The King's Traitor

Book 3: Kingfountain

by Jeff Wheeler

Genres: Historical Fantasy; Coming of Age; Epic Fantasy; Fantasy action & adventure; Arthurian; Romantic Fantasy; Sword & Sorcery; YA Epic Fantasy; YA Coming of Age

Synopsis

A Wall Street Journal bestseller.

Against all odds, Owen Kiskaddon grew from frightened boy to confident youth to trusted officer in the court of Kingfountain-and watched its regent, Severn Argentine, grow ever more ruthless and power-mad. Robbed of his beloved protector, his noble mentor, and his true love, Owen has anticipated the day when the king he fears and reviles, yet loyally serves, will be toppled. Now, as Severn plots a campaign of conquest, the time has come to take action…and Owen's destiny demands that he lead the strike.

Ordered to incite war with a neighboring kingdom, Owen discovers its beautiful, reclusive ruler, whose powerful magic might even exceed his own. Together they mount a daring plot to overthrow the corrupt monarch, crown the rightful heir, and defeat the prophesied curse threatening Kingfountain with wintry death. But Severn's evil is as bottomless as the fabled Deep Fathoms. To keep his ill-gotten throne, he'll gladly spill the blood of enemies and innocents alike.

Release date: September 6, 2016

Publisher: 47North

Print pages: 385

Sample

CHAPTER ONE

The Winter of the North

The mountain road leading north was coated in ice, and Owen Kiskaddon was cold and saddle-weary as he made his way to Dundrennan. He was used to the feeling. Stiev Horwath had finally begun to show his mortality over the previous few years, and Owen had inherited most of the unpleasant tasks that had once fallen on the grizzled duke of the North. More often than not, he was traveling—riding from one end of the kingdom to the other on behalf of his master, Severn Argentine, King of Ceredigion. But Owen was grateful for any excuse to stay away from court. Watching the king’s degradation had soured his outlook on life and the world. More than once he had regretted his decision to support a king who eventually turned into the creature his enemies had once only feared him to be. Years before, he could have allied himself with Severn’s enemies and deposed him. If he was going to do that now, he would have to do it himself.

Though Owen was twenty-four years old, he felt like an old man. His cares and responsibilities were an unshakable burden. He was sick at heart, sick in his soul, and the only force that kept him going was the slender hope of escaping the daily misery his life had become.

The thought of seeing Evie again—no, seeing Elysabeth again—both worried him and rekindled sparks of warmth inside his cold iron heart. He had not spoken to her once since the day they had said good-bye at the cistern in the king’s palace seven years ago. He occasionally received letters from her, flowery prose talking about the wonders of Atabyrion and the antics of her two children. He never answered—he could not bring himself to—but he had finally written to tell her of her grandfather’s failing health. He owed her that much, a chance to see her grandfather before he passed. Besides, Owen felt a debt of duty and gratitude to Duke Horwath, enough for him to summon the courage to face the girl he had loved and lost. That she was happy in her marriage to Iago made it worse somehow.

The trees opened up to the grand vista of Dundrennan, and Owen reined in his horse so he could take in the view. The mountain valley was thick with snow-capped peaks and gigantic avalanching waterfalls that roared off the jagged faces of cliffs. The scene never failed to fill him with wonder, but this time it was bittersweet. She would be there, and he could not look at nature’s incredible display without summoning memories of walking along those cliffs as a boy when he was a ward of the old duke, hand in hand with his former love, the duke’s granddaughter.

“Impressive, my lord,” said one of the knights who was part of Owen’s escort.

He kept his expression neutral and only nodded in agreement. Within the hour, they were dislodging chunks of ice and snow on the bridge to the city, watching the banners of the proud Pierced Lion, the sigil of the Horwath line, flutter in the gentle breeze. The courtyard teemed with visitors who had come to pay homage to the beloved duke of the North.

