by Jeff Wheeler
“I would never want to do anything to dishonor her,” Owen said in the darkness. He didn’t like that he couldn’t see her face very well, as he would have to judge her by her words alone.
“Thank the Fountain you are not like Dunsdworth then,” she replied with an edge in her tone. “If that man ever became king . . . well, I’d probably poison him first.”
“I’m nothing like him. He used to torture me as a boy.”
“He tortures anyone he can,” she replied with a grunt, and Owen was suddenly suspicious that she had experienced a run-in with him before. “You have my respect. Sadly, it’s been my experience that most young men are more like him than not. When I caught you sneaking into her room the other night, I had my suspicions about the two of you.”
Owen leaned back against the wall. “When I went in to see her, Justine was there and fully awake. It wouldn’t be . . . proper to see her without a chaperone. Not at night, anyway.”
“You believe in the old code of chivalry? How quaint. You care about her honor and not just about gratifying your needs,” Etayne said with a smirk.
“She’s also my friend,” Owen said simply. “Of course I do.”
He was a little put off by the King’s Poisoner. Or perhaps he was just comparing her to Ankarette. Maybe she too had been worldly and cynical when she was younger. Owen wondered again if he could trust her. He realized now that he wanted to.
“In addition to poison, what are your other skills?” Owen asked.
“I was fully trained,” she replied evasively. She was not one to reveal anything about herself. “Tell me about Ankarette. I’ve only known her through Mancini’s eyes. She was the standard, the mark I had to aspire to better. You were only a child, but what do you remember?”
Owen’s vision was adjusting to the darkness and he saw her better and better—she was studying him just as he was studying her.
“I don’t like talking about her,” Owen said, trying to keep his voice neutral. “It was so long ago.”
“Very well. When you are ready then. I would be grateful if you told me. It is difficult competing against a ghost.”
“I imagine so,” Owen said. He wondered about this girl, her defenses and weaknesses. What would his magic reveal about her? He opened himself up to the power of the Fountain, his source of power and insight. Letting the magic ripple through him, he extended it out to Etayne, probing for her weakness. Everyone had a characteristic weakness—except for Clark. Probing Clark was like testing the walls of a dam. He wondered whether Etayne had any chinks.
He learned, immediately, that she was left-handed and always disguised that fact out of embarrassment. She had trained herself to be almost equal with her right hand, but she definitely had a dominant hand, and it made her difficult to predict. She shivered suddenly as the magic probed her more deeply, looking for more.
“What are you doing?” she demanded in a quavering voice. Owen stopped the flow of magic, startled that she had noticed it.
“What?” Owen asked, feeling a little guilty that he had been caught at it.
She backed away from him, just slightly. “Did you . . . did you just use your Fountain magic on me?”
Owen stared at her, conflicted. There was no denying it. “Yes. You felt it?”
“I’d never felt it before.” Her voice was just a whisper, a mix of awe and fear.
“Are you Fountain-blessed?” Owen whispered.
“I don’t know,” she said. “But I felt something. It was coming from you . . . like . . . like a river. How did you do that? What were you doing to me?” she asked, distrust seeping into her voice.
“I guess you could say I was testing you, in my own way.”
She shuddered again. “It felt strange, yet pleasant. I almost didn’t notice it with the ship rocking. How old were you when you learned you were Fountain-blessed?”
Owen hid his smile. “Very young. It usually begins with a habit, a task—something that you focus on and lose yourself in. Something that you love and are passionate about. It’s different for everyone. That task fills you with the Fountain’s power. Once you’ve stored it, you can use it in certain ways. I can sense it when someone else uses it. If you can, then maybe you are just discovering your power.”
Etayne stepped forward suddenly, and he could see the scant light reflecting off her eyes. “Will you teach me?” she asked, so fervent he could only stare at her, speechless.
