CHAPTER ONE
The Duke of Kiskaddon
Lady Eleanor sat at the window seat of her chambers, gently stroking her son’s head in her lap. Owen was her youngest child, the one who had barely survived his birth. He was a frail lad of eight, though he looked younger than that. His hair was a mousy-brown color, thick and untameable despite all their efforts, and she loved gliding her fingers through it. There was a little patch of white hair above his left ear. His siblings always asked her why he had been born with such a strange patch of white in his dark hair.
It was a mark that set him apart from his siblings. She considered it a reminder of the miracle that happened after his birth.
Owen stared up at her eyes with his deep brown ones, seeming to know she was fretting and in need of comfort. He was an affectionate child, always the first to come running into her arms. As a babe, he would murmur his parents’ endearments while clutching their legs or hugging them. Maman, Papan. Maman, Papan. Maman, Papan. He had loved more than anything else to burrow into the sheets of his parents’ bed after they had awoken for the day, stealing the ebbing warmth. He stopped doing that finally at age six, but he had not outgrown the hugs and kisses, and he always wanted to be near, especially to her husband, Lord Kiskaddon.
Thoughts of her husband made her stomach churn with worry. Eleanor glanced out the window overlooking the well-sculpted gardens of Tatton Hall. But she found no comfort in the trimmed hedges, the vibrant terraced lawns, or the large foaming fountains. A battle had raged the day before, and she still awaited word on the outcome.
“When will Papan come?” the little voice asked. He looked at her with such serious eyes.
Would he even come home?
There was nothing she dreaded more than the battlefield. Her husband was no longer a young man. He was more statesman than battle commander now, in his forty-fifth year. She glanced at the empty armor rack stationed by their canopied bed. The curtains were open, showing the neat folded sheets. He always insisted on the bed being made every day. No matter what troubling news arrived from court, her husband relished the simple rituals of sleep. Though some nights he would lie awake for hours pondering the troubles of Ceredigion, he was still most at peace when they were together, alone, in that canopied bed.
“I don’t know,” Eleanor whispered, her voice husky. She continued to smooth his thick locks, her finger pausing to play with the tuft of white. Her husband had been summoned to join the king’s army on the battlefield to face the invasion, and her oldest son was a hostage in the king’s army to ensure her husband’s good faith. Word reached her before the battle that the king’s army outnumbered their enemies three to one. But this was not a match of mathematics. It was a test of loyalty.
Severn Argentine was a hard king to serve. He had a barbed whip for a tongue and it drew blood whenever he spoke. In the two years since he had usurped the throne from his older brother’s children, the kingdom had been fraught with machinations, treason, and executions. It was whispered the uncle had murdered his nephews at the palace in Kingfountain. The very possibility made Eleanor tremble with horror. She, a mother of nine children, could not bear the thought of such wickedness. Only five of her children had survived childhood, for they were all of sickly constitution. Some of her sons and daughters had died as infants, and each new loss had broken her heart. And then there was her lastborn, little Owen. Her miracle.
Her dear, thoughtful boy was still staring into her eyes, almost as if he could read her thoughts. She loved to catch him playing by himself, to watch at the edge of the door as he knelt on the floor and stacked tiles before toppling them over. She often caught him in the library, reading to himself. She no longer remembered teaching him to read, he had been so young. It was something he seemed to have learned all by himself, like breathing, and he just inhaled the letters and words and sorted them effortlessly in his mind. But, though he was a particularly intelligent child, he was still a child. He loved to run outside in the gardens with his siblings and join the chase for a white ribbon tied to a pole through the hedge maze. Of course, he could start wheezing when he did this, but that did not deter him.
She would never forget the sorrow she had felt when the royal midwife had announced the babe stillborn. There was no cry, no wail like those that had announced the births of Eleanor’s other eight children. He came into the world bloody and silent—fully formed, but not breathing. It had devastated her to lose what she knew to be her lastborn, her final child. Her husband’s tears had joined her own as they wept over their lost child.
Was there nothing to be done? Were there no words of solace? No skill that could be rendered? The midwife had crooned to the dead babe in her arms, kissing his tender, puckered head, and suggested they mourn with the babe together as husband and wife. Lord Kiskaddon and Lady Eleanor cradled the baby in their arms, burrowing in the sheets of the bed, and wept for the child, hugging and kissing him. Speaking to him softly. Telling him of their family and how much he would be loved and needed.
