by Jeff Wheeler
There was a large reflection pool before the steps leading up to the sanctuary doors, which were open, revealing a sunlit entryway. He stopped at the pool, staring into the placid depths, and saw coins gleaming in the bottom. A fat man sat on the edge of the pool, beefy arms folded. He was tossing crumbs to pigeons pecking near his shoes. Owen watched with fascination as the man deftly sprinkled the crumbs, sometimes this way, sometimes that, and the crowd of feathers moved in response, making clucking and cooing noises all the while. The fat man smiled at their squabbling.
Then suddenly the man lurched to his feet and stomped, causing the birds to flap and flee in a cloud of exploding gray plumage. The sudden motion shocked Owen and his heart hammered frightfully in his chest. The fat man laughed boisterously, clutching his girth as he sat back down. He wiped his eyes a moment, still chuckling to himself, and then dug into a pocket for more crumbs and began sprinkling them again on the paving stones.
Sure enough, pigeons began to return a few moments later, flapping down from the trees where they’d fled. They approached cautiously, heads bobbing, and then the braver ones began to peck at the crumbs. Once they did, the others deemed it safe enough and soon the entire area was thick with fowl again.
The fat man had scraggly brown whiskers along his jowls. His hair was thick and wavy, cropped close to his ears, and he had a sad smile, as if he were bored beyond his wits and tormenting the birds was his only way of entertaining himself.
“They keep coming back,” the fat man said with a tired sigh. He had not looked at Owen, but his voice was pitched just enough to reach the boy’s ears. He had the accent of a foreigner, but his voice was pleasant and he spoke the tongue of the kingdom well. “I can frighten them off a hundred times a day, but they keep coming back for crumbs.” He sighed, resting his bread-throwing hand on his paunch. “They cannot resist their need to eat. And I suppose neither can I. It’s a sad truth. If I were not so lazy, I would walk over to the muffin vendor and get a tasty morsel. Those would provide tantalizing crumbs indeed! But when you haul around this much baggage, lad, even a little walk is a burden.”
Owen stared at the man’s mouth as he talked, watching the way he formed his words. He had a gentle, coaxing voice. Then he glanced at Owen and smiled in a friendly way.
“Here to make a wish, lad?” he asked.
Owen blinked, realizing he was formally being addressed. He nodded sheepishly.
The man pitched his voice lower. “They say that side of the pool brings better luck.” He pointed to the other side of the reflecting pool from where he sat. “But if you really want a wish granted, you must toss a crown into the wisdom fountain inside. The statue of the woman with the spear is the true Lady of the Fountain. She’ll grant your wish. If you have a whole crown.”
“I don’t have a crown,” Owen said.
The man pursed his lips. “Well . . . that can’t be. A lad with such a noble look . . . I thought you’d have a whole bag of crowns. ’Tis a pity. But if your wish is important, that’s where you must make it. Here, I’ll lend you a crown.” He dug through another pouch, humming a little to himself, and pulled out a fat crown. He put it under his thumb and flicked it, sending the coin spinning in the air toward Owen, who caught it without dropping it.
“Well done, lad, well done!” the fat man said.
Owen stared at the crown and saw it was not from Ceredigion. A different language was scrawled on it and it looked nothing like the coins from his realm. He rubbed his fingers over the letters and spelling he couldn’t decipher.
“Can you read it?” the fat man asked, chuckling.
Owen shook his head, turning the coin over in his hand.
“Not many from these parts can. That is called a florin. It’s about the same weight as a crown. I’m Genevese—the lake kingdom. Do you know where that is, lad?”
Owen stared at the man. He had never met a foreigner before. “I’ve seen maps,” he said shyly.
The man nodded. “Maps. You looked like a smart one. I bet you can read and know your numbers too.”
Owen looked at him in surprise.
“I knew it!” the man said, chuckling and clapping his hands. The birds pecking near his feet were getting angry that he hadn’t put any crumbs down in a while. “Well, there is your crown, lad. Go make your wish and run along to your mother.”
