The Thief's Daughter

by Jeff Wheeler

  “Over here, my lord,” said Captain Ashby.

  Owen looked at Duke Horwath in disbelief, shrugging his shoulders and stifling a chuckle. Ashby brought over the map, and several men crowded around the precious document, trying to find the location of Averanche.

  Owen shooed them away and motioned for Farnes and the duke to join him, and together they pored over the cartographer’s map. There was so little they knew of Occitania and her cities and duchies. The coastal ports were well marked, but the information about the interior castles and towns was vague. King Severn had a host of mapmakers under his employ, and the Espion had the most accurate maps of anyone, but they were guarded as state secrets. He couldn’t find Averanche.

  “Well, Farnes, bring them in and they can point it out to us,” Owen said, clapping the herald on the back. Farnes chuckled and quickly left the tent.

  Owen looked up at the captains clustered around the small space. “Start to break camp,” he ordered. “Change the guard and get ready to move. Await your orders.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Captain Ashby said. The others hustled out of the tent, leaving only Owen and Duke Horwath.

  “I can’t abide crowds,” Owen muttered. “Everyone wants to see you for some reason. There’s never a moment’s peace. What do you make of this development?”

  Horwath frowned and gazed down at the map. “There is a long history of war between our kingdoms, lad. This could be a stronghold that benefits us later. Years ago we took Callait from Brugia, and it’s still a strategic port city for us on that continent. I’m sure the lord mayor doesn’t have enough men to defend his town, and what few he had fled with the king’s army last night. It’s like Wizr. You just made a strong move that your opponent wasn’t expecting. They’re vulnerable now, and we both know it.”

  Farnes returned with the mayor of Averanche, a short, squat man with a gray beard and only a few strands of hair atop his waxy, sweating head. After a short, formal introduction, Owen learned that Averanche was a short distance away, with a castle along the coast, right on the border of the duchy of Brythonica. It was in the territory that Ceredigion had controlled centuries before, and the mayor was only too willing to discuss terms.

  By midafternoon the same day, Owen found himself walking the ramparts of the castle with Averanche’s mayor, watching as the flag with three golden bucks on a field of blue flapped in the breeze. It was a surreal experience, to be sure, but Owen did not trust the hospitality of the local townspeople, and he had strictly forbidden his men to drink or carouse. He had soldiers patrolling the streets, learning the defenses in case they were attacked, and they were prepared to ride off at a moment’s notice if Occitania’s king should attempt to return with his hosts. Reports throughout the day showed that to be highly unlikely—the king was licking his wounded pride at being bested by a much younger man.

  As Owen walked the battlement walls, he stared down at the lush valleys and farms below. In the distance, he could make out the coast, the flat gray waters too far for him to hear the rumble of the waves. There was an island off the coast, and he could see a fortress atop the crest.

  “What is that place?” Owen asked the lord mayor as they walked, pointing out across the waters.

  “Pardon? Oh, that is the sanctuary of Our Lady of Toussan. It is an ancient structure, the main sanctuary of Brythonica. The tide goes out once per day, allowing visitors in. Otherwise it is surrounded by water. It is the last defense of the duchess, our neighbor. The view is even better from the tower. Would you like to see it?”

  “No,” Owen said, pausing to gaze. The sanctuary clearly surpassed the size of Our Lady of Kingfountain, which was also built on an island, albeit a much smaller one, amidst a river. This island jutted out from the sea. It was hard to tell where the sanctuary ended and the island began. The walls came all the way down to the sea, and there were ships moored there. Owen’s mind began working on how a person would go about conquering a place like that.

  “What can you tell me of the Duchess of Brythonica?” Owen asked, clasping his hands behind his back.

  “She is descended from an ancient house, my lord,” the mayor said. “The house of Montfort has long ruled Brythonica. Her lord father died six years ago, when she was eleven. Her people will only have a Montfort rule them, even a girl. They are . . . independent spirits, my lord. Very stubborn.”

  “Very well, but that tells me of her people. What about her?”

