The King's Traitor (Kingfountain #3)(69)
Genevieve sat back a little and smiled knowingly. “I knew it. I’ve heard many stories about your mischiefs together. Like when you pulled her into the fountain in the outer lawns!”
“She pulled me in,” Owen said.
Genevieve began to giggle infectiously. “I love hearing those stories. Thank you for telling me the truth, Lord Owen.”
“There is one more truth I need to tell you,” Owen said, trying not to be completely charmed by the little girl. Drew sat there mutely, listening to every word.
“I promised your mother at Dundrennan,” Owen continued, “that I would help you escape.”
Genevieve’s eyes grew to the size of saucers. “You did?”
He nodded once.
“When?” she whispered eagerly.
“Tomorrow,” he answered. Drew’s face transformed from excitement to dread as he realized his playmate was about to be liberated and he, once again, would be left behind. Owen had to swallow a bulge in his throat.
He looked at the young man in a kindly way. “Don’t worry, lad. I have plans for you as well.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
A Game of Tiles
There were so many threats, stratagems, worries, and heart-flutters colliding inside of Owen that he locked himself inside his state room at the palace with a box of tiles he’d stashed in an ancient wardrobe. He set it down in the middle of the floor and carefully removed the lid, staring down at the oblong pieces with a wistful smile. As he had grown older, his ability to replenish his Fountain magic had changed subtly. It wasn’t the tiles themselves that did it, but the quiet solitude that helped him think and reason through difficult situations. A ride on horseback from one part of the realm to another could provide the same benefit. But with all his troubles of late, he relished the idea of immersing himself in the old craft he’d taught himself as a child.
Piece by piece, he began arranging the tiles into an elaborate structure. This was to be a tower he would knock over, a tower made of precarious tiles that would collapse in a rush when struck at its most vulnerable point.
As Owen worked, his mind turned to Sinia. He was anxious to check the box in the fountain for a note from her. He craved to see her delicate handwriting again. What would she write to him? How would he interpret it? There was a sort of deliciousness about the feeling that was new and exciting.
A memory struck him so keenly he felt as if he could physically see her. It was from that night on the beach with the glass beads. The wind had tousled her hair, and her hand had reached up to smooth it back. Her sandals had dangled off the crook of her finger. He blinked in surprise at the sudden rush of emotion that swelled his heart. After staring down at the tile in his hand for a moment, he continued to build his structure with a new objective. He would solve the riddle that was Sinia Montfort.
His mind combed through all their interactions as he stacked tile after tile, and a little flush of embarrassment came to his skin at the remembrance of how he’d treated her upon their first introduction. He’d been shamefully rude, but it hadn’t angered her. There had been another look on her face instead—one of disappointment. How curious. How could someone be disappointed in a stranger?
It may have been the first time they had met, he realized, but it was not their first interaction. She had caused the storm at the battle of Averanche. She had told him as much. So why hadn’t she revealed herself to him then?
He felt the Fountain magic flow inside him, sharpening his instincts and insights, as he continued to stack the tiles. Pieces started to slide together in his mind, disparate joints forming a unique whole. He started to look at the events of the past from her point of view, and suddenly it all began to make sense.
There was a child in Ceredigion reported to be Fountain-blessed. A hostage of King Severn who could see the future, like Myrddin of old. How would such news have been received by a young girl, his own age at the time, who actually did possess that power? Wouldn’t it have excited her? Did she know the truth about Owen, or did the stories ignite her imagination?
But if she had visited him through the Fountain, she would have realized how close he was to another little girl, the granddaughter of the Duke of North Cumbria. Had their obvious affection for each other disappointed Sinia? Is that why she had remained aloof?
Owen placed the pieces on the tower faster now as it grew in size, each new row shorter than the one below it.
A memory stirred to life in his mind—the first day he had seen the treasure of the Fountain in the waters of the cistern. Evie had not been able to see it, and it had angered him that she didn’t believe him. And then Ratcliffe had tried to kill them by opening the cistern to drain it into the river. Owen had struggled to save his own life and Evie’s. In that panicky moment, he had felt the Fountain magic bidding him to . . . to breathe.
Nesh-ama.
A prickle of gooseflesh shot down his arms. Had the voice truly been the Fountain? Or had it been Sinia’s?
His hand wobbled, and he almost ruined the tower he was building. He dropped his hand into his lap, his eyes widening with wonder. Had Sinia been communicating with him all this while? Was she the voice of the Fountain? Had she, a little girl herself, seen visions of the Kiskaddon boy through her mantic gifts? Had she used her magic to save him from drowning?
What if she had continued to watch him from afar? Perhaps she had known for years they were fated to meet for the first time in Brythonica, when he came to propose marriage to her. Is that why she hadn’t extended herself to him before?