by Jeff Wheeler
The peasants weren’t dirty and unkempt. They were cheerful, hardworking, and exuded a sense of calm and safety that didn’t make sense considering the apparent lack of protection.
Ahead loomed another wood, but this time, the road went through the middle of it. It would be an ideal place for a trap, and Owen’s gut began to clench with wariness. He gave orders for ten men to ride on ahead and ten to remain at the edge of the woods to alert them of an ambush. There were ravens in the trees, their black plumage stark against the silver bark and green glossy leaves. Several cawed and fluttered from branch to branch. Owen had the unmistakable feeling of being watched.
“So many ravens,” Etayne muttered curiously. At her words, about a dozen lifted into the air simultaneously. Owen felt a sudden, piercing dread that the birds would attack them, but they flew away instead, their path hidden by the upper boughs.
As Owen entered the woods, he felt a shudder pass through him. The sense of the Fountain was incredibly strong in the woods. The feeling was ancient, implacable, powerful. It was like being in the grip of a shadow. The hair on the back of his neck and arms stood up with pronounced gooseflesh. His men seemed to be infected by his mood, their eyebrows scowling as they began searching the trees on each side of them.
“The feeling is thicker in here,” Etayne said with worry. “But it’s even stronger that way.” She nodded toward the left side of the road, the woods so dense they couldn’t see far.
Owen gave her a short nod. While the presence of the Fountain was overpowering, it was particularly strong to their left. He felt it drawing him, beckoning him to leave the road, to learn its secrets.
Etayne looked in that direction as well, then glanced back at him with a quirked brow. She was offering to explore it.
Owen shook his head no. But he fully intended to go there on his way out. Something was hidden in the woods. Something he didn’t understand and craved to. Something that might help him in his rebellion.
One of the advance scouts came riding back around the bend, his face flushed. He reined in hard in front of Owen. “My lord, Marshal Roux is ahead with twenty riders.”
He was waiting for us, Owen realized again, frowning at the thought. He knew we were coming. He wasn’t surprised, but it was another sign that Roux was not an enemy he wished to make.
“How are they armed?”
“Like knights,” the soldier said. “More polished than we are.”
“Thank you,” Owen said. He knew the confrontation was inevitable. Best to get it over with quickly. They rode ahead and found the marshal’s knights blocking the road. Their tabards were clean and tidy, the white field with the black raven sigil on it. They held lances with banners as well, each knight armed for battle.
Owen grit his teeth as he approached, slowing the horse to a trot. He glanced at the woods on each side of Lord Roux, hoping to discern movement. There were only more ravens. A whole unkindness of them. He smirked at the thought. Evie had once told him about the various names used to describe groupings of birds. It had taken her nearly an hour to recite them all.
“My lord Kiskaddon, I’m surprised to see you,” Marshal Roux said. As always, he looked wary, proud, and suspicious.
“Are you truly?” Owen answered with a snort of disbelief. “It seems to me as if you were expecting us.”
“Word does travel quickly here.”
“I imagine it does,” Owen countered. He tugged on the reins, stopping his horse in front of Roux’s.
“Why have you come?” Marshal Roux demanded. “We received no message from you. Nothing to state your business.”
“I come with a message from my king,” Owen said evenly. “And I am to deliver it to the duchess in person. Be so kind as to escort us there. As you can see,” he added, gesturing to his unkempt soldiers, “we’re simple soldiers on a mission for our king. There was no time for preamble.”
The lord marshal’s eyes narrowed. He seemed to be sizing Owen up, trying to discern the true reason for his visit.
“This is highly suspicious,” Roux said.
“I can imagine why it would be seen that way,” Owen replied. “We are allies, are we not? Is it not proper for us to discuss matters without a formal invitation?”
“You brought soldiers with you,” Roux pointed out.
“As did you. Why should that concern either of us?”
“And who is she?” Roux asked, looking guardedly at Etayne, his eyes full of distrust.
