by Jeff Wheeler
Owen nodded in agreement. “It can weary you if done for too long. But you are right, Etayne. If you practice, it will get easier and easier.” He could imagine many ways such a gift could be used, especially by a member of the Espion.
“I think we should keep this a secret for now,” he said earnestly. “At least until we get back to Mancini.”
She smiled wryly. “I have no problem keeping this from him altogether. I can only imagine how he’d want to exploit it.”
“True,” Owen agreed. “It will be our secret then. For now. Can you try it again? Are you strong enough?”
She nodded vigorously and set the mug down on the floor. “I was startled, that’s all. Help me feel the magic first. Can you summon it again?”
Owen did, allowing a gentle ripple of Fountain magic to swell inside him. She closed her eyes, immersing herself in it. He watched her eyes squeeze harder, as if she were struggling with some internal discomfort. Then a shimmer danced over her face and her features changed. This was someone different—a handsome older woman with dark hair and wrinkles at her eyes and cheekbones.
“Who are you now?” Owen asked curiously, feeling his excitement growing moment by moment. Yes, another Fountain-blessed would know she was using magic, but they would have no way of knowing how the magic was being used. This power she possessed was truly impressive. It was an obvious manifestation of her determined efforts to disguise herself. He had never read about such a power, not in all his studies.
The image shimmered and then vanished. Etayne’s eyes were solemn. “That was my mother.”
By the next morning, Clark had roused from his fever. He was weak and pale, but the violence of the seizures had passed. By midmorning he was slowly taking in broth and managing to sit up on his own. Walking was impossible, but his strength was slowly returning.
The poison had devastated Justine, who had not stirred at all. The look of dread and misery on Evie’s face was torture to Owen, as was the sight of his friend’s suffering. Justine’s black glossy hair was dull and fraying. Her skin, normally pale, had a greenish cast to it. Her cheekbones were sunken, and the bruises under her eyes gave her a frightening cast. Etayne had done everything she could, even forcing broth down her throat to bring her vital sustenance. But poor Justine was withering before their eyes.
Their Espion contact in Atabyrion, Lord Bothwell, arrived midmorning to examine the invalids. “I am greatly disturbed by this outrage,” he said with unctuous concern. “I thought you would wish to know the results of my investigation.”
Clark glanced at Owen from the sickbed, his brow furrowing with distrust and anger.
“What have you learned?” Owen asked, as patiently as he could. He had been up all night and was bone weary and sick at heart. His eyes darted to Evie, who was still sitting by Justine’s bed, clasping her limp hand.
Lord Bothwell frowned. “You don’t suspect that I was behind this?”
“At the risk of sounding impertinent,” Owen said sharply, “it would help matters if you’d get to your point quickly and leave the suspicions to us. My lady’s maid is very ill and our tempers are short.”
“I see,” Lord Bothwell stammered, looking rather waxy with sweat. “I assure you that I am doing everything I can to resolve this matter. It is fortunate you brought someone trained as a . . . midwife with you. Her skills have certainly been of great use. As I was saying, I have investigated the matter on behalf of Iago. He is most anxious to understand if one of his servants is to blame. There were two men under suspicion, and one of them has failed to arrive at the palace since the outing yesterday. His whereabouts remain unknown, but I feel confident he’s our man. We are searching for him now, and if need be, we will torture him to get a confession.”
Evie looked sickened by the notion. “Under torture, a man might confess anything. Find out what you can about him, but please, let’s understand his motive before you become barbaric.”
Bothwell was chagrined. “I thought it was the custom in Ceredigion. I beg your pardon, my lady.”
Evie shook her head. “No doubt you have heard many rumors about our realm that simply aren’t true.”
There was a knock at the door and a servant opened it. “His Grace would like to visit the injured,” the serving girl said, dipping into a clumsy curtsy.
Looking startled, Lord Bothwell bowed deeply. “As I was saying,” he continued in a very different tack, “I see you are indisposed this morning and that further outings would not be appealing to you.”
