by Jeff Wheeler
Owen remembered being stricken with shock—his young mind had struggled to understand such deep lies.
He still remembered the look of sadness on her face. That is the way of princes and power, Owen. That is the nature of the kingdom of Ceredigion. In truth, it is the nature and disposition of most men. So think on this. If you were one of the rebel leaders and the prince promised you forgiveness and reward, it would matter, very much, if you had discernment. He needed to make a decision based on what type of man he believed the prince to be. Was he a man of honor? Or was he willing to say anything, do anything to help his father keep his crown? That is why discernment is the most important thing you can learn, Owen. It takes time and experience. Sadly, one wrong judgment can lead to . . . well, you heard the end of the story.
Yes, he knew the feint well.
“The king sent you with this note?” Owen demanded hotly. “He intends to surrender?”
Catsby looked confused. “He told me so himself, Lord Owen, in no uncertain terms. He will surrender to you. He sent me to negotiate the terms. I swear it!”
The man’s face was convincing. His words were convincing. And Owen felt magic in his words—magic pressing against his own in an effort to persuade him the king’s words were true. But Owen’s magic prevented others from controlling him this way.
“Well, this is the best news that we could possibly have received!” Farnes said with triumph. “I’m quite relieved, to be honest.”
“It’s not true,” Owen said, shaking his head. “This isn’t a surrender. It’s a trap.”
“Are you certain, my lord?” Ashby asked him with a worried tone. “The king knows he’s been trapped.”
A cheer arose in the distance. It sounded as if it came from the walls of Dundrennan itself. Horns began to blow. Not war horns, but the blasts of victory.
Owen discerned what was happening. The king had also sent word to Evie and Iago. He had used his magic to convince his messengers that he was serious. That the surrender was true. Catsby’s manner was not that of a duplicitous man. He appeared convinced that a surrender truly was underway.
“Trumpets?” Kevan asked with concern.
Catsby nodded. “The king sent word to the castle. Our soldiers are half-frozen. He’s asking if they can fall in with the garrison after we’ve concluded the negotiation. I tell you, Lord Owen, the king is sincere! He put his hand on my shoulder and told me most emphatically that he was surrendering. He wanted to be sure I convinced you he was in earnest. All that is required is—”
“Captain!” Owen interrupted. “Marshal the sergeants. We’re about to be attacked. Do it now! I want archers and pikemen lining the road. Prepare for battle!”
Catsby looked outraged. “How dare you!” he shouted. “This is bloody murder! The king has surrendered, I say!”
“Then why is his army marching up behind you!” Owen snarled as the ranks of archers jogged up the road in the distance. He unstrapped the shield from his saddle horn and snugged it up his arm. Then he drew the blade, Firebos. As it cleared the scabbard, the sky rumbled with thunder.
Blood seeped into the muddy snow. Owen’s arms were weary from combat, but he gripped the hilt of Firebos tightly to counter the thrust of a spearman. The magic of the blade thrummed when he brought it down on the haft of the inferior weapon, and a blast of power sent the spearman flying backward as if he’d been struck by a battering ram. Owen’s ears rang with the feeling of power that came from his blows. Several archers had aimed for him specifically, but their arrows had pierced him without bringing him down. The scabbard’s magic was burning white-hot against his hip, keeping his wounds from bleeding.
The two armies slogged through the mire of slush and carnage to strike at each other. This was how it was supposed to end. Owen was almost relieved that the king hadn’t truly surrendered. His respect for the man would have diminished. No, Severn would fight. But where was he?
“My lord!” Ashby warned. “We’ve drifted ahead of our men. Fall back!”
An archer bearing the standard of the white boar impaled a knight with an arrow before he could be hacked down. Then he turned his bow on Owen, aiming for his mount this time. The arrow struck the horse’s withers, causing him to scream in pain and begin to fall. Owen managed to scrabble off the thrashing beast before it pinned him beneath it. Owen had lost his shield in the tumult, and he gazed around the battlefield, amazed at the number that had fallen. Tunics with the stags on blue were intermingled with the White Boar, the dead bodies frozen as the snow continued to come down in never-ending waves.
