CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Mantic Gifts

The king dismissed all of the dukes except for Owen. Lovel, Paulen, and Catsby left—Catsby pausing to cast a suspicious glance over his shoulder at Owen before he walked out—and the door thudded shut with an ominous sound, leaving Owen and Severn alone together.

Torches hissed and fluttered in the throne room sconces. Owen stood still, but he felt the nervous impulse to reach for his sword hilt. The king was pacing again on his crooked leg, his brow knitting with consternation. He stopped and then fixed Owen with a wary stare.

“Why did you announce your dream in a hall full of witnesses?” he asked in a low, seething voice.

Owen held his ground and met the king’s gaze without flinching. “Why did you execute Dunsdworth and Eyric before I returned?”

Severn’s face darkened. “I did it to spare your sensibilities, lad.”

“How considerate of you,” Owen said. “I’m glad you’ve always kept my feelings in the forefront of your thoughts.”

The king gave him a measuring look, as if Owen’s words had caught him off guard. “Have you finally found your tongue after all of these years?” he said with a snort. “The boy who used to quaver in this very hall at breakfast each morning?” He swept his hand in a wide circle, indicating the food-laden tables that had been ransacked earlier.

Owen took a deliberate step closer. “I’m not a child anymore.”

The king’s anger was growing, but he looked uncomfortable as well, as if his conscience was suddenly bothering him. “You should have told me privately about your dream. Now the entire realm will hear of it within the hour. You owe allegiance to me, lad. I gave you everything you have. And I can take it from you just as easily.”

Owen couldn’t have cared less, and he hoped it showed on his face. “I returned, did I not? Even after your threat. Even after your test. Can you not stop such antics, my lord? Have I not proven my loyalty again and again over these many years?”

The king shook his head. “I do trust you, lad, but Catsby has been whispering that it’s a mistake. That you’ve had too much power for one so young. He said that some of the Espion are more loyal to you than to me.” He gave Owen a meaningful look. Did he mean Etayne? Kevan?

Owen held up his hands. “Then strip it from me, my lord, like you did to Ratcliffe. If Catsby wants the burden, he’s welcome to it. If he’s done ruining everything Stiev Horwath built in Dundrennan, why not turn him loose on your Espion next, as he wishes?”

The king looked at him again in surprise. “Do you hear yourself?”

“I do. I sound like you, don’t I?”

The king nodded. “You are young and you’ve carried a heavy burden. Perhaps it is time that I eased some of it off you. What news from Ploemeur? I’ve heard the duchess wasn’t opposed to the match after all?”

Owen wondered how he could keep his face disinterested, but he tried. “She’s no fool, nor was she Roux’s puppet.”

“Was? What do you mean?”

Owen bit his tongue, cursing himself for the slip. “I only meant that she’s not his puppet after all. She sees the value in the deeper alliance with Ceredigion. We are betrothed.”

The king looked surprised and a little envious. “So quickly?” he murmured. “You think this is a ruse? Or does she mean to go through with it? I hadn’t intended you to actually marry her, you know.”

“Then you shouldn’t have sent me to offer an engagement,” Owen rebuffed. “I was rude, cantankerous, and unkempt.”

“You still are,” the king said snidely.

“Is it any wonder?” Owen answered. “The assignment is complete. If you have no further plans for me, I’d like to return to Westmarch and prepare my army.”

The king shook his head. “No, Owen. I need you here. Send word to the duchess to be alert for signs that Chatriyon is stirring and seeking to reclaim his lost cities. I might send you to Pree to lay siege there.”

Owen wrinkled his brow, feeling the tangles forming in his plan. “You want me to attack him?”

Severn shook his head. “I believe you had a dream, Owen. Too many of your visions have come to pass for me to doubt them. But I don’t intend to forsake my crown, and I’d just as soon attack seven kingdoms at once than risk being defeated on my own ground. Make you ready. I want you near me as my advisor.”

Owen bowed. “I’ll send word to Ashby to begin the preparations.”

The king nodded. “Very well. See to it.”

Owen was about to turn, but the king signaled him to stay a moment longer. “You are not the only one who is recently betrothed,” he said, his expression softening. “Lady Kathryn has agreed to be my wife. She will be the queen my people have long desired.” He frowned, his brow turning more serious. “That’s another reason your news upset me. I’m fully intending to sire a son. An heir. I was going to name you protector should that happen.” His gaze narrowed. “Can I trust you, Owen? Can I trust you with that?”