“You’re here, Bothwell?” Iago said, entering the sick chamber with a jaunty walk and clapping Bothwell on the back. “I thought I told you to find out who poisoned our friends and bring them to justice?”
“I . . . I . . . I was merely taking the courtesy of telling Lady Elysabeth . . . M-Mortimer, that you had indeed entrusted me with that very duty—”
Iago looked perturbed. “Then get on with it and quit annoying her. Go.”
The interaction made Owen appraise Lord Bothwell in a new light. His opinion of himself and his influence with the king was probably exaggerated. Perhaps it was possible that Iago was not as vapid as the spy assumed.
Iago came and stood by Justine’s bedside, his face darkening with emotion. “Ah, I was hoping to see some improvement this morning. ’Tis not so.” He glanced at Clark, who was struggling to sit up. Etayne hurried over to his side and helped him. “At least your knight appears to be recovering. How fare you, sir?”
“Much improved since yesterday,” Clark replied with a hoarse voice.
Iago nodded with respect. “You do your kingdom honor. I wish you a hastened recovery.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
Iago turned back toward Evie, pursing his lips. “You look terrible.”
Evie had not changed her gown or brushed her hair since their harried arrival from the outing the day before. “As you can see, my lord, my maid is quite indisposed,” she said sharply.
Iago waved his hand. “I jest, that is all. I was told you waited up all night with your servant. Your friend, more likely than not. It is commendable. Would you walk with me? I think some fresh air would suit you.”
Evie frowned. “I’m afraid I must decline. Justine is looking worse and I want to be here in case . . .”
“I was just going to take you for a walk around the grounds,” he said. “We will not be far, I assure you, and we can be fetched immediately if her situation worsens. Come, my lady. Walk with me.” He offered his elbow.
It was a sensitive and thoughtful gesture, and Owen begrudgingly admired him for it. Evie stared at Iago warily, looking conflicted about accepting his offer, but then she nodded brusquely and rose. After smoothing some of the wrinkles from her gown, she accepted Iago’s arm and glanced at Owen, giving him a nod to follow, which he had already intended to do.
Owen looked at Etayne, who nodded in a silent agreement that she would stay behind with the sick ones, and he followed the two as they began their walk around the grounds. Iago pointed out different aspects of the building’s architecture, explaining that the braided design of gold was called a Kiltec weave. Owen paid little attention to their talk, choosing to walk at a discreet distance and observe the scenery for himself. The sour smell of pipe smoke lingered in the air, mixed with the fresh fragrance of evergreen sap. There was much commotion on the grounds, woodsmen cutting firewood, blacksmiths grinding with whetstones, and a constant parade of children, ribbons, and barking dogs. There was nothing about Iago’s clothes that set him apart from his people, nothing that proclaimed him the king of the land.
“You really do?” Evie asked the king in surprise, drawing Owen’s attention back to the conversation, although he had missed much of it.
“Of course!” Iago answered, then lowered his voice. “I roam the mountain valleys often. How else am I to learn the troubles and needs of my people? Most of the folk outside of Edonburick have no idea what I look like anyway, and travelers are common. I’ve slept in m
any a hayloft and supped with plenty of pottagers and their wives.”
“What is a pottager?” Evie asked curiously.
“One who tends a garden. What are they called in Ceredigion?”
“Farmers, I suppose,” Evie responded. “I’d not heard that word before.”
“The land is so rugged here,” Iago said. “Everything grows at a slant. There isn’t room for oxen and plow horses. Pottagers fix up the land as they may, growing leeks or squash or whatever will survive here. Leek soup is one of my favorites!”
Evie smiled at that. “And do you hear things about yourself that offend you while you’re staying with a pottager?”
“Constantly,” he replied with a jovial laugh. “But I never let on who I am. Iago is a common name in Atabyrion. The equivalent in your country is James. Hardly a cause for suspicion. Ah, here we are.” They were approaching a roofed porch with a bench, a table, and a Wizr board. It was open air and set near a small flower garden surrounded by a stone hedge.
