by Jeff Wheeler
The look on King Severn’s face was dangerous when he heard the news. He wiped his forearm across the stubble on his chin, his eyes dark with rage. “My brother’s standard? Well, we will see if he deserves to keep it.”
The messenger said at least three hundred men had disembarked from the fleet with horses, pavilions, and poleaxes.
After receiving the news, Owen and King Severn rode the remainder of the night, without rest, to reach the town of Blackpool. Owen’s stomach seethed with worry. He had not suspected he would be riding into another battle so close on the heels of the previous one.
Dawn found them at the beaches of Blackpool amidst the carnage of a battle.
It had ended before they arrived.
Owen sat in his saddle, gazing down at the dead men, punctured by arrows and lying in the frothing surf. Battle standards with the Sun and Rose were splayed here and there, mostly soaked, torn, and broken. His mind was still reeling from the news.
Elysabeth Victoria Mortimer had ridden to Blackpool from Dundrennan, and she had defeated the pretender’s army.
Prisoners were being held in stockades at Blackpool, awaiting the king’s justice. The pretender, Eyric, had escaped with the remnants of the fleet, but his army had been bested by a seventeen-year-old girl.
“My lord!” someone shouted from afar. Owen turned in his saddle to watch as a messenger wearing the lion badge of Duke Horwath hastened to him. It was Evie’s chamberlain, a man named Rigby whom Owen knew well.
“Rigby!” Owen shouted in surprise, smiling at the man’s obvious enthusiasm.
“My lord,” Rigby said with a formal bow. “My lady awaits you and the king at the Arthington, one of the nicer inns in town. I thought it best I should tell you first. She’s anxious to see you, my lord. I’m to fetch the king next. Go.”
Owen didn’t need any persuading.
His heart beat more furiously as he rode into town. The streets were in commotion, and people everywhere were waving Duke Horwath’s banner of the pierced lion with jubilation. Owen quickly found the Arthington, a cheerful two-story dwelling. After entrusting his weary horse to a page, he hurried toward the common room of the inn, which had been emptied in anticipation of the king’s arrival. People in the streets began to shout about the imminent arrival of Severn, and the crowds suddenly swelled and moved toward the ruler, like a river of bodies flooding the town. Cheers and acclaims rang out.
Before Owen even reached the door to the inn, it flung open. There she was on the threshold, as if stepping out of a dream. She looked like she had not slept. Her dark hair was a bit windblown, but it was freshly braided. He saw a bit of goose down woven into the braid by her left ear. As part of an ongoing jest between them, she sometimes did that to mimic the white patch in his hair. Her eyes, the same green as her gown today, were eager to find his. There was a dagger fastened to her girdle, which was new, and she had on the sturdy leather boots and scarf she always wore when they climbed up into the waterfalls together.
“Owen,” she breathed, staring at him with relief, like she had been the one worrying about him all along.
She ran into his arms and hugged him so tightly it hurt, pressing her cheek against his chest and swaying slightly. After days in the saddle, nights under the stars, and rations only a soldier could eat, she felt too good to be real. She was soft and warm, and her hair smelled like home.
“Are you all right?” he demanded, grabbing her by the shoulders to look her in the face.
His eyes found the dimple at the corner of her mouth. He sometimes imagined what it would be like to kiss that dimple, but he didn’t dare do it.
“Come inside—there is so much to tell you!” Evie said, hugging him once more and squeezing him even harder this time. “I was not expecting you for another day. I’m hardly presentable.”
“You’re hardly presentable!” Owen said in dismay. “I smell like the stables!”
“Yes, you do,” she said, crinkling her nose. “You can bathe later. The king will want to hear this too, but I have to tell you! I don’t mind saying it twice. Come with me!”
She tugged at his hand, and Owen caught sight of Justine, Evie’s maid, standing just within the threshold of the inn. She was Evie’s constant companion and chaperone, always there to keep the two young people from being alone. Dark-haired and rather serious, she was the daughter of Lord Camber, whose father served Horwath. Justine was the guardian of Evie’s virtue, a constant and subtle reminder that, although Owen and Evie had been friends since they were children, there were certain prohibitions between the sexes.
