by Jeff Wheeler
He started to bend down to kiss her, but she pulled away. “Not now,” she whispered. “Not like this.”
It was painful to see her so vulnerable, so dejected, when he did not know the reason. He sighed in frustration and then caressed her cheek with the edge of his finger. “In the legends, the Lady of the Fountain was a water sprite. An Ondine. I’ve intended to ask you about that.”
She flinched when he said the word, her cheeks blushing furiously.
“You are not the natural child of the Montforts, are you?” he asked.
She wrung her hands together, twisting her fingers and entwining them. “I was a gift,” she whispered. Then she gave him a pleading look. “A gift from the Fountain to save the kingdoms. A gift to grieving parents whose children were all stillborn. We must all make sacrifices, Owen. I willingly made mine.”
Owen sensed the layered meaning in her words. He started to unbuckle the belted scabbard, but she covered his hands with hers. “Just the sword,” she prompted.
Grasping it by the hilt, he withdrew it and handed the blade to her. As soon as he set it on her palms, it started to glow. She started to glow as well as she backed away from him and stepped over the lip of the fountain into the low pool of water. The ripples moved away from her, leaving even the hem of her gown and her shoes perfectly dry.
As she stood in the Fountain, clutching the sword, a sheen of mist began to form around her. His heart nearly burst at the sadness in her eyes, the unspoken plea there: Don’t betray me.
The mist enclosed her, and the surge of the Fountain’s magic came and left like a tide embracing the shore.
She was gone.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Misfortune
Owen had anticipated that Elysabeth might already be in the beleaguered capital by the time he reached it, for a boat journey from Atabyrion took only a day or two, depending on the weather. But when he reached the palace, he learned that no one from Iago’s kingdom had yet arrived. The storm clouds in the North had likely caused the delays. The city was pristine in a veil of white, except for the roads they had trampled to get there.
Owen found himself at the center of everything. He was the protector, though no law or decree had given him that right. The other dukes had gathered together to fret over the events unfolding throughout Ceredigion. The Duke of Brugia had landed troops in East Stowe. Towns throughout Westmarch had evacuated under the onslaught of Occitania’s army, which was marching unmolested through that land, seizing territory. It was as if every lord and commoner looked to Owen as their new king.
That first sleepless night back in Kingfountain was spent dispatching orders to his own troops and requesting assistance from any who would help. Owen was decisive by nature, and he felt the magic of the Fountain coming to his aid with suggestions and ideas to stave off the impending disaster. The Genevese traders offered loans to hire mercenaries at exorbitant interest, but Owen would not defend the kingdom with hirelings. If the people did not rally under the new king, all would be lost anyway.
The throne room was full of chaos the next day as people clamored for direction. Owen felt the weight of the duties on his shoulders. He had guards posted at the docks to alert him the moment Evie’s ship arrived. His trust in her was complete, and he would welcome her counsel.
Around noon, with still no word from Atabyrion, he called Lady Kathryn to meet with him in the solar. She arrived, Drew in tow, and bowed to him.
“There is no need for that,” Owen chuckled with a dismissive wave. “Thank you for coming so quickly.”
“There are so many troubles facing the kingdom,” Kathryn said, her hands resting on the boy’s shoulders. Owen had done his best to keep her informed, knowing that the new king would look to his mother for counsel and advice. She would be a powerful woman in the realm, but he thought she’d fill the role well. He’d always been impressed by her strength and sense of duty and faithfulness.
“I’ll admit I’m overwhelmed,” Owen said, pacing to dissipate his nervous energy. “I’ve seen the storm clouds approaching. They are following the crown. Without a king, we will face annihilation. I wanted to forestall the ceremony until the Atabyrions—your people—arrived. But I fear we cannot delay any longer. I think it’s time. Do you agree?”
