by Jeff Wheeler
They were of various shapes and hues—pink, blue, orange, red, and green. She poked at the beads with her finger, pushing them aside to show him the full variety.
“This is called sea glass,” she said, and offered to drop the pile in his hand. He held out his palm and she tilted her wrist, sending the little pebbles clacking down onto his hand. The edge of her wrist grazed his and her touch sent an unanticipated jolt up his arm.
“I’ve never seen the like before,” he said, admiring the small intricate stones, trying to shake off the feelings that were stirring within him. Amidst the ebb and rush of the ocean, he heard the steady trickle of water. As he looked for the source, he discovered water running down the craggy boulder cleft that formed one of the cove’s boundaries. Little rivulets had made the stone mossy, but the water was clear. An indentation had formed at the bottom of the rock and little streams ran down the shore into the sea.
“These aren’t pebbles,” she said, picking up one from his hand. It was a misshapen red one. “Each one is truly made of glass. The sea has broken them into smaller and smaller pieces and then dragged them along the beaches here for centuries. This is the residue. Artisans come and fashion jewelry out of it. Just like gemstones, they take thousands of years to form. But the glass was made by men.” She stared out into the bay wistfully, smoothing more strands of hair from her face.
As Owen stood there, cupping the sea glass in his palm, he followed her gaze. An enormous feeling of recognition swept into him, as if he had stood in this exact spot before. Emotions swirled inside him, hammering against him like the waves buffeting the rocks nearby. The glass fragments he held in his hand were the remains of huge windows. Thousands of windows from an enormous castle that had once risen from the heart of the bay. He blinked, almost able to see it.
Owen had felt this sensation once before, while sailing through the cove to enter Edonburick in Atabyrion. He had sensed a city buried by water beneath them.
Thousands of stained-glass windows of the most majestic designs had been smashed and pulverized to become these small bits of detritus gathered on the shore. Owen’s knees buckled a bit, and a sudden dizziness washed over him, making him sway. His hand dropped and the sea glass fell back to his feet.
He felt a small hand wrap around his arm. “Are you all right?”
He blinked quickly, trying to quell the awful vision in his mind. How many people had died when the sea came rushing in? How many had drowned? An ancient ache throbbed in his heart.
“I’m . . . I’m sorry,” he stammered, his throat thick with a suppressed groan.
“There are memories here,” Sinia said in a peculiar way.
He turned to look at her. “What memories?”
Her eyes were wise. “Of long ago. Places now forgotten.” She turned and looked back at the sea. “Like Leoneyis.”
There was something she wasn’t saying. He could sense the innuendo in her words.
“I’ve heard you collect relics from that lost realm,” he said suspiciously.
She shrugged. “I’m not the only ruler who has done so,” she answered simply. “The collection in Ceredigion is vast. But, of course, that would be expected. Since it was the kingdom of King Andrew and Queen Genevieve.” She gave him a pointed look, a look that said so much it made his heart quake.
She was toying with him. Testing him. It was no coincidence that she had brought him to the seashore. Again he had the feeling that he was being outmaneuvered in a game of Wizr.
“I’m surprised all the sea glass isn’t gone,” he said stiffly. “One would think it would all have been claimed by now.”
“Not so,” she answered. “These beaches are guarded by certain laws and covenants. Only one chest full of sea glass can be harvested each year. It is bid upon and sold. The selling can take several months. Depending on the color, the size, and the shape, it can fetch outrageous prices.”
Owen pursed his lips. “But wouldn’t that drive men to come steal it at night? That handful you gave me . . . how much would it have been worth?”
“What does it matter? It’s only broken glass. It’s worth nothing, truly. But because it is rare, because it is withheld, it is worth so much more. No one comes to steal from this beach, Owen. No one would dare risk offending the Fountain. I’ve heard in your kingdom that people steal coins from the water fountains. Is that true?”
Owen shook his head. “Not often. If someone is caught stealing from one of the fountains, the thief will be thrown into the river to go over the falls.”