“Grab my hand!” Ashby said, riding up alongside Owen.
But as he reached for it, a spearman rode up and stabbed Ashby in the back. A rictus of pain transformed the spattered face, and Ashby yelled in agony as he arched and then tumbled from the saddle.
A dozen knights emerged from the woods to flank Owen, among them the king, his crown affixed to his helmet. Seeing him made the world suddenly totter, as if a giant had slammed his boot on the ground and caused an earthquake. The king was pointing at him with his sword, but Owen could not hear any words over the sudden ringing of the magic within the Maid’s blade. He felt a grinding sensation, and images of the ancient Wizr board filled his head. He saw the black king move to occupy the space of the white knight, and his stomach filled with dread.
He felt a blade slice into his arm and realized he was surrounded by enemies. The sting could not be felt over the rush of panic. Owen twirled and swept his blade around. When it struck the knight who had attacked him, he felt the invocation of the sword’s magic. The knight flew backward, leaving his arm in the muck at Owen’s feet. Another knight dressed in a boar tunic charged Owen, but Owen deflected the attack and then used his magic to find the man’s weakness. The sword’s magic was building up again, preparing for another thunderous blast that would repel his attackers.
They came at him in droves, but Owen beat them back, the sword blasting them away like a catapult. His breath came thick and heavy. He was wounded in a dozen places, but the magic of the scabbard kept him alive and on his feet. Bodies of dead kingsmen were scattered around him in a wide arc. Where were his own men? He was in the thickest part of the fight.
The sight of the king filled him with despair, for he sensed the piece on the Wizr board moving.
Owen clenched the blade tightly, summoning its power. But his strength was failing, and Firebos felt heavy in his hand. His cracked lips pulled back into a snarl as Severn approached, a sword in one hand, a dagger in the other. The two men circled each other, but each step Owen took made his head spin, his knees tremble. It felt as if a huge mountain were suspended over him. Was this what Roux had felt the night of his death?
“You thought to beat me!” Severn said with fury. “You thought to wear this crown! Take it from me, boy! If you can!”
Owen knew this was his chance . . . and he also knew that he was doomed to fail. Somehow the king had discovered the power of the Wizr set. Owen could sense the whorl of magic around him, making him heavier and heavier. The pieces had already been moved, and not in his favor.
He let out a grunt of rage and rushed at the king, hefting Firebos high over his head and bringing it down toward the king’s shoulder. But it was like swinging against a huge boulder. The instant the weapon hit the king, the magic repulsed against Owen. The surge of magic would have killed another man. But while his arm went numb, it was the soldiers rushing up behind him who were flattened by the blast. His entire body and arm hurt, and suddenly the king’s dagger plunged into his ribs. He felt the steel slide into his flesh, and his legs turned to water.
Firebos fell from his numb fingers into the snow, where it was instantly covered in hoarfrost.
Owen slumped forward against the king’s body, pain traveling through him in spasms. He saw the fury and hatred melt away from the king’s face as he collapsed into the bloody snow. The world spun recklessly.
The king knelt by his body, staring at him w
ith a strange look of grief and surprise.
“It worked,” Severn said with awe. “The magic worked! I’ll not fail after all!”
Owen lay still, his strength in tatters.
The king picked up Firebos and held it aloft. A clap of thunder broke in the sky. “Victory!” he shouted. “Victory!”
A cry of triumph came from the soldiers wearing the White Boar.
The sickening realization of defeat washed through Owen. He saw the dagger pommel sticking out from his armor. No blood came from it. The scabbard on his belt was the only thing keeping him alive.
The king turned and looked down at Owen with pity. “Take him to my tent,” the king said. “Have my surgeon tend him.”
“My lord!” one of them uttered, aghast. “He’s a traitor! Slay him!”
