A number came to Owen’s mind. “Fifty florins a year. In Genevese coins.”
Again Mancini looked startled. “My young man, you have yourself a bargain. I like how you think. You and I are going to be great friends from now on.”
It was a tender farewell between the Kiskaddon brat and his family. Even I found myself dabbing an eye with a kerchief. The Assizes were a dreadful affair, with evidence brought, witnesses testifying, and verdicts rendered. There was a collective gasp of fearful breath when Duke Horwath read the guilty verdict against Lord and Lady Kiskaddon, followed by much weeping and anguish. They were beloved in Westmarch. But they gambled that King Severn would fail when they supported the pretender before Ambion Hill. When you gamble, you often lose. Now imagine, if you will, how the despair turned to joy when the king pronounced the punishment. Lord and Lady Kiskaddon and their sons and daughters would be banished from Ceredigion instead of meeting their fate at a river like Dickon Ratcliffe. And then the king proclaimed that their youngest son, the little brat, would inherit the duchy at eight years old. The tears of anguish turned to tears of rejoicing. Not a dry eye when the lad hugged his parents and kissed them in farewell. Except for Horwath—that man is made of stone! But what was even more pleasurable was knowing the outcome before the masses did. This is the way of politics and power. This is what I was born for!
—Dominic Mancini, Master of the Espion
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
The North
Owen had never been to the North before, and he was unprepared for the sights awaiting him. He rode on the back of the duke’s horse, as he had many times before, clutching the duke’s cloak. Owen’s toes were freezing in his fur-lined boots, and despite several layers of tunics, he still felt like shivering. His cheeks were pink, his nose hurt, but he stared in awe at the snowcapped mountains that rose in majestic plinths as far as the eye could see. This was a land with few farms, many rocks, and wild goats. And waterfalls! Owen was amazed at the huge waterfalls that roared down from the icy peaks, the sound a welcoming anthem to his senses.
The horses of the duke and his men lumbered into a mountain valley, wedged between colossal shelves of rock and ice, exposing a huge castle and town in the heart of it. A mammoth waterfall cascaded from behind the castle, spellbinding in height and majesty. Even from their position, Owen could see a bridge at the crest of the falls, putting him in mind of a story Evie had once told him.
“Ooohhh,” the boy uttered reverently, seeing the sights, feeling a prick of pain from his freezing nose.
“It’s a tranquil place,” the duke said with a chuckle. “Except when my granddaughter is around.”
Owen turned around and saw the soldiers accompanying them. Some bore the banners of the arrow-pierced lion. Some bore the blue shields and golden bucks of Kiskaddon. They were Owen’s men, his captains and ancients and councillors who would bear his orders back to the duchy and bring word to him in the mountains when his orders were fulfilled.
The mountain air was absolutely delicious. As the horses reached the outer walls of the town, the trumpets from the castle sounded and the townsfolk began to crowd around them, cheering the two dukes they had heard were coming. Owen wore the glittering collar of his rank, the symbol of his power. He wore the badge now. He was the youngest duke in the realm. And it was all Ankarette’s doing. In the weeks that had passed since her body had been entrusted to the waters, he had thought of her often. He would always remember her. And with those memories, he had feelings and secrets he could share with no one else.
No one except the girl waiting for them at the castle ahead. Owen reached into his pocket and felt her crumpled braid and squeezed it.
As they reached the drawbridge of the castle, she could contain herself no longer. Owen saw Elysabeth Victoria Mortimer running down the wooden planks, squealing with happiness as she saw her grandfather and Owen riding up to meet her.
“Go lad,” the grizzled duke said to Owen, giving him a wink.
And by the time he had dropped down from the saddle, Evie had reached him and hugged him so hard he thought he might start crying for the first time in weeks.
“Owen! Owen Kiskaddon! My Owen!”