After dismounting, Owen handed the reins to a servant and took a deep breath, preparing for the whirlwind of emotions about to be unleashed inside him. More than anything else, he wanted to curl up on a pallet in the stables and hide from everyone. But he had made this pilgrimage for many reasons that he could no longer avoid. He was a little surprised that Elysabeth had not met him in the bailey in a rush of words and enthusiasm. Of course, her husband would not have approved of that.

As he entered the vast castle, hand on the hilt of his sword, he thought briefly of the scabbard belted to his waist and how he had discovered it in the palace cistern at Kingfountain. The treasures hidden in the cistern waters could only be seen or touched by the Fountain-blessed. It was as if they existed in another realm until claimed by those who had been bequeathed that right by the magic of the realm—the Fountain. He had taken other items from the cistern over the years. A brooch that he always wore fastened to his cloak. A dagger he had fancied, with the symbol of the drowned kingdom of Leoneyis on the guard. There was even a chain hauberk, completely rust free, which he’d found in a chest that had been submerged for centuries. He wiped his mouth, feeling the bristles across his chin. He rarely shaved now, finding it more bother than it was worth. He wasn’t trying to impress anyone anyway, least of all the Mortimer girl.

He was greeted by the duke’s steward, the son of the man who had served Horwath for so many years. His name was Johns. “Lord Owen, I bid you welcome in your return to Dundrennan,” the man said, falling into stride with Owen. “It has been many months since we have seen you here.”

“How is the duke?” Owen asked, following Johns as he led the way to the duke’s bedchamber. That surprised Owen, for he had expected to find his old mentor in the solar.

“He’s old, my lord. His strength is failing.” The steward’s eyes shined with emotion. “He’ll be grateful you came.”

Owen frowned, trying to steel himself.

“I thought you should know that his granddaughter has come from Atabyrion.” The steward looked pained as he said this. It was no secret to anyone living in the castle that the duke himself had longed for a match between Owen and his granddaughter. Only the king had dissented. Owen kicked aside the memory as if it were a piece of clutter.

“Yes, I was aware of that. Would you make sure my men are given something to eat? We had to stop by Kingfountain on the way here, and they deserve a rest.”

“Of course, my lord. I have your room ready as well.”

Owen gave the steward a dark look. “It’s not my room, Johns. I am a guest here. Like any other.”

The gloomy hall was lit by a few mounted torches that hissed ominously in Owen’s ears. When they reached the door at the end, Johns tapped twice respectfully before opening it. He glanced inside, took in a breath, and then opened it for Owen to enter first, giving him a look of compassion that Owen didn’t feel he deserved.

And there she was.

It felt like someone had struck Owen’s shield with a lance and knocked him violently off his horse. That rarely happened to him, in fact—it hadn’t happened to him in years. But the memory of the pain and the sudden lack of air perfectly fit this moment. She was beautiful still, her long dark hair braided and bundled into various intricate designs. She was a woman now, a mother of two. There was a glow about her, a radiance that struck him forcefully and made him ache inside.

Elysabeth was sitting in a chair at Horwath’s bedside, holding his hands. The duke’s hair was as white as the snow of his mountains, his breath coming in fitful gasps. The duke’s eyes were closed in sleep. It hurt to see him so still, a mighty tree fallen to the earth. Owen’s eyes returned to Elysabeth as she turned to see who had entered.

“Owen,” she breathed. The smile that lit her face tortured him.

“Hello, Elysabeth,” he said thickly, trying to master himself. Failing.

She rose from the chair and gave him a look of warmth, tinged with pity. In the years that had separated them, he could see that she had progressed. She had learned to love again, to live a full life, while he had not even tried.

“I hadn’t imagined you with so much stubble,” she said, smiling kindly as she approached him. “But that spot in your hair hasn’t changed. I’d know you anywhere, Owen Kiskaddon. I am so grateful you came. Did you get my letter?”

He nodded, unsure what to say, how to bridge the chasm yawning between them.

Her eyes crinkled with sadness. “Is it to be like this between us now?” she asked him softly. “Strangers instead of friends? It pains me to see you this way. You look awful, Owen.”

