The King's Traitor (Kingfountain #3)(102)

“I yield! I yield!” Severn bellowed. He frantically unbelted the scabbard around his waist and thrust the blade Firebos into Owen’s outstretched hand. As soon as Owen touched it, he felt the magic’s strength surge through him.

“Yield your crown!” Owen said passionately, holding out his other hand.

The crown was fixed onto the king’s helmet as part of the design. Owen could feel the magic of the Fountain exuding from it, summoning the winter storm that was about to annihilate the realm. The metal was tarnished and ancient, the fleur-de-lis patterns rising above the steel dome of the helmet like decayed flowers.

The two men locked eyes. Severn stared at Owen with fear and hate. But being confronted with his own sins and fears had completely unmanned him. He hesitated only a moment before wrenching the helmet off his head and hurling it away from him. Owen caught it in one hand.

“I yield!” Severn said, flinching and quavering.

Owen stood over him, sword in one hand, helmet-crown in the other.

“They’re yours,” the king snarled. “You win again, Kiskaddon!”

Owen stared down at the king, using his magic to sense any further threat from him. But there was none. The king had been defeated at last.

“It is enough,” Owen said. He lifted his left hand toward the roof of the tent. The ring’s magic flared to life, repelling the ravens that had finally broken through that barrier.

The rioting in the camp began to ebb.

Owen saw Kathryn lift her tear-streaked face, looking worriedly at the shredded gaps in the tent and the snow coming down on them from outside. Drew continually gazed at Owen with wonder—not fear—as Owen lowered his arm and the light extinguished. Bending her head to kiss her son’s fair hair, Kathryn nuzzled her nose against his neck, breathing a sigh of relief.

“You’ve wrenched everything from me,” Severn whispered in a strangled voice. Owen turned and looked down at him, prostrate on the ground, sniveling. “What is to be my fate? You owe me the truth of it, at least. I’m . . . I’m broken now. All is broken. I’ve nothing left. What will you do with me?” he finished, his voice breaking at the end.

Owen stared down at him and felt the throb of compassion. “Your fate will be decided by the new king,” Owen said in a wearied tone.

The king’s face blackened. “But aren’t you truly the new king? Isn’t that what this is all about? You hold the sword. You have the crown in the crook of your arm. It’s yours to claim, Owen. Take it! No one can stop you now.”

A part of Owen was still tempted by the thought. Laying down the power that he had wrested from Severn would put him at risk too. What if Drew ultimately felt threatened by having such a powerful subject? Might the boy not try and strip him of his rights and privileges? He listened to the insidious thoughts in his mind . . . and then crushed them beneath his heel like a roach.

“It is as I’ve told you. I’m not the true king of Ceredigion,” Owen said in a steady voice. Then he turned and nodded respectfully to the boy. “I am only his knight.”

Severn had a queer look on his face. One that could almost be called admiration. “But what is to become of me? Where will I go? How will I live? You’ve taken away everything. Must I beg for my bread? Even the dogs will snarl and howl at me. There are those who would be revenged. I am defenseless. Cursed. What will become of me?”

Owen stared down at the fallen king, his pity increasing. The man’s concerns were real and valid. “My lord—” he started, but Severn interrupted him.

“I’m no man’s lord!” he spat out.

Owen closed his eyes, feeling the prick of pain in his heart. “You were once a great lord of the realm,” he continued. “I know your story. Not the lies that were whispered about you. You were guided by a motto. Loyalty Binds Me. You’ve always sought that kind of loyalty, but when you failed your brother’s children, you lost the right to demand that kind of obedience from others. If I were the king . . .” He paused, then turned back to Drew once more. Their eyes met for a moment and he saw the bud of forgiveness in the boy. “If it were my decision, I would reinstate you as the Duke of Glosstyr, yours by right since you were a child. I would make you lord in your own domain, much like the Duchess of Brythonica is in hers. You would owe obedience to the king and to the king only. That is what I would advise. We have too many enemies, and your presence along one of the borders would help secure the realm.”

Owen felt a flutter in his heart, a gesture of approval from the Fountain—or Sinia?—he couldn’t tell.

The king’s demeanor softened as the spark of hope began to light within him. “I tried to execute you, lad. How . . . how can you show me such compassion?”

“Because you are the closest thing I’ve had to a father,” Owen answered, his throat becoming thick. “I’ve feared you. I’ve hated you sometimes. But I have also admired your courage and determination. You embody the aspect of the Fountain’s rigor. Use your gifts for good, my lord. I implore you.” He set aside the scabbard and reached out to take Severn’s hand to help him up.

The king wrested the gauntlets from his own hands, revealing the nicks and battle scars. He clasped hands with Owen and was helped to his feet, wincing. The two men stared at each other, and then Severn clasped Owen’s hand harder.