CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

The Queen of Atabyrion

It was a brisk autumn day when Owen rode his weary stallion beneath the portcullis of the palace of Kingfountain. The cheers from his ride through the city were still ringing in his ears as he dismounted in the bailey. Eyric sat stock-still on his mount, gazing up at the spires and towers of the palace with a look that combined nostalgia and fear. Owen’s left arm ached from his wound. Etayne had changed the dressing regularly, and it was strapped to his chest with some leather as he rode. The cloak he wore concealed the crooked bend of it, and he could not help but harbor the dark thought that he was slowly, ponderously, turning into a shadow of Severn himself.

One of the groomsmen offered a hand to Eyric, who at first blinked at the disruption and then took the hand and dismounted as well. Etayne appeared behind him, her eyes assessing the various onlookers for any sign of a threat. With a nod, Owen bade her to keep an eye on Eyric, and she gave him a subtle motion with her head to acknowledge it.

Although Owen’s stomach craved refreshment, he felt so worried and nauseous he would not be able to eat. Word had reached him of the king’s alliance with Iago Llewellyn—and the price of that alliance. He was haunted by the grim reality that he was losing Evie forever. He had clung to the hope that his victory against Occitania would be enough to sway the king into granting him his heart’s desire. But every league he had crossed to return to the palace had filled him with fresh despair; his worst fears were about to come to pass.

“My lord,” Justine’s voice said at his shoulder. He had not seen her approach, but that was not surprising, for he was in a fog of misery. She looked mournful, which only pushed the knife deeper into his heart.

“She is here?” Owen asked hoarsely. “The wedding arrangements are underway?” He desperately wanted to be contradicted.

Justine flushed a delicate pink. “They are, my lord. She asked me . . . she wants to speak with you herself. Before you see the king. She’s at your secret place. Waiting.” Justine looked as if she wanted to say more. He saw tears in her eyes, and then she reached out and put her hand on his arm, making him flinch with pain.

“I hurt you!” she gasped. “I’m sorry! That’s your wounded arm. I’m—”

“It’s not your fault,” Owen said, shaking his head, trying to banish the memory of the pain. “I will go at once.”

Owen knew that Severn would be expecting him in the throne room. He should go there first and deliver his report in person. But he had to see Evie. He had to listen to her words himself. As he started across the yard, he caught sight of Etayne. “Wait for me outside the throne room,” he told her.

She nodded and hooked arms with Eyric, who was shuddering with fear as he crossed the threshold of his childhood palace.

Owen had a thought and caught Etayne’s arm. “Take him to Liona first,” he whispered to her. “Let him see a friendly face.”

He stared back across the yard at the yawning portcullis. The last time he was here a violent mob had been pressing against the gates with the intent of throwing Severn into the river. The memory hit Owen like a spike of pain: Evie facing down the mob and trying to persuade them to relent. Evie falling. He had held her in his lap, afterward, as the blood flowed from her brow. It was the last time he had seen her or touched her. He had seen an unusually large number of armed soldiers wearing the symbol of the white boar while passing through the city. There was a curfew now where there had not been one before. They were preparations in case of another riot.

Owen’s throat tightened painfully, but he swallowed and entered the palace. When he reached the corridor leading to the cistern, he found the door at the far end ajar. He tried to control his breathing, but he felt as if he were about to plunge over a waterfall. He pushed the door open gently, gazing out at the place where he had shared so many memories with her.

Evie was pacing near the edge of the cistern hole. She was wearing a dark green gown with silver stitching. He would have recognized the sound of her leather boots anywhere. Her hair was long, with little braids woven together in an intricate and exquisite pattern. As the sound of the creaking door reached her, she spun around to look at him.

The worried look in her eyes was the final affirmation that his life with her was over.

“Owen,” she murmured, and he saw tears dance in her lashes as she rushed to him.

He took her into his arms, crushing her against him, feeling his own tears burning down his cheeks. His heart ached with a torment that was different from when Ankarette had died. This was a new sort of death. He didn’t know how to endure it.

Owen felt her tremble and sob as she clutched the front of his tunic, his one good arm wrapped around her shoulders. His left arm was in agony, but the pain was nothing compared to what was in his heart.

He stroked her hair, feeling the softness, savoring it. “Say the word, and I will take you from this place. Say the word, my love, and I will take you far, far away. I cannot bear this, Evie! It hurts. It hurts so much.”

“I know,” she replied with a shiver in her voice. “I would be lying if I said otherwise.” She pulled back slightly, pushing some hair behind her ear and dabbing her dripping nose on her sleeve. “But this must be, Owen. This must be. We must both learn to accept that life isn’t fair. That not all our dreams will come true. That sometimes we must be parted from those we cannot live without.” Her face crumpled into a look of misery. She struggled to keep her composure as tears streamed down her face. She took a steadying breath. “I choose this, Owen. This is not happening against my will. I care for . . . I care for Iago. He sincerely loves me, I know that. I think he can make me happy.” She glanced down for just a moment. “I think I can make him a better man . . . a better king. But I cannot be happy to see you grieve like this. It will be a torment to me, Owen. I am willing to endure it. But you must . . . please . . . you must try! You must try to care for someone else.”

