by Jeff Wheeler
In time, he grew accustomed to the smells of the tower. The pain of Etayne’s death made his chest throb, but he had not only come here to connect with her. Feeling each ridge of the stones pressing into his back, he shrunk inside himself, willing the years to fade away, returning him to the terrified little boy he’d been. The boy who had been nurtured and protected by Ankarette Tryneowy. How he wished he could see her again. To whisper his fears and doubts to her. To receive her comfort and succor. He would have given all of his wealth to make it happen. Sadness and longing filled him, and tears warmed his eyes, building up on his lashes without quite falling.
“What would you advise me to do?” Owen whispered into the stillness. Up in the tower, he could hear a gentle night wind. The thin candles he’d brought up were the only source of light, and shadows smothered the room. Owen rose from the chest and pulled open the curtain, standing before his reflection on the glass. If anyone in the dark city below was looking up at the castle, they might see a pinprick of light coming from the tower and mistake it for a star.
He saw the frown on his mouth in his reflection. The dilemma was truly awful. This was the kind of fateful choice Severn had been forced to make after the death of his brother Eredur—a choice that had yielded years of fateful consequences. Owen was not wise enough to see the future. He had no mantic gifts.
But he did have Sinia’s warning. Someone like Owen had existed before. Someone like him had been faced with a terrible choice. And he had chosen to forsake his wife. How many times would the story be repeated until the cycle was broken? The heart was such a powerful force. Owen could see why his predecessors had chosen as they did.
Owen stared at the glass, unable to see the city beyond it in the darkness. The future was just as dark. He could not see it. No matter how much he wanted to. He had to make a decision without knowing the repercussions of it.
Well, he did know some things that would happen.
Owen knew himself well enough to know that if he did go to Edonburick to comfort Evie, he might never leave. He would not be able to see her pain without trying to comfort her. It would likely scandalize the people in that kingdom, which could have repercussions for young Iago’s leadership.
He’d made no promise to Evie. But he had promised his troth to Sinia Montfort, a pledge nearly as strong as the marriage oath. He wore a ring. There was something wrong about forsaking it, something that made him squirm inside. Before he could go to Evie, he would need to be released from his engagement. But the thought of ending his connection with Sinia made him tremble with dread. She was a powerful Wizr, yet she was so vulnerable, like the butterfly she was named after. He had no doubt that she would release him from his promise. She was kindhearted and forgiving. But she had silently and secretly helped him for years. She’d given his parents and siblings a home. She’d saved his life and his army with her powers. And she had saved Ceredigion from an eternal winter.
That was not all, though. Since getting to know her, he had grown fond of her. He had begun imagining his life with her at his side—a thought he quite liked. Sinia was not as talkative as Evie, but she was a better listener. She was Fountain-blessed, like Owen, so they could relate to each other on a special level. Together, they had saved the kingdom from destruction. With her help, he was confident they could restore the ancient court and the principles of Virtus that had once held sway in this land.
“Ankarette, what should I do?” Owen moaned softly, wrestling with his feelings.
He imagined her sitting by the bed, one arm gripping her stomach to stifle the pain. She’d been sick the entire time he’d known her. Some disease had made her suffer, yet she had always tried to appear cheerful and comforting.
Ankarette had always known his heart. Which of the two women was more like her? The answer came to him unbidden: Sinia.
Owen heard soft steps coming up the tower. His sense of hearing had always been keen. He listened to the sound and imagined, with a sudden spasm of hope, that it was Ankarette climbing the steps. He turned away from the window, blinking with growing surprise. Who was coming to see him in the dead of the night? Despite all logic and sense, he wanted so desperately for it to be Ankarette.
It was Kevan Amrein, newly appointed as the head of the Espion. Owen sighed with disappointment.
“I’m surprised I even found you,” Kevan said, eyeing the room warily. “We’ve been searching the entire palace for you.”
“Sorry to alarm you,” Owen said. “I needed some time to think.”
