—Dominic Mancini, Espion of Our Lady of Kingfountain
CHAPTER SEVEN
Dunsdworth’s Heir
In the two weeks that Owen had lived in the palace, his days had come to follow a routine. He would rise early in the morning and rush to the kitchen with his satchel to begin laying down tiles in intricate new arrangements. Sometimes, there would already be a design waiting for him—a few tiles arranged into a tower or a wall—but he never got there early enough to catch Drew doing it.
Each morning a meal would be shared with the king and the other children of the realm, full of sarcastic barbs and jests as the king wandered amongst his guests, looking for provocation for a taunt. Then Owen would wander the castle and the grounds with Monah Stirling, who would complain incessantly until he found a tree or wall he wanted to climb, giving her the opportunity to rest. In the afternoon, he would sit in the royal library for hours, devouring the books Monah gave him to read so she could gossip with her friends. Once she mentioned a baker from Pisan who was discovered to be Fountain-blessed. When he baked bread, the loaves seemed to magically multiply. The King of Pisan had learned about him and had the baker seized to serve in the palace kitchen. They spent a long time talking about the rare individuals whom the Fountain had gifted with extraordinary magic.
Owen perked up and listened, for he loved reading about the Fountain-blessed. When he came across such a tale in a book, he would slow down and savor it. There were stories about knights who could not be defeated in battle. Sorceresses who wore helmets instead of headdresses and could summon rain and magic down on their enemies. The magic could manifest in so many different ways. Unfortunately, the stories rarely included enough detail. Even the gossip about the baker boy revealed nothing about how the magic happened.
Owen always spent the final hours of his day back in the kitchen. He was the first one there and the last to leave, and while he lived in a state of fear, he knew that he could find some measure of comfort and calm in that one sacred place.
Until Dunsdworth found out.
Owen was lost inside himself, ignoring the bustle of the kitchen as the cauldrons were scrubbed clean, the floors were swept—except where he knelt and arranged tiles—and dough was left to rise in bowls during the night. He heard none of the commotion, yet the commotion was part of the haze that made the kitchen so comfortable. He could not stand absolute silence, where every rattling lock or clomping bootstep could mean disaster. The noises of the kitchen, particularly Liona’s soothing voice and the orders she gave, helped create enough of a lull for him to concentrate on his tile stacking.
He knelt along the fringe, carefully building another section, when suddenly the entire thing came crashing down around him, startling him.
Owen rarely triggered a collapse himself anymore. He sat up, watching as the hours of work vanished in seconds, and then heard the sniggering chuckle behind him. He turned, his face turning white with rage when he saw Dunsdworth standing behind him, arms folded, his boot clearly the offender.
“Awww, poor lad!” Dunsdworth soothed with a wicked smile. “You should be more careful with your toys!”
A blistering pain of fury exploded in Owen’s skull. He began to shake with rage as he stared at the older boy with undisguised loathing.
Dunsdworth was twelve or thirteen and he was not a small lad. He was easily a head or two taller than Owen and even had muscles beneath his tailored doublet. A dagger sheath hung from his belt. He made it no secret that he longed to wear a sword as the adults did.
The look he gave Owen was provoking, as if he wanted the young boy to rush at him with fists drawn so he could enjoy knocking him down.
His sneer seemed to say—Well? What are you going to do about this?
With shaking hands, Owen stared at the devastation around him, at the ruins of his work, and he could barely think from the rage squeezing his heart. But he knew, instinctively, that Dunsdworth could overpower him.
“What? You say nothing?” the older boy scoffed. Then he lowered his tone. “You waste your time here, little Kisky. You should be in the training yard with me, earning some bruises that will make you into a man. Your father must be ashamed of you. Quit playing with toys. What? Are you going to cry? Shall I fetch a wet nurse to dry your eyes?”
Owen turned away, humiliated, and began to stack the tiles back into the box with trembling fingers. He would not try setting them up again. It was too late in the day for that. But he could not bear the antagonizing look on Dunsdworth’s face. And yes, he was afraid he would start crying.
Owen started again when the heel of Dunsdworth’s boot came down on some of the tiles and crushed them. The sound, so out of place in the kitchen, made his heart leap with fear. He turned and watched the older boy grinning at him, defying him to say anything. Staring into his eyes, Dunsdworth stomped again and cracked some more.