The King's Traitor (Kingfountain #3)(23)
Owen watched him leave. When he glanced back at Sinia, he saw a disappointed frown tug the corner of her mouth, but it was gone in an instant. “How long can I persuade you to linger in Ploemeur?” she asked.
Owen risked a look back at the door, where all the servants were gathered, giving him hateful looks. He had come there to alienate and offend. He had succeeded with everyone except the duchess herself. Or perhaps she was just better at disguising her true emotions. He warily reached out to her with his magic, letting the ripples of the Fountain, which he had felt constantly since entering Brythonica, gently flow from him.
The reaction he truly hoped to see was from Lady Sinia herself. The magic glided from his fingertips, traveling through the duchess like a vapor. He sensed her stiffen, her eyes crinkling slightly, as if a breeze had given her a chill. Then he felt himself brushing against a huge dam of power. She was Fountain-blessed herself; he could sense her power like a vast lake. Her blue eyes met his, her mouth showing neither resentment nor intrigue. She was letting him observe her without doing anything to push away his intrusion. It felt insulting, so he drew his magic back.
But not without learning her weakness. If she stopped breathing, her power would be completely severed. She was as vulnerable as a sparrow. The thought of breaking her neck filled him with utter revulsion.
Her nostrils flared just a little. “Good night, my lord,” she said dismissively, and turned and walked away.
Sinia’s steward, a man named Thierry, escorted Owen to one of the royal apartments in the castle. It was beautifully furnished and possessed a small fountain within it, a tiny one that chirped like a little bird as it bubbled. The floor was polished marble, the curtains expensive and thin and gauzy, and the colors light and festive. Several surfaces were decorated with beautiful vases filled with fresh flowers.
He walked like a man in a trance, only partially aware of his surroundings. He was now betrothed to the Duchess of Brythonica. Even though he had come to Ploemeur with that express purpose, he had never imagined it happening, let alone so quickly. Part of him wanted to laugh. Part of him wondered if he should break it off immediately. But while his feelings were anything but simple, he could not deny he was acutely curious about the Montfort heiress and her impressive power. He had always suspected Roux to be the strong one in her realm. He was keen to learn more about her, about this place.
Owen’s men were bunked in the armory, and he had given orders to Captain Ashby to spend their stay inspecting the castle’s defenses and planning siege strategies. While the castle could protect the court and the chief nobles, it was far too small to accommodate the population of Ploemeur. That left the majority of the people incredibly vulnerable. It would be easy to land an army in Brythonica and siege it, but the siege would be long and tedious.
Owen only half listened as Thierry explained the duchess’s daily schedule; he was preoccupied with watching Etayne examine the doors, windows, and all other possible entrances and exits.
“My lord?” Thierry sounded aggrieved.
“Yes, what was that again?” Owen asked.
Thierry’s face wrinkled with stern anger. He was an older man with steel-gray hair combed forward in the Occitanian style, and a colorful doublet, but his face was lined with crags and wrinkles. “I said, would my lord wish to join Lady Sinia at the supplicant hearing, or during the time when the artists are painting?”
Owen looked at the man in feigned confusion. “Why would I care about either of those things?”
Thierry grit his teeth. “She is very busy, my lord, and wishes to afford you the courtesy of her time tomorrow. It was my thinking that you would benefit from hearing about the troubles presented to her for resolution. Or you may be interested in the art of this kingdom, which is one of our great treasures.” He rocked on his heels, obviously exasperated that Owen hadn’t been listening. “There is also an archery tournament tomorrow,” he added. “Perhaps some of your men might wish to impress us all with their talents?”
Owen sighed, wanting the conversation to be done. The ruse to be over. Thierry was assuming Owen actually intended to marry the girl, which was far from certain. He clapped Thierry on the shoulder. “I’ll let you know in the morning.”
The steward scowled. “The . . . the morning?”
“Of course!” Owen said cheerfully. “I’m exhausted from the ride and may sleep quite late tomorrow. I’ll let you know when I’m ready to see the duchess.”
It was calculated to make Thierry apoplectic and it worked. The steward had a difficult time remaining civil in the face of such an outrage. “I beg your leave then, my lord.”
“No need to beg,” he answered offhandedly. “You couldn’t leave here quickly enough.”
Thierry scowled, bowed stiffly, and then stormed out of the room. He clearly wanted to slam the door, but he remembered himself in time and shut it gently.
“You almost sounded like the king when you said that last part,” Etayne offered slyly.
Owen folded his arms and stared at the door. “Sarcasm doesn’t require much effort when you have ample practice.” The sun was beginning to set, painting the fleecy clouds a rich orange. He crossed the room to the iron-and-glass door to the balcony and stepped outside. The platform jutted off the cliff, giving him an impressive view of the bay and the flickering lights far below. The air was salty from the sea.