by Jeff Wheeler
A wry smile twisted the face of the Espion lieutenant. “It did not require much imagination to figure out where the king was planning to execute you. I had someone stationed at the river in case he planned on throwing you in, but I thought he’d keep with tradition. It’s part of the historical record that the Maid of Donremy was taken to Helvellyn for her execution. I sent word to Clark, knowing that he was already at Dundrennan.”
Owen smiled at the man and nodded. “And it was your idea to hide under blankets in the snow?”
Clark was not the type to appreciate such attention. He nodded curtly.
Iago laughed. “He’s too modest. It was bloody brilliant. He’s an excellent hunter and spy. I tell you, I was tempted to try and kill Severn myself when he came up the mountain so unprotected. If we could have hidden fifty men, it would have been the perfect trap. But I didn’t truly believe he’d leave his army, and we couldn’t risk that he would kill you before we got to him. All went well enough, though, so I shouldn’t complain.”
Evie squeezed his shoulder and he quieted down.
“Let my lady speak,” Iago said with a flamboyant gesture. “This was her strategy after all.”
Owen cocked his head to get a better look at her.
“When we found out you were compromised,” Evie said, “we needed to adjust our plans quickly, knowing we’d face the brunt of the king’s army. I think it’s better this way. He’ll be surrounded and cut off from his supplies. He’s coming to lay siege to the North, but he’ll be trapped here.”
“How so?” Owen asked. “Why can’t he retreat back to Kingfountain?”
She smiled mischievously. “Because your army is blocking the retreat.”
“Captain Ashby?” Owen asked with growing delight.
“Is on your side,” Kevan answered with a nod. “As are your men. And the Duchess of Brythonica’s forces will be arriving in two days. We’ll more than outnumber the king’s.”
Owen smiled. “She’s coming?”
Evie gave him a knowing look, a small smile on her face. “She’s kept us informed of her actions. There is more. Kevan? Tell him about the enemies of Ceredigion.”
Kevan nodded and clasped his hands behind his back. “The Duke of Brugia has breached the defenses of Callait. I see by your look you already knew this. He’s preparing ships to attack Kingfountain. Chatriyon is also marching with his army. They’ve swept into Westmarch behind the duchess’s forces. They’ve been joined by the Legaultans, who seek revenge on Severn for sacking their cities years ago. Westmarch is being fought for like scattered table scraps by hounds.”
Owen stared at him, his stomach clenching with worry. “That makes seven,” he whispered.
“What?” Evie asked him.
Owen stopped pacing. “The prophecy of the Dreadful Deadman says that seven kings will unite against Ceredigion, but I don’t think it literally means kings. Back in the days of King Andrew, each duchy was led by a king. It was a title, a rank, similar to that of a duke today.” He snapped his fingers. “Occitania, Brythonica, Leoneyis—that’s Westmarch—Atabyrion, Legault. In the past, North Cumbria was its own kingdom. And Brugia. That makes seven. Seven kings, or seven rulers, each invading Ceredigion. Severn brought his forces to the North because that is where his most loyal supporters have traditionally come from. This is the fulfillment of the prophecy. Only a new king can unify us again. A young man, hardly a boy, who is the rightful ruler of Ceredigion and who will restore the ancient rights of the sanctuaries.”
“And where is this rightful king?” Evie asked. “Is he still back at the palace? Should we send someone to fetch him?”
They were all looking at him. Only Lady Kathryn, Sinia, and the Deconeus of St. Penryn knew the secret now that Eyric and Etayne had gone on to the Deep Fathoms. “He’s down in the king’s camp with a Wizr board that can destroy all of us.”
Owen rubbed his forehead. It was time to tell them all the truth. He looked at the doors to make sure they were closed. “I must tell you about what I’ve been planning. It’s time you all knew. But before I do, I have a question to ask of you.” He turned to Evie. “Do you know of a boy in the castle named Carrick?”
Evie nodded. “He’s the son of my grandfather’s huntsman, Fergus. They’ve been out hunting meat to feed the soldiers. The boy is the best hunter in these parts. He has a gift.”