He looked into Kathryn’s hazel eyes—the look there told him she too was experiencing the burdens that would shortly fall on her shoulders. Drew was just a child. While he would grow to become a king, he was too young to lead soldiers into battle. Too inexperienced to pass laws or choose his councilors. Drew would look to his mother in all things. Owen had known that, so over the past years, he had done what he could to ensure she was prepared to assume her place, even though it would not be as the queen of the realm. That role would fall to another. Genevieve, perhaps, if the Fountain had told him true.
“I agree, Owen,” Kathryn said, squeezing Drew’s shoulders. Then she turned the boy and knelt down in front of him, her black gown shimmering with small pearls and gems. She stroked his hair tenderly. “Are you ready, my son? Everything will change once you become the king.”
The boy looked greensick. “I don’t really want this,” he said, frowning with concern. “Will you . . . stay by me? Will you always be near?” He looked both at his mother and at Owen.
Kathryn’s face saddened a little at the words. “If you wish it, my son,” she said, cupping his hands in hers. “I will be near you as long as you wish me to be.”
He nodded energetically. Then he turned to face Owen. “Will I still learn how to be a knight? I . . . was rather looking forward to it.”
Owen grinned and approached. “The King of Ceredigion doesn’t sit on thrones all day long,” he answered and then mussed the boy’s hair. “Your grandfather rode from one end of the realm to the other regularly. You can’t defend land you don’t know. Every river, every grove, every waterfall will be yours.”
Drew smiled at the thought. “I can go anywhere?”
“It is your right, lad. And I will serve you through the best of my days as Duke Horwath served the Argentines. Loyalty binds me to you. If you will have me.”
Drew smiled again. “I should like you to serve me, my lord.”
Owen shook his head. “It is I who will be calling you by that title shortly.” He stared down at Kathryn and offered a hopeful smile. “We will go to Our Lady.”
The proclamation went out from the palace that every boy near the age of eight should be brought to the sanctuary of Our Lady by their parents to be presented to the deconeus. The prophecy of the Dreadful Deadman would be fulfilled, it was said. The new king of Ceredigion would draw a blade from the fountain, just like King Andrew had done, according to myth.
Owen, of course, had told Kevan to secure the sanctuary with his most trusted Espion. He walked the entire grounds himself, using his magic to seek for threats such as Dragan. He had summoned the blade to the fountain once, to test it. It had appeared, shimmering in the waters. Then he had let it vanish. As he walked around, overhearing parents whisper and boast that their child was the special descendant who would pull the sword from the waters, he suppressed a smile. Perhaps this smug feeling was how the Wizr Myrddin had felt in the days of old.
Guards wearing Owen’s badge were positioned strategically at every doorway and throughout the crowd. No one wearing the White Boar had come, which did not surprise Owen. Severn was confined to the castle, watched day and night by the Espion. He had chosen to brood in his private chambers, which he would relinquish after the new king was named. Severn actually seemed relieved to have given up command. Owen had requested his input on some matters, only to be snappily reminded that the responsibilities were now his.
A mass of children had gathered outside the gates, and Owen gave the sexton the signal to begin. The lower classes had been allowed to come first, and each child was brought forward to stand before the water, state his name, toss in a coin, and look for the sword. The sexton had a private smile as he watched the
fountain being filled with coins.
From the corner of his eye, Owen saw a man approach Kevan and whisper in his ear. A fretful feeling bloomed in Owen’s stomach as he watched Kevan walk briskly to his side, and then waited for him to share the tidings.
“Trouble?” Owen whispered as Kevan sidled up to him.
“A ship from Atabyrion was spotted approaching the harbor.”
Owen felt a burst of relief. “Slow the line down. We’re nearly to the noble families. I want to save the surprise for the end, after they’ve all had a chance. That should give Iago and Elysabeth some time to get here.”
“I’ll see to it,” Kevan replied. He slipped off to do Owen’s bidding.
The endless procession of children wore down Owen’s patience, and he began to pace by the edge of the fountain, his heart pounding in his chest.
Hours passed as the children of the realm continued to visit the shrine, each leaving the fountain without experiencing a glimpse of the blade. No one else in the vicinity used Fountain magic. As the day wore on, Owen felt his tension begin to fall away.
