by Jeff Wheeler
“There was a note?” Owen asked eagerly.
“Mancini has it. I only read it once, years ago. When I was brought here from . . . well, never mind that part. Now, please leave, my lord. My gown is wrinkled now, so I must change before going downstairs.” She gave him another imperious, haughty look and fidgeted with the lacings of her bodice, challenging him to obey her. As a duke of the realm, he outranked her in every possible way. She should not be dismissing him. He could tell she had not the slightest intention of telling him what the note had said, and he would not demean himself by asking her.
“I thank you for not stabbing me,” Owen said guardedly. He glanced around the room, feeling both foolish and offended. “I won’t bother you again.”
He turned and marched out of the tower, resisting the urge to slam the door childishly behind him. He felt at once embarrassed, flushed, and bewildered by the encounter. Why hadn’t the king told him about the poisoner? Or the spymaster for that matter?
Owen fumed as he walked down the steps, realizing now that Mancini had kept something from him that he should not have. Perhaps they were training a new poisoner in case they needed to use one against someone who was Fountain-blessed.
Someone like Owen.
CHAPTER SIX
The Eel of Ceredigion
One had to look the part of a prince to be convincing in that role. As Owen rode his stallion to the sanctuary of Our Lady, followed by a few attendants, he realized he had gotten used to the stares and deference from the people milling about the streets buying mincemeat pies and muffins. His tunic was not ostentatious, but his fashionable clothes set him apart and identified him as one who should be obeyed. A woman with a small child steered the lad out of his path, speaking in low tones to the boy, training him to give way to someone who was highborn. The bucks’ head badge was respected and recognized; those who saw it knew the owner of that standard was Fountain-blessed, a rare gift to anyone.
As they reached the gate, Owen saw the sanctuary men appraising him. The gate was open, so Owen dismounted and handed the reins to one of his retainers. As he marched into the yard, he stared up at the beautiful arches of the sanctuary, admiring the craftsmanship that had gone into the structure. After jogging up the steps, he approached the main door and discovered the deconeus of the sanctuary, a man by the name of Kenilworth, awaiting him with attendants.
“You honor us, my lord duke,” the deconeus said ingratiatingly. “You have come to worship at the Fountain?”
Rather than wait for the man, Owen continued into the main hall. The black and white tiles on the floor had always reminded him of a giant Wizr board, and indeed, his visit here was akin to his next move in an especially long, difficult game. The deconeus hurried to keep up with him.
“Is there a particular purpose for your visit then?” the deconeus asked hurriedly. “Is all well, my lord?”
“Perfectly,” Owen said in a curt, impatient voice. “Where is John Tunmore, erstwhile deconeus of Ely?”
The deconeus paled. “My lord, you know he has claimed sanctuary at Our Lady.”
“Why else do you think I came here to speak to him? Fetch him at once.”
“With all due speed,” the deconeus answered, bowing reverently.
Owen had paused by the interior fountain in the main hall, the largest of the fountains on the grounds. There were three main jets of water accompanied by many smaller ones around the rim. The sound of the fountain was soothing, and its warbling masked the various conversations happening around the vast hall. Commoners, merchants, sailors, and even a few lesser nobles were all walking around the hall, speaking amongst themselves. Owen stared into the waters, his eyes darting to the dark coins settled on the basin floor.
Out of the corner of his eye, Owen saw the deconeus speaking to some underlings, and he felt his impatience stirring. When he was younger, Ankarette had urged him to describe the Deconeus of Ely as an eel in one of his false visions. The analogy was fitting. Owen was eager to ride north to prevent more trouble from brewing. But he knew his mission here was important. Even if there were a hundred little ways to prove this supposed prince was an imposter, the magic of the Fountain was too powerful to be ignored. If Tunmore had played a role in convincing others of the prince’s legitimacy, they needed to know. Besides, it was possible he had useful information about the plot as a whole.
Deep in thought, Owen continued to stare down at the coins in the fountain. Then, beyond the dark smudges of the coins, he saw something more substantial. Yes, there was something in the waters.
