CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

The King’s Word

Owen sat astride his horse, ready for battle, with a thick chain hauberk beneath his heavy fur cloak, bracers on his arms, and a shield strapped to his saddle harness. The hilt of Firebos protruded from its scabbard, and he felt the magic of the blade thrumming against his hip. The blade sensed the looming battle, and was eager for it. A flock of young squires stood nearby with spears, in case they were needed.

The road was covered in freshly fallen snow, but trample marks showed the paths of the horses that had been ridden to and from the village throughout the night. Hastily built pavilions had been erected in the woods on either side of the road, but no one had slept that night, especially not Owen, for fear the king would try to slip away in the dark. The Espion who were loyal to Kevan had revealed that the king was still sequestered in a wealthy lord’s house. His army had marched the streets all night, expecting a night attack from Owen that hadn’t come. The two armies had faced each other silently, waiting for dawn to break the deadlock.

Kevan Amrein sat astride as well, but he was only there to relay intelligence about the king’s movements. He was not a warrior, and would not ride into battle should one break out.

Severn was in a terrible position. He had the mountains of Dundrennan at his back. Evie and Iago held the high ground and the keep. If the king attacked Owen’s army, they would attack him from the rear. If he tried to assault the castle, Owen would flank him from behind. The two armies were evenly matched, but Brythonica’s forces were already hastening to join them.

“How far is the duchess by your reckoning?” Owen asked Kevan, leaning on the saddle.

The Espion had a day’s growth on his chin from not shaving. “Two days, maybe less,” he said. “The roads are getting worse by the day. Will this infernal storm ever end?”

“No, it won’t,” Owen said, gazing down at the road toward the village. “Not until it’s over.” The biggest question in his mind was whether Severn would fight. Owen could have arranged for the king’s abduction. It would not have been easy, but there were many who would be willing to do such a thing to prevent bloodshed. But Owen did not want to topple Severn through trickery. A king deserved the chance to die in battle if he so chose. But it was not a battle Owen was anxious to start.

Captain Ashby’s horse rode up from the camp and aligned next to his.

“What news, Ashby?” Owen asked. “How are the men?”

Ashby had a serious cast to his face, but he looked confident too. They had led many battles together, and the older man had learned to trust Owen’s instincts and strategies.

“They are nervous, as you can well imagine,” the captain said gruffly. “You’ve not lost a battle. That bodes well. But neither has the king. Money is going to change hands when this is through. I put my money on you, my lord.”

Owen smiled and chuckled softly. “Thank you.” He stared at the lonely road, feeling warm beneath his cloak, gloves, and armor. In fact, he was a bit too warm. The scabbard was snug around his waist, and he felt the soothing, healing influence of it chase away his aches and pains.

“It’s no small matter rebelling against a king,” Owen said. “I’m sure the men have mixed emotions, as do I. But I swear to you, this winter will not end if Severn keeps his throne. His actions have doomed us all. The duchess and I could not let that calamity fall without acting against it.”

Ashby sniffed and then straightened. “Riders.”

The sound of hooves in the snow followed his warning, and men appeared on the road ahead. Owen saw the herald hoisting the banner of the king, the White Boar. A chill rattled Owen’s bones when he saw it, and his breath quickened. Three men approached the line.

“We have visitors,” Owen said, glancing at the cloud-veiled sky. The hour was indistinguishable in the wintery haze, but he guessed it was still before noon. He glanced at Kevan. “Get Farnes over here. Quickly.”

As the riders drew closer, Owen recognized Catsby. The third person was the king’s personal squire.

“Interesting,” Ashby said under his breath.

Owen wondered if the king would surrender or summon them to battle. The king had the Wizr set, which meant he would be difficult to beat. He also had Drew, the boy he believed Owen was positioning to be king. But did Severn truly understand the importance of his advantages? Did he know that the board possessed powers of its own? That the boy in his tent was the only other person in Ceredigion who could use it? Owen hoped not. He’d considered sending a man to steal the set and rescue the lad, but if the man were captured, it would reveal too much. Owen knew his next moves needed to be very careful. He couldn’t risk the boy’s life. Nervous energy raced through him as the trio arrived.

“My lord Catsby,” Owen said, nodding in wary respect.

“My lord,” Catsby said. “I bear this message from the king. He told me to entrust it to no man but you.”

Owen smirked. “He knows I’m alive?”

Catsby looked as if he’d tasted something sour. “He knows you aren’t dead. He realizes he’s surrounded, on unfavorable ground, by a rebel force that is likely larger than his own. You’ve cut off our supplies and all hope of succor. The longer this farce continues, the more damage the true enemies of our realm will do. I saw him write the note myself. I can assure you, it is his will.”