Owen hung his head, ashamed that she was handling her emotions better than he was. He tried to wrestle his heart into submission. “How can I pretend?” he whispered thickly. “How can I pretend this will ever stop hurting?”

She shook her head and stroked his arm, his good arm. “It won’t stop hurting,” she said softly. “Not a day goes by that I don’t miss my papa. But it lessens in time. And so will this. We are still young, Owen. I’m not doing this because I’ll become a queen. I would rather have been a . . . a duchess.” She squeezed his arm. “I’m doing this because it is my duty. It is our duty. Loyalty binds us. Isn’t that what we’ve been taught for so long? When I heard the rumors that you had forsaken him, I could not believe them. I knew it was a trick, a deception. I knew you would not do that to him.” She gave him a look of adoration. “Not my Owen. Never my Owen.” She shook her head. “But you are mine, no longer. I will be Elysabeth Victoria Mortimer Llewellyn. We can do this, Owen. We must. He needs you. Go to your king. Submit to his will, as I have done.”

Owen reached out and took her hand. Her fingers were so soft and warm. It was holding her hand that had given him the courage to jump into the cistern waters. She had taught him everything he knew about bravery and fidelity. And love.

“As you command, my lady,” Owen whispered huskily. He pressed her knuckles to his lips. If she could endure this, then so could he. As he turned, he spied Justine standing in the doorway, sobbing.

He walked past her, pausing only to pat her shoulder and push her to join Evie in the cistern yard. Owen did not want her to be there when he went to see Severn.

Etayne was waiting with Eyric outside the throne room doors, which were closed. The man looked positively greensick. The poisoner saw Owen’s crestfallen look, and her expression filled with shared pain.

“He is waiting for you both,” she murmured in his ear. “Everyone else has been ordered out.”

Owen nodded and took Eyric by the elbow. The guards gripped the massive handles of the doors and pulled them open. Something told Owen that Severn would be pacing inside, and indeed, that was the first thing he noticed. The king was chafing with obvious impatience and agitation.

Eyric, for a moment, couldn’t move, until Owen tugged on his arm. Severn turned immediately, his expression a mixture of excitement, worry, and triumph. His black garb was a contrast to Eyric’s more princely raiment. The king wore his battle sword as well as a dagger in his belt. Eyric was unarmed, a defeated rebel.

“My lord king,” Owen announced in a firm, controlled voice. “The rebel Eyric Argentine was captured, and I bring him to you for justice.”

Severn folded his arms, giving Eyric a dispassionate look. The king’s demeanor softened, his brooding looks settling into place.

“Welcome back to Kingfountain, nephew,” the king said flatly.

Eyric summoned his courage. He was trembling with the weight of the moment. “I am not your nephew,” he said in a quavering voice. “My lord, I will confess the truth to you. My name is Piers Urbick. I am from Brugia.”

Owen felt a heavy wall of blackness settle on him. As if an unbearable weight had been heaped on his shoulders.

Say nothing, the Fountain whispered to him.

Severn’s expression changed to one of confusion, and the first glints of anger shone through. “Piers Urbick?” he said in challenge.

“It is true, my lord,” the young man offered meekly. “I am an imposter, trained at the court of your sister to deceive you and the rest of the kingdoms. Long have I sought to escape this disguise. I was chosen because I bear a resemblance to the Argentine family. Perhaps my mother had a dalliance with your elder brother during his exile in Brugia. I was taught what to say. I was promised a kingdom. Your kingdom.” He bowed, his knees trembling.

Owen knew Eyric wasn’t telling the truth. Every word out of his mouth was a lie.

Say nothing.

Severn looked outraged, his anger blasting white hot in his eyes. “You mean to tell me, lad, that you’ve been duping us all along? That my sister persuaded you to seek my throne unlawfully, illegitimately, and through lies and deception, you managed to convince a king to marry you to one of the noblest daughters of his realm!” His voice continued to rise until he was shouting. “That this is all a sham? You may be my nephew, my bastard nephew, if that! And you come to Kingfountain to seek pardon for these heinous falsehoods!” The king whirled around, his eyes sparking with inner fire. “I ought to throw you into the river myself,” he growled with such wrath that Owen thought he might do just that.

Eyric shrank from the words, wincing away from the king. Owen felt the trickling of the Fountain, felt the waters of it seeping inside the king as he lashed out at his nephew.

Why would Eyric lie? Owen could not fathom the logic or fear that had driven him to such a blatant falsehood, but then he remembered Lady Kathryn’s eyes, the way her hand had touched her abdomen.

It is your duty to protect the heir, the Fountain told him. The Dreadful Deadman will return. If you tell the king, the babe will perish. You must hide him. You must protect him.

Eyric collapsed to his knees, his voice throbbing with anguish. “I beg you to have mercy!” he pleaded. “Dread sovereign! I implore you. I was coerced by ambitious men. I did not want to deceive everyone, but I was carried forth by the unfolding of events. I beg for mercy!”