“You brought me all the way out here to play Wizr?” Evie asked with uncertainty.
“You don’t fancy the game? Shall I teach you?”
Evie smoothed some hair over her ear. “I’m not very good,” she feigned. “I lose all the time when I play.”
“I will try not to take advantage of you then,” he said gallantly and ushered her over to the bench. She sat down, placing her elbows on the table, and risked a quick look at Owen as Iago circled the table to seat himself.
Owen wanted to sigh dramatically, but he was afraid it would make her start giggling. So he feigned interest in the flower garden while staying within earshot.
“The pieces are carved out of wood, not stone,” Evie said.
“I imagine the set is not as fancy as the ones to which you’re accustomed. But the rules are still the same. You’ve chosen the light? I’ll play the dark side.”
Owen had to cover his mouth to hide a smile when she beat him in four moves.
“Well,” Iago said, half-chuckling, half-incensed. “Shall we play again?”
“If you’d like,” she replied meekly.
Then she beat him in six moves, using a technique Owen had taught her.
Owen risked a look at Iago, whose face was darkening. “You were being modest, I see.”
“No, I really do lose most of the time I play,” she answered.
Then he seemed to understand. “Ah, I see. I’d forgotten. You grew up with Lord Kiskaddon, the boy who’s Fountain-blessed. Let me try this again. Please don’t toy with me. If I’m going to beat you, I want to earn it.” He reassembled the pieces.
She defeated him in eight moves.
“Humph!” he grunted, sitting back and staring at the board. “If you play this well, I’d fancy seeing a game between you and Kiskaddon.”
It was all Owen could do not to cough on his sleeve. He turned his back to the pair of them so that neither would see his face.
“I’ll be honest,” Evie said. “He taught me to play Wizr. He’s fairly skilled at this game.”
“I would imagine,” Iago said. Then his voice took a more serious tone. “What you told me yesterday, before the commotion. You said you were here to negotiate a truce between our kingdoms. That Severn was offering you as one of the terms.” He paused a moment, choosing his words carefully. Owen’s stomach plummeted. “It was my understanding, well . . . I suppose it’s no more than gossip really, that you and Lord Kiskaddon were betrothed. Are you doing this to please your king? Or is it what you would wish?”
What Owen wished was that he could pick up a dirt clod and throw it at Iago’s head. What could Evie say, knowing that Owen was standing so near? It was probably torturing her. At least, he hoped it was torturing her half as much as it was giving him pain. He bit his lip to keep from swearing under his breath, but he remained stock-still and utterly silent.
“That is kind of you to inquire,” Evie said evasively, her voice sounding more and more uncomfortable. “But I would rather not discuss such personal matters over a game of Wizr.”
“You could hardly call this a game of Wizr,” Iago spat. “You have completely obliterated my self-confidence and my pride. I’ll admit, I’m not all that fond of the game anyway. I would rather swing a sword at someone than move a few bits of carved wood around a board. They say that Wizr shows you how someone’s mind works, though, and you’ve shown me that you are far smarter than I will ever be.” He sniffed and sighed. “Well, Lady Mortimer, if you aren’t comfortable telling me about your feelings, can you at least tell me something about Lord Kiskaddon? All I have heard are the inflated legends that grant him mystical qualities.”
“They’re probably all true,” Evie said with the hint of a smile in her voice.
“Will you disabuse none of my illusions then?” Iago implored, exasperated. His voice sounded calmer when he continued. “I can see why he would be jealous of parting with you. You’ve only been here a short while, and I’m already taken with your vivacity, your wit, and your courage. Those are traits that I admire and never thought I would find in a . . . a . . . lass from the frozen North.”
“We may be used to the cold, but our blood burns hot,” Evie said.
“I already knew that. Now tell me something about Lord Owen Kiskaddon. I insist. Not a secret. Nothing too personal. What does he look like? What is his personality? Is he as rude as you are?”
