by Jeff Wheeler
“I see the wisdom,” Owen replied. “But no man likes to be kept on the ground with a boot on his neck.”
The king stiffened and frowned, giving Owen a sharp look. “Well, my outspoken young friend, it is easier to kick a man while he’s down than slog through a battlefield against him. Or perhaps you want him to invade Ceredigion? So you can have the pleasure of killing him.” It was a brutal thing to say and it was said deliberately. Owen had long endured such provoking comments. Although it rankled him, he didn’t let it show.
He found sarcasm to be an adequate defense in such moments. “I could have him killed at any time, my lord,” he said knowingly, his eyes bright. “But it would grieve me to make Elysabeth suffer. So I patiently wait for the man to get the pox.”
Severn chuckled at the dark humor and clapped Owen’s back, which was especially annoying. Then he heaved another sigh and stared at Horwath’s lifeless body. Despite his posturing, he almost looked relieved that he had arrived too late. “Well, Catsby will be content, and I’ll get a moment of peace. If you’d fancy a remembrance of the duke, you’d best take it now. Catsby counts the coins, you know. He won’t give up a florin without a fight. Not that you are in need of coin. I’ve rewarded you amply and am about to reward you further.”
Owen crinkled his eyebrows. “How so?”
“You’re going to start another war,” Severn said with a grin of enjoyment. He looked positively devilish when he schemed. His black hair was riddled with streaks of gray, each one a testament to the troubles he’d endured since seizing the throne of Ceredigion. His slight deformities were draped in the costliest of court attire, all black with jewels, and he still wore a chain vest beneath his tunic as an extra layer of defense.
“With whom this time?” Owen said, controlling his tone so he didn’t sound as exasperated as he felt. The king was always tweaking the noses of the other realms, putting them in fear of an invasion. His dominion had expanded relentlessly over the last seven years, with more and more cities and areas allying themselves to the badge of the white boar. Years before, Ankarette had helped fool the king into believing Owen had the gift of precognition. Although he did have powers from the Fountain, reading the future was not one of them. Still, Owen sometimes interfered with the king’s riskier plans by claiming to have had a dream from the Fountain. As the years passed, his visions seemed to convince the king less and less—almost as if the king were losing his belief in the guiding force of the Fountain, something Owen did not understand since the Fountain was the source of the king’s own preternatural abilities. Owen had become more judicious in his use of the dreams, especially when common sense said the risk was too great.
“Brythonica,” the king said.
Owen turned to look at the king. “They’ve been our ally for seven years. What would we gain?”
Severn chuffed. “They’ve enjoyed immunity long enough. Besides, I need their land to wage war on Occitania. Chatriyon has been fortifying the borderlands each year, making it more and more difficult to conquer new cities. But he’s exposed on his flank, Brythonica. We take that duchy and Chatriyon will cave like those tiles you used to play with.” Owen’s childhood pastime of stacking tiles had always helped him focus, and it also replenished his natural supply of Fountain magic. Now that he was older, he found the same benefits by playing Wizr, reading history, and plotting strategies with the Espion. The king gave him a smug look. “You’re the one who has taught me to be devious, lad. You’re blessed with a cunning mind.”
The thought of betraying the duchess disgusted Owen, and he was not eager to face Lord Marshal Roux, her advisor and protector, on the battlefield. Owen and Roux were allies, but uncomfortable ones, and had danced around each other for years. The lord marshal had an uncanny knack for showing up places unexpectedly—a trait that set Owen on edge.
“My lord,” Owen said. “Brythonica is full of valleys and woods. I’ve explored the borders between Averanche and Cann, but no farther. They also have a strong fleet.”
“Not as strong as ours,” Severn said reprovingly. “It’s not your place to question my commands, Lord Kiskaddon. It’s your place to fulfill them.” It was a tone of voice he had started using with more regularity. “With Stiev dead, I must count on you more than I ever have. Now, I’ve made this conquest simple for you.”
Owen wanted to vomit. He knew something else was coming. He could see it in the gleam of Severn’s eyes. His mouth went dry.
