The King's Traitor (Kingfountain #3)(86)
The king stroked his bottom lip. “You were always more loyal to her than to me,” he said accusingly. “Thick as thieves, the two of you. Is this your revenge, Owen? You would dare take the throne yourself!” The last words had built into a roar.
It was over. The ruse was completely destroyed. Owen had rolled the dice, and he had lost.
“I would never seek to usurp your throne for myself,” Owen said tightly.
“Oh, how magnanimous of you! How saintly! But do you think anything you say to me right now could justify your treason? After all you have seen, after all you’ve witnessed, you too have chosen the kiss of betrayal. There is no man nor woman left in Ceredigion who knows true loyalty. So be it.”
Owen stepped forward. “I speak truly, my lord, whether or not you believe me. It is treason to oppose the king. But you are not the rightful king of Ceredigion. And you’ve always known it. You stole the throne from your brother’s children. You were their uncle, and should have protected them.”
“I will not be spoken to in such a way by a traitor!” the king screamed. He gestured. “Take him to the dungeon and prepare him for execution. Catsby, charge him!”
A greedy smile stretched across Lord Catsby’s face as he made his approach. Guards appeared at Owen’s side in an instant, seizing his arms so violently he winced and nearly lost all his strength from the surge of pain it brought to his wounds. The look on Catsby’s face made Owen want to spit at him.
“I charge thee of high treason, Owen Kiskaddon, Duke of Westmarch,” he said with wicked delight. He hooked fingers around the chain of office around Owen’s neck and then snapped it off and tossed it to the ground at their feet. “Prepare to face your death, boy. It will not be long in coming.”
Owen looked past the triumphant lord to meet the king’s eyes. “If you do not abdicate your throne, you will destroy us all!” he said accusingly. “You’ve brought a curse on the land that will only stop when the Dreadful Deadman wears the crown.”
“Silence!” the king shouted, flecks of spit spraying with his words. He quivered with rage.
Owen tried to shake loose the grip on his arms, but he was too weak. “The winter will destroy us all, my lord. Every man, woman, and child! Even you. I beg of you, my lord. Relinquish what you have unrightfully claimed!”
“Take him away!” Severn snarled.
The guards started to drag Owen to the doors, but he persisted in pleading with the king. “Look at the board, my lord. I’m sure you’ve realized it has special significance. The pieces are all arrayed against you. If you fall, we all perish with you. The Dreadful Deadman is here! Do what you will with me. Throw me into the river, I don’t care! But this storm will not end so long as you are king. It will bury us all in frost.”
“You think you’re going into the river?” Severn snarled. “I know how to deal with the likes of you. I’ll leave nothing to chance. We’re riding North to reclaim Dundrennan from your wicked little friend and her faithless husband. And you’ll be bound in iron atop a mountain to freeze to death! You will be the first to perish by the cold you foreshadow!”
Owen was confined to Holistern Tower directly. There was frost on the window and chinks in the stone that made it drafty and miserable. Two Espion handlers had been assigned to him with orders to sleep in his bed at night, watch him when he used the privy, and keep an eye on him night and day until the king decided it was time to leave. Memories of Eyric and Dunsdworth haunted Owen—this had been their fate, one which he had always pitied them—but at least he would not spend years this way. No, his remaining life span would be limited to days.
The heavy chains secured around his wrists tired him. They’d stripped away his sword and scabbard, removing the source of the magic healing that had helped him recover so swiftly in the past. There was nothing in the room to substitute for his tiles—no ready way to fill his supply of magic. He only had his mind, and so he spent his days pacing and trying to figure an escape from his dilemma. Atabyrion’s invasion of the North had been prompted by his assurances that Westmarch would rise in rebellion against the king. Now Severn could join Owen’s army with his own and bring the North to heel himself. What would happen to Evie when she found out? Dundrennan was an impressive castle. It had never been breached in the past. But how long could it hold out against the determination of a man like Severn, whose own position in the North had been unquestioned?
He shook his head as he continued to pace back and forth, shivering against the cold. A brazier had been lit, and the two Espion huddled near it, chafing their hands.
The feeling of misery and hopelessness spread across Owen’s shoulders like a mantle. So he was to meet his fate as the Maid of Donremy had met hers. He had hoped to provoke Severn into throwing him into the river. The ring on his hand would have protected him from the falls and helped him escape. If he could somehow escape and make it to the river, he felt he’d stand a chance. If only Etayne were still alive. Grief at her death struck him so hard he clenched his fist and pressed his knuckles against his mouth to subdue the hot rush of feelings. Etayne would have helped him escape. What about Sinia? Did she even know what had happened to him? Even if she did, was there anything she could do to help? The thought of not seeing her again made his heart wrench with anguish and dread.
Almost as if in answer to that thought, he sensed Fountain magic emanating from the stairwell. It had an oily feeling to it, though, and instead of offering hope, it made him uneasy. He stopped and stared at the door.