by Jeff Wheeler
“No, no, not volume six, I asked for volume seven!” Polidoro complained, shaking his head and shooing the young man at his elbow away. “Tanner, bring me another jar of ink, would you? Good lad. Lord Kiskaddon!” he said, brightening instantly as he noticed the new arrivals. “Come in, come in! It has been too long since you’ve visited this humble court historian.” He bowed with a flourish and rose, coming forward to give Owen’s hand a vigorous shake.
“It has been too long, Master Urbino,” Owen said. “I don’t come nearly as often as I should.”
“It’s understandable,” the historian said in a grave tone, looking serious and concerned. “You used to come quite often with a certain young water sprite long ago.” He clucked his tongue, his eyes growing misty. “I rather miss her, you know. She used to talk to me often before leaving for Edonburick. Those were fond memories. I see you mourn her as well. Well, best to wave aside the clouds, and face our fate with courage. What can I do for you, my young lord? Is there another battle you would like to reference? I do have several I’ve been saving for you.” He grinned knowingly at Owen and butted him with an elbow.
“Actually,” Owen said, hoping the man would stop speaking long enough for him to issue his message. “The king sent me here on an errand. He says you can dispel my notion about King Andrew being a historical figure.”
The lanky historian swiped his hand across his gray-haired scalp and pursed his leathery lips. “Did he now? Well, what I told him was that there is no evidence of it. I’m a historian, after all. I’ve been looking at records that go back hundreds of years, to the first Argentine family. But the story of King Andrew is older still. Did you know there is a tapestry in the royal palace of Pree that shows Ceredigion’s invasion by Jessup the Conqueror?” His eyes grew animated whenever he shared obscure historical facts, and he started to gesticulate with his hands. “History told in art! You can see the stories painted instead of printed. So it should not surprise you to learn that there are also pictures of a young boy drawing a sword from a fountain. But it’s impossible to tell when it happened. In some of the pictures, there is a woman in the water who hands Andrew the sword. The sanctuaries have been built to commemorate the event and, as you know, people still toss coins into the fountains and make wishes. It’s a deeply ingrained tradition, Lord Owen. But just because I can’t prove when Andrew lived, doesn’t mean I don’t believe he did. After living here for so many years, after studying the references over and over again, I’ve come to appreciate them like the sound of beautiful music.”
Owen started pacing and rubbing the growth on his chin, then caught himself when he noticed Etayne watching him with an amused smile. “The king asked specifically about the prophecy of the Dreadful Deadman.”
Polidoro nodded. “You know almost as much about it as I do, of course. You’ve often asked me about the mantic prophecies.”
That word, Sinia’s word, caught Owen’s attention. “The mantic prophecies?”
“Yes, that’s the word we used to describe them. They are prophecies of the past or the future. There have always been certain Fountain-blessed individuals who possess mantic gifts. The Wizr Myrddin, for example, had that gift. As do you, naturally. The Sirens shared that gift, but they weren’t mortal.”
Owen held up his hand. “The Sirens?”
Polidoro looked at him in surprise. “They are mythological creatures, Owen. Very nasty. I thought you knew of them. They are a type of water sprite—one of the more malevolent ones.”
Owen glanced at Etayne and then back at the historian. “I’ve not heard of them specifically. Tell me more?”
“It’s an ancient legend,” Polidoro said, sitting on the edge of his desk and rubbing his hands briskly together. “The legend comes from Genevar, I believe. There are many islands in that area, and they’ve always been a trading nation. According to their history, any sailors who traveled too close to the rocky islands of the Sirens risked destruction. Sirens were beautiful female creatures . . . not mortals, but from the Deep Fathoms. Their song would entice the sailors—so much so that they would crash their ships into the rocks. The songs were mantic, personal to each sailor. Only one man survived the Sirens. He was Fountain-blessed, so their song could not drive him mad. The Sirens are a myth, of course. Shipwrecks are caused by storms, not water sprites, but just because something isn’t real doesn’t mean people won’t believe in it.”