“You are to go to the capital of Brythonica—Ploemeur, I believe, is the name. And you will finally meet this elusive duchess that Marshal Roux has been shielding for so long. The most eligible heiress of all the realms. Her name is Sinia—after that breed of butterfly, or so Polidoro tells me. She’s a pawn. Roux’s been using her to hold on to power himself. Well, you tell that scheming Lord Roux that I insist the duchess and you should marry at once. When they refuse, and I know they will, that gives us the pretext we need to invade and open up a new front against Occitania.”
He clapped Owen on the back again. Then he looked back at the view of the room, his mood becoming more somber. “Brythonica used to be our duchy. And I mean to make it ours once again. I want it all, lad. Every town, every village.”
CHAPTER THREE
Deep Fathoms
It would have been a more fitting send-off for the duke if clouds had come and threatened rain or snow. But the sky was a blindingly bright shade of blue. The jagged mountains capped in snow stood out so starkly against it, it felt as if it were a vivid dream. Even with the sun blazing down, the air was sharp enough to cut, and everyone assembled on the bridge was bundled up in fur cloaks and hats. The stone bridge overlooked the falls in the canyon past Dundrennan, and the waters were roaring so loudly it was difficult to hear the shrill notes of the pipers and the steady boom of the drummers. Waterfalls had always fascinated Owen, and he had been at this location many times in the past, had stared at the endless flood of waters rushing through the rocks and boulders, building into a snowy white churn before leaping off the cliff into the valley below.
Turning his neck, Owen saw Evie sidled up next to Iago, his arm wrapped tight around her shoulders. Their two children were straining against the bridge, staring down at the rapids rushing beneath them, their eyes full of wonder. Owen had been to the falls at Edonburick in Atabyrion, which were impressive, but they paled in comparison to the size and force of the waterfalls in North Cumbria. This was Evie’s true home. This was the place where he had hoped to kiss her for the first time, years ago. Almost in defiance of this thought, Iago brushed his lips against her hair in a comforting way. Owen forced his eyes to look away.
The bridge was full of spectators awaiting the launch of Duke Horwath’s body back to the Deep Fathoms. In the distance, farther upstream, Owen could see the black-garbed knights preparing the body. The smoke from the torches they carried mixed with the mist coming up from the waters, and Owen could smell a hint of it in the air. The knights were saying their final respects as the music played on.
Owen felt the king’s shoulder butt against his. It would be difficult to hear over the tumult of the falls, so Owen leaned closer to him.
“Who is that lad?” Severn asked, motioning surreptitiously to Drew.
Owen pretended not to know. “Who do you mean? There are many children on the bridge.”
“The boy with the flax and reddish hair,” he said. “Bless me if he doesn’t look a little like my nephews who died.” He sniffed, his eyes narrowing warily. “He told me his father died at Averanche. His mother could not care for him. I asked him who his mother was, but he doesn’t know.” He smirked. “I even used my magic on him, but he wasn’t concealing anything.”
Owen grew more and more uncomfortable. “You should stop using your magic like that, my lord. It makes people even more wary about you. But why the interest in the lad?”
Severn shrugged. “He reminds me of you. Though he’s not as timid as you were. I miss having children at the pa
lace.” He gave Owen a look of suspicion. “Assign an Espion to find out who his parents were. I assume you’re stopping through Kingfountain on your way to Brythonica?”
“Naturally,” Owen said. “I don’t plan on going there without some protection. Marshal Roux has always made me wary.”
The king smiled shrewdly and nodded. “I was going to ride back with you, but I may linger here a few days more.” He sniffed, his gaze going back to the boy. “Something about him. Find out who he is, Owen. Have your man report directly to me.”
“I will, my lord,” Owen said with a neutral voice, though he squirmed with guilt.
A raven squawked from atop a nearby evergreen and took to the air, flapping its wings as it swooped toward them. The king started with surprise, his mouth suddenly a rictus of disgust and fear, and waved his arm to ward it away.
As the bird flapped off into the distance, the sound of the shrill pipes became louder and the drumbeat increased in pace and volume. Owen was surprised by the king’s involuntary reaction—Severn loathed losing control, especially around others—but he soon forgot it, for Severn’s gaze had once again settled on the boy. He only watched him for a moment, though, before turning his attention on the musicians.