Owen hesitated before responding. Then he chuckled. “You don’t think I would have come this far out of Ceredigion without suitable protection, do you, Lord Marshal? Do you intend to talk until sunset? It is still a fair journey to the city, is it not?”
Lord Roux frowned at the comment, at Owen’s evasiveness and insinuation—all of which were deliberate. Owen would not give away the purpose of his visit until they were in front of the duchess. This put Roux at a disadvantage.
“Of course you are welcome,” Lord Roux said flatly, with no hint of the sentiment. “The duchess herself ordered me to bring you to her as her guests and allies. She is anxious to meet you, Lord Kiskaddon. Come with me.”
He turned his horse with a sharp tug on the reins, and the pennant bearers hoisted their javelins and rode in organized columns.
The capital of Brythonica was built into a cove off the coast and had expansive quays and docks and ships bearing many flags, especially that of Genevar. The cove was crested by hills on which sat an array of villas and gardened manors. The royal castle was built on a rocky crag at the head of the bay, and the road leading to it was so steep that switchbacks had been dug out of it, making it possible to ascend but incredibly difficult to assault. It was obvious the location of Ploemeur had been chosen carefully, for it was the most defensible structure Owen had seen in Brythonica. It reminded him of Kingfountain palace, only much smaller and more difficult to reach.
Riding up the switchbacks was an arduous affair, and the air soon filled with chalk-white dust from the constant tramp of the horses. As they ascended the rocky hill, Owen could see the beautiful estates stretched out below them, and the fading sunlight and shadows filling the bay lent a purple cast to the stones of the hill.
When they finally reached the castle, Owen was exhausted from the ride and growing concerned that he had blundered into a trap. As he gazed at the structure, he tried to examine it critically, wondering how an invading army could besiege such a place. Even with all of Severn’s sizable resources, it would be no easy feat. The castle could be held for a very long time with minimal guardians. The duchess could defend from the heights while Chatriyon’s army, once the Occitanian king learned about the siege, could ravage the countryside and attack at their rear. It was beginning to look like a foolish venture.
The duchess had well-dressed grooms waiting to take their horses and offer refreshment to the men.
Lord Roux dismounted and immediately made his way over to Owen, tugging off his gloves and stuffing them into his belt. “Your men need time to wash and dress. I would advise a breakfast meeting with the duchess. The view of the bay is exquisite in the morning, and I’m certain—”
“The news I bring is urgent, my lord,” Owen interrupted, clapping his dusty gloves together and letting a cloud plume before him. “It cannot wait.”
Roux’s eyes hardened even more. “You are filthy,” he said angrily.
“I’m a soldier,” Owen replied with a shrug. Then he gave Roux a stern look. “I didn’t come all this way to be trifled with.”
Roux bristled at the choice of words. “Why are you here, Kiskaddon?” he said in a low voice.
“As I told you, my business is with the duchess. Shall we?” He gestured mockingly toward the castle.
Lord Roux tried and failed to conceal his displeasure. He started marching across the bailey at a quick pace. There were decorative urns arranged before the entryway, and Owen stopped when he saw the symbol carved on them. He had never seen it before, but it evoked
the feeling of the Fountain.
How best to describe it? The symbol was like three interlocking horseshoes, the ends facing east, west, and south. In the east/west crescents, two faces in profile had been carved into the stone. One face looked pleasant, well-proportioned. The other face looked sharp, frowning, and angry. A third face pointed down with a neutral expression.
“This way,” Roux scolded, noticing Owen had stopped to gawk at the urns.
As he entered the palace, Owen noticed the symbol everywhere. The floor was decorated in black and white tiles, but unlike the sanctuary of Our Lady of Kingfountain, the tiles weren’t arranged like a Wizr board. Instead they formed a repeating hook design like waves, all the white ones symmetrical to the black ones. He felt the presence of the Fountain strongly in the palace, but as he’d noticed elsewhere in Brythonica, it was everywhere, not anchored to a specific person.