Owen’s heart hammered in his chest as Polidoro spoke. Water sprites. He remembered hearing about the water creatures who lived in the Deep Fathoms when he was a child. Mancini had even accused Evie once of being one. According to legend, some water sprites were left to parents who couldn’t bear children to raise them in the mortal world. Pieces began to tumble together in Owen’s mind. When he and Sinia had stood on the beach with the smooth glass, none of the waves had touched her. He had seen her step into the Fountain and the water had appeared to disperse from her. Was it because she was a Wizr? Or was it because she had other powers he could not understand? If she was a water sprite, was she the benevolent or malevolent kind?
“You look astonished,” Polidoro said, quirking his brow. “Have I troubled you?”
He swallowed. “These water sprites—the Sirens—from mythology. Did they have names?”
The historian nodded. “Oh yes, they had names listed in the myths. Let me think.” He tapped his chin and scrunched up his brow. “Aglayopee, Lukosia, Ligeia, Molpine, let me think . . . hmm . . . Thelxia, Kelpie, and . . . what was the last one? I can’t quite remember . . . oh, I’ve got it!” He snapped his fingers loudly. “Peisinia!”
My dearest Owen,
I enjoyed the note you wrote and have read it through often. It shows me part of your heart, and while ink is but a poor substitute for words, it is better than silence. Difficulties face us. The king will not accept defeat willingly.
About myself, as you requested. My father made me practice my penmanship repeatedly as a child. I apologize if my words are written too fancifully, but it pleased my father, and I wished to please him. I am also fascinated by drawing, so I have always treasured illuminated manuscripts and imagined the little pictures on the pages coming to life. I thought that if I could make a picture seem real enough, it would become real. When I learned about my gifts, I discovered a word from the ancient language of the Wizrs. The word means “breath,” but it also means “life.” Do you know what I speak of? Here is a little picture I have drawn for you, of the breed of butterfly I am named after. A little gift for you, along with some berries from the gardens of Ploemeur.
Sinia
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Myrddin
The name—Peisinia—was so hauntingly close to the duchess’s, it made Owen’s stomach lurch with dread. His gaze sought out Etayne, who stared at him with open worry and surprise on her face, emotions she quickly subdued.
“You have a remarkable memory,” Owen said to the historian, struggling to control his tone. Sinia did not seem like a negative influence in the world. Her people admired and respected her, and he had witnessed evidence of her compassion more than once. He did not relish the idea of being duped by anyone, though, and the mere possibility that she was not what she seemed twisted his stomach into knots.
Polidoro waved it off. “I do have a prodigious memory for minute details. It serves my occupation. The king wished to know about the Dreadful Deadman prophecy,” he said, tapping his long fingers against his chin. “Is there anything in particular he wanted to know?”
With difficulty, he managed to choke out, “You named the source as Geoffrey of Dundas. Can you tell us anything else? Anything from deeper in the past?”
“Certainly,” Polidoro said, wagging his finger at Owen. “Geoffrey was merely transcribing one of the prophecies of Myrddin. The ancient Wizr had the mantic gifts, as you know. With him as an advisor, King Andrew was able to make his empire grow ever stronger. There were always plots to do away with the Wizr and prevent his counsel from reach
ing the king. The old man could use the Fountain magic to disguise himself, and he was known to wander the kingdom, visiting people and telling fortunes. Sometimes as a little child. Sometimes as a doddering ancient. Several kings of the day would send poisoners to try and kill him, but he foresaw their attacks and eluded them.”
Owen’s interest was piqued yet again. “If I recall correctly from my reading, Myrddin eventually stopped protecting the king, and that’s when King Andrew was mortally wounded and passed on to the Deep Fathoms.”
“Precisely,” Polidoro said, nodding in agreement. “Once the king’s Wizr was removed, the king’s realm began to fall into chaos. He was betrayed constantly, and his dominions crumbled. In those days, the king taught the people the code of Virtus.”
Owen wrinkled his brow. “Isn’t that the family name of the kings of Occitania?”