  The mayor frowned. “Well, I have only seen her rarely, my lord. I do not know her personality. She was twelve when I last beheld her, so I am really not to judge. She is fair, by all accounts. Is my lord . . . interested in getting to know her better?”

  “By the Fountain, no!” Owen said, chuckling out loud. He had surrendered his heart to a water sprite in the North, and there was room for none other.

  “That is wise,” the mayor said, sighing with relief. “I hoped you did not carry any such notion. Even though you are her age, I can assure you that the Duchess of Brythonica will only marry a king. She has been very unlucky in her suitors, you know. Her first betrothal, as an infant, was to King Eredur’s oldest son. That . . . did not end well. I hope I am being discreet enough in saying so. Her second betrothal was to a prince of Brugia. That did not end well either. The King of Occitania wants her lands for himself. Now that you have defeated his army, there will likely be a drawn-out negotiation for their marriage. Tell me, my lord. Is it true that your king is still unmarried after so many years?”

  “It’s no secret,” Owen said in a neutral tone, but he was not about to reward the man’s curiosity with court gossip.

  “Does your king have intentions to woo Lady Sinia for himself?”

  The king was very old compared to the girl, and the mere thought of such a match made Owen’s stomach sour. There was no need to respond, however, for the mayor changed the subject. “It seems you have a visitor,” he said with a gentle cough. “Excuse me.”

  When Owen turned away from the view, he saw Clark standing at a respectful distance. His posture was stiff and tense, full of foreboding. He looked like a hound at the gates before a race.

  Owen dismissed the mayor and beckoned Clark to approach. The man hadn’t shaved in a day, and the stubble on his cheeks matched the stubble atop his head.

  “My lord, I apologize for interrupting you, but this could not wait.”

  “What is it, Clark?” Owen asked, concern blooming in his stomach. The Espion’s demeanor meant there was dreadful news, and he wanted it out in the open.

  “During our raid last night, I had a man go through Chatriyon’s tent. This was just before Marshal Roux arrived. I’ve had several men reading his abandoned correspondence to see what information we could glean from it. There is a bit of news that must be reported to King Severn at once.”

  “You seem anxious because of it, Clark,” Owen said, trying to curb his impatience.

  “I’m anxious because of how the king may react,” Clark said. “He’s not a patient man. As you know.”

  “Tell me,” Owen said, drawing closer to Clark and lowering his voice. He looked around, but there was no one anywhere close enough to overhear their conversation. The calm atmosphere belied the tension that had descended upon him. A few seabirds called from the sky overhead. The breeze caught the subtle tang of the ocean.

  “My lord,” Clark said, his voice low and serious, “Chatriyon received a letter recently from a man in Legault. A nobleman by the name of Desmond claims he holds King Severn’s young nephew, the rightful ruler of Ceredigion. The king had two nephews, if you recall. The letter said that while the older nephew was indeed murdered in Kingfountain, the Fountain spared the younger one so that he could one day reclaim the throne. The letter was seeking Chatriyon’s assistance to attack Ceredigion. Occitania would attack from the west under the pretext of subduing Brythonica, Atabyrion would attack in the East. That would leave the North vulnerable to the pretender and Legault. It’s Ambion Hill all over again. We�
��ve known about the Occitanian treaty with Atabyrion for some time, but this one with Legault is a complete surprise. As I mentioned, the letter was recent. I believe our kingdom is on the brink of invasion. We disrupted this attack, but word of Chatriyon’s defeat might not travel quickly enough to prevent the two other forces from acting.”

  Owen’s heart skipped, realizing that Evie was defending the North alone.

  “You’re right, Clark. The king needs to hear of this straightaway. Another pretender has emerged.”

