by Jeff Wheeler
Tyrell was growing frantic. He knew crossing the gate was dangerous, but he seemed to sense the tide had turned against him. Owen stared at Eyric, willing him to leave.
“It’s cold,” Etayne said with a shiver, bringing up her cowl. He wondered if her disguise was in danger of slipping.
“Of course,” Eyric said, hooking arms with her. “Let’s get you back to a brazier. Come, Tyrell. Quit skulking. Let us go.”
“My lord,” Tyrell moaned. “I have an ill feeling . . .”
Eyric snorted again, shaking his head at the man’s foolishness, and then pulled Etayne with him as they left the gate. Tyrell lingered at the threshold, clutching the chest to his body. His eyes burned into Owen’s with wrath and heat, but Owen merely gave him a confused expression, shrugged slightly, and followed Eyric. Tyrell gritted his teeth and left the sanctuary.
Their boots crunched on the gravel path heading back into the mist toward Owen’s camp. His heart, though tortured, felt a quick surge of hope. It was going to work. A little farther, just a little farther!
The beggar man sat at the side of the road with his cup, shaking it and making the coins inside rattle. “Alms, my lords! Alms!”
Eyric opened his purse and produced a crown. “Here you are, my good man. Your fortunes are changing.”
The coin thunked in the cup. “Thank you, my lord. So are yours.”
The Atabyrion warriors slowly lowered their torches and tugged free their tunics, revealing the badges of Owen’s house beneath—the bucks’ heads on a field of blue.
Owen turned to the deposed prince coldly. “I arrest you by the name of Eyric Argentine.”
The look of shock and horror on the prince’s face would also be seared into Owen’s mind forever.
“How . . . how!” Eyric gasped, his jaw quivering.
The chest thudded onto the ground. There was a flash of movement, and Owen saw Tyrell’s dagger plunging toward his heart.
Etayne caught the thrust and jammed the flat edge of her hand against Tyrell’s throat to crush his windpipe. She torqued the wrist, and Tyrell went face-first into the ground as some of the Espion rushed forward to restrain him. Seized by a hateful rage, he choked for air and thrashed against his captors.
Two of the Espion, one of them the beggar with the cup, grabbed Eyric.
Etayne pulled a vial from her sleeve, uncorked it, and quickly tipped the liquid into Tyrell’s mouth as he gasped for breath. Owen watched her do it. He had ordered her to do it. He would not risk taking another poisoner captive, especially not one as skilled and deadly as Tyrell.
“What are you doing! What have you done!” shrieked Eyric, struggling against his captors. Realizing he had been duped, he started to sob hysterically. There would be no civil war. The embers of hope, which had burned so bright just moments before, had been crushed underfoot.
The choking sounds coming from Tyrell grew more spasmodic as he realized what kind of poison was in his mouth. Etayne backed away from him, her disguise gone, but except for her haughty, cold expression, she still resembled Elyse.
In moments, Tyrell hung limply. There was a hiss and a sigh from the Fountain as he died.
Owen walked over to the chest Tyrell had dropped onto the sand and picked it up. He was surprised at how heavy it was, but it fit under the crook of his arm. Etayne looked at him, her eyes glinting in the torchlight.
“What . . . what are you . . . going to do with me?” Eyric stammered, his cheeks pale.
“I’m going to turn you over to your uncle,” Owen said dispassionately. “After we’ve dealt with Chatriyon. Trust me, sir, I’m not going to let you out of my sight.”
Eyric’s lips twisted with rage. “You, you are just like him!”
Owen shunted aside the truth in the words. He didn’t want to falter, not at the final moment. It was too late to change the course he had chosen. He could only hope he was doing the right thing. “You should have heeded my warning in Atabyrion. What you will get now is much less than what you could have had.”
“I am the rightful king of Ceredigion,” Eyric said quaveringly.
“No,” Owen replied flatly. “You were only a pawn.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Wizr
Owen carried the chest under his arm until they reached his warm pavilion. He was thrilled by the victory and frankly amazed it had gone off so well. He had been concerned that Tyrell would try to do something rash when he realized his gift of rancor was useless against Owen.