It was a chest, with four sturdy iron legs, a rounded top, and a handle. The handle almost protruded from the surface of the waters, but it remained completely submerged. As Owen drew nearer to it, he saw the designs crafted into the lid and box. Eager to touch it, he tugged off his riding gloves and stuffed them into his belt, hiked up the sleeve of his tunic, and reached into the water. The iron chest was real. He rubbed his hand over it, feeling the handle lying flat against the top. There was a hasp and a lock on one side, a groove opening in it for a key. There was no key.
He felt the Fountain rush through him, triggering memories from long ago. He had seen this chest amidst the treasures the Fountain had revealed to him at the bottom of the palace cistern. The treasures consisted of casks of jewels, shields, armor, and the like. The day he and Evie had almost drowned there, he had noticed an empty space in the piles of phantom riches, a path showing where the chest had been dragged toward the opening of the cistern. So much had happened immediately after that incident, he’d almost forgotten. But now, amidst the shushing noise of the waters, he remembered it with clarity.
Over the years, he had read everything he could find about the mysterious treasures that some Fountain-blessed saw in the water, but he’d discovered very little. According to some accounts, seeing the treasures of the Deep Fathoms was a precursor to death. Others claimed the treasures were gifts or boons the Fountain granted to mere mortals. The most famous story was how King Andrew had drawn a blessed sword from the fountain waters of Our Lady. A sword he had taken out to sea with him upon his death. But Owen believed the treasure was real. He had touched it with his own hands in the cistern. And now, at this very moment, he could feel the hard edges of the chest as he groped it in the waters.
“It’s considered sacrilegious to wash your hands in the fountain. If you believe in that sort of thing.”
The voice caught Owen completely off guard. He had been so immersed in the memory that he had not heard Tunmore make his approach.
Owen was stooped over the waters, but he turned and straightened. John Tunmore was a tall man, and his voice betrayed a slight Northern accent. Owen had caught glimpses of him before, but they had never met in person. Tunmore was in his early fifties, and his hair was shorn almost to the skin. It was dark brown with flecks of gray. His size gave him an intimidating bearing, and he radiated a snide aura, as if he had contempt for the world in general and Owen in particular. But the sparkle in his eyes hinted that he was intrigued too.
“You wished to see me?” the Eel reminded him.
“I was not washing my hands,” Owen said tautly.
“It looked like it from my perspective.” His eyes narrowed, his lip curling into a barely suppressed sneer. “Or were you trying to steal a coin?”
“I leave that work for the sexton,” Owen quipped. “No, I thought I saw something in the water. No matter.”
“What, if I may ask?” Tunmore probed.
“I saw a chest.”
“You thought you saw a chest,” Tunmore corrected. “There clearly isn’t a chest in the fountain.”
“It was there, and I was about to pull it out when you startled me.”
“Indeed,” Tunmore said, his voice betraying a hint of uneasiness. “As you can see, it is not there now. What did you come here for, my lord?”
Owen glanced back at the water, and the chest was indeed gone. He bristled with frustration. “To speak with you,�
� he said. “I’ve recently returned from Westmarch. From Occitania, actually.”
“So it would seem,” Tunmore said. “I heard you arrived yesterday. What news from the borderlands?” He looked like a starving man seeking crumbs from a rich man’s table. Though he tried to keep his voice smooth and unconcerned, Owen could sense he was restless.
“Would it interest you to know that Lord Horwath and I sent King Chatriyon fleeing? His army was completely routed.”
Tunmore’s face grew visibly pale. “Indeed? What a surprise. How fortunate for you. I’m flattered you came all this way to tell me about your exploits.”
Owen shook his head. “That’s not the fortunate part, Deconeus. We found something in Chatriyon’s tent. A letter.”
Tunmore frowned. “Are you suggesting I wrote a letter to the King of Occitania?”
“No, I am not. It’s what was in the letter that was so interesting.” Owen tugged his belt and withdrew the letter. He had requested that one of the Espion forgers copy it during the night. To Owen’s untrained eye, it looked identical to the original. He offered the letter to the other man.