Owen smiled. “He’s Fountain-blessed.”
Owen’s legs ached from the long climb into the mountains behind the fortress of Dundrennan. He was wrapped in bearskin leggings, thick gloves, and several shirts and tunics, yet it was barely enough to suppress the chill of the descending night. Clark hiked alongside him, longbow at the ready, as did Evie, dressed in her sturdy leather boots. They followed Carrick, a sinewy lad with gray eyes and shorn hair, and his father. Fergus had a salt-and-pepper beard and an animated manner, but Carrick was quiet and sober-minded. He seemed older than his seventeen summers. They had warned the others that they were hunting in bear country and the beasts were especially hungry due to the early winter. They should be hibernating, but there was still the risk that some would be out looking for meat to sustain them.
Iago had remained behind with Kevan to oversee the castle’s defenses. He’d given Owen a wary look before they left, conveying the message that he had better protect Evie . . . or else. It was clear that while he trusted his wife on the jaunt, he was not happy about the risk they were taking by leaving the safety of Dundrennan.
They followed the river at the head of the waterfall high into the mountains, where water melted from a natural glacier older than any of the kingdoms. It was this glacier that was the source of the river of Kingfountain.
“There’s the cave,” Carrick said, pointing. There was nothing but ice and shattered rock this high in the mountains. The river was narrow enough to span with their legs at this point, but the ice cave extended deep into the throat of the glacier.
Fergus whistled with respect. “My boy found it,” he said boastfully, turning to Evie. “I’ve been by this way a dozen times without ever thinking it more than a crag of ice and rock, but he felt something calling to him from inside it. He can hear things we can’t.”
Now that he was close, Owen could sense something too. The Fountain’s magic welled in this place, as much as it did in Brythonica. He could sense power emanating from the mountains. The closer they’d come to the source of the river, the more he’d felt his magic reserves fill up.
They paused before the ice caves, and Carrick and Fergus brought out torches and lit them with flint and iron. The ripples of the flames would help them see as night shrouded the sky. Stars had begun to appear in the liquid expanse overhead, higher than the clouds that hung oppressively over Dundrennan.
Carrying the torches, the hunters led the way into the caves. The river was frozen just inside the cave, a sheet of continuous ice that led the way in, but the travelers’ boots were equipped with leather straps covered in nail spikes. The torchlight glimmered off the strange walls that were clear and warped like glass. The light from the torches made dazzling colors that illuminated the way ahead.
“I told you I couldn’t miss this,” Evie whispered to Owen as they walked, her breath coming out in great puffs of white. “We always wanted to visit the caves.”
With a gloved hand, Owen touched the rippled ice of the walls as Carrick led them deeper into the cave. The only sounds were the scratching noise of their boot spikes and the puffs of frosty air they exhaled.
Around the first bend, there was a cleft of solid stone that had been split down the middle. Owen stared at it in surprise. The rock looked like it had been cleaved down the middle by an enormous axe, though the boulder was too big for any mortal weapon. Fragments of rock lay askew around it. As Owen passed the area, he rubbed his hand along the sheer surface of the rock, his mind alive with the Fountain.
It is the power of the sword, it whispered to him. The power of ice. It is the White King’s blade.
&
nbsp; Owen shuddered as the knowledge passed through him.
“It is this way,” Carrick said solemnly, pointing.
Around the next bend, the cave ended reaching the face of the glacier. Suspended in the ice, about a foot deep, was the outline of a sword trapped inside. A feeling of magic and reverence hung thick in the air.
They all crowded around the blade, the torches casting their shadows on the ground.
“I thought to bring a pickaxe,” Carrick said softly, “but I dared not.”
Owen’s heart beat wildly as he stared at the ancient weapon. The sword of the Maid. The sword of King Andrew.
