The King's Traitor (The Kingfountain Series Book 3)

by Jeff Wheeler

“Stop! Stop!” the king cried in terror.

  “Yield!” Owen shouted back, pinning the king with his gaze. There was nowhere else to flee. The guards surrounding the tent had been plucked away. Wails of pain and fear resounded all around them.

  “I yield! I yield!” Severn bellowed. He frantically unbelted the scabbard around his waist and thrust the blade Firebos into Owen’s outstretched hand. As soon as Owen touched it, he felt the magic’s strength surge through him.

  “Yield your crown!” Owen said passionately, holding out his other hand.

  The crown was fixed onto the king’s helmet as part of the design. Owen could feel the magic of the Fountain exuding from it, summoning the winter storm that was about to annihilate the realm. The metal was tarnished and ancient, the fleur-de-lis patterns rising above the steel dome of the helmet like decayed flowers.

  The two men locked eyes. Severn stared at Owen with fear and hate. But being confronted with his own sins and fears had completely unmanned him. He hesitated only a moment before wrenching the helmet off his head and hurling it away from him. Owen caught it in one hand.

  “I yield!” Severn said, flinching and quavering.

  Owen stood over him, sword in one hand, helmet-crown in the other.

  “They’re yours,” the king snarled. “You win again, Kiskaddon!”

  Owen stared down at the king, using his magic to sense any further threat from him. But there was none. The king had been defeated at last.

  “It is enough,” Owen said. He lifted his left hand toward the roof of the tent. The ring’s magic flared to life, repelling the ravens that had finally broken through that barrier.

  The rioting in the camp began to ebb.

  Owen saw Kathryn lift her tear-streaked face, looking worriedly at the shredded gaps in the tent and the snow coming down on them from outside. Drew continually gazed at Owen with wonder—not fear—as Owen lowered his arm and the light extinguished. Bending her head to kiss her son’s fair hair, Kathryn nuzzled her nose against his neck, breathing a sigh of relief.

  “You’ve wrenched everything from me,” Severn whispered in a strangled voice. Owen turned and looked down at him, prostrate on the ground, sniveling. “What is to be my fate? You owe me the truth of it, at least. I’m . . . I’m broken now. All is broken. I’ve nothing left. What will you do with me?” he finished, his voice breaking at the end.

  Owen stared down at him and felt the throb of compassion. “Your fate will be decided by the new king,” Owen said in a wearied tone.

  The king’s face blackened. “But aren’t you truly the new king? Isn’t that what this is all about? You hold the sword. You have the crown in the crook of your arm. It’s yours to claim, Owen. Take it! No one can stop you now.”

  A part of Owen was still tempted by the thought. Laying down the power that he had wrested from Severn would put him at risk too. What if Drew ultimately felt threatened by having such a powerful subject? Might the boy not try and strip him of his rights and privileges? He listened to the insidious thoughts in his mind . . . and then crushed them beneath his heel like a roach.

  “It is as I’ve told you. I’m not the true king of Ceredigion,” Owen said in a steady voice. Then he turned and nodded respectfully to the boy. “I am only his knight.”

  Severn had a queer look on his face. One that could almost be called admiration. “But what is to become of me? Where will I go? How will I live? You’ve taken away everything. Must I beg for my bread? Even the dogs will snarl and howl at me. There are those who would be revenged. I am defenseless. Cursed. What will become of me?”

  Owen stared down at the fallen king, his pity increasing. The man’s concerns were real and valid. “My lord—” he started, but Severn interrupted him.

  “I’m no man’s lord!” he spat out.

  Owen closed his eyes, feeling the prick of pain in his heart. “You were once a great lord of the realm,” he continued. “I know your story. Not the lies that were whispered about you. You were guided by a motto. Loyalty Binds Me. You’ve always sought that kind of loyalty, but when you failed your brother’s children, you lost the right to demand that kind of obedience from others. If I were the king . . .” He paused, then turned back to Drew once more. Their eyes met for a moment and he saw the bud of forgiveness in the boy. “If it were my decision, I would reinstate you as the Duke of Glosstyr, yours by right since you were a child. I would make you lord in your own domain, much like the Duchess of Brythonica is in hers. You would owe obedience to the king and to the king only. That is what I would advise. We have too many enemies, and your presence along one of the borders would help secure the realm.”