And then the miracle happened.
It was the Fountain, she was certain of that. Somehow the babe had heard their pleading. The eyes of the dead child blinked open. Eleanor was so startled, she thought she had imagined it at first, but her husband saw the same thing. The eyes opened. What does it mean? they asked the midwife.
Perhaps he bids you good-bye, she said softly.
But moments became hours. Hours became days. Days became weeks. Eleanor glided her fingers through her boy’s thick hair. He smiled up at her, as if he were remembering it too. He gave her a crooked little smile, pressing his cheek languidly against her lap. His eyelashes fluttered.
“Maman! Maman!”
It was Jessica, her fourteen-year-old, running in with her blond curls bouncing. “It’s Papan! He rides here with a host!”
Eleanor’s heart seized with surprise and swelled with hope. “You saw him?”
“From the balcony!” Jessica said, her eyes eager with excitement. “His head was shining, Maman. He is with Lord Horwath. I recognized him as well.”
That made no sense at all.
Lord Horwath ruled the northern borders of the realm. Her husband ruled the west. They were peers of the realm, equals. Why would Stiev Horwath escort him to Tatton Hall? A stab of worry smote her chest.
“Owen, go with your sister to greet your father,” Eleanor said. The boy closed his hand on the fabric of her dress, his eyes suddenly wary. He balked.
“Go, Owen!” she bade him earnestly, pushing herself up from the window seat. She began pacing as Jessica grabbed the little boy’s hand and pulled him with her toward the doors. There was a great commotion as word of the duke’s return spread through the manor house. The people loved him, even the lowliest of scullions respected their kindhearted master.
Eleanor felt as if needles were stabbing her skin as she paced. Her heart raced in her chest. She was her husband’s closest advisor. So far her advice had steered him safely through the churning rapids of intrigue that had pitted the noble houses of the realm against each other in several brutal wars. Had that changed?
She heard the sound of boots coming up the stairs. Eleanor wrung her hands, biting her lip as she awaited the news with dread. He was alive! But what of her eldest? What of Jorganon? He had gone into battle with his father and the king. Why had Jessica not mentioned him?
Her husband entered the room, and with one look, she knew her son was dead. Lord Kiskaddon was no longer young, but his face had a boyish look that belied the bald top and the fringe of gray stubble around the sides and back. He was a sturdy man who could spend hours in the saddle without his strength flagging. But now his jaw was clenched and unshaven, and the sadness in his eyes took away from his youthful appearance. Her husband was in mourning. And not just the death of their eldest son. She knew at once he had news that was even worse than the death of their son.
“You are home,” Eleanor breathed, rushing to his sturdy arms. But his grip was as weak as a kitten’s.
He kissed the top of her head, and she felt the pent-up shuddering inside him.
“Jorganon is dead,” she said, hoping it was not true, but knowing that it was.
“Yes,” he said hoarsely, his mouth pressing against her hair. He pulled away from her and stared down at the ground.
“What happened?” Eleanor pleaded, grabbing his hand. “Tell me the worst of it! I cannot bear to see you in such anguish, Husband!”
He had tears in his eyes. He—who rarely showed his emotions so nakedly. His cheek twitched. “The king . . . won. The battle is named the Battle of Ambion Hill. It was a close battle, Eleanor. So close. A moment longer, a breath of wind could have changed it. A trickling stream could have overturned it. I wish . . . if you had been there to advise me . . . but you were not!” His expression crumpled and he stared at her pleadingly. “Forgive me!”
Eleanor felt her legs quivering. “For what?” she choked.
His lips were pressed so tightly they were white. “Horwath led the battle for the king. His men were hard-pressed. It looked possible that he would fail. The king ordered my army to support Horwath’s.” He shook his head as if he were still living in that perilous moment when all could be lost or won. “I refused.”
“What?” she gasped.
“The king is the last of his dynasty. His only son died a year ago. His wife died next—poisoned, they say. It seemed as if the Fountain had judged him and he was doomed to fail at Ambion. We both believed that or we never would have—”
“Shhh!” Eleanor warned furtively, glancing at the door.
“We suspected the new king would be in our favor if we did not intervene. In that moment of peril, I believed the king’s army would fall. Severn threatened to kill Jorganon on the spot.” Her husband knuckled his forehead, his words breaking into sobs. “What have I done?”