What to say to that? The retort came easy enough. “At least you’re not wearing one of those silly Atabyrion headdresses. I’d feared the worst.”

He’d meant it as a barb. Being with Severn so much, he couldn’t stop them now. They came to him as naturally as breathing.

She flinched at his tone, his disrespect. “I had hoped our reunion wouldn’t be this painful. But I see now that it must be. I am sorry, Owen.”

“For what?” He chuckled, not understanding. “It wasn’t your fault. We both know who is to blame.” He sighed deeply, stepping around her and approaching the bedside. He looked down at the duke’s sunken cheeks, his gray pallor. “Sometimes I wonder how he endured it for so long. The sniping. The invectives. I tried to let it all go. But I’m a man. I bleed. He never seemed to.”

He felt Elysabeth sidle up next to him, and it made him cringe inside. “Why didn’t you answer my letters?” she asked him. “I tried to prevent this . . . distance from developing.”

He shook his head. “You could not be loyal to me without being unfaithful to your husband,” he said bluntly. “Nor did I want to tempt myself—or you. It was best that we stayed apart for so long. And the king has kept me busy,” he added dryly.

Elysabeth laughed. “That is true. You have expanded the domains of Ceredigion extensively. I’ve heard about your exploits, you know. I follow each one. First, you captured several more towns in Occitania and seized their castles. Then you subjugated Legault and made it a vassal state. The king sent you to Brugia to help Maxwell unite the land under his power, but you betrayed him to keep him from getting too powerful.”

Owen smirked. “That was the king’s idea, of course,” he said bitterly. “He doesn’t want any of his allies getting too powerful.” He looked at her. “Including Atabyrion.”

She blinked at him in surprise. “What do you mean?” Her eyes had always seemed to change color like the weather. Today they were green, but they were a lighter shade than the dark green gown she wore. He could barely see the tiny scar at the corner of her full eyebrow. An injury from falling off a horse during a riot.

“When your grandfather dies,” he said in a quiet voice, a warning voice, “you will not inherit Dundrennan. I think the king plans to give it to Catsby.”

Her eyes went suddenly gray with anger. “But I am the heiress,” she stammered, her cheeks turning a shade of crimson.

“Welcome to the court of Kingfountain,” Owen said, giving her a mocking bow. “As I said, don’t be surprised. No one is secure, Elysabeth. Not even me.” Owen shook his head and started to pace. “He does this, you know. Frequently. He pushes his lords, promises one something they want and another the same thing. Then he lets them squabble and rip at each other. And in the end, he’ll give it to a third man instead. There is no allegiance anymore. People obey because they fear him. He is paranoid about anyone getting too much power. He hasn’t forgotten your husband invaded Ceredigion. Nor has he forgiven it.”

She looked at him in horror. “This is news I hadn’t even considered possible. Owen, how it must pain you to serve him!”

He shook his head. “You don’t know. There is so much you don’t know.” He stepped away from her, scraping his fingers through his hair.

He felt her hand on his shoulder. “Tell me. Who do you confide in now? There must be someone you trust.”

Owen nodded, but he felt dejected. “I trust Etayne.”

“The poisoner?”

“The very one. She’s loyal to me. She helps me deceive the king. Trick him.” He shook his head again, wondering why he was opening up to her. Secrets were always trying to get out. He carried so many he felt he would burst. It was as if they had all been building up inside him until he saw her next. He clenched his jaw.

She came and stood in front of him, her eyes imploring him to trust her. She was still his friend, still cared about his well-being. He had almost forgotten what that felt like. “How are you deceiving the king?” she whispered.

Owen pursed his lips. “I’m disgusted with myself sometimes. When I defeated the king’s nephew’s attempt to claim the throne, Eyric claimed to have been Piers Urbick, a pretender, all along. It was a lie, Ev—Elysabeth. It was a lie, but the king has been wooing Lady Kathryn ever since. According to the laws and rites of marriage, their union is null and void if they were married under false circumstances. They have not lived as man and wife since St. Penryn. Eyric is still a prisoner in the palace, like Dunsdworth. The two of them are conspiring, looking for ways to escape. I have to keep the Espion watching them constantly. Eyric wants to be with his wife . . . and so does Severn.”

