The Betrayed

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Otherwise, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Text copyright © 2023 by Jeff Wheeler All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher. Published by 47North, Seattle www.apub.com Amazon, the Amazon logo, and 47North are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates. ISBN-13: 9781542035187 (paperback) ISBN-13: 9781542035194 (digital) Cover design by Kirk DouPonce / DogEared Design LLC Cover image: ©EB Adventure Photography / Shutterstock; © Africa Studio / Shutterstock; daizuoxin / Shutterstock To BJ—my other “mom” CONTENTS Cover MAP PROLOGUE Farfog Castle, Kingdom of Brythonica ten years after the death of King Ulric of Leoneyis ONE Mirror Gate TWO Firebos THREE Peredur FOUR Tintagel Castle, Kingdom of Leoneyis Sixth Year of the Reign of King Andrew Ursus FIVE Privus Inn SIX The Grove SEVEN False Knight EIGHT Flotsam NINE Duchy of Lionn, Kingdom of Occitania Twelfth Year of the Reign of King Andrew Ursus TEN Tintagel ELEVEN The Seneschal TWELVE The Flood THIRTEEN Blood FOURTEEN Tintagel Castle, Kingdom of Leoneyis Thirteenth Year of the Reign of King Andrew Ursus FIFTEEN Words Spoken Softly SIXTEEN The Queen of Brythonica SEVENTEEN The Queen of Leoneyis EIGHTEEN Whispers in the Dark NINETEEN Hieros Castle, Kingdom of Leoneyis Fourteenth Year of the Reign of King Andrew Ursus TWENTY The Sea of War TWENTY-ONE Kingfountain TWENTY-TWO The Queen’s Revenge TWENTY-THREE The Fountain TWENTY-FOUR Ploemeur, Kingdom of Brythonica Eighteenth Year of the Reign of King Andrew Ursus —present day— TWENTY-FIVE The Flooding of Leoneyis TWENTY-SIX Betrayed TWENTY-SEVEN Folly of the Wise TWENTY-EIGHT The Siege of Avinion TWENTY-NINE A True King EPILOGUE Whispers from the Future AUTHOR’S NOTE ACKNOWLEDGMENTS ABOUT THE AUTHOR He came toward me with drawn blade, steel afire with magic he did not understand, drawn from the raven scabbard still bound to his waist, never to be loosed for fear an enemy’s dagger might plunge into his back. His blood was as inflamed as the blade, albeit with unholy lust. Teach me the word, he commanded. Teach me the word that can change my shape, to make me appear as my enemy. To what purpose, I inquired, not fearing the tip of steel he pressed to the skin of my neck. I already knew his thoughts, of course. He could not banish his lust for the other man’s wife from his imagination. I tried to persuade him. I used reason, warnings, and even threats. I said our bodies are our gardens, to which our wills are gardeners. If he was determined to plant stinging nettles or soft lettuce, he would bear the harvest either way. He could not endure the torment of thinking on her. And he said that I, not being a true man, should not preach idly against the matters of the flesh whereon I knew nothing about. I told him I did understand and suggested he might distract his thoughts. Did he wish for a garden left barren with idleness, a vineyard destroyed by war, or instead one manured with industry? It was all up to him! Power and corrigible authority lie not in the words engraved in tomes but in our wills. If our lives had not one scale of reason to counter that of sensuality, the blood and baseness of our mortal natures would conduct us to the most wasted conclusions. We have reason to cool our raging emotions, our carnal stings, the unbitten fruit of lust. He’d not hear me. So in the end, I taught him the word that would lead to his downfall. One word felled a kingdom. —Maderos, a Pig Keeper PROLOGUE Farfog Castle, Kingdom of Brythonica ten years after the death of King Ulric of Leoneyis The pig keeper had many sayings, but one was a favorite and often repeated—Be as happy as a pig in filth. On a certain day in spring, the boy sat watching the swine from a fence rail. The gate to the dark barn was open, allowing the animals to root in the muck for the kernels of corn that had been deposited there before winter started, buried under other decaying bits from the kitchen, the remains of the garden after fall harvest, clippings of leaves, and the drippings of cows and horses—the entire mound left to molt and rot during the cold season. The pigs rooted through the filth for those tiny bits of corn beneath the pile. Loving every moment of it—snorting, honking, squealing—they mixed the pile of manure in pursuit of the grain, so the laborers didn’t have to do the work with shovels or rakes. The boy, a lad of nearly twelve, looked up at the master pig keeper, enjoying the animals’ noisy sounds of delight. “Who taught you this, Master? How did you learn pigs would do all this work for a few kernels of corn?” “By the pig keeper who taught me, of course,” said the man, resting his arm on the knobbed end of a rake by the split-rail fence. The boy had always thought him a strange fellow. He was a little heavy in the middle, with dark hair that grew like a mane across his shoulders, streaked with white above his ears. He had a large nose, skinny legs, and the most serious eyes in the world. The boy wiped his nose. The smell coming from the heap was overpowering, but it was a familiar scent. Everything about the farm was familiar, from the lopsided fence always in need of repairs to the row of fragrant eucalyptus that blocked the view of the sea. And, looming over it, the crooked castle of Sir Farfog with its belching chimneys, half-broken towers, and the ravens that squawked from atop it—all part of the