Eleanor rushed to her husband and held him tightly. He was a wise and capable man, but such qualities did not aid him in navigating the politics of King Severn’s duplicitous court. It was why he so often sought her counsel. She too had suspected Severn’s reign would be mercifully short. Yes, she had advised her husband to appear to support the king. But not to support him too well. To be slow, to appear confused by commands. She bit the edge of her finger.
“But the king’s army prevailed after all,” Eleanor said weakly. “And now he thinks you a traitor.”
“From where I sat, it looked like Horwath would be destroyed. The men were fighting slothfully. No one’s heart was in it to defend Ceredigion from the invader. But then the king summoned his knights and rode into battle himself. The conflict was raging below them when they made their charge. I watched it, Eleanor. There were only twenty . . . maybe thirty knights in all, but they came like a flood. As if the very Fountain were driving them. They clashed with lances and swords. The king himself unhorsed his enemy and then jumped from his injured horse and killed the man with his own sword. The invaders swarmed him, but he fought as if he had the strength of a dozen men. They fell away from him, and when they saw his triumph, Horwath’s men became demons!” His eyes were wide with shock and amazement. “Severn defeated them by himself. Even with his twisted leg and his hunchback, he was unstoppable. I rode hard to join the fray and helped capture the fallen army. The king’s crown had fallen from his head during the fighting and I found it in a hawthorn bush. I told him . . . I told him that I was loyal.” His face went white.
Eleanor felt her knees losing strength. She clutched to her husband, as if they were alone on an island and the waves of the sea were crashing around them, trying to drag them into the surf. Her ears were ringing with the words.
“The king ordered Jorganon’s death. He mocked me, saying perhaps I still had sons to spare. And so he sent Horwath with me to bid you the tidings. Thus sayeth King Severn Argentine to the Lady Eleanor Kiskaddon: Choose you another son to be hostage, to live in the palace of Kingfountain under His Majesty’s wardship. Prove your good faith and obedience. Pick the son who will stand as surety for your house.”
Lady Eleanor would have fainted, but she somehow managed to keep her feet. She looked up at her husband. “I must trust that man with another of my children?” Her heart hammered violently in her chest and she quailed under the weight of her grief. “That . . . that . . . butcher?”
“Stiev Horwath has come to bring the child to Kingfountain,” her husband said, his look full of misery. “If we do not choose, he will execute our entire family for treason now.”
Lady Eleanor sobbed against her husband’s chest. It was a choice no mother should be forced to make. Should she sacrifice one child so that all the others might live? But King Severn was ruthless and cunning. Would the child she selected be the only of her children to survive?
She wept bitterly, swallowed by grief and unable to think. Who could she part with? Why had the choice even been given to her if not to make her suffering more acute? She hated the king. She hated him with all her passion, all her grief. How could she decide such a thing? How would she hand one of her boys over to a man who had murdered his own brother’s sons? The king’s hands were so wet with blood a trail probably dribbled wherever he went.
In her grief, she did not hear the door open or the soft padding of feet. She did not notice until Owen’s arms wrapped around their legs.
He squeezed them both so hard, and though she could not hear any words, she could imagine his thoughts, his childlike attempt to comfort them. There, there, Maman, Papan. There, there! It will be all right, Maman, Papan. There, there!
She stared down at her son, her innocent son. And then a memory stirred.
A memory of the royal midwife who had saved his life.
Her chest became tight with anticipation. Perhaps she could get a secret message to the sanctuary of Our Lady, a plea to protect her son, the boy who had been saved once before. She could endure the separation, the despair, so long as she could cling to a thread of hope.
She knew that a thread was all she could expect.
* * *
The Ceredigic are a highly superstitious people. Then again, so are most of the fools born to women. They have an ancient belief in the power of water that comes from legends no one even knows anymore. It is all chuff and flax. They build massive sanctuaries next to rivers. Our Lady of Kingfountain is actually built within the river, at the gorge of a breathtaking waterfall. These sanctuaries grant men protection from the law. Many a thief lives within these hallowed domains, with their reflecting pools, babbling fountains, and pleasing gardens—stealing by day and sleeping on the sanctuaries’ protected tiles by night. These they call fountain-men. All because of an ancient whim that the privilege of sanctuary should last so long as the river flows and the waters fall. It is among these scum at Our Lady where I spend my days watching the king’s enemies. I detest my work at times. I am so bored with this.