The palace servants were all dressed in fine clothes. Not opulent, but pleasant and colorful. A few servants gave him curious looks and wrinkled their noses slightly in response to his dirty tunic and boots. The interior corridor was quite long, but they eventually reached a pair of open doors guarded by six men. Lord Roux nodded to the guards as he passed, and the men responded with dutiful nods. Owen felt his chest flutter with unease as he prepared to face the ruler of Brythonica. He dreaded fulfilling the duty Severn had given him, suddenly self-conscious of how condescending and provoking the ultimatum would be.
The duchess immediately captured his attention when he entered the room. There was no wondering who she was, no misunderstanding. The mayor of Averanche had said she was beautiful, and he clearly was not blind.
Her name was Sinia Montfort, and she was the scion of one of the ancient noble houses of Occitania. She had wavy gold hair that went all the way down her back, but part was braided and coiffed behind her head. The crown she wore could hardly be called a crown. It was a circlet of gold with ornamented leaves dangling from the band, one just touching her forehead. She had on a pale blue gown studded with small pearls on the front and a surcoat of even paler fabric. Her eyes were blue, even more so than the gown, and they welled with worry. She wasn’t seated on the throne, but pacing near it, her fingers fidgeting with a ring on her right hand. There was a light flush on her cheeks, as if she felt extremely unsettled.
She reminded him a little of Princess Elyse when he had first met her as a little boy. Although she was an undeniable beauty, there did not appear to be any haughtiness to her. When she noticed them enter, the fidgeting with her ring ended and she stood in a regal pose, gazing at him with an expression that was difficult to describe. Not anger, but almost as if she were nervous to see him in an excited way. As if she had been wanting to see him.
Oh dear, he thought with dread. This is going to be awful for her.
The lord marshal approached halfway into the audience hall and then dropped to both knees, bowing his head reverentially. All of the servants mimicked him and dropped down to both knees. That was an unusual custom.
Owen, on the other hand, did not kneel. He was a duke, his station equal to hers. He did incline his head to her.
“You are most welcome to Ploemeur, Lord Kiskaddon,” the duchess said. She inclined her head to him. “Our allies are always welcome. Let me be the first to thank you for rendering aid when we were being invaded.”
Owen felt the irony of her comment like a stab to the gut. At the time, he had helped her avoid a forced marriage with Chatriyon, the King of Occitania. Now the King of Ceredigion had sent him here to press his own proposal.
“No thanks are needed, my lady,” he answered with a shrug of no concern. “You may want to keep your thanks for a better time. I have come on the king’s errand, and he is not known to be a patient man.”
Lady Sinia gestured to Lord Roux and the others to rise, which they did in a uniform manner.
“Lord Kiskaddon would not reveal the nature of his urgent summons to our lands,” Roux said, giving the duchess a sharp look. “It may be best to dismiss the servants ere he—”
“That won’t be necessary at all,” Owen countermanded, deliberately goading the lord marshal. “I don’t intend to stay very long.” Owen began to saunter in the throne room, eyeing the tall columns and decorative vases. He walked up to one and picked it up as if it were his own, noticing the triple crescent symbol was there as well. He set it back down and glanced at Lord Roux, who was turning red with anger and resentment. Etayne had positioned herself among the servants, close enough that she could watch the proceedings and intervene in case things became hostile.
“Why have you come?” Lady Sinia asked politely.
Owen could only imagine how he looked in her eyes. She looked so beautiful, polished, and regal. And here he stood in his dirty boots and sweat-stained tunic. With a scraggly half beard and smudged eyes, his odor clashing with the vase of fresh flowers.
“Well, my lady, it’s really a simple matter,” Owen said offhandedly. “King Severn wishes to enhance the relationship between Ceredigion and Brythonica.” He paused again to admire a curtain, deliberately adding to the suspense. He nodded approvingly, then turned and faced her. He hated himself. He hated what Severn was making him do. What he was trying to make him become.
