by Jeff Wheeler
Owen felt rankled by the objection, although he had expected it all along. He pulled his hand away and turned to meet the eyes of the lord marshal. “I don’t think it’s your place to reverse the word of a duchess, my lord,” Owen said icily. “Is she beholden to you in some way?”
Roux’s eyes blazed with white-hot fire.
Lady Sinia reached out and touched Roux’s arm. “My lord, truly. I do not make this decision rashly or lightly. I hold your counsel in the highest respect and regard, as I always have.”
“It would seem not,” he sniffed, barely controlling his temper. Then he turned on his heel and stormed out of the chamber.
Owen watched him leave. When he glanced back at Sinia, he saw a disappointed frown tug the corner of her mouth, but it was gone in an instant. “How long can I persuade you to linger in Ploemeur?” she asked.
Owen risked a look back at the door, where all the servants were gathered, giving him hateful looks. He had come there to alienate and offend. He had succeeded with everyone except the duchess herself. Or perhaps she was just better at disguising her true emotions. He warily reached out to her with his magic, letting the ripples of the Fountain, which he had felt constantly since entering Brythonica, gently flow from him.
The reaction he truly hoped to see was from Lady Sinia herself. The magic glided from his fingertips, traveling through the duchess like a vapor. He sensed her stiffen, her eyes crinkling slightly, as if a breeze had given her a chill. Then he felt himself brushing against a huge dam of power. She was Fountain-blessed herself; he could sense her power like a vast lake. Her blue eyes met his, her mouth showing neither resentment nor intrigue. She was letting him observe her without doing anything to push away his intrusion. It felt insulting, so he drew his magic back.
But not without learning her weakness. If she stopped breathing, her power would be completely severed. She was as vulnerable as a sparrow. The thought of breaking her neck filled him with utter revulsion.
Her nostrils flared just a little. “Good night, my lord,” she said dismissively, and turned and walked away.
Sinia’s steward, a man named Thierry, escorted Owen to one of the royal apartments in the castle. It was beautifully furnished and possessed a small fountain within it, a tiny one that chirped like a little bird as it bubbled. The floor was polished marble, the curtains expensive and thin and gauzy, and the colors light and festive. Several surfaces were decorated with beautiful vases filled with fresh flowers.
He walked like a man in a trance, only partially aware of his surroundings. He was now betrothed to the Duchess of Brythonica. Even though he had come to Ploemeur with that express purpose, he had never imagined it happening, let alone so quickly. Part of him wanted to laugh. Part of him wondered if he should break it off immediately. But while his feelings were anything but simple, he could not deny he was acutely curious about the Montfort heiress and her impressive power. He had always suspected Roux to be the strong one in her realm. He was keen to learn more about her, about this place.
Owen’s men were bunked in the armory, and he had given orders to Captain Ashby to spend their stay inspecting the castle’s defenses and planning siege strategies. While the castle could protect the court and the chief nobles, it was far too small to accommodate the population of Ploemeur. That left the majority of the people incredibly vulnerable. It would be easy to land an army in Brythonica and siege it, but the siege would be long and tedious.
Owen only half listened as Thierry explained the duchess’s daily schedule; he was preoccupied with watching Etayne examine the doors, windows, and all other possible entrances and exits.
“My lord?” Thierry sounded aggrieved.
“Yes, what was that again?” Owen asked.
Thierry’s face wrinkled with stern anger. He was an older man with steel-gray hair combed forward in the Occitanian style, and a colorful doublet, but his face was lined with crags and wrinkles. “I said, would my lord wish to join Lady Sinia at the supplicant hearing, or during the time when the artists are painting?”
Owen looked at the man in feigned confusion. “Why would I care about either of those things?”
Thierry grit his teeth. “She is very busy, my lord, and wishes to afford you the courtesy of her time tomorrow. It was my thinking that you would benefit from hearing about the troubles presented to her for resolution. Or you may be interested in the art of this kingdom, which is one of our great treasures.” He rocked on his heels, obviously exasperated that Owen hadn’t been listening. “There is also an archery tournament tomorrow,” he added. “Perhaps some of your men might wish to impress us all with their talents?”
