Can you hear me?
It was the king’s voice, in Owen’s mind.
Yes.
The king blinked, but did not seem surprised.
You know what your dream means, don’t you, Owen?
Yes. It means my parents are guilty of treason. I know that now.
The king quivered with suppressed emotions. His eyes were fierce. You know then, that I have to punish them. I cannot trust them. I cannot let your father serve me. Owen, you must understand this. I must destroy them or risk an even worse betrayal. Owen, please understand. I don’t wish to hurt you. But I cannot let them escape, not when I have power to stop further mischief. A prince must make difficult decisions betimes. A prince must destroy his enemies when he has the chance.
Owen felt the power of the Fountain rushing through him. The king was using his power to convince him that his parents must die. He could tell that the king truly believed he had no choice. That wisdom and prudence demanded justice for his parents’ involvement at Ambion Hill. Owen was utterly convinced it was just.
But he also realized the king was using the magic of the Fountain on him. And so he turned it back against him.
But a king can pardon an enemy, Owen thought in response. You have that right and that power. My dream tells you the Fountain’s will for my parents. And its will for me. I will serve you. I will take their place.
Owen looked deep into the king’s eyes.
I know you didn’t murder your nephews. I know you care for your niece and would never hurt her. And I know you won’t hurt me. You are not the monster others pretend you are. I trust you.
The king let go of Owen’s shoulder as if it burned him. He rose to his feet, staggering backward in surprise and shock, his face totally unmasked of pretense and cunning. Owen’s words had cut him to his very center, had tapped into the secret need of his heart—the need to be loved and trusted by a child after the loss of his own son and his nephews.
“Uncle? Are you unwell?” Elyse said, rushing to him in concern. He was trembling, his entire body quaking with emotion. Tears trickled down the king’s cheeks. And then, falling to his knees in front of them all, the king wept.
The wish to acquire more is admittedly a very natural and common thing; and when men succeed, they are praised rather than condemned. But when they lack the ability to do so and yet want to acquire more at all costs, they deserve condemnation for their mistakes.
—Dominic Mancini, Espion of the Palace Kitchen
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
The Queen’s Midwife
“What is the meaning of this, Horwath? Unhand me! Unhand me, I say!” The voice was Ratcliffe’s, and the attention of those gathered in the royal chamber shifted from the grieving king and his niece to the master of the Espion. On Horwath’s barked command, several soldiers wearing the arrow-pierced lion had marched forward and seized Ratcliffe.
Horwath’s face was impassive, cold, and very menacing. “Search him,” he ordered brusquely.
“This is outrageous!” Ratcliffe snarled, struggling against the soldiers, but he was quickly overpowered. “What do you hope to find? A bag of gold? Of course I have a bag of gold! This is preposterous!”
“My lord duke?” one of the soldiers said, bringing forth a folded scrap of paper, the red waxy seal already broken. “It was in his pocket.”
Ratcliffe’s eyes widened with shock. “Where did you get that? I did not have that in my pocket. You must . . . you must have put it there!” He bucked against the soldiers, trying to free himself, and one of them clamped an arm around his neck to subdue him.
Owen stood by the princess, watching with building interest as Elysabeth’s grandfather unfolded the note and started reading it aloud.
“Master Ratcliffe, long has my master desired to earn your good opinion. Rumor crosses our borders that your master has a new Fountain-blessed. A little brat from Kiskaddon. Please arrange an accident to remove this threat to us. In return, you will inherit the lordship of one of our many pleasant estates on your borders with income received from the king’s coffers annually. Be quick, Master Ratcliffe. Your prompt cooperation will be amply rewarded.” Horwath’s frown and boiling anger intensified as he read. “Yours et cetera, Grey.”
Ratcliffe’s face turned as white as milk.
The king rose to his feet, his look so full of wrath and disappointment that it made Owen cower.
“How could you—you—turn traitor, Dickon?” the king said in a husky whisper. “You, above all, know my heart. You, above all, have shared my history. I am not sure I can trust anyone now. For greed or gold? Was it worth it, old friend?” His hand closed against his dagger hilt, and for a brief instant, Owen feared the king would plunge the blade into Ratcliffe’s heart.