“How did she die?” Owen asked, though he thought he knew. He had heard her story before Ankarette mentioned her.
The duke looked down at the ground, almost as if he were ashamed. “They couldn’t trust her fate to a waterfall, lad. Some said if she were put in a boat, she would step off it and walk back up the river and away from the falls. No, she met a winter’s death. The only thing that can tame water is cold. It’s the only thing that can make it sit still.” He wiped his bearded mouth again, lost in the distant past. “She was taken to a high mountain and chained there. With only a shift. She lasted a few days, but then she died.”
Owen wasn’t hungry anymore. The thought of perishing on a frozen mountaintop made him shudder.
The sound of boots crunching fallen detritus roused his attention. King Severn had joined them against the huge trunk of the muscled yew tree. The hours in the saddle seemed to have reinvigorated him and he looked less sullen, more at peace.
“Telling the lad stories of the Maid?” the king asked with a wry smile. He unhooked his leather flask from his belt and tilted it high. After finishing his drink, he wiped his mouth on his forearm and gave a satisfied sigh. “You are an old man, Stiev. You lived those days. When a half-mad boy ruled Ceredigion. His uncle, though, he was the one with the power. There is always an uncle in these stories,” he added with self-deprecating humor.
Horwath chuckled softly. “Aye, my lord. Are we truly staying at Tatton Hall?”
“No. I wouldn’t trust the lad’s father so much. We’ll be staying at the royal castle, Beestone. And we will summon Lord Kiskaddon to attend us. And when he comes, well . . .” He paused, giving Owen a smirk. “We shall see, won’t we?”
“You aren’t going to trust the Espion to that Genevese man, are you?” Horwath asked, after a long pause.
“I’ve considered it,” Severn said with a shrug. “Would I had a man as crafty as Tunmore to serve me.” His face began to darken, his jaw tightening with anger. “I’ve been reading his book, you know.” He dangled the water skin from one of his gloved fingers, letting it sway back and forth until it almost clapped against his leg. “This is the title. The Occupation of the Throne of Ceredigion by King Severn.” He frowned as he said the words. Owen watched his face closely. “As I read that screed, I swear I almost started believing it. He tells an eloquent tale and comes across as a philosopher, not a . . . a deconeus. He was writing it to be published, I think. That city where we caught him is a major trading hub. Imagine how far he could have spread his lies.” He tugged his dagger loose in the scabbard and slammed it down. “But what truly makes me furious, Stiev, is how he covered his own part. His own crimes.”
“What do you mean?” Horwath asked.