by Jeff Wheeler
The room grew quiet and still. Even Justine had stopped her needlework. Her eyes were dark and serious, as somber as the overriding mood in the palace.
“I can’t tell Severn,” Owen whispered. “Not yet. I need to know more myself.”
Evie nodded. “Let’s go see Polidoro. He’s been studying the myths of King Andrew since he arrived. I know nothing about St. Penryn, as I said earlier, but I imagine he might.” She paused, then said, “I don’t think you should tell him about your ‘visions,’ if that’s the right word. He feels a great depth of loyalty to Severn. I’m not sure I would trust him entirely.”
“That’s good advice. Let’s go see Polidoro. Would you do the honors?” he asked, motioning toward the starter piece that would knock them all down.
Evie smiled and obliged.
Polidoro Urbino was an interesting, intense fellow. Tall and rail-thin, he had skin that was well leathered from the elements, silvering brown hair that was always neatly slicked back, and intelligent eyes. He wore the court fashions of Pisan, which were more gaily colored than Severn’s favored black, and he had a reedy voice that made him sound always breathless. He was a man of many flowering words, great curiosity, and it was obvious that he was completely in awe of Evie. Owen gave Justine a warm smile and nod as she sat down on a nearby chair.
“I tell you Lady Elysabeth Victoria Mortimer is the wisest creature in all this vast kingdom,” he crooned, pumping Owen’s hand vigorously as a pleased, rapturous smile stretched his lips. He bowed to Evie with a deep flourish. “King Severn has a jewel in his kingdom to be certain. I was just going over the court records of the Maid of Donremy, an interesting tale. I know you’ll like to read them as well, my dear. I am so pleased you took the time to visit this lowly court historian. If I can be of any service to you whatsoever, you know you only need ask.”
Evie was smiling a little from the barrage of flattery. Justine rolled her eyes. “Master Urbino, there is something I’d like to ask you. I think your knowledge would help settle a dispute I have with Owen.”
Polidoro bowed again. “I am yours to command, my lady. The two of you make an excellent pair, if I might say so.” He straightened and tapped his lip. “I’ve always been struck by you. What point of conflict could exist between such kindred souls?”
“It’s a geography question, actually,” Evie said. “Owen told me that the sanctuary of St. Penryn was in Westmarch, but I disputed that it was once laid claim by Occitania. Can you settle the matter for us?”
Owen loved how deftly she had posed the question.
“St. Penryn, St. Penryn,” the historian muttered, tapping his lip. Then he clucked his tongue. “I’m afraid, my dear, that neither of you scores the point on this match. You are both wrong.”
Owen looked at the historian curiously. “I’ve seen the map of my duchy, sir, and I’m quite certain I saw St. Penryn on it.”
Polidoro shook his head and offered a wizened smile. “No doubt you saw the sanctuary there, but did your map also show the land of Leoneyis? Of course it didn’t. It’s all underwater now.”
Owen felt a jolt in his heart. “What did you say?”
The historian nodded vigorously. “The kingdom is gone. Leoneyis is part of the King Andrew legend. It’s where King Andrew was slain by his bastard son. Well, not slain to be exact. He was mortally wounded, unto the point of death. They put his body in a boat and sent it over the falls. Shortly after, the land of Leoneyis was flooded. Only a few souls survived. The sanctuary of St. Penryn was on higher ground, and the people who had fled there survived. It’s one of the reasons sanctuaries offer protection today! Fascinating, isn’t it?”
“You are saying that the history of the sanctuary privileges of Our Lady go back to this time?” Owen asked. The story was hauntingly similar to the vision he’d experienced as their ship entered the harbor at Edonburick. He wondered how many more drowned cities existed.
The historian shook his head. “No, those practices existed before. Those who survived the great flooding helped reinforce the belief. I’ve heard that fishermen off the coast of Westmarch continue to draw objects from the drowned households out of the waters around there. There are dealers who specialize in that trade. I’ve heard that buyers in Brythonica pay enormous sums.”