When he pulled the glove off his hand, he felt the cold bite into his skin. The ring on his finger began to glow. He readied himself, preparing for the pain he was expecting. As he reached out to grasp the sword, the ice began to billow out like fog. He plunged his hand into it, experiencing cold so intense that it burned. Wincing with pain, he pushed harder. When he gripped the sword, the ice around it became as insubstantial as a cloud, and he drew it out of its prison. The pain immediately began to recede, the scabbard at his hip sustaining him, and he stared in awe at the weapon he had drawn out.
The Maid’s sword had been dubbed Firebos, so named because it had been drawn from the fountain of St. Kathryn in the village of Firebos in Occitania. With the sword, the Maid had driven the Ceredigion army back to their prewar borders, putting the duchy of Westmarch as the borderland between the warring kingdoms that had once, centuries before, been united.
The weapon that Owen drew from the glacier matched the description he’d once read about. The sword had five stars on the blade, and the metal was striated like wood grain, except in various shades of gray and silver.
When Owen held it in his hands and gazed on it, he felt a surge of magic shoot up his arms, and he knew without a doubt it was the Maid’s blade—the weapon of King Andrew himself. Images from countless battles flashed through his mind in quick succession. A sound like a ringing bell filled his ears.
“This was worth the climb,” Evie said after a pent-up breath. She gazed at Owen with eyes full of wonderment, and he allowed himself to relish her admiration for a moment.
“Praise be the Fountain,” Fergus uttered reverently as he stared down at the hole in the solid ice.
To the king’s traitor:
I, your sovereign lord, have played Wizr against you enough times to know when the game is lost. You have outmaneuvered me, and I submit to your claims. While you prepared a young boy to miraculously claim this unruly realm, I know you have secretly coveted the power for yourself. May your stint as lord protector prove more favorable to your fortunes than mine did. I relinquish my authority willingly and will submit to the ignominy of the dungeon or the river as many of my forebears have patiently endured. I send you Chancellor Catsby to negotiate my surrender. The hollow crown is yours.
Severn Argentine, Lord of Ceredigion
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The King’s Word
Owen sat astride his horse, ready for battle, with a thick chain hauberk beneath his heavy fur cloak, bracers on his arms, and a shield strapped to his saddle harness. The hilt of Firebos protruded from its scabbard, and he felt the magic of the blade thrumming against his hip. The blade sensed the looming battle, and was eager for it. A flock of young squires stood nearby with spears, in case they were needed.
The road was covered in freshly fallen snow, but trample marks showed the paths of the horses that had been ridden to and from the village throughout the night. Hastily built pavilions had been erected in the woods on either side of the road, but no one had slept that night, especially not Owen, for fear the king would try to slip away in the dark. The Espion who were loyal to Kevan had revealed that the king was still sequestered in a wealthy lord’s house. His army had marched the streets all night, expecting a night attack from Owen that hadn’t come. The two armies had faced each other silently, waiting for dawn to break the deadlock.
Kevan Amrein sat astride as well, but he was only there to relay intelligence about the king’s movements. He was not a warrior, and would not ride into battle should one break out.
Severn was in a terrible position. He had the mountains of Dundrennan at his back. Evie and Iago held the high ground and the keep. If the king attacked Owen’s army, they would attack him from the rear. If he tried to assault the castle, Owen would flank him from behind. The two armies were evenly matched, but Brythonica’s forces were already hastening to join them.
“How far is the duchess by your reckoning?” Owen asked Kevan, leaning on the saddle.
The Espion had a day’s growth on his chin from not shaving. “Two days, maybe less,” he said. “The roads are getting worse by the day. Will this infernal storm ever end?”
“No, it won’t,” Owen said, gazing down at the road toward the village. “Not until it’s over.” The biggest question in his mind was whether Severn would fight. Owen could have arranged for the king’s abduction. It would not have been easy, but there were many who would be willing to do such a thing to prevent bloodshed. But Owen did not want to topple Severn through trickery. A king deserved the chance to die in battle if he so chose. But it was not a battle Owen was anxious to start.
Captain Ashby’s horse rode up from the camp and aligned next to his.
“What news, Ashby?” Owen asked. “How are the men?”
