The King's Traitor (Kingfountain #3)(101)
“The same way I opened the board,” Owen said, gesturing to the table. “You are defeated, my lord. Threat and mate.”
“But how?” Severn demanded, stifling a groan as he shuffled to his feet. He limped to the board, breathing hard and fast, and stared in astonishment at the change in the pieces. “How did the tower . . . ? I’ve not touched . . . how did this happen?” His face was twisted with confusion and a budding sense of fear. “Only an heir can move the pieces! How did you manage it?”
“Because the heir is in this tent. Lord Bletchley didn’t murder Eyric. You arranged that yourself. The boy is Eyric’s son! Kathryn is his mother. Don’t you see why she never gave in to you? She knew the truth, as did I. This is the last truth, Severn Argentine. This is the last secret. And it is your last chance! Look at the board. Do you see the army of Brythonica? The white Wizr is coming to defeat you.”
The king’s lips quivered. His eyes were wide with shock, and his skin had gone chalk-gray. He stared at Kathryn, then at the boy who was looking up at him with something like defiance. “You want to play games with me, Owen? Another trick? Another vision?”
Owen shook his head. “What is the most powerful piece on the board, my lord? Even the king is powerless against the Wizr. I’ve tried to warn you. I’ve given you every chance to end this madness. But I will not let you destroy your kingdom out of spite.”
Kathryn stood near the tent door, her eyes full of fear and awe. She was edging toward the tent door with Drew, as if she intended to flee with him in case the king turned violent.
“You have nothing!” Severn shouted. “This is a trick! It’s one of your ploys. I put your army to flight. Your life is in my hands. I could kill you this very moment.”
Owen stepped closer. “And why haven’t you, my lord? What prevents you from destroying me? Because you remember the shivering little boy I used to be? The one you used to taunt at breakfast? Your special child. Because I’m Fountain-blessed, as are you. Because I’m the only other person who understands you. Even if I grieve at what you’ve become.”
The king’s face contorted. He began to draw the dagger from his belt, and Owen worried he’d said too much—a worry that only heightened when Kathryn cried out in alarm—but the king slammed the weapon back into its scabbard in the nervous gesture Owen remembered from his youth. He repeated the motion and started to pace the tent, his eyes haunting and desperate.
And that was the moment the ravens began their attack.
The sound of flapping wings, the bark-like croaking, filled the sky over the army. Shouts of fear started up in the camp. And then the shouts became cries of pain and terror.
“What is happening?” Severn exclaimed.
Lady Kathryn and Drew were nearly knocked to the ground as one of the king’s captains burst inside the tent. “My lord! Ravens! They’re falling on us from the sky!”
“Speak sense, man!” the king roared. “It’s winter. There are no ravens!”
“They’re huge! These are no beasts of nature, sire, and they’re swooping down on us. They’re killing your soldiers!”
Suddenly there was a heavy thump on the king’s tent and several black shapes began clawing and shredding at the pavilion fabric with beaks and talons. The cry of the ravens was primal and fierce, and Owen felt his own heart quail. Drew pulled his mother over to one of the braziers, where she maneuvered herself in front of him, protecting his body with her own.
The look of fear and uncertainty on Severn’s face showed Owen that his plan had worked. When he reached out to the king with his magic, he saw that all the man’s sense and reason had fled beneath the onslaught and the guilt of what he had done to his own flesh and blood.
“Get them away! Keep them away from me!” the king gibbered.
The captain took one look at the utter fear and helplessness in Severn’s eyes and turned and fled for his own life. Moments later, Owen watched as the captain was obscured by a pair of jet-black wings and a set of claws raking his face. The camp was full of commotion as the men tried to escape and were hunted down by the cawing, merciless beaks and razor-sharp talons. Owen’s heart began to thrill.
Severn hunkered down on his knees and stared up at the shredding fabric of the tent. Black beaks poked through the holes, screaming down at them. Kathryn shrieked with terror, turning away her face and pulling Drew closer to her. The boy wasn’t afraid. He was staring at the display of magical birds with rapture. Owen felt the magic of the Fountain whirling around him. These were magical creatures, and he knew through experience that his particular set of abilities would protect him from them.
“No! No!” the king groaned in terror, his face white, his lips quivering.
“Yield,” Owen implored, standing before him, his hand outstretched.
One of the ravens was nearly inside the tent, its beak snapping viciously. The cacophony of noise from the terrified camp filled the air, but Owen’s eyes were riveted to the king’s face.
Severn shrank from the threat, scrabbling backward on his arms and leg, exposing the wound in his side, which seemed to drive the birds into a frenzy.
“Stop! Stop!” the king cried in terror.
“Yield!” Owen shouted back, pinning the king with his gaze. There was nowhere else to flee. The guards surrounding the tent had been plucked away. Wails of pain and fear resounded all around them.