Sinia nodded. “For that reason, the sea glass remains here unprotected. Or should I say, it is protected by the traditions that bind us.” Her gaze narrowed. “When those traditions are cast aside, there are often unwanted consequences.”
There seemed to be deeper significance to her words, but the meaning was veiled from him. She knew about the Deep Fathoms. She knew about Leoneyis, things that could not be learned in the history books that Polidoro Urbino studied. There were things Owen could learn from her. But he still felt he was being manipulated, and he didn’t like it. It gave him a sour taste.
He decided to flip the game by going on the attack. His voice became colder and more detached. “I came a great distance to meet with you, my lady. I did as my king commanded me, no more.”
“I understand,” she replied graciously.
“But I’d like to make it clear what I came here to accomplish. I didn’t come all this way to become your consort. Not just your husband. King Severn expects me to rule Brythonica as I’ve ruled Westmarch. I don’t want there to be any misunderstanding between us, my lady.”
He watched her eyes closely, looking for anger and resentment. Looking for defiance to tighten her nostrils.
There was none of that in her expression. Instead, she looked disappointed. As if she had expected more of him than what he was giving her.
She reached out and touched his arm again. “Of course we understand each other,” she answered almost sadly. “I would expect no less.” She sighed and then her eyes narrowed as she saw someone approaching. Owen turned and saw Thierry marching toward them on the beach, a messenger at his heels.
Sinia let go of Owen’s arm and started forward to meet them.
As soon as she walked away, a surge of surf crashed against Owen’s boots, startling him. While they had been close to the shore, none of the waves had even come near them, but this one caught him by surprise. Sinia’s sandals lifted up in the swell, and he hurried to try to catch them before they were dragged out to sea. Saltwater splashed him in the face as he tried to bend over and snatch them, leaving the foul taste of brine on his tongue.
With his chin dripping, he looked back as Sinia walked away from him, her skirts pulled up to her ankles as she strode across the sand. She looked absolutely beautiful in the fading sunlight, and he simply stood there and looked at her for a moment, clutching her dripping sandals in his hand, trying to understand what he was even feeling and trying even harder to control it.
And that’s when the next wave hit him from behind, knocking him down.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Betrayal
Seawater sloshed in Owen’s ears as he trudged through the sand in his soaked clothes, and he shook his head to jostle it loose. Thierry greeted him with a baleful look. The messenger was from Pisan and spoke in a thick accent, but it was clearly understood. The mousy-looking fellow was wringing his hands.
Owen still clung to Sinia’s sandals, which were also dripping wet, and stood by her side, asserting himself as her equal.
“The storm was brutal, my lady,” the messenger said in a distraught voice. “There were four ships in harbor, and each was smashed against the wall. The cargo is ruined!”
The duchess put her hand on the messenger’s shoulder. “What was the cargo? Foodstuffs?”
“Aye,” he replied miserably. “All ruined by the sea. We have enough stores to last a fortnight, but without those shipments, our people will go hungry. We
sought aid from the King of Occitania, but he demanded five times the worth of the cargo. Five times!”
“Who else did you ask?” she inquired.
“Most recently the court of the White Boar. He wouldn’t even hear the plea in person, my lady. The lord chancellor was too busy and the lord mayor of Kingfountain said it wasn’t his king’s concern. He said to blame the ill luck on the Fountain.”
Owen bridled at the response, feeling a frown tug on his mouth.
The duchess looked sorrowful. “It is a pity indeed. Was anyone injured by the storm?”
“Aye, a few lads drowned, and a roof collapsed on a family and crushed them. But it is the food that will be sorely needed, my lady. Is there nothing you can do for us?”
Sinia turned to Owen. “Master Torcellini, this is my betrothed lord, Duke Kiskaddon of Ceredigion. If he were at Kingfountain, I’m certain you would have met with a different response.” She sidled closer to him, despite his soggy apparel, and clung to his arm. “What say you, my lord?” she asked Owen. “I was thinking we should send two ships straightaway to alleviate the people’s suffering and prevent famine. Do you agree?”
