The Queen's Poisoner (Kingfountain, #1)(5)

As they rode into the city, they were announced by trumpets at the gate and Owen found himself stared at by hundreds of strangers. Some looked at him with pity, which made him even more uncomfortable and shy, and he buried his face in the duke’s cloak to hide.

The hooves clopped against the cobbles as they rode through the city and the omnipresent noise from the falls. Eventually Owen peeked out again and stared down at the shops and swarms of people. He soaked in the sights, unable to comprehend the massive size of such a place, his senses overwhelmed by the noise and confusion. He tried to stifle his emotions, but he found himself crying, his heart breaking with sadness that none of his family was there to shelter him. Why had he been chosen to go to Kingfountain? Why not one of the others?

Horwath became aware of his little sobs after a while and turned in the saddle to look down at him. “What is it, boy?” he asked gruffly, his goatee bending into a frown.

Owen looked into his eyes, afraid to say anything at all, let alone reveal his true feelings. He tried to stifle his tears, but that only made them worse. He felt the blobs of water rolling down his cheeks. He was miserable and lonely, and though the events of the last few days seemed like a nightmare, he was beginning to realize that the nightmare was his new life.

The duke waved one of his knights over. “Fetch the lad a muffin. Over there.”

“Aye, my lord,” said the knight, and rode off ahead.

Owen did not want a muffin. He wanted to go back to Tatton Hall. But nothing would have convinced him to say that. He trembled violently, clutching the duke’s cloak, feeling sick to his bones as he stared at the arrow-pierced lion on the badge. The horse continued its slow progress until the knight returned and offered Owen a pale brown muffin with tiny dark seeds. Though he did not want it, the boy accepted it without a word of thanks and clutched it tightly. It was soft and bigger than his hand, and the sweet smell wafting from it reminded him of the kitchen at home. Soon his gasping sobs quieted and he rubbed his wet nose on the back of his sleeve. The muffin continued to tempt him and he finally succumbed and took a bite. The bread of the muffin was like cake and the seeds crunched a bit when he bit down on them. He had never had this kind before, but it was delicious, and he wolfed it down.

They reached one of the bridges leading to the sanctuary and Owen perked up, nervous about crossing a bridge over such a mighty river. What if the bridge washed out while they were on it and they were all swept to their deaths over the waterfall? He smiled at the thought, imagining how fun that might be—until the end. The force of the river thrummed against the wooden bridge, causing a giddy feeling of nervousness to twine around the muffin in Owen’s stomach. He clutched the duke’s cloak more tightly, feeling the tromp of the hooves.

Though they reached the island of the sanctuary, there was no need to enter the holy grounds. Men milled around the fountain yard of the sanctuary, and a few of them rested their arms on the gates to watch the duke’s entourage pass. The men were an unkempt, beggarly bunch, and some stared at Owen with open curiosity. He peeked at them before hiding his face once more in the folds of the duke’s cloak.

They crossed the small island quickly, heading directly for the stone bridge to the castle. The turrets were so high and sharply pointed, Owen thought they might pop the clouds like bubbles if they came too low. The rippling flags on the pennants featured both the royal lions of Ceredigion and the king’s own standard—the badge he still wore after assuming the throne. The white boar. Owen had always considered pigs to be friendly creatures and loved them, but the image of the porcine body and thick tusks against a field of black was chilling.

“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.