The King's Traitor (Kingfountain #3)(4)

CHAPTER TWO


The King’s Command



Being back at Dundrennan was both a balm and a torture. The castle was steeped in memories that followed Owen as ghosts. Occasionally, he would turn a corner and see Genevieve tug Drew down the hall ahead of him, trailing giggles, and he would see himself and Evie doing the same. It hurt to be there, to be reminded of those memories, but at the same time, he found them soothing.

Watching Stiev Horwath die was especially agonizing, and Owen spent as much time as he could sitting beside the old duke’s bed, watching the irregular rise and fall of his chest, hearing the rattled sound of his breathing. Horwath’s death would usher in the end of an era. The days of the Sun and Rose of Eredur, of battles fought and won, fought and lost, glory fading like a sunset. Owen feared that when the duke finally stopped breathing, the last glimmer of daylight would be gone and night would descend. Owen would not be surprised if the duke’s life was the last bulwark standing against Severn’s fullest depravity. He stared at the man’s sunken cheeks, wishing he would heal and knowing he would not.

He took the old duke’s gnarled hand and sighed with despair. “You’re leaving me, old friend,” he murmured. “You’re leaving me alone to fight for a future worth saving.”

Horwath’s eyelids fluttered. His eyes opened, and a look of pain crumpled his brow. “Still alive,” he said darkly. His head turned and he looked at Owen. “You’re still here, lad,” he said, a fragile smile on his bearded mouth. “I’m glad you came in time. Wasn’t sure you would.”

“How could I not?” Owen answered, grateful to have a moment alone with the duke. Evie’s children had been in and out of the room, but the stale confinement of a deathbed was not an enticing environment to the young. “How are you feeling?”

Horwath grunted. “Old.” He shuddered beneath the blanket.

Owen smiled. “As old as the yews on the road to Castle Beestone,” he jested.

“Not that old,” Horwath said gruffly. His sharp gaze turned to Owen. “Would you heed some advice from one with more wisdom?”

Owen already knew what he would say, but he patted Horwath’s hand and nodded.

“Get you a wife,” the old duke panted.

The touch of the old man’s hand was growing colder. His skin was like ice. “That is counsel I receive constantly,” Owen said with a tug of bitterness in his throat. “Every month I get an offer of marriage from the father of some lass or other in realms as far as Genevar. If I stay at Tatton Hall longer than a fortnight, they start lining up their carriages.” He shook his head. “The best wives are already taken,” he said thickly.

Horwath’s eyes crinkled. “I’m sorry I failed you in that, lad.”

“You didn’t fail me,” Owen answered, shaking his head. One of the duke’s nurses peeked into the room—summoned by the sound of voices, no doubt—and Owen surreptitiously gestured for her to fetch the rest of the family. The duke’s moments of lucidity were growing increasingly rare. No one knew when the last would be. “We all followed our duty, did we not? I can’t imagine your journey has been any less fraught with heartache.”

Horwath gave him a weary smile. “Loyalty binds me. Only death . . .” He stiffened with increasing pain. “. . . will release me from its bondage.” His eyes blinked rapidly and he stared up at the ceiling beams, his breath coming in little bursts.

Bondage. What an interesting word to describe it at such a moment.

“Do you ever . . . regret?” Owen asked in a low voice.

The duke suddenly clenched his hand. The pulse was strong, but then Owen felt the grip slacken. “Aye, lad. I have many regrets. Too many. But I don’t regret befriending a frightened boy. I don’t regret bringing my granddaughter to meet him. And I cannot regret having ambition for my duchy.” His teeth clenched together as another wave of pain struck him. “I did what I thought was best. I led men. I was fair.”

“You served with integrity,” Owen said hoarsely. “Even if it wasn’t always deserved.”

“I did,” Horwath grunted. “I’ve asked . . . the king . . . if he will let my granddaughter inherit Dundrennan.” He licked his chapped lips. “I don’t know . . . if he will. He never promised.” He sighed deeply, uttering a small groan.

Owen glanced at the door, willing Iago and Elysabeth to come quickly.

The duke started shuddering. “Duty is a heavy burden, lad. My knees ache from the load. It is time I set it down.” He turned his head again, his eyes full of pain and suffering. He pierced Owen with his gaze. “It’s yours now. I . . . bequeath it . . . to you.”

A shard of torment dug into Owen’s heart. He didn’t want the burden. He loathed it. But he could see Horwath would not die in peace without handing off his duty to someone else. He felt tears prick the corner of his eyes.

“I will take it,” Owen said miserably. “Be at peace, Grandfather. You’ve carried it long enough.”

Stiev Horwath closed his eyes and sighed deeply. Owen thought it was his last breath, but the wave of pain had passed and he was breathing easier. His hand was limp against Owen’s.

“The duty I give you,” the duke whispered softly, “is found in the ice caves.”