“Indeed. They’ve carried it for generations. But it is also an ancient ideal. The kingdoms of Ceredigion and Occitania were founded on it. The more common use of the word is ‘virtue’ today, but in ancient times, it encompassed many meanings, including prudentia, iustitia, temperantia, and fortitudo. ‘Prudence,’ ‘justice,’ ‘self-control,’ ‘courage.’ This is what King Andrew taught his people. To become a knight in his realm meant a person had to embody all of these traits, to demonstrate them in all aspects of their lives before they were bestowed the rank of knighthood. These attributes are famous in the literature, though they are no longer requisite. The early Argentines espoused them publicly, but in their private lives, the burden often felt too heavy.”
“You’ve given me a lot to think about, sir,” Owen said, trying to make sense of it all. “I thank you.” Another thought came to him. “How did they destroy Myrddin in the end? I seem to recall that he disappeared from court and never returned. King Andrew said he was taken away by the Fountain.”
Polidoro gave him a wise look. “Well, that is a story in itself. The Wizr eventually fell in love.”
“Truly?” Owen said with a chuckle.
“Of course. Love overthrows the strongest of men. And women. It was love that united the first Argentine king with the Queen of Occitania. She tricked her husband into divorcing her and then married King Ursus and founded the dynasty that has gone on for centuries now. Love is a powerful force, my lord. More powerful than the Fountain itself, I fear.” He sighed deeply, his thoughts turning more introspective. “Myrddin fell in love with a nobleman’s daughter. The history does not state which kingdom she was from. She persuaded him to teach her his magic so that she might become a Wizr as well. He knew from his visions that she would betray him. But even though he knew it, he could not stay away and he could not prevent it. The water in a river cannot escape the boulders strewn in the path ahead. They can only crash against them. She betrayed Myrddin and captured him beneath a mound of giant stones. They say Myrddin was immortal and could not die. That he is trapped there still. No one knows where he was lost, for he traveled with the girl willingly as she led him to his doom. A sad end for a great man. His last prophecy was about the Dreadful Deadman and the return of the White King. You tell this to King Severn, my boy. As I’ve told you both before, there is no proof that these legends of King Andrew are more than stories. But then again,” he added wryly, lifting his eyebrows, “perhaps the records were drowned in Leoneyis, eh?” He gave Owen a conspiratorial wink.
When Owen returned to the Star Chamber with Etayne, she hastily bolted the door behind them.
“I hardly know what to think,” she said. Before continuing, she rushed to the various spy holes to make sure no one was eavesdropping. Her whole manner communicated agitation and bewilderment.
“What do you mean?” Owen asked, looking for some paper to craft another note to Sinia.
Having finished her inspection, Etayne turned back to him and folded her arms. “You’ve only just met the Duchess of Brythonica. You two are betrothed. It never occurred to me that she might be otherworldly! What if she’s a Siren, Owen? What if her magic is clouding your mind?”
Owen shook his head. He had managed to regain most of his control. “Fountain magic doesn’t work on me unless I permit it. You could try your best to deceive me with one of your disguises, Etayne, but I’d still know it was you. I don’t think I’m under a spell.”
Etayne started to pace. “I don’t trust her.”
“Who? Sinia?”
“Who else?” she said angrily. “She’s been manipulating you from the start. If she truly has mantic gifts like Myrddin, who’s to say she’s not using them to prevent Severn from using Brythonica as a base to attack Chatriyon? She could be defending herself through intrigue.”
Owen took a moment to sort through this possibility, for her words made sense and he was not going to discount them. But his heart told him that Sinia wasn’t deceiving him. She had been truthful when confronted with his suspicions. And she had known about Eyric’s death before it happened. He had the note from her to prove it.
“I don’t know everything,” Owen said after a lengthy pause. “But I’ve decided to trust her. Based on what Polidoro said, not all water sprites are harmful. She’s trying to prevent the destruction of our kingdom. When we brought back the Wizr set, it started to snow. The evidence backs up her claims.”