Owen felt the squirming conflict inside of him. The duplicitous role the king had forced him to play sickened him, but he could not reveal himself now. He gave the king a stern look. “Loyalty binds me,” he said softly.

“Good lad,” Severn answered. “I want you to see Polidoro for me. I have no patience for his long-winded answers, but I want you to ask him about the Dreadful Deadman prophecy. From what I understand, he hasn’t been able to validate the myth of King Andrew at all. There are no records dating back to his court at Tintagel. Polidoro tells me the story is a myth. That the common story about the origins of this city, this very palace—Kingfountain—is simply a legend. There is no evidence that any sword was ever drawn from the water. I want you to talk with him, Owen. Then you can see for yourself why I have doubts about your prophecy.”

Owen bowed deeply. “I will, my lord. And congratulations on your betrothal. I know you have long desired it.” He did his best to keep the bitterness from his voice.

The king dismissed him with a nod.

Etayne walked alongside Owen as they headed to the record room where Polidoro Urbino had been working for so many years. The history he had written on the people of Ceredigion was lengthy and consisted of seven volumes. The man certainly was loquacious. He had traveled the land collecting documents, assembling the largest body of sources from castle records to sanctuary journals kept by the deconeuses.

“How did the king handle your news?” Etayne murmured to Owen.

“He was upset, of course. But then I threw it in his face that he’d had two men executed while I was gone. That kicked him off the holy pedestal he was attempting to mount.”

Etayne smirked at the joke. “I remember Mancini saying how much he hated debating with you.”

Owen chuckled. “He always lost. No, I’ve been around the king too long. If I opened my mouth, you’d find thorns on my tongue.” He sighed. “I’m going to have to learn to control my temper.”

“I like your temper,” Etayne said with a smile. “There is nothing about you I would change. Not even those whiskers.”

Her inviting tone made him a little uncomfortable, and he was grateful when they reached the heavy oak door leading to the record room. When they entered, they found Polidoro giving instructions to several young scribes whom the king was paying to work for him. They brought him books at his request, scanning passages for the references he sought.

“No, no, not volume six, I asked for volume seven!” Polidoro complained, shaking his head and shooing the young man at his elbow away. “Tanner, bring me another jar of ink, would you? Good lad. Lord Kiskaddon!” he said, brightening instantly as he noticed the new arrivals. “Come in, come in! It has been too long since you’ve visited this humble court historian.” He bowed with a flourish and rose, coming forward to give Owen’s hand a vigorous shake.

“It has been too long, Master Urbino,” Owen said. “I don’t come nearly as often as I should.”

“It’s understandable,” the historian said in a grave tone, looking serious and concerned. “You used to come quite often with a certain young water sprite long ago.” He clucked his tongue, his eyes growing misty. “I rather miss her, you know. She used to talk to me often before leaving for Edonburick. Those were fond memories. I see you mourn her as well. Well, best to wave aside the clouds, and face our fate with courage. What can I do for you, my young lord? Is there another battle you would like to reference? I do have several I’ve been saving for you.” He grinned knowingly at Owen and butted him with an elbow.

“Actually,” Owen said, hoping the man would stop speaking long enough for him to issue his message. “The king sent me here on an errand. He says you can dispel my notion about King Andrew being a historical figure.”

The lanky historian swiped his hand across his gray-haired scalp and pursed his leathery lips. “Did he now? Well, what I told him was that there is no evidence of it. I’m a historian, after all. I’ve been looking at records that go back hundreds of years, to the first Argentine family. But the story of King Andrew is older still. Did you know there is a tapestry in the royal palace of Pree that shows Ceredigion’s invasion by Jessup the Conqueror?” His eyes grew animated whenever he shared obscure historical facts, and he started to gesticulate with his hands. “History told in art! You can see the stories painted instead of printed. So it should not surprise you to learn that there are also pictures of a young boy drawing a sword from a fountain. But it’s impossible to tell when it happened. In some of the pictures, there is a woman in the water who hands Andrew the sword. The sanctuaries have been built to commemorate the event and, as you know, people still toss coins into the fountains and make wishes. It’s a deeply ingrained tradition, Lord Owen. But just because I can’t prove when Andrew lived, doesn’t mean I don’t believe he did. After living here for so many years, after studying the references over and over again, I’ve come to appreciate them like the sound of beautiful music.”

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!”