“He’ll meet a traitor’s death,” Severn said grimly, “after we’ve buried this rebellion.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
The Black King
“Well, my lord,” the surgeon said, drying his hands on a bloodied rag. “I can’t account for the duke surviving. These wounds would have killed another man. I’ve done all I could.”
The king sat on a wooden camp chair, brooding over the Wizr board and its arrangement of pieces. There were four braziers in the tent, sending up plumes of purplish smoke and warding away the deep winter chill.
“He’s no ordinary man,” Severn said with an edge of jealousy in his voice. “And he’s no longer my duke.”
“Forgive me,” the surgeon said in apology, “but I have other wounded I must attend to, my lord. If you’ll dismiss me.”
“Go,” Severn said with a wave of his hand.
Owen had been treated on the king’s own pallet. He slowly sat up, feeling the stitches groan in protest. The empty scabbard, still strapped snugly to his waist, continued its secret work of healing.
“Would you like some wine, my lord?” Lady Kathryn asked, bringing Severn a flagon. He nodded gratefully and took it from her, their fingers grazing. The king’s mouth softened slightly as he looked up into her hazel eyes. Then she returned to the chest where she had been sitting and lowered herself next to Drew, who was staring helplessly at Owen. The boy looked frightened, confused, and miserable. It was the look of a boy whose hopes were being dashed before his eyes. Little did he realize what the king was capable of.
Owen felt the same way, but at least the boy was still hale. Along with the pain of his wounds, his heart throbbed with the torment of failure. He had tried twice to bring down Severn, and he’d failed in both attempts. He’d felt sure the Fountain would grant him its favor, and yet his plans lay dashed to pieces like so much broken crockery.
“Tell me if I have this right,” Severn said musingly, staring at the Wizr board. “I’m the black king here. I just took the white knight. That was you.” His eyes glanced up at Owen and a mocking smile twitched on his lips. “The tower . . . this is Elysabeth Victoria. It’s Dundrennan.” He paused, stroking his clean-shaven cheeks. He still wore his battered armor. His knuckles were bruised, but Owen could see his coronation ring on the fist near his nose as he tapped his mouth, deep in thought. “This piece . . . this is Iago. Another white. And down here . . . the Wizr piece. This one has been moving slowly up the board. The white Wizr. That is the Duchess of Brythonica. See the row the piece moves across? If this board represents the kingdom, then these pawns are at Kingfountain, and she came from Ploemeur over here.” He gave Owen a shrewd look. “This isn’t a game. There is real magic here. My brother never told me how it worked or that it was more than just a game. I think I saw him use it only twice. It was a great secret. Now I know it.”
“You are correct, my lord,” Owen said, rubbing his hand along the fur blankets on the pallet. “The magic is real. And the warning I gave you is also real. You’ve broken the rules of the game, and your kingdom will be buried in snow because of it.”
“Chah,” the king grunted. A dark look came over his countenance. “You say that because you lost.”
“I fought against you because I knew it was going to happen.”
The king scowled. “Then why not tell me, Owen? Why the duplicity? You’re like every other person who’s betrayed me. This crown is a curse to whoever wears it.”
Owen shook his head. “It’s a curse because it was never yours to wear. There are patterns in history, events that repeat over and over. It began with the death of the first Argentine king, if not before. The king’s nephew, Andrew, was the rightful heir to the throne, but his uncle captured him and had him killed so he could claim the throne for himself. He was the one who started the pattern, but my lord, it must be broken. You must relinquish the crown to the rightful heir!”
“And who is that?” Severn asked with a look of utter incredulity. He glanced at the boy cowering by his mother. “Some whelp you’ve chosen to supplant me? The only Argentine left is my niece and her brats. I don’t believe in superstition. It will take more than a little snow to convince me.”
