The King's Traitor (The Kingfountain Series Book 3) (2 page)

The look Elysabeth gave him was full of respect. She was silent a moment, staring at him. “I’m proud of you, Owen. It takes courage to do the right thing, especially when no one around you is helping.”

Owen sighed, grateful for her words but hating the way they made him feel. “If I had courage, I would depose him,” he said frankly. “I know the measure of the man now, and I don’t respect him. I’m probably the only one who has enough power to defeat him. Yet your grandfather never did.” He glanced down as he said the bitter-tasting words. “He set the example of loyalty that we
both
follow. I’m torn in so many ways! If I’d known then what I know now, I would have helped Eyric become king. Even though I knew he wasn’t the Dreadful Deadman.”

Her eyes narrowed at the words. “You mean that old prophecy is true? The one about the great king Andrew returning someday to save Ceredigion?”

He realized he had said too much. He shook his head and tried to turn away, but she caught his wrist and pulled him back.

“You tell me, Owen Kiskaddon. What do you know of the prophecy? I thought it was just a legend.”

He blinked at her in misery. “I know it’s true. He’s here in the castle,” Owen whispered.

Her eyes widened with shock. “The . . . the little boy in the kitchen? The one my grandfather has been raising? Little Drew?”

Owen shuddered at the word. “He is Eyric and Kathryn’s son.
He
is the reason Eyric lied about being the king’s nephew. He wanted to protect his wife, his son. The boy is only seven. About the age we were when we first met. He’s the Argentine heir. The Dreadful Deadman.”

Elysabeth blinked with astonishment. Then her voice fell to a whisper. “My daughter Genevieve is playing with him in the kitchen right now.”

Owen nodded and looked at her seriously. “Can you imagine me writing
that
in a letter to you? Are you willing to keep it a secret from your husband? Etayne and the Deconeus of St. Penryn are the only others who know the truth. But do you think that little boy can defeat a grown man? In ten more years, Severn may be too powerful for anyone to stop.”

CHAPTER TWO

The King’s Command

Being back at Dundrennan was both a balm and a torture. The castle was steeped in memories that followed Owen as ghosts. Occasionally, he would turn a corner and see Genevieve tug Drew down the hall ahead of him, trailing giggles, and he would see himself and Evie doing the same. It hurt to be there, to be reminded of those memories, but at the same time, he found them soothing.

Watching Stiev Horwath die was especially agonizing, and Owen spent as much time as he could sitting beside the old duke’s bed, watching the irregular rise and fall of his chest, hearing the rattled sound of his breathing. Horwath’s death would usher in the end of an era. The days of the Sun and Rose of Eredur, of battles fought and won, fought and lost, glory fading like a sunset. Owen feared that when the duke finally stopped breathing, the last glimmer of daylight would be gone and night would descend. Owen would not be surprised if the duke’s life was the last bulwark standing against Severn’s fullest depravity. He stared at the man’s sunken cheeks, wishing he would heal and knowing he would not.

He took the old duke’s gnarled hand and sighed with despair. “You’re leaving me, old friend,” he murmured. “You’re leaving me alone to fight for a future worth saving.”

Horwath’s eyelids fluttered. His eyes opened, and a look of pain crumpled his brow. “Still alive,” he said darkly. His head turned and he looked at Owen. “You’re still here, lad,” he said, a fragile smile on his bearded mouth. “I’m glad you came in time. Wasn’t sure you would.”

“How could I not?” Owen answered, grateful to have a moment alone with the duke. Evie’s children had been in and out of the room, but the stale confinement of a deathbed was not an enticing environment to the young. “How are you feeling?”

Horwath grunted. “Old.” He shuddered beneath the blanket.

Owen smiled. “As old as the yews on the road to Castle Beestone,” he jested.

“Not that old,” Horwath said gruffly. His sharp gaze turned to Owen. “Would you heed some advice from one with more wisdom?”

Owen already knew what he would say, but he patted Horwath’s hand and nodded.

“Get you a wife,” the old duke panted.

The touch of the old man’s hand was growing colder. His skin was like ice. “That is counsel I receive constantly,” Owen said with a tug of bitterness in his throat. “Every month I get an offer of marriage from the father of some lass or other in realms as far as Genevar. If I stay at Tatton Hall longer than a fortnight, they start lining up their carriages.” He shook his head. “The
best
wives are already taken,” he said thickly.

Horwath’s eyes crinkled. “I’m sorry I failed you in that, lad.”