The body of the duke had been tied into a canoe, and the knights were assembled in two rows, each pair holding the staves upon which the canoe rested. Elysabeth dabbed a tear from her cheek and kept one hand on her youngest, who was still peering over the far side of the railing for a better view at the waters.
The knights marched to the edge of the river, the sound of their boots lost amidst the noise of the crowd. Then they stamped to a halt and angled the staves so that the canoe slid forward and landed in the river with a splash.
Everyone in the crowd stopped breathing as the canoe was snatched up in the current and hurtled forward. Owen was fixated by the dark shape as it knifed through the ripples in the river and rushed toward the bridge at breakneck speed. It was a matter of heartbeats before the canoe approached their gathering. All was silent except for the clamor of the falls, so there was nothing to mask the collective gasp as the little boat came up. Owen could see the gray cheeks of the duke, his closed eyes, and his sword fastened to his hands by straps. A deep sadness pierced Owen’s heart as he gazed at the face of Stiev Horwath one last time.
And then the canoe tipped over the edge, plummeting into the snowstorm mist of water vapor below. A shared gasp and sigh came from those assembled as he disappeared.
To the Deep Fathoms. Wherever that was.
The king clapped Owen’s shoulder, his face full of respect for the fallen soldier who had given his entire life for the Argentine family. He had left behind a legacy of faithfulness and honor that was about to be pillaged and sullied by the new duke of the North. It grated on Owen to see the undeserving rewarded, while Elysabeth, who had sacrificed her own wishes to do her duty to the king, was forced to give up the lands and rights that were her due. It was cruel and it was wrong. Yes, it was pragmatic. Yes, it was clever. But punishing Elysabeth for her husband’s previous treachery was disrespectful to the loyalty that she had shown.
“I’ve given this some thought. I share your distrust of Lord Marshal Roux,” King Severn said in his ear as everyone turned and moved to the other side of the bridge. There was always a feeling of hopefulness after a boat was sent down the falls, people lingering around to see if it would survive the fall and continue on downstream. The river wound all the way to Kingfountain and, ultimately, the sea.
“He won’t be pleased with me, you can be sure,” Owen said, chuckling darkly. “A demand for marriage won’t be met with good feelings, not when we protected her from the Occitanian king’s demands seven years ago.”
“Which is why we’re doing it.” Severn chuckled maliciously. “It’s just a pretext, Owen. An excuse to invade. But when you go, bring Etayne with you.” His eyes narrowed coldly. “Just in case.”
Owen wrestled with the conflict in his heart. He wanted Etayne to stay in Kingfountain and help shield Kathryn from Severn while he was gone. “My lord,” he started to hedge, but the look in Severn’s eyes was enough to silence him.
“I insist,” the king said. “If Roux gets in the way, then get him out of the way.”
As they stood by the bridge overlooking the massive falls, Owen had the unbidden urge to shove the king over the rail.
“Yes, my lord,” Owen said with a weary sigh.
He wanted to be gone, far away from the ill feelings that had descended on Dundrennan like an evil shroud. Lord Catsby was only too eager to assume his new title. He did not have the grace or wisdom to recognize the offense his new position would cause to Elysabeth and her relations. Her mother, Lady Mortimer, was told in the rudest of terms that she would need to either return to her own estates or follow her daughter back to Atabyrion. Catsby did not care which she chose. She was no longer welcome in the castle that had belonged to her father, a venerated and loyal servant to the king.
Outspoken as always, Elysabeth rebuked the new duke for his insensitivity, but he condescendingly informed her that while she might be the queen of a backwater kingdom, she had no authority in his estate. Iago looked ready to draw a blade, so Owen tried to calm the hostilities by pulling Lord Catsby aside and reminding him that he was being a jack.
Catsby might not care about giving offense to Iago and Elysabeth, but he dared not rile the Duke of Westmarch, who was the king’s general and the leader of the Espion. Catsby was cowed, for a while, but ill will made Owen eager to depart. The place that had always been his sanctuary was no longer welcoming.
The next day, he was inspecting the girth straps of his horse in the bailey, preparing to leave, when Elysabeth called to him from the castle doors. He left the horse with a groom and strode back to see what she wanted.
