The King's Traitor (Kingfountain #3)(21)
Roux’s eyes hardened even more. “You are filthy,” he said angrily.
“I’m a soldier,” Owen replied with a shrug. Then he gave Roux a stern look. “I didn’t come all this way to be trifled with.”
Roux bristled at the choice of words. “Why are you here, Kiskaddon?” he said in a low voice.
“As I told you, my business is with the duchess. Shall we?” He gestured mockingly toward the castle.
Lord Roux tried and failed to conceal his displeasure. He started marching across the bailey at a quick pace. There were decorative urns arranged before the entryway, and Owen stopped when he saw the symbol carved on them. He had never seen it before, but it evoked the feeling of the Fountain.
How best to describe it? The symbol was like three interlocking horseshoes, the ends facing east, west, and south. In the east/west crescents, two faces in profile had been carved into the stone. One face looked pleasant, well-proportioned. The other face looked sharp, frowning, and angry. A third face pointed down with a neutral expression.
“This way,” Roux scolded, noticing Owen had stopped to gawk at the urns.
As he entered the palace, Owen noticed the symbol everywhere. The floor was decorated in black and white tiles, but unlike the sanctuary of Our Lady of Kingfountain, the tiles weren’t arranged like a Wizr board. Instead they formed a repeating hook design like waves, all the white ones symmetrical to the black ones. He felt the presence of the Fountain strongly in the palace, but as he’d noticed elsewhere in Brythonica, it was everywhere, not anchored to a specific person.
The palace servants were all dressed in fine clothes. Not opulent, but pleasant and colorful. A few servants gave him curious looks and wrinkled their noses slightly in response to his dirty tunic and boots. The interior corridor was quite long, but they eventually reached a pair of open doors guarded by six men. Lord Roux nodded to the guards as he passed, and the men responded with dutiful nods. Owen felt his chest flutter with unease as he prepared to face the ruler of Brythonica. He dreaded fulfilling the duty Severn had given him, suddenly self-conscious of how condescending and provoking the ultimatum would be.
The duchess immediately captured his attention when he entered the room. There was no wondering who she was, no misunderstanding. The mayor of Averanche had said she was beautiful, and he clearly was not blind.
Her name was Sinia Montfort, and she was the scion of one of the ancient noble houses of Occitania. She had wavy gold hair that went all the way down her back, but part was braided and coiffed behind her head. The crown she wore could hardly be called a crown. It was a circlet of gold with ornamented leaves dangling from the band, one just touching her forehead. She had on a pale blue gown studded with small pearls on the front and a surcoat of even paler fabric. Her eyes were blue, even more so than the gown, and they welled with worry. She wasn’t seated on the throne, but pacing near it, her fingers fidgeting with a ring on her right hand. There was a light flush on her cheeks, as if she felt extremely unsettled.
She reminded him a little of Princess Elyse when he had first met her as a little boy. Although she was an undeniable beauty, there did not appear to be any haughtiness to her. When she noticed them enter, the fidgeting with her ring ended and she stood in a regal pose, gazing at him with an expression that was difficult to describe. Not anger, but almost as if she were nervous to see him in an excited way. As if she had been wanting to see him.
Oh dear, he thought with dread. This is going to be awful for her.
The lord marshal approached halfway into the audience hall and then dropped to both knees, bowing his head reverentially. All of the servants mimicked him and dropped down to both knees. That was an unusual custom.
Owen, on the other hand, did not kneel. He was a duke, his station equal to hers. He did incline his head to her.
“You are most welcome to Ploemeur, Lord Kiskaddon,” the duchess said. She inclined her head to him. “Our allies are always welcome. Let me be the first to thank you for rendering aid when we were being invaded.”
Owen felt the irony of her comment like a stab to the gut. At the time, he had helped her avoid a forced marriage with Chatriyon, the King of Occitania. Now the King of Ceredigion had sent him here to press his own proposal.
“No thanks are needed, my lady,” he answered with a shrug of no concern. “You may want to keep your thanks for a better time. I have come on the king’s errand, and he is not known to be a patient man.”
Lady Sinia gestured to Lord Roux and the others to rise, which they did in a uniform manner.
“Lord Kiskaddon would not reveal the nature of his urgent summons to our lands,” Roux said, giving the duchess a sharp look. “It may be best to dismiss the servants ere he—”
“That won’t be necessary at all,” Owen countermanded, deliberately goading the lord marshal. “I don’t intend to stay very long.” Owen began to saunter in the throne room, eyeing the tall columns and decorative vases. He walked up to one and picked it up as if it were his own, noticing the triple crescent symbol was there as well. He set it back down and glanced at Lord Roux, who was turning red with anger and resentment. Etayne had positioned herself among the servants, close enough that she could watch the proceedings and intervene in case things became hostile.
“Why have you come?” Lady Sinia asked politely.
Owen could only imagine how he looked in her eyes. She looked so beautiful, polished, and regal. And here he stood in his dirty boots and sweat-stained tunic. With a scraggly half beard and smudged eyes, his odor clashing with the vase of fresh flowers.