CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Ravens

A cheer of triumph came from the camp, the noise rousing Owen from his pondering and pacing. Kathryn clutched Drew to her bosom, her eyes full of fear and dread. Owen halted and cocked his head at the sound. Then he turned and stared at the Wizr board. The pieces had shifted again. The black king was still poised next to where the tower had been, its progress halted. The knight representing Iago was now in a position to threaten the king.

“What is happening out there?” Owen said in confusion. He saw that the white Wizr was back where it had been previously, indicating Sinia had returned to her army. How long would it take for the ravens to arrive?

“Did Severn win?” Kathryn asked nervously.

“Go outside the tent. Find one of Severn’s captains. Ask him.”

Pausing only to cast a worried look at the young boy, Kathryn stole outside the tent, her black, jeweled gown sparkling in contrast to the pale snow-light outside.

Drew stared up into Owen’s eyes, unflinching. “I didn’t know that man was my father.”

Owen dropped down onto one knee near him. He put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I tried everything I could to spare his life. Your mother and he, they used to write to each other in the margins of books. I was their messenger.”

The lad looked more uncomfortable. “When did we first meet? Were you the one who brought me to Dundrennan?”

“I was there when you were born. From the moment I held you in my arms,” Owen said in a hushed tone, “the Fountain told me it was you. It told me to resurrect you. It told me to protect you. I’ve done the best I could do, lad, under very difficult circumstances.”

Drew nodded, his lips quavering, his eyes widening at the confession. “I know you have, my lord. If I don’t forgive him, will I become the black king?”

“When you become King of Ceredigion, this piece will turn white, I think. The game will change, but it will continue as it should. The blizzard will end. You will already start with many loyal to you. You won’t be alone.”

He looked a little greensick. “I never dreamed of becoming king,” he said in a choked voice, “but I think a king should show mercy.” He took a steadying breath. “I think I can forgive him. It won’t be easy.”

Owen laughed softly, feeling his heart ache for the lad. “It will not.” He gave the lad a pat on the back and stood and started pacing again. Kathryn reappeared a short time later, fresh flakes of snow scattered across her shoulders and bodice.

“The king has breached the outer wall of Dundrennan,” she said, her voice shaking with fear and the chill of winter. “They’re fighting Iago’s men in the bailey yard, but the keep is holding. The Atabyrions show no sign of retreating.”

Owen frowned at the news. Was Evie still there? The position on the board told him that she was not, and his instincts confirmed it. Iago wouldn’t run from a fight.

Kathryn approached Owen, her face full of conflicting emotions. “What will happen to the king if he’s defeated? Will you put him to death?”

Owen gave her a hard look. “Only if he won’t surrender. I don’t seek his blood, Kathryn. While I see the cruel man he’s become, I can understand how he came to be this person through the choices he’s made.” He paused for a moment, then said, “I told Drew about Eyric. He knows about his father.”

Kathryn clasped her hands together and started to pace back and forth, mimicking Owen’s anxiety from moments before. Then she went to her son and hugged him close. She had tears in her eyes. “What will you do if the king surrenders? Will you spare his life?”

Owen looked at her, his brow furrowing. “You’re pleading for him?”

Kathryn bit her lip, looking up at Owen. “I . . . I don’t know what to think. I should be happy to be free of him. Yet, it would pain me to see him suffer in a dungeon. To see him treated as my lord husband was treated. To be deprived of so much, if he gave up the crown.” She shook her head and returned her attention to Drew. “I don’t know, my son. I’m torn.”

“Kathryn, he used his magic on you,” Owen said. “You know this.”

She did. He could see it in her eyes. But there was a part of her that cared for him regardless. The magic hadn’t worked on empty feelings. All his kindnesses, all his gifts, all his adoration had impacted her over the years.

Drew’s face was twisted with confusion and concern. The boy was too young to be dealing with such adult conflicts!

The sound of approaching boots was the only warning before the tent flap flung open and Severn Argentine strode inside, his armor encrusted with ice and frozen blood. He had a ferocious look, and he was limping severely, his armored hand pressing a wound at his side. He hobbled to the camp chair and flopped himself down onto it, breathing in ragged gasps.

“Fetch my surgeon,” the king said to Kathryn. Then his eyes found Owen, and he glanced around until his gaze found the chains that lay in a heap on the pallet.

Owen sensed the king was going to reach for his dagger to defend himself, and before it could happen, he raised his hands. “I’m not waiting to ambush you, my lord. Your guards patrol the tent.”

“How did you get free?” the king snarled, his nostrils flaring with fury.

“The same way I opened the board,” Owen said, gesturing to the table. “You are defeated, my lord. Threat and mate.”

“But how?” Severn demanded, stifling a groan as he shuffled to his feet. He limped to the board, breathing hard and fast, and stared in astonishment at the change in the pieces. “How did the tower . . . ? I’ve not touched . . . how did this happen?” His face was twisted with confusion and a budding sense of fear. “Only an heir can move the pieces! How did you manage it?”

