The King's Traitor (Kingfountain #3)(5)

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.”