Elysabeth’s face twisted with revulsion. “I’ve heard she still wears a widow’s garb. That she’s always dressed in black?”

“It’s true. The king is always making her new gowns. He’s fixated on her. He wants to marry her, but she insists she is still married to Eyric. He’s tried to use his Fountain magic to persuade her otherwise.”

“That is abhorrent!” she said, her emotions totally riled.

He nodded feverishly. “His determination sickens me. And so I’ve used Etayne to deceive him. She is Fountain-blessed herself, and has the power to look like anyone else. When the king is in one of his moods to persuade Kathryn to relent, Etayne stands proxy and resists him. I help her as often as I can because the king’s magic won’t work on Kathryn when I am near. The poor woman is still faithful to her husband, but this constant pressure to yield is wearing her down. The king knows he’s not getting any younger, that he needs an heir. The privy council is practically bullying her to accept him.” He threw up his hands. “I don’t know how much longer we can hold it off. I want Eyric to escape. But no other kingdom would risk the wrath of Severn by abducting him.”

The look Elysabeth gave him was full of respect. She was silent a moment, staring at him. “I’m proud of you, Owen. It takes courage to do the right thing, especially when no one around you is helping.”

Owen sighed, grateful for her words but hating the way they made him feel. “If I had courage, I would depose him,” he said frankly. “I know the measure of the man now, and I don’t respect him. I’m probably the only one who has enough power to defeat him. Yet your grandfather never did.” He glanced down as he said the bitter-tasting words. “He set the example of loyalty that we both follow. I’m torn in so many ways! If I’d known then what I know now, I would have helped Eyric become king. Even though I knew he wasn’t the Dreadful Deadman.”

Her eyes narrowed at the words. “You mean that old prophecy is true? The one about the great king Andrew returning someday to save Ceredigion?”

He realized he had said too much. He shook his head and tried to turn away, but she caught his wrist and pulled him back.

“You tell me, Owen Kiskaddon. What do you know of the prophecy? I thought it was just a legend.”

He blinked at her in misery. “I know it’s true. He’s here in the castle,” Owen whispered.

Her eyes widened with shock. “The . . . the little boy in the kitchen? The one my grandfather has been raising? Little Drew?”

Owen shuddered at the word. “He is Eyric and Kathryn’s son. He is the reason Eyric lied about being the king’s nephew. He wanted to protect his wife, his son. The boy is only seven. About the age we were when we first met. He’s the Argentine heir. The Dreadful Deadman.”

Elysabeth blinked with astonishment. Then her voice fell to a whisper. “My daughter Genevieve is playing with him in the kitchen right now.”

Owen nodded and looked at her seriously. “Can you imagine me writing that in a letter to you? Are you willing to keep it a secret from your husband? Etayne and the Deconeus of St. Penryn are the only others who know the truth. But do you think that little boy can defeat a grown man? In ten more years, Severn may be too powerful for anyone to stop.”

CHAPTER TWO

The King’s Command

Being back at Dundrennan was both a balm and a torture. The castle was steeped in memories that followed Owen as ghosts. Occasionally, he would turn a corner and see Genevieve tug Drew down the hall ahead of him, trailing giggles, and he would see himself and Evie doing the same. It hurt to be there, to be reminded of those memories, but at the same time, he found them soothing.

Watching Stiev Horwath die was especially agonizing, and Owen spent as much time as he could sitting beside the old duke’s bed, watching the irregular rise and fall of his chest, hearing the rattled sound of his breathing. Horwath’s death would usher in the end of an era. The days of the Sun and Rose of Eredur, of battles fought and won, fought and lost, glory fading like a sunset. Owen feared that when the duke finally stopped breathing, the last glimmer of daylight would be gone and night would descend. Owen would not be surprised if the duke’s life was the last bulwark standing against Severn’s fullest depravity. He stared at the man’s sunken cheeks, wishing he would heal and knowing he would not.