“You didn’t fail me,” Owen answered, shaking his head. One of the duke’s nurses peeked into the room—summoned by the sound of voices, no doubt—and Owen surreptitiously gestured for her to fetch the rest of the family. The duke’s moments of lucidity were growing increasingly rare. No one knew when the last would be. “We all followed our duty, did we not? I can’t imagine your journey has been any less fraught with heartache.”

Horwath gave him a weary smile. “Loyalty binds me. Only death . . .” He stiffened with increasing pain. “. . . will release me from its bondage.” His eyes blinked rapidly and he stared up at the ceiling beams, his breath coming in little bursts.

Bondage. What an interesting word to describe it at such a moment.

“Do you ever . . . regret?” Owen asked in a low voice.

The duke suddenly clenched his hand. The pulse was strong, but then Owen felt the grip slacken. “Aye, lad. I have many regrets. Too many. But I don’t regret befriending a frightened boy. I don’t regret bringing my granddaughter to meet him. And I cannot regret having ambition for my duchy.” His teeth clenched together as another wave of pain struck him. “I did what I thought was best. I led men. I was fair.”

“You served with integrity,” Owen said hoarsely. “Even if it wasn’t always deserved.”

“I did,” Horwath grunted. “I’ve asked . . . the king . . . if he will let my granddaughter inherit Dundrennan.” He licked his chapped lips. “I don’t know . . . if he will. He never promised.” He sighed deeply, uttering a small groan.

Owen glanced at the door, willing Iago and Elysabeth to come quickly.

The duke started shuddering. “Duty is a heavy burden, lad. My knees ache from the load. It is time I set it down.” He turned his head again, his eyes full of pain and suffering. He pierced Owen with his gaze. “It’s yours now. I . . . bequeath it . . . to you.”

A shard of torment dug into Owen’s heart. He didn’t want the burden. He loathed it. But he could see Horwath would not die in peace without handing off his duty to someone else. He felt tears prick the corner of his eyes.

“I will take it,” Owen said miserably. “Be at peace, Grandfather. You’ve carried it long enough.”

Stiev Horwath closed his eyes and sighed deeply. Owen thought it was his last breath, but the wave of pain had passed and he was breathing easier. His hand was limp against Owen’s.

“The duty I give you,” the duke whispered softly, “is found in the ice caves.”

Owen stared at the old man in shock. The duke had a tranquil look on his face now, an expression of calm. Owen heard the susurrus of the Fountain coming into the room.

“What did you say?” Owen asked, leaning closer. His heart started to burn.

“The Maid’s sword,” the duke murmured. “I know where it is. One of my people . . . a Fountain-blessed lad by the name of Carrick, can lead you to it. He’s one of the castle hunters. So is his father. He found the Maid’s sword in the ice. The sword of King Andrew. I have forbidden my people to wander the ice caves. To keep the secret safe.”

Owen stared in surprise. “Why have you not spoken of it before?”

The duke blinked. “Because we already have a king,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “But Severn has no heir. No child. It is the sword of kings. Do not . . . tell . . . the Occitanians. If they get it, they will conquer our kingdom. They want revenge for the past. This duty, I lay on you. Be true.”

Iago and Elysabeth came rushing into the room, each shepherding along one of their children. Iago seemed quite comfortable in the role of father. Owen had seen him interacting with his children—sweeping them high into the air and making them laugh and squeal. He was especially close to Genevieve, very patient and indulging, even when she had interrupted one of Iago and Owen’s conversations about trade and their dealings with Brugia’s ambitious ruler. Owen could not deny a certain grudging respect for Iago, both the ruler and the man. It was as unexpected as it was unwelcome.

Now, though, the entire family looked disconsolate—even little Genevieve, who was constantly prattling, seemed at a loss for words as she stared at her great-grandfather’s wheezing body.

“Thank you for telling us,” Elysabeth said, squeezing Owen’s arm as she rushed past him to her grandfather. “Grandpapa! The king is here! He just rode into the bailey and is coming shortly. The king is here!”

Owen felt a wriggle of doom at the words. Horwath blinked at her, then smiled.

“He came,” Horwath said in surprise.

Iago scooped up Genevieve in his arms and nudged past Owen to get nearer. He gave Owen a look that was difficult to interpret. Was it smugness? Exultation? Or did he simply pity Owen for losing the woman they both loved, for not having a family of his own?

Elysabeth and Iago’s younger child was only two, too young to understand matters of death, and he was tugging on his mother’s skirts, pleading for something to eat.

Owen left the chair and retreated back to the door, allowing the family to crowd in around the duke. He saw the nurses dabbing tears from their eyes. The people of the North loved Duke Horwath. He was treated with the honor and deference that was owed to a man who had proven his integrity throughout his life. Owen wrestled with the dilemma seething inside his chest. Could Owen make a mockery of that memory by deposing the king?

