by Jeff Wheeler
“My council!” he snorted with a bark-like laugh. “They wanted me to force the Duchess of Brythonica into a marriage alliance. She’s of an age with you and Owen.” He wrinkled his nose in disgust. “It has been forty years, this month, since I received the water rite and my name. How could I look on the duchess . . . and not see you, Elysabeth Victoria Mortimer?” He frowned deeply, shaking his head. “No, my council has not yet persuaded me to take a wife. It is customary, you know, for a king to marry the princess of another realm. My brother’s choice of a bride offended many, including my uncle, who committed treason because of it.”
He paced as he spoke, his voice throbbing with strong emotion. “Let me count the options. They are few. Save for the Duchess of Brythonica, there are no princesses in Occitania. Chatriyon has been vying for her himself, as Owen can attest. She has made it perfectly clear she wants nothing to do with him. She rules in her own right, and I cannot blame her for not yielding to a man who wants her domain perhaps more than he wants her hand. Even if Chatriyon were to succeed in marrying her, they will not produce children for several years, so there are no prospects for me there. And to boot, the duchess fears I am a child murderer and a misbegotten demon. That tree of opportunity is quite barren.”
He took another step, using his fingers to tally. “Let us move on to Atabyrion. King Iago is nineteen years old and unmarried himself. He has many damsels to choose from in his own realm, the Earl of Huntley’s daughter, Kathryn, is the most beautiful in Mancini’s estimation, but he wishes to expand his domain rather than empowering one of his nobles even more. Iago Llewellyn would also love to woo the duchess if he could, but his domains are even smaller than Occitania’s. Then there is Brugia. There was no legitimate heir, so the many princes of that realm are preoccupied with slaughtering each other in an effort to unify the realm. I could throw the gauntlet down and marry one of their daughters, but that will entangle me in wars, over land that I care nothing for, and irk a possible ally. I think Duke Maxwell to be the likely victor. He is shrewd, cunning, and utterly ruthless.” He rubbed his hands together vigorously. “Pisan . . . too small. That leaves Genevar, which earns its coins trading and exploring. The council once tried to persuade me to marry my niece, Lady Elyse, but that would cause no end of trouble for me. Besides, it would repulse my subjects if I were to marry my brother’s daughter, whom I disinherited. To be honest, my dear . . . I have very few options, and all of them are unsavory to me. Is there anyone I am missing, my dear? Do you have any suggestions?”
She looked crestfallen and sad. “I . . . I don’t, my lord.”
“Then I trust you will not pester me about this again,” he said with just enough of a barb to sting. His mood was always mercurial, and Owen could see the anger thrumming through him now. It was common for countries to seal alliances with marriage. That none had tried or dared to offer one with Severn Argentine had to rankle.
The king turned back to the window. “Well, I’ll be blessed by the Fountain,” he said, his expression changing. “Your grandfather has ridden through a storm to get here.”
Before long, after a greeting delivered amidst a chorus of barking hounds, Duke Horwath was sitting in his favorite chair in front of the crackling hearth, savoring the mug of steaming broth in his hand. His cloak was dripping from a hook nearby, the plops sizzling when they hit the warm stone floor. The snow was melting from the cloak, and chunks of ice pattered off it.
Evie knelt by her grandfather’s chair, her face beaming with relief. He looked haggard and uncomfortable, but he did not complain, and the lines of weariness were slowly fading from his face.
Horwath rested his hand on the girl’s on the thick armrest, patting gently. “I heard what you did at Blackpool, child,” he said with warm affection. He patted her again. “You’ve my blood in you!”
She beamed at the soft-spoken praise and picked some dust or lint from his doublet. “You left me in charge, Grandfather. I didn’t want to disappoint you.”
He chuckled softly, then hooked his hand around her neck and pulled her close, kissing her hair in a mark of tender affection that made Owen swallow. How he wished he could be that open in his feelings for her.
Then Horwath tipped her chin up and gazed into her eyes. “You are beautiful. And the king is proud of you.” He looked over at Owen. “He’s proud of you both. He couldn’t ask for more loyal young people to serve him. Mark my words. You two are special. And you will both make Ceredigion stronger. I know you will.”
