Lady Eleanor sobbed against her husband’s chest. It was a choice no mother should be forced to make. Should she sacrifice one child so that all the others might live? But King Severn was ruthless and cunning. Would the child she selected be the only of her children to survive?
She wept bitterly, swallowed by grief and unable to think. Who could she part with? Why had the choice even been given to her if not to make her suffering more acute? She hated the king. She hated him with all her passion, all her grief. How could she decide such a thing? How would she hand one of her boys over to a man who had murdered his own brother’s sons? The king’s hands were so wet with blood a trail probably dribbled wherever he went.
In her grief, she did not hear the door open or the soft padding of feet. She did not notice until Owen’s arms wrapped around their legs.
He squeezed them both so hard, and though she could not hear any words, she could imagine his thoughts, his childlike attempt to comfort them. There, there, Maman, Papan. There, there! It will be all right, Maman, Papan. There, there!
She stared down at her son, her innocent son. And then a memory stirred.
A memory of the royal midwife who had saved his life.
Her chest became tight with anticipation. Perhaps she could get a secret message to the sanctuary of Our Lady, a plea to protect her son, the boy who had been saved once before. She could endure the separation, the despair, so long as she could cling to a thread of hope.
She knew that a thread was all she could expect.
The Ceredigic are a highly superstitious people. Then again, so are most of the fools born to women. They have an ancient belief in the power of water that comes from legends no one even knows anymore. It is all chuff and flax. They build massive sanctuaries next to rivers. Our Lady of Kingfountain is actually built within the river, at the gorge of a breathtaking waterfall. These sanctuaries grant men protection from the law. Many a thief lives within these hallowed domains, with their reflecting pools, babbling fountains, and pleasing gardens—stealing by day and sleeping on the sanctuaries’ protected tiles by night. These they call fountain-men. All because of an ancient whim that the privilege of sanctuary should last so long as the river flows and the waters fall. It is among these scum at Our Lady where I spend my days watching the king’s enemies. I detest my work at times. I am so bored with this.
—Dominic Mancini, Espion of Our Lady of Kingfountain
CHAPTER TWO
The Duke of North Cumbria
Owen loved to play by himself and could entertain himself for hours at a time—whether by stacking tiles in a row before knocking them down, marshaling lead soldiers to war, or reading to himself. He was talkative with his family, and when it came to swinging wooden swords with his siblings, he was usually the one who made others cry, even his sisters. But put him in a room with a single stranger, and he would skulk behind a chair and observe the newcomer with wary eyes until he or she left.
That was how he had watched Lord Horwath. Only when the duke left Tatton Hall, Owen was riding behind his saddle, terrified and so stricken by surprise that he could not have spoken to anyone if he had tried. As they rode away from his family, his mother’s tears glistening on her cheeks, he wondered if he would ever be able to speak again.
Tatton Hall was his world, and he knew the innermost corners of it from basement to garret. There were some parts of the manor he was afraid of—the wine cellar was dark and had a funny smell—but there were secret places that only he knew, places where he could hide himself away and never be found. The gardens were vast and he had spent countless days enjoying the simple pleasures of running in the grass or resting on beds of leaves to watch the ants and ticklebugs crawl in the earth. He loved how the ticklebugs would coil themselves up into little pebbles that he could roll around on his palm. And then, when he held still, their little legs would start squirming again until they were upright and he’d let them crawl around his hand in circles.
Owen loved nature and the outdoors, but he loved the indoors even more. Books fascinated him, and the effect that letters had on his eyes was much like the thrill of the ticklebugs on his skin. When he read, it was as if he were transported to some dreamland where he could not hear whispers or shouting. He read anything and everything he could get his little hands on, and he remembered it all. His hunger for books was never satisfied, and his favorites were stories about the exploits of the Fountain-blessed.