to her knees, she pulled him off balance. He was already moving to free himself when she pivoted on her heel and dropped lower, using her position to throw him off balance. Staeli landed on his back, his arm still trapped in her a
rmpit, his wrist torqued around. She pulled his pinky, and when the dagger fell out of his grip, she caught it before it hit the ground.
She released his arm and rose, holding both daggers.
The look of startled surprise on his face was worth all the strawberries in Plowman’s Field.
“Swords next,” she said. “Swords against daggers. I’m ready for you, Captain. Get on your feet.”
He blinked and then quickly rose, chafing his elbow and giving her an appraising look. “I get the swords?”
She nodded and then held both daggers underhanded.
Staeli fetched two short swords from the chest and began slicing the air with them as he shook loose his arms and shoulders. His face was one of determination.
“Are you going to attack me, Captain?” she asked. “Or do you just want to swing your arms about?”
He gave her a bemused look. She normally didn’t taunt him like that. Then he rushed at her, swinging both weapons at once in a hasty lunge that brought him close in just a moment. Trynne had him unarmed in less than a minute, one of her daggers at his throat. His response was to grapple her arm and try to fling her down, and that’s when the fight became more interesting.
Captain Staeli pulled out all the various tricks from his arsenal. She countered each one, seeing how it would happen just a moment before it did and knowing exactly how to counter it to her best advantage. Her movements were short and swift and devastatingly effective. After several minutes, she had him on the ground again, controlled by a locking bar hold on his arm. His breathing was huffing with the effort and with a little hint of pain. She did not feel winded at all.
He looked about to surrender, but her new senses told her that he was going to try to kick her foot and trip her. She waited until he did, then bent her knee so that his blow missed, following up by dropping her knee down on his calf muscle, making him grunt with pain.
“Do you yield?” she asked him, tightening her grip on his arm.
