by Jeff Wheeler
“No man ever does,” she said, squeezing his arm. “Back to the letters then, so we can go.” From the smug-looking smile on her face, he could tell she was pleased with her accomplishment. It made him chuckle to himself, but then his eyes fell to the pile of letters. Groaning, he grabbed the stack and went over to the couch, languidly draping his leg over the armrest in a casual manner. He broke another seal and read the message quickly before tossing it aside.
Then he remembered the one Etayne said Farnes had brought in a rush. “Where’s the one from Farnes again?”
“It was that one. There’s a stain on it.”
He spied it and then cracked open the seal. His stomach spun and then lurched as he read the message. He pulled his leg off the rest and hurried to his feet, his pulse quickening.
“No,” he muttered darkly, feeling the calamity growing larger and larger. Eyric and Dunsdworth had escaped their confinement. They were missing. Owen had entrusted Kevan with watching over them. What could have happened to upset things?
“What is it? Tell me—your expression is frightening me!”
His heart hammered in his chest. “I can’t believe it. How? How could it happen?”
“Tell me!” she demanded.
“Eyric and Dunsdworth escaped,” he said in frustration. “They were under heavy guard. The Espion should have been able to prevent this from happening.” He cursed the constant flood of troubles that had plagued Severn’s indecorous reign. “I’m to return at once,” Owen said, glancing at the words again. “I tell you, Etayne, I am heartily sick of this! To constantly defend a man who I . . .” He caught himself, frowning and swallowing the bitterness, to keep treasonous words from spilling out of his mouth. “By the Fountain, why must we go through this again and again? This is because of Brugia. This is Maxwell’s hand. I can see the smears. He wants to be lord and master of all. Severn is the strongest ruler, so he gains the most enmity. This constant fighting and scheming. This unending intrigue. It makes me want to retch.” He sighed, shaking his head. “The duchess tried to persuade me to spend the next few days visiting other towns in Brythonica. I wish I had the freedom to do just that, but we must get back at once.” The words tumbled out before he had a chance to consider them. The look of hurt that formed on Etayne’s face made him wince. He rubbed his eyes. “What is it?”
“Only that you seem to be breaking your vow,” she answered. “You swore you’d bar your heart, Owen. You told me to remind you in case you lost your senses.”
He did not appreciate her reminder. “Go wake Farnes,” he told her, trying to curb the tone of resentfulness that threatened to make things worse. “Get him in here. We’ll need to beg our pardon and leave tonight.” He snapped his fingers. “Actually, you and I will ride on ahead like we normally do so we can make our stop in the forest first. He can stay behind and soothe any hurt feelings, make our excuses.” Plan my wedding. He caught himself in time before saying it aloud.
“I’ll get him,” she said, her eyes narrowing as she left.
When the door shut, he read Kevan’s note again. I’ve never seen the king so wroth. Owen couldn’t be sure how to interpret that statement. But queasy feelings sucked on his insides like leeches.
What would Severn do if the missing princes were finally caught?
What had Eredur done to those who posed a threat to his throne?
Owen turned and stared at the closed door, imagining he could hear the poisoner’s footsteps fading down the hall.
He grabbed the next letter on the pile. It bore the king’s seal. He blinked with surprise and cracked it open.
The words were scrawled in splotchy letters, but he recognized the king’s handwriting, the hastily crafted message addressed to Owen, Lord Kiskaddon, Duke of Westmarch.
I know you’ve betrayed me.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Threat
That brief hand-scratched note in the king’s own style had opened up a pit inside Owen’s stomach and filled it with terror. He was a child again, a helpless creature trapped inside a prison of fear. His throat seized up, and sweat began to trickle down his cheeks. Slumping onto a nearby couch, it was all he could do to keep his supper inside his body. It was a battle he soon lost, and a few warning pangs later, he rushed to the privy and vomited noisily into the garderobe hole. He crouched there, humiliated, and then sank to the floor. It felt as if his bones had turned into paper.