Owen felt his heart burning with pride. He walked up to the other side of the duke’s chair, glancing down at Evie. She looked so beautiful at that moment, the firelight shimmering in her dark hair, her eyes glowing with happiness. There was that familiar ache again, that growing impatience.
“The king was surprised you rode through the snow,” Evie said with an impish smile. “I think he’s forgotten he’s from the North as well.”
Horwath smiled as he stroked his gray goatee. “He’ll never forget that, lass. Not until the waters stop falling at Kingfountain. He has ice in his veins, as we like to say. Even young Kiskaddon here is a little frostbitten, I think. What say you, lad?”
Owen folded his arms, still gazing down at Evie. “I do love the North,” he murmured.
Her cheeks flushed a little, and she couldn’t hold back a grin.
The grizzled duke took one of her hands and then one of Owen’s, and for a moment, he looked as if he would join them together.
“It’s my deepest wish,” he said huskily, “to unite our houses and duchies. Before the king rides back to the palace, I plan to petition him for a boon. But only if you both are still willing.” He smiled wryly. “I’ve seen the way you look at each other. I’m old, not blind. I’d like to speak to the king on your behalf, Owen. He may take it better coming from me. But I didn’t want you to be startled in case he asks about your feelings.” His smile slipped a little. “His heart is so wounded, he may not have noticed the signs as I have.”
From the look on Evie’s face, Owen could tell she was trying to quell her excitement and enthusiasm. He could tell she wanted to burst out with her answer, but she was waiting for Owen to say something first.
“I would prefer to ask him myself,” Owen said, still looking at her, his heart so full he almost couldn’t speak.
Evie jumped to her feet and into his arms, quivering with joy. It was only when he felt the wetness on his neck that he realized she was crying.
After the defeat at Blackpool, King Severn sent warships to ravage the coast of Legault. They are on the hunt for the pretender’s ship. Their orders are to punish the Legaultans and prevent them from creating a safe haven for the pretender. A sizable reward has been offered for the capture of the man masquerading as Eyric Argentine, the lost son of King Eredur. I think it is far more likely that the pretender has sought haven elsewhere. The question is—which of the king’s enemies would shelter him?
—Polidoro Urbino, Court Historian of Kingfountain
CHAPTER NINE
The Duchess’s Warning
Owen walked with Severn across the bailey to where the king’s horse awaited him. The host of riders all wore the badge of the white boar and one carried a spear with a pennant that flapped in the cold wind. Their boots crunched on the thin cakes of snow in the yard. The king seemed invigorated by the cold, and there was no sign of a limp as he walked.
“My lord,” Owen asked, clearing his throat.
“What is it?” the king asked curtly, scanning the feathery clouds that crowned the massive mountains to the north.
A groomsman positioned a mounting block as they neared the king’s charger, and Severn swung up effortlessly into the saddle. The horse grunted with familiarity, and the king stroked his neck, smiling fondly at the beast.
Owen felt a tightening in his chest, a familiar sensation he had rarely experienced since childhood. His tongue became swollen in his mouth, preventing the words from coming out.
“Well?
” the king demanded, his brows knitting. His gloved hand tightened on the reins.
“It’s a small matter,” Owen stammered, feeling a blush creep to his cheeks. By the Fountain, why did he have to get tongue-tied still!
“I’m not interested in small matters,” the king said petulantly. “We must away. Now that Horwath has returned to the North, I’d like you to return to Kingfountain in a fortnight. No more. I don’t think this pretender will strike the North twice, now that we’ve disrupted his plan. It is getting nearer to winter.” He gazed up at the clouds again. “Although here it is always winter. I miss it.” He looked down at Owen sternly. “A fortnight. No more. Then come.”
“I will, my lord,” Owen said, chafing with impatience.