One by one, the noble children came and went. One impetuous lad actually tried to slip a dagger into the fountain, undoubtedly at his parents’ behest. Owen sent the boy on his way, sparing a scolding look for his parents.
The tension in the room grew more and more acute as each successive child came away swordless. Would the prophecy go unfulfilled after all? Was someone missing? Lady Kathryn stood off to the side with some of the other nobles. Drew was behind her, watching the crowd warily and rocking from foot to foot. There were only a few supplicants left when Kevan walked swiftly through one of the doors with an older gentleman, dressed in the ceremonial trappings of Atabyrion. He was a grandfatherly man with long white hair that was balding halfway across the dome of his head. He was followed by several warriors. The steward at the old man’s elbow looked familiar, and after a moment, Owen placed him as the man Owen had met at Eyric and Kathryn’s manor in Atabyrion.
The old man was Lady Kathryn’s father, Earl of Huntley, who had not seen his daughter in years.
Owen heard Kathryn gasp, and then she rushed to her father, tears spilling from her eyes as she embraced him. Their reunion tugged at his heart, but where was Iago? Where was Evie? Kevan rushed over to him, hopefully to give him answers.
“The Earl of Huntley came alone,” Kevan whispered in his ear. “There was only his ship.”
That did not make sense to Owen. Why would Elysabeth and Iago have missed this opportunity to witness the young king’s coronation and to claim the right to North Cumbria? The anxiety in his stomach grew keener.
The last child of the nobles sulked away from the edge of the Fountain. Owen was filled with unease, but the time had come to act.
The deconeus lifted his voice to be heard above the murmuring. “Is there another child who would like to approach? A foundling perhaps? Someone who has not been given a chance? The Fountain will choose a king for this people. Please, come forth!”
Owen licked his lips and scanned the crowd. A few ragamuffin lads who were clearly thieves stepped forward at the invitation, some shoving at the others. They each walked away empty-handed. A solemn quiet descended on the room and then people began to chitter and talk anxiously. They began to doubt.
Owen glanced and saw Kathryn standing next to her father, one of her hands on his chest, her other on his back. She was looking at Owen for the signal. He nodded once.
With a subtle gesture, she motioned for Drew to approach the fountain.
The boy hesitated, all nerves and jumbling emotion, and then stepped away from the adults who had been shielding him. The entire room fell quiet as he made his way forward, wringing his hands. His golden hair shone in the torchlight as he moved down the row of white and black squares leading to the fountain. Suddenly Owen was overcome with the memory of when he had sought sanctuary in this place as a boy, only to be tricked into leaving by the king’s power. He swallowed the memory, feeling his heart nearly burst from the rush of emotion it summoned.
Drew stood by the edge of the fountain, staring into the water. He had been given a coin for the occasion, and he dug into his pocket for it. Cupping it in his hand, he closed his eyes, and Owen saw his lips move in a silent prayer. Then, opening his eyes, he flung the coin into the fountain.
Owen summoned the blade Firebos into the water. It was there in an instant, gleaming and majestic in the waters. A hushed groan came from the deconeus as he watched the blade appear.
Drew looked in fascination at the water, then hiked up his sleeve to his elbow. Bending close, he reached into the water. Owen felt a shudder of magic as the boy’s hand touched the hilt of the sword—the Wizr board was moving, transforming. Ancient stone grating on ancient stone. The hush in the sanctuary was absolute.
There was a whisper from the Fountain, a sound that penetrated every heart and sent shudders through all of them, Owen included.
The White King has come, it said.
Drew pulled the dripping blade from the fountain. It seemed to rise in the air of its own power, until everyone saw the young boy quivering by the edge of the fountain, holding the sun-white blade aloft.
It was too solemn of a moment to cheer. Owen watched as people fell to their knees, and he joined them. Water dripped down the boy’s skinny arm. The look he gave Owen was one that said, Now what do I do?