He felt himself being maneuvered again, but he had been at the receiving end of her generosity before. She had sent ships to relieve the siege of Averanche seven years before.
“Let’s send three,” Owen answered, feeling water drip from his chin and the tips of his hair. She gave him an approving smile.
The messenger beamed with a new burst of hope. “I thank you! You both are magnanimous. I hadn’t heard of this happy news. My congratulations!”
“It’s quite sudden,” the duchess said with a wry smile, giving Owen’s arm a gentle squeeze. “The Fountain gives and it takes. We were blessed with an abundant harvest ourselves and have food to spare. Be at ease, Master Torcellini. You have not traveled in vain. Thierry, see to it, please.”
“As you wish, my lady,” the steward said with a bow. Then he escorted the grinning messenger away.
Sinia released Owen’s arm and turned, giving him another approving smile, as if he had passed some sort of test.
“You were expecting me to be cruel, I suppose?” he asked with a snort, handing her the sandals.
She took them and shook her head slowly. “No, I didn’t think that at all.” She swung the sandals before her. “I’m always losing my shoes, sandals, and boots. I much prefer walking barefoot, even in the palace, shocking as that may sound. My servants are constantly picking them up from odd places. I don’t even realize I’m doing it most of the time. Thank you for rescuing them from the sea.” Then she turned her gaze back to the sea and the darkening sky. The sun was behind them, casting long shadows across the cove. Waves hissed and sighed along the shore.
“Do you always help those in distress?” he asked her pointedly.
She smoothed some hair back over her shoulder. “Why shouldn’t I? We’ve been blessed by the Fountain to live in such a temperate climate. It only snows rarely, and there is a plentitude of rain. It’s ideal land for growing things.” She gave him a hesitant look. “We aren’t a warlike people, Owen. But we fight if we must. Marshal Roux has wearied himself protecting us from those who want our fields for themselves.”
Owen scratched his arm, feeling uncomfortable in the sodden clothing. “I heard he left the castle. Is he sulking?”
She narrowed her eyes a bit. “Walk with me and I’ll tell you,” she offered. He nodded and followed as she started across the cove. “You must understand that Brendon Roux is very protective by nature. He was given the trust to guard and defend Brythonica when my father died. I was only a child. In your kingdom, someone in his position might have usurped the throne. Many rulers believe that he is the true ruler of Brythonica. But the people will only have a Montfort rule them. What you saw just now,” she said, gesturing to Thierry and the messenger as they climbed the rocky shelf leading out of the cove, “was not a tradition I started, but one I maintain with honor. We help kingdoms in need. We may be a small duchy compared to yours, but we feel our duty strongly.”
Owen nodded, stifling a shiver as the wind knifed through him. “My king has a saying. ‘Loyalty Binds Me.’ It is my oath.”
“I know,” she said. “I’ve heard it before. I’m sure it chafes you at times.”
He wrinkled his brow. “What do you mean?”
She cast him a furtive glance, and he could tell she was debating whether to trust him. “Our duties and obligations can feel confining,” she said after a lengthy pause. Her answer showed he had not yet earned her trust.
To his surprise, she stopped walking in the middle of the beach and then sank to her knees. She pushed her fingers into the sand and began scooping up little mounds of it. He was soaked and knew the sand would stick to him if he joined her. She didn’t seem to mind as she absently played with the sand, letting it glide between her fingers. They were a distance from the sea glass near the shore, but he saw occasional beads of it appear, as if they were beguiled by her.
Owen hunkered down near her, studying her face. “Do you play Wizr?” he asked.
There was a flash of a secret smile and then it was gone. “I do.”
“I would like to play you sometime,” he said. “I think you might be one of the few people who could actually beat me.”
That earned an amused look. “I’ve played since I was a child. My father taught me.”
