The King's Traitor (Kingfountain #3)(4)

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.