Get this over with, he chided himself.
Owen let out a breath and then marched up to the duchess. Roux’s hand went for his sword pommel, as if he feared Owen might attack her. The servants gaped at his rudeness and effrontery. Etayne reached for a dagger.
He dropped to one knee in front of Lady Sinia and took her dainty hand in his dirty one, causing a gasp of shock from some of the observers.
“I have come to Plumerie,” he said, deliberately butchering the name of her capital, “to offer you my hand in marriage. My king commands me to wed you, and I must obey. Loyalty binds me, just as it will bind our duchies under the throne of Severn Argentine. What say you, my lady? I must bring my king your answer.”
He stared into her eyes, gritting his teeth, loathing himself for what he was doing.
He couldn’t see Lord Roux’s face, but he could imagine his expression from the tone of his voice. “How dare you,” he growled with barely suppressed outrage. “You, sir, have exceeded all propriety. How dare you speak to her thus!”
Owen tried to look abashed, to give Sinia a helpless shrug to communicate that none of this was his own choice. But he was surprised by the pleased look on her face. The delight in her eyes. This was not the reaction he had expected.
“Yes, my lord,” she said, squeezing his hand. “Yes, I think I will have you.”
My lord Kiskaddon,
The king has arrived back at Kingfountain from the North. There is much ill will between the new duke and the population of the duchy. Catsby has occupied Dundrennan for not even a fortnight and he has already shipped many of the treasures of the palace to his manors in East Stowe and Southport. I thought you’d want to know. While he tries to do this secretly, the servants are appalled and outraged at his blatant plundering. He has also dismissed many of the loyal families who have served the Horwath line for years, and brought in his own men. He may not listen to reason, but I implore you to speak to him as you are highly regarded in this corner of the realm. His actions are stirring the bitterest enmity. One final note—the king has requested companionship for the daughter of King Iago and Queen Elysabeth. There is a foundling at Dundrennan that was requested, a lad about her own age by the name of Andrew. He’ll be sent to Kingfountain shortly. When do you expect to return from your visit to Brythonica?
Kevan Amrein
Kingfountain Palace
CHAPTER EIGHT
Secrets
A pit opened up in Owen’s stomach. He had the queer sensation that he had finally been outmaneuvered, though he had no idea how. Her response had so surprised him that he found himself momentarily rendered speechless, his mouth partway open. He shut it, still at a loss for words, and slowly rose, staring at Sinia incredulously.
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br /> It did not take long before Marshal Roux rushed up to his side. “It takes some gall, my lord,” he said, his voice raw with anger and accusation, “to come hither with such tidings. My lady, I implore you to reconsider such a blatant attempt at extortion! We have not defended Brythonica these many years to surrender it to another king without a fight!”
Owen watched the duchess’s reaction closely, looking for a sign that his hunch was correct, that Lord Roux was the true power behind Brythonica. Perhaps the duchess saw marriage to Owen as her only escape from the man. She still had not released her grip on Owen’s fingers.
But her gaze contained no fear when she turned it to Roux. It was pragmatic, patient. “Lord Marshal, I thank you for your advice and many years of loyal service. I do not make this decision lightly; you may be sure. Long has my duchy been vulnerable to attack. We have enjoyed a long season of peace due to our alliance with Ceredigion.” She returned her gaze to Owen. “I see wisdom in cementing the alliance. I know you wish to return promptly to your king, Owen, but may I beg you to remain for a few days? I would care to show you my domain and discuss terms of the betrothal that would mutually serve our interests. Would that be agreeable to you?”
Again, Owen was dumbfounded, and the throbbing vein in Marshal Roux’s forehead told him he was not alone in that sensation. “My lady, I implore you to heed my warning!” Roux said. “If you allow this alliance to proceed, then everything we have fought for, everything your father fought for, will be ruined!”