The King's Traitor (Kingfountain #3)(83)

He reached the door leading to the outer yard and found two soldiers waiting there in black tunics with the white boar insignia. They stiffened and exchanged a knowing look as he limped toward them. Owen said nothing to them as they hauled open the door to let him out.

Pathways had been cleared through the yard, the drifts shoveled up against the walls, but elsewhere the land was thick with snow. The miserable cold reminded Owen of the Wizr board hidden in the secluded fountain of Our Lady. The board’s magic was causing the weather. And it would continue to get worse until Severn was defeated or until the entire kingdom lay under a cataclysm of ice. He walked with a burden of pain and duty inside his heart, listening to the crunch of the ice crystals beneath his boots.

After crossing the frozen grounds littered with leafless trees, he arrived at the gate where he’d watched the king seduce Lady Kathryn. Etayne’s identity was a state secret, so there would be no crowd to send her on her way back to the Deep Fathoms.

The king was already there, swathed in a heavy black cape lined with silver fur. Next to him was Kevan Amrein, leaning on a crutch. The Espion’s face was gaunt and feverish, and Owen was surprised to see him out of bed.

The sound of his boots announced him, and the men turned. Owen wondered if Dragan was also present, hidden by his magic. Owen’s connection with the Fountain magic had been temporarily severed because he had no reserves left. The necessity for him to plot and plan had begun to bring it back, but he didn’t want to waste what limited power he had. The well needed to be filled, drip by drip. He had not been so drained for years.

“You look hale for a man who was nearly dead,” the king said to him with a wary smile. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so poorly.”

“I can’t remember when I ever felt this poorly,” Owen countered. He glanced at Kevan, who gave him a somber-faced nod.

The king sniffed in the cold air, but he didn’t seem bothered by it. “It’s a sad day, to be sure. It’s like the game of Wizr when two pieces of the same value get exchanged. It would have been much worse if Chatriyon had claimed your life as well.” His lips curled into a snarl. “I am ready to crush that upstart’s skull. He’s provoked me for the last time. When you are fit for the saddle again, you will launch a war into Occitania that will water their gardens in blood. I want to spit on the corpse at Queen Elyse’s feet.” His voice throbbed with hatred, and Owen felt a blackness settle in his heart.

“This was not a game of Wizr,” Owen growled. “Etayne was a person, not a pawn.” Fresh pain bloomed in his chest as his eyes shot to the boat where her body lay. It had been covered in a shroud, which, in turn, was decorated with freshly fallen snow.

Severn snorted. “She was a pawn, if a powerful one. Do you know how much she cost me? How much Mancini spent on her training?” He shook his head at the loss of capital, while Owen ached at the loss of his dear friend.

He didn’t trust himself to speak, so he said nothing. He caught a sympathetic look from Kevan, who wisely joined him in his silence.

“Well,” the king said after a long moment. “At least she’s going into the river in winter. The ravens have all flown south.”

Owen turned and looked at the king with morbid curiosity. “What?”

The king didn’t look at him, but Owen saw a flash of disgust on his face. “Haven’t you ever wondered, lad, what happens to the bodies we release into the river? And why there are so many carrion birds in this kingdom? The bodies don’t disappear. They are fought over.” His face tightened. “When I was a lad, no older than you were when you first came to the palace, I walked with my brother down to the base of the falls. I saw something black, something I couldn’t identify.” His voice took on a haunted sound. “Eredur threw a stone at it, and suddenly the heap of black moved and lifted. They were ravens, feasting on a corpse.” The king shuddered at the memory. “I can’t abide them. I hate this duty most of all, for it reminds me of that time. I was just a child, but it terrified me.”

Owen had never given it a thought. The pageantry and splendor of the rite had always appealed to him. Even as a child he’d wondered what it would be like to be sent into the river as he’d seen happen to others.

“What happens during the winter months then?” Owen asked.

The king stared off into the distance. “Wolves,” he said simply. Then he shook his head as if to ward off the evil portent. “Let’s be done with this!” he barked to the soldiers.

The sound of approaching boots filled the air, and the three men turned in unison to see Lord Catsby rushing toward them from the palace. His boot slipped on a patch of ice, and the man went down with a yip of pain that sent him onto his backside.

Owen chuckled at the sight, unable to help himself, and the three of them started toward the injured lord.

“What are you doing here, Catsby?” the king demanded. “I sent you to the North.”

“I never . . . even . . . made it there,” Catsby grunted. His effort to stand ended in another slip that sent muddy snow spattering across his rich mantle and tunic. He made it to his feet on his second try and dusted off the slush from his knees, scowling darkly.

“What prevented you?” Severn asked with concern.

“The Mortimer girl!” Catsby snarled. “Iago’s chit. She’s occupying the fortress of Dundrennan while her husband is off sacking all of my men!”