The King's Traitor (Kingfountain #3)(42)

“Let me heal you,” Owen said desperately, grabbing Roux’s shoulder. He tried summoning the magic, but it fled from him. He’d felt spent after healing Justine, Elysabeth’s maid, but that wasn’t the way he felt now. The magic was abandoning him, its purpose complete. He tried to draw it in, but it was like trying to clutch water with his arms. Frustration and fury battled inside him.

Why had Roux attacked him?

Owen stared into the man’s waxy face, which grew paler and paler as his blood ebbed away. “I am done,” the older man said slowly, his eyes growing vacant. “I’ve done all . . . I could.” Then his eyes sharpened and hardened. He stared at Owen with a look of desperation. “You are the only one who can . . . save her. Or kill her. Only . . . you. Your gift by the Fountain . . . so rare. So is . . . so is hers. Protect her. Or they will all . . . drown.”

“Who will drown?” Owen pleaded in fury, tears stinging his eyes as he knelt next to the crumpled knight.

The faint puffs of air from Roux’s mouth became shallower. “On my hand . . . is a ring. It is yours. You are master now. Master of the Woods.”

Owen watched his chest fall, and this time it did not rise. Marshal Roux stared vacantly, lips slightly parted. A trickle of blood welled from his eye like a tear.

The young duke knelt in the mushy ground, casting his gaze around in wonderment and confusion. There were the stone altar and the silver dish. The strange tree that had shed all its leaves. He saw Etayne lying still. And the fallen knight and his wounded horse. A horrible sense of guilt settled across him like a blanket. He had summoned the conflict by pouring water on the stone. Somehow that had prompted Roux to fight him. He hadn’t known it would happen.

But he was beginning to wonder if Sinia had known all along.




A small fire crackled in the woods, and an owl hooted somewhere in the night. The two horses were tethered nearby, both eating from sacks of provender slung around their necks. It was an ancient grove of yew trees, similar to the ones Owen had seen as a boy riding toward Beestone.

Etayne finally stirred while Owen was feeding another stick into the fire.

“Where are we?” she asked groggily.

“The woods bordering Brythonica and my lands,” he replied. “You’ve been unconscious all day.”

He had laid her out on a blanket and covered her with his own. She tried sitting up, and winced in obvious pain. “The last thing I remember was a noise. A terrible noise, louder than thunder. And then something struck me. Hailstones?”

Owen nodded, feeding another small stick into the fire. He was fidgeting inside, swollen with secrets and mysteries and unfathomable conflicts. His thoughts were so desperate, he wondered if he were falling into madness. He needed someone to talk to. Someone to help him piece together the clues. He had discovered that the scabbard he wore held special healing properties—all the wounds from his battle with Marshal Roux had been miraculously cured, and Etayne’s head wound had healed before his eyes after he strapped the scabbard around her waist.

“I’m wearing your sword,” Etayne said, as if reading his thoughts.

“The scabbard healed you,” Owen said, looking into her eyes. “I’ve often wondered why my wounds at the battle of Averanche vanished so quickly. I gave your training credit all these years.” He let out an anguished sigh. “Roux is dead.”

Etayne blinked in surprise. “How? Where?”

Owen picked up another stick and snapped it in half with his hands. “After the hailstorm, the tree limbs were bare. Then a flock of birds came and sang away the frost. It was the strangest thing I’ve ever seen. Before they were done singing, a knight garbed in black galloped into the grove and fought me. I didn’t know who it was until after I dealt him a mortal wound.” He tossed away the broken fragments of wood and stared into Etayne’s eyes, letting his anxiety pour out of him. “Something is going on. I need to tell you something. I must say it out loud for fear I’ve gone mad. Help me see reason, Etayne. Help me see if I’m understanding the situation.” He wiped his mouth, grateful for the solitude of the night. All day he had battled with himself whether he should return to Ploemeur and tell the duchess what had happened in that grove. Owen had slain her marshal while defending himself. But there was something more to it than that. It felt as if the Fountain was summoning him back to Kingfountain. In the grand Wizr game, a piece had fallen. It was only one move, and more were to follow.

“I haven’t seen you this distraught in a long time,” Etayne said worriedly. “Tell me what’s troubling you, Owen.”

“This may come out all jumbled,” he said with a half chuckle. “Forgive me. I’ve been wrestling with my thoughts all day. As you know, we can’t go back to Averanche or Tatton Hall. So I thought we’d camp here tonight. This is my forest now.” He gazed up at the trees towering above them. “They’re all mine.”

Etayne waited patiently, saying nothing.

“When we sailed to Atabyrion, do you remember entering the cove of Edonburick?” She nodded. “When we were crossing the bay, the Fountain told me that the city had drowned. I could sense beneath the waves that the castles and houses and manors of Atabyrion had long been destroyed. I was horrified by the scale of the devastation. It’s happened before, you know. St. Penryn is all that’s left of the kingdom of Leoneyis. It too was drowned. After I fought Marshal Roux, as he lay dying, he said I was the duchess’s protector now. And he warned me that if I did not protect her well, another kingdom would drown.” He stared into the flames, lost in thought again.