Ankarette smiled, but it wasn’t a pleased smile. It was almost a smile of pain. “It’s been my experience, Owen, that when everyone agrees on some point of fact, it tends to be the biggest deception of all.” She reached out and tousled his hair. “Remember that. Never trust another person to do your thinking for you.”

That sounded a little strange to Owen, but he accepted it.

“Do you have a plan yet, Ankarette?”

Her eyebrows lifted. “A plan to save you?”

He nodded eagerly.

She smoothed her skirts, sitting on her knees before him. The jewels of her necklace glimmered in the candlelight. He leaned forward a little, eagerly watching her face.

“I do have a little stratagem,” she confided.

“What is that? Is it a new necklace?”

She laughed softly. “No, it’s not a gem . . . well, in a way it is. It’s a gem of an idea. A jewel of a thought. Rough, uncut, and unpolished. But all good ideas start out that way.”

“Will you tell me?”

“I need to be careful, Owen. New ideas are delicate. They can be crushed easily. New ideas can be killed by a sneer or a yawn . . . or even a frown.”

Owen was not sure what she meant by that. Perhaps reading his expression, she said, “Have you ever seen a seedling grow? A new flower? They are so small and delicate, but they become sturdier as they grow. The easiest time to pluck a weed is when it is little. New ideas can be that way.”

“I see,” Owen said. He was a little disappointed because he wanted to hear her plan, unfinished as it was.

“Let me tell you what I can,” she said, assuaging him. “When you want to accomplish something, you should start out with what you want to achieve and then work backward. Staying alive isn’t the goal. What I want to do is change the king’s feelings about you. He won’t want to destroy you if he thinks you are valuable. Like a gem.”

Owen’s face perked up at that. “Like a stratagem?”

She smiled. “Exactly. Who would be most valuable to a ruler? You already know this.”

“Someone who is Fountain-blessed?” Owen answered, and she nodded enthusiastically.

“Yes, and loyal. My stratagem, Owen, is to trick the king into believing you are both.”

That was the most brilliant idea he had ever heard. “I think I’d like to be Fountain-blessed,” he said.

“I’m sure you would, and for all we know you might be, but most people do not exhibit that disposition until they are eleven or twelve years old at the earliest. That’s when their gifts start getting noticed by others.”

“I’m only eight,” Owen said dejectedly.

“Hence why I’m still nurturing this thought. I don’t have three years to spare. How does one persuade a cunning prince like Severn that a young boy is Fountain-blessed? I’m still working on it. Give me time.” She winced, and though she would never say so, he knew she was in pain. “I’m feeling tired, Owen.”

“I am too,” he said, though he wasn’t very tired at all. He gave her a hug, loving the soft silk feel of her dress against his cheek, her warmth and tenderness. She kissed his brow and sent him back through the tunnels to his room.

Owen’s mind was full of wandering thoughts as he slipped down the stairs through the secret corridors leading to his room. He knew the way so well he could have made the journey blindfolded. He paused at a large painting, listening for the sound of footsteps, and heard nothing. The castle was asleep. He loved it that way. The rustle of tapestries, the shouting silence of the blackened halls, the deep shadows perfect for concealment. He did not even need a candle anymore as he stole spiderlike through the passages.

He opened the door of his room and immediately noticed the dim glow from a dying candle on a chest. Had he not doused his candle before leaving?

“Where have you been, Owen Kiskaddon?” someone asked in a conspiratorial whisper.

It was Elysabeth Victoria Mortimer, of course.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Loyalty Binds Me

“This is my room,” Owen said in a challenging tone. The girl’s eyes lit up mischievously.

“I know it’s your room. Why weren’t you in it? Where were you? Sneaking something from the kitchen?”

He shook his head and folded his arms. “Why are you sneaking around?”

“I hate sleeping,” she confided. “It’s so boring. Besides, I couldn’t wait until morning to tell you.”

“What?” he pressed, curious.

She leaned forward on her knees, her eyes almost silver in the darkness. “I spoke to Grandpapa. The king didn’t kill his nephews. That’s a lie. But he is responsible for their deaths. Only, it’s not totally confirmed that they’re dead. I’m a little confused on that part.”