As he leaned back against the door, he spied Drew standing on the other side of the awning, peeking into the room, his boyish face full of pain as he watched his guardian gasping for air and murmuring words to his relations that the two of them couldn’t hear from so far away. Owen stared at the boy, struck again by the memories of being that age. For a moment, he was back at Beestone castle, lying on his bed as Ankarette Tryneowy, the woman who had saved Owen’s life more than once, lay dying at his bedside, bleeding to death from stab wounds inflicted by the Espion.

The boy didn’t even know his true identity or importance. Drew was tall for a boy his age. All the Argentines were tall. The hint of red in his blond hair came from his mother. He was a handsome boy disguised in the garb of a servant. The lad believed he was destined to become a knight, and he loved practicing in the training yard with wooden swords. But he also had a fondness for watching games of Wizr. Whenever he spied Owen playing, he would slip up unnoticed and stare at the pieces as if they were the most fascinating thing.

He looked so much like an Argentine that Owen did not want the king to see him. “Go play in the kitchen,” he said to the boy, wanting to get him out of sight quickly.

Drew looked instantly crestfallen. Owen could see he longed to be at the duke’s bedside, grieving the loss of the great man who had watched over him. His face frowned with potential rebellion, but he obeyed and skulked down the corridor. Owen felt guilty, but he had to conceal the boy from notice for as long as he could.

His mind was still whirling with the news Horwath had given him about the sword. Evie had always mentioned the ice caves in the mountains, and they had both longed to explore them. Now he understood why it had been forbidden. Had the sword been trapped in the ice for decades, waiting for someone who was Fountain-blessed to retrieve it? Owen had found another powerful relic in the sanctuary of Our Lady of Kingfountain, a Wizr set with mysterious powers, and he had hidden it for safekeeping in the fountain of St. Penryn, sequestered at the very edge of his land. The waters would help keep it hidden from all but the Fountain-blessed.

The sound of Elysabeth’s weeping captured his attention, and he watched as she pressed her face into Iago’s shoulder for comfort. A twisting sensation unleashed inside Owen’s gut as he watched Iago hug her. They were each other’s comfort now. The only person Owen had to confide in and offer him comfort was Etayne, who loved him and despaired that he would never return her feelings. With Etayne’s magic, she could look like anyone, deceiving anyone except for Owen. He had kept their relationship limited to friendship, though he knew she longed to be his mistress. He cared about her, but he didn’t love anyone. He wasn’t even sure if he could anymore. Nor was the King’s Poisoner a suitable marriage partner for a duke. No, Etayne’s job was to keep Owen from falling in love with anyone else. He had tasked her with that assignment years ago, for his heart was still loyal to one woman. A woman who grieved at her grandfather’s passing. A woman whom he could not comfort.

From the corridor came the shuffling gait of the king. Owen would have recognized his approach blindfolded. He knew the king’s walk, especially when Severn was weary or saddle sore. Owen tried to compose himself, to keep his face from revealing the true depth of his bitterness and resentment.

Elysabeth lifted her head, hearing the sound, and looked to Owen for confirmation. His expression said the words for him.

“The king is here,” she whispered to her husband. Iago scowled instinctively. There was no love between the two sovereigns. There was only grudging dependency.

Owen turned to face the king, and his heart quickened with panic. Severn was holding Drew’s hand and leading him back into the room. The flow of the Fountain emanated from the king, who relied on touch to fully transmit his power of persuasion.

As they approached, the king’s power began to wane and subside. He glanced at Owen in annoyance. “The lad tells me you banished him to the kitchen,” he said curtly. “He’s grieving over his fallen master. I thought you’d have more compassion than that.”

Owen accepted the barb without even pursing his lips. He had gotten quite adept at masking his expressions when the king was around.

Suddenly Genevieve came rushing up and took Drew’s hand. “Do you want to see him?” she asked, tugging the boy toward the bed. He’s very still now. He’s gone to the Deep Fathoms. It’s nothing to be scared of, Drew. You’ll see. Don’t be scared.”

“I’m not scared,” Drew countered, affronted. But he followed her into the room, giving only halfhearted resistance to her pulls.

The king sidled up next to Owen in the doorway, watching the two children as they approached the bedside. “Those two remind me of breakfast in the great hall,” he murmured. “I remember . . . she wanted to build a fish pond! Now look at her. So poised and motherly.” His voice was just above a whisper, pitched for Owen alone. “She saved Iago’s life. I hope he’s grateful to her. But they won’t be pleased when I give the North to another. Someone who has fully earned the right of being a duke.”

“Catsby?” Owen said blandly.