by Jeff Wheeler
It was the source of the magic. Owen sensed power coming from the bowl—it thrummed inside his skull and filled his reservoirs of magic to the brim. Despite his lack of sleep and anxiety, he felt alive, quickened, and alert.
“What is this place?” Etayne whispered in awe, staring at the boulders, the trees, the naked sky. A single star seemed to burn in the sky above them, a pinprick of torchlight.
Fill the bowl with water from the fountain.
Owen blinked in astonishment, his mouth suddenly dry. Releasing Etayne’s hand, he approached the marble slab. She followed at his heels, casting her gaze around for a sign of danger. The caw of birds clawed the air, and Owen saw several ravens come and land on the branches. They were different from the birds he’d heard earlier, their tones darker and more ominous. That they were ravens—the standard of the Montforts—made him deeply suspicious and gave him the sense he was being watched.
“I don’t know,” Owen said, but he knew what he needed to do. He marched up to the silver bowl while his courage lasted. It was not heavy when he hefted it. The chain rattled slightly.
“What are you doing?” Etayne whispered.
Owen looked at the waters tumbling from the roots and down over the rocks. It was a curious sight, and he found himself breathing hard. Then, carefully, he crossed several larger broken stones with the bowl until he reached the small waterfall and held the bowl under the stream. It filled quickly, and he pulled it back carefully, worried the weight of it would cause a spill. The sky had turned a faint blue overhead. He could see Etayne’s worried eyes on him, but he couldn’t explain what he didn’t understand.
Pour it onto the plinth.
Cautiously, Owen carried the bowl to the plinth, letting the chain drag beneath it. He caught himself from tripping, breathing in deep gasps as the magic tingled against his skin. The waters in the bowl rippled, reflecting his image back at him. He looked terrible. When he reached the marble slab, he stood by it, cradling the bowl. He’d trusted the whispers of the Fountain so far. There was no turning back. He upturned the bowl and splashed the water onto the plinth.
As soon as he’d done so, a crack of thunder boomed from the cloudless sky overhead, so loud and deafening that Owen dropped the bowl to shield his ears. Though he had been in thunderstorms before, he’d never heard a boom so loud that it felt like the sky itself was shattering. The sound frightened him out of his wits and he looked at Etayne, who was holding her ears as well, staring up at the sky.
It started to rain. Heavy fat droplets began to gush from overhead. Wind kicked up and sent the desiccated leaves whirling into his face, little pricks of pain that made him shield his eyes.
The rain turned into hail.
Icy chunks began to crash into the plinth and the detritus all around, growing bigger and bigger by the moment. Etayne shrieked in pain as they started to strike her. Owen’s heart beat wildly in his chest, and he felt he’d made a terrible, life-threatening mistake. The hail hammered down on them relentlessly, but strangely, Owen did not feel the wetness strike him. In fact, none of the ice struck him.
“We need shelter!” Owen bellowed amidst the deluge. The woods were farther back, and they’d find some protection there. The boulders behind him were all curved and rounded. He didn’t see any pockets or small caves that would offer them shelter.
A walnut-sized chunk of ice struck Etayne on the head and she crumpled to the ground. The hail beat down on her mercilessly.
Owen bellowed in surprise and rushed over to her, watching the pelting stones hammer down on her body. He knelt by her side and scooped up her legs, intent on running into the woods for protection, but the ground was full of pebble-sized hailstones and he heard a rushing noise coming from the sky that made him shudder and quake. It was as if a waterfall of hail had opened above the plinth and they were caught in the rapids. Owen pulled her tightly against him and covered her body with his own, waiting to die. Death was the only outcome. He had tampered with magic beyond his ken; he had opened up a flood that would destroy all of Brythonica.
The hailstorm came down on him, but somehow, he was protected against it. He was freezing and trembling, with water dripping into his face, but the chunks of ice did not strike him. Was Etayne even alive? Her face was crushed against his chest as he clutched her tightly to him, shielding her from the devastating storm he’d unwittingly summoned.
He would protect her for as long as he was able, but he felt certain he would drown. They were both going to die.
