The King's Traitor (Kingfountain #3)(6)
From the corridor came the shuffling gait of the king. Owen would have recognized his approach blindfolded. He knew the king’s walk, especially when Severn was weary or saddle sore. Owen tried to compose himself, to keep his face from revealing the true depth of his bitterness and resentment.
Elysabeth lifted her head, hearing the sound, and looked to Owen for confirmation. His expression said the words for him.
“The king is here,” she whispered to her husband. Iago scowled instinctively. There was no love between the two sovereigns. There was only grudging dependency.
Owen turned to face the king, and his heart quickened with panic. Severn was holding Drew’s hand and leading him back into the room. The flow of the Fountain emanated from the king, who relied on touch to fully transmit his power of persuasion.
As they approached, the king’s power began to wane and subside. He glanced at Owen in annoyance. “The lad tells me you banished him to the kitchen,” he said curtly. “He’s grieving over his fallen master. I thought you’d have more compassion than that.”
Owen accepted the barb without even pursing his lips. He had gotten quite adept at masking his expressions when the king was around.
Suddenly Genevieve came rushing up and took Drew’s hand. “Do you want to see him?” she asked, tugging the boy toward the bed. He’s very still now. He’s gone to the Deep Fathoms. It’s nothing to be scared of, Drew. You’ll see. Don’t be scared.”
“I’m not scared,” Drew countered, affronted. But he followed her into the room, giving only halfhearted resistance to her pulls.
The king sidled up next to Owen in the doorway, watching the two children as they approached the bedside. “Those two remind me of breakfast in the great hall,” he murmured. “I remember . . . she wanted to build a fish pond! Now look at her. So poised and motherly.” His voice was just above a whisper, pitched for Owen alone. “She saved Iago’s life. I hope he’s grateful to her. But they won’t be pleased when I give the North to another. Someone who has fully earned the right of being a duke.”
“Catsby?” Owen said blandly.
“Indeed,” the king said with relish, and then sighed. “They’ll be bitter. Aren’t the disappointed always bitter? But you see the wisdom in my decision, don’t you? I can’t give Iago that much power.”
“I see the wisdom,” Owen replied. “But no man likes to be kept on the ground with a boot on his neck.”
The king stiffened and frowned, giving Owen a sharp look. “Well, my outspoken young friend, it is easier to kick a man while he’s down than slog through a battlefield against him. Or perhaps you want him to invade Ceredigion? So you can have the pleasure of killing him.” It was a brutal thing to say and it was said deliberately. Owen had long endured such provoking comments. Although it rankled him, he didn’t let it show.
He found sarcasm to be an adequate defense in such moments. “I could have him killed at any time, my lord,” he said knowingly, his eyes bright. “But it would grieve me to make Elysabeth suffer. So I patiently wait for the man to get the pox.”
Severn chuckled at the dark humor and clapped Owen’s back, which was especially annoying. Then he heaved another sigh and stared at Horwath’s lifeless body. Despite his posturing, he almost looked relieved that he had arrived too late. “Well, Catsby will be content, and I’ll get a moment of peace. If you’d fancy a remembrance of the duke, you’d best take it now. Catsby counts the coins, you know. He won’t give up a florin without a fight. Not that you are in need of coin. I’ve rewarded you amply and am about to reward you further.”
Owen crinkled his eyebrows. “How so?”
“You’re going to start another war,” Severn said with a grin of enjoyment. He looked positively devilish when he schemed. His black hair was riddled with streaks of gray, each one a testament to the troubles he’d endured since seizing the throne of Ceredigion. His slight deformities were draped in the costliest of court attire, all black with jewels, and he still wore a chain vest beneath his tunic as an extra layer of defense.
“With whom this time?” Owen said, controlling his tone so he didn’t sound as exasperated as he felt. The king was always tweaking the noses of the other realms, putting them in fear of an invasion. His dominion had expanded relentlessly over the last seven years, with more and more cities and areas allying themselves to the badge of the white boar. Years before, Ankarette had helped fool the king into believing Owen had the gift of precognition. Although he did have powers from the Fountain, reading the future was not one of them. Still, Owen sometimes interfered with the king’s riskier plans by claiming to have had a dream from the Fountain. As the years passed, his visions seemed to convince the king less and less—almost as if the king were losing his belief in the guiding force of the Fountain, something Owen did not understand since the Fountain was the source of the king’s own preternatural abilities. Owen had become more judicious in his use of the dreams, especially when common sense said the risk was too great.
“Brythonica,” the king said.
Owen turned to look at the king. “They’ve been our ally for seven years. What would we gain?”
Severn chuffed. “They’ve enjoyed immunity long enough. Besides, I need their land to wage war on Occitania. Chatriyon has been fortifying the borderlands each year, making it more and more difficult to conquer new cities. But he’s exposed on his flank, Brythonica. We take that duchy and Chatriyon will cave like those tiles you used to play with.” Owen’s childhood pastime of stacking tiles had always helped him focus, and it also replenished his natural supply of Fountain magic. Now that he was older, he found the same benefits by playing Wizr, reading history, and plotting strategies with the Espion. The king gave him a smug look. “You’re the one who has taught me to be devious, lad. You’re blessed with a cunning mind.”