He felt a soft hand on his shoulder. Turning his head, he saw Princess Elyse standing just beside him. As soon as he noticed her, she dropped her hand and chose a cube of cheese and plopped it into her mouth.

“So you went to the kitchen this morning?” she whispered, giving him a private glance. Though she stood next to him, her body was angled to face the table as if she were only there for the food.

Owen nodded, mesmerized by her presence. It was not just the beauty of her golden hair and hazel eyes. She had a peace about her, a gentleness that seemed totally devoid of any pretense. It was a look that invited Owen’s trust.

“You will be safe there,” she whispered. “Liona is loyal to my mother. I asked the king if I could be your guardian, but he refused. He thinks it’s beneath my dignity.” She frowned slightly. “I had two little brothers . . . you see,” she said, her voice suddenly thick. “You remind me of one of them. He would have been twelve.” Her fingers gently mussed his hair. “I will see you when I can, Owen. But it will not be often. Have courage.” Then she stepped away from him to talk to a set of younger girls, admiring their dresses and their hair.

Owen felt a knot of pain in his heart. He wanted to escape. He needed to find a way out.

But first he would need to know the grounds.

The palace of Kingfountain was built on a wooded hill alongside the mighty river and near the impressive waterfall. From the outside, it seemed massive—all thick walls and pointed turrets—but Owen quickly realized that it was hollow in the middle. The walls were steep and tall and enclosed an interior garden area with trees and walkways and interesting paths. One could walk around the main corridor of the castle in a giant loop, which made it seem like a never-ending fortress. But once Owen had walked it a few times with Monah Stirling, he began to learn the tricks of the place. It was after a walk with Drew that he learned about the exterior grounds. Because it was built on a hill, there was also a lower level, another series of walls and bulwarks to defend from invaders, and even lower down, a third portion that interlocked with the second set of walls. From one of the tower windows, he could see the different layers, all the way down to the horse masters breaking new stallions in the stables far below. There were yards with the royal coaches. There were towers everywhere, including the knifelike one that had caught his eye the first day.

It would take weeks for Owen to visit every hall, explore every staircase, and gaze at every tapestry. But he had an eye for details, and he quickly made little checkpoints for himself—like the suit of armor holding a poleax that led to a gallery of paintings. Or the iron-railed fountain that led to the sanctuary within the palace where he could hear the sound of lapping waters.

Monah was not used to the exercise of being dragged around the palace, and when he finally returned to the kitchen later to rest and find something sweet to eat, she plopped down on a stool and started complaining to the helpers about how Owen had dragged her tirelessly six times around the castle.

He looked for his box of tiles, but could not find them anywhere. Divining his intent, Liona motioned to a worn leather satchel with a single strap and buckles.

“The tiles are over there,” she said kindly. “Drew brought it for you to keep the box of tiles safe. He thought you might want to carry it about. Is it too heavy for you?”

Owen went over and hefted the strap. The satchel was heavy, but he was determined. He grinned at her and shook his head.

“Everyone keeps talking about you and your little tiles and asking where they are. I keep saying, ‘Over there, in Owen’s Satchel.’”

And that was how the boy from Tatton Hall earned his nickname—Owen Satchel.

The next morning, when he came to the kitchen to play with his tiles, he found the box next to the open satchel. Liona had not yet arrived and he was alone. Some of the tiles were littering the floor next to the box. Upon closer inspection, he realized they had been arranged to form little blocky letters.

O-W-E-N.

It was probably Drew. A little message from a friend. He smiled and then put it out of his mind as he began to build.

King Eredur, of blessed memory, experienced all the vicissitudes of kingship. He won the crown. He lost the crown. He won it back. The story is worthy of the epics of any age. Few have studied his reign as closely as I have, and I know that Eredur would not have regained his crown if not for his brother. Not Severn, who was always loyal, but the treacherous Earl of Dunsdworth, the brother who betrayed him and then repented. The truce following Eredur’s victory was uneasy. After all, Dunsdworth’s claim to the crown was what had made him defect in the first place. There is much secrecy and suspicion about how the earl met his fate. Some say he was poisoned. Some say he was drowned in a keg of wine. No one knows the truth. What we do know is this—he was declared a traitor. His titles and lands were forfeit, but they have been promised to his son when he comes of age. I am certain Eredur had his brother put to death in some fashion or other, for I saw the corpse. And his only son, the new lord Dunsdworth, is very much turning into the man his father was. He is a spiteful little braggart and I detest him. The lad is only twelve, and the castle staff live in terror of him.