He took the old duke’s gnarled hand and sighed with despair. “You’re leaving me, old friend,” he murmured. “You’re leaving me alone to fight for a future worth saving.”

Horwath’s eyelids fluttered. His eyes opened, and a look of pain crumpled his brow. “Still alive,” he said darkly. His head turned and he looked at Owen. “You’re still here, lad,” he said, a fragile smile on his bearded mouth. “I’m glad you came in time. Wasn’t sure you would.”

“How could I not?” Owen answered, grateful to have a moment alone with the duke. Evie’s children had been in and out of the room, but the stale confinement of a deathbed was not an enticing environment to the young. “How are you feeling?”

Horwath grunted. “Old.” He shuddered beneath the blanket.

Owen smiled. “As old as the yews on the road to Castle Beestone,” he jested.

“Not that old,” Horwath said gruffly. His sharp gaze turned to Owen. “Would you heed some advice from one with more wisdom?”

Owen already knew what he would say, but he patted Horwath’s hand and nodded.

“Get you a wife,” the old duke panted.

The touch of the old man’s hand was growing colder. His skin was like ice. “That is counsel I receive constantly,” Owen said with a tug of bitterness in his throat. “Every month I get an offer of marriage from the father of some lass or other in realms as far as Genevar. If I stay at Tatton Hall longer than a fortnight, they start lining up their carriages.” He shook his head. “The best wives are already taken,” he said thickly.

Horwath’s eyes crinkled. “I’m sorry I failed you in that, lad.”

“You didn’t fail me,” Owen answered, shaking his head. One of the duke’s nurses peeked into the room—summoned by the sound of voices, no doubt—and Owen surreptitiously gestured for her to fetch the rest of the family. The duke’s moments of lucidity were growing increasingly rare. No one knew when the last would be. “We all followed our duty, did we not? I can’t imagine your journey has been any less fraught with heartache.”

Horwath gave him a weary smile. “Loyalty binds me. Only death . . .” He stiffened with increasing pain. “. . . will release me from its bondage.” His eyes blinked rapidly and he stared up at the ceiling beams, his breath coming in little bursts.

Bondage. What an interesting word to describe it at such a moment.

“Do you ever . . . regret?” Owen asked in a low voice.

The duke suddenly clenched his hand. The pulse was strong, but then Owen felt the grip slacken. “Aye, lad. I have many regrets. Too many. But I don’t regret befriending a frightened boy. I don’t regret bringing my granddaughter to meet him. And I cannot regret having ambition for my duchy.” His teeth clenched together as another wave of pain struck him. “I did what I thought was best. I led men. I was fair.”

“You served with integrity,” Owen said hoarsely. “Even if it wasn’t always deserved.”

“I did,” Horwath grunted. “I’ve asked . . . the king . . . if he will let my granddaughter inherit Dundrennan.” He licked his chapped lips. “I don’t know . . . if he will. He never promised.” He sighed deeply, uttering a small groan.

Owen glanced at the door, willing Iago and Elysabeth to come quickly.

The duke started shuddering. “Duty is a heavy burden, lad. My knees ache from the load. It is time I set it down.” He turned his head again, his eyes full of pain and suffering. He pierced Owen with his gaze. “It’s yours now. I . . . bequeath it . . . to you.”

A shard of torment dug into Owen’s heart. He didn’t want the burden. He loathed it. But he could see Horwath would not die in peace without handing off his duty to someone else. He felt tears prick the corner of his eyes.

“I will take it,” Owen said miserably. “Be at peace, Grandfather. You’ve carried it long enough.”

Stiev Horwath closed his eyes and sighed deeply. Owen thought it was his last breath, but the wave of pain had passed and he was breathing easier. His hand was limp against Owen’s.

“The duty I give you,” the duke whispered softly, “is found in the ice caves.”

Owen stared at the old man in shock. The duke had a tranquil look on his face now, an expression of calm. Owen heard the susurrus of the Fountain coming into the room.

