“Almost there, lad,” the duke said gruffly. The horse labored across the bridge and then up the gentle slope of the hill. The brown castle walls looked more friendly than ominous, but the effect was ruined by that white boar presiding over it. There was a tower in the far distance. A tower more slender than the others. It looked like a knife. Owen shuddered.

They reached the drawbridge and portcullis and entered the palace. This was the king’s court, but it was not in the heart of the realm, or so Owen had gleaned from studying the few maps and books his father owned. Rather, it was in the east, and the river dumped into the ocean several leagues away. Ships could trundle up the river to a point, and then cargo had to be packed by mules up windy roads to the town. The castle was defended by the river, defended by the hill, protected by the Fountain itself, it was claimed.

Grooms took their horses, and Owen found himself walking along a huge stone corridor. The flicker of torchlight helped dispel some of the gloom. There were not many windows and the place was cool and dark, despite the warmth of the midsummer air outside. Owen looked at the banners, the tapestries, smelled the fumes of the burning oil and leather and steel. He walked next to the duke, his stomach roiling with fear. He had walked this corridor as a toddler. Strange that he remembered it. He knew they were approaching the great hall.

A tall man approached them from ahead, someone much younger than the duke, with golden brown hair beneath a black cap. He was dressed in a black tunic with silver slashes on the sleeves, glittering with gems, and had the urgent walk of a man always in a hurry. He had a very close-trimmed goatee, and although he was a bigger man than the duke, he was not as fit.

“Ah, Stiev! I knew you had arrived when I heard the trumpet. This way, this way, the king is coming down now! We must hurry!”

“Ratcliffe,” the duke said with a slight nod. He did not change his pace, but the man’s urgent demeanor made Owen want to walk faster.

The man, Ratcliffe, rubbed his hands together in a fidgeting motion. “Thank the Fountain we all survived the battle,” he said under his breath. “I had my doubts we would, to be sure. This is Kiskaddon’s whelp, eh?” He gave Owen a contemptuous look and chuckled almost musically. “The youngest was chosen. As if that will help. The king is in a fury, as you can imagine. His leg still pains him from the battle injury. The doctors say it is healing, but you know he cannot hold still! I wish we could persuade him to stop pacing to and fro so he could rest proper. What news from Westmarch?”

Horwath’s expression did not change as they walked. “I will tell the king,” he said curtly.

Ratcliffe frowned, his nostrils flaring. “As you wish. Guard your secrets. The king has granted me leave to recruit even more Espion. If a baker’s wife complains about the king at breakfast, I will know about it ere nightfall. Ah, here we are.” He gestured grandly as they entered the great hall.

As he took in the massive space that had opened before him, Owen nearly stumbled on the carpet trim and had to catch himself. He stared at the huge banners hanging from poles in the wall, the vast ceiling held up by a latticework of timbers, and the gray windows set high in the wall. Some light streamed in through them, but not enough to provide any warmth or comfort. A few servants scurried around the room, carrying dishes and flagons of wine, and a huge fire burned in the hearth. Four fountains gave life to each corner of the throne dais, but the throne itself was empty.

“Where is the king?” Horwath asked.

“Coming, man! Coming! We wait on his pleasure, not ours.” Ratcliffe looked almost giddy with excitement, as if he were about to enjoy eating a pie. Owen glanced at him worriedly, half-hidden behind Duke Horwath’s cape. Then there was a sound. The march of boots, but the step was uneven, almost halting. Owen crept further behind the duke, watching as one of the servants held open a door. A trumpeter raised a horn to his lips and called out a few shrill tones, announcing the entrance of King Severn Argentine, victor of the Battle of Ambion Hill.

The dread sovereign of Ceredigion.

Everyone in the hall rose to their feet in respect.

The king’s older brother Eredur—before he died—was a handsome, amiable man. Strong and courageous and, if truth be spoken, quick to admire the beauty of a lady. He was the eldest of four sons, two of whom are now dead. King Severn is the youngest, the last heir of this great house that has ruled for centuries. He was born twisted like an oak root. He equals his brother in strength and courage, but he has none of his softer qualities. They say the king’s tongue is sharper than his dagger. Having felt the cut, I concur.