The king nodded in dismissal and then yanked on the reins of the charger. There was a thunder of hooves as the king’s soldiers rode out of the bailey. Owen gazed up at the battlement wall, where he saw Duke Horwath wrapped in a bearskin cloak, arms folded imperiously. His stern look implied he had discerned from afar that the conversation had failed to happen. Owen’s cheeks mottled with discomfort as he listened to the sound of the clacking hooves change once the horses crossed the drawbridge and hit the cobbles. Even if he had not ridden in with the king, he would have instinctively known Severn was traveling with a hundred men from the sounds made by the party.
Turning, he walked back across the bailey amidst the grooms who brought shovels and barrows to begin clearing away piles of steaming manure. He hated the sound the shovels made in the muck and stone, so he quickened his step.
He found Evie in the solar, pacing nervously. The look on his face gave him away before he could say a word. He felt sick inside, wounded that he had let her down.
Justine glanced up from her needlework, her black hair hanging over her shoulder. She looked at Owen, also saw the unspoken news, and a small frown twisted her mouth.
“I knew I should have gone with you,” Evie said darkly, her eyes suddenly an intense shade of green.
Owen shrugged helplessly.
The snows vanished by midday, and Evie suggested they leave the stifling solar and walk amongst the mountains. Owen had spent the morning arranging over two thousand tiles that he was not yet ready to topple, so he agreed to the plan. He too was restless. So, pausing only to grab their cloaks and their chaperone, they ventured onto the mountain trails that led to majestic views of the valley floor. Owen’s legs were tired, but he loved the firmness and steadiness of the rocks and cliffs, and years of experience had inured him to the alpine air and the rigors of a long hike. The air was crisp and redolent with the lovely scents of nature. Part of the trail was rugged and steep, with switchbacks broken in after centuries of use. They could hear the distant roar of the huge valley waterfalls as they moved.
Owen and Evie walked side by side, and he kept glancing at her, enjoying the way her eyes were shining with joy as they passed the mountain flowers and pines. They had to stand aside as a shepherd drove his flock down the trail, pressing their backs into the craggy wall to leave room for the bleating woolly beasts. Owen’s shoulder brushed against Evie’s, and he felt the point where they touched as if it burned his skin. Justine was on her other side, lower down the trail, and she sighed a little at the delay.
Shifting his position a little, Owen felt Evie’s fingers brush his. She glanced up at him, her tender look telling him she forgave him for his earlier blunder. He felt one of her fingers hook around his and his heart began to hammer wildly in his chest. His mouth went dry.
Taking the hint, Owen grasped her hand, which he found surprisingly warm. Justine could not see their clandestine act, and Owen relished the feeling of her fingers mingled with his. A pleased smile crossed her lips, making her look even more beautiful. A burly sheep waddled past, brushing against them both, and Evie sidled a little closer to Owen to give the beast more room to pass. Once again, Owen felt the urge to kiss her. He had been thinking about that so often lately.
After the sheep passed, they continued down the mountain trail, their hands occasionally touching. Evie was an endless source of chatter.
“Do you remember the night we ambushed Ratcliffe with that pillow fight?” she asked with a wicked laugh. “How the down stuck to his sweaty bald head?”
“And he started to choke on the feathers while trying to scold us?” Owen added with a grunt of laughter.
“I still laugh at the memory,” she said lightly. “To be a child again. I still want to dance around the fountain’s edge and fall into the water.”
“That would be unseemly, my lady,” Justine broke in.
“I know! But when you’re little, you can get away with so much more. We are only seventeen and now we have to pretend to be older. I admit there are certain pleasures at our age—going to festivals and tournaments. I can’t wait to see you at your first one, Owen!” She bumped into his arm deliberately. “I’ve seen you practice in the training yard. You always catch the rings on your lance, and you make the sword master wheeze because you drive him so hard.”
“I make him wheeze because he has an arthritic knee,” Owen said, scooping down to pick up a stone, which he then hurled off the trail down into the valley. He watched it arc and then plummet.
“That could hit a peasant, you know,” Evie scolded.
“He might take it as a sign from the Fountain to mend his ways,” Owen retorted.
“How do you know Clifford has an arthritic knee?” she asked. “I’ve not seen him limp.”
Owen shrugged. “I just know.”