“Thank you,” Owen said, surprised that he wasn’t too shy to speak. The man had a way about him that both frightened Owen and intrigued him. He was not like other adults.
“Name is Mancini,” the fat man said with a nod.
“Thank you, Mancini,” Owen said.
“Someone in your family is sick? Is that why you’re making a wish—what was your name again?”
“Owen,” the boy replied, only then realizing he should not have said it. He blinked with surprise.
“Well met, Owen,” Mancini said. “Go make your wish. I think I might fetch that muffin after all.” He groaned and tried to rise, but it seemed to require more effort than he had to give. “Sometimes,” Mancini said, breathing hard, “I have to lean back before I can push myself up again. Once I leaned back too far and . . . splash! Went into the fountain!” He gave Owen a wink and a grin and the boy giggled. “Took four men to pull me out. What a mess. Almost drowned.”
Owen smiled, enjoying the warmth that came with the laughter. The image of the fat man flailing and spluttering in the water made it even funnier.
Mancini leaned back and then swung himself forward. This time he made it back up to his feet, tottering a bit, and Owen watched him as he waddled away. Once the fat man was gone, Owen walked around to the other side of the pool. He made a wish that the queen would be able to help him and then pitched the florin into the water where it plopped and promptly sank to the bottom. He started to walk around the grounds a bit more, admiring the fountains and searching for the princess’s mother. He thought the best place to look would be within the sanctuary itself, so he mounted the wide stone steps. The floor of the sanctuary was made of black and white marble squares, reminding him of an enormous Wizr board, but without the pieces. He loved playing Wizr, and even though he was only eight, he was good enough to beat some of his siblings. His father still bested him every time.
Owen stood on a white square, which was just wide enough for him to fit in without his feet touching the edges. The hall was enormous, and a huge fountain splashed and played in the middle of the chamber. There were higher-ranking visitors inside the sanctuary, as demonstrated by their stylish clothes and felt hats. Owen felt a little more comfortable now, and the effect of the fountain was soothing. There were tall columns and pedestals topped with white marble statues, which looked to Owen like life-size Wizr pieces. Of course, they would be very difficult to move. Not surprisingly, he saw some older men sitting around normal-size Wizr boards and playing matches. He walked among them, looking for a woman who resembled the princess.
It took quite some wandering before he managed to find her, but the time seemed to pass quickly. The princess’s mother was talking to the sanctuary sexton, a man with white robes, a black cloak, and a mushroom-shaped hat. The sexton was in charge of the grounds. The deconeus was in charge of performing the water rite for newborn babies. Owen had been around such people his entire life, so he recognized them by their robes. But Owen easily recognized the princess’s mother. This was the queen dowager, the wife of the king who had died two years before. She was trailed by a younger woman, probably no more than twelve, who looked to be her other daughter.
Owen waited patiently until the queen dowager’s conversation with the sexton was finished, although it took quite a while. Once they were done, the queen dowager took the girl’s hand, and the two of them slowly walked back toward the fountain in the center of the huge chamber. Recognizing his opportunity, Owen quickly walked up to her, trying to quell his growing nervousness.
As he walked, the girl holding her mother’s hand looked at him curiously and tugged on her mother�
��s arm. It felt as if a cloud of butterflies had filled Owen’s stomach.
The queen mother stopped, responding to the tugging, and turned to face Owen. She was a beautiful woman, tall and lithe and regal. Her hair was the same color as her daughters’, elegantly styled with braiding and brooches.
Just as Owen was about to reach the dowager, he heard boots tromping into the sanctuary, loud and fervent and very familiar. Twisting around, he watched with horror as Ratcliffe strode into the sanctuary, his face contorted with anger. He marched straight toward Owen and looked as if he would jerk the boy’s arm out of its socket and drag him out.
“Come here, boy,” the queen mother said to Owen, her voice soft but urgent.