“Brythonica?” Evie asked before Owen could.
“Indeed. The duchess is a great collector of historical artifacts. I thought everyone knew that. Did you know that one of King Andrew’s greatest knights was from Leoneyis? He was banished to Brythonica for having an affair with the king’s wife.”
“Can you tell me where you found that history?” Evie asked, her tone one of intense curiosity.
“It’s not history, my lady Elysabeth. To be sure, there are many who claim King Andrew was real, but there is no evidence whatsoever that he was a real king. These legends are entertainment. That is all. But if you are interested, I would recommend an Occitanian poet. I think I have a translation somewhere in here, and when I find it, I’ll bring it to you.”
“Thank you, Master Urbino,” Evie said with a pleased smile.
“So you see, you both were wrong. While St. Penryn is technically off the coast of Westmarch, it is actually considered part of Leoneyis. It is where King Andrew met his fate, and they say—” he added with an amused chuckle, “—it is also where he will return again. I hope you found the tale diverting.”
“Indeed,” Owen said, giving Evie a meaningful look. The three young people left the historian’s chamber, listening to him chuckle and hum to himself as they walked away.
Owen pitched his voice low. “The treasure in the cistern had an ancient look to it.”
Evie shot him a dangerous glance. “Do you think it came to be there after Leoneyis flooded?”
“I think I would like to find out,” Owen said. “Assuming, of course, that the cistern hasn’t frozen over yet.”
“I don’t think it’s that cold,” Evie said.
“Where are we going?” Justine asked worriedly. “I don’t like the sound of this.”
Owen looked at Evie. “Have you ever told her?”
Evie shook her head. “It was our secret. Remember?”
Owen turned to Justine. “Are you afraid of heights?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Cistern
A trail of footprints in the snow led to the edge of the cistern opening in a walled-off portion of the palace of Kingfountain. The air was chill, and thick flakes of snow came down like autumn leaves. As Owen stood at the lip of the cistern and gazed down, he saw the water was much deeper than it had been in their younger years. The reservoir was well stocked.
“It looks colder than the Vairn River near Dundrennan,” Evie said, stifling a shiver.
“You are both quite out of your senses for considering this,” Justine warned. “The water is absolutely frigid! You won’t be able to spend more than a few moments in it without catching a chill. And how will you get up again?”
Owen nodded to an ivy-strewn portion of wall. “There is a door over there and steps leading up to it.” He sighed as he stared nervously down at the water. “It does look cold.”
“My lady,” Justine said, shaking her head. “This is ridiculous. Your grandfather would not approve. Come away from the edge.”
Evie gave her a rebellious look. “Be a dear and fetch us some blankets. I think we’ll need them.”
“You’re not going to—”
Evie reached out and took both of Owen’s hands. “Together? Like we did before? Ratcliffe is dead, so I don’t anticipate anyone will drain it on us.”
Owen took a shuddering breath.
“Someone is trying to kill you,” Justine said, her face going white. “Please, my lady, don’t do this!”
“Go,” Owen said, squeezing her hands. Standing across from each other over the hole, they stepped off at the same moment and plummeted into the cistern.
The shock of cold was worse than the Vairn. Absolutely worse. It ma
de Owen nearly gasp as sharp needles of freezing pain stabbed at him from all sides, soaking into his clothes. His vision went black for a moment, and he feared he’d passed out from the shock of it. He kept himself still, trying to let the momentum of the fall bring him down to the bottom. He craved a fresh gasp of air, his lungs were screaming for it, but he felt the solid thump of the cistern floor against his boots much sooner than expected. Of course. He was much taller now than he had been as a child. Already the air in his chest was making him start to rise again, so he let out a few bubbles and blinked rapidly, trying to see through the blur of the water.
The treasure was still there.
He saw open chests spilling over with coins. There were battered shields with strange markings on them, the crests unfamiliar. Were these truly from Leoneyis? He felt a tug on his hand, and Evie motioned for him to swim back up.
He needed to bring something away, something to show her that the treasure was real. That he could see it, even if no one else could.