Owen clenched his teeth, trying to subdue his frustration. After a moment, he was calmer. Should he reveal Drew’s identity? Or would that risk the boy’s life unnecessarily? He felt nothing from the Fountain to encourage him. “Then what will it take, my lord? The death of every man, woman, and child in Ceredigion? I tell you, this storm will not relent until you do. It will bury every one of us.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“What do I have to lose, my lord?” Owen pleaded. “You’ve beaten me. I’m a condemned man. But do not let your stubbornness destroy everyone. Forsake the crown. It’s a burden you’ve not wanted.”
Severn rose from the chair angrily. “It’s a burden that was thrust on me! My wife and child were threatened by Eredur’s black-hearted queen and her poisoner.”
“Ankarette never threatened you.”
“And how would you know that?” Severn snapped. “She came to Beestone to murder me before Ratcliffe killed her!”
Owen shook his head. “She came to Beestone to save me. She was my friend. My tutor. She’s the one who first taught me about my powers. My lord, I’ve been a traitor to you since I was eight years old, and you never knew it. But a traitor only because I kept secrets from you. The Queen’s Poisoner saved my life and taught me aught I know about duty and compassion.”
“She aided you!” Severn burst out in outrage. The revelation had clearly stunned him. “Ratcliffe was right? Why would she even care?”
“She gave her life so that I might survive. And for no reason other than that she cared about the life of a little boy.” Owen saw Drew from the corner of his eye, but he dared not look at him directly. He hoped the lad felt the meaning behind his words. “I tell you this now so that you might know the truth. You’ve not beaten me, my lord. It was never about me. If the game continues on thusly, everyone will die. Including you. The game must go on with the true king. With Andrew’s true heir.” Owen felt a swell of relief in his heart. The secret had finally wriggled loose. It was no longer a burden to him.
Severn started pacing. “And you’ve duped me all this while,” he said with growing passion. “You’ve tricked and manipulated me.”
Owen leaned forward. “Ankarette had a great gift of discernment, and she helped me see the truth about you. She knew you were not the one who murdered your nephews, for she heard your confession to the queen dowager. She was there, my lord, though you did not know it. I’ve served you because you weren’t like the tales everyone told. But you’ve changed, my lord. You’ve become the very thing people always feared you were. How can I be loyal to that? How can I stand by while you plan to butcher the children of the realm?” This was another warning to Kathryn and Drew. If Owen could not escape, perhaps they could flee. “Can’t you see you’ve broken every rule? The king is now a law unto himself. That is the danger of the crown. It convinced you that you were above it all.”
Severn shook his head as he paced with a limp. Owen risked a quick glance at Kathryn and saw the palenes
s in her cheeks, her look of ardent fear. “You cannot understand what it is like,” he ground out. “You cannot know, you with your fair face and long stride. You are young and still not totally corrupted by the world. You do not know what it’s like to be hissed at. To have your own servants mock you behind your back. You don’t know what it’s like to be hated, Owen. No one loves me. You want me to spare the kingdom? I don’t believe all this fluff you’ve said is true. But even if it were, what has this kingdom ever done for me? If I cannot rule it, then no one shall. I’d rather leave it a graveyard.”
Owen’s heart was bleak. “You will go to the Deep Fathoms with this on your conscience?” he demanded.
The king chuckled. “I’d welcome it,” he said snidely. Then he turned back to the board. “I know for myself that magic is real. I saw what you did with this blade,” he said, patting the hilt of Firebos, which was now in his scabbard. “It has shown my mind what it is capable of doing. With this sword and this game, I cannot be defeated. Let’s prove your words.” He stood and gazed down at the board. “The white Wizr is still several squares away. Let me crush the tower, and then I’ll face that scheming duchess from behind its walls with her betrothed as my hostage.” He smiled deviously. “A hostage once again. I think you’re right. This situation is very familiar, is it not? Captain!”
The tent flap opened and Severn’s tall, grizzled captain entered. “My lord?”
“I want Kiskaddon bound and guards set about this tent. No one comes in.” He spared a look at Kathryn and Drew. A pitiless look. “No one leaves until I return. When the castle falls, bring him over to watch it.”