Owen sighed, wanting the conversation to be done. The ruse to be over. Thierry was assuming Owen actually intended to marry the girl, which was far from certain. He clapped Thierry on the shoulder. “I’ll let you know in the morning.”
The steward scowled. “The . . . the morning?”
“Of course!” Owen said cheerfully. “I’m exhausted from the ride and may sleep quite late tomorrow. I’ll let you know when I’m ready to see the duchess.”
It was calculated to make Thierry apoplectic and it worked. The steward had a difficult time remaining civil in the face of such an outrage. “I beg your leave then, my lord.”
“No need to beg,” he answered offhandedly. “You couldn’t leave here quickly enough.”
Thierry scowled, bowed stiffly, and then stormed out of the room. He clearly wanted to slam the door, but he remembered himself in time and shut it gently.
“You almost sounded like the king when you said that last part,” Etayne offered slyly.
Owen folded his arms and stared at the door. “Sarcasm doesn’t require much effort when you have ample practice.” The sun was beginning to set, painting the fleecy clouds a rich orange. He crossed the room to the iron-and-glass door to the balcony and stepped outside. The platform jutted off the cliff, giving him an impressive view of the bay and the flickering lights far below. The air was salty from the sea.
Etayne joined him. “One would have to be mad or quite skilled to climb up here from below,” she said. “The doors have sturdy bolts. The locking mechanisms are unsophisticated. The vases of flowers could be intended to hide the scent of poison, so we might want to dump them out.”
Owen chuckled and turned, pressing his back against the rim of the balcony as he looked at her. “You think someone will try and kill me now?”
She smirked. “I think everyone here in Ploemeur is going to want to kill you after what you just did.”
“She was expecting it,” Owen said, shaking his head. “I didn’t surprise her at all.”
“Lord Roux was surprised, that much was obvious.”
Owen nodded. “He was. He reacted just as I expected he would. Which surprises me, because he’s usually one step ahead of me. But Sinia wasn’t surprised. I don’t think she’s the helpless damsel I thought she was.”
Etayne came closer so that he could hear her whispered words. “Yes, you thought Lord Roux was keeping her on a leash.”
“I did,” he said. “But not anymore. I wouldn’t go so far as to say he’s the one on the leash. But they are close. She respects him, not fears him.”
“I noticed that as well,” Etayne said. “I felt you use the magic when you were standing with her. What did you learn, if you don’t mind my asking?”
He raised his eyebrows and chuffed. “She’s one of us,” he said knowingly. “And her access to the magic is both vast and well controlled. She could sense me probing her. She let me do it, but it offended her, I think.”
She smiled playfully. “I remember when you did it to me onboard the ship all those years ago. It does make a girl feel rather vulnerable. Did you learn her weakness? Does she even have one?” The last remark sounded a little jealous.
Owen was not ready to share that information, especially not with a poisoner—friend or not. “I pulled back as soon as I realized what she was,” he answered evasivel
y. Her eyes narrowed slightly, her usual sign of disbelief.
“Have you seen the symbol on the vases?” he asked, both because he wanted to change the subject and because he wanted to know. “It’s on the gate, it’s—”
“Everywhere,” she interrupted. “Yes. But I don’t know what it means. You should ask her when you see her tomorrow. If they’ll even let you after how vulgar you’ve been.” She gave him another sly look. “Should we even bother disguising who I am? That you brought a poisoner with you should add to the offense you are deliberately inflicting.”
Owen chuckled, folding his arms. He stared at Etayne, but he was thinking about Sinia. The duchess had always intrigued him, in part because he’d encountered Roux so often without learning anything about her. Based on the mayor of Averanche’s assessment, he’d expected her to be a beauty, and she was, but his other expectations had been trumped. She was not the puppet he’d expected.
