The King's Traitor (Kingfountain #3)(7)
“Not as strong as ours,” Severn said reprovingly. “It’s not your place to question my commands, Lord Kiskaddon. It’s your place to fulfill them.” It was a tone of voice he had started using with more regularity. “With Stiev dead, I must count on you more than I ever have. Now, I’ve made this conquest simple for you.”
Owen wanted to vomit. He knew something else was coming. He could see it in the gleam of Severn’s eyes. His mouth went dry.
“You are to go to the capital of Brythonica—Ploemeur, I believe, is the name. And you will finally meet this elusive duchess that Marshal Roux has been shielding for so long. The most eligible heiress of all the realms. Her name is Sinia—after that breed of butterfly, or so Polidoro tells me. She’s a pawn. Roux’s been using her to hold on to power himself. Well, you tell that scheming Lord Roux that I insist the duchess and you should marry at once. When they refuse, and I know they will, that gives us the pretext we need to invade and open up a new front against Occitania.”
He clapped Owen on the back again. Then he looked back at the view of the room, his mood becoming more somber. “Brythonica used to be our duchy. And I mean to make it ours once again. I want it all, lad. Every town, every village.”
CHAPTER THREE
Deep Fathoms
It would have been a more fitting send-off for the duke if clouds had come and threatened rain or snow. But the sky was a blindingly bright shade of blue. The jagged mountains capped in snow stood out so starkly against it, it felt as if it were a vivid dream. Even with the sun blazing down, the air was sharp enough to cut, and everyone assembled on the bridge was bundled up in fur cloaks and hats. The stone bridge overlooked the falls in the canyon past Dundrennan, and the waters were roaring so loudly it was difficult to hear the shrill notes of the pipers and the steady boom of the drummers. Waterfalls had always fascinated Owen, and he had been at this location many times in the past, had stared at the endless flood of waters rushing through the rocks and boulders, building into a snowy white churn before leaping off the cliff into the valley below.
Turning his neck, Owen saw Evie sidled up next to Iago, his arm wrapped tight around her shoulders. Their two children were straining against the bridge, staring down at the rapids rushing beneath them, their eyes full of wonder. Owen had been to the falls at Edonburick in Atabyrion, which were impressive, but they paled in comparison to the size and force of the waterfalls in North Cumbria. This was Evie’s true home. This was the place where he had hoped to kiss her for the first time, years ago. Almost in defiance of this thought, Iago brushed his lips against her hair in a comforting way. Owen forced his eyes to look away.
The bridge was full of spectators awaiting the launch of Duke Horwath’s body back to the Deep Fathoms. In the distance, farther upstream, Owen could see the black-garbed knights preparing the body. The smoke from the torches they carried mixed with the mist coming up from the waters, and Owen could smell a hint of it in the air. The knights were saying their final respects as the music played on.
Owen felt the king’s shoulder butt against his. It would be difficult to hear over the tumult of the falls, so Owen leaned closer to him.
“Who is that lad?” Severn asked, motioning surreptitiously to Drew.
Owen pretended not to know. “Who do you mean? There are many children on the bridge.”
“The boy with the flax and reddish hair,” he said. “Bless me if he doesn’t look a little like my nephews who died.” He sniffed, his eyes narrowing warily. “He told me his father died at Averanche. His mother could not care for him. I asked him who his mother was, but he doesn’t know.” He smirked. “I even used my magic on him, but he wasn’t concealing anything.”
Owen grew more and more uncomfortable. “You should stop using your magic like that, my lord. It makes people even more wary about you. But why the interest in the lad?”
Severn shrugged. “He reminds me of you. Though he’s not as timid as you were. I miss having children at the palace.” He gave Owen a look of suspicion. “Assign an Espion to find out who his parents were. I assume you’re stopping through Kingfountain on your way to Brythonica?”
“Naturally,” Owen said. “I don’t plan on going there without some protection. Marshal Roux has always made me wary.”
The king smiled shrewdly and nodded. “I was going to ride back with you, but I may linger here a few days more.” He sniffed, his gaze going back to the boy. “Something about him. Find out who he is, Owen. Have your man report directly to me.”
“I will, my lord,” Owen said with a neutral voice, though he squirmed with guilt.
A raven squawked from atop a nearby evergreen and took to the air, flapping its wings as it swooped toward them. The king started with surprise, his mouth suddenly a rictus of disgust and fear, and waved his arm to ward it away.
As the bird flapped off into the distance, the sound of the shrill pipes became louder and the drumbeat increased in pace and volume. Owen was surprised by the king’s involuntary reaction—Severn loathed losing control, especially around others—but he soon forgot it, for Severn’s gaze had once again settled on the boy. He only watched him for a moment, though, before turning his attention on the musicians.
The body of the duke had been tied into a canoe, and the knights were assembled in two rows, each pair holding the staves upon which the canoe rested. Elysabeth dabbed a tear from her cheek and kept one hand on her youngest, who was still peering over the far side of the railing for a better view at the waters.