The man smiled sympathetically. “I was sorry to hear about Iago. When the earl told me . . .” As they both brooded on the implications of the news, the room fell quiet except for their breathing.
Owen realized it was time to leave the ghosts of the tower behind. These were decisions that could only be made by the living.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Ploemeur
It amazed Owen how quickly the frost melted away after the sun pierced the clouds. Patches of snow still clung to the shadows, but the roads were clear again, and the army of Ceredigion was on the move. The bulk of the riders were hard pressed to keep up with the Duke of Westmarch, who swept through his domain like a farmer’s scythe at harvest time. He flanked the Occitanian army, preventing it from retreating back across the border. Owen’s new captain had them penned in at Rougemont castle, which Chatriyon’s forces had taken during their advance. Owen kept them there and moved forward, charging hard to cross the border to relieve the siege at Averanche. He arrived just in time to surprise the besieging army before the city was forced to formally surrender.
It may have helped that the king’s banner flew beside his.
Soldiers had flocked to Eredur’s standard—the Sun and Rose—and joining with Owen’s bedraggled force, they had won a series of quick victories in just a few days, while war continued to rage.
Owen and Drew took over the pavilion that had been occupied by the lord marshal of Pree, who had been caught while napping. The man hadn’t even been wearing armor when his camp was overrun. The palisade was broken down, and Owen’s captains had secured the roads, preventing anyone from escaping to warn King Chatriyon, whose army was infesting Brythonica, according to the latest reports. Of course, Owen did not need to rely on the latest reports anymore. The Wizr set provided him with more information than the Espion ever could.
The pavilion, constructed of a cream-colored fabric embellished with hand-stitched frills, was furnished with beautiful rugs and ornate braziers. The marshal’s pallet was stuffed with feathers, and bottles of expensive wine were chilling in chests brought from distant castles. Owen and the young king sat on the camp stools overlooking the Wizr board that sat open on a round table in front of them.
Drew’s face was alight with eagerness and anticipation. He no longer wore the drab colors of a knight in training, but was bedecked in garments befitting his new rank. The coronation ring glistened on his finger and a coronet pressed against his flax-colored hair. Severn’s crown traveled with them. The sword Firebos was in a brand-new ornate scabbard, propped against Drew’s chair. He never let it out of his sight. Owen continued to wear the battered raven-marked scabbard for his own weapon.
“What make you of the pieces?” Owen asked thoughtfully, his shoulders slightly hunched as he stroked his bottom lip.
The boy’s grin was infectious. “I think we’re winning.”
“No doubt we’re winning,” Owen said with a laugh. “Show me the positions. Who is where?”
Drew put his finger on the white Wizr. “This is the Duchess of Brythonica, Sinia Montfort. The black king is Chatriyon. He’s right next to her. That’s a foolish move because a Wizr is more powerful than a king.”
“Indeed,” Owen said, admiring the boy’s sagacity. “Go on.”
“We are here,” he said, indicating the white king and the white knight. “This piece is the Duke of Glosstyr. He’s a tower now.”
“You’re right,” Owen said. “And where is his
piece moving?”
“Against Legault. They outnumber him. Should we send reinforcements?”
Owen shook his head. “I don’t think you should worry about him being outnumbered, my lord. Even with a third of their number, he’ll still win.”
He saw the king’s face darken a bit. “Do you think he will serve me well, Lord Owen?”
Owen tightened his folded arms a bit and frowned. “I hope so. It would be best to keep an eye on him, though.”
Drew nodded. “Have Lord Amrein see to it.”
Owen had already done so. He’d also ordered Kevan to assign a man to hunt down Dragan. He would not let the thief off easily. “As you will, my lord. And who is this?”
“The Duke of Brugia. His piece is black.”
Owen nodded. “And this?”
“The Queen of Atabyrion. She’s white. I like this game, Lord Owen. The pieces are constantly shifting, but the consequences are real. It’s more exciting than just playing Wizr. Do pieces only come off the board, or can they come back on?”