“I’ve played since childhood as well,” Owen said. But he didn’t reveal Ankarette’s role in teaching him. “When can we play?”
She shook her head and then gave him a piercing look. “I’ll play Wizr with you if you provide the set.” The way she said the words made his heart start pounding. Could she know about the ancient Wizr set concealed in the fountain of St. Penryn in Westmarch? St. Penryn was the vestige of the drowned kingdom of Leoneyis. This was the second subtle reference she’d made to it. They were dancing around each other, each knowing something the other did not. He hungered to know more, but he didn’t think he could trust her. Not yet.
“The king gave me a set when I was little,” Owen said, giving her an answer that he suspected she didn’t want. “I’ll bring it with me next time.”
“Do,” she answered, her eyes more guarded.
“Why do I feel like talking to you is like playing Wizr?” he said with a chuckle. He gave her a challenging look.
“Is that my fault?”
It was a soft rebuke, but a rebuke nonetheless. Owen gritted his teeth and composed himself. “No,” he answered. He decided to take a risk and confide something they both knew. “I didn’t come here expecting to marry you, Sinia,” he said in a low voice. “I came because my king commanded it and I serve him. Would Marshal Roux do any less?”
She glided her fingers through the sand with one hand, her other arm propping her up. “He is as loyal to me as you are to your king. The difference, I think, is that he is loyal because he respects what he serves. He doesn’t fear me.” She met his gaze, and Owen swallowed.
“Severn Argentine is not the monster everyone says he is,” he said defensively, falling back on an old argument that had once been true. Ankarette had once told him that Severn was influenced by what people thought of him, which he knew to be true.
Sinia looked down again, tracing a circle with her finger. “I think he became the monster everyone said he was.” Her eyelashes fluttered, and when she looked up at him, it felt as if her eyes were seeing into him. Her expression said, Is the same thing happening to you?
Owen squirmed with discomfort. He didn’t like the way the conversation was going.
She must have sensed his reaction, for she changed tack. “We tend to resemble those we interact with the most. The Argentine temper is legendary, especially in these lands. The first Argentine king married his third son to the Duchess of Brythonica. Did you know that?”
“I did,” Owen said, grateful once again for Evie’s deep knowledge of history and their endless discussions about it.
“It was a tragic marriage,” she said, using the flat of her hand to smooth away the circle she’d drawn. “The king was unfaithful to her. She rebelled against him and tried to put her son on his throne. Owen, do you ever have a feeling that the past keeps coming back? See how the tide is creeping up toward us. In a few hours, this entire cove will be underwater. Then it will recede again. In and out, wet and dry. I feel like that sometimes. That the past is inescapable.” There was a haunted sense of longing in her voice. She didn’t look at him, as if she were suddenly shy.
“You’re asking if I will betray you?” he said, his insides roiling from her observation about the recurring nature of things—one he had often considered himself.
She pursed her lips. “You admitted that you came here to offer your troth because your king forced your hand. He will not be king forever. No one ever is.” Her hands stopped moving through the sand, her fingers suddenly taut and talon-like, digging into the sand. She was struggling with some unspoken emotion. “It doesn’t bode well for our marriage,” she added softly.
Owen suspected she knew all about his past with Elysabeth. Pain stabbed his heart, and once again he cursed Severn for the poison the king had forced him to drink. It was a bitter cup still. Did the duchess question his motives for bringing a beautiful woman with him in his entourage? Did she even know Etayne was a poisoner?
He felt muddled and miserable. The tendril of a wave came up to them, close enough that he watched the foamy bubbles pop and the sand drink in the moisture.
“We’d better go,” Sinia said, sitting upright and brushing her hands together. Owen was still squatting, his knees aching, and he rose to his feet. Then, in a gallant gesture, he extended his hand to her to help her stand.
She looked surprised by the offer, but a pleased smile spread across her face. Her hand was so warm, and he could feel the specks of sand still clinging to her skin. He pulled her up and she straightened, shaking the sand loose from her skirts.