  Clark shook his head. “It gets worse, my lord.” He squirmed with discomfort. “The king’s sister, the dowager queen of Brugia, is supporting this plot. Four kingdoms have formed an alliance against us. Four.” He shook his head in disbelief. “What I don’t understand is why the king’s own sister would believe the claims of an imposter? Which leads to the next logical question.” Clark’s voice fell to a whisper, his gaze earnest. “I was not part of the Espion at that time. I joined after. Well, what if it’s true? What if one of Eredur’s sons survived the murder attempt? He was just a boy then. Now he’s a man. At least twenty or twenty-one by my reckoning. This is . . . this is a true blow to the king!”

  Owen clapped Clark on the shoulder and looked him straight in the eye. “Tell no man of this. Prepare our horses. We will ride back to Kingfountain at once.”

  King Severn Argentine has not remarried following the death of his first wife, Lady Nanette, daughter of the Duke of Warrewik. They had one child, who died of fever not long into Severn’s reign. Then, shortly thereafter, his wife died. Some say she was poisoned, but that is always the first conclusion. The day of his wife’s death there was an eclipse. Some say it was a sign from the Fountain that Severn should not have taken the throne. But others who know him well say it was a mark of his deep grief at his lady’s passing. Some have nefariously insinuated the king secretly wishes to marry his niece, the lady Elyse. But those who have seen them together at court know their love is not romantic. They share a common bond of affection—a deep love of Eredur Argentine. Even after so many years, that ghost still casts a shadow.

  —Polidoro Urbino, Court Historian of Kingfountain

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Severn

  Since becoming the Duke of Westmarch, Owen had become accustomed to sending messengers to deliver news and give instructions. But this was news that needed to be delivered in person, particularly since an invasion might be imminent.

  Owen’s feelings about King Severn were muddled and varying. The king was a hard man to serve, in part because of his razor-sharp tongue and characteristic moodiness, temper, and impatience. King Severn was Fountain-blessed too, and his power from the Fountain was the ability to persuade others with his words. He fueled that ability through diminishing others with his sarcasm and biting remarks. It was a strange combination of powers. Owen secretly wondered what would happen if the king switched to praise instead of ridicule. Would his gift be amplified? Or was giving a compliment even possible for such a hardened man?

  Still, Severn valued loyalty above all else—his personal motto while serving his brother had been Loyalty Binds Me—and Owen admired the way he had surmounted the natural difficulties that arose from some defects of his birth. His shoulders were crooked, one of his arms a little bent. He often walked with a limp, though he tried to mask it.

  The king had snatched the crown of Ceredigion after learning that Eredur had previously contracted a marriage, thus making his large posterity illegitimate. The boys had gone missing not long after, and there was a widespread belief that Severn had murdered his nephews in a grab for power. The knowledge of this public misperception tormented the king. Although he had not ordered the boys’ murders, it had happened under his reign, and he held himself responsible for their deaths. There had been no official proclamation of the event either.

  That was a mistake.

  Some conjectured the boys were alive and had been sent to the North to live in one of the king’s castles. Having been to all the king’s castles in the North, Owen knew the lads weren’t in any of them. It was a secret grief. Even after over a decade, it was a wound that still festered. Owen could scarcely imagine what emotions Severn would experience when he heard about the pretender’s claim, and the fact that four kingdoms were rallying to aid the imposter.

  Owen and Clark rode hard from Westmarch, changing horses at several waypoints along the way and sleeping only for snatches to preserve their strength. Duke Horwath would remain in Averanche to make sure Westmarch was secure before joining Owen at Kingfountain. Of course Owen had shared the news with him, and Horwath had agreed the king needed to be told immediately. They were both anxious about Evie and the possibility of an invasion deep in the North.

  It had been several years since Owen had last been to Kingfountain, and his heart churned with strange, conflicted feelings as he made his approach. He remembered being a little boy and riding to the castle in Duke Horwath’s saddle. Now his own men were riding with him, bearing his standard and badge for all to see. He was greeted with enthusiasm by the people, many of whom doffed their hats and waved them at him. Some of the women threw flowers as well, hoping to catch his eye. Word of his victory in Occitania had barely preceded him.