The Vassalage reached Edonburick and everyone came on deck to watch as the ship navigated slowly through the mouth of the bay. The cliffs on each side were massive and crowned with timber battlement walls. What struck Owen immediately was that the defenses were primarily made of wood. The wood was nearly black, and the posts were all sharpened like stakes. Torches burned in iron sconces, belching black plumes into the air.
As the ship came into the bay, Owen stared out at the massive lakelike harbor. It was small compared to the one at Kingfountain, but there were ships from every kingdom there, including Ceredigion, so the Vassalage did not stand out. Craggy fingers of rock protruded from the bottom at certain places in the bay. A waterfall gushed down into the bay, and Owen could hear its roar even from a distance. The palace of Edonburick was built into the cliff near the falls, accessible by means of a series of wooden rails and stairs constructed along the side of the mountain. There were houses fitted vertically into the cliffs all around the bay, but they were rustic-looking, peak-shaped lodges, few larger than a single story.
Owen breathed in the salty air that reeked of fish. There were no structures made of stone, he suddenly realized. Not a single one. It did not even require his special ability for him to see the weakness.
Fire. A few ships with archers in the hold with pitch-tipped arrows could wreak havoc on such a place.
Their ship maneuvered around the tall columns of stone protruding from the lake, and Owen leaned against the railing, staring down at the waters. With the rushing noise of the waterfall in his ears and the sight of lapping waves all around him, Owen felt something stir inside him. It felt familiar, almost like a mother’s soothing whisper. He stared down at the water, trying to see beyond the foam. He was trying to see because he suddenly knew without a doubt there was something down there. The memory of the ephemeral treasure in the cistern at Kingfountain flickered through his mind.
The true Edonburick was drowned.
The insight came to him with such startling clarity that he gasped. Visions bloomed in his mind, unbidden. Their ships were gliding over the ruins of a lost kingdom. It was all still there, submerged beneath the waves. Castles made of stone, cottages and wells and hedge walls. The buildings were all still down there, blanketed in seaweed and muck.
“What is it, Owen?” Evie asked with concern. She touched his arm, and the contact snapped him out of the vision’s thrall.
Owen staggered back from the railing, breathing hard and fast. The inhabitants of the original settlement had all drowned. Only those who’d lived in the upper mountains had survived. Indeed, all that was left was the upper mountains. There were no stone buildings because the devastation had crushed Atabyrion into poverty. He did not know how long ago it had happened, but he could almost hear the screams of sorrow muffled by the water.
“Are you sick?” Evie asked again, looking at him worriedly.
Owen felt sick. He could not even comprehend the amount of water that must have come crushing down into the valley. This wasn’t a bay at all. It was a deathtrap.
“I don’t know,” Owen said, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. Sometimes the Fountain spoke to him. It was rare and had not happened in a while. When it did, it left his bones feeling weak. He didn’t want to frighten her, nor could he even find words to describe what he had seen. “I need to sit down.”
Turning, he managed to sit down with his back against the side of the railing. How many had died? How many had been drowned? It felt like the roar of the waterfall was the only thing blocking out the shrieks of the de
ad.
Justine crouched next to him and offered her bucket to him, giving him a sympathetic look. She patted his shoulder.
“Don’t hold it in,” she said. “It only makes it worse. I felt it as soon as I got on board.”
He wanted to laugh, but his throat was dry as sand. He wasn’t seasick. He was horrified—it was as if he’d encountered a mass grave after an enormous slaughter.
“We’re almost to Edonburick,” Evie said sweetly, rubbing his shoulder.
After a while, Owen’s shock began to subside. He thanked Justine for the bucket he hadn’t used and made it back to his feet. They were approaching the docks to the right of the falls. The cliffs were jagged and broken, and large boulders peeked out of the waters. The ships had to move carefully, maneuvering by poles and oars until they reached the safety of the harbor. The cliffs, up close, were a mesmerizing shade of green from the moss clinging to the rocks. An abundance of pine and cedar trees crowned the mountains, which was undoubtedly another reason why so much of the city was constructed of wood. Part of the stone cliffs had a peculiar natural pattern that fascinated Owen. They looked like a bunch of slim columns, or strands, bunched together in cords. The pattern resembled a tiled wall, and there were mounds of broken pieces of stone at the base of the cliffs.