Justine gave Owen a shy smile, as she usually did, and inclined her head in respect. He returned that smile with a nod as Evie flew past her friend and dragged Owen into the common room by the hand.
“Sit there while I tell you!” she said breathlessly, flinging him toward a large stuffed couch. Her hands were shaking a little, as if her excitement were too keen to be contained inside her body. Justine quietly took a seat in a nearby chair, folding her hands in her lap.
Owen was starving, but he was too interested in hearing Evie’s story to consider eating.
“What happened?” he demanded. “When I first saw the battlefield, it made me worry even more.”
She shook her head. “There’s no need. The dead are Legaultan mercenaries mostly. More eager to get back to the boats than they were to fight the stout men who serve my grandfather. Many of the poor souls drowned trying to escape. So let me tell you about this imposter. I loathe the man. What fools does he take us for? His ships were sighted off the coast, so I gave the order that any who came upon them were to welcome them as if the imposter did indeed have the right to the crown.”
“You did what?” Owen demanded, astonished.
She grinned mischievously. “How many times have we discussed history, Owen? How many princes were duped by the promises of others? This pretender is trying to dupe the world into believing he’s truly Eyric Argentine! Well, two can throw dice, as Mancini likes to say. As soon as they landed, I had one of my trusted men ride into the camp to demand to know who kept the standard of the Sun and Rose. They said it was for King Eyric Argentine, who was aboard the ships. My man claimed that if Eyric came to camp, he’d be welcomed by the citizenry as the new king.” She frowned. “But he was too wary. He refused to come ashore. I think he just didn’t trust we were sincere. There were at least three hundred of his men ashore by this time, and more coming every hour. I knew that if I waited until all their full force had disembarked, we’d be outnumbered.”
“But why aren’t you at your grandfather’s castle?” Owen asked. “Evie, truly! You put yourself in great danger by coming here. What if they’d caught you?”
“How sweet of you to worry about me!” she said, delighted, cupping his cheek with her warm palm. “I’ve been fretting, you ask Justine—she’ll tell you—about you facing that snob Chatriyon and his army. You didn’t let him force the Duchess of Brythonica to marry him, did you?”
“Of course not. We scattered his army in the middle of the night and sacked his camp. That’s when we learned about Eyric and the threat to the North.”
She nodded, sidling closer to him on the couch. “Brilliant! A night attack is very dangerous, but the rewards can be great. Ulbert IV tried that maneuver at the Battle of Cecily, remember?”
“Stop!” Owen said, laughing. “What happened? You get distracted. Tell me!” He took her hand, rubbing his thumb across her knuckles.
“I forgot where I left off,” Evie said, smiling awkwardly.
“Why did you even come to Blackpool? Why not stay at the castle and prepare for a siege?”
Her brow furrowed. “Why would we let him get that far before resisting? The longer he stayed ashore, the more miscreants would rally to his banner. What would you have done if you’d been in the castle and heard someone was invading Westmarch?”
“Well, I would have led an army to stop him,” Owen said.
“Which is exac
tly what I did!” she said, exasperated. “Do you think for one moment that my grandfather’s soldiers would have let me come to harm? The fact that I’m a woman only made them more determined to come to blows with the interlopers’ men. Men are eager to please when you smile and praise them,” she said with a wry smile. “Except for you, who are a rogue and won’t abide flattery.” She tried to tickle his ribs, but he blocked her with his arms.
“Mistress, the king is here,” Justine urged in a small voice.
Owen wanted to take advantage of this last moment alone together by wrapping Evie in his arms and kissing her. The eager look in her eye and the way she sat so near him told him she wanted that too. But he was so travel-stained and sweaty, and the timing was not right. No, their first kiss should happen at the waterfalls near her grandfather’s castle. On the bridge, perhaps, when the snow on the peaks changed color near sunset. That was what she deserved.