  Owen felt a flutter in his heart, a gesture of approval from the Fountain—or Sinia?—he couldn’t tell.

  The king’s demeanor softened as the spark of hope began to light within him. “I tried to execute you, lad. How . . . how can you show me such compassion?”

  “Because you are the closest thing I’ve had to a father,” Owen answered, his throat becoming thick. “I’ve feared you. I’ve hated you sometimes. But I have also admired your courage and determination. You embody the aspect of the Fountain’s rigor. Use your gifts for good, my lord. I implore you.” He set aside the scabbard and reached out to take Severn’s hand to help him up.

  The king wrested the gauntlets from his own hands, revealing the nicks and battle scars. He clasped hands with Owen and was helped to his feet, wincing. The two men stared at each other, and then Severn clasped Owen’s hand harder.

  “I couldn’t have endured losing,” the king said sincerely, “to anyone else but you.” His shoulders fell. Then he gave the boy a sulking look. “Mayhap the new king will do as you say. Mayhap not. Regardless, I will submit. I will swear fealty to the new king. But I would give up Glosstyr castle and every sheaf of wheat thereon to not be alone. It is loneliness that I dread the most, my boy. It is a demon that torments me.”

  “It torments us all,” Owen said, understanding the sentiment from his own heartbreak.

  He saw movement from the corner of his eye, and Lady Kathryn was suddenly standing by them, her face streaked with tears.

  “If it be within my power,” she said with a sad look, “then let me dispel that demon for a season or two each year. I made you a promise, my lord. And I do not break my promises.”

  The king looked at her with such wild hope it was like a burst of sunlight through the fog. He wrapped his arms around her neck and sobbed into her shoulder like a child.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Our Lady

  The victors of the Battle of Dundrennan had gathered in the spacious solar in the castle while a blizzard spilled snow from the skies. Owen stared out the large window, feeling the heat from the fires on his back as well as the cold air seeping into the room from the glass. Many of the dead were still buried in snow, and the soldiers were hard at work trying to find survivors. His heart clenched with grief at the thought of the many casualties. A soft hand touched his elbow.

  He hadn’t noticed Sinia approach, but he was comforted by her presence in the castle of his boyhood. She gave him a knowing look, always sensitive to his moods and expressions.

  “Everyone is here now,” she said in a low voice.

  Owen reached for her hand and squeezed it, summoning his courage once again. Sinia remained by his side, her warm hand linked with his, and he felt the buds of hope poking through the snowy debris.

  They had been waiting for Iago, and he strode into the solar flanked by several nobles from Atabyrion in their strange battle garb. Their looks turned wary and fierce when they saw Severn Argentine and Catsby seated at the long table in the center of the chamber. Owen wished Evie were there. He would have valued her wisdom. Kevan Amrein was present as well, representing the Espion. With Sinia, they formed a royal council of sorts. Lady Kathryn was seated nearby, next to her son, who looked intimidated by all of the gathered men with storm clouds on their faces.

  Iago folded his arms, refusi
ng to take a seat at the table. “My queen’s ship left just before we arrived,” he said, his voice curt. “She’s halfway back to Edonburick by now. I’d like to go after her and bring her back to Kingfountain for the ceremony. I think she should be there when the new king is chosen.”

  Owen felt a subtle tightening on his hand, a flinch. He glanced at Sinia, who was staring at Iago, her expression grave and anxious. “Do you have a concern?” he whispered to her. She quickly shook her head no, but did not meet his eyes.

  “I don’t think that’s a problem, my lord,” Owen answered. “This must be done in the presence of the people. The one who draws the sword Firebos from the fountain of Our Lady will become the new king.”

  Severn’s gaze was stony and a slight curl to his mouth showed his resentment. But he said nothing.

  “What I want to know,” Iago said, letting his anger boil up, “is why you have promised Severn such an important position. Giving him power will only weaken the new king.”