As the gangway was hoisted to connect to the ship, Owen watched as a nobleman shuffled his way down the pier with an entourage of knights. Rather than armor, they wore toga-like cloaks and skirts and boiled-leather bracers and girdles. Each had high leather boots covering pants that seemed to be made out of woolly sheepskin. Their hair was long and braided, and each was bearded. They looked like wild men. The effect was only heightened by the fact that each cloak and skirt bore a different patchwork pattern.
The nobleman leading them was a mature man, his hair only partially tamed, with a cropped beard and mustache. He was a handsome fellow, quite tall, and he stood with one foot planted on the dock, the other on the gangway, his hand resting on a huge sword that was hanging from straps around his shoulders like a longbow.
“Milady of Ceredijun,” the nobleman said in a thick accent, giving her a bow and a flourish. He was looking up at Evie, who was standing by the captain. Owen and Clark stood just behind her. “Ye are most welcome to Edonburick. Word of your impending arrival came aforehand. Our most illustrious King Iago the Fourth bids you welcome and honor. Ye have come just in time to participate in the revels.”
Evie’s brow furrowed. “And what revels might those be, my lord?” she asked formally.
He gave another swooping bow, extending his arm in a broad sweep. “Why, the nuptials, my lady. The marriage of Ceredijun’s true king to the daughter of the Earl of Huntley of our fine realm. I hope ye have a stomach for mead, for there is plenty of drink at hand. Come pay homage to your new king, my lady. He is expecting ye as well.”
“Now this will be interesting,” Evie muttered under her breath to Owen. Then she straightened imperiously and started down the gangplank.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Iago Llewellyn
They had to climb a huge series of wooden steps fixed with railings to reach the court of King Iago. Several members of their party were fatigued after mounting so many steps, but Owen and Evie were accustomed to long hikes. As they ascended the terraced planks, the rushing sound of the waterfall became part of the general noise, but it was still impressive to see the falls. They were birthed from a river that twisted and moved within a steep chasm of tree-topped growth. The falls seemed to start a bend in the river, forming a crescent-shaped drop that was both wide and steep. Owen saw a black-slicked tree wedged against rocks at the top of the falls. The force of the current pinned it there, preventing it from dislodging and careening down. Farther upstream, he could see timber rafts landing at river docks that were located a good way inland from the falls.
The climb brought them to the wide plateau where the king’s lodge stood. Lodge was the word that best described it, for it had none of the majesty of the palace at Kingfountain. The structure was large, and there were several gabled wings attached to the symmetrical roof. A huge chimney rose from the center, belching a plume of soot. As he drew nearer, Owen saw the posts and beams were carved with an inlay of gold designs. The designs were of high craftsmanship and reminded Owen of the patterns found in leather weaving. At least two dozen armed warriors in leather and skirts were posted at the front of the lodge, equipped with thick spears and bronze helmets from which their braided hair and beards could be seen. Each man had half his face painted in blue woad.
Clark nudged Owen’s elbow and nodded toward a nobleman who was standing to the side of the porch accompanied by a small entourage of servants with caps and quills. The man was balding with strands of black hair combed from the front of his dome down to the back.
“He’s Espion,” Clark whispered. “Just showed me a hand sign.”
Owen nodded and followed Evie up the wooden steps of the lodge. The warriors guarding the entry peeled back, and the enormous wooden doors were yanked open by their stout iron handles, each taking a strong man to heave it open.
