The King's Traitor (Kingfountain #3)(109)

That was not all, though. Since getting to know her, he had grown fond of her. He had begun imagining his life with her at his side—a thought he quite liked. Sinia was not as talkative as Evie, but she was a better listener. She was Fountain-blessed, like Owen, so they could relate to each other on a special level. Together, they had saved the kingdom from destruction. With her help, he was confident they could restore the ancient court and the principles of Virtus that had once held sway in this land.

“Ankarette, what should I do?” Owen moaned softly, wrestling with his feelings.

He imagined her sitting by the bed, one arm gripping her stomach to stifle the pain. She’d been sick the entire time he’d known her. Some disease had made her suffer, yet she had always tried to appear cheerful and comforting.

Ankarette had always known his heart. Which of the two women was more like her? The answer came to him unbidden: Sinia.

Owen heard soft steps coming up the tower. His sense of hearing had always been keen. He listened to the sound and imagined, with a sudden spasm of hope, that it was Ankarette climbing the steps. He turned away from the window, blinking with growing surprise. Who was coming to see him in the dead of the night? Despite all logic and sense, he wanted so desperately for it to be Ankarette.

It was Kevan Amrein, newly appointed as the head of the Espion. Owen sighed with disappointment.

“I’m surprised I even found you,” Kevan said, eyeing the room warily. “We’ve been searching the entire palace for you.”

“Sorry to alarm you,” Owen said. “I needed some time to think.”

The man smiled sympathetically. “I was sorry to hear about Iago. When the earl told me . . .” As they both brooded on the implications of the news, the room fell quiet except for their breathing.

Owen realized it was time to leave the ghosts of the tower behind. These were decisions that could only be made by the living.





CHAPTER FORTY-ONE


Ploemeur




It amazed Owen how quickly the frost melted away after the sun pierced the clouds. Patches of snow still clung to the shadows, but the roads were clear again, and the army of Ceredigion was on the move. The bulk of the riders were hard pressed to keep up with the Duke of Westmarch, who swept through his domain like a farmer’s scythe at harvest time. He flanked the Occitanian army, preventing it from retreating back across the border. Owen’s new captain had them penned in at Rougemont castle, which Chatriyon’s forces had taken during their advance. Owen kept them there and moved forward, charging hard to cross the border to relieve the siege at Averanche. He arrived just in time to surprise the besieging army before the city was forced to formally surrender.

It may have helped that the king’s banner flew beside his.

Soldiers had flocked to Eredur’s standard—the Sun and Rose—and joining with Owen’s bedraggled force, they had won a series of quick victories in just a few days, while war continued to rage.

Owen and Drew took over the pavilion that had been occupied by the lord marshal of Pree, who had been caught while napping. The man hadn’t even been wearing armor when his camp was overrun. The palisade was broken down, and Owen’s captains had secured the roads, preventing anyone from escaping to warn King Chatriyon, whose army was infesting Brythonica, according to the latest reports. Of course, Owen did not need to rely on the latest reports anymore. The Wizr set provided him with more information than the Espion ever could.

The pavilion, constructed of a cream-colored fabric embellished with hand-stitched frills, was furnished with beautiful rugs and ornate braziers. The marshal’s pallet was stuffed with feathers, and bottles of expensive wine were chilling in chests brought from distant castles. Owen and the young king sat on the camp stools overlooking the Wizr board that sat open on a round table in front of them.

Drew’s face was alight with eagerness and anticipation. He no longer wore the drab colors of a knight in training, but was bedecked in garments befitting his new rank. The coronation ring glistened on his finger and a coronet pressed against his flax-colored hair. Severn’s crown traveled with them. The sword Firebos was in a brand-new ornate scabbard, propped against Drew’s chair. He never let it out of his sight. Owen continued to wear the battered raven-marked scabbard for his own weapon.

“What make you of the pieces?” Owen asked thoughtfully, his shoulders slightly hunched as he stroked his bottom lip.

The boy’s grin was infectious. “I think we’re winning.”

“No doubt we’re winning,” Owen said with a laugh. “Show me the positions. Who is where?”

Drew put his finger on the white Wizr. “This is the Duchess of Brythonica, Sinia Montfort. The black king is Chatriyon. He’s right next to her. That’s a foolish move because a Wizr is more powerful than a king.”

“Indeed,” Owen said, admiring the boy’s sagacity. “Go on.”

“We are here,” he said, indicating the white king and the white knight. “This piece is the Duke of Glosstyr. He’s a tower now.”

“You’re right,” Owen said. “And where is his piece moving?”

“Against Legault. They outnumber him. Should we send reinforcements?”

Owen shook his head. “I don’t think you should worry about him being outnumbered, my lord. Even with a third of their number, he’ll still win.”