  As he rode through the city and crossed the bridge to the sanctuary of Our Lady, he stared up at the spires and turrets, thinking about the time he had snuck away from the palace to try to claim sanctuary there. That was when he had first met Dominic Mancini, only a lowly Espion then, and the queen dowager, who still resided there. The thought sparked another—an idea he would mull upon until he saw the king.

  They reached the palace hill and rode up swiftly, their horses exhausted from the long journey. It was a three-day ride from the borders of Occitania, and Owen was saddle-weary and hungry. He was tempted to sneak down to the kitchen to get some wafers from the cook, Liona, who had offered him so much comfort when he was just a boy.

  Owen dismissed his escort and walked, hand on hilt, into the darkened halls of the palace. He was met, almost instantly, by Mancini.

  “I’m surprised to see you here,” the fat man said with a cunning smile. “But it must be the Fountain’s will, for I have news.” Mancini had a few streaks of gray through his hair. He had lost weight in his new role, but while he no longer had the girth of the past, he would always be a big man. Dressed in the fashionable clothes of a courtier, he bore the badge of the white boar on his tunic and the chain of office around his neck. In the ten years since he had been named head of the Espion, he had increased his influence with the king through his expert advice and his knowledge of foreign lands. His knowledge of the trading nation Genevar had increased the king’s coffers significantly. Severn had sponsored several shipmasters in recent years and funded exploration to find new trade routes to the south. Some had been quite profitable.

  “I wonder if our news is the same,” Owen said, not slowing his pace.

  “Judging by the urgent pace you young people like to keep, it may well be. Have you had any dreams lately, my lord?” Mancini asked with an oily smirk.

  “I have, in fact,” Owen said. While he appreciated Mancini’s abilities, he was always wary of the man, for he knew he kept most of what he heard to himself. “I dreamed of the land of Legault.”

  Mancini pursed his lips. “Then you’ve heard about the imposter. I’ve already told the king. Don’t look angry, lad, it’s my job to tell him something before he finds out another way. Had I known you were coming, I would have waited another day. But such news cannot be delayed.”

  “I understand, Mancini,” Owen said, though what he understood was that Mancini would always look out for himself first and foremost. “Where is the king?”

  “Where he usually is when he’s angry. Come with me.”

  They walked together to the throne room of the palace. Owen was sticky with sweat and irritated from lack of sleep. He needed a bath and a meal desperately, but he was anxious about Evie and wanted to head north to ensur
e she was well. The possibility of an army landing in the North in a surprise attack by the false prince caused a twist of anxiety in his gut.

  They were announced by trumpet before entering the hall, a ceremony that Owen hated and knew the king did as well. Owen’s eyes found Severn as soon as he and Mancini strode into the throne room together.

  Owen could not help but think how much things had changed since he had been presented to the king all those years ago. The king had aged quite a bit. His black hair now had a few silver glints near his ears, but it was still long, as was the fashion in Ceredigion. He wore black, though his tunics were becoming more and more elaborate as his wealth increased. Owen saw he was twitching with his dagger still—loosening it in its scabbard, drawing it out a bit, and then slamming it back down. It was an unconscious habit that gave one the perception he was accustomed to stabbing people. The way he was leaning forward on the throne—his chin resting on one fist—disguised the deformity of his back.

  “Owen,” the king said in surprise, his look softening as the young man knelt in front of the throne. He gestured impatiently for him to rise.

  “My lord, I rode as hard as I could,” Owen said, feeling sweat trickle down his back.

  “Your arrival couldn’t be more opportune,” the king said gravely. “I applaud your victory. Word arrived only yesterday. You did well, lad. I expected nothing less. But there is trouble. A storm is brewing out at sea.” His look darkened again, his mouth turning into a frown.

  “I know,” Owen said, drawing closer to the king. Mancini kept a respectful distance away. After clearing his throat, Owen continued, “Pardon me, my lord, but I’m weary from the journey. I had a dream in Westmarch. One I had to tell.”

  “You did?” the king asked. “Tell me!” He seemed very agitated, his eyes wide with a keen desire to hear about Owen’s supposedly prophetic dream.