As the doors opened, the roar of the waterfall was overcome by the commotion of a lively celebration. There were flutes and pipes and the stomp of boots in fast dancing. Smoke billowed out, for every other man inside the room had a curved pipe to his lips, and an enormous fire burned in a sunken pit in the middle of the hall. Long spits of meat were hung over the pit, and lads were crouched by the edges, turning their hands to rotate the sizzling flesh. The air smelled of crisping fat, honeyed mead, and sharp cheese. The commotion and assault on the senses made Owen’s head whirl. He rested his hand on his sword hilt, feeling threats and dangers were everywhere.
“Follow me this way!” shouted the nobleman who had escorted them from the docks. His voice barely rose enough to be heard over the noise. Evie nodded, and they followed him around the perimeter of the hall, under wooden arches and beams that held up the massive roof. In the center of the roof was a huge opening leading to the chimney, allowing smoke from the fire and pipes to escape. Still, Owen felt the fumes sticking to his clothes and skin.
They approached the head of the hall, where a wide dais led to an empty wooden throne. Torches hung on the walls behind the throne, revealing a mosaic of engraved sigils inlaid with gold. Next to the throne was a small pedestal and a goblet made of bronze that looked apt to tumble off the edge.
Owen tried to catch a glimpse of King Iago or the pretender, but with all the whirling bodies, clapping, and stomping, it was impossible to make any sense of the scene. The footwork of the dancing was impressively complicated, nothing like the more stately, solemn, and slow movements Owen was used to from the court at Ceredigion. Each man held an arm up in a half-moon shape while he danced, holding his partner’s waist in a grip that mirrored the posture with the other arm.
How to describe the women? It was impossible to distinguish their hair color because each wore a stylish headdress of varying design that completely concealed her hair. No two headdresses were the same, or so it appeared to Owen. How they managed to keep them on was a mystery, particularly considering the velocity of the dancing. The small serving girls who scuttled in and out with trays of drink and food did not wear them, though their hair was meticulously braided, some even with flowers, but it was definitely a symbol of wealth or power or rank to have an ornate headdress. In contrast, the gowns of the ladies were far simpler than the fashions Owen had seen in his own kingdom.
Evie and her company were escorted to the empty throne at the head of the hall and made to wait. Then a tall, fat man who reminded Owen of Mancini raised a huge horn to his lips and let out a blat that nearly shook the walls. The horn came down and the man wiped his lips on his sleeve.
The dancing stopped midstep.
The nobleman who had escorted them raised his voice. “Lord King Iago, you have a visitor from the benighted realm of Ceredigion. Lady Mortimer has come to the great hall of Chambliss to se
ek your counsel.”
Considering the press of dancers, it was impossible to judge whom the nobleman was addressing. Owen searched the faces, trying to identify the king from the rabble. And then he spied him, for heads all around the great room turned to look at him, and a small opening peeled off to provide him a view of Evie and her escorts.
Iago was short.
By Owen’s reckoning, and from what he’d been told by Mancini, the young king was nearly twenty years old. He was sweating profusely, and his mane of black hair was disheveled by the dance. There was nothing in his Atabyrion garb that differentiated him from his peers at all except for a circlet of dark gold around his brow, which Owen had not noticed amidst the throng. The king held the hand of an exquisitely beautiful young woman in a white satin dress, so white that it appeared to be snow, with a dazzling silver girdle and billowing sleeves. Her ornate silver headdress concealed her hair but not her serious mouth, flushed cheeks, and hazel eyes. The king held her hand and escorted her down the tunnel of bodies until he reached another young man. As the king delivered the woman’s hand into the awaiting grip of the young man, restoring the bride to her husband by all looks of it, Owen realized instantly that he was their quarry.
This young man was the pretender, and he did indeed look like an Argentine.
The king dipped his head to the young woman, saying something in the thick brogue of his native tongue, then brushed his hands together vigorously and strode across the hall to greet them with a charming smile.
“My fair lady Mortimer!” the king said in a polished accent. “You have come just in time to join the dance. May I be the first to introduce you to the quaint traditions of my realm?” He bowed resplendently.
Evie’s eyes were like flint and she gave off a haughty manner, not submissive or impressed in the least.