“Well done, my lord!” the beggar-clad Espion said, grinning broadly.
Eyric came into the tent, looking haggard and worried, and was followed by Etayne, still wearing Lady Elyse’s gown.
“Your work isn’t finished,” Owen said. “I want you to keep the Espion stationed around the perimeter of St. Penryn. Anyone who arrives to join the rabble is to be arrested and sent to Beestone castle.”
“Is that where you’re taking the pretender?” the Espion asked, giving Eyric a derisive look that made the man bristle with anger.
“Oh no,” Owen said with a chuckle. “He’s coming with me. I’ll present him to King Severn myself after I’ve lifted the siege of Averanche. What about the boats?”
The Espion nodded vigorously. “We did as you ordered. The boats from Atabyrion are no longer seaworthy, my lord. By morning, our ships will have blocked the waters to St. Penryn. No one comes or leaves without your express permission.”
“What about my wife?” Eyric asked, anger throbbing in his voice.
Owen turned to him. “What about Lady Kathryn?”
“Will she be coming with us?” Eyric asked, fidgeting.
Owen wrinkled his brow. “I don’t think she’s going to leave sanctuary. Do you?”
Eyric shook his head. “I didn’t know if you would still respect that privilege. Will you?” he asked with a taunt.
Owen ignored the question and turned back to his captain. “Get word to Ashby that we’re on the way. We ride before dawn. Leave sufficient men to guard St. Penryn. And get word to the king that we have his nephew in custody.”
“Aye, my lord.”
“Leave us,” Owen said, setting the chest down on the nearest folding table. Everyone other than Eyric and Etayne left the tent.
The deposed prince looked defeated as he slumped onto a camp chair, massaging his eyes dejectedly. “Why did you murder Tyrell?” Eyric said with a tone of sadness.
“One could hardly call that murder,” Etayne rebuffed. “He was coming at Owen with a poisoned dagger!”
“He was only trying to save me,” Eyric sighed. “Save me from my own stupidity.” He lifted his head and gave Etayne a scowl. “You are good, Poisoner. I could have sworn you were my sister. Even now, you resemble her, but I can tell the difference. Back at the sanctuary, you completely deceived me. I’m fortunate you didn’t use a knife when you embraced me.”
Etayne gave him a cold, triumphant smile and bowed graciously.
“So Tyrell was the one who rescued you from Bletchley?” Owen asked.
Eyric nodded bleakly. “He used his strange power to goad a henchman into smothering us. But Tyrell used a powder on the pillows. One that would make us fall unconscious.” He stared at the ground, his eyes haunted as a shudder went through him. “I will never forget the sensation I experienced when that man shoved the pillow against my face. I couldn’t breathe, but there was something noxious, some smell. I passed out. They threw our bodies into the cistern beneath the palace.” He shook his head. “I could hardly swim. My brother couldn’t swim at all. He never revived, and drowned there.” His voice fell off.
Owen stared at him, feeling the truth of his words.
“Then what happened?” Owen prompted.
Eyric looked up at him, his eyes bloodshot. “Tyrell came for me. He was grieved that my brother was dead. There was a boat in the cistern. He snuck me to the sanctuary of Our Lady and then onto a ship bound for Brugia. I was a prince no longer. But I was promised that I wo
uld return one day. Just as the prophecy of the Dreadful Deadman promised. A king who was dead returning again.”
Owen rubbed his own jaw. “But you’re not the Dreadful Deadman.”
Eyric shrugged with melancholy. “No. I’m just a dead man now.” He covered his face with his hands, his shoulder buckling with stifled sobs.
“Your uncle isn’t going to kill you,” Owen said. “If you had come with me from Atabyrion, you would have fared much better. He may, in time, have grown to trust you. Perhaps even made you his heir.”
Eyric looked up at him then, his eyes welling with tears. “You think I believe that? I’ve heard what he’s done to my cousin Dunsdworth. I would rather go over a waterfall than endure such dishonor.”
Owen sighed heavily. “Your uncle would have restored you as the Duke of Yuork. But now you’ve attempted twice to invade his kingdom and depose him. Hardly grounds for trust.”
