by Jeff Wheeler
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
St. Penryn
The air had the chill of winter. Owen walked through the camp of his soldiers at dawn, hand on his hilt. His sword was sheathed in the braided leather scabbard he had withdrawn from the cistern waters at Kingfountain. It gave him a strange feeling of peace. The sky was gray and shallow wreaths of snow encircled the grounds. He could hear the sound of the surf crashing nearby.
Leaving his pavilion and the warm brazier inside behind, he trekked toward the water, following a sandy footpath overgrown with scrub. His mind was full of worries and doubts, of tangled plots and subtle machinations. This felt like a game of Wizr, only he could not see all the pieces on the board and shadowy hands were moving them.
The footpath ended abruptly, pitching steeply before a wash that led to the crashing waves below. The churning sea was impressive and came in undulating waves that crashed against jutting stones covered in seaweed and urchins. The beach was flat and gold, the sand fine and smooth. To the north, he saw the sanctuary of St. Penryn a short distance away. The sanctuary was built against the cliffside, a tall, stocky structure with many arches on each face. Thick balustrades offered support, and the main facade had twin towers on each side, set within a triangular-shaped roof.
Owen perched one boot on a boulder and stared at the structure. The stones it was made from were variegated bricks, giving it an almost mottled look. It was an ancient structure, in existence long before Ceredigion had become a kingdom.
It was also where Owen was setting his trap.
His mind wandered to Evie, as it so often did. His final words to her had been his declaration of love. The words burned in his chest, along with a sickening dread that Severn would continue to keep them apart. Part of him hoped that Iago Llewellyn would be slain in the coming battle. It was an ungenerous thought, but he did not regret it. The more he pondered the possibility of losing Evie to that man, the sicker his heart felt.
So many tiles were being arranged. But they were being arranged by someone else, someone who knew the pattern and knew the goal to achieve. The more Owen thought on it, the more he suspected that perhaps it was Marshal Roux of Brythonica who was behind the mist and shadows. Owen had long suspected the man was Fountain-blessed. Surely the Duchess of Brythonica would bring the most able and intelligent men to her service, men capable of impressive deeds. Roux had been there the night of Owen’s attack on Chatriyon’s army. He had come to Edonburick with a message of warning at exactly the right time to catch Owen and the others. But might there not have been another reason for his visit? Bothwell had escaped after that point, after all. Owen had not reasoned this out before, but he thought it possible that Tunmore might have been an ally of the marshal’s. Did the sheath bear the mark of the Raven because the treasure was connected to Brythonica? If so, then it would make sense that Roux knew about and would try to seize the chest himself. But as far as Owen knew, the marshal had never tried to conceal his comings and goings, and no tangible link existed between him and the others. Tyrell, on the other hand, was a skilled poisoner, and Bothwell had identified him as the man who had been sent after the king. There was more evidence indicating he had been the thief, but that did not mean it was the correct answer.
Owen stared at the walls of the sanctuary, frowning deeply. He was convinced that the chest Tunmore had hidden in the sanctuary of Our Lady of Kingfountain had been brought to St. Penryn. The snow that hung thick on the sanctuary walls and the tents of his camp was a further testament to his intuition. The storm had moved to the coast next. He knew with an unshakable certainty that something in that chest was making it happen. Even though it had remained hidden in the palace for years, the unfolding of recent events had done something to trigger whatever was hidden inside it. A force powerful enough to affect the very weather.
The sound of approaching boots pounded up the footpath and Owen turned, catching sight of his herald, Farnes, in the mist. Dawn was creeping in slowly. The sound of a gull’s shriek split the air.
“There you are, my lord,” Farnes said with a sniff, rubbing his arms to ward away the cold. “I was told you’d wandered off this way. Best to stay closer to your men, I think. These cliffs can be treacherous.”
Owen shoved off the boulder he had been leaning against and met Farnes a few steps farther down. “What news, Farnes?”
“You wanted to be told when the Espion girl arrived. She’s in your tent right now.”
“Thank you,” Owen said with a nod. He was anxious to see Etayne, hoping for news about Evie’s health.
