The King's Traitor (Kingfountain #3)(66)
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.