“Because the heir is in this tent. Lord Bletchley didn’t murder Eyric. You arranged that yourself. The boy is Eyric’s son! Kathryn is his mother. Don’t you see why she never gave in to you? She knew the truth, as did I. This is the last truth, Severn Argentine. This is the last secret. And it is your last chance! Look at the board. Do you see the army of Brythonica? The white Wizr is coming to defeat you.”

The king’s lips quivered. His eyes were wide with shock, and his skin had gone chalk-gray. He stared at Kathryn, then at the boy who was looking up at him with something like defiance. “You want to play games with me, Owen? Another trick? Another vision?”

Owen shook his head. “What is the most powerful piece on the board, my lord? Even the king is powerless against the Wizr. I’ve tried to warn you. I’ve given you every chance to end this madness. But I will not let you destroy your kingdom out of spite.”

Kathryn stood near the tent door, her eyes full of fear and awe. She was edging toward the tent door with Drew, as if she intended to flee with him in case the king turned violent.

“You have nothing!” Severn shouted. “This is a trick! It’s one of your ploys. I put your army to flight. Your life is in my hands. I could kill you this very moment.”

Owen stepped closer. “And why haven’t you, my lord? What prevents you from destroying me? Because you remember the shivering little boy I used to be? The one you used to taunt at breakfast? Your special child. Because I’m Fountain-blessed, as are you. Because I’m the only other person who understands you. Even if I grieve at what you’ve become.”

The king’s face contorted. He began to draw the dagger from his belt, and Owen worried he’d said too much—a worry that only heightened when Kathryn cried out in alarm—but the king slammed the weapon back into its scabbard in the nervous gesture Owen remembered from his youth. He repeated the motion and started to pace the tent, his eyes haunting and desperate.

And that was the moment the ravens began their attack.

The sound of flapping wings, the bark-like croaking, filled the sky over the army. Shouts of fear started up in the camp. And then the shouts became cries of pain and terror.

“What is happening?” Severn exclaimed.

Lady Kathryn and Drew were nearly knocked to the ground as one of the king’s captains burst inside the tent. “My lord! Ravens! They’re falling on us from the sky!”

“Speak sense, man!” the king roared. “It’s winter. There are no ravens!”

“They’re huge! These are no beasts of nature, sire, and they’re swooping down on us. They’re killing your soldiers!”

Suddenly there was a heavy thump on the king’s tent and several black shapes began clawing and shredding at the pavilion fabric with beaks and talons. The cry of the ravens was primal and fierce, and Owen felt his own heart quail. Drew pulled his mother over to one of the braziers, where she maneuvered herself in front of him, protecting his body with her own.

The look of fear and uncertainty on Severn’s face showed Owen that his plan had worked. When he reached out to the king with his magic, he saw that all the man’s sense and reason had fled beneath the onslaught and the guilt of what he had done to his own flesh and blood.

“Get them away! Keep them away from me!” the king gibbered.

The captain took one look at the utter fear and helplessness in Severn’s eyes and turned and fled for his own life. Moments later, Owen watched as the captain was obscured by a pair of jet-black wings and a set of claws raking his face. The camp was full of commotion as the men tried to escape and were hunted down by the cawing, merciless beaks and razor-sharp talons. Owen’s heart began to thrill.

Severn hunkered down on his knees and stared up at the shredding fabric of the tent. Black beaks poked through the holes, screaming down at them. Kathryn shrieked with terror, turning away her face and pulling Drew closer to her. The boy wasn’t afraid. He was staring at the display of magical birds with rapture. Owen felt the magic of the Fountain whirling around him. These were magical creatures, and he knew through experience that his particular set of abilities would protect him from them.

“No! No!” the king groaned in terror, his face white, his lips quivering.

“Yield,” Owen implored, standing before him, his hand outstretched.

One of the ravens was nearly inside the tent, its beak snapping viciously. The cacophony of noise from the terrified camp filled the air, but Owen’s eyes were riveted to the king’s face.

Severn shrank from the threat, scrabbling backward on his arms and leg, exposing the wound in his side, which seemed to drive the birds into a frenzy.

“Stop! Stop!” the king cried in terror.

“Yield!” Owen shouted back, pinning the king with his gaze. There was nowhere else to flee. The guards surrounding the tent had been plucked away. Wails of pain and fear resounded all around them.

“I yield! I yield!” Severn bellowed. He frantically unbelted the scabbard around his waist and thrust the blade Firebos into Owen’s outstretched hand. As soon as Owen touched it, he felt the magic’s strength surge through him.

“Yield your crown!” Owen said passionately, holding out his other hand.

The crown was fixed onto the king’s helmet as part of the design. Owen could feel the magic of the Fountain exuding from it, summoning the winter storm that was about to annihilate the realm. The metal was tarnished and ancient, the fleur-de-lis patterns rising above the steel dome of the helmet like decayed flowers.

