The King's Traitor (Kingfountain #3)(11)

Owen nodded to the soldiers and they pulled open the door.

The stench inside was almost unbearable.

Owen gritted his teeth and stepped into the stink. He saw Dunsdworth lounging on a chair, his eyes bloodshot and full of enmity. There were a few books in the room—some on a shelf, some on the small table. The pallet was just wide enough for two, but Owen saw a blanket in a heap on the floor, and he imagined that Eyric had chosen to sleep elsewhere.

Eyric was sitting at the desk, a book in his hands, and his eyes lit with a desperate hunger when he saw Owen. His jaw started to tremble. His eyes were haunted with despair.

“Hello Kisky,” Dunsdworth drawled, using the old pet name like a bludgeon.

Owen barely gave the man a look, for what he saw made him depressed. This was a man who had grown so complacent and lazy, they had to cut his rations. He had a beard, pocks on his cheeks, and soulless blue eyes full of hate.

Eyric leaped out of his chair. “What’s happened, Lord Owen?” he demanded, his voice a little feverish. “We’re only allowed to walk the grounds once a week now. No exercise. Is the king trying to kill us with boredom?” His cheeks grew flushed as he spoke.

“My father was permitted to drink himself to death,” Dunsdworth said irreverently. He rocked the heels of his boot back and forth. “I would gladly accept that fate. Can our dungeon be moved to the wine cellars, please?”

Eyric gave Dunsdworth a look of pure annoyance, but he had learned long ago not to spar with him. He turned back to Owen imploringly. “My lord, what have we done to deserve such punishment?”

“Nothing,” Owen said flatly. “It’s not your fault at all. Someone tried bribing the guard to rescue you.”

Dunsdworth let out a spluttering laugh followed by some unspecific grunted syllables.

Eyric’s eyes widened with hope. “Truly?”

“I would not get my hopes up,” Owen said, shaking his head. “It will come to naught.”

“Then why are you here?” Eyric asked. He started to pace anxiously.

“I wanted to see you with my own eyes,” Owen said with a smirk. “To be sure no one had tricked me. And I brought you another book.” He pulled out the small book wedged into his belt. “I see you’ve been through this collection. This is a book of legends of King Andrew and Myrddin. I read it as a boy.”

Dunsdworth hawked and spat on the floor, the glob landing dangerously close to Owen’s boot. “You didn’t bring me a bottle of wine, did you?”

Owen seethed internally, but he remained calm. He tossed the book onto the table. “What were you reading?”

Eyric glanced surreptitiously. “That one.”

Owen shrugged and sauntered to the table. The room reeked of filth. He picked up the book and thumbed through some pages. “I haven’t read this one in a while. Did you like it?”

“I enjoyed it very much,” Eyric said meaningfully. “Thank you.”

Owen nodded his indifference and folded the book under his arm. “I’m leaving the kingdom for a fortnight or so. If the risk of escape shrinks, I’ll authorize more time in the training yard.”

“Thank you,” Eyric said with relief.

Dunsdworth looked at Owen with utter loathing, his lazy eye twitching. “You never bring me any gifts,” he grumbled.

“He does,” Eyric answered flatly. “You just don’t take advantage of reading them.”

Dunsdworth rolled his head and then gazed up at the timbers propping up the tower. “This was the cell that Tunmore jumped from to his death. I can see why he did it. Take away those bars and I would try flapping my wings as well.”

“Farewell,” Owen said, nodding brusquely.

Eyric stepped forward earnestly. “How much longer, my lord?” he said with agitation bordering on hopelessness.

He gazed hard at Eyric. “We all make choices. And we live with the consequences.” Then he turned and rapped on the door with the book spine. As the soldiers opened it, he heard Dunsdworth spit again. Then he felt the wad strike his back. The soldiers’ faces turned red with rage, and they looked ready to barge in to pummel Dunsdworth for his insolence and disrespect.

Owen held up his hand in warning. He left the tower and motioned for them to lock the door.

“How dare he!” one of the soldiers snarled.

Owen shook his head. “He wanted a beating,” he said softly. “He was trying to earn one. He can’t feel anymore. Even pain is something he misses. Have pity on them, but do not hurt them. They endure enough torture.”

Owen hurried down the tower to meet Kevan and Etayne by the cells where more common prisoners were detained. Etayne gave him a curious look as he came into view. It was unusual for him to summon her to the dungeon for a meeting. The dankness was slightly offset by the prettiness of her stylish and formfitting gown. The corridors smelled of rot and filth, and the air shivered with groans and wet coughs.

Kevan brought them to a cell and inserted a key into the lock. “My lord, meet our latest guest,” he introduced.

Owen ducked through the opening and took the lantern from Kevan, who waited outside. The man in the dank cell shielded his face from the light and flinched, backing away from the glare. He was an oily man with a hawk nose and a handsome, squarish, pocked face with long sideburns that matched the color of his dark hair. His clothes looked like they had been worn by a nobleman and then discarded after too much use. There were splits at the seams and some of the stitching threads were loose.