He read next about how Eredur had taken the throne and the wars that had happened along the way. Much of this history he had learned from Ankarette.

Many nobles of the realm at Wakefield were slain, leaving three sons—Eredur, Dunsdworth, and Severn. All three, as they were great princes of birth, were great and stately, greedy and ambitious of authority, and impatient of partners. Eredur, revenging his father’s death, attained the crown. Lord Dunsdworth was a goodly, noble prince and at all points fortunate, if his own ambition had not set him against his brother and the envy of his enemies had not set his brother against him. For were it by the queen and the lords of her blood, the king was persuaded to hate his own brother or the proud appetite of the duke himself, intending to be king, Lord Dunsdworth was charged with heinous treason, and finally, attainted was he and judged to the death. Not thrown in the river, but drowned in a keg of wine. Whose death King Eredur, when he knew it was done, piteously bewailed and sorrowfully repented.

—Dunsdworth was poisoned by Ankarette Tryneowy. His craving of power and wealth made him go mad chasing the treasure in the cistern waters. Dunsdworth was not the Dreadful Deadman—

If the walls of the palace crumbled around him, Owen would not have noticed. He was so engrossed in the book he could not pull his eyes away. He read on.

Severn, the third son, of whom we now entreat, was in intellect and courage equal with either of his brothers, in body and prowess far beneath them both: little of stature, ill-featured of limbs, crook-backed—his left shoulder much higher than his right—hard-favored of visage, and warlike in his demeanor. He was malicious, wrathful, envious, and, from afore his birth, ever perverse. It is for truth reported that the duchess his mother had so much ado in her travail that she could not be delivered of him uncut, and, as the fame runneth, also not untoothed. Able captain was he in war, for which his disposition was much better met than for peace. He was close and secret, a deep dissembler, lowly of countenance, arrogant of heart; outwardly companionable where he inwardly hated, not refraining to kiss those whom he thought to kill; dispiteous and cruel, not for evil, but often for ambition. He slew with his own hand—

The book was suddenly snatched out of Owen’s hands and Ratcliffe waggled it over his head. “Do you see what the lad is reading, my lord? Look at him, he was transfixed!” He then whapped the side of Owen’s head with the book and gave him a shove.

Duke Horwath stepped forward, putting himself between Owen and Ratcliffe.

“He was reading it, you say?” the king asked, suddenly interested and concerned.

“Did you not see him?” Ratcliffe said sharply.

“I saw him,” came another voice, much younger. Owen glared at Dunsdworth, who had appeared in the doorway and was giving him a malicious smile. In Owen’s mind, he saw a man inside a bucket, clawing at the bottom as if trying to reach a treasure he could not grab. The vision was enough to make him shudder.

But the king stepped forward, blocking his view of Dunsdworth. “You were reading my book?”

Owen had been caught. There was no denying it. His tongue felt like it was sticking to the roof of his mouth. Fear made him want to cower, but he reached inside his pocket and gripped the braid of Elysabeth’s hair.

“I wanted to play Wizr,” Owen said, his mouth finally able to move. “But everyone was talking, so I started playing with the pieces. Then I saw the book.”

“Did you understand it?” the king asked incredulously.

Owen nodded.

“There are hard words in there, lad. It’s not a child’s book. Did you truly understand its meaning?”

Owen stared at the king, whose eyes were now boring into his. “I . . . like books,” he said sheepishly.

The king snatched the book from Ratcliffe’s hand and then thumbed through it. “I like books under normal circumstances. But this book . . . there are falsehoods written in it. Falsehoods about me.”

“I know,” Owen said, nodding.

The king’s brow wrinkled. “What do you mean you know?”

Owen blinked, feeling more and more confused. How did he know? How could he describe the voice he’d heard while reading it?

“I . . . I felt it. As I read,” Owen said simply. “I felt the parts that weren’t true.”

The king’s eyes narrowed. “We will speak of this later,” he murmured, then stuffed the book into his belt. “Dunsdworth! Play Wizr with the lad.”

The older boy scowled fiercely at the command, and Owen groaned inwardly as he walked to the Wizr board. Dunsdworth sulked as he took up the white pieces and set them up, incorrectly. It hurt to watch him, but Owen gritted his teeth, knowing Dunsdworth wouldn’t care the pieces were in the wrong positions.