Her lip was quivering, her eyes full of tears.
“What’s wrong?” he demanded, concerned.
She swallowed, clearly trying to master her emotions. “Owen,” she gasped, shaking her head. “I’m . . . I’m so frightened! I don’t know how I can do this!” Her eyes skittered wildly, and her hands grasped at his tunic.
He looked at her with increasing alarm. “What’s happened?”
They were alone in the doorway, no one within earshot.
“The king has asked . . . well, more like ordered, that we leave one of our children behind. He . . . he said he misses the days of old when you and I used to run around the palace together. But we both know—Iago and I—we know he’s doing this to ensure we don’t do anything rash now that Catsby commands the North. My husband is furious, as you may well imagine. He wants to force the king to accept my rights to Dundrennan, but I think that would be foolish. Not now, not when he’s so powerful. I must pick one of my children.” Tears coursed down her cheeks. She let out a breath. “I’m sorry, Owen . . . but my heart feels ripped asunder. I think of your own mother. How did she endure it? It feels unbearable . . .” She started to sob, and Owen yearned to comfort her.
He closed his eyes, trying vainly to shut out the memories of leaving his mother as a young boy, the fear and the aching realization that he would never live with his parents again. He had been sent to Kingfountain in a similar manner, so he knew firsthand what Genevieve was about to experience. He had no doubt that the daughter would be chosen instead of the son. He shook his head slowly. “Even I can still be stunned at his cruelty.”
Elysabeth nodded, hiccupping as she tried to stifle her tears. “My son, Iago, must return to Atabyrion. He’s the heir and he’s so little. The king knows I will have to send Genevieve.” She clenched her fists against her chest, trying to quell more tears. “And it’s worse knowing that you’re going to Brythonica. I would feel so much better if I knew you were there with her. Watching over her. Would you ask Etayne . . . ?” she implored.
Owen grimaced. “I can’t. The king ordered me to take her with me in case Roux causes trouble.” He rubbed his forehead, anguished by her
ordeal. By this newest sign of the king’s wickedness. “I will ask Lady Kathryn to watch over her. She’s a fellow native of Atabyrion, which should be comforting to your lass. And Liona as well. She won’t be gone for long, Evie, I promise.” He realized he had used her pet name and flushed deeply. “I beg your pardon, Elysabeth. I will do what I can to make sure your daughter is protected. You have my word on that. I don’t think that I will be in Brythonica for very long,” he added wryly. “When I get back, I’ll persuade the king to send her home.”
Gratitude shone through her misery. “You are so dear to me,” she said softly, blinking away tears. “Thank you. You can still . . . call me Evie. That name is only for you. Iago has another pet name for me.”
Owen did not want to know what it was. “Where is he?”
She pursed her lips. “Arguing with the king. He’s a passionate man. You can be sure he’s not making this easy for Severn.”
Owen sighed. “As long as he doesn’t do anything rash. He chose well in you.” He shook his head, feeling hopeless and wretched. “Your daughter is beautiful and curious,” he said, the words rushing out in spite of himself. “Just like you were. I’m going to make sure the window to the cistern is nailed shut.”
Elysabeth smiled, a genuine warm one. “Do that,” she said emphatically. “I’m sorry to keep you, Owen. The king thought you were already gone, which is why he announced it when he did. Safe travels.” She stood awkwardly for a moment and then impulsively wrapped her arm around his neck and hugged him. Before she pulled away, she brushed a small kiss on his cheek. Her eyes were very green.
“I want you to find love, Owen,” she blurted earnestly. “I don’t care if she’s a duchess or a waif. I want you to be happy. Promise me you will try.”
He stared at her, caught off guard by the hug and tender kiss, very aware of the surging emotions that raged in his dilapidated heart. He had resisted the allurements of other women for seven years, clinging to the dwindling and perverse hope that Evie’s husband would somehow manage to die. It had happened to Severn with his wife. But each year had diminished the hope and convinced Owen that waiting for her would be foolish. Sourly, he wondered if he’d waited too long. Perhaps Severn would force him to act. If not with the Duchess of Brythonica, another woman.
