The King's Traitor (The Kingfountain Series Book 3) (7 page)

After she was gone, he slid the bolt into place. He could still sense her standing on the other side of the door. Owen felt a growl of selfishness unleash itself inside his heart. Why not find comfort and solace in a willing girl? She knew he didn’t love her that way. She didn’t care. He kicked the thought in his mind to silence it. When he was a young boy, old Stiev Horwath had told him a story that he had never forgotten. That inside each person lives two wolves. One was full of evil, jealousy, anger, resentment. The other wolf was kind, benevolent, generous, and dutiful.

Owen had asked how someone could survive with two such beasts inside them. Would not one of them eventually win? Duke Horwath had given him a crinkled smile.

“
Which wolf wins?
” he had asked. “
The one that you feed.
”

It was clear which one Severn was nourishing.

He walked away from the door.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Lady Sinia

Owen summoned his host, and after a much-needed day of rest, prepared to depart for Ploemeur. He carefully pored over the Espion maps of the realm, growing frustrated by the vagueness he found there. Brythonica was much smaller than Westmarch, and he could only name three cities, two rivers, and the main road. There were several densely wooded areas, game parks as the mayor of Averanche had once explained to him, several of which bordered his own lands, but as to their size and borders, the map was empty.

Giving it some thought, he decided it would be best to meet the king’s expectations quickly and ruthlessly. He ordered his men not to wash their tunics, and he himself wore the most travel-stained outfit he could find amongst his possessions. He intended to arrive dust-spattered and ill-kempt. Surely the duchess was accustomed to being courted by those intending to impress her, and Owen had no intention to follow suit. His goal was to offend her as quickly as possible, laying bare Severn’s machinations for her duchy, and then retreat back to Westmarch to work on his plan to make Eyric and Kathryn’s son the heir of Ceredigion.

The weather could not have been more perfect, which made for a pleasant ride through the countryside. The air had the salty tang of the sea to it, for Brythonica was a jagged inlet along the coast of Occitania, full of grottos and lagoons and sweet-smelling eucalyptus trees that were towering and ancient. Etayne rode at his side, hooded and mysterious, as they crossed the border between Averanche and Brythonica. Shortly after entering the domain, they were hailed by warriors bearing the Raven tunic of Brythonica, but the border guards were totally outnumbered by Owen’s men. When they learned Duke Kiskaddon was coming to meet the duchess, they blanched, let him pass, and undoubtedly sent riders dashing ahead to forewarn their ruler.

The land was full of rolling hills and valleys, lush parks, and manors with sculpted gardens that reminded Owen of Tatton Hall. The roads crisscrossed through spacious fields full of line after line of thick green berry bushes. There were strawberries, thimbleberries, honeysuckle, currants, and bilberries. The variety of colors and smells was pleasant and inviting, and Owen was impressed by the industry he saw. Everywhere he looked, foragers were working their way down the orderly rows, gently collecting the berries into small boxes strapped to their bodies. At the edges of the fields yet more peasants stacked crates of berries into wagons for shipment to the port cities. Despite all the work, there was a calm, comforting feeling in the air.

Several leagues into the countryside, they came across a road running alongside one of the game parks. The forest was thick and overgrown. It would have been difficult for horses to pass. Owen felt a strange sensation as he stared at the majestic eucalyptus and redwood trees, almost as if the forest were alive and gazing back at him. He saw squirrels rushing through the undergrowth, some climbing the trees and perching on limbs, their huge gray tails swishing as they moved. There was a ruckus from the birds lodged in the high branches.

After passing the woods, they reached another valley filled with even more farms and lush fields. These were more heavily populated than the ones Owen had seen earlier in the day. There were beautifully built villas occupying each hilltop, but no fortifications could be seen, and their walls appeared to be made of wood and plaster rather than stone. They were retreats, not structures intended for safety. Owen hadn’t seen a single castle along the journey, which gave the land a vulnerable feel. It would be easy to march an army on the packed-earth roads. The only natural barriers were the occasional woods, but those wouldn’t be suited for soldiers. A heartsick feeling struck him at the thought of this beautiful place being trampled and ravaged by war.

