The King's Traitor (The Kingfountain Series Book 3) (22 page)

He sat down at the edge of the fountain, feeling a few droplets land on his arm. When he was certain no one was watching, he summoned the Wizr chest, reached into the waters, and dragged it out by the handle. Using the key around his neck, he unlocked it and lifted the lid.

Inside the box awaited a note addressed to him in Sinia’s elegant script. There was also a small towel full of berries nestled into an empty portion of the board. He smiled as he plopped one of the fruits into his mouth; it was absolutely soft, sweet, and delicious. Reaching down, he lifted another one, imagining she had plucked it from the field with her own fingers.

He read the note quickly, learning about her father’s desire for her to have perfect penmanship, and her love of drawing. Reading her words brought a little smile to his face, and her openness made him feel that she was deserving of his trust. The little butterfly she had drawn was impressive—as realistic and beautiful as he’d seen in any book. The insect was a shade of blue-gray with black spots on its wings and little intricate designs along the edges. Two long antennae protruded above its black eyes. It was meticulously done, though small enough that it would not have taken long to draw. Owen lacked that ability himself. He finished the letter, reading the words about “breath” and “life.”

His heart began to race again. It was no accident she had phrased the last sentence just so. He
knew
the word she meant, for he had used it twice before. Owen stared at the little drawing, feeling his heart well up with curious emotions. He had become so accustomed to equating love with pain that he’d forgotten how gentle and delicate it could feel. A drop of water landed on the paper and he lifted it higher to keep it away.

Owen stared at the image of the butterfly, drawn by the hand of his betrothed, and he felt the Fountain magic stir inside him. For a strange moment, it felt as if Sinia were sitting beside him, her fingers close to his on the edge of the fountain wall. If he closed his eyes, he wondered if he would hear her breathing.

“
Nesh-ama
,” Owen whispered to the image.

He felt the magic tug loose inside him and watched in awe as the lines of color wriggled to life. A sinia butterfly flapped its tiny wings and escaped the paper to flutter in front of him, so helpless and weak. He found himself laughing in childlike delight, amazed when it came up and landed on his shoulder. In his mind’s eye, he thought he saw Sinia sitting at the edge of a fountain elsewhere, smiling shyly at him.

Sinia,

I am not one for endearments, and your name is suitably short that an abbreviation isn’t necessary. While I was tempted to begin this note by calling you my sweet butterfly, I resisted it because it sounded silly even to me. One cannot improve on perfection. My attempt at gallantry has probably failed.

Not only is your penmanship exemplary, but your art is equally impressive. Sadly, my gifts tend to be in the battlefield or across a Wizr board. You did promise me a match, you may recall, if I brought the set.

Since our departure, I have spoken to the court historian at Kingfountain. I suspect you may already know that, so I struggle how to write this without coming across as overly apprehensive. He related to me certain legends. One regards the imprisonment of a famous Wizr. Another story he told me was about a race of water sprites and one of their daughters. Her name was rather similar to yours—Peisinia. There are certain things I have noticed about you that give me questions I cannot answer. I will speak more freely when we next meet. Until then, I am ever your rough soldier and erstwhile intemperate friend.

Owen

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Genevieve Llewellyn

Owen returned to the Star Chamber, but he could not focus on the heap of correspondence that awaited him despite the fact that such work strengthened his magic. He found himself gazing off into the stone hearth, plucking at strands of hair below his lip, experiencing the roiling guilt of a man in the process of betraying his king. Were it not for the snow falling silent and deadly on the grounds of Kingfountain at that very moment, he may well have reconsidered his brash act of defiance. But the soft flakes of white were a testament to Sinia’s words. The boundaries set by the ancient Wizrs had been violated years ago when Severn broke the laws of sanctuary to capture Tunmore, and retribution would fall on Ceredigion until the hollow crown was passed to the rightful heir—a quiet young boy who had been groomed at Dundrennan to be a knight. Before dawn, Drew had watched his father’s corpse being carried away and had seen his mother ensorcelled by a crouch-backed king whose passion for her had finally won the moment. Of course, Drew did not yet understand his true connection to any of them.

Owen sat back in his stuffed chair, feeling the quiet of the room enfold his shoulders. He was alone, mercifully alone, and his mind assembled the pieces of his strategy together like tiles to be knocked down. Orders had been sent to Captain Ashby to muster the army of Westmarch. If his other message had been received and heeded, Atabyrion would soon invade the North. Catsby would be forced to beg for help. Owen needed that to happen so he would have the excuse to go to Dundrennan and seek out the sword of the Maid of Donremy from the ice caves. Would it be difficult to find? Or would the magic of the blade call to him as the silver dish had done in Brythonica? He suspected he knew where to find the caves. The same river that gushed and tumbled outside Our Lady had its origin in the ancient glaciers in the North, beyond Dundrennan. The caves would be there, he surmised. If he got close enough, he thought he’d be able to sense the blade.