Severn eyed the prostrate young man with disgust. “Take him out of my sight,” he ordered Owen. “If your marriage to that young woman was performed under such a lie, then the marriage is not valid.” He snorted scornfully. “She married you because she thought she had married a prince. Well, I thank you for taking the trouble to bring the Earl of Huntley’s daughter to Ceredigion. Her father has been frantic to hear word of her. I shall tell him that his son-in-law was nothing more than a sniveling coward and an imposter. Well, if she wanted to become Queen of Ceredigion, there is another way.”

Eyric’s eyes widened with shock. “You are a monster,” he breathed out. Owen felt the heaviness of the Fountain still, and it prevented him from speaking out on Eyric’s behalf. He saw the king’s mind shifting, tottering, shutting.

Severn sneered. “If that is what everyone expects, then I shan’t disappoint them any longer. I have no family left. No niece. No nephew. No sister.” His eyes were glaring with wrath. “I won’t kill you, lad. But you will come to wish I had. You are my prisoner.” The king turned to Owen. “My lord duke, I give you charge of the Espion. Have young Urbick assigned to Dunsdworth. Have them both guarded day and night. I forbid him to share a bed with the woman he seduced and deceived. Have Lady Kathryn brought to the palace. I should like to meet the beauty of Atabyrion who came to be queen. And I should like to hear him confess his duplicity to her face.”

“My lord, I beg you, no!” Eyric started, and Severn held up a hand to silence him.

“Take him away.”

Owen was sick at heart. He stared at the king, feeling animosity roil in his heart. Was this how Stiev Horwath felt? Was this why he was so often silent?

Owen grabbed beneath Eyric’s arm and pulled him up. Eyric’s face was white with despair, his hands trembling. When Owen reached the door, he gave Etayne orders to see to the man. Then he paused, and turned as the doors were shut once again.

Severn stood by the fireplace, shaking his head. A strange expression was on his face. An almost giddy look.

“My lord, may I speak to you?” Owen asked.

The king glanced over his shoulder, looking surprised Owen had not yet left. “You’ve seen the girl, haven’t you? Lady Kathryn? Lord Bothwell tells me she is a beauty. Soft-spoken, demure. He could not say what color her hair was because the fashion in her country is to wear headdresses.” Severn looked almost distracted in his thoughts. “When you bring her, I don’t want her wearing Atabyrion fashions. Have a gown made up for her. Let Etayne do it. She should wear black, as if she’s in mourning. Black, but I want the cut to be the finest of any princess. Yes, I want her to wear black. It’s appropriate, after all.”

Owen’s horror grew as the king spoke. He was not himself. Something had altered him. Was it the threat of being thrown in the river? Was it the stress of facing another Ambion Hill? Or had it been his niece’s betrayal? Perhaps he was finally feeling the stress of all his miserable years of loyalty to his brother.

The thought shocked Owen and made him sick inside.

“What did you want?” the king asked peevishly.

“I just wanted you to know,” Owen said, feeling a strange sensation in his stomach. He would not tell Severn that Kathryn was with child. He felt the heavy weight of it pressing on him, but he knew it was a secret he had to keep, just as he had kept so many other secrets from the king.

“To know what? Speak, man! You have errands aplenty to attend to. Aren’t you grateful for the new office? The new trust I have put in you?”

Not in the least, he refrained from saying.

“My lord, I just wanted you to know. To hear it from my own mouth. I loved her. I truly, deeply loved her.”

Severn wrinkled his brow. “The Mortimer girl. Yes, I know.”

Owen felt the stirrings of hatred begin in his heart. “You knew?”

The king nodded and folded his arms. “Mancini saw it first and then I noticed it myself. Yes, you were fond of the girl. But you are barely a man, Owen. There is much you have yet to learn.”

Owen was struggling to control his temper. “You knew . . . and yet you allowed Iago to have her? Your enemy?”

The king shook his head. Then his face became cruel. “You don’t think I know what you’re feeling? Finally someone else understands what I had to endure. What I had to go through! My Nanette, the daughter of the Duke of Warrewik. She and I were much like you and the Mortimer girl. I loved her deeply, as Warrewik ensured that I would! And then he sold her off to form an alliance with the Prince of Occitania. She was to become their queen.” He gave Owen a look of fierce loathing and rage. “She was wed to our enemy. And when they returned to Ceredigion with an army, hoping to break my brother’s crown, I destroyed her father and her husband. That’s when I realized I was Fountain-blessed. When I was able to persuade her to love me in spite of that.” He came forward, and Owen felt the magic of the Fountain rush to life inside the king. He gripped Owen’s shoulder, and the pain in his elbow howled with the pressure. The magic of the Fountain flooded him, but it could not penetrate him. He stood steady against it, immovable.

“You will understand what I had to endure to be loyal, young Owen,” the king snarled. “You will understand what it feels like to be hated. To be despised. You will learn the cost of loyalty as I did. Then we’ll see if you can smugly talk of love as if that were the single most important thing in the world, the only consideration regarding the destiny of kings and fate! The people love you now. But they will hate you. And then we will see if you do not become the very man that I am!” His eyes were losing focus and appeared to be gazing at something far away. “Yes, they wanted a monster, and now they will get one. And I will make the world howl for it!”