Tunmore took it and pursed his lips. He opened the letter and began to devour the contents. As Owen watched the other man’s eyes move over the words, he felt the subtle churn of the Fountain. It was as if a winch had turned and opened a sluice gate, rushing water into the deconeus’s reserves. And Owen realized in an instant that this was how Tunmore fed his magic with the Fountain. It was through news, gossip, lurid intrigue, treason—the machinations of courts and politics fed him, sustained him, and gave him his power. Being trapped in the sanctuary of Our Lady had deprived him of his main sources of information. Owen’s own source of power was more flexible. He derived it from stacking tiles, playing Wizr, or reading challenging works—anything that taxed his wits and made him think intently.
Owen snatched the letter from the Eel’s hand and literally felt the sluice gates slam shut.
The deconeus’s eyes were wide with panic, and he almost tried to grab the letter back from Owen. It was the food the hungry man craved.
“I was not . . . quite done reading that yet,” Tunmore said, stammering, his hand trembling.
“I know you are Fountain-blessed,” Owen said softly.
The deconeus stiffened, seemingly shocked at Owen’s words. “How can you suggest such a thing? I am close to the Fountain by virtue of my office, but I assure you that your understanding of me is quite mistaken.”
“And I assure you that it is not,” Owen answered evenly. “Just as I am sure you know about the chest that disappeared from the fountain. You’re the one who put it there. You took it from the cistern at the palace, did you not?”
Tunmore’s face was white. “How could you possibly know that?” he said through clenched teeth.
“Because I too can see the treasure in the cistern, and that chest was dragged away right before you made your escape to Our Lady. And these lies you’ve written,” Owen continued, holding up the wrinkled note, “will be brought to light.”
Tunmore’s face sank into a mask of fear and dread. He looked like a man standing on a precarious bridge, one that was about to collapse. “You have no idea, little pup,” Tunmore whispered harshly, “what is truly happening here. What you risk in supporting that monster. This is not about kings and courts and Espion. There is more at stake here than you can even comprehend. You pretend to have the sight, but you see nothing!”
Just then Clark walked up to them. His face was composed and neutral, but his eyes were gleaming. There was a folded note in his hand, the wax seal broken.
“My lord, I found it,” Clark said as he handed the note to Owen.
“Where did you . . . ? That is mine!” Tunmore blustered. He reached for the note, but Clark seized his wrist and applied pressure to a sensitive spot. Suddenly the deconeus was wobbling on his feet, his features tight with pain.
Owen took the note from Clark and opened it. As the first words met his eyes, he felt the force of the Fountain again, but this time it was as strong as a river. Before Owen could be swept away by it, he steadied himself. When he looked down at the words again, it was as if he had become a boulder dividing the river. It went around him on both sides, making him a little dizzy from the rushing noise, but it could not budge him.
“How are you doing that?” Tunmore snarled, staring at Owen in amazement.
“Though it is your gift to sway others, you cannot force me to believe something against my will,” Owen said with scorn. “I see it clearly. You wrote the original. Now the information is being copied. The one we found in the king’s tent was a copy of a copy. You’re spreading lies to weaken King Severn just as you attempted to do years ago. This is misprision in the highest degree. Believe me, Deconeus, if you leave this sanctuary, you will not be thrown into a river to judge your guilt. We both know most Fountain-blessed would survive such a test. No, you will be taken to a mountaintop to freeze to death. Yes. I know that too!” Tunmore’s face went wild with disbelief and fear.
“You are guilty of treason, and everyone who has supported you and sent you messages is also guilty. If you wish me to intercede on your behalf with King Severn, there is one piece of information you must give me this very moment. Where will this pretender’s ships land? Where will they strike first? I know about Atabyrion striking the East and Occitania striking the West. Where in the North is the pretender going to land?”
Tunmore’s face was like dripping wax. “Despite what you may think, I have not committed treason. It is not treason to support the true king.”