Catsby swatted his horse’s flanks and came closer to present the note bearing the royal seal. Owen accepted it, using his replenished Fountain magic to detect weakness or trickery. There was no poison on the note, nothing but ink and wax. He used his power on Catsby and found that all the man’s weapons were clearly visible. Catsby was not that capable a soldier, and Owen sensed the man’s secret fear of his own reputation with a sword.

He broke the seal and quickly read the message declaring the king’s surrender.

“What does it say, my lord?” Ashby said in an undertone.

Owen felt a surge of relief flood his heart. He hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath until this very moment. The words were definitely Severn’s. There was plenty of spite in them. His accusation that Owen intended to rule the realm was particularly vengeful. But the king still had the boy, and Owen needed to separate them.

“The king has surrendered,” Owen said with relief as Kevan and Farnes drew near.

“Truly?” Farnes asked with surprise.

“Read it for yourself,” he said, handing the note to him. He nodded for Kevan to do the same.

“There is no cause for bloodshed,” Catsby said. “I am authorized on the king’s behalf to negotiate his surrender. Is it your desire to execute him? He especially wishes to know your intentions on that front.”

Rather than relief, Owen felt a strange sensation of dread. A feeling of heaviness had settled on him. Years earlier, Ankarette had told him a story that had never left him. A story about how a prince had persuaded a rebel army to lay down its arms. In the moment of relief that followed, the prince had broken his word and attacked his unprepared enemies. The leaders were all taken to the river and drowned because they were wearing heavy armor.

Owen remembered being stricken with shock—his young mind had struggled to understand such deep lies.

He still remembered the look of sadness on her face. That is the way of princes and power, Owen. That is the nature of the kingdom of Ceredigion. In truth, it is the nature and disposition of most men. So think on this. If you were one of the rebel leaders and the prince promised you forgiveness and reward, it would matter, very much, if you had discernment. He needed to make a decision based on what type of man he believed the prince to be. Was he a man of honor? Or was he willing to say anything, do anything to help his father keep his crown? That is why discernment is the most important thing you can learn, Owen. It takes time and experience. Sadly, one wrong judgment can lead to . . . well, you heard the end of the story.

Yes, he knew the feint well.

“The king sent you with this note?” Owen demanded hotly. “He intends to surrender?”

Catsby looked confused. “He told me so himself, Lord Owen, in no uncertain terms. He will surrender to you. He sent me to negotiate the terms. I swear it!”

The man’s face was convincing. His words were convincing. And Owen felt magic in his words—magic pressing against his own in an effort to persuade him the king’s words were true. But Owen’s magic prevented others from controlling him this way.

“Well, this is the best news that we could possibly have received!” Farnes said with triumph. “I’m quite relieved, to be honest.”

“It’s not true,” Owen said, shaking his head. “This isn’t a surrender. It’s a trap.”

“Are you certain, my lord?” Ashby asked him with a worried tone. “The king knows he’s been trapped.”

A cheer arose in the distance. It sounded as if it came from the walls of Dundrennan itself. Horns began to blow. Not war horns, but the blasts of victory.

Owen discerned what was happening. The king had also sent word to Evie and Iago. He had used his magic to convince his messengers that he was serious. That the surrender was true. Catsby’s manner was not that of a duplicitous man. He appeared convinced that a surrender truly was underway.

“Trumpets?” Kevan asked with concern.

Catsby nodded. “The king sent word to the castle. Our soldiers are half-frozen. He’s asking if they can fall in with the garrison after we’ve concluded the negotiation. I tell you, Lord Owen, the king is sincere! He put his hand on my shoulder and told me most emphatically that he was surrendering. He wanted to be sure I convinced you he was in earnest. All that is required is—”

“Captain!” Owen interrupted. “Marshal the sergeants. We’re about to be attacked. Do it now! I want archers and pikemen lining the road. Prepare for battle!”

Catsby looked outraged. “How dare you!” he shouted. “This is bloody murder! The king has surrendered, I say!”

“Then why is his army marching up behind you!” Owen snarled as the ranks of archers jogged up the road in the distance. He unstrapped the shield from his saddle horn and snugged it up his arm. Then he drew the blade, Firebos. As it cleared the scabbard, the sky rumbled with thunder.

Blood seeped into the muddy snow. Owen’s arms were weary from combat, but he gripped the hilt of Firebos tightly to counter the thrust of a spearman. The magic of the blade thrummed when he brought it down on the haft of the inferior weapon, and a blast of power sent the spearman flying backward as if he’d been struck by a battering ram. Owen’s ears rang with the feeling of power that came from his blows. Several archers had aimed for him specifically, but their arrows had pierced him without bringing him down. The scabbard’s magic was burning white-hot against his hip, keeping his wounds from bleeding.