  “And what would you suggest? A longboat in the river?” Severn shot back immediately.

  Iago was about to counter him, but Owen let go of Sinia’s hand and stepped forward. “Iago, please. I think we all recognize the fragile nature of this peace. We have enemies enough laying plunder to our kingdom while we dither here. I made no promises to Severn. It is a decision that needs to be made by the new king. Severn recognizes and accepts that.”

  Iago’s eyes narrowed. “So you aren’t guaranteeing that I’ll be the duke of the North either?”

  “I’m the duke of the North,” Catsby said under his breath.

  Severn shot Owen a cynical look. “Thus is the nature and disposition of most men,” he drawled.

  Sensing the tension building in the room, Owen stepped forward. “None of us is entitled to anything,” he said in a steady, deliberate voice. “Myself included. It will be the king’s decision whether any of us continues serving. Myself included.”

  “Are you serious?” Catsby said in a withering tone. “You’re willing to give up Westmarch?”

  Owen put his hands on the table, flinching slightly when the stitches in his waist tugged. Every hour he was feeling better as the magic of the scabbard continued to heal him, but he had to move cautiously for fear of pain. “I was given Westmarch by the king. It can be taken away by the king. Instead of squabbling, I think it best that we prove our usefulness to the new sovereign.” Owen sighed and turned to Kevan. “What is the latest report on our enemies’ movement?”

  Kevan had a calm, unflappable manner even when bearing bad news. “Word is traveling slowly because of the weather, but that’s understandable. Chatriyon’s army is ravaging Westmarch. His men are marching into Brythonica, and are only two days from Ploemeur.”

  Owen glanced at Sinia, whose face was twisted in a worried look. “I know,” she answered. “I cannot remain here. I must go back to Brythonica or risk Ceredigion’s fate.”

  Owen frowned, but he understood the need. “What else?”

  Kevan cleared his throat. “Brugia has taken Callait. They’re preparing a fleet to strike at Kingfountain. Duke Maxwell wants the throne. An army from Legault is ransacking Blackpool. In other words, it’s a bloody mess. The people are fleeing to the palace in terror. The good news is we’ll have plenty of people to celebrate the coronation,” he added dryly.

  Owen smiled at the comment. “Thank you, Kevan. As you can see, if we do not band together, we won’t be fighting each other for our lands. They’ll be stripped away from us by force. And this storm won’t end until the new king is crowned. That must happen first of all. I suggest that we all make our way to Kingfountain.”

  “Even Severn?” Iago pressed.

  “Of course me, you dolt,” Severn snarled.

  “I want to go to Edonburick first,” Iago said. “I have ships near the coast, and can probably get to Kingfountain before all of you, if you ride there.”

  Owen nodded. “Then we will meet you there. You’ve all been told the truth of our situation. You know my intentions. I am not the Dreadful Deadman, nor did I ever want to be. And I meant what I said; I will gladly yield my duchy if the new king wishes it.” He glanced back at Sinia, who was giving him a proud smile. “But I will not be losing what is most important to me,” he added, giving her a wink.

  He turned back to those assembled. “We meet again at the sanctuary in Kingfountain.”

  Owen caught up with Iago as the regent mounted an enormous horse—only the behemoth steeds of the North could make it through the snow-clogged roads to the port. The flurries were growing thicker and thicker, another reminder that the boy needed to be crowned as soon as possible. Iago was covered in thick jackets, two cloaks, and fur-lined boots that went up past his knees. Hardly any of his face was visible past the hood.

  “You’re a good man, Kiskaddon,” the Atabyrion said with a snort. “Although technically, I should be the one to see you off from Dundrennan. I think my wife will be disappointed if we don’t get to keep the place.” He smiled wryly, looking down at Owen.

  “I don’t think it’ll come to that,” Owen said, putting his hand out to the king. They clasped each other’s hands and exchanged respectful nods. “I think your children would enjoy being a part of both worlds. I hope I’m welcome to visit Edonburick someday.”