And then the storm ended as suddenly as it had started. He shook with cold, unable to believe that somehow he’d been reprieved from death. The magic swirled around him, and he noticed his scabbard was glowing. The raven etched into it was made of livid fire, a fire that slowly faded and could only be seen by the user. That whisper of insight had come from the Fountain to his mind.
His scabbard, which the Maid of Donremy herself had used in all her famous battles, had protected him. He had found it in the cistern at the palace of Kingfountain, one of the lost treasures of a bygone age.
“Etayne! Etayne!” he pleaded, pulling her away. Her face was pale. There was blood coming down her ear.
Then the trilling songs of birds filled the air. Owen jerked his head up and saw that the oak tree near the waterfall was completely barren of leaves. It had been stripped clear by the violent storm. Some of the branches had crashed down as well. But birds were alighting on the bare limbs, singing the most beautiful song he’d ever heard. These weren’t ravens—they were songbirds—and as he hugged Etayne to his chest, his heart wanted to weep from the purity of their music.
The song melted the ice in moments. Owen blinked, watching the heaps of sharp-edged ice vanish. Amidst the song, he heard the clomp of hooves coming from the woods.
Owen bent his ear to Etayne’s lips, listening closely for the sound of her breath. She was breathing; thank the Fountain, she was breathing. “Etayne, someone’s coming. Etayne!” He tried to jostle her shoulders, but she remained limp.
Turning his head, Owen saw a horse as black as night coming from the woods. The rider was garbed in black armor and a matching helmet that concealed his face. Fixed to a spear on the horse’s bridle was a pennant, also black, with a white raven on it. The spurs on the knight’s boots poked the horse’s flanks, making it snort and start up the terrain directly toward Owen. The knight drew his sword with his right hand, steadying the spear and pennant with his left.
Owen wanted to get Etayne to safety, but he could sense the knight’s ill intent as he charged up the hill.
Gently, Owen settled Etayne onto the muddy ground, cradling her head on her arm. He rose, grimacing, and stepped away from her as the knight closed the distance between them. Owen unsheathed his sword.
“I have no quarrel with you,” Owen said, summoning the magic of the Fountain to him. His reservoir was full of power. He sensed, however, that his words were utterly futile.
A mist of steam snorted from the horse’s nostrils.
And then the rider charged at him, his spear lowering toward Owen’s heart.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Knight at Dawn
The ground shuddered from the charging mount, its nostrils flaming with white mist as it raced toward him. Owen blinked rapidly, drawing upon the Fountain’s magic. His eyes narrowed on the mystery knight’s spear, and he tightened his grip on his sword, angling it slightly forward. If he parried wrong or misjudged, he would be skewered. It was no longer time for thinking. It was time for instinct. For survival.
He moved away from Etayne’s limp body, forcing the knight to change position. The spear wavered slightly. His magic revealed much about the man’s weakness. This knight was battle-hardened with expert reflexes, but his left ankle was a source of pain. Owen could sense it throbbing now, even from this distance. The horse had weaknesses too—it was experienced, but it was nervous about Owen and his magic. The steed’s natural trepidation would be an asset so long as the beast didn’
t collide with him.
Owen brought his sword up to an overhanging guard, both hands twisting the pommel fiercely—one over the other—the blade poised above his head. He walked crossways, moving slightly downhill. It was much easier to strike a stationary target, and Owen had no intention of being easy prey.
The knight suddenly lunged with the spear, trying to catch Owen off guard. Dipping the sword, Owen deflected the charge effortlessly, spun around, and sliced the warhorse’s flanks as it rushed past him. The animal screamed in pain.
The black-garbed knight reined in hard and then flung himself off the horse, landing well but with an obvious favoring of his left leg. Owen had not dealt the horse a killing wound, and the animal stamped and seethed, thrashing its mane wildly. The knight stood solidly. He’d exchanged the spear for a sword. Owen could only see the man’s eyes through the visor, but his own face was revealed to his opponent. At least the helmet would limit the knight’s ability to see.
The two began squaring off, circling each other warily, swords at the ready. Owen’s senses felt sharp and alert. The magic of the Fountain pulsed inside of him. Strangely, he did not sense it coming from his opponent.