Owen grinned, pleased by the boy’s quick mind. “I’ve seen both happen. Not only do the pieces affect the board, but the board is affected by our decisions. It helps very much, lad, that you can move the pieces. Why are we going here and not to Ploemeur?” he asked, indicating their destination.
Drew rubbed his mouth thoughtfully. “Because you ordered our navy sent to Ploemeur instead?”
The boy was bright. Owen was grateful he was trying so hard. Remembering how Ankarette used to praise him for following her teachings, he reached out and touched Drew’s shoulder. “I’m glad you remembered. And what will Chatriyon do once the fleet arrives in the harbor to defend Brythonica?”
Drew looked at the board studiously. He was quiet for a moment, pondering deeply. Then he cocked his head. “Flee?”
Owen smiled smugly and leaned back. “Yes. That’s what he always does. And when you capture the king, a new king will rise. As long as there is an heir, the game goes on.”
The first time Owen had ridden into Brythonica, it was to do the bidding of Severn Argentine and provoke the duchess into defying him. He could hardly believe how much things had changed in the short span of weeks since he’d left. He could still sense the magic hidden in the woods as he approached, the constant jostling in the saddle a normal, comforting feel. King Drew rode beside him, along with a retinue of knights from the king’s household. The boy stared into the woods, his eyes narrowing.
“What are you looking at, my lord?” Owen asked him.
Drew turned back, frowning. “There is something in the woods.”
“Can you feel it?”
The boy nodded slowly. “What is there?”
Owen wondered if the lad was beginning to show the first signs of being Fountain-blessed. In the legends, King Andrew had not possessed that ability, but he had surrounded himself by those who did. Curious.
As they rode into the lush lands of Brythonica, Owen’s heart skittered with anticipation. He’d had much time to think as he’d battled his way here from Kingfountain. He was fretting about seeing Sinia again, but despite his nervousness, he was at peace with his decision.
As they came down the road, he saw two riders approaching from ahead. He recognized both men as heralds. One was his own, Farnes, and the other was Anjers, herald to the King of Occitania. Anjers looked miserable, his hair was askew instead of combed forward in the Occitanian style, and his armor was dashed in mud and grime.
As Owen and Drew reined in, they met the two heralds.
“My lord king,” Farnes said with a beaming smile. “We have captured Chatriyon Vertus in the woods as he attempted to escape back to Pree. There were only twenty knights with him, and he was quickly apprehended. What is my lord’s pleasure to do with him?”
Drew smiled at being addressed so formally.
“My lord,” Anjers said with a desperate voice. “I am authorized to negotiate the ransom for my master. If you will release him immediately that he may return to his wife and child in Pree, he will grant you most generous terms. Please, my lord.” Anjer’s face twitched with emotion. “He is quite frightened. He fears being alone with this . . . butcher.” He stared at Owen with hatred.
Drew looked to Owen for guidance. “It’s your decision, my lord,” Owen said softly. “I’m here to pay my respects to a far more important person than the King of Occitania.”
Drew was silent for a moment, then he turned to Farnes. “Take him to Beestone castle under guard. I will deal with him when I return.”
Anjer’s expression crumpled and tears began to trickle down his cheeks as the humiliation of defeat closed in on him. Owen could feel the grating sensation of the Wizr board in his mind. The game would shift now. But it would not end.
The crash of the surf on the sandy beach was a pleasant noise. The air held a salty tang, and a few seabirds squawked overhead as Owen climbed down the stone steps leading to Glass Beach. He had expected he would find Sinia there. It hadn’t surprised him in the least when they’d arrived at the castle of Ploemeur only to find that she wasn’t there. Owen had left Drew in the care of his own parents and sister, who had greeted the boy king warmly and kindly. They’d offered to provide him with a tour of the castle that would—Owen had insisted—last for several hours. Owen had not assigned anyone to look after the king. He didn’t imagine it was even necessary.