He rose from the comfortable couch and extended his hand to her. She gazed up at him, smiling coyly at his show of gallantry, and then accepted his hand. Her eyes had been green when he’d first seen her, but now they looked a peaceful blue. Maybe she was a water sprite, as Mancini had often joked. All Owen knew was that she had some kind of magic that made him ache inside.
“I’m glad you are safe,” Evie whispered, looking at him with brooding, worried eyes.
He almost brought her fingers to his lips, but a soldier opened the front door of the inn just then, and Owen saw Severn striding toward it. The king’s boots were mud-spattered, but he looked elated at the victory at Blackpool.
Owen used those last moments before the king entered the room to squeeze Evie’s fingers gently and give her a tender smile. “You were brilliant,” he confessed, winking at her.
She flushed with pleasure at the compliment and turned to curtsy to King Severn. Owen bowed formally beside her.
“My lord,” Evie said. “You are the true sovereign of Ceredigion. Your people were faithful to you. I wish I could have delivered up the pretender in person, but he was too afraid to come ashore and face me in battle. ’Tis a pity, for I would have liked to beat him. In the language of Wizr, I believe the threat has been blocked.”
The king looked at her with satisfaction; his gray eyes were lit with gratitude. “Well done, Lady Mortimer. Lady Elysabeth Victoria Mortimer, pardon me,” he added, seeing she was about to correct him. “You’ve shown great sense, bravery, and pluck, and you will be rewarded. I promise you that. To also use the parlance of Wizr, you have proven you are more than a pawn. I best make good use of you then. Tell me all that happened. Leave nothing out.”
The Duke of North Cumbria oversees a vast land in Northern Ceredigion. It is a land of towering mountains wreathed with snow and ice. There are glaciers there that are older than time and riddled with ice caves from the melt. I have spoken to the palace mapmaker, who informs me that the river feeding Kingfountain comes from this land of ice and snow. The winters in North Cumbria are harsh, and there is little travel in or out during those months. The people are used to it. They are hardy folk with a queer dialect not dissimilar to that of Atabyrion. There is belief that Atabyrion was once part of Ceredigion. The lands are only separated by narrow gaps of water. The Dukes of the North have been loyal to the Argentines for generations. King Severn himself was raised in the North when his uncle Warrewik governed the land from the mighty stronghold of the North. The fortress is called Dundrennan.
—Polidoro Urbino, Court Historian of Kingfountain
CHAPTER EIGHT
Dundrennan
Owen could hear the fire in the hearth crackling and feel the warmth of its flames on his shoulders. But his eyes were fixed on the Wizr board. It was the beautiful, handcrafted set that King Severn had given to him when he was eight years old. And this time he was playing the king himself.
Severn’s eyes were as gray as storms as he bent over the board, his gaze intense and his lips pressed hard together. He was losing. Again. Owen knew it rankled the king that a seventeen-year-old could best him half the time. Sometimes Owen let him win and the king would look at him suspiciously, never certain if his victory had been hard-won or yielded out of graciousness.
“Hold nothing back,” Severn admonished him, bringing forward a piece shaped like a knight on horseback. The king’s free hand fidgeted with his dagger. “If I win, I want to earn it.”
The king let go of the piece.
When Owen played Wizr, he deliberately kept his face neutral. He had learned from playing with Evie that he tended to smile when his opponent was about to make a mistake. She used to keep watch on his mouth from start to finish, which had lost him plenty of games. He had trained himself not to give anything away.
Owen lifted his hand and moved his Wizr piece forward from across the board. “Threat and . . . defeat.” Then he smiled.
The king’s face darkened with a scowl. “By the Fountain!” he growled. “Do you use your gift of second sight in games? Who taught you to play so well?”
Owen met the king’s gaze, but he dared not reveal the truth. That he had been taught to play Wizr by a woman the king had feared would poison him.
“Never lose sight of the Wizr,” Owen said with a hint of smugness. “But as a practical matter, my lord, I’m just very good at this game.”
