He waved at the trumpeter, scowling at him as if the sound bothered his ears, and then mounted the dais with his bold, crooked stride and slumped into the throne.
In the king’s determined pose, one could easily overlook that one shoulder was higher than the other. His posture almost concealed it, especially the way he rested his elbow on the arm bar and cradled his chin between his finger and thumb. His hair was long and black, without even a streak of gray, tucked underneath a black cap with a pearl dangling from the royal badge. For some reason, Owen had expected to see a gray-haired and bearded king, and Severn was neither. The king’s face would have been handsome except for the brooding anger that seemed to twist every feature. He chuffed, out of breath, and cast a glance at those assembled before him.
“Your Majesty,” Ratcliffe said, with a flourish and a bow.
Lord Horwath inclined his head, bending slightly at his waist.
“Out!” the king snapped, waving his hand dismissively at the servants who approached him with silver trays. The servants began scurrying away, clearing the hall.
The king turned his eyes on the duke and then seemed to notice Owen cowering behind the man’s cloak. When those dark eyes fell on Owen, the boy’s stomach flipped over. He would not be able to speak. He was too terrified.
“She sent her youngest,” the king said scornfully. His lip curled with disdain. He snorted to himself. “I am surprised. Well, their move is played. Now it is my turn.” He shifted himself on the seat, wincing with pain at the motion. With his left hand, he slid the dagger partway out of its sheath and then slammed it back in. The movement startled Owen, even more so when it was repeated.
“Horwath is surprised to even see you walking about, sire,” Ratcliffe said graciously. “The wounds still pain you, as we all can see.”
“I did not come to the throne to be coddled,” the king interrupted. “I would have left my leg on Ambion Hill and crawled back to Kingfountain with these arms only. I do not need nurses. I need true men. My enemies have all fallen. Save one.” He gave Owen a piercing, wrathful look. The boy blinked wildly, fearing for himself. “What is your name, boy?”
Owen’s mouth would not work. He knew it would not. He stood trembling in front of the king. His tongue was so dry it felt like sand.
The king’s brow furrowed with displeasure as he waited for an answer that could not be pried from the boy’s lips with a lever. Owen felt dizzy with panic. His muscles had frozen with fear, making his legs as useless as his mouth.
“The lad’s name is Owen,” Horwath said in his gruff voice. “And I have not heard a word from him since we left Tatton Hall.”
“A mute?” King Severn said with a dark chuckle. “That will be a fine addition to court. It is already too noisy here.” He shifted again in the throne. “How did they bear the news at Tatton Hall, Stiev?”
“Very ill, as you can imagine,” Horwath said slowly.
The king chuckled. “I can imagine.” He turned his eye back to Owen. “Your eldest brother went over the falls because your father would not keep faith with me. He did not die in battle, with honor, as did this noble duke’s son.”
His parents had told Owen about his brother’s fate, and the boy shuddered at the thought of Jorganon plunging off the waterfall strapped in a canoe. That was the form of execution in the realm, though the lad had never seen it happen. It was awful to think it might happen to the rest of his family.
“His son-in-law,” added Ratcliffe as an aside.
The king gave Ratcliffe a nasty look. “Do you think that distinction matters to me, Dickon? His daughter’s husband died at Ambion Hill, and yet he fulfilled his duty to secure this brat instead of returning home to comfort his daughter and granddaughter. His duty . . .” he whispered hoarsely, holding up a stiff finger like a spike. “His duty rules all. That is why I trust him, Ratcliffe. That is why I trust you both. You remember that little rhyming verse the duke received on the eve of the battle? Stiev of North, don’t be too bold, for Severn your master is bought and sold. The note was left in his tent by one of our enemies, probably this brat’s father, to blacken his mind with doubt and fear. You remember what Stiev did, Dickon?”
Ratcliffe folded his arms over his big chest, looking annoyed. “Anyone could have left that note, my liege. I am still investigating how it—”
“Does it matter anymore, Dickon?” the king seethed. “It could have been one of your Espion, for all I know. It could have been the queen’s poisoner. Horwath gave me the note at once. Cool as ice from the northern glacier whence he comes. Whence he rules forevermore. Duty. Faithfulness. Those are gems worth more than his gold.” He leaned forward and lowered his fingers to his dagger, making that gesture again—pulling it out partway before slamming it back into its sheath. Each time he did it, Owen flinched.