“I may be young, but I am not a fool,” Owen said sharply. “Do you think I believe any of this rubbish?” he asked, wagging the papers in front of Tunmore’s face.
Tunmore shook his head. “It is not rubbish, you little upstart. I am the one who persuaded the king’s simpering former spymaster, Bletchley, to make the princes disappear. It was always my intent to keep the throne of Ceredigion unstable until the surviving lad was old enough to take the crown himself. I’ve hidden him in Brugia. I’ve hidden him in Legault. He’s been to every kingdom except his own. And he is returning, our true king! When he lands, the people will rise up and throw the tyrant into the river. You cannot stop the destiny of the Fountain, lad. You might as well try and turn a river with your hand!”
“Where is he landing?” Owen demanded.
“Even if I told you, you would not get there quickly enough,” Tunmore snarled.
Blackpool.
Owen heard the whisper in his mind. Tunmore stiffened, indicating he had heard it as well. Blackpool was one of the coastal cities in the north of Westmarch, the largest trading city.
“This explains why the queen dowager hasn’t been eager to leave sanctuary,” Owen said rudely. “I had come with a commission from the king to pardon her. I can see now that she is also behind the plot.”
“The queen is deathly ill,” Tunmore said roughly. The tone of his voice hinted that the man did not believe the ailment was natural. In light of Owen’s discovery in the tower, he wondered if Mancini was behind it.
Owen nodded to Clark, who was still gripping Tunmore’s wrist. Returning the nod, Clark released the man and shoved him toward the edge of the fountain, causing him to totter and then splash into it. The man sputtered and choked, coming up dripping wet, small beads of water dripping from his short hair.
“It’s considered sacrilegious to bathe in the fountain,” Owen said before turning on his heel and storming out.
The history of Ceredigion and the myths of the Fountain go back for almost a thousand years. Some historians have written that the Fountain myths go back even further, to the very creation of the world. They tell of a land birthed amidst ash and fire from a tumultuous sea called the Deep Fathoms. Boundaries were invoked by the great Wizrs of old to hold the Deep Fathoms at bay. The myths say that the kings of old came from the sea to learn how to tame the land. But one of those kings defiled the boundaries, and then there
came a flood.
—Polidoro Urbino, Court Historian of Kingfountain
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Earl’s Daughter
The king’s army rode north as if the hooves of their steeds were on fire. Messengers had been loosed ahead of them to warn Evie of the danger, but Owen had insisted on riding at once. After hearing what Owen had learned in his confrontation with Tunmore, Severn had not only permitted it—he’d chosen to join him. They rode like thunder and lightning, a storm that swept across the kingdom in a sea of black flags bearing the white boar.
Owen’s confrontation with Tunmore played itself over and over in his mind. Facing another Fountain-blessed had been intimidating, but the young duke believed the deconeus had come away even more shaken by the encounter. He remembered Ankarette saying that Tunmore had been her mentor. The man had tutored her in the arts of deception and court intrigue, just as the king had trained Owen after Ankarette’s death. But Tunmore was not the adversary he had once been; his well of magic was nearly dry, and he had been deprived of opportunities to replenish it fully.
Their company changed horses frequently to gain more ground. The king had brought five hundred men and mounted archers. It would probably not be enough to defend his kingdom, but it was more urgent to get to Blackpool quickly than it was to do so en masse. Owen’s captains would be coming to Blackpool from Occitania, but they would likely not arrive for several days. However, Owen knew that the kingdom’s main fortress in the North could withstand a long siege, and if they managed to trap their enemy against its walls, they could expect victory in the end.
His mind was constantly plotting and assessing the situation, thinking of ways they could defend themselves if the kingdom faced attacks on all three sides.
On midday of their third day riding north, a horseman came with news that a fleet, bearing a man who claimed to be Ceredigion’s rightful king, had drawn ashore north of Blackpool. The pretender called himself King Eyric Argentine, and he had pitched Eredur’s standard—the Sun and Rose—on the beach.