Then the black knight came at Owen with a whirlwind of blows, his dark sword coming at his head and then his chest. This was not the training yard of Owen’s youth. Even with the weak leg, the knight was formidable and very experienced, and Owen was forced to retreat and defend himself. A sting cut against his arm, shearing through the hauberk links. Then his thigh. The pain shot through him, but his heart was beating too wildly for him to feel it. He sensed blood, torn skin. And then he felt something peculiar. The scabbard at his side began to glow, the raven sigil igniting once more with magic. The wounds in his arm and thigh were soothed.
Owen deflected another thrust at his throat and then kicked the knight in his weakened leg to break off the attack. The man grunted with pain and limped slightly, but he shook off the discomfort and came at Owen again, hobbling just a little. Their boots crushed through the twigs and shards of leaves, threatened by the unstable footing and broken stones. The black knight butted his shoulder into Owen’s chest, his superior weight nearly sending Owen onto his back, but the young duke caught his footing and swung his sword down against the other man’s breastplate, sending up a shower of sparks.
The men began circling each other again, panting heavily. Owen went on the attack next, driving fast and hard, hammering away on the knight’s left side, forcing him to defend, to use his legs to move and react. Owen kept at it, drawing around him in a narrower circle, thrusting and blocking, looking for vulnerable spots where he could nick his opponent. The man was wearing gauntlets, so he wasn’t likely to drop his blade. The young duke forced him to spin around in circles, hoping the extra movement and the weight of his armor would dizzy him.
It seemed to be working. The labored breathing of the black knight was growing more pronounced. Most battles rarely lasted this long. Owen was younger, had more stamina, and was driven by the need to survive.
“Yield,” Owen said, bashing away a feeble attempt at a strike. The man was starting to wobble.
“No,” answered a gruff voice, echoing strangely in the helm.
With that, the black knight charged him, swinging high and then low. Owen did not catch the feint in time to avoid a shallow cut, but the hauberk absorbed the blow. Then the knight’s elbow struck Owen’s jaw, spinning him back and making his eyes dance with pricks of light. Owen went down hard, unable to see, so he cleared the way with his sword, swinging it indiscriminately like a scythe.
He felt a shadow loom over him, saw the tip of the knight’s blade rushing down toward his nose. Owen twisted his shoulders and heaved himself to one side, thrusting his blade out. The knight collapsed on top of him, and Owen felt his blade shearing through metal and then skin as the black knight impaled himself in his fall. The weight of the knight came down on Owen like anvils, knocking him flat onto his back. He squirmed and wriggled to get free and saw with horror the tip of his blade appearing from his enemy’s back.
It was a death wound. His magic revealed the truth instantly as blood began to well through the slit in the man’s breastplate. Shoving the gasping knight onto his side, Owen saw the man’s legs twitch with spasms. His life was fading quickly, his heart as wild as a bird’s. Owen scrambled backward in shock, weaponless. The black knight’s sword was on the ground next to him.
Owen hadn’t intended to kill him. He had defended himself as best he could, and his wounds still hurt, although the pain was lessening by the moment. The knight groaned in agony and began tugging off his helmet as if he couldn’t breathe.
Owen knelt by his side, dismally aware of the pool of blood leaching into the ground. His heart was struck with remorse. Then the helmet came free, and Owen found himself staring at the face of Brendon Roux, the lord marshal of Brythonica. Blood dribbled from his nose and lips.
“My lord!” Owen gasped in sudden despair. “Why did you attack me? I didn’t mean for this to happen!”
The marshal gritted his teeth, in obvious and excruciating pain. He looked at Owen not with accusation but with mercy. “My turn . . . is done,” he gasped, his lips in a rictus. He panted, trying to speak again. Owen knelt closer, his heart ripping in pain. “Your turn now,” he groaned. “You must protect her . . . now . . . the duchess . . . you are her . . . protector.”
Owen felt as if he’d been struck. The duchess? She would hate him for killing Marshal Roux. But the man’s words implied this terrible combat had been inevitable. That he had known all along he would die. It felt as if they were part of a giant Wizr set—two pieces had clashed, and Owen emerged as the victor.
