The King's Traitor (Kingfountain #3)(63)

Owen started pacing and rubbing the growth on his chin, then caught himself when he noticed Etayne watching him with an amused smile. “The king asked specifically about the prophecy of the Dreadful Deadman.”

Polidoro nodded. “You know almost as much about it as I do, of course. You’ve often asked me about the mantic prophecies.”

That word, Sinia’s word, caught Owen’s attention. “The mantic prophecies?”

“Yes, that’s the word we used to describe them. They are prophecies of the past or the future. There have always been certain Fountain-blessed individuals who possess mantic gifts. The Wizr Myrddin, for example, had that gift. As do you, naturally. The Sirens shared that gift, but they weren’t mortal.”

Owen held up his hand. “The Sirens?”

Polidoro looked at him in surprise. “They are mythological creatures, Owen. Very nasty. I thought you knew of them. They are a type of water sprite—one of the more malevolent ones.”

Owen glanced at Etayne and then back at the historian. “I’ve not heard of them specifically. Tell me more?”

“It’s an ancient legend,” Polidoro said, sitting on the edge of his desk and rubbing his hands briskly together. “The legend comes from Genevar, I believe. There are many islands in that area, and they’ve always been a trading nation. According to their history, any sailors who traveled too close to the rocky islands of the Sirens risked destruction. Sirens were beautiful female creatures . . . not mortals, but from the Deep Fathoms. Their song would entice the sailors—so much so that they would crash their ships into the rocks. The songs were mantic, personal to each sailor. Only one man survived the Sirens. He was Fountain-blessed, so their song could not drive him mad. The Sirens are a myth, of course. Shipwrecks are caused by storms, not water sprites, but just because something isn’t real doesn’t mean people won’t believe in it.”

Owen’s heart hammered in his chest as Polidoro spoke. Water sprites. He remembered hearing about the water creatures who lived in the Deep Fathoms when he was a child. Mancini had even accused Evie once of being one. According to legend, some water sprites were left to parents who couldn’t bear children to raise them in the mortal world. Pieces began to tumble together in Owen’s mind. When he and Sinia had stood on the beach with the smooth glass, none of the waves had touched her. He had seen her step into the Fountain and the water had appeared to disperse from her. Was it because she was a Wizr? Or was it because she had other powers he could not understand? If she was a water sprite, was she the benevolent or malevolent kind?

“You look astonished,” Polidoro said, quirking his brow. “Have I troubled you?”

He swallowed. “These water sprites—the Sirens—from mythology. Did they have names?”

The historian nodded. “Oh yes, they had names listed in the myths. Let me think.” He tapped his chin and scrunched up his brow. “Aglayopee, Lukosia, Ligeia, Molpine, let me think . . . hmm . . . Thelxia, Kelpie, and . . . what was the last one? I can’t quite remember . . . oh, I’ve got it!” He snapped his fingers loudly. “Peisinia!”





My dearest Owen,



I enjoyed the note you wrote and have read it through often. It shows me part of your heart, and while ink is but a poor substitute for words, it is better than silence. Difficulties face us. The king will not accept defeat willingly.

About myself, as you requested. My father made me practice my penmanship repeatedly as a child. I apologize if my words are written too fancifully, but it pleased my father, and I wished to please him. I am also fascinated by drawing, so I have always treasured illuminated manuscripts and imagined the little pictures on the pages coming to life. I thought that if I could make a picture seem real enough, it would become real. When I learned about my gifts, I discovered a word from the ancient language of the Wizrs. The word means “breath,” but it also means “life.” Do you know what I speak of? Here is a little picture I have drawn for you, of the breed of butterfly I am named after. A little gift for you, along with some berries from the gardens of Ploemeur.



Sinia





CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE


Myrddin




The name—Peisinia—was so hauntingly close to the duchess’s, it made Owen’s stomach lurch with dread. His gaze sought out Etayne, who stared at him with open worry and surprise on her face, emotions she quickly subdued.

“You have a remarkable memory,” Owen said to the historian, struggling to control his tone. Sinia did not seem like a negative influence in the world. Her people admired and respected her, and he had witnessed evidence of her compassion more than once. He did not relish the idea of being duped by anyone, though, and the mere possibility that she was not what she seemed twisted his stomach into knots.

Polidoro waved it off. “I do have a prodigious memory for minute details. It serves my occupation. The king wished to know about the Dreadful Deadman prophecy,” he said, tapping his long fingers against his chin. “Is there anything in particular he wanted to know?”

With difficulty, he managed to choke out, “You named the source as Geoffrey of Dundas. Can you tell us anything else? Anything from deeper in the past?”

“Certainly,” Polidoro said, wagging his finger at Owen. “Geoffrey was merely transcribing one of the prophecies of Myrddin. The ancient Wizr had the mantic gifts, as you know. With him as an advisor, King Andrew was able to make his empire grow ever stronger. There were always plots to do away with the Wizr and prevent his counsel from reaching the king. The old man could use the Fountain magic to disguise himself, and he was known to wander the kingdom, visiting people and telling fortunes. Sometimes as a little child. Sometimes as a doddering ancient. Several kings of the day would send poisoners to try and kill him, but he foresaw their attacks and eluded them.”