As they traveled deeper into the country, Owen felt the unmistakable sensation of the Fountain all around him, but there was no obvious source. There were none of the massive rivers and waterfalls that marked Ceredigion, and while each villa appeared to have a fountain in the courtyard, they were too distant to be heard. The lapping of the canals was so gentle it was almost unnoticeable. The gentle murmur of the Fountain seemed to be coming from the land itself, which he had never experienced before. He sensed it in the peasant farmers working joyfully in their gardens. He heard it in the air of music coming from the small villages. He saw maypoles and flowered garlands. There were many children dashing around, playing games. Their voices seemed to conjure the magic of the Fountain. In his mind’s eye, he imagined what it would have been like to grow up here, playing in such a carefree way, basking in the magic of this land.

Owen turned to look at Etayne, only to catch her gazing longingly at the scene.

“Do you feel it?” he whispered to her.

Her eyes were serious, almost sad. “I feel it everywhere,” she answered softly. “What is this place?”

Owen shook his head, not certain what to make of it—a sensation that only heightened as they continued to ride into the land, intent on reaching the capital of Brythonica by nightfall. The valleys and hills were so idyllic it almost felt sacrilegious to ride hastily past them. Peasants working near the roads lifted their caps and waved at the strangers, as if totally unconcerned by the foreign soldiers in their midst. Owen spied an old man resting against the trunk of a eucalyptus, surrounded by sunny-haired grandchildren, one of whom was peeling long strips of bark from the tree. The grandfather tickled a squealing girl, which made Owen smile despite his desire to appear stern.

The peasants weren’t dirty and unkempt. They were cheerful, hardworking, and exuded a sense of calm and safety that didn’t make sense considering the apparent lack of protection.

Ahead loomed another wood, but this time, the road went through the middle of it. It would be an ideal place for a trap, and Owen’s gut began to clench with wariness. He gave orders for ten men to ride on ahead and ten to remain at the edge of the woods to alert them of an ambush. There were ravens in the trees, their black plumage stark against the silver bark and green glossy leaves. Several cawed and fluttered from branch to branch. Owen had the unmistakable feeling of being watched.

“So many ravens,” Etayne muttered curiously. At her words, about a dozen lifted into the air simultaneously. Owen felt a sudden, piercing dread that the birds would attack them, but they flew away instead, their path hidden by the upper boughs.

As Owen entered the woods, he felt a shudder pass through him. The sense of the Fountain was incredibly strong in the woods. The feeling was ancient, implacable, powerful. It was like being in the grip of a shadow. The hair on the back of his neck and arms stood up with pronounced gooseflesh. His men seemed to be infected by his mood, their eyebrows scowling as they began searching the trees on each side of them.

“The feeling is thicker in here,” Etayne said with worry. “But it’s even stronger that way.” She nodded toward the left side of the road, the woods so dense they couldn’t see far.

Owen gave her a short nod. While the presence of the Fountain was overpowering, it was particularly strong to their left. He felt it drawing him, beckoning him to leave the road, to learn its secrets.

Etayne looked in that direction as well, then glanced back at him with a quirked brow. She was offering to explore it.

Owen shook his head no. But he fully intended to go there on his way out. Something was hidden in the woods. Something he didn’t understand and craved to. Something that might help him in his rebellion.

One of the advance scouts came riding back around the bend, his face flushed. He reined in hard in front of Owen. “My lord, Marshal Roux is ahead with twenty riders.”

He was waiting for us
, Owen realized again, frowning at the thought.
He knew we were coming.
He wasn’t surprised, but it was another sign that Roux was not an enemy he wished to make.

“How are they armed?”

