The King's Traitor (Kingfountain #3)(97)
The king sat on a wooden camp chair, brooding over the Wizr board and its arrangement of pieces. There were four braziers in the tent, sending up plumes of purplish smoke and warding away the deep winter chill.
“He’s no ordinary man,” Severn said with an edge of jealousy in his voice. “And he’s no longer my duke.”
“Forgive me,” the surgeon said in apology, “but I have other wounded I must attend to, my lord. If you’ll dismiss me.”
“Go,” Severn said with a wave of his hand.
Owen had been treated on the king’s own pallet. He slowly sat up, feeling the stitches groan in protest. The empty scabbard, still strapped snugly to his waist, continued its secret work of healing.
“Would you like some wine, my lord?” Lady Kathryn asked, bringing Severn a flagon. He nodded gratefully and took it from her, their fingers grazing. The king’s mouth softened slightly as he looked up into her hazel eyes. Then she returned to the chest where she had been sitting and lowered herself next to Drew, who was staring helplessly at Owen. The boy looked frightened, confused, and miserable. It was the look of a boy whose hopes were being dashed before his eyes. Little did he realize what the king was capable of.
Owen felt the same way, but at least the boy was still hale. Along with the pain of his wounds, his heart throbbed with the torment of failure. He had tried twice to bring down Severn, and he’d failed in both attempts. He’d felt sure the Fountain would grant him its favor, and yet his plans lay dashed to pieces like so much broken crockery.
“Tell me if I have this right,” Severn said musingly, staring at the Wizr board. “I’m the black king here. I just took the white knight. That was you.” His eyes glanced up at Owen and a mocking smile twitched on his lips. “The tower . . . this is Elysabeth Victoria. It’s Dundrennan.” He paused, stroking his clean-shaven cheeks. He still wore his battered armor. His knuckles were bruised, but Owen could see his coronation ring on the fist near his nose as he tapped his mouth, deep in thought. “This piece . . . this is Iago. Another white. And down here . . . the Wizr piece. This one has been moving slowly up the board. The white Wizr. That is the Duchess of Brythonica. See the row the piece moves across? If this board represents the kingdom, then these pawns are at Kingfountain, and she came from Ploemeur over here.” He gave Owen a shrewd look. “This isn’t a game. There is real magic here. My brother never told me how it worked or that it was more than just a game. I think I saw him use it only twice. It was a great secret. Now I know it.”
“You are correct, my lord,” Owen said, rubbing his hand along the fur blankets on the pallet. “The magic is real. And the warning I gave you is also real. You’ve broken the rules of the game, and your kingdom will be buried in snow because of it.”
“Chah,” the king grunted. A dark look came over his countenance. “You say that because you lost.”
“I fought against you because I knew it was going to happen.”
The king scowled. “Then why not tell me, Owen? Why the duplicity? You’re like every other person who’s betrayed me. This crown is a curse to whoever wears it.”
Owen shook his head. “It’s a curse because it was never yours to wear. There are patterns in history, events that repeat over and over. It began with the death of the first Argentine king, if not before. The king’s nephew, Andrew, was the rightful heir to the throne, but his uncle captured him and had him killed so he could claim the throne for himself. He was the one who started the pattern, but my lord, it must be broken. You must relinquish the crown to the rightful heir!”
“And who is that?” Severn asked with a look of utter incredulity. He glanced at the boy cowering by his mother. “Some whelp you’ve chosen to supplant me? The only Argentine left is my niece and her brats. I don’t believe in superstition. It will take more than a little snow to convince me.”
Owen clenched his teeth, trying to subdue his frustration. After a moment, he was calmer. Should he reveal Drew’s identity? Or would that risk the boy’s life unnecessarily? He felt nothing from the Fountain to encourage him. “Then what will it take, my lord? The death of every man, woman, and child in Ceredigion? I tell you, this storm will not relent until you do. It will bury every one of us.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“What do I have to lose, my lord?” Owen pleaded. “You’ve beaten me. I’m a condemned man. But do not let your stubbornness destroy everyone. Forsake the crown. It’s a burden you’ve not wanted.”
Severn rose from the chair angrily. “It’s a burden that was thrust on me! My wife and child were threatened by Eredur’s black-hearted queen and her poisoner.”
“Ankarette never threatened you.”
“And how would you know that?” Severn snapped. “She came to Beestone to murder me before Ratcliffe killed her!”
Owen shook his head. “She came to Beestone to save me. She was my friend. My tutor. She’s the one who first taught me about my powers. My lord, I’ve been a traitor to you since I was eight years old, and you never knew it. But a traitor only because I kept secrets from you. The Queen’s Poisoner saved my life and taught me aught I know about duty and compassion.”
“She aided you!” Severn burst out in outrage. The revelation had clearly stunned him. “Ratcliffe was right? Why would she even care?”