He spied a long weathered box, about the size of a sword, with straps and buckles holding it shut. There was a symbol branded on top of it. It looked vaguely familiar.
Take it. You will need it.
The whisper came from the Fountain. Owen felt himself rising again and breathed out a few more bubbles of air. He broke his grip with Evie and used his arms to swim toward the box. His muscles cramped with the cold and he felt the edges of his vision growing black. Gritting his teeth, he kicked hard and tried to close his unresponsive fingers around the box. He could not get a grip. His freezing fingers just wouldn’t respond. But Owen was determined. He used his forearms to scoot the long box toward him and managed to clamp it against his side with his left arm. Using his right, he paddled back toward the surface. The weight of the box and the lack of air in his chest threatened to suck him back down, but he surfaced moments later, gasping for breath and chattering with cold.
“O-v-v-er he-ere!” Evie stammered. She grabbed at his shirt and the two quickly swam to the stone steps.
“Are you all right?” Justine cried from the cistern hole above. Her voice was edged with concern and panic. “I’m going to fetch help!”
“No!” Evie shouted. “J-Just f-fetch some blankets!”
“I’ll be right back!” Justine shouted and vanished.
“Th-that was c-cold,” Evie whispered, shuddering violently.
“I liked th-the last time . . . better,” Owen offered with a smile. His fingers were working a little better now. “Do you see this? I’m not imagining the box?”
“No, it’s real,” Evie said, nodding vigorously, her eyes wide. “Let’s g-get out of h-here first. We n-need a fire.”
Owen didn’t object. Pressing the box against his body, he gripped her arm with his other hand and helped haul her up the stairs. The Espion latch was a bit tricky with his numbed fingers and trembling body, but he managed to get it open. He had to butt his shoulder into the door, and the force of it made them stagger into the snow, clutching each other. Evie looked as pale as the weather and her lips were faintly blue.
Their teeth were chattering too much to talk, and each time they exchanged a look, they both started laughing. It reminded Owen of their childhood, of chasing her around the edge of the fountain before she fell into it. Maybe she had the same memory. Her eyes carried the same mischievous glint he had always fancied in her.
When they reached the open doorway leading back into the warm corridor, the one they had used to reach the cistern, he helped hoist Evie up. Justine was already approaching with blankets, and she scolded Evie thoroughly as she wrapped her up.
Owen handed the box down through the window and then struggled to climb through himself, his body shaking so violently it wouldn’t obey him. He ended up tumbling onto the floor in a heap, his belly tight with laughter.
“Get up off the rushes, Master Owen,” Justine said, an amused look belying her frown. She swaddled him in a blanket as well, and they started quickly back to Evie’s room. There was a servant girl stoking the fire when they arrived, and both of them collapsed in front of it, savoring the cascading blasts of heat. The servant girl looked at them askance, and it was all it took for Evie to burst into giggles again. Owen could not help but join her.
Justine paced behind them, folding her arms. “My lady, we must get you out of those wet clothes at once. You’ve ruined your gown. Come to the changing screen. Master Owen, you can sit in those wet clothes for all I care.”
“I’ll be fine,” Owen said, trying to subdue his laughter. Evie smiled and paused to squeeze his shoulder before rising and hurrying over to the changing screen.
“If your grandfather only knew,” Justine said in a scolding whisper.
“You’d better not tell him,” Evie said. “You are the only other person who knows about our secret place. It needs to remain a secret, Justine.”
“You know you can trust me.”
“Don’t open the box yet!” Evie called from over the screen height. “I can hear you fidgeting with the straps! I’m almost done.”
She was right, of course, so Owen forbore what he had been doing until she hurried out from around the changing screen. Justine was trying to cover her head with a towel, but Evie shooed her away and rushed over to kneel at Owen’s side, wet hair dangling in front of her face in a deliciously tangled way.
“You look like a half-drowned mouse,” Owen said with a smirk.
“You are a half-drowned mouse,” she quipped back. “Open it!”