“I have no reason to trust his word!” Eyric snapped. “Nor yours, for that matter. You came to Atabyrion to dupe me. You have finally succeeded. Well done, my lord,” he added contemptuously. “But my wife is wiser than I am. She will stay in St. Penryn. She will stay there just as my mother endured sanctuary. She will stay there until the . . .” He caught himself, realizing he was about to make a blunder. But Owen already knew the secret. The Fountain had told him.
“Until what?” Owen pressed.
“Nothing,” Eyric sulked.
“Until the babe is born?” Owen asked softly, and Eyric’s head jerked up in utter astonishment.
“What sort of Wizr are you!” the man gasped.
Owen stifled a smirk. Etayne’s eyes were wide with surprise, but she said nothing.
“I am Fountain-blessed,” Owen said in an easy tone. He fetched a cup, but then stared down at it suspiciously, wondering if he were in danger of being poisoned. His thoughts went to the king, who had lived for years under the dark shadows of that fear. He set the cup down and walked over to the chest. Eyric’s eyes widened with alarm as Owen unlatched it and raised the lid.
As he stared down at the Wizr set, Owen felt the power emanating from it. Just looking at the ancient relic made him feel wary and vulnerable. The positions hadn’t changed since they’d left the sanctuary, he noticed. The carved faces on the pieces were full of emotion.
“What is this?” Owen asked, trying to discern any patterns in the arrangement. The one he discerned the most quickly was a series of pawns blocking each other, as if two master Wizr players had been scrupulously defending each piece, not wanting to surrender. The Wizr piece from the dark side was missing, which usually meant the game would come to a quick end. But the darker side had managed a defensive strategy to prevent the light side’s Wizr from moving easily across the board. As he studied the pieces, he felt the rushing sensation of the Fountain.
A touch on his arm startled him, and he blinked and looked away from the game. Etayne was staring at him worriedly.
Owen shuddered, feeling vulnerable to a power much greater than his own. He closed the lid of the box.
Etayne stared at him fixedly. “Are you the Dreadful Deadman?” she asked.
Owen blinked with surprise. “Why would you say that?”
“The way you were looking at the Wizr set. It was like it was speaking to you.” He shook his head, but she still continued, “It was uncanny. And everyone has heard your story. How you were brought back to life as a babe. How you were the youngest person to be discovered as Fountain-blessed in all of Ceredigion. Are you the king everyone is waiting for?”
Owen was amused by the reasoning. “I am not,” he answered truthfully. The Fountain had told him Eyric’s son was the one. That knowledge twisted inside him, as did the directive he had been given to keep the heir safe. He gestured back to the chest. “What is this?”
Eyric’s countenance fell. “I cannot say.”
“You cannot say, or you will not say?”
A wry smile quirked on Eyric’s mouth. “If you let me return to the sanctuary, if you let me return to my wife, I will tell you. Do not keep us apart.”
Owen shook his head. “Impossible.”
Eyric shrugged meaningfully. “Then I will not help you. There is power in that game. If only you truly understood it.”
Owen realized he was being goaded. He changed tactics. “What do you know of your sister? Did she go to Chatriyon willingly, or was she abducted?”
The other man threw up his hands. “I cannot say. Lord Marshal Roux warned Iago that the alliance between Occitania and Atabyrion would come to naught. That man is cunning and wise. If we had hearkened to him, none of this would have happened.”
“If you had listened to me,” Owen said angrily, “a better outcome would have befallen you!”
Eyric frowned. “I have not spoken to my sister. I do not know why she did what she did. But I believe she did it willingly. It was her only chance to escape the prison my uncle crafted for her. It was a prison, my lord. No matter how gilded the bars. If my sister had not been so loyal to our mother, she might have left long ago. She did not want to abandon her, as so many had done.” His voice throbbed with emotion. “You cannot imagine how my family has suffered.”
“It seems to me to be suffering resulting from bad choices,” Owen replied. “Your mother tried to prevent Severn from fulfilling his duty. Surely she realized that Severn was loyal to your father. That his loyalty defined him in his own mind.”