“Let me heal you,” Owen said desperately, grabbing Roux’s shoulder. He tried summoning the magic, but it fled from him. He’d felt spent after healing Justine, Elysabeth’s maid, but that wasn’t the way he felt now. The magic was abandoning him, its purpose complete. He tried to draw it in, but it was like trying to clutch water with his arms. Frustration and fury battled inside him.
Why had Roux attacked him?
Owen stared into the man’s waxy face, which grew paler and paler as his blood ebbed away. “I am done,” the older man said slowly, his eyes growing vacant. “I’ve done all . . . I could.” Then his eyes sharpened and hardened. He stared at Owen with a look of desperation. “You are the only one who can . . . save her. Or kill her. Only . . . you. Your gift by the Fountain . . . so rare. So is . . . so is hers. Protect her. Or they will all . . . drown.”
“Who will drown?” Owen pleaded in fury, tears stinging his eyes as he knelt next to the crumpled knight.
The faint puffs of air from Roux’s mouth became shallower. “On my hand . . . is a ring. It is yours. You are master now. Master of the Woods.”
Owen watched his chest fall, and this time it did not rise. Marshal Roux stared vacantly, lips slightly parted. A trickle of blood welled from his eye like a tear.
The young duke knelt in the mushy ground, casting his gaze around in wonderment and confusion. There were the stone altar and the silver dish. The strange tree that had shed all its leaves. He saw Etayne lying still. And the fallen knight and his wounded horse. A horrible sense of guilt settled across him like a blanket. He had summoned the conflict by pouring water on the stone. Somehow that had prompted Roux to fight him. He hadn’t known it would happen.
But he was beginning to wonder if Sinia had known all along.
A small fire crackled in the woods, and an owl hooted somewhere in the night. The two horses were tethered nearby, both eating from sacks of provender slung around their necks. It was an ancient grove of yew trees, similar to the ones Owen had seen as a boy riding toward Beestone.
Etayne finally stirred while Owen was feeding another stick into the fire.
“Where are we?” she asked groggily.
“The woods bordering Brythonica and my lands,” he replied. “You’ve been unconscious all day.”
He had
laid her out on a blanket and covered her with his own. She tried sitting up, and winced in obvious pain. “The last thing I remember was a noise. A terrible noise, louder than thunder. And then something struck me. Hailstones?”
Owen nodded, feeding another small stick into the fire. He was fidgeting inside, swollen with secrets and mysteries and unfathomable conflicts. His thoughts were so desperate, he wondered if he were falling into madness. He needed someone to talk to. Someone to help him piece together the clues. He had discovered that the scabbard he wore held special healing properties—all the wounds from his battle with Marshal Roux had been miraculously cured, and Etayne’s head wound had healed before his eyes after he strapped the scabbard around her waist.
“I’m wearing your sword,” Etayne said, as if reading his thoughts.
“The scabbard healed you,” Owen said, looking into her eyes. “I’ve often wondered why my wounds at the battle of Averanche vanished so quickly. I gave your training credit all these years.” He let out an anguished sigh. “Roux is dead.”
Etayne blinked in surprise. “How? Where?”
Owen picked up another stick and snapped it in half with his hands. “After the hailstorm, the tree limbs were bare. Then a flock of birds came and sang away the frost. It was the strangest thing I’ve ever seen. Before they were done singing, a knight garbed in black galloped into the grove and fought me. I didn’t know who it was until after I dealt him a mortal wound.” He tossed away the broken fragments of wood and stared into Etayne’s eyes, letting his anxiety pour out of him. “Something is going on. I need to tell you something. I must say it out loud for fear I’ve gone mad. Help me see reason, Etayne. Help me see if I’m understanding the situation.” He wiped his mouth, grateful for the solitude of the night. All day he had battled with himself whether he should return to Ploemeur and tell the duchess what had happened in that grove. Owen had slain her marshal while defending himself. But there was something more to it than that. It felt as if the Fountain was summoning him back to Kingfountain. In the grand Wizr game, a piece had fallen. It was only one move, and more were to follow.