The duchess had lost her father at a young age, and her mother not too long after. As a child thrust to the helm of command, she had been guided and couched by people like Roux until she reached adulthood. That was how they did things in Occitania and its independent duchies. The people respected the authority of the family. Uncles didn’t snatch thrones from children. There was a sense of honor in that. Ceredigion’s rulers were known to be more ruthless, which was part of why Owen had suspected the worst of Roux.
“When we met Marshal Roux in the woods, there was something there,” he said, rubbing the stubble on his lip. “I’m sure you felt it too. I want to see it. Maybe I’ll ask Sinia to take me there. Or maybe I’ll go there without asking.”
“Or I could go on ahead,” Etayne offered with a nod. “Why don’t I do that tonight?”
Owen shook his head. “They’re expecting something like that from us. I don’t want to give them an excuse to hunt you. You’re supposed to be protecting me.”
“I could protect you better if I stayed with you,” she hinted.
“No, I have other plans for you tonight. I’d like you to disguise yourself as a servant and get to know the castle. I’m uncomfortable because I don’t know this place. Are there dungeons? Where is the duchess’s bedchamber?” She gave him an arch look. “I’m not suggesting anything! But this is a new place, and we don’t have our bearings. See what you can learn inside the castle before venturing out.”
“Of course,” she answered, nodding slightly.
Owen heard an unfamiliar noise, the slight creak of door hinges being clandestinely shut. His hearing had always been especially keen—it was one of his abilities from the Fountain. Then there was the soft scuff of a padded shoe on the marble floor.
Etayne heard it as well, and there was a thin knife in her hand in an instant. She always kept it strapped to her forearm beneath her gown. Owen had not changed out of his dusty traveling clothes, so he still had his sword strapped to him. He gestured for Etayne to stay put and she shook her head no.
Owen took a hesitant step to the side of the balcony door, angling his body sideways to provide less of a target if someone had come with a bow. The drapes by the balcony concealed whoever was in the room, but he could see a shadow moving slowly, as if the intruder was searching for something hidden.
Etayne stepped forward, dagger behind her back, gripping the tip between her fingers in preparation to throw it. She pushed the curtain aside, and Owen caught a glimpse of the woman who had entered his chamber.
He gripped Etayne’s knife arm to prevent her from hurling the weapon.
A memory darted in Owen’s mind. Recognition. He blinked rapidly, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. The woman was much older than the last time he’d seen her, probably thirty. She wore the fashionable gown of a lady-in-waiting, not a servant, and it fit her well. But it was her face that jarred him. He knew that face.
With the curtain flung aside, the woman saw him and Etayne on the balcony. When her eyes met his, she startled and gasped his name, her hand clutching her breast in surprise. “Owen! It’s you! It’s really you!”
His legs felt weak. The last time he had seen her was sixteen years ago when he watched her enter a boat bound for Occitania with his parents and other siblings. She was the oldest after Jorganon’s death.
It was his sister, Jessica Kiskaddon.
CHAPTER NINE
Haven
At first Owen doubted what his heart knew. So much time had passed since he had last seen his sister. In that fraught moment, he knew one thing: he hoped it was her. He could sense the Fountain’s whispers in the night air, but it was not coming from Jessica. And it did not reveal anything to him. His sister rushed to him and pulled him into a warm embrace. She touched him, kissed him, smearing wet tears on his cheek despite her attempts to wipe them away with her wrist, then stroked his hair affectionately, her fingers grazing the spot of white still embedded in his unruly locks.
“How are you here, Sister?” he demanded. It felt as if live coals were hissing in his chest. He had never thought to see her, to see any of them again. The wedding band on her finger winked up at him, telling him that she was a Kiskaddon no longer. His eyes feasted on her. She was family—something that had been sundered from his life for too long.
She hiccupped with emotion, shaking her head as she was unable to speak. She tried to quell her tears again and then gripped his shoulder. “It was going to be a surprise. The duchess wanted to share it with you when you arrived, but your coming was so fraught with tension.” She shook her head. “Mother will be so pleased.”