“And word has also arrived from Averanche,” Farnes continued, a gleam in his eye. “You were right, my lord. They have word of Occitanian troops marching toward the city. You have several hundred men holding the city’s defenses. They can hold the city until the rest of our army arrives.”
Owen shook his head. “We’re not going to Averanche, Farnes. That’s exactly what they want me to do. I’m keeping my army near St. Penryn.”
Farnes wrinkled his brow. “What on earth for?” he said with confusion. “There are no enemies here. And no fortifications either.”
“Not yet,” Owen said with a smile.
Farnes looked even more confused. “Did you have a . . . a dream, my lord?”
Owen rubbed his mouth. “You could say that. We stay here. Let Chatriyon hammer away at Averanche for a while. He’ll be watching his back the whole time. And I don’t think that’s his true goal anyway.”
Owen started down the footpath toward his pavilion, Farnes at his heels. The men were murmuring from their places among the patches of snow. There were no inns or taverns nearby. The conditions were rather deplorable, but these were men of Westmarch. He could see the looks of respect and determination in their eyes as he passed them on his way back through camp.
His fingers and toes felt wooden from the cold, and Owen stretched his fingers beneath his gloves, clenching and opening his fists. After bidding Farnes to linger outside, he ducked inside the warm interior of his tent, feeling the heat sting his cheeks.
Etayne was kneeling in front of two large saddlebags, undoing the straps. As he entered, she turned and saw him, and a slight flush crept onto her cheeks, followed by a hesitant smile.
“She is on the mend,” Etayne said, preempting his first question, and he was grateful to her for that.
“Thank the Fountain,” Owen sighed, rubbing his forehead. “In all likelihood, it looked worse than it was.”
“I stitched it myself,” Etayne said. “She’ll have a small scar on her brow, but only if you look for it. When I left Kingfountain, she was preparing to ride North.”
Owen started pacing, feeling edgy and anxious. “Did the king give you your orders?” he asked gruffly.
Etayne inclined her head. Her face was deadly serious, but she nodded once. “I was expecting to find you still at Tatton Hall, but they said you’d ridden on to St. Penryn.” She stood and smoothed her dress. “This is a desolate place to bring an army. Why here?”
Owen wished he could discuss his plans with Evie, but she was not there. Etayne had shown herself to be loyal thus far and he believed she would tell him the truth if his reasoning were off.
“Can I trust you?” he asked her in a low voice.
Etayne’s countenance changed and she stepped forward. “I would do anything you asked of me,” she answered sincerely. He sensed an invitation in her words, but he sidestepped it.
“How is your strength with Fountain magic right now?” he asked her. “Have you recovered from our journey to Atabyrion?”
She nodded resolutely. “I grow stronger day by day.”
Owen flashed her a smile. Then he tapped his mouth, deciding he would trust her with the entirety of his plan. Ankarette had said that the most important skill was the gift of discernment, of being able to judge the motives and intentions of another. In his dealings with Etayne, he had learned that the thief’s daughter had been so mistreated and distrusted that she craved app
roval and attention. Owen had given that to her by treating her as a person and not an instrument. He had noticed her growing attachment to him, her loyalty. With Mancini’s death, she was no longer bound to anyone else. He was certain she would be more loyal to him than she had ever been to the spymaster.
He looked deeply into her eyes. “I believe Iago is going to strike soon. Not here, but in the North or the East. I think East Stowe is his most likely destination, because he would not want to attack Evie or her grandfather directly. One of the duchies alone could repulse Iago’s attack, let alone two. So the threat isn’t going to come from Atabyrion. It’s going to come here.”
Etayne looked thoughtful. “How so?”
“Iago’s attack is a diversion,” Owen explained. “It draws our forces away and opens up Westmarch. I think this is where Eyric is going to land. This is where he will lay his claim to the throne of Ceredigion. This is where King Andrew died.” He pointed in the direction of St. Penryn. “This area was once dry land, Etayne. There was another kingdom here. A kingdom called Leoneyis. It’s now underwater, covered by the sea.”