The castle had graciously received the King of Ceredigion and thanked him effusively for the ships that had been sent to relieve the blockade. Drew had insisted on giving Owen credit for the strategy that had so effortlessly captured Chatriyon. In addition to soldiers, the ships had brought cattle and food to replenish what had been taken by the Occitanians during their invasion. Perhaps this was a first step toward a better understanding between Owen and the people of this duchy.
As Owen left the steps and his boots crunched into the sand, he spied a pair of sandals. Smiling to himself, he squatted to pick them up, arranging them in the crook of his finger. The breeze was warm and sunny and ruffled his hair pleasantly. There were two knights guarding the top of the steps, but no one else was on the beach. As he trudged through the sand, trying to see her, the sun shone off the water, blindingly bright.
As he came closer to the water’s edge, the sand changed to the small beads of smooth glass. He stopped to scoop up a handful and toyed with them with his thumb before dumping the pile back down. Then he looked up and saw her. Sinia was circling a hulking boulder, but she came to a sudden stop at the sight of him crouching there. Her hand went to her breast and she started to tremble.
Owen felt a throb of love inside his chest that was almost painful. He rose and sauntered toward her, dangling the sandals out before him.
“You left these behind,” he said with a light tone. A wave crashed nearby, creating a spume as it spread along the flat beach. It was about to reach her bare feet before it lost energy and began to recede.
Sinia approached, her eyes alight with hope, her mouth on the verge of a smile.
Owen tossed the sandals aside, walked up to her, and took her hands, holding them before him. “Sinia Montfort,” he said softly, breathing her name like a prayer. “Will you be mine still? Will you let me kiss you as a husband should? Will you walk with me along this beach and teach me how to please you, how to woo you? Will you be mine from this day forth? My friend and my confidante, my lover and my wife, my companion and my solace. I’m so weary of being alone.” He felt his confidence rattling, his heart nearly bursting. “Can you forgive my imperfections? My sharp words when we first met? Can you forgive me for being tempted to betray you? But I did not. Will you let me give you a soul so that you may be one with me, so that we may have children who are as beautiful as you are?” Owen sighed. “You are truly a blessing from the Fountain, and I feel unworthy to claim your affection. But may I claim it all the same? Will you consent to be my wife?”
Tears ran down her cheeks, and the smile she gave him was so radiant he
thought he would break inside.
“Yes,” she answered, then flung herself into his arms, hugging him so tightly it amazed him how her little fingers could inflict pain. He held her to him, stroking the softness of her hair, feeling her body so near.
He tipped up her chin and looked down at her face, at the longing in her sunshine eyes. He lowered his head, his mouth just barely above hers.
“Nesh-ama,” he whispered before he kissed her mouth. The magic of the Fountain began to swell inside him. It rose like thunder, swelling and building and exploding inside him as his magic imbued her with a mortal soul, the breath of life.
He felt the next wave engulf their ankles, the sucking of the sand beneath their feet as it receded. She gasped with delight at the sensation, digging her fingers into his unruly hair. The magic filled her completely, and Owen felt his energy drain as it always did after giving the breath of life. He was falling, spent and helpless as a babe, but Sinia held him against her as he blacked out.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Confession
He awoke to the sensation of Sinia kissing his eyelids. He felt as exhausted as if he’d swum around the world. His head was in her lap, and he was stretched out on the beads of glass, soaking in the warmth of the sun and feeling quite drowsy and content.
Energy began to fill him as well as the magic of the Fountain. He had been drained completely, but he felt her sharing her reserves, uniting their magic together. To his amazement, he was quickly restored to his full strength, though hers was hardly diminished.
He blinked his eyes open, seeing the wind teasing golden strands of hair across her face. She brushed them aside and looked down at him with so much love and tenderness he felt unequal to it.
“You are beautiful,” he murmured, reaching up and touching her lips. She kissed his fingertip.