“What did you say?” Owen asked, leaning closer. His heart started to burn.

“The Maid’s sword,” the duke murmured. “I know where it is. One of my people . . . a Fountain-blessed lad by the name of Carrick, can lead you to it. He’s one of the castle hunters. So is his father. He found the Maid’s sword in the ice. The sword of King Andrew. I have forbidden my people to wander the ice caves. To keep the secret safe.”

Owen stared in surprise. “Why have you not spoken of it before?”

The duke blinked. “Because we already have a king,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “But Severn has no heir. No child. It is the sword of kings. Do not . . . tell . . . the Occitanians. If they get it, they will conquer our kingdom. They want revenge for the past. This duty, I lay on you. Be true.”

Iago and Elysabeth came rushing into the room, each shepherding along one of their children. Iago seemed quite comfortable in the role of father. Owen had seen him interacting with his children—sweeping them high into the air and making them laugh and squeal. He was especially close to Genevieve, very patient and indulging, even when she had interrupted one of Iago and Owen’s conversations about trade and their dealings with Brugia’s ambitious ruler. Owen could not deny a certain grudging respect for Iago, both the ruler and the man. It was as unexpected as it was unwelcome.

Now, though, the entire family looked disconsolate—even little Genevieve, who was constantly prattling, seemed at a loss for words as she stared at her great-grandfather’s wheezing body.

“Thank you for telling us,” Elysabeth said, squeezing Owen’s arm as she rushed past him to her grandfather. “Grandpapa! The king is here! He just rode into the bailey and is coming shortly. The king is here!”

Owen felt a wriggle of doom at the words. Horwath blinked at her, then smiled.

“He came,” Horwath said in surprise.

Iago scooped up Genevieve in his arms and nudged past Owen to get nearer. He gave Owen a look that was difficult to interpret. Was it smugness? Exultation? Or did he simply pity Owen for losing the woman they both loved, for not having a family of his own?

Elysabeth and Iago’s younger child was only two, too young to understand matters of death, and he was tugging on his mother’s skirts, pleading for something to eat.

Owen left the chair and retreated back to the door, allowing the family to crowd in around the duke. He saw the nurses dabbing tears from their eyes. The people of the North loved Duke Horwath. He was treated with the honor and deference that was owed to a man who had proven his integrity throughout his life. Owen wrestled with the dilemma seething inside his chest. Could Owen make a mockery of that memory by deposing the king?

As he leaned back against the door, he spied Drew standing on the other side of the awning, peeking into the room, his boyish face full of pain as he watched his guardian gasping for air and murmuring words to his relations that the two of them couldn’t hear from so far away. Owen stared at the boy, struck again by the memories of being that age. For a moment, he was back at Beestone castle, lying on his bed as Ankarette Tryneowy, the woman who had saved Owen’s life more than once, lay dying at his bedside, bleeding to death from stab wounds inflicted by the Espion.

The boy didn’t even know his true identity or importance. Drew was tall for a boy his age. All the Argentines were tall. The hint of red in his blond hair came from his mother. He was a handsome boy disguised in the garb of a servant. The lad believed he was destined to become a knight, and he loved practicing in the training yard with wooden swords. But he also had a fondness for watching games of Wizr. Whenever he spied Owen playing, he would slip up unnoticed and stare at the pieces as if they were the most fascinating thing.

He looked so much like an Argentine that Owen did not want the king to see him. “Go play in the kitchen,” he said to the boy, wanting to get him out of sight quickly.

Drew looked instantly crestfallen. Owen could see he longed to be at the duke’s bedside, grieving the loss of the great man who had watched over him. His face frowned with potential rebellion, but he obeyed and skulked down the corridor. Owen felt guilty, but he had to conceal the boy from notice for as long as he could.