Evie laughed at the question. “Very well, my lord, if it will please you.” She took a moment, seeming to steady herself. Owen’s ears were aflame, and he was frozen in place, feeling an acute sense of misery. “Owen’s older brother was a hostage of King Severn’s, and because of his parents’ complicity in the plot to topple the king, he was thrown from the falls after the king’s victory at Ambion Hill. Owen was then sent to Kingfountain as a replacement hostage while the king and his advisors planned the fate of his family.”
“He must have been terrified,” Iago observed in a contemplative tone.
“He was,” Evie said. “My grandfather, Duke Horwath, brought me to Kingfountain to be his friend.”
“And your father, Lord Mortimer, died at Ambion Hill himself?”
Evie paused. “You knew that?”
“I do. That must have been very painful for you. Losing your father. When my father died, it affected me deeply. But please, go on.”
The king was more sensitive than Owen had realized. He nudged a clump of grass with the tip of his boot, wishing a flock of squawking ducks would flap overhead to interrupt things.
“Well, I will just say that Owen and I became close friends. And we have remained close ever since.” She paused, and he could hear the pain in her voice when she continued. “He is very dear to me still.”
Owen felt tears sting his eyes and one of them escaped, streaking down his cheek before he knew it had come. He clenched his jaw and willed them to cease.
“Then your mission to Atabyrion comes at a great personal cost,” Iago said in a low, sympathetic voice. “You have a duty to your king and a duty to your heart. All I can say is Owen Kiskaddon is a lucky man to have such a devoted friend. He is a powerful lord in your realm. Word arrived in Edonburick that he defeated the King of Occitania in a surprise night battle and sent him scampering. That’s the equivalent of defeating someone in Wizr in only two moves, which is theoretically impossible. I would that I could meet him someday. What does he look like?”
“He’s rather handsome,” Evie said in a tone that implied, to Owen, that she enjoyed talking about him. “He has brown hair with a patch that . . . he never combs. His hair is quite unruly.” Skating away from dangerous territory, she continued, “He is kind and thoughtful and very brave. He stands up for those who are weak, and petitions the king to have mercy. The king knows he is loyal, and listens to his counsel and advice.”
And Owen could tell she wanted to say, And he is standing right there listening to our conversation. But she did not.
Owen surreptitiously wiped the tears
tain from his cheek, his heart burning inside his chest for the girl he loved.
“I guess I must ask you this,” Iago said softly. “When someone has conflicting duties, they must choose one of them. Can I surmise that you wouldn’t have come to Atabyrion if you weren’t prepared to fulfill your king’s wishes?”
“Are you prepared to release the pretender to my custody so that I might bring him back to Ceredigion?”
Iago sighed with pain. “I do understand conflicting loyalties,” the king said. “I gave Eyric my sworn word that I would aid and protect him. If I broke that vow to him, how could you ever trust that I’d keep a vow made to you?”
“You made that vow hastily,” Evie said pointedly.
“Indeed. If only you had come sooner. But there may be a way around it.” His voice grew more serious. “If Severn were no longer King of Ceredigion, then you would no longer have to hold fealty to him.”
As soon as he said the words, Owen’s mind began to race.
Suddenly a serving girl came rushing up to the patio. “My lord, I beg your pardon! My lady! Your maid is sinking fast. Her breathing is troubled. There is fear she is dying. I was sent to find you.”
Evie pushed away from the table and the Wizr board and started to run back to the sickroom. Owen was fast at her heels.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
A Quiet Breath
As Owen stood to the side, watching Justine gasp, his heart was sick with sadness. Evie barely managed to hold back tears as she knelt by the bedside of her friend and companion and squeezed her hands. The Atabyrion doctor shook his head solemnly, giving the universal shrug of helplessness, and exited the room. Clark was sitting up unassisted now, and his look was dark and troubled as he stared at the pale girl. Standing beside him, Etayne looked haggard with exhaustion. The small band from Ceredigion was silent as they listened to Justine’s quiet, labored breaths.