That wasn’t entirely true. Owen’s gifts from the Fountain had manifested in multiple ways. He had a keen sense of hearing, and his eyes noticed weaknesses of all varieties. It happened when he played Wizr—he could see the weaknesses in his opponent’s defenses just from looking at the board—and it also happened in the training yard. Even though Clifford was so much more experienced, Owen frequently bested him. He knew that the older man’s left knee was injured and aching, so he always forced him to defend on that side. The flow of the Fountain also ensured that Owen always knew where to put his lance to catch the ring. He had gained a reputation for his skills with sword and shield. He did not wish to disabuse people of their notions, but he knew the praise wasn’t truly earned. It felt like cheating.
As soon as they returned to Dundrennan after their long hike, they were approached by Owen’s herald, Farnes.
“What is it?” Owen asked the older man, seeing the worried look in his eyes.
“We have guests,” Farnes announced, bowing formally to Owen. “There is a lawyer here from Averanche who wishes to see you. He was escorted by one of the Duchess of Brythonica’s knights, who happens to be your new neighbor. One of Roux’s men.”
“When did they arrive?” Evie asked.
“Shortly after you both left,” Farnes said, sniffing. “They’ve been awaiting your return for several hours.”
“I never get a moment’s peace,” Owen said to Evie, shrugging. “Let me change first, and then I’ll meet them . . . in the solar?”
“Very well, my lord,” Farnes said, bowing again.
“Odd that he’s come all this way,” Evie whispered to Owen. “Do you think he’s spying on us?”
“Which one?” Owen asked. “The lawyer or the knight?”
“Both,” she answered.
They separated to change clothes, and Owen picked one of his more princely costumes. When hiking in the mountains, he opted for comfort and warmth rather than fashion. He changed into a stylish dark-blue velvet doublet with ribbed sleeves. As he looked at himself in the mirror, he tugged on the collar of his shirt and gave himself a self-assured grin. Then, satisfied that he looked the part, he walked to the solar.
The lawyer was a handsome younger man, probably in his early thirties. If his relaxed demeanor was any indication, he was apparently used to traveling long distances. He was wandering around the room and sampling from a platter of various roasted nuts. The knight, on the other
hand, was stiff and straight and nearly seven feet tall. He was older than the lawyer, and his hair was arranged in the Occitanian fashion of being combed forward. He had a stiff, high collar and an overly long belted tunic, which again paid homage to his country of origin. Owen gave the knight a disdainful smirk, feeling a preternatural sense of enmity for that kingdom and its fashions.
“Greetings, my lord,” said the lawyer. “My name is Julliard. I serve the mayor of Averanche, who bids you great kindness. I am here on a delicate matter, if you will. The lord mayor was attainted of treason for surrendering Averanche to you. King Chatriyon has summoned the lord mayor to the palace to stand trial for his crime.”
Owen wrinkled his brow. “That is presumption,” he answered with a hint of sarcasm. “The entire land of Averanche and its surroundings was once part of Ceredigion. So was Brythonica, if I recall my history lessons.” Owen glanced at the knight to see if he would react to the poke.
The knight said nothing and did not lose his mask of composure.
“Yes, indeed!” said Julliard. “That is why my lord sent me—to be sure you intend to . . . ahem . . . maintain your claim on Averanche. The King of Occitania sent an ambassador to negotiate a pardon with the lord mayor if he will return to the fold. So to speak.”
Evie entered the solar, followed by Justine. She glanced at the two visitors curiously.
Owen nodded her over. “Gentlemen, this is Lady Elysabeth Victoria Mortimer, the duke’s granddaughter.” Then he gave her a conspiratorial look. “Chatriyon has charged the mayor of Averanche with treason, and now he’s trying to bribe him with a pardon to win him back.”
She nodded and slowly paced around the room while Justine found her favorite seat and began embroidering again.
“And why are you here, sir knight?” Owen asked, clasping his hands behind his back and looking up at the hulking figure. As he stared at the man, he silently sent out a little trickle of magic to probe him for weaknesses. The thought of fighting someone so huge terrified him.