Etayne looked unconvinced. “I have a bad feeling about her,” she said.
Owen gave her a wary look, wondering if that bad feeling was jealousy. “I’ve already cast the die, Etayne,” he said. “What I intend to do,” he continued, gesturing to the paper and quill, “is ask her directly about the name Peisinia. Is she an otherworldly creature?” He shrugged. “Perhaps. At this point, it wouldn’t surprise me. Did you hear what Polidoro told us? About how Myrddin trained a woman to become a Wizr? How he shared his power and was then trapped under stones?”
Etayne blinked. “The woods in Brythonica. The silver bowl!”
Owen nodded approvingly. “I knew you’d catch on. It all fits. Perhaps Myrddin is still there. Do I dare ask her about it? Is she expecting me to figure it out so she can confirm it? There are riddles inside riddles, and I feel as if I’ve been chipping away the layers to reveal the gem glistening beneath.”
Etayne’s eyes were fearful. “What if she destroys you?” she asked.
Owen sighed. “To be honest, I don’t think she can. Her powers are vast. I sensed them. But I don’t think she can use them against me any more than any other Fountain-blessed could. I’m immune, like that sailor was to the Siren’s song. Back and again, back and again,” he muttered.
A fist pounded on the door, startling them both.
Heart racing in his chest, Owen hurried over to the door and unbolted it. Catsby waited on the other side with two of his knights. The duke of the North looked furious, and when he spoke, his tone was thick with accusation.
“I hear that you’re betrothed to the Duchess of Brythonica.”
Owen felt a blistering retort come to his tongue, but stopped himself from releasing it. He took a steadying breath. “That is true, Catsby. Thank you,” he added, as if the man had congratulated him.
Catsby’s fury heightened to outrage. “Westmarch, the Espion, and Brythonica? It was a ploy all along.”
Owen looked at him in confusion.
Catsby tossed up his hands. “The king’s!” he snorted. “He assured me that the duchess would sooner wed a scorpion than you, that it was a pretext to go to war and nothing would come of it. Now I see that he only wanted to enrich you more.”
“Have a care,” Owen warned him. “You’re not lacking for treasures yourself, man.”
“But he always rewards you the most.” Catsby frowned bitterly. “Well, I’m off to Dundrennan to do the impossible. The people can’t abide me and now I must force them to muster soldiers. It’s not fair that you get all the rewards. I’ve served the king loyally for years.”
Fearing that he’d unleash one of the insults dancing on his tongue if he were to open his mouth, Owen simply nodded.
> Catsby gave him a look of disapproval and then snapped his fingers for the knights to follow him.
Owen shut the door and turned back to Etayne, letting out his breath as he slumped against the wood. “It was harder than I thought it would be.”
“What? Being civil?” Etayne said.
He glowered at her, but couldn’t hold back a grin. She knew him well.
“What are you going to do next?” she asked him.
Owen rubbed his hands together. “I’m going back to the sanctuary. I was going to write the note here and bring it with me, but seeing Catsby and his soldiers reminded me that it would be foolish to carry treasonous notes in my pocket. That’s how Ratcliffe met his end.”
Etayne nodded. “Do you need a disguise before you go?”
“No, I’m going to bring a coin and make a wish at the fountain. What further pretext do I need?”
After collecting a little bottle of ink, a quill, and some paper, he took his coin pouch and walked hurriedly to the sanctuary of Our Lady. There were still piles of correspondence to read, orders to write up for Captain Ashby, who would summon Owen’s retainers for war, but his thoughts still turned to Sinia as he walked. Snow drifted lazily down onto his expensive cloak, adding splotches of white. The air was crisp and cold. Winter had come early. And Owen had brought it with him in a Wizr set.
The grounds of the sanctuary contained fewer people this day, the chill having kept many indoors. Owen brushed off his sleeves as he entered and stood by the main fountain, deliberately choosing to stand on a white tile. He withdrew a coin and studied it a moment. He had intended to feign a prayerful stance and fling the coin in like a pious young man would.