Eyric gave a solemn frown. “I don’t think she realized the depths of it, no. Or what he might do in order to secure his own interests. He’s not blameless, Owen. And neither are you for supporting him. You’re his little lapdog. His little Fountain-blessed pup. Wait until he starts kicking you like a dog too.”
Etayne stepped forward quickly, as if she were about to slap Eyric across the face.
“Etayne,” Owen said, forestalling her. “I think our guest is tired. Fetch him a drink.”
Eyric’s eyes widened with terror.
The disheveled prisoner was soon snoring on a pallet covered in fur blankets. Owen sat on a camp chair and pressed the bridge of his nose, trying to decode the mysteries he could not solve. Etayne had changed out of Elyse’s gown and was wearing one of her own, a much simpler design. She came up behind Owen and put her hand on his shoulder, using her thumb to dig circles into his tense muscles.
“What do you make of him?” Owen asked her, giving her a glance over his shoulder.
She didn’t bother concealing a sneer. “He’s a puppet, Owen. He may be of noble blood, but someone else was controlling him.”
“Who, though?” Owen said. “Tunmore claimed that he saved him and had him shuttled away first to Brugia and then to Legault. Yet who was Tunmore serving? Everyone believes Eyric is Eredur’s son. Yet, it’s as if they want him to rule Ceredigion because he’s an idiot.”
Etayne laughed softly. “Not everyone is as smart as you, my lord. Including our king.”
There was an implication in her tone. Owen shifted his gaze to her face and saw the look she was giving him. It was a look of total and complete surrender. A look that said, You could be the King of Ceredigion. I could help you.
It was a temptation, and he felt its cracklings awaken inside him like sparks on kindling. But he knew he would never be able to look Evie in the eyes again if he succumbed to it. Her look, her offer, her fingers soothing him—all of it made him wholly uncomfortable, so he rose from the stool and started pacing. Her hand lingered in the air for a moment before she lowered it. His thoughts became muddled with traitorous impulses, but he shook his head, trying to master himself.
“Who do you think the king will choose to replace Mancini?” Etayne asked softly.
Owen had almost forgotten about that. “Poor Dominic,” he said. “When I first heard he had been thrown into the river, I wondered if it was a lie. But you saw him go in?”
Etayne nodded. “There was no way I could have saved him,” she said. “It happened so fast. I think Mancin
i came to the sanctuary looking for something. But when he arrived, the deconeus denounced him with hostility and rage. I imagine it was Tyrell’s doing, now that I think on it. It matches with what Eyric told us.” She took a step closer to him. “I don’t regret that Mancini is gone. It seems he was part of this plot as well, in some unfathomable way.” Her eyes were full of meaning, and Owen suspected that something dark had existed between her and the Espion master. “Do you think, my lord, that the king will choose you?” There was hope in her eyes, a questioning hope.
“I have no idea,” Owen said with a depressed sigh. “That may all depend on whether we survive the next fortnight.” He looked at her seriously. “I will serve my king however he wishes. I am not like Mancini,” he said reassuringly.
She nodded. “Indeed, you are not. He was very . . . selfish.” And she left it at that before turning away. Her back was to him when she spoke again. “I don’t think the king intends to let you marry Lady Elysabeth,” she said over her shoulder. “I know Mancini was persuading him against it. The king will use you to expand his realm. Even if it breaks your heart.”
Owen had the sensation of being a castle gate struck by a huge battering ram. He jolted at her words, not wanting them to be true, but fearing that she was right. It rattled him to his core. But he felt helpless, unable to prevent the separation between him and Evie without destroying the king.
“How do you know this?” Owen whispered hoarsely.
She glanced back again, almost shyly. Her hand smoothed her gown in a nervous gesture. “I overheard them discussing it.”
“And they did not know you were there,” Owen said, trying but failing to conceal a sad smile.
Etayne shrugged. “When Eredur ruled Ceredigion, he had his brother do many unpleasant things. Things that were required under the circumstances. Things that tested Severn’s loyalty.” She turned and looked him in the eye. “He will do that to you, my lord. He will test your loyalty to the breaking point.”
Owen gritted his teeth, feeling his cheeks flush with heat.