The king snorted and chuckled. “When I said hold nothing back, I didn’t realize it would be prophetic. You have a keen mind, Owen. Do you agree, my dear?” he said, addressing Evie. “I would like to see the two of you play Wizr.”
Evie was curled up on the couch near Owen, her nose in a book. She did not look up as she turned the page. “Why do you think he is so good, my lord? He plays against me.”
The king chuckled at her haughty tone and then stood, wincing as he came to his feet. He limped to the huge window and watched the fluffy flakes of snow coming down. His expression softened as he ran his hand across the pane of glass, and the gray skies above chased away the shadows on his face. Though it was not yet winter, the mountains were notorious for bizarre snowstorms that could strike unpredictably.
Owen sorted the pieces and returned them to their wooden box. He stared at Evie, who seemed to sense his attention and shifted her eyes back to his. She was giving him her I’m proud of you look, then winked at him and returned to her book.
“I have many a fond memory of Dundrennan,” the king said in a brooding voice, still staring out the window at the gentle snow. He turned away, folding his arms and leaning against the crook on the wall near the window seat. “I used to play Wizr in this very room with my cousin, Nanette.” His voice fell as he mentioned the name of his dead wife. “As children, we’d catch snowflakes on our tongues. I think every child does that.” He chuckled softly to himself, and Owen felt he could see the oozing wounds of the king’s heart.
Evie put the book down, her attention drawn to the king’s raw grief. The light from the window made his black hair look like it was glowing. He stared down at the rushes that covered the floor, lost in a storm of memories.
“How old was she when she married the Prince of Occitania?” Evie asked. It was a sensitive question to pose. Lady Nanette’s short first marriage was likely a bitter memory for him.
The king’s eyes were as sharp as sword blades. His mouth twisted in shape, the expression somewhere between a smile and a frown. “You know your history, my dear. Many have forgotten those dark years. Those months my brother and I spent in exile in Brugia. Those months she spent married to that princeling.” His voice was so thick with scorn that Owen could see the wound had not fully healed. “She was seventeen.”
Owen glanced at Evie, who was the same age that Nanette had been. The possibility of losing her to another man made him grow warm with anger.
“It was a marriage that would have made her Queen of Occitania,” Evie said. “But it was a reckless match. Your uncle lost his life because of it.”
“We all lost much that year,” the king said bitterly. “And gained
much. She lost her father and the throne of Occitania. And she gained another husband and the throne of Ceredigion. For a time.”
There was so much hurt in his voice that Owen wanted to steer the conversation away from such painful waters. Evie’s eyes were full of so much sympathy, she looked liable to go hug the king.
“You have not married again, my lord,” she whispered softly. “Is it because you truly loved her?”
Owen gaped at her audacity, but she was one who tended to jump into cisterns without a second thought. Perhaps it should not have surprised him.
The king looked taken aback, but he did not appear offended. He folded his arms across his chest and walked away from the window. “Aye, I loved her,” he said, breaking into a subtle Northern accent, as if honoring the memory of his late wife. “You can imagine it was awkward between us at first. We were raised together in this very place, this idyllic mountain valley. Dundrennan. I fought her father and bested him. I fought her husband, that little princeling, and bested him not far from Tatton Hall, where he was trying to escape back to Occitania. Scampering away like Chatriyon.” He chuckled mercilessly, glancing at Owen. “You’ve made an enemy there, Lord Kiskaddon. No king likes losing a game of Wizr. And losing a fight is every bit more galling. But I see how you play the game. You’re more than a match for that runt.”
She was not to be deterred. “But why haven’t you remarried, my lord?” she pressed. “It’s been ten years since your lady died. You have no heir. Surely it is time to set aside your grief?” Her look was sad but sincere, and very sympathetic.
The king stared at her for a moment. “You do speak your mind,” he said with a chuckle. “And like a dog with a bone, it won’t be wrested from you.”
She dimpled slightly. “If I’m being too presumptuous, forgive me. But I cannot believe your council hasn’t mentioned this to you.”