Etayne’s lips twisted with surprise and horror. “They were all drowned?”
“Indeed,” Owen said, continuing to pace. “There was a prophecy that King Andrew would return. This was where he was supposed to return, to save the kingdom. The prophecy is called the Dreadful Deadman. Eyric is not that man. But many believe he is. They are bringing him some relic of magic to turn the tide. Perhaps even literally. Occitania is a part of the plot, though I’m certain Chatriyon has his own ends in mind. And I believe that Brythonica might be as well. I don’t trust Marshal Roux. Something is happening here that I don’t understand. Something no one will explain. So I plan to be very unpredictable. And I plan to set a trap to lure Roux into revealing himself. If my instincts are correct, he is not in Brythonica right now. He is coming here by ship.” Owen used his forefinger to stab his empty palm to emphasize it. “And we will be waiting for him.”
Etayne’s eyes were wide. “Owen, you said that one duchy would be enough to stave off an invasion from Atabyrion. But the last time you faced Chatriyon, you were not alone. You had Duke Horwath with you. Now you’re talking about facing Occitania and one of its strongest duchies by yourself.”
Owen nodded. “I know. I’ll be a tempting target, don’t you agree?”
“You’ll be crushed!” Etayne said, blinking worriedly.
He smiled. “Not if they think I’m on their side,” he answered in a quiet voice. “Ankarette once told me this story. It was about one of the previous kings of Ceredigion and how his nobles revolted against him. They raised an army to defeat him, and the king’s son, a prince, negotiated a truce. He was so convincing that he was able to disband the rebel army. And then he destroyed it. They may try to do the same thing with me. I have no intention of trusting Chatriyon or Eyric, but I will make them both believe that I do. Eyric offered me power. I plan to accept it.”
Etayne smiled at him, her eyes filling with light. “You are crafty.”
He bowed to her. “But I need your help, Etayne. I need you to become someone else in order for my plan to work. May I look in your saddlebags, please? I am hoping you brought something. Knowing what your mission was, I was counting on you to bring it.”
Etayne’s eyebrows lifted and she smiled, one of her knowing, beautiful smiles. “I think I know who you want me to be. And yes, my lord. I did bring her dress.”
One can scarcely credit what one hears these days. But if rumors be true, then King Iago Llewellyn has indeed invaded Ceredigion. His troops landed in Aberthwist and began burning villages in a direct course toward Kingfountain. Refugees have been spilling from East Stowe. Some are heading south to Kingfountain, but most are rallying north to where the king’s army has encamped. If that were not enough, there are reports from Westmarch that the King of Occitania has attacked our holdings there and that Duke Owen has turned traitor and has been in league with Occitania all along. As I said, I can scarcely give credit to such reports.
—Polidoro Urbino, Court Historian of Kingfountain
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Duplicity
Owen rubbed his bleary eyes, listening to Farnes as he hastily explained the news from Averanche. The reports were bad and getting worse and Owen’s army was restless with inaction. They wanted to fight, to attack, to do anything but camp in the frostbitten wastes of St. Penryn.
Farnes’s hair was unkempt and he stroked his fingers through vigorously. “Averanche can withhold a siege for a few days, a fortnight maybe, but if there is no hope of being relieved, they will turn back and seek terms with Chatriyon!”
“We will lift the siege,” Owen said forcefully, staring at his herald with determination. “But they must hold as long as they can. How much food do they have?”
Farnes shook his head. “The provisions will hold for a fortnight easily. Captain Ashby isn’t worried about that and he is rationing the stores. He’s more worried about the locals betraying us. The lord mayor, for example.”
Owen stroked his lip. “I trust Ashby. He’ll follow orders. Have supplies run by sea to support the castle.”
“Yes, but it’s only a matter of time before the Occitanian ships blockade the city,” Farnes insisted. “When shall I tell him you are coming to relieve them?”
