A stone bridge connected the palace to the island and several wooden bridges connected the island to the main shore and the rest of the city. It was a breathtaking sight, and Owen kept leaning in the saddle to get a better view. The rushing of the waterfall could be heard from miles away, the steady churn of waves that sounded like a constant storm.

The palace was built on a green hill full of lush woods and had many tiers and layers, with sharp-edged walls and easily a dozen turrets flying the royal banners. Owen could see gardens and trees rising above portions of the old stone walls, and to his inexperienced eye, it looked as if the castle had stood for thousands of years. Still, the facade was free of ivy or vines, and had been meticulously kept.

So this would be his new home. The king had summoned Owen to live in the palace as his ward. Owen’s older brother Jorganon had also lived at Kingfountain for a time. And now he was dead. Was that why Maman and Papan had wept so much when Owen left? The palace did not feel like a home. It felt like a monument, a relic of the ages, a dangerous place.

As they rode into the city, they were announced by trumpets at the gate and Owen found himself stared at by hundreds of strangers. Some looked at him with pity, which made him even more uncomfortable and shy, and he buried his face in the duke’s cloak to hide.

The hooves clopped against the cobbles as they rode through the city and the omnipresent noise from the falls. Eventually Owen peeked out again and stared down at the shops and swarms of people. He soaked in the sights, unable to comprehend the massive size of such a place, his senses overwhelmed by the noise and confusion. He tried to stifle his emotions, but he found himself crying, his heart breaking with sadness that none of his family was there to shelter him. Why had he been chosen to go to Kingfountain? Why not one of the others?

Horwath became aware of his little sobs after a while and turned in the saddle to look down at him. “What is it, boy?” he asked gruffly, his goatee bending into a frown.

Owen looked into his eyes, afraid to say anything at all, let alone reveal his true feelings. He tried to stifle his tears, but that only made them worse. He felt the blobs of water rolling down his cheeks. He was miserable and lonely, and though the events of the last few days seemed like a nightmare, he was beginning to realize that the nightmare was his new life.

The duke waved one of his knights over. “Fetch the lad a muffin. Over there.”

“Aye, my lord,” said the knight, and rode off ahead.

Owen did not want a muffin. He wanted to go back to Tatton Hall. But nothing would have convinced him to say that. He trembled violently, clutching the duke’s cloak, feeling sick to his bones as he stared at the arrow-pierced lion on the badge. The horse continued its slow progress until the knight returned and offered Owen a pale brown muffin with tiny dark seeds. Though he did not want it, the boy accepted it without a word of thanks and clutched it tightly. It was soft and bigger than his hand, and the sweet smell wafting from it reminded him of the kitchen at home. Soon his gasping sobs quieted and he rubbed his wet nose on the back of his sleeve. The muffin continued to tempt him and he finally succumbed and took a bite. The bread of the muffin was like cake and the seeds crunched a bit when he bit down on them. He had never had this kind before, but it was delicious, and he wolfed it down.

They reached one of the bridges leading to the sanctuary and Owen perked up, nervous about crossing a bridge over such a mighty river. What if the bridge washed out while they were on it and they were all swept to their deaths over the waterfall? He smiled at the thought, imagining how fun that might be—until the end. The force of the river thrummed against the wooden bridge, causing a giddy feeling of nervousness to twine around the muffin in Owen’s stomach. He clutched the duke’s cloak more tightly, feeling the tromp of the hooves.

Though they reached the island of the sanctuary, there was no need to enter the holy grounds. Men milled around the fountain yard of the sanctuary, and a few of them rested their arms on the gates to watch the duke’s entourage pass. The men were an unkempt, beggarly bunch, and some stared at Owen with open curiosity. He peeked at them before hiding his face once more in the folds of the duke’s cloak.

They crossed the small island quickly, heading directly for the stone bridge to the castle. The turrets were so high and sharply pointed, Owen thought they might pop the clouds like bubbles if they came too low. The rippling flags on the pennants featured both the royal lions of Ceredigion and the king’s own standard—the badge he still wore after assuming the throne. The white boar. Owen had always considered pigs to be friendly creatures and loved them, but the image of the porcine body and thick tusks against a field of black was chilling.