—Dominic Mancini, Espion of Our Lady of Kingfountain
* * *
CHAPTER TWO
The Duke of North Cumbria
Owen loved to play by himself and could entertain himself for hours at a time—whether by stacking tiles in a row before knocking them down, marshaling lead soldiers to war, or reading to himself. He was talkative with his family, and when it came to swinging wooden swords with his siblings, he was usually the one who made others cry, even his sisters. But put him in a room with a single stranger, and he would skulk behind a chair and observe the newcomer with wary eyes until he or she left.
That was how he had watched Lord Horwath. Only when the duke left Tatton Hall, Owen was riding behind his saddle, terrified and so stricken by surprise that he could not have spoken to anyone if he had tried. As they rode away from his family, his mother’s tears glistening on her cheeks, he wondered if he would ever be able to speak again.
Tatton Hall was his world, and he knew the innermost corners of it from basement to garret. There were some parts of the manor he was afraid of—the wine cellar was dark and had a funny smell—but there were secret places that only he knew, places where he could hide himself away and never be found. The gardens were vast and he had spent countless days enjoying the simple pleasures of running in the grass or resting on beds of leaves to watch the ants and ticklebugs crawl in the earth. He loved how the ticklebugs would coil themselves up into little pebbles that he could roll around on his palm. And then, when he held still, their little legs would start squirming again until they were upright and he’d let them crawl around his hand in circles.
Owen loved nature and the outdoors, but he loved the indoors even more. Books fascinated him, and the effect that letters had on his eyes was much like the thrill of the ticklebugs on his skin. When he read, it was as if he were transported to some dreamland where he could not hear whispers or shouting. He read anything and everything he could get his little hands on, and he remembered it all. His hunger for books was never satisfied, and his favorites were stories about the exploits of the Fountain-blessed.
Tatton Hall disappeared with the sound of clopping hooves. His entire childhood was being banished. Horwath rode stiffly in his saddle, saying nothing to the child as they rode together, except for an occasional question about whether he was hungry or thirsty or needed to use the privy when they stopped to rest the horses.
The duke was not a giant of a man, and he was older than Owen’s father. Beneath his black velvet cap, his hair was thick and gray, cut short around the nape of his neck, and he had a thick goatee to match. His face carried a stern, sour expression that told Owen he did not enjoy escorting a boy of eight summers across the kingdom, and wanted the task done as quickly and painlessly as possible. The duke stayed almost as silent as Owen, while the knights of his household joked amongst themselves and were far more interesting companions to observe.
All the nobles of the realm had badges and mottos. Owen was particularly proud of his own family’s, having seen it all his life. The badge of House Kiskaddon was called the Aurum, and it was a slash of bright blue decorated with three golden bucks’ heads with sharp, thornlike antlers. Horwath’s livery was red with a golden lion with an arrow through its open mouth. Owen did not like the look of it, for he could not stop thinking of the lion’s pain. The duke had the badge on his tunic, and his standard-bearer, who rode on a horse immediately behind them, carried a flag bearing the image, announcing to everyone who they were and to stay away. Since some of the knights had bows as well as swords, Owen kept his mouth shut for more than one reason.
The boy lost track of time as they rode. Several days had passed. Each morning the duke would jostle him awake at dawn, frown at him, and lead him back to the horse. Owen said nothing. The duke said nothing. It was like that all the way to Kingfountain.
When Owen was three years old, he had come to the royal city of Ceredigion with his family. Enough time had passed that he only had vague snatches of the memory. But as they approached the city from the main road, those little memories began to fuse together and it looked vaguely familiar.
What was striking about Kingfountain was that it had been built around a vast river just at the point where the ground sharply gave way to a raging waterfall. No matter how swollen or low the river was, the waterfall never stopped. There was a large island in the middle of the river where a sanctuary had been constructed—Our Lady of Kingfountain. Huge boulders and rocks emerged from the falls, some with spindly trees somehow clinging to them in spite of the surge of foaming water.