He sat there a long while, pondering the king’s message. He wasn’t a child anymore. He wasn’t a helpless boy. He was a man now and needed to act like one. Even though his heart felt weighed down with despair, he rallied his wits to try to think of what was happening.
What could the king be referring to? Had he finally learned about Ankarette’s role in saving Owen when he came to Kingfountain as a young child? That was a secret Mancini had carried to his watery grave. He and Etayne and Elysabeth were the only ones who knew the truth. He wrinkled his brow. No, it was unlikely that the king knew. Did that mean he had discovered the truth about Andrew, the boy Owen had rescued and hidden? The king had asked him to investigate how the boy had come to the North. Owen had gone through the motions, ensuring all the while that the search would be in vain. But maybe something had happened at court—perhaps Kathryn had indeed recognized through her mother’s intuition that the child was hers. His stomach twisted more violently still. That was entirely likely. Kathryn had been so distraught before they left; perhaps she had discovered the truth and revealed herself in some way. Then the king could have used his magic to persuade her to reveal the whole truth.
Yes, that was the most likely possibility. He stiffened when another implication struck him. Eyric’s escape from the tower. Was that related as well? Had Kathryn helped her husband escape? Was the tiny family trying to flee together? He knuckled his forehead and began counting off curses under his breath.
I know you’ve betrayed me.
What to do about it? How to respond? In one letter, he’d been summoned back to Kingfountain to help deal with the missing captives. In another, he’d been accused of treason. Had both letters arrived simultaneously? There was no date affixed to the king’s note. Squeezing his hand into a fist, he slammed it onto the floor, full of frustration.
What were his options? Well, he could refuse to obey the king’s summons, but that was tantamount to confessing his guilt. He doubted he’d find any welcome in Chatriyon’s court. He knew the Occitanian king both hated and feared him, which Jessica had confirmed. The thought of fleeing made him sick with shame. That was a coward’s answer. He thought of the tawny-haired lad whom the Fountain had entrusted him to protect. He could not step down from that duty.
One option would be to throw himself at the mercy of the king. To admit to the lies and deceptions. To attempt to persuade Severn that he needed to step down and give the child his crown. No king of Ceredigion had done that before. In all the tales that he had heard Evie tell about the history of their country, kings had always been forced to yield their thrones. And it was usually a rebellious duke who made it happen. Another role, played over and over again—a waterwheel spinning in a river.
He sat there for a long time, plucking at the strands of hair from his unkempt beard, staring into the void of his festering conscience. The question that had tormented him for years reared its head again. Could Owen rise in rebellion against the king? None of the other dukes had the power. Catsby was new and untested, and besides, he had been plundering Lord Horwath’s dominions. He’d find no one willing to die for him. Jack Paulen of East Stowe? Laughable. Lovel had been loyal to Severn since their early friendship, and while he was well-meaning, he was totally incapable of rallying men.
Owen knew Severn well enough to guess the king would not have sent such a note without making precautions against a possible rebellion. In fact, Owen imagined there would be soldiers waiting for him at Tatton Hall. Was the king trying to force him into rebellion? So many possibilities. He continued to stack up the various
possibilities and weigh them against one another. It was his primary gift from the Fountain.
“Owen?”
He had not heard the door open, but he recognized Etayne’s voice. He had lost track of time in the privy and was only faintly aware of his surroundings. He tried to stand on trembling legs. He must have made some noise because Etayne came rushing in after him, and when she saw the look on his face, her eyes widened with fear.
“Are you sick?” she demanded, rushing to his side. She touched his face and examined his eyes, his mouth. Obviously she feared he’d been poisoned.
“I’m not sick,” he said, warding off her efforts. “Well, not in that way.”
“I noticed you hadn’t bolted the door, so I waited outside,” she said with agitation. “Then when I came in, I didn’t see you. I thought you’d gone.” Her voice was sounding more desperate by the moment. “What’s wrong?”