Owen’s legs were shaking violently, but he managed to close the gap separating him from the queen mother as the burly man continued his approach. The cap was off Ratcliffe’s head, crushed in his fist, and his balding dome looked moist with sweat. He was livid but also flushed with relief to have found Owen.
“There—you—are—young—man!” he barked angrily in a clipped tone. He closed the distance with several long strides, attracting the gaze of everyone in the room, which made Owen cower against the queen mother’s gown. She put her hand on his shoulder and he saw the glittering jewel of the coronation ring on her hand.
“This is supposed to be a quiet sanctuary, Ratcliffe,” the queen mother chastised. “Please . . . you will offend the Fountain. Lower your voice.”
His teeth gnashed in fury. “I should have known he would seek refuge here!”
“What are you raving about?” she answered patiently. “This boy? I have never seen him before in my life. Who is he?”
“Owen Kiskaddon,” Ratcliffe snarled. “The king’s hostage.”
The queen laughed lightly. “Ah, your anger makes sense now. I was beginning to think you had lost your wits. You think I summoned him here?”
“He is standing before you, isn’t he?” Ratcliffe said, raising his voice. “How did you manage it, Lizzy? I truly wish to know.”
Owen could tell that the name he used was meant as an insult by the way she bridled her reaction.
“Obviously the Fountain led the boy here, Ratcliffe. I heard he was in the palace, of course, but I did not bring him here. We had not even met until just a moment ago. But I will remind you, sir, that he has the protection of sanctuary and you cannot force him to leave. Severn wouldn’t dare violate it, not after all he has done! The people would revolt. Somehow the boy managed to find his way here, and here he will stay, under my protection.”
Ratcliffe looked as if he would have a seizure of anger. “The king will not tolerate this!” he growled. “Can the Fountain shield you from his wrath? Your daughter enjoys the privilege of coming back and forth. Shall she become his hostage instead?”
Owen’s heart quailed at the words, fearing what would happen to the princess. He gave the queen a worried look.
She laughed scornfully. “You and I both know he wouldn’t do that. Now be gone, Ratcliffe. Before I call for the sexton. Out.”
Ratcliffe’s fists trembled with fury. He looked at Owen then, his eyes full of daggers. “Come with me, boy. Now. Come back with me to the castle.”
Owen stared at the man and shook his head.
“When the king finds out about this . . .” Ratcliffe snarled, his lips quivering.
“It appears he already has,” came a voice from the doorway. It was the deconeus, attended by the sexton. “He is mounting the steps right now, Lord Ratcliffe. The king is here.” He turned and bowed graciously. “Welcome to Our Lady, sovereign lord.”
Owen’s eyes widened with terror and he felt the queen’s hand tighten on his shoulder.
“No matter what he says, do not let him touch you,” the queen whispered in warning.
CHAPTER NINE
The King’s Voice
The king was annoyed. Owen could see that emotion burning in his gray eyes, twisting his mouth into a scowl, and twitching in his cheek muscle. The limp from his wound was becoming less pronounced, but it was still there, and Owen could hear the distinct sound of his shuffling steps before he saw his face.
The king wore his black and gold. The usual dagger was in his belt, accompanied by a large, scabbarded sword that had seen many years of war. A trickle of sweat fell down the side of his face. His long black hair was windswept, giving him a wild appearance. The queen mother’s nails dug into Owen’s shoulder, making him flinch.
“Remember,” she whispered to Owen.
“My liege,” Ratcliffe said with astonishment. “How come you this way? I was going to send word for you—”
“When, Ratcliffe? When my hair turned gray? You thought I would not want to know that my hostage had fled? Why is it that I must learn these things from my niece rather than from the head of the Espion!” The king’s wrath was focused on Ratcliffe at the moment, but Owen felt his blood turn cold with fear, knowing it would turn on him.
“My . . . my lord!” Ratcliffe stammered. “It was my man who told me the boy was here! I had only just learned of it and wanted to confirm the news with my own eyes first!” Ratcliffe wrung his hands, looking as if he feared for his neck.