But before Iago Llewellyn would attack, he would need assurance that his daughter Genevieve was safely away. Owen rubbed his mouth and then steepled his fingers beneath his nose, thinking swiftly. Etayne could easily disguise the child and sneak her out of the palace. But there would be too many eyes watching. Owen shook his head. No, he needed to get her out at night or early in the morning, before too many people were watching. A memory sparked in his mind. The cistern beneath the palace led to the river. It was far enough upstream that the current would take them directly to Our Lady. Overshooting it would be fatal, of course. But that’s how Tunmore had originally escaped to the sanctuary. As master of the Espion, Owen had ensured there was always a boat in that location. It was a secret way to flee the castle—one of Owen’s many escape plans.

Genevieve was the tile that knocked over the rest. He saw that clearly in his mind. Once she was gone, his plan would take on momentum, and there would be no turning back. As the head of the Espion, Owen would be in charge of the investigation regarding her disappearance. He could confuse the situation by sending Espion to investigate possible treachery from Brugia, keeping all eyes away from the sanctuary and the little girl from Atabyrion.

A child could be unpredictable, as he well knew, but he would need to tell Genevieve at least part of his plan. Could he trust her? He was discomfited by the idea of putting his life in the hands of a little girl. One false word on her part could jeopardize everything. The thought instantly reminded him of when he, as a child himself, had pled with Ankarette to trust Evie with their secrets. What a risk the poisoner had taken. He would have to take the same risk, all the while knowing what the punishment would be if he were caught.

If Severn captured him, he wouldn’t be sent over the falls. No, the Fountain-blessed could not be killed by the very waters that gave them their magic. Like the Maid of Donremy, Owen would be taken to a frigid mountain, chained there, and left to freeze to death. He closed his eyes as his heart thrummed with terror. For a moment, the panic was so paralyzing that he could only sit there in the stuffed chair, staring at the tongues of fire that taunted him from the hearth. He breathed out slowly, trying to regain composure. Was this all a horrible mistake? After all, his entire life had been devoted to Severn, to the belief that loyalty should be binding. And Duke Horwath, who had become a second father to him, had expected him to take on that oath.

The answer came to him quick. His promise of loyalty had been delivered to a different man, a different king. Severn was no longer the misunderstood regent he had once been. He had allowed himself to become corrupted, and now he was on the verge of destroying his own kingdom. Owen felt the press of duty like iron bands around his heart. He had a duty to the kingdom that superseded his duty to the king. He had heard the Fountain’s voice and message: Kathryn’s son was the rightful Argentine to inherit the throne. It was his duty to see to it that it happened.

Owen leaned forward in the chair and swept his arm across the desk, spilling the mound of correspondence to the ground. He rose, walked purposefully to the door, and unlocked it. He marched down the hall, not stopping until he encountered Kevan Amrein bent in conversation with another Espion. As soon as he saw Owen, Kevan dismissed the other man.

“Grave news?” he asked.

Owen shook his head. “Trouble with Brugia, I think. I’m worried about our defenses at Callait. Can you send some men across the channel immediately? I’ve had some news that worries me. Can the castellan there be trusted?”

Kevan’s face twisted with surprise. “Lord Ramey? He’s a fine fellow, one of the staunchest allies in the realm. I wouldn’t have a concern at all. Why? Do you suspect him?”

Owen shook his head. “No, he is a good fellow. But I have a suspicion, and it would ease my mind if you send some Espion there to poke around the defenses.”

“Immediately, my lord,” Kevan said. “Anything else?”

“I have a note for Genevieve from her mother that came through Clark.” Clark had been assigned to Edonburick after Lord Bothwell’s treason so he could be with his wife, Evie’s maid, Justine. He missed his old friend. “Do you know where she is?”

Kevan thought a moment. “This time of day, she’s normally in the king’s library with Lady Kathryn. It’s too frostbitten to play outside, or she’d be running around the grounds like a terror.” The words were said with a small smile that revealed a fondness for the child.

Owen nodded and quickly slipped into the Espion tunnels to avoid being seen. When he reached the corridor adjacent to the library, he slipped open the wooden slat so he could survey the room before entering. He found Genevieve as expected, kneeling on the floor over a Wizr board. Drew was lying on the ground on the other side, and she was teaching him different moves. Her hair was a lighter brown than her mother’s, but she shared many of the same expressions and features, and it heartbreakingly reminded Owen of his first love. They too had played Wizr together.

But as he watched the children, the pang of agony quickly dulled. The wound wasn’t as tender as it had once been. Owen blinked in surprise. The sadness, which had long ago become a part of him, was finally starting to dissipate. The memory of a little butterfly came to him in that moment, bringing with it a curious warmth. It was a form of magic, a powerful kind, and even he was not immune to it.

