The King's Traitor (Kingfountain #3)(103)
“I couldn’t have endured losing,” the king said sincerely, “to anyone else but you.” His shoulders fell. Then he gave the boy a sulking look. “Mayhap the new king will do as you say. Mayhap not. Regardless, I will submit. I will swear fealty to the new king. But I would give up Glosstyr castle and every sheaf of wheat thereon to not be alone. It is loneliness that I dread the most, my boy. It is a demon that torments me.”
“It torments us all,” Owen said, understanding the sentiment from his own heartbreak.
He saw movement from the corner of his eye, and Lady Kathryn was suddenly standing by them, her face streaked with tears.
“If it be within my power,” she said with a sad look, “then let me dispel that demon for a season or two each year. I made you a promise, my lord. And I do not break my promises.”
The king looked at her with such wild hope it was like a burst of sunlight through the fog. He wrapped his arms around her neck and sobbed into her shoulder like a child.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Our Lady
The victors of the Battle of Dundrennan had gathered in the spacious solar in the castle while a blizzard spilled snow from the skies. Owen stared out the large window, feeling the heat from the fires on his back as well as the cold air seeping into the room from the glass. Many of the dead were still buried in snow, and the soldiers were hard at work trying to find survivors. His heart clenched with grief at the thought of the many casualties. A soft hand touched his elbow.
He hadn’t noticed Sinia approach, but he was comforted by her presence in the castle of his boyhood. She gave him a knowing look, always sensitive to his moods and expressions.
“Everyone is here now,” she said in a low voice.
Owen reached for her hand and squeezed it, summoning his courage once again. Sinia remained by his side, her warm hand linked with his, and he felt the buds of hope poking through the snowy debris.
They had been waiting for Iago, and he strode into the solar flanked by several nobles from Atabyrion in their strange battle garb. Their looks turned wary and fierce when they saw Severn Argentine and Catsby seated at the long table in the center of the chamber. Owen wished Evie were there. He would have valued her wisdom. Kevan Amrein was present as well, representing the Espion. With Sinia, they formed a royal council of sorts. Lady Kathryn was seated nearby, next to her son, who looked intimidated by all of the gathered men with storm clouds on their faces.
Iago folded his arms, refusing to take a seat at the table. “My queen’s ship left just before we arrived,” he said, his voice curt. “She’s halfway back to Edonburick by now. I’d like to go after her and bring her back to Kingfountain for the ceremony. I think she should be there when the new king is chosen.”
Owen felt a subtle tightening on his hand, a flinch. He glanced at Sinia, who was staring at Iago, her expression grave and anxious. “Do you have a concern?” he whispered to her. She quickly shook her head no, but did not meet his eyes.
“I don’t think that’s a problem, my lord,” Owen answered. “This must be done in the presence of the people. The one who draws the sword Firebos from the fountain of Our Lady will become the new king.”
Severn’s gaze was stony and a slight curl to his mouth showed his resentment. But he said nothing.
“What I want to know,” Iago said, letting his anger boil up, “is why you have promised Severn such an important position. Giving him power will only weaken the new king.”
“And what would you suggest? A longboat in the river?” Severn shot back immediately.
Iago was about to counter him, but Owen let go of Sinia’s hand and stepped forward. “Iago, please. I think we all recognize the fragile nature of this peace. We have enemies enough laying plunder to our kingdom while we dither here. I made no promises to Severn. It is a decision that needs to be made by the new king. Severn recognizes and accepts that.”
Iago’s eyes narrowed. “So you aren’t guaranteeing that I’ll be the duke of the North either?”
“I’m the duke of the North,” Catsby said under his breath.
Severn shot Owen a cynical look. “Thus is the nature and disposition of most men,” he drawled.
Sensing the tension building in the room, Owen stepped forward. “None of us is entitled to anything,” he said in a steady, deliberate voice. “Myself included. It will be the king’s decision whether any of us continues serving. Myself included.”
“Are you serious?” Catsby said in a withering tone. “You’re willing to give up Westmarch?”
Owen put his hands on the table, flinching slightly when the stitches in his waist tugged. Every hour he was feeling better as the magic of the scabbard continued to heal him, but he had to move cautiously for fear of pain. “I was given Westmarch by the king. It can be taken away by the king. Instead of squabbling, I think it best that we prove our usefulness to the new sovereign.” Owen sighed and turned to Kevan. “What is the latest report on our enemies’ movement?”
Kevan had a calm, unflappable manner even when bearing bad news. “Word is traveling slowly because of the weather, but that’s understandable. Chatriyon’s army is ravaging Westmarch. His men are marching into Brythonica, and are only two days from Ploemeur.”
Owen glanced at Sinia, whose face was twisted in a worried look. “I know,” she answered. “I cannot remain here. I must go back to Brythonica or risk Ceredigion’s fate.”