The two armies slogged through the mire of slush and carnage to strike at each other. This was how it was supposed to end. Owen was almost relieved that the king hadn’t truly surrendered. His respect for the man would have diminished. No, Severn would fight. But where was he?

“My lord!” Ashby warned. “We’ve drifted ahead of our men. Fall back!”

An archer bearing the standard of the white boar impaled a knight with an arrow before he could be hacked down. Then he turned his bow on Owen, aiming for his mount this time. The arrow struck the horse’s withers, causing him to scream in pain and begin to fall. Owen managed to scrabble off the thrashing beast before it pinned him beneath it. Owen had lost his shield in the tumult, and he gazed around the battlefield, amazed at the number that had fallen. Tunics with the stags on blue were intermingled with the White Boar, the dead bodies frozen as the snow continued to come down in never-ending waves.

“Grab my hand!” Ashby said, riding up alongside Owen.

But as he reached for it, a spearman rode up and stabbed Ashby in the back. A rictus of pain transformed the spattered face, and Ashby yelled in agony as he arched and then tumbled from the saddle.

A dozen knights emerged from the woods to flank Owen, among them the king, his crown affixed to his helmet. Seeing him made the world suddenly totter, as if a giant had slammed his boot on the ground and caused an earthquake. The king was pointing at him with his sword, but Owen could not hear any words over the sudden ringing of the magic within the Maid’s blade. He felt a grinding sensation, and images of the ancient Wizr board filled his head. He saw the black king move to occupy the space of the white knight, and his stomach filled with dread.

He felt a blade slice into his arm and realized he was surrounded by enemies. The sting could not be felt over the rush of panic. Owen twirled and swept his blade around. When it struck the knight who had attacked him, he felt the invocation of the sword’s magic. The knight flew backward, leaving his arm in the muck at Owen’s feet. Another knight dressed in a boar tunic charged Owen, but Owen deflected the attack and then used his magic to find the man’s weakness. The sword’s magic was building up again, preparing for another thunderous blast that would repel his attackers.

They came at him in droves, but Owen beat them back, the sword blasting them away like a catapult. His breath came thick and heavy. He was wounded in a dozen places, but the magic of the scabbard kept him alive and on his feet. Bodies of dead kingsmen were scattered around him in a wide arc. Where were his own men? He was in the thickest part of the fight.

The sight of the king filled him with despair, for he sensed the piece on the Wizr board moving.

Owen clenched the blade tightly, summoning its power. But his strength was failing, and Firebos felt heavy in his hand. His cracked lips pulled back into a snarl as Severn approached, a sword in one hand, a dagger in the other. The two men circled each other, but each step Owen took made his head spin, his knees tremble. It felt as if a huge mountain were suspended over him. Was this what Roux had felt the night of his death?

“You thought to beat me!” Severn said with fury. “You thought to wear this crown! Take it from me, boy! If you can!”

Owen knew this was his chance . . . and he also knew that he was doomed to fail. Somehow the king had discovered the power of the Wizr set. Owen could sense the whorl of magic around him, making him heavier and heavier. The pieces had already been moved, and not in his favor.

He let out a grunt of rage and rushed at the king, hefting Firebos high over his head and bringing it down toward the king’s shoulder. But it was like swinging against a huge boulder. The instant the weapon hit the king, the magic repulsed against Owen. The surge of magic would have killed another man. But while his arm went numb, it was the soldiers rushing up behind him who were flattened by the blast. His entire body and arm hurt, and suddenly the king’s dagger plunged into his ribs. He felt the steel slide into his flesh, and his legs turned to water.

Firebos fell from his numb fingers into the snow, where it was instantly covered in hoarfrost.

Owen slumped forward against the king’s body, pain traveling through him in spasms. He saw the fury and hatred melt away from the king’s face as he collapsed into the bloody snow. The world spun recklessly.

The king knelt by his body, staring at him with a strange look of grief and surprise.

“It worked,” Severn said with awe. “The magic worked! I’ll not fail after all!”

Owen lay still, his strength in tatters.

The king picked up Firebos and held it aloft. A clap of thunder broke in the sky. “Victory!” he shouted. “Victory!”

A cry of triumph came from the soldiers wearing the White Boar.

The sickening realization of defeat washed through Owen. He saw the dagger pommel sticking out from his armor. No blood came from it. The scabbard on his belt was the only thing keeping him alive.

The king turned and looked down at Owen with pity. “Take him to my tent,” the king said. “Have my surgeon tend him.”

“My lord!” one of them uttered, aghast. “He’s a traitor! Slay him!”

“He’ll meet a traitor’s death,” Severn said grimly, “after we’ve buried this rebellion.”