Looking past the children, he saw Kathryn standing by the window. The whiteness from the sky beyond made her glow like some mystical being. Her gaze was far away as she twisted the ring on her finger—the one Severn had given her—and there was an interplay of conflicted emotions on her face. Her mouth was twisted with sadness, but there was hope in her expression as well. Her back was to the children, perhaps in an attempt to hide her struggle.

Owen softly released the latch and opened the hidden door so he could slip into the room unobserved. The air had that musty quality that prevailed wherever old books were kept, and he found himself reminiscing about all the time he’d spent in this library himself, poring over stories of other Fountain-blessed individuals.

Now that he was inside the room, he could hear the chattering voices more clearly.

Genevieve was doing most of the talking. That wasn’t a surprise.

“It’s like this, Drew,” she said patiently, adjusting the pieces again. “Here, then here—threat and mate! You defeat them in four moves.” Strands of her nut-brown hair were braided around the back of her neck, where they joined into a single braid going down her back. She had hazel eyes, but they did not shift colors with her mood like her mother’s did. Owen smiled to himself.

“And to block it,” Drew said, his brow knit, “you bring this pawn over here at the beginning. Or move the knight over there.” He tapped both pieces.

“Exactly!” she purred. “That’s how you keep from being defeated in the first moments of the game. I have my own Wizr set at home. It’s gray and white. My papa gave it to me when I was five. Do you have a set?” Even her voice sounded like Evie’s!

Drew frowned a little. “No. I don’t have very much.”

She looked concerned at that. “Not even a set made of wood?”

He shook his head. “No one has ever let me play. But I like to watch.”

“That’s not right,” she said a little indignantly. “I’m going to get you a set, Drew. It’s not fair not to have one if you want one. I wish you could come back to Atabyrion with me. There is a place there called Wizr Falls!” She began to launch into a vivid description of a place Owen had once visited, and he watched with interest as Drew listened to her, his eyes widening with fascination as she spoke.

The White King’s queen.

The whisper from the Fountain echoed his own thoughts.
The same story is told, over and over
, he reminded himself. These two children had been thrown together in a miasma of politics and intrigue. Genevieve was the king’s hostage, just as Owen had once been. And while the names Andrew and Genevieve were commonplace now, it was perhaps more than coincidence that the parents had named their children thusly. The original Andrew’s queen had come from a foreign alliance as well.

Owen looked up and noticed that Lady Kathryn had left the window and was staring down at the children, giving little Drew a heartrending look of longing and pain. She slowly approached them and knelt down to watch them play and talk. Her fingers delicately grazed the boy’s golden hair, and he looked up at her with a shy smile.

The realization that the boy didn’t understand the tender gesture nearly broke Owen. Drew turned back to the game, listening keenly to Genevieve as she explained another series of maneuvers between the pieces.

“Now the Wizr piece is the most powerful one. It can move the farthest and challenge any other piece. One of the strategies people use is to try and kill that piece near the beginning of the game.”

Drew frowned. “Why would they do that?”

“Because it’s so powerful. Some people will sacrifice two or even three pieces to destroy it, even though it upsets the rest of their defenses.”

Drew nodded with concern. “That’s not fair. Do you think there are real Wizrs today?”

Owen chuckled to himself and both children turned to look at him.

“Oh, I didn’t see you there,” Genevieve said brightly. “You’re Lord Owen.”

“I am,” he replied, dropping down on his haunches to be on their level. “Your mother taught you Wizr?” he asked her. From the corner of his eye, he noticed Lady Kathryn had tears swimming in hers as she stared at Drew. She quickly covered her mouth and retreated from the room, shutting the door quietly behind her.

Genevieve nodded briskly. “She did, but she learned it from you!”

Owen felt a little jolt of pain at the words, but behind that pain he felt a flush of gratification—Evie had told her children about him. She had attributed her knowledge of the game to him.

“It’s true. I did teach her.” He shifted his gaze to Drew. “And I can teach you as well, if you’d like.”

Drew’s face beamed. “I would!” he stammered. He looked surprised by the offer since they had rarely spent time together. Owen had treated him with no special regard until recently.

He took a deep breath and then lowered his voice. “Do you miss your parents, Genevieve? Do you wish you were back in Edonburick?”

Her eyes widened with surprise. “Of course! I like
visiting
Kingfountain. It’s beautiful here. But the king is rude and mean and I don’t like him very much. I think what Lord Catsby is doing to the North is abhorrent!”

Owen was startled by her use of the word. “Abhorrent is a
big
word for such a little girl.”

“I know
many
big words, my lord,” she said proudly. “I’m teaching some of them to Drew.”

The boy seemed in awe of her.

“Can I ask you a question?” Genevieve asked him, her voice falling lower.

“You can ask me anything,” he answered, his face becoming graver because he suddenly knew what she was going to say.

Genevieve sidled up closer to him, her face full of honesty and childlike courage. Just like her mother’s had been at her age.