Ashby had a serious cast to his face, but he looked confident too. They had led many battles together, and the older man had learned to trust Owen’s instincts and strategies.
“They are nervous, as you can well imagine,” the captain said gruffly. “You’ve not lost a battle. That bodes well. But neither has the king. Money is going to change hands when this is through. I put my money on you, my lord.”
Owen smiled and chuckled softly. “Thank you.” He stared at the lonely road, feeling warm beneath his cloak, gloves, and armor. In fact, he was a bit too warm. The scabbard was snug around his waist, and he felt the soothing, healing influence of it chase away his aches and pains.
“It’s no small matter rebelling against a king,” Owen said. “I’m sure the men have mixed emotions, as do I. But I swear to you, this winter will not end if Severn keeps his throne. His actions have doomed us all. The duchess and I could not let that calamity fall without acting against it.”
Ashby sniffed and then straightened. “Riders.”
The sound of hooves in the snow followed his warning, and men appeared on the road ahead. Owen saw the herald hoisting the banner of the king, the White Boar. A chill rattled Owen’s bones when he saw it, and his breath quickened. Three men approached the line.
“We have visitors,” Owen said, glancing at the cloud-veiled sky. The hour was indistinguishable in the wintery haze, but he guessed it was still before noon. He glanced at Kevan. “Get Farnes over here. Quickly.”
As the riders drew closer, Owen recognized Catsby. The third person was the king’s personal squire.
“Interesting,” Ashby said under his breath.
Owen wondered if the king would surrender or summon them to battle. The king had the Wizr set, which meant he would be difficult to beat. He also had Drew, the boy he believed Owen was positioning to be king. But did Severn truly understand the importance of his advantages? Did he know that the board possessed powers of its own? That the boy in his tent was the only other person in Ceredigion who could use it? Owen hoped not. He’d considered sending a man to steal the set and rescue the lad, but if the man were captured, it would reveal too much. Owen knew his next moves needed to be very careful. He couldn’t risk the boy’s life. Nervous energy raced through him as the trio arrived.
“My lord Catsby,” Owen said, nodding in wary respect.
“My lord,” Catsby said. “I bear this message from the king. He told me to entrust it to no man but you.”
Owen smirked. “He knows I’m alive?”
Catsby looked as if he’d tasted something sour. “He knows you aren�
��t dead. He realizes he’s surrounded, on unfavorable ground, by a rebel force that is likely larger than his own. You’ve cut off our supplies and all hope of succor. The longer this farce continues, the more damage the true enemies of our realm will do. I saw him write the note myself. I can assure you, it is his will.”
Catsby swatted his horse’s flanks and came closer to present the note bearing the royal seal. Owen accepted it, using his replenished Fountain magic to detect weakness or trickery. There was no poison on the note, nothing but ink and wax. He used his power on Catsby and found that all the man’s weapons were clearly visible. Catsby was not that capable a soldier, and Owen sensed the man’s secret fear of his own reputation with a sword.
He broke the seal and quickly read the message declaring the king’s surrender.
“What does it say, my lord?” Ashby said in an undertone.
Owen felt a surge of relief flood his heart. He hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath until this very moment. The words were definitely Severn’s. There was plenty of spite in them. His accusation that Owen intended to rule the realm was particularly vengeful. But the king still had the boy, and Owen needed to separate them.
“The king has surrendered,” Owen said with relief as Kevan and Farnes drew near.
“Truly?” Farnes asked with surprise.
“Read it for yourself,” he said, handing the note to him. He nodded for Kevan to do the same.
“There is no cause for bloodshed,” Catsby said. “I am authorized on the king’s behalf to negotiate his surrender. Is it your desire to execute him? He especially wishes to know your intentions on that front.”
Rather than relief, Owen felt a strange sensation of dread. A feeling of heaviness had settled on him. Years earlier, Ankarette had told him a story that had never left him. A story about how a prince had persuaded a rebel army to lay down its arms. In the moment of relief that followed, the prince had broken his word and attacked his unprepared enemies. The leaders were all taken to the river and drowned because they were wearing heavy armor.