The rumble of voices quieted when the king entered, with Lord Horwath at his side holding a wooden crate in his arms.

“I wonder what that is,” Evie said curiously, nudging Owen’s ribs.

The king slowed when he saw the multitude in attendance. He cast his gaze around the crowd, looking perplexed, but then understanding seemed to dawn on his face. “Ah!” he said in a loud, strong voice. “My meals have suddenly become very . . . popular! Well, I cannot give credit to the excellent cooking, which has gone unchanged for years. I cannot give credit to myself, because I am, as you all know, a rough soldier and not a gallant with fine plumes in my cap. Black suits me best, I think. No, you are not here for the tasty treats. You are here because of a little boy.” He sneered at them, his expression full of disdain. “Thank you all, my lords and ladies, for gracing us with your presence this morning. I will not send you all away, although I am tempted! The palace has ever been a place to assemble and gather. Eat! Do not let this mountain of a meal go to waste! Eat! And may your guts sicken of it before mine does.”

He waved his hand in a sweeping gesture, granting those in attendance permission to begin the meal. The children sprang from their parents’ legs and quickly mobbed the table, which seemed funny to Owen, especially since he knew the king was not the only one who feared the morning feast might be poisoned. The king quickly picked out his meal, joining the melee of children. He chuckled to himself as one of the tables was almost overturned by the crowd.

“Hold there, Bowen! There is enough for all! If the table breaks, my hounds will snarl and snap at the food too! You are all a bunch of greedy hounds! Why, Lady Marple, do you hesitate to join the feast? You let your son gorge himself quickly enough. Lord Tanner . . . a pleasure truly! Why, I do not think you have darkened this hall since my coronation. Why so solemn, sir? What has changed?”

The king seemed to take a perverse delight in tormenting everyone. As he flung his barbs and jests around the hall, Owen could hear the faint trickling sound of water, as if a cup were being filled. The king’s elation only grew with the increased number in attendance. His eyes were almost feverish with delight as he made his way through the crowd. His tongue was like the knife at his belt, always sharp and always sudden, ready to strike at any opportunity.

Owen grabbed some food himself, feeling uncomfortable with the knowledge that Ankarette’s scheme—and his part in it—had prompted the change.

“Well, my little lord Kiskaddon!” the king suddenly said, calling attention to Owen in front of all the gathered feasters. “Look what you have done. I am sure many came here to see if you had another dream last night. But that could not have happened, or else you would have fetched me right away. But please put these miserable creatures out of their discomfort.”

Owen shook his head, and he could see the looks of disappointment, the crestfallen glances. Parents began summoning their children to them, scolding them for indulging in the feast.

Many began to retreat from the room. The king ridiculed them. “How quick you are to leave, Lord Bascom! Lady Tress, please don’t snap a garter in your haste to flee! There are crumbs left on the plates still! Look at them,” he said in an undertone, mockingly. “Look how they run.” Then he glanced back at Owen and snapped his fingers, so suddenly and so loud that Owen flinched.

The commotion in the hall quelled in an instant.

“Lord Horwath, if you would,” the king said dramatically. Some of those who were fleeing halted, seemingly intrigued by his announcement. The king folded his arms imperiously, his look contented and smug. Although his shoulders were crooked, the way his arms were folded made him look regal, impressive.

Lord Horwath approached Owen with the wooden box. He dropped to one knee in front of his granddaughter and Owen, and set the box down on his angled leg. Then, with a weather-beaten hand, he lifted the top of the wooden box.

“Ooohh!” Evie cooed with delight.

It was a Wizr set, the most beautiful one Owen had ever seen. The tiles were violet and white, like Ankarette’s, made of stone. The gleaming pieces were carved and polished out of matching colors, resting in little felt nooks along the edges of the box. Owen stared at it breathlessly.

“I promised you a Wizr set,” the king said with a twist in his voice. “I ordered this to be made and it recently arrived from Brugia. I was only looking for the opportunity to gift it to you, boy.” Owen pried his gaze away from the dazzling pieces and stared at the king in confusion. This was no ordinary Wizr set. It was one meant for a king.