“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.
“I was also at Ambion Hill,” Ratcliffe said with a little whine in his voice. “It was my Espion who discovered the pretender for you while the battle raged.”
The king’s mouth curved into a smile. “I’ll not forget that good service, my friend. You are loyal, which is why I entrust the Espion to you, but I have not forgotten that some of them tried to murder me.” He sneered at the man. “Horwath has always been faithful.”
Ratcliffe’s face went red with anger. “It is not fair, my liege, to fling that at my face! It was not I who ruled them back then. That was the lord chamberlain’s doing, and you sent him over the falls for his offense.”
“I did that in my anger,” the king replied, leaning back in his seat. He shook his head. “I should have held a trial.” He smoothed his hand across his tunic front, the bracer on his arm winking light from the torches. “Ah, but those were dark days. Treachery around every corner. My brother Eredur kept the tottering dishes from falling. But when he died, they all came crashing down.” His face softened a bit, as if the memory of his brother wounded him still. Then his expression hardened and he turned his gaze back to Owen.
“You are my hostage,” he said in a cruel tone. “You are the pledge of your family’s good faith. Your elder brother was hostage before you and he is dead. If your mother thinks that I will spare a child for their disobedience . . .” His voice trailed off, his throat nearly growling with anger. “Then they truly do not understand the determination and rigor of their king. You are my ward, Owen Kiskaddon, to do with as I please. You will remain at the palace.” He gestured with an open palm, motioning to the vast room. “This is your home now. Drop coins to the Fountain, boy, that your parents keep faith with me.” His face twisted with barely suppressed anger. “I nearly condemned your father at Ambion too. But I have been learning patience.” He chuckled, his mouth twisting into a savage smile. “Rest assured that I will test your father, lad. Hopefully he treasures your life more than he did your brother’s. Ratcliffe, the boy is yours to guard. Find him a nursery and a governess. I want to see him each day at breakfast with the other children. Without fail.”
Owen started in surprise. He had been too terrified to understand everything the king was saying, but one thing was clear: Things were more complicated than his parents had explained them. They had said the king had summoned him to the palace to be his ward. He now saw that he would be assigned to another man, a man who clearly didn’t like children. They had told him not to be afraid because there were many kind people at the palace. That was another lie. He was confused, frightened, and homesick beyond enduring.
“He . . . he is my problem now?” Ratcliffe said with obvious disappointment and bitterness. “I thought you were giving him to Horwath!”
The king looked up at the ceiling, as if he were searching for his patience in the rafters. “He is duke of the North, Dickon! His son-in-law is dead and he must go comfort his daughter and children. The battle is won, man! But I will not rest easy until we have had peace for a season! I have had naught but troubles and calamity these last two years!” His voice rose to a booming thunder. He started to rise from the throne, but he almost instantly slumped back down. Perhaps his leg pained him. “You oversee the Espion. Pick a man to watch the lad; that is all I am saying. By the Veil, man! Grow a spleen!”