The King's Traitor (Kingfountain #3)(44)

In the afternoon, Owen spied the sanctuary of St. Penryn in the distance. He had kept a punishing pace, and his horse was weary. He would need to change horses, but knew the deconeus would willingly let him borrow from his stables. The salty smell filled his nose and lungs, and the road became gritty with sand the closer he approached.

He reached the sanctuary by late afternoon and found the grounds quiet except for the screeches of gulls. The clop of hooves on stone announced him, and the sexton came out to interview the new arrival. Owen slid out of the saddle. His disheveled appearance did not mark him as a duke, so the man didn’t recognize him until Owen gave him a knowing look.

“My lord!” the man gasped with surprise. “We did not expect your arrival! There has been much commotion in the kingdom since you left. Have you heard the news? It reached us only earlier today.”

“What news?” Owen asked, tugging off his gloves and stuffing them under his belt.

“The two who escaped from the tower. Lord Eyric and Lord Dunsdworth. They’ve been captured.”

Owen blinked with surprise. “I’d heard about their escape. That’s why I returned. They were recaptured?”

The sexton nodded vigorously. “They did not make it far before the Espion surrounded them. There’s a trial underway. We’ve heard the king intends to put them both into the river.”

It felt as if someone had punched Owen in the stomach. He was suddenly quite ill. “This is grim news. Is the deconeus here?”

“He awaits within. I will have your horse tended. Will you stay long?”

“I cannot. I came to borrow another horse. Can you arrange it?”

“Of course, my lord! Right away.”

As Owen strode into the sanctuary, memories assailed him. What would have happened if he had helped Eyric seize the throne all those years ago? He’d confronted him in this place. But if events had unfolded differently, he wouldn’t have been present for the Dreadful Deadman’s birth. Drew’s birth. He had cradled the bloody infant in his hands and breathed life back into him. All of it had felt like the Fountain’s will. Why had events unfolded this way? Why hadn’t the Fountain commanded him to bring down Severn then?

He reached the rim of the fountain in the center of the sanctuary, planted his hands along the edge, and stared down into the calm water. He could hear the sigh and roll of the ocean beyond the stone walls as the waves crashed violently against the rocky shore below. His troubles felt as inexorable as those waves. Perhaps there would never be a moment’s peace in his life.

Closing his eyes, he breathed in deeply, trying to calm himself. So many events had unfolded in his absence, and he was too far away to influence them. Oh, he could imagine Severn wanting Eyric dead. Killing him in public would free Kathryn at last. Would Severn finally rid himself of the ghost of his nephew by destroying the man he believed was only pretending to be him? Of course, Owen knew the truth. Piers Urbick was Eyric Argentine. He always had been.

Opening his eyes, he saw the chest submerged in the water. It had appeared suddenly, drawn to him through its mysterious powers. Owen hiked up his sleeve, reached into the cold water, and grasped the handle. He pulled it out and set it down on the edge of the fountain. After sitting down next to the chest, he withdrew the key he wore around his neck and slid it into the lock, twisting it carefully until he felt the click. The chest wasn’t even damp. Though he did not understand why, the waters protected enchanted treasures from the Deep Fathoms.

He lifted the lid and stared at the Wizr board inside.

The ancient set had faces carved into the individual pieces. What struck him immediately was that some of the pieces had moved since the last time he’d looked at it, years before. The white Wizr was back on its own side. He distinctly remembered seeing it in play during the battle of Averanche. One of the knights that had been on the board before was missing. He swallowed guiltily. It was the white knight. The image of Lord Roux’s face came to his mind, with blood streaming from his eyes like tears. How strange that he’d been wearing black armor.

He stared at the board, feeling hopelessly lost. He examined the pieces more closely. Two kings were still present; the dark one was Severn, but who played the white? Chatriyon? A dark knight was missing. One that had been there previously. Only one knight remained on the board.

Then the white Wizr began to move unbidden and untouched, sending a shiver of fear down Owen’s back. He watched it slide across the tiles, moving in an unobstructed path toward the dark knight’s position. His heart began pounding, and he felt an ominous sense of dread. The waters of the fountain began to churn, and the presence of magic hung heavy in the air.

He quickly rose from the rim and backed away, his hand going to his sword. The waters churned, and a spray of mist came leaping from the once-placid waters.

A form emerged from the mist, a person whom Owen immediately recognized.

It was Lady Sinia.

His bones felt weak and he experienced a sensation of utter vulnerability. The swell of the Fountain magic that flowed with her was vast. He had sensed it before, when her power was dormant, but now it was active, living, and he felt like cowering before its majesty. Then the sensation subsided, like the violence of a wave that retreats calmly back from the shore to build up its strength.

Some of the pieces began to fit together in his mind. She was there, standing before him, holding a pair of sandals in her hand. She extended her other hand to him and moved toward the edge of the fountain.