The King's Traitor (Kingfountain #3)(62)
Owen wrinkled his brow, feeling the tangles forming in his plan. “You want me to attack him?”
Severn shook his head. “I believe you had a dream, Owen. Too many of your visions have come to pass for me to doubt them. But I don’t intend to forsake my crown, and I’d just as soon attack seven kingdoms at once than risk being defeated on my own ground. Make you ready. I want you near me as my advisor.”
Owen bowed. “I’ll send word to Ashby to begin the preparations.”
The king nodded. “Very well. See to it.”
Owen was about to turn, but the king signaled him to stay a moment longer. “You are not the only one who is recently betrothed,” he said, his expression softening. “Lady Kathryn has agreed to be my wife. She will be the queen my people have long desired.” He frowned, his brow turning more serious. “That’s another reason your news upset me. I’m fully intending to sire a son. An heir. I was going to name you protector should that happen.” His gaze narrowed. “Can I trust you, Owen? Can I trust you with that?”
Owen felt the squirming conflict inside of him. The duplicitous role the king had forced him to play sickened him, but he could not reveal himself now. He gave the king a stern look. “Loyalty binds me,” he said softly.
“Good lad,” Severn answered. “I want you to see Polidoro for me. I have no patience for his long-winded answers, but I want you to ask him about the Dreadful Deadman prophecy. From what I understand, he hasn’t been able to validate the myth of King Andrew at all. There are no records dating back to his court at Tintagel. Polidoro tells me the story is a myth. That the common story about the origins of this city, this very palace—Kingfountain—is simply a legend. There is no evidence that any sword was ever drawn from the water. I want you to talk with him, Owen. Then you can see for yourself why I have doubts about your prophecy.”
Owen bowed deeply. “I will, my lord. And congratulations on your betrothal. I know you have long desired it.” He did his best to keep the bitterness from his voice.
The king dismissed him with a nod.
Etayne walked alongside Owen as they headed to the record room where Polidoro Urbino had been working for so many years. The history he had written on the people of Ceredigion was lengthy and consisted of seven volumes. The man certainly was loquacious. He had traveled the land collecting documents, assembling the largest body of sources from castle records to sanctuary journals kept by the deconeuses.
“How did the king handle your news?” Etayne murmured to Owen.
“He was upset, of course. But then I threw it in his face that he’d had two men executed while I was gone. That kicked him off the holy pedestal he was attempting to mount.”
Etayne smirked at the joke. “I remember Mancini saying how much he hated debating with you.”
Owen chuckled. “He always lost. No, I’ve been around the king too long. If I opened my mouth, you’d find thorns on my tongue.” He sighed. “I’m going to have to learn to control my temper.”
“I like your temper,” Etayne said with a smile. “There is nothing about you I would change. Not even those whiskers.”
Her inviting tone made him a little uncomfortable, and he was grateful when they reached the heavy oak door leading to the record room. When they entered, they found Polidoro giving instructions to several young scribes whom the king was paying to work for him. They brought him books at his request, scanning passages for the references he sought.
“No, no, not volume six, I asked for volume seven!” Polidoro complained, shaking his head and shooing the young man at his elbow away. “Tanner, bring me another jar of ink, would you? Good lad. Lord Kiskaddon!” he said, brightening instantly as he noticed the new arrivals. “Come in, come in! It has been too long since you’ve visited this humble court historian.” He bowed with a flourish and rose, coming forward to give Owen’s hand a vigorous shake.
“It has been too long, Master Urbino,” Owen said. “I don’t come nearly as often as I should.”
“It’s understandable,” the historian said in a grave tone, looking serious and concerned. “You used to come quite often with a certain young water sprite long ago.” He clucked his tongue, his eyes growing misty. “I rather miss her, you know. She used to talk to me often before leaving for Edonburick. Those were fond memories. I see you mourn her as well. Well, best to wave aside the clouds, and face our fate with courage. What can I do for you, my young lord? Is there another battle you would like to reference? I do have several I’ve been saving for you.” He grinned knowingly at Owen and butted him with an elbow.
“Actually,” Owen said, hoping the man would stop speaking long enough for him to issue his message. “The king sent me here on an errand. He says you can dispel my notion about King Andrew being a historical figure.”
The lanky historian swiped his hand across his gray-haired scalp and pursed his leathery lips. “Did he now? Well, what I told him was that there is no evidence of it. I’m a historian, after all. I’ve been looking at records that go back hundreds of years, to the first Argentine family. But the story of King Andrew is older still. Did you know there is a tapestry in the royal palace of Pree that shows Ceredigion’s invasion by Jessup the Conqueror?” His eyes grew animated whenever he shared obscure historical facts, and he started to gesticulate with his hands. “History told in art! You can see the stories painted instead of printed. So it should not surprise you to learn that there are also pictures of a young boy drawing a sword from a fountain. But it’s impossible to tell when it happened. In some of the pictures, there is a woman in the water who hands Andrew the sword. The sanctuaries have been built to commemorate the event and, as you know, people still toss coins into the fountains and make wishes. It’s a deeply ingrained tradition, Lord Owen. But just because I can’t prove when Andrew lived, doesn’t mean I don’t believe he did. After living here for so many years, after studying the references over and over again, I’ve come to appreciate them like the sound of beautiful music.”