“I can’t say when, Farnes. The situation here is risky. I know Chatriyon is trying to lure me to Averanche, and I’m not going to snap at the bait like a codfish! He’s distracting me from this place. This is where Eyric is going to land. I know it. I’m determined to wait like the patient hunter.”
“But when, my lord?” Farnes pleaded. “If those under siege lose hope of rescue, they will falter. The Occitanians have brought in a mighty host. They will retake the city, and once they’ve done so, they’ll challenge Westmarch. Would it not be more prudent to pull out our men by ship and bring them here? We could face Chatriyon from our own lands.”
Etayne’s voice interrupted. “Lord Owen will not abandon those who put their faith in him,” she said scathingly. “Chatriyon would show no mercy to the lord mayor and those who surrender the city.”
Owen was surprised at her remarks and he glanced at her, seeing through the disguise she wore. But even her tone and accent were convincing.
Farnes flushed. “I meant no disrespect, my lady,” he said, flustered. “It’s just that we risk running out of time. Your troops here are restless. The action is to the west, not here. The longer you wait, the more you risk.”
“I’ll not abandon Averanche,” Owen said. “You send word to Ashby. Tell him to hold the city to the last man. I won’t fail him.”
Farnes pursed his lips. “Very well, my lord.” He nodded, bowed, and exited the tent.
Owen was pacing, feeling the tension roiling in the pavilion. The fate of Ceredigion was hanging in the balance. From the reports he’d received from the king’s army, Severn was letting Iago venture deep inland, letting him think there was little opposition, in the anticipation that he would extend himself too far. And then Horwath would cut off his retreat and Severn’s army would come thundering out to trap Iago between them. Owen had no doubt that Severn would win.
He walked to his table and stared at the map there, running his finger along the coastline between Westmarch and Occitania. There was a V-shaped wedge of water at the crux between the two kingdoms. That water had once been the kingdom of Leoneyis. Owen looked at the outline of Brythonica and shook his head. Where was Marshal Roux? What was he doing? It felt like he was waiting in the shadows, waiting for Owen to move first. The thought made him grit his teeth with frustration.
“You look worried,” Etayne said softly, coming up next to him. Even her perfume reminded him of her.
“I can’t stay here much longer,” Owen sighed, stabbing the map with his finger. “If Eyric doesn’t arrive soon, I’ll have to go to Averanche and lift the siege. You were right . . . I’m not going to abandon it. But I can’t help
but think that I’m being forced to step forward. Something isn’t right. And it has to do with Brythonica and the duchess’s true allegiance.”
Etayne smiled at him. “You also don’t want to be wrong. I don’t know any man who readily admits he’s made the wrong choice.”
Owen smirked. “That too. But I know I’m right. There is something important about St. Penryn. Something I don’t know, but I can smell it in the air.” He gave her disguise another appraising look. “You’re not even using your magic and you look like her.”
Etayne dimpled at the compliment and nodded gracefully.
Owen fetched a flask and took a drink of stale wine. Wincing at the taste, he set it back down in a hurry. “Tell me more about this poisoner. The one who fled Kingfountain during the riot.”
“Tyrell,” Etayne said. “He crossed from Brugia in a ship, disguised as a sanctuary sexton, and visited Our Lady. One of the sailors remarked on the gap between his teeth, so I knew it was him. He stayed in an inn on the bridge between Our Lady and the palace. By the time I found his dwelling, he had already infiltrated the castle. He was the one who started the riot and spread the rumor about the king throwing Tunmore off the tower. I know he’s Fountain-blessed. I felt him use his power.”
Owen nodded, frowning. “And what would you say his power is?”
She wrinkled her nose. “His power is causing hatred. There is a potion he uses. I have a report that he carries a box of some lotion, which he spreads on doorways. Those who pass the doorway begin to feel a keen hatred for the man in his sights. He assassinates by poisoning the minds of others, causing them to murder his target. It’s clear his target was Severn, as we suspected. It wasn’t just the storm that was making the people riot. He spread some of his ointment on the gates of the sanctuary as well.”
Owen stared at her. “Poor Jack was being affected by it. I thought he wanted to kill the king, though it made no sense.”