A warm breeze began to blow outside.
And the snow began to melt.
Owen leaned against a pillar in the sanctuary. The people were celebrating in the streets, the noise rising above the sound of the waterfall crashing beneath them. He felt he had done the right thing, but his heart was full of knives as he watched Kevan speak with the Earl of Huntley. Then the Espion escorted the man over to him.
“Lord Huntley, I don’t believe we’ve met,” Owen said formally, bowing in greeting. “Welcome to Kingfountain.”
The man’s voice was heavily accented with the brogue of his country. “I’ve supped at Tatton Hall, my dear boy. When your older brothur was a wee one. I saw you when you visited Edonburick in disguise. Clever lad, as always.”
“What news from Edonburick?” Owen said, dropping his voice low. The earl did not look comfortable. In fact, despite the happy reunion with his daughter, he looked to be grieving.
“There is news. Aye, there is news,” Huntley said. “I came on embassy from the queen to fetch my daughter back in the commotion. But I arrived to find the situation much less bleak than we had feared. And my queen bid me to entrust this letter with you and no one else. Secrets have a way of being found, I’ve learned in my old age. Best if you be the first to know of it.”
He withdrew a sealed letter.
“Where is Iago?” Owen asked, his mouth suddenly dry.
“Read for yourself,” Huntley said, but Owen already knew from his puffy eyes and desolate expression that Iago was dead.
My dearest Owen,
I know this secret cannot be kept for long. I apologize for the tearstains on the page. My lord husband died crossing back to Atabyrion. His ship was wrecked in a storm. There were no survivors. I would have come to Kingfountain to witness the coronation, but now I am to be the queen dowager, and I cannot leave. My son is too young. Genevieve is as heartbroken as I was when I lost my father at her age. I need your friendship more than ever, Owen. I need your comfort. Can you please come to Edonburick? My heart is broken.
Evie
CHAPTER FORTY
Cruelty
Many sought refuge at the sanctuary of Our Lady when their hearts were torn in half. But Owen knew he wouldn’t find the comfort he needed there. Evie’s desperate plea for comfort had wrung him down to his deepest core. Yet equally demanding and ferocious was his resolve that to go to her would likely destroy his promise to Sinia. He knew Evie wasn’t trying to persuade him of anything rash. But their feelings for each other would make them vulnerable. The mere act of reading her letter had made him vulnerable.
<
br /> He had chosen the poisoner’s tower as his sanctuary. It was a place where he could be alone with his thoughts, alone with his demons, but not truly alone—for there were ghosts there.
The room had been made over after Etayne’s tastes, and the lingering smell of the chamber reminded him so vividly of the thief’s daughter that he nearly fled back down to the stairs. He sat on a small chest with his back against the wall and looked up at the rafters, letting the weight of his dilemma rock on his shoulders a bit. He had not felt this terrible since the day of Evie’s wedding. Memories had painful edges that could still cut.
Over the years, Owen had secretly hoped the King of Atabyrion would somehow die, giving him another chance with Evie. Such had happened to Severn and his first love. But he had long ago given up that hope. Now the impossible had happened. If only he had known . . . if only he had known!
He’d gone down to Brythonica with a sneer on his mouth and spite in his heart, sent to woo a duchess with curses and disdain. Despite his ill treatment of her, Sinia had patiently endured his sarcasm and discourtesy. She had accepted him because she saw something in him that made her care for him. Love him.
Could he truly break his promise to her? Did he even want to?
He kept thinking about how heartbroken she had looked before leaving Ceredigion. It was clear to him now that she had known about the cruel choice he would be forced to make. This was why she’d been so on edge.
Owen rubbed his mouth and closed his eyes. Drew had already named him the lord protector of Ceredigion. He could not fulfill his duties to the king from so far away. The boy needed someone at hand, someone who would help him learn how to take the reins of state. Yet how could he not go to Evie when she most needed him? When he could feel her pain as if it were his own? How could he make a choice that was sure to devastate one of the people he cared about?