Owen knew the building bore that name because of legends from the past, but none of his reading had been able to explain it to him in as much detail as he wanted. The texts he had tried reading to learn more were full of knights, battles, and disparate kingdoms that no longer existed, but they were written in a style too long and boring to hold his interest. The sanctuary had two sturdy towers and a series of arches that loomed over the back shell of the building. The waterways under the arches always flowed, making the sanctuary a replica of the waterfall itself. On one bank of the river lay the city proper, with its wedge-shaped roofs and smoking chimneys. The noise of bleating goats, lowing oxen, and trundling carts and wagons was barely discernible through the constant roar of the waterfall. On the other bank of the river, on the high ground, stood the palace, and it made Tatton Hall seem like a toy in comparison.
A stone bridge connected the palace to the island and several wooden bridges connected the island to the main shore and the rest of the city. It was a breathtaking sight, and Owen kept leaning in the saddle to get a better view. The rushing of the waterfall could be heard from miles away, the steady churn of waves that sounded like a constant storm.
The palace was built on a green hill full of lush woods and had many tiers and layers, with sharp-edged walls and easily a dozen turrets flying the royal banners. Owen could see gardens and trees rising above portions of the old stone walls, and to his inexperienced eye, it looked as if the castle had stood for thousands of years. Still, the facade was free of ivy or vines, and had been meticulously kept.
So this would be his new home. The king had summoned Owen to live in the palace as his ward. Owen’s older brother Jorganon had also lived at Kingfountain for a time. And now he was dead. Was that why Maman and Papan had wept so much when Owen left? The palace did not feel like a home. It felt like a monument, a relic of the ages, a dangerous place.
As they rode into the city, they were announced by trumpets at the gate and Owen found himself stared at by hundreds of strangers. Some looked at him with pity, which made him even more uncomfortable and shy, and he buried his face in the duke’s cloak to hide.
The hooves clopped against the cobbles as they rode through the city and the omnipresent noise from the falls. Eventually Owen peeked out again and stared down at the shops and swarms of people. He soaked in the sights, unable to comprehend the massive size of such a place, his senses overwhelmed by the noise and confusion. He tried to stifle his emotions, but he found himself crying, his heart breaking with sadness that none of his family was there to shelter him. Why had he been chosen to go to Kingfountain? Why not one of the others?
Horwath became aware of his little sobs after a while and turned in the saddle to look down at him. “What is it, boy?” he asked gruffly, his goatee bending into a frown.
Owen looked into his eyes, afraid to say anything at all, let alone reveal his true feelings. He tried to stifle his tears, but that only made them worse. He felt the blobs of water rolling down his cheeks. He was miserable and lonely, and though the events of the last few days seemed like a nightmare, he was beginning to realize that the nightmare was his new life.
The duke waved one of his knights over. “Fetch the lad a muffin. Over there.”
“Aye, my lord,” said the knight, and rode off ahead.
Owen did not want a muffin. He wanted to go back to Tatton Hall. But nothing would have convinced him to say that. He trembled violently, clutching the duke’s cloak, feeling sick to his bones as he stared at the arrow-pierced lion on the badge. The horse continued its slow progress until the knight returned and offered Owen a pale brown muffin with tiny dark seeds. Though he did not want it, the boy accepted it without a word of thanks and clutched it tightly. It was soft and bigger than his hand, and the sweet smell wafting from it reminded him of the kitchen at home. Soon his gasping sobs quieted and he rubbed his wet nose on the back of his sleeve. The muffin continued to tempt him and he finally succumbed and took a bite. The bread of the muffin was like cake and the seeds crunched a bit when he bit down on them. He had never had this kind before, but it was delicious, and he wolfed it down.
They reached one of the bridges leading to the sanctuary and Owen perked up, nervous about crossing a bridge over such a mighty river. What if the bridge washed out while they were on it and they were all swept to their deaths over the waterfall? He smiled at the thought, imagining how fun that might be—until the end. The force of the river thrummed against the wooden bridge, causing a giddy feeling of nervousness to twine around the muffin in Owen’s stomach. He clutched the duke’s cloak more tightly, feeling the tromp of the hooves.
Though they reached the island of the sanctuary, there was no need to enter the holy grounds. Men milled around the fountain yard of the sanctuary, and a few of them rested their arms on the gates to watch the duke’s entourage pass. The men were an unkempt, beggarly bunch, and some stared at Owen with open curiosity. He peeked at them before hiding his face once more in the folds of the duke’s cloak.
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