  Iago laughed openly. “You’re a rascal, lad. We like those in Atabyrion. I might spare some time to go hunting with you. We have moose as big as a farmer’s hut. Not the same as hunting boar, though.” He winked at Owen.

  “I think I could manage that,” Owen said with a smile. “My best to your wife and your children. Tell Genevieve I miss her.”

  “Aye, I’ll do that.” He adjusted his grip on the reins and then gave Owen a penetrating look. “Well, you’re welcome to come as oft as you like. But I do insist on one thing. I’d like to watch you play a round of Wizr with the queen. She beats me every time. Someone ought to humble her now and then.”

  There was a private chapel in the castle that contained a fountain people visited for moments of solitude or prayer. Owen entered it hand in hand with Sinia, and the only sounds were the licking flames from the torches and the echo of their footfalls on the stone. She was looking down at her feet as they walked, brooding silently, her expression guarded.

  “Are you fretting about your people?” he asked her, squeezing her hand.

  She nodded without answering and then squeezed his hand in return before releasing it. The chapel was small and honeycomb-shaped with small inlets on three of the sides. She walked to the edge of the fountain and then slowly sat down, folding her hands in her lap.

  “It’s not just your people,” Owen said cautiously, trying to meet her eyes. “Something else is bothering you.”

  She remained still, staring down at the stone tiles. She wouldn’t meet his gaze.

  “What’s wrong?” he pressed.

  “I can’t tell you,” she answered softly. She reached her hand into the water, and he watched as the surface rippled and flinched from her, repelled by her touch. He did not see any evidence of a ring or some other relic invoking the magic.

  Owen folded his arms and leaned back against the stone pillar at the doorway of the chapel. He knew she needed to leave, but a nagging feeling inside him wanted to forestall their separation. How long would it be before he saw her again?

  “If I ask you a question, will you answer me truthfully?” He gave her a pointed look as he asked.

  Her eyes lifted to meet his face, and suddenly she was full of suffering, as if something deep inside her bones were causing her pain. “If I can,” she whispered.

  “Why can’t you share all of your visions?” he asked her. “If you knew something terrible was going to happen, wouldn’t you try to prevent it? Shouldn’t you?”

  “It’s not that simple, Owen,” she answered, but he could tell the limitations wounded her. “What if preventing an immediate evil only caused a worse one in the future? If we always knew what would happen
to us, would we ever have the courage to act?”

  “Can you change the future?” he asked her guardedly.

  “Should I even try?” she asked. “Sometimes meddling only makes things worse. I do what I can, Owen. You must believe that.” She gave him a pleading look, as if begging him not to ask any more. The distress in her eyes, on her mouth, made his stomach tighten with dread.

  “Did I do wrong to save Severn’s life?” Owen asked her.

  Sinia sighed and smoothed her dress over her knees. “Many of your choices over the last few days will have . . . consequences. I’ve seen what some of them are.”

  Owen rubbed the bristles on his chin thoughtfully. “You didn’t warn me against them.”

  She blinked. “I tried to, Owen. As best as I could. I don’t think you were wrong to make the choices you did. But some of them will cause you pain later. That’s why I’m upset, you see. I foresaw this moment long ago.” She rose to her feet. “I must go.”

  “Wait,” he said. “When will I see you again? Can you tell me that?”

  She looked heartbroken. “It’s up to you, Owen. It always has been. I will hide the sword in the waters of the sanctuary of Our Lady of Kingfountain, as we agreed. It will exist in a state between our mortal world and the Deep Fathoms. When you are ready for Andrew to claim it, just summon it as you would for yourself, and he’ll draw it from the waters.”

  Owen frowned. “Will someone else who is Fountain-blessed be able to draw it out? I don’t want Dragan to steal it like he stole the Wizr board.”

  She pursed her lips. “No one will know it is there, Owen. It will be waiting for you.”

  “Will you be there to see the boy draw the sword?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “I can’t. I’ve been away from Brythonica for too long. I must defend my people.”

  Owen walked up to her and took her hands. “I will come for you, Sinia. I gave you my word.”

  Her forlorn look softened a bit. “I know. I hope you will keep it.”