The two men locked eyes. Severn stared at Owen with fear and hate. But being confronted with his own sins and fears had completely unmanned him. He hesitated only a moment before wrenching the helmet off his head and hurling it away from him. Owen caught it in one hand.

“I yield!” Severn said, flinching and quavering.

Owen stood over him, sword in one hand, helmet-crown in the other.

“They’re yours,” the king snarled. “You win again, Kiskaddon!”

Owen stared down at the king, using his magic to sense any further threat from him. But there was none. The king had been defeated at last.

“It is enough,” Owen said. He lifted his left hand toward the roof of the tent. The ring’s magic flared to life, repelling the ravens that had finally broken through that barrier.

The rioting in the camp began to ebb.

Owen saw Kathryn lift her tear-streaked face, looking worriedly at the shredded gaps in the tent and the snow coming down on them from outside. Drew continually gazed at Owen with wonder—not fear—as Owen lowered his arm and the light extinguished. Bending her head to kiss her son’s fair hair, Kathryn nuzzled her nose against his neck, breathing a sigh of relief.

“You’ve wrenched everything from me,” Severn whispered in a strangled voice. Owen turned and looked down at him, prostrate on the ground, sniveling. “What is to be my fate? You owe me the truth of it, at least. I’m . . . I’m broken now. All is broken. I’ve nothing left. What will you do with me?” he finished, his voice breaking at the end.

Owen stared down at him and felt the throb of compassion. “Your fate will be decided by the new king,” Owen said in a wearied tone.

The king’s face blackened. “But aren’t you truly the new king? Isn’t that what this is all about? You hold the sword. You have the crown in the crook of your arm. It’s yours to claim, Owen. Take it! No one can stop you now.”

A part of Owen was still tempted by the thought. Laying down the power that he had wrested from Severn would put him at risk too. What if Drew ultimately felt threatened by having such a powerful subject? Might the boy not try and strip him of his rights and privileges? He listened to the insidious thoughts in his mind . . . and then crushed them beneath his heel like a roach.

“It is as I’ve told you. I’m not the true king of Ceredigion,” Owen said in a steady voice. Then he turned and nodded respectfully to the boy. “I am only his knight.”

Severn had a queer look on his face. One that could almost be called admiration. “But what is to become of me? Where will I go? How will I live? You’ve taken away everything. Must I beg for my bread? Even the dogs will snarl and howl at me. There are those who would be revenged. I am defenseless. Cursed. What will become of me?”

Owen stared down at the fallen king, his pity increasing. The man’s concerns were real and valid. “My lord—” he started, but Severn interrupted him.

“I’m no man’s lord!” he spat out.

Owen closed his eyes, feeling the prick of pain in his heart. “You were once a great lord of the realm,” he continued. “I know your story. Not the lies that were whispered about you. You were guided by a motto. Loyalty Binds Me. You’ve always sought that kind of loyalty, but when you failed your brother’s children, you lost the right to demand that kind of obedience from others. If I were the king . . .” He paused, then turned back to Drew once more. Their eyes met for a moment and he saw the bud of forgiveness in the boy. “If it were my decision, I would reinstate you as the Duke of Glosstyr, yours by right since you were a child. I would make you lord in your own domain, much like the Duchess of Brythonica is in hers. You would owe obedience to the king and to the king only. That is what I would advise. We have too many enemies, and your presence along one of the borders would help secure the realm.”

Owen felt a flutter in his heart, a gesture of approval from the Fountain—or Sinia?—he couldn’t tell.

The king’s demeanor softened as the spark of hope began to light within him. “I tried to execute you, lad. How . . . how can you show me such compassion?”

“Because you are the closest thing I’ve had to a father,” Owen answered, his throat becoming thick. “I’ve feared you. I’ve hated you sometimes. But I have also admired your courage and determination. You embody the aspect of the Fountain’s rigor. Use your gifts for good, my lord. I implore you.” He set aside the scabbard and reached out to take Severn’s hand to help him up.

The king wrested the gauntlets from his own hands, revealing the nicks and battle scars. He clasped hands with Owen and was helped to his feet, wincing. The two men stared at each other, and then Severn clasped Owen’s hand harder.

“I couldn’t have endured losing,” the king said sincerely, “to anyone else but you.” His shoulders fell. Then he gave the boy a sulking look. “Mayhap the new king will do as you say. Mayhap not. Regardless, I will submit. I will swear fealty to the new king. But I would give up Glosstyr castle and every sheaf of wheat thereon to not be alone. It is loneliness that I dread the most, my boy. It is a demon that torments me.”

“It torments us all,” Owen said, understanding the sentiment from his own heartbreak.

He saw movement from the corner of his eye, and Lady Kathryn was suddenly standing by them, her face streaked with tears.

“If it be within my power,” she said with a sad look, “then let me dispel that demon for a season or two each year. I made you a promise, my lord. And I do not break my promises.”

The king looked at her with such wild hope it was like a burst of sunlight through the fog. He wrapped his arms around her neck and sobbed into her shoulder like a child.