His mind was still whirling with the news Horwath had given him about the sword. Evie had always mentioned the ice caves in the mountains, and they had both longed to explore them. Now he understood why it had been forbidden. Had the sword been trapped in the ice for decades, waiting for someone who was Fountain-blessed to retrieve it? Owen had found another powerful relic in the sanctuary of Our Lady of Kingfountain, a Wizr set with mysterious powers, and he had hidden it for safekeeping in the fountain of St. Penryn, sequestered at the very edge of his land. The waters would help keep it hidden from all but the Fountain-blessed.

The sound of Elysabeth’s weeping captured his attention, and he watched as she pressed her face into Iago’s shoulder for comfort. A twisting sensation unleashed inside Owen’s gut as he watched Iago hug her. They were each other’s comfort now. The only person Owen had to confide in and offer him comfort was Etayne, who loved him and despaired that he would never return her feelings. With Etayne’s magic, she could look like anyone, deceiving anyone except for Owen. He had kept their relationship limited to friendship, though he knew she longed to be his mistress. He cared about her, but he didn’t love anyone. He wasn’t even sure if he could anymore. Nor was the King’s Poisoner a suitable marriage partner for a duke. No, Etayne’s job was to keep Owen from falling in love with anyone else. He had tasked her with that assignment years ago, for his heart was still loyal to one woman. A woman who grieved at her grandfather’s passing. A woman whom he could not comfort.

From the corridor came the shuffling gait of the king. Owen would have recognized his approach blindfolded. He knew the king’s walk, especially when Severn was weary or saddle sore. Owen tried to compose himself, to keep his face from revealing the true depth of his bitterness and resentment.

Elysabeth lifted her head, hearing the sound, and looked to Owen for confirmation. His expression said the words for him.

“The king is here,” she whispered to her husband. Iago scowled instinctively. There was no love between the two sovereigns. There was only grudging dependency.

Owen turned to face the king, and his heart quickened with panic. Severn was holding Drew’s hand and leading him back into the room. The flow of the Fountain emanated from the king, who relied on touch to fully transmit his power of persuasion.

As they approached, the king’s power began to wane and subside. He glanced at Owen in annoyance. “The lad tells me you banished him to the kitchen,” he said curtly. “He’s grieving over his fallen master. I thought you’d have more compassion than that.”

Owen accepted the barb without even pursing his lips. He had gotten quite adept at masking his expressions when the king was around.

Suddenly Genevieve came rushing up and took Drew’s hand. “Do you want to see him?” she asked, tugging the boy toward the bed. He’s very still now. He’s gone to the Deep Fathoms. It’s nothing to be scared of, Drew. You’ll see. Don’t be scared.”

“I’m not scared,” Drew countered, affronted. But he followed her into the room, giving only halfhearted resistance to her pulls.

The king sidled up next to Owen in the doorway, watching the two children as they approached the bedside. “Those two remind me of breakfast in the great hall,” he murmured. “I remember . . . she wanted to build a fish pond! Now look at her. So poised and motherly.” His voice was just above a whisper, pitched for Owen alone. “She saved Iago’s life. I hope he’s grateful to her. But they won’t be pleased when I give the North to another. Someone who has fully earned the right of being a duke.”

“Catsby?” Owen said blandly.

“Indeed,” the king said with relish, and then sighed. “They’ll be bitter. Aren’t the disappointed always bitter? But you see the wisdom in my decision, don’t you? I can’t give Iago that much power.”

“I see the wisdom,” Owen replied. “But no man likes to be kept on the ground with a boot on his neck.”

The king stiffened and frowned, giving Owen a sharp look. “Well, my outspoken young friend, it is easier to kick a man while he’s down than slog through a battlefield against him. Or perhaps you want him to invade Ceredigion? So you can have the pleasure of killing him.” It was a brutal thing to say and it was said deliberately. Owen had long endured such provoking comments. Although it rankled him, he didn’t let it show.

He found sarcasm to be an adequate defense in such moments. “I could have him killed at any time, my lord,” he said knowingly, his eyes bright. “But it would grieve me to make Elysabeth suffer. So I patiently wait for the man to get the pox.”