There was a firm pounding on the door and then it immediately opened. Both turned in shock as Mancini hurried into the room. There was no time to hide the box.
“There you both are,” Mancini said angrily, striding forward. “Look at you both! It’s as if you’ve been swimming . . . in . . . the . . .” His voice dropped off as he recognized the truth of his forming statement from their guilty looks, Owen’s soaked clothes, and Evie’s wild hair.
“What is it?” Owen asked, angry that the spymaster had caught them so quickly.
“It’s cold as death out there and you two were playing in the cistern again?” He gaped at them, but then his shrewd eyes saw the box lying before them. “What is that you have there? What’s in that box?”
“I don’t really know,” Owen said. “We haven’t opened it yet. Why are you here?”
“Because you were seen tramping about the palace soaked to the bone while I was trying to summon you to see the king! Jack Paulen arrived with news of the blizzard from East Stowe. The king wants to see you at once, Owen. I have news to share as well. But what is in that box? It looks long enough to hold a sword. Open it. Where did you get it?”
Owen didn’t fully trust the spymaster, but he was not sure how he could refuse.
“Go ahead, Owen. Open it. We didn’t do anything wrong.” Evie gave Mancini a look of unconcern. She was a great actress sometimes.
Owen bowed forward, his curiosity piqued, and started unfastening the leather straps holding the box closed. The leather was surprisingly hard for having been submerged underwater for who knew how long. The buckles were rusty, but the rust flaked off easily, revealing shiny metal. Evie worked on one of the straps while he did the other, and soon they were loose. Owen bit his lip as he studied the markings on the box. Upon closer inspection, it looked like a raven’s head. Wasn’t that Brythonica’s symbol?
Owen pried open the lip of the leather-bound box, and the hinges groaned a little and sloughed off rust as it opened.
“A scabbard,” Mancini said with a tone of disappointment. “That’s all?”
It was indeed a scabbard, devoid of a blade.
But it was not just any scabbard. It was made of leather, wrapped around a wooden sheath, hand-stitched with a wide belt fashioned into it. The hilt guard shared the same raven’s head sigil design as the box. The scabbard was scuffed and bloodstained. A few strands of leather had been tied into decorative knots. It was a beautiful work of craftsmanship and it looked
quite old. A metal chape ended it with a filigree design.
Owen reached into the box and hefted it. The leather felt warm in his hands, which surprised him considering the cold place where it had been hiding. The interior of the box had no water stains, no sign of seepage, which also did not make sense.
“Just a scabbard,” Owen said. What sword had this scabbard held?
The sword of the Maid, came the answer.
“Where did you get it?” Mancini asked, his tone questioning and stern. “The cistern?”
Justine gasped and covered her mouth. Evie rolled her eyes in disgust.
“That answers that,” Mancini said, chuckling at the girl. “When you were children, you said something about there being a treasure in the water. I didn’t believe you. I was there when the cistern emptied. I saved your sorry carcasses from the falls. Let’s not forget that. But there was nothing on the cistern floor. Not even a florin.”
“But there is treasure on the floor,” Owen said, turning and looking up at the spymaster. “Only, you cannot see it.”
“But you can.”
Owen nodded.
“Is that what Tunmore was raving about then? Did he leave a treasure in the fountain at Our Lady?”
Owen didn’t want to answer, but he knew he should. “He did. I’ve seen the chest. But not open. It’s not long, like this one. It’s about this size.” He held up his hands about shoulder-width apart.
Mancini rubbed his mouth. “This is all very interesting and quite curious. I’m not one for superstitions, as you know. But I seem to have heard a legend or two about swords and fountains.” He glanced at Evie. “You know the ones.”
Evie nodded. “The greatest is the legend of King Andrew. He was a baseborn son of a duke. He drew a sword from a fountain and used it to claim the throne of Ceredigion.”
Mancini nodded curtly. “And the other?”
“The other was more recent. The Maid of Donremy drew a sword from a fountain in Occitania and used it to defeat Ceredigion. No one knows what happened to these swords . . . or if they were the same sword.”