“Mother is here?” Owen said, eyes widening with shock.
Jessica nodded. “We are all here, Owen. You are the last. You who saved our family from extinction. But it was the duchess who saved us from starving.”
His heart ached at the words. “Tell me what happened. I’ve tried to find you, to make sure you were alive and well, but I’ve had no word for years! You should have sent me a message!”
She shook her head. “We could not. You must understand, Owen. Our lives here have been a closely guarded secret. When you defeated Chatriyon, we had to flee for our lives. You cannot understand the depths of the Occitanians’ hatred of you. Remember Azinkeep? The shame of it still haunts this land. And then you came to Chatriyon’s own land and humiliated him. You weren’t even a king but a duke. They sent a poisoner to kill us, but the duchess managed to smuggle us away. We’ve been living in Ploemeur these last few years. We were given new names, a manor house. Papan is in charge of overseeing taxes on the goods traded in our ports. It’s a position of great trust. I am one of the duchess’s ladies-in-waiting. She has been so good to us, Owen. She found me an honorable husband. Our brother Timond is a knight at court. Our sister Ann is here as well. We are so fortunate. But we had to keep our identities secret for fear of us being used to harm or threaten you.”
Owen stared at her, amazed at what he was hearing. “And Lady Sinia did this?”
Jessica nodded emphatically. “She is a noble woman, Owen. A generous and thoughtful soul. She’s lost both her parents, but there is no trace of bitterness. She was so young when she was named the Duchess of Brythonica. Without Marshal Roux’s craftiness and courage, we would have been invaded long ago. She was going to bring you to see us at our manor house, but I couldn’t bear to wait. I needed to touch you and make sure you were real.” She stroked his hair with a pained smile. “You are here. You look . . . rather ragged for a duke.” She sniffed and grimaced slightly. “I was expecting you would arrive in all your state. But you look and smell like a common soldier.”
“I am a soldier,” Owen said with a dark chuckle. “Fighting wars for the king has been my task in life. We’ve had no peace since Ambion Hill.”
Her eyes narrowed with some inner wisdom. “Nor will you, so I fear.”
He wrinkled his brow. “What do you mean, Jessica?”
“It is not my place to say,” she said, pressing her lips together tightly. “But this much I can tell you. There is a reas
on the duchess has chosen to stay as the ruler of Brythonica. Why she refused to become the Queen of Occitania when given the chance. Why she would refuse to become the Queen of Ceredigion if Severn were to demand it.”
“And what is that reason? Jessica, you must tell me if you know.”
She shook her head firmly. “I cannot, Owen. It is not my secret to share. The duchess will, if she trusts you.” She squirmed uncomfortably. “Owen . . . you look so old for one so young. I can see in your eyes how much suffering you have known. You cannot understand how much it grieved us to leave you behind. You saved us. We are not ungrateful; surely you must know that.” She hugged him again and planted a moist kiss on his cheek. “But our family was sundered that day. There has been the ghost of pain these many years. Maman and Papan will be so happy to see you. You must come soon, Owen. It will ease their anguish to see you again.”
Just hearing her endearments caused an ache of pain inside Owen’s bones. He was not a boy any longer. But the childhood hurts were still sore.
“I don’t understand why you couldn’t send word. Why the duchess didn’t tell me.” Despite how wonderful it felt to see her, to be near one who shared his blood, he was suspicious of her motives.
Jessica cupped his cheek. “I’ll send word to Maman that you are here. I live in the castle, naturally. I heard about how you arrived and made your demands.” She looked up to the ceiling and then shook her head. “You were very rude, Owen.”
Hearing it from his sister made the shame of his actions fester. “Well, I’ll admit my entrance was rather unconventional.”
“Now that’s calling a frog a goose!” she teased.
Owen laughed at the statement. “So I’m a frog, am I?”
“You are a handsome lad behind that dirt and dishevelment.” Her eyes narrowed slightly as she gazed over Owen’s shoulder. Her voice dropped very low. “Is that your mistress?”