The Queen's Poisoner (Kingfountain, #1)(6)
The man, Ratcliffe, rubbed his hands together in a fidgeting motion. “Thank the Fountain we all survived the battle,” he said under his breath. “I had my doubts we would, to be sure. This is Kiskaddon’s whelp, eh?” He gave Owen a contemptuous look and chuckled almost musically. “The youngest was chosen. As if that will help. The king is in a fury, as you can imagine. His leg still pains him from the battle injury. The doctors say it is healing, but you know he cannot hold still! I wish we could persuade him to stop pacing to and fro so he could rest proper. What news from Westmarch?”
Horwath’s expression did not change as they walked. “I will tell the king,” he said curtly.
Ratcliffe frowned, his nostrils flaring. “As you wish. Guard your secrets. The king has granted me leave to recruit even more Espion. If a baker’s wife complains about the king at breakfast, I will know about it ere nightfall. Ah, here we are.” He gestured grandly as they entered the great hall.
As he took in the massive space that had opened before him, Owen nearly stumbled on the carpet trim and had to catch himself. He stared at the huge banners hanging from poles in the wall, the vast ceiling held up by a latticework of timbers, and the gray windows set high in the wall. Some light streamed in through them, but not enough to provide any warmth or comfort. A few servants scurried around the room, carrying dishes and flagons of wine, and a huge fire burned in the hearth. Four fountains gave life to each corner of the throne dais, but the throne itself was empty.
“Where is the king?” Horwath asked.
“Coming, man! Coming! We wait on his pleasure, not ours.” Ratcliffe looked almost giddy with excitement, as if he were about to enjoy eating a pie. Owen glanced at him worriedly, half-hidden behind Duke Horwath’s cape. Then there was a sound. The march of boots, but the step was uneven, almost halting. Owen crept further behind the duke, watching as one of the servants held open a door. A trumpeter raised a horn to his lips and called out a few shrill tones, announcing the entrance of King Severn Argentine, victor of the Battle of Ambion Hill.
The dread sovereign of Ceredigion.
Everyone in the hall rose to their feet in respect.
The king’s older brother Eredur—before he died—was a handsome, amiable man. Strong and courageous and, if truth be spoken, quick to admire the beauty of a lady. He was the eldest of four sons, two of whom are now dead. King Severn is the youngest, the last heir of this great house that has ruled for centuries. He was born twisted like an oak root. He equals his brother in strength and courage, but he has none of his softer qualities. They say the king’s tongue is sharper than his dagger. Having felt the cut, I concur.
—Dominic Mancini, Espion of Our Lady of Kingfountain
CHAPTER THREE
King Severn
A shadow passed over the flickering torchlight when the king limped into the hall. It was the shadow on the floor that Owen first saw, his eyes wide with growing terror. So this was the man who had summoned him to Kingfountain. This was the king everyone feared.
King Severn strode in with shuffling steps, his face grimacing with anger or pain or a mixture of both. What struck Owen first was the blackness of his garb. His long black boots were lined with multiple buckles, and twin ribbons of gold stitching marked the seams with flourishes of holly. His black leather tunic, slashed with velvet and silk, barely concealed a black chain vest that jangled slightly as he limped. A long collar of gold chain denoted his rank. There were thick black leather bracers on his arms, and his hands clenched in strong, tendon-tight fists, one of which gripped the hilt of a dagger lashed to his belt. A thin black cape fluttered as he walked, revealing the distortion of his spine and shoulders. It made his gait uneven, but he walked too quickly for the disfigurement to halt his speed.
He waved at the trumpeter, scowling at him as if the sound bothered his ears, and then mounted the dais with his bold, crooked stride and slumped into the throne.
In the king’s determined pose, one could easily overlook that one shoulder was higher than the other. His posture almost concealed it, especially the way he rested his elbow on the arm bar and cradled his chin between his finger and thumb. His hair was long and black, without even a streak of gray, tucked underneath a black cap with a pearl dangling from the royal badge. For some reason, Owen had expected to see a gray-haired and bearded king, and Severn was neither. The king’s face would have been handsome except for the brooding anger that seemed to twist every feature. He chuffed, out of breath, and cast a glance at those assembled before him.
“Your Majesty,” Ratcliffe said, with a flourish and a bow.
Lord Horwath inclined his head, bending slightly at his waist.
“Out!” the king snapped, waving his hand dismissively at the servants who approached him with silver trays. The servants began scurrying away, clearing the hall.
The king turned his eyes on the duke and then seemed to notice Owen cowering behind the man’s cloak. When those dark eyes fell on Owen, the boy’s stomach flipped over. He would not be able to speak. He was too terrified.
“She sent her youngest,” the king said scornfully. His lip curled with disdain. He snorted to himself. “I am surprised. Well, their move is played. Now it is my turn.” He shifted himself on the seat, wincing with pain at the motion. With his left hand, he slid the dagger partway out of its sheath and then slammed it back in. The movement startled Owen, even more so when it was repeated.