He did make it to his feet finally, and she looked so concerned it made him wonder about his own appearance. Not wanting to say the words aloud, he thrust Severn’s note into her hands.
She blanched when she read it.
After walking past her out of the privy, he noticed the small fire had burned low. The only light came from a single candle Etayne had brought. It was probably after midnight. He stretched his arms, weary from the exhausting day, but his mind was too thick with the dilemma to rest.
A foot scuff came up behind him. “I won’t let him hurt you,” she whispered in a low, threatening voice.
He turned and saw the fierce eyes, the serious expression that told him she’d murder the king if he tried. It gave him some small measure of comfort that someone cared that much about him.
“I won’t ask you to—”
“You don’t need to ask me!” she said passionately. “We both know that he is not worthy of the loyalty you’ve shown him. It’s been in your power all along to rid the kingdom of that tyrant. I will ride ahead. They won’t even know it was me. Why am I even asking you? I should just leave now and do the deed.”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “If Severn is going to die, it will be on a battlefield, not in a bedchamber. There is a deep tradition, Etayne. I even think the people would rally to me if I did rise up.”
“They would.” She nodded fervently. “Do it, Owen. For the Fountain’s sake, do it! Claim the throne for yourself and then give it to the boy. You can become the protector. The people would accept you. They love you!” She stopped short, but he could sense the words she hadn’t said. The air sizzled with them.
“I have to go back and face him,” Owen said.
She looked at him, aghast. “No! That would be foolish. When you next ride into Kingfountain, it should be to siege the castle.”
He shook his head. “No. I’m going to return and face him.”
She came up and gripped his arms, her fingers digging into him. “He knows how to kill someone who is Fountain-blessed! I won’t let you do this.”
“Let me do this?” he said, grabbing her arms and pushing her back slightly. “Etayne, I’m counting on you to get me out of it! I’m going to face him. He’s not going to throw me into the river. There will be a trial, there will be the Assizes. Maybe the truth finally needs to be let out into the open. The truth about Eyric and the boy. The truth about Kathryn—that she’s still another man’s wife! If the king won’t see reason, if I must compel him through force, then I will need you to rescue me. I don’t think . . .” he paused, shaking his head. “I know he’s cruel, but I don’t think he’ll just kill me. Especially if I come and submit to him. He’s expecting a rebellion. He’s undoubtedly preparing for it. He will not expect this.” He breathed out a sigh. “I have to trust my instincts. I have to trust my gift from the Fountain. This is the right course.”
Her look was beginning to soften. She pressed her fingers against her lips and started to pace. “I’ll go ahead of you. In disguise, of course. I’ll find out what’s happening. What the Espion knows.” She looked at him with a burning gaze. “If he’s already preparing your death, then I won’t let you surrender to him.”
He chuckled. “Fair enough. Did you tell Farnes we were leaving?”
She nodded briskly. “I have horses and disguises waiting for us. We’ll change after we ride out.”
“I have neither the intention nor the ability to sleep right now,” he said with a laugh. “You must keep me alive, Etayne. I need you.”
She looked mollified, some of the danger ebbing from her eyes. “You still want to examine the woods on the way out?”
“I do,” Owen said darkly. “They are hiding a secret. And I grow weary of secrets.”
The vales of Brythonica were quiet in the night. A haze of fog had rolled in from the sea, giving the air a mysterious aspect while also concealing them from the gaze of others. There were no stars to be seen and the roads looked different in the fog, but Owen had help. He could sense the Fountain drawing him to the woods. It was like the tower bells of a sanctuary pealing, pointing his mind in the right direction. The dew from the mist clung to his eyelashes and he could feel the wetness when he blinked.
The earth was loamy and rich, the smells drifting on the cool breeze. He wore his chain hauberk, but it was topped with a tunic bearing the black raven of Brythonica rather than the standard of his own duchy. Etayne kept pace with him, and he could sense her brooding. She was probably plotting a dozen different ways of saving Owen from his sense of duty. He was grateful that Stiev Horwath was dead. He could not have borne the look of disappointment in the old man’s eyes. He had no doubt, however, that Iago would gladly join in a rebellion against Severn if it meant reinstating Evie’s rights to her grandfather’s land.