Severn chuckled at the dark humor and clapped Owen’s back, which was especially annoying. Then he heaved another sigh and stared at Horwath’s lifeless body. Despite his posturing, he almost looked relieved that he had arrived too late. “Well, Catsby will be content, and I’ll get a moment of peace. If you’d fancy a remembrance of the duke, you’d best take it now. Catsby counts the coins, you know. He won’t give up a florin without a fight. Not that you are in need of coin. I’ve rewarded you amply and am about to reward you further.”

Owen crinkled his eyebrows. “How so?”

“You’re going to start another war,” Severn said with a grin of enjoyment. He looked positively devilish when he schemed. His black hair was riddled with streaks of gray, each one a testament to the troubles he’d endured since seizing the throne of Ceredigion. His slight deformities were draped in the costliest of court attire, all black with jewels, and he still wore a chain vest beneath his tunic as an extra layer of defense.

“With whom this time?” Owen said, controlling his tone so he didn’t sound as exasperated as he felt. The king was always tweaking the noses of the other realms, putting them in fear of an invasion. His dominion had expanded relentlessly over the last seven years, with more and more cities and areas allying themselves to the badge of the white boar. Years before, Ankarette had helped fool the king into believing Owen had the gift of precognition. Although he did have powers from the Fountain, reading the future was not one of them. Still, Owen sometimes interfered with the king’s riskier plans by claiming to have had a dream from the Fountain. As the years passed, his visions seemed to convince the king less and less—almost as if the king were losing his belief in the guiding force of the Fountain, something Owen did not understand since the Fountain was the source of the king’s own preternatural abilities. Owen had become more judicious in his use of the dreams, especially when common sense said the risk was too great.

“Brythonica,” the king said.

Owen turned to look at the king. “They’ve been our ally for seven years. What would we gain?”

Severn chuffed. “They’ve enjoyed immunity long enough. Besides, I need their land to wage war on Occitania. Chatriyon has been fortifying the borderlands each year, making it more and more difficult to conquer new cities. But he’s exposed on his flank, Brythonica. We take that duchy and Chatriyon will cave like those tiles you used to play with.” Owen’s childhood pastime of stacking tiles had always helped him focus, and it also replenished his natural supply of Fountain magic. Now that he was older, he found the same benefits by playing Wizr, reading history, and plotting strategies with the Espion. The king gave him a smug look. “You’re the one who has taught me to be devious, lad. You’re blessed with a cunning mind.”

The thought of betraying the duchess disgusted Owen, and he was not eager to face Lord Marshal Roux, her advisor and protector, on the battlefield. Owen and Roux were allies, but uncomfortable ones, and had danced around each other for years. The lord marshal had an uncanny knack for showing up places unexpectedly—a trait that set Owen on edge.

“My lord,” Owen said. “Brythonica is full of valleys and woods. I’ve explored the borders between Averanche and Cann, but no farther. They also have a strong fleet.”

“Not as strong as ours,” Severn said reprovingly. “It’s not your place to question my commands, Lord Kiskaddon. It’s your place to fulfill them.” It was a tone of voice he had started using with more regularity. “With Stiev dead, I must count on you more than I ever have. Now, I’ve made this conquest simple for you.”

Owen wanted to vomit. He knew something else was coming. He could see it in the gleam of Severn’s eyes. His mouth went dry.

“You are to go to the capital of Brythonica—Ploemeur, I believe, is the name. And you will finally meet this elusive duchess that Marshal Roux has been shielding for so long. The most eligible heiress of all the realms. Her name is Sinia—after that breed of butterfly, or so Polidoro tells me. She’s a pawn. Roux’s been using her to hold on to power himself. Well, you tell that scheming Lord Roux that I insist the duchess and you should marry at once. When they refuse, and I know they will, that gives us the pretext we need to invade and open up a new front against Occitania.”

He clapped Owen on the back again. Then he looked back at the view of the room, his mood becoming more somber. “Brythonica used to be our duchy. And I mean to make it ours once again. I want it all, lad. Every town, every village.”