“Enough excuses, Ratcliffe. Is it too much to ask you to keep my hostages under closer supervision? What will I learn next? That you approved one of his parents’ ceaseless requests to see him? By the Fountain, man! He’s just a little boy! How could you be so careless?”
“I . . . I . . .” Ratcliffe’s cheeks were scarlet and sweat dribbled down them from his brow.
The king made a dismissive gesture with a gloved hand. Then he turned his baleful eyes on the queen mother. His lips pursed angrily. “I should have suspected I would find him here, Madame.” The hatred in his eyes and tone made Owen shrink.
“You are quite mistaken, Severn, as you typically are when you’re upset,” the queen mother replied in an icy voice. “I did not summon the lad here. He only just appeared. I haven’t even spoken to him yet.”
The king snorted in disbelief. “You take me for a fool.”
“I take you for one when you act like one. This is the Kiskaddon lad then? Your hostage?” There was a shade of meaning in her words that Owen did not understand. “And he found his way to sanctuary. My, but how that must gall you!”
The king’s expression hardened. It was clear there was no love between the king and his sister-in-law, and Owen could sense the bitterness that had festered between them.
“You cannot take him from here, Severn. Even you have never dared to violate the sanctuary of Our Lady. You’ve threatened it, to be sure! But the people would throw you into the river if you tried and you’d never survive. The boy stays here with me. I did not send for him, but I will not send him away.” She patted Owen’s shoulder possessively.
“The lad does not know you as well as I do,” the king said with husky anger.
“Nor you, my liege,” she sneered. “He and I will have great fun together, discussing many things about your lordship. And about my sons.”
The king held up a hooked finger, silencing her. His face turned pale with anger and warning. “You will say nothing,” he said in a choked growl.
Something peculiar happened then. It was as if the lapping sound of the fountain water had suddenly grown louder, drowning out all other sounds from Owen’s ears. The sensation was soothing, and it began to calm his violently beating heart. Then the king’s voice slipped in among the waters.
“Owen.”
Usually there was a sharp edge to the king’s voice when he spoke Owen’s name, but this time his voice did not sound angry or accusing. It contained all the tenderness of a loving father’s address to his son. He blinked, confused, and peered up at the king.
The sound of the fountain waters grew even louder. He could feel them, as if he were splashing in the waters inside the stone railing. In fact, that’s what he felt like he was doing, playing and splashing and getting wet and relishing in the deliciousness
of being naughty. The feeling of the waters rushed through him, soothing him and calming him and filling him with happiness. He was smiling now. The king was smiling too, as if he felt the same thrill of dancing in a fountain.
“Come away from her, Owen,” the king said softly, coaxingly. “She is here for a reason. She plots and she destroys. If you heed her, lad, your family will be killed. Because of her. I want to save you, Owen. Come with me.”
Owen felt a twinge of pain in his shoulder, but it could not hurt him, not truly. He heard words, the queen’s words, but they could not pierce the rushing sound of the waters. A memory tried to intrude, something about the king’s touch, but it was as annoying as a buzzing fly, and he brushed it away.
“I would not lie to you,” the king said seriously, gently, as if he were inviting a butterfly to land on his palm. “There is danger here. Danger you cannot see. You are being trapped in a spider’s web, Owen. Let me free you. Come . . . hold my hand.” The king reached out his black glove. The leather looked soft and warm, the gesture so inviting.
Owen shook loose the queen’s hand and walked toward the king. It felt as if the very waters of the Fountain were coming from that outstretched hand. He knew without a doubt that he would feel safe and protected if he held the king’s hand. More words fluttered around him. Some were sharp-spoken, but they could not pierce the feelings flooding him.
He walked confidently over to the king, who did not look fearsome anymore. He looked tired and pained, but he had a gentle, generous smile.
“My niece is so worried about you,” the king said with a warm smile. “Shall we give her a little surprise then? She looked so fearful when she believed you had come to harm, Owen. Shall we find her back at the palace?”
Owen smiled eagerly and nodded. Yes, he would like that. He would like that very much.