“Like knights,” the soldier said. “More polished than we are.”

“Thank you,” Owen said. He knew the confrontation was inevitable. Best to get it over with quickly. They rode ahead and found the marshal’s knights blocking the road. Their tabards were clean and tidy, the white field with the black raven sigil on it. They held lances with banners as well, each knight armed for battle.

Owen grit his teeth as he approached, slowing the horse to a trot. He glanced at the woods on each side of Lord Roux, hoping to discern movement. There were only more ravens. A whole unkindness of them. He smirked at the thought. Evie had once told him about the various names used to describe groupings of birds. It had taken her nearly an hour to recite them all.

“My lord Kiskaddon, I’m surprised to see you,” Marshal Roux said. As always, he looked wary, proud, and suspicious.

“Are you truly?” Owen answered with a snort of disbelief. “It seems to me as if you were expecting us.”

“Word does travel quickly here.”

“I imagine it does,” Owen countered. He tugged on the reins, stopping his horse in front of Roux’s.

“Why have you come?” Marshal Roux demanded. “We received no message from you. Nothing to state your business.”

“I come with a message from my king,” Owen said evenly. “And I am to deliver it to the duchess in person. Be so kind as to escort us there. As you can see,” he added, gesturing to his unkempt soldiers, “we’re simple soldiers on a mission for our king. There was no time for preamble.”

The lord marshal’s eyes narrowed. He seemed to be sizing Owen up, trying to discern the true reason for his visit.

“This is highly suspicious,” Roux said.

“I can imagine why it would be seen that way,” Owen replied. “We are allies, are we not? Is it not proper for us to discuss matters without a formal invitation?”

“You brought soldiers with you,” Roux pointed out.

“As did you. Why should that concern either of us?”

“And who is
she
?” Roux asked, looking guardedly at Etayne, his eyes full of distrust.

Owen hesitated before responding. Then he chuckled. “You don’t think I would have come this far out of Ceredigion without suitable
protection
, do you, Lord Marshal? Do you intend to talk until sunset? It is still a fair journey to the city, is it not?”

Lord Roux frowned at the comment, at Owen’s evasiveness and insinuation—all of which were deliberate. Owen would not give away the purpose of his visit until they were in front of the duchess. This put Roux at a disadvantage.

“Of course you are welcome,” Lord Roux said flatly, with no hint of the sentiment. “The duchess herself ordered me to bring you to her as her guests and allies. She is anxious to meet you, Lord Kiskaddon. Come with me.”

He turned his horse with a sharp tug on the reins, and the pennant bearers hoisted their javelins and rode in organized columns.

The capital of Brythonica was built into a cove off the coast and had expansive quays and docks and ships bearing many flags, especially that of Genevar. The cove was crested by hills on which sat an array of villas and gardened manors. The royal castle was built on a rocky crag at the head of the bay, and the road leading to it was so steep that switchbacks had been dug out of it, making it possible to ascend but incredibly difficult to assault. It was obvious the location of Ploemeur had been chosen carefully, for it was the most defensible structure Owen had seen in Brythonica. It reminded him of Kingfountain palace, only much smaller and more difficult to reach.

Riding up the switchbacks was an arduous affair, and the air soon filled with chalk-white dust from the constant tramp of the horses. As they ascended the rocky hill, Owen could see the beautiful estates stretched out below them, and the fading sunlight and shadows filling the bay lent a purple cast to the stones of the hill.

When they finally reached the castle, Owen was exhausted from the ride and growing concerned that he had blundered into a trap. As he gazed at the structure, he tried to examine it critically, wondering how an invading army could besiege such a place. Even with all of Severn’s sizable resources, it would be no easy feat. The castle could be held for a very long time with minimal guardians. The duchess could defend from the heights while Chatriyon’s army, once the Occitanian king learned about the siege, could ravage the countryside and attack at their rear. It was beginning to look like a foolish venture.