They rode in stillness, the mists getting thinner as they left the coast and moved deeper inland. They rode until the first flushes of dawn began to smudge the sky. He didn’t know how many leagues they had crossed, but he felt they should be reaching the woods soon. He felt them drawing closer.
“There,” Etayne said, pointing.
The horizon showed the hills and woods, which were blacker than the brightening sky. As they came closer, he spied movement on the road and discerned the white tunics of knights blocking the way.
Owen lifted the chain cowl to cover his hair. His sword was strapped and ready, but he hoped he wouldn’t have to fight his way through. As they came closer, he felt the magic start to flow from Etayne as she concocted their disguises. He didn’t look at her, but he used his thoughts to feed her magic with the small details from his memories that would make the illusion more believable.
They reined in before some startled troops who were holding lanterns and hailing them as they approached.
“M-my lady!” the knight gasped in recognition, seeing the Duchess of Brythonica ride up in the dark. “What are you . . . what are you doing here in the midst of the night?” He looked absolutely startled.
Etayne looked down at him imperiously. “I do the Fountain’s will,” she said, her voice perfectly matching Sinia’s.
“Blessed be the Fountain,” the knight said, bowing reverently. They pulled aside, asking no more questions. Owen concealed a smirk as they rode past. He wanted to compliment her, but didn’t know who might be listening. None of the soldiers guarding the road followed them, though he could hear them talking in low voices amongst themselves, gossiping as soldiers always did.
They took the road, and the sky began to brighten more rapidly. Owen’s heart began pounding as they drew closer to their destination. He could feel the presence of the Fountain magic coming from the woods on the right. The cluster of trees was especially dense there, which would make riding difficult.
Leave the horses here.
The whisper was unmistakable and startling. Owen jerked on the reins, stopping. It had been some time since the Fountain had spoken to him directly.
“What is it?” Etayne asked, her voice full of dread.
He dismounted and she followed him. Owen led his horse
to the edge of the road and secured the reins on a tree branch. She did the same.
“We go the rest of the way on foot,” he said. “It’s not far. The Fountain told me to leave the horses.”
“It spoke to you?” she queried.
“It did.”
They started into the woods together, the ground suddenly uneven and full of treacherous footing. Instinctively, he sought her hand to prevent them from getting separated in the shadows. A few birds trilled to welcome the imminent dawn. Etayne let herself be guided, and he felt how cold her hand was from the long night ride. She gave him surreptitious looks that he pretended not to notice.
Ahead, Owen could hear the lapping noises of a fountain or small waterfall. His sense of curiosity grew with each step, as did the worry and fear welling in his gut. Branches clawed at his face, and he used one arm to ward them back and clear a gap for the two of them to pass. He was trying to be quiet, but it sounded like they were marching with an army for all the noise they made.
The woods encircled a small clearing centered around a huge mound of massive boulders that towered as big as houses. The trees were ancient and huge, and some younger ones grew from cracks and seams in the rocks. Moss and lichen riddled the stones, barely discernible from the fading gloom. Water was coming from the rocks, little rippling waterfalls that pattered in endless drips. Looking more closely, Owen saw a shaggy oak tree growing amidst the stones, pregnant with leaves and acorns and mistletoe. The trickling water seemed to be coming from the tangled roots of the tree. The ground had gotten relatively steeper as they crossed the woods, and a small trickling stream tumbled from the boulders and oak tree and disappeared back into the woods.
“Look,” Etayne said, squeezing his hand and pointing with her finger.
At the base of the rocky terrain there was a marble plinth—a flat altar-like sheet of rock that was definitely human-carved. It was set away from the mass of boulders and strewn with detritus from the trees. On the flat marble sheet was a silver bowl. An iron chain fastened the bowl to a ring driven into the side of the marble. The chain was loosely coiled.
