The Thief's Daughter

by Jeff Wheeler

  “It was a short dream,” Owen said. “I dreamed I was walking in a garden. There was a withered rosebush, but when I passed it, I noticed there was a single white rose on it. I plucked the rose and smelled it, but in dreams you cannot smell. I could not tell if it was living or not.”

  The king’s eyes narrowed. “A white rose.”

  Owen nodded. He had used the imagery of the rose deliberately because the Sun and Rose was the battle standard of Eredur. Reaching into his vest, he withdrew the letter found in Chatriyon’s tent. “Then we faced Occitania’s army and my man Clark found this in the king’s tent. The dream made more sense to me after I read it.”

  The king snatched the paper away and unfolded it, scanning the contents feverishly. His countenance burned white with livid fury as he read it.

  “Blast the Fountain!” the king thundered, throwing the letter down to the ground. He rose from his throne, quivering with rage. Servants were already slipping out the doors to escape the great hall before the coming storm. Owen felt his heart rattled by the king’s blasphemy, but he said nothing. He knew from long experience that it was best to ride out the weather silently.

  The king’s boot trampled the letter as he walked off the dais. “Must I always be plagued by malcontents and whisperers? Am I never to have a moment of peace? I had two enemies, two wolves snarling and snapping at my boots. Now a hunter comes with a long spear aimed at my heart. And my sister, no less, is behind this. My own sister.”

  Owen stared at him, knowing it wasn’t yet time to speak. The king’s wrath was still flaming.

  Severn muttered dark curses under his breath. “I am hated everywhere,” he said. “Hated, feared, despised. Dogs yap at me as I pass. Once, the house of Argentine commanded such respect and devotion. Nations quivered in dread of offending us. Now look at them. Conspiring and plotting to bring me down. Like a boar.” His voice deepened to a growl. “But I won’t be captured. I won’t be speared.”

  He seemed to become aware that he was talking to himself. Straightening, he turned back to look at Owen and Mancini, who were staring at him.

  “It’s hard to be dispassionate in such a match of wits,” Severn said darkly. “That is why I need you, Owen, Dominic. I cannot see through the haze of my anger right now. Three enemies, four if you include Brugia. May as well bring back the Dreadful Deadman prophecy and have all six kingdoms attack us at once.” He tapped his lips and shook his head worriedly. “The Dreadful Deadman prophecy. I hadn’t thought of that. What if this is the fulfillment of that prophecy? A king rises from the dead and unites Ceredigion. My brother thought it was himself. So did I at one time. But what if it is this pretender? What if this is a game I cannot win?”

  “My lord,” Mancini said patiently. “It is no use clinging to the ravings of dead men. There are plenty of living ones who threaten you. Princes play Wizr and kingdoms are the prize. Your protégé just handed a nasty defeat to Chatriyon VIII in Occitania. He wanted to increase his power by marrying the Duchess of Brythonica, and you’ve blocked him. Why else would he be supporting this . . . this . . . draper’s boy in Legault as King of Ceredigion! He fears you, my lord, and he fears losing to you in a fair battle. He may as well have crowned an ape! The imposter won’t last the month, let alone a year. It’s a game. A maneuver. You will have time to punish Occitania for its treachery.”

  “And Legault?” the king demanded hotly.

  “And Legault,” Mancini said. “And Atabyrion too. The way you win this game of Wizr is by being ruthless and bold. As I’ve told you time and again, you will not be loved by your people as your brother was. You must stop expecting this of yourself. It is better to be feared than loved.”

  The king’s angry look was softening. “You speak wisely, Dominic. And I assure you, I intend to punish those who defy me. If I am too lenient, I will only risk more defiance.”

  “The last time it helped,” Owen said in a subdued tone, “that you had the real Dunsdworth here at the palace. That was easy to prove. This one will not be. But I have an idea you might consider.”

  “I treasure your ideas, lad. You know that,” the king said with a nod.

  Owen looked around to ensure that all the servants were indeed gone. As soon as he was sure the three of them were alone in the throne room, he said, “A thought struck me as I rode past Our Lady on the way to Kingfountain. The prince’s mother still resides there. So does John Tunmore. They might be behind this resurgence. You remember the lies in that book Tunmore wrote about you? You let me read it all eventually because, for some reason, the magic of the other Fountain-blessed doesn’t work on me.” Owen looked steadily at the king. Both men knew that Owen’s innate resistance to the magic was not typical. He could not be easily deceived, which made him a great asset. “Tunmore’s gift from the Fountain is his ability to convince people through his writing.” Owen bent down and picked up the crumpled letter. “I have a feeling he may have written the original. He cannot get himself out of sanctuary, but it would only be too easy to smuggle something he’s written out of Our Lady. He may be persuading others to believe in the upstart.”

  The king looked at Owen, impressed. “I had not thought of that.”

  “Neither had I,” Mancini said, giving a little nod of acknowledgment.

  Owen felt a little flush rise to his cheeks. “With your permission, Your Majesty, may I visit the sanctuary to see what I can learn? Perhaps he knows more about the pretender’s designs.”

  “Or, as an alternative,” Mancini said eagerly, “I could have him removed from the sanctuary. Just give the command. I will have him here before you by supper.”

  Owen scowled.

  The king noticed. “You don’t approve, Owen. Even though you know the legends of the Fountain’s divine protection are false?”

  Owen shook his head. He tightened his lips, not sure he wanted to speak.

  “Tell me,” the king said.

  “I’m not a child anymore,” Owen said. “Yes, I know that the sexton rakes the offerings thrown into the fountains and fills your coffers with them. But even that happens at night, not in front of the people. You cannot change the rules of Wizr just because you want one piece to move four places instead of two. If you change the rules, others will do the same.” Owen shook his head. “You might not like the consequences. Don’t risk the deconeus speaking out against you. The people wouldn’t take it well.”

  The king’s eyes narrowed. He approached Owen and reached out to put a hand on the younger man’s shoulder, like a father would to a favored son. “You speak wisdom for one so young. I trust you, Owen. Go have a discussion with Tunmore.” His lips wrinkled into a sneer. “I grow more and more impatient with that man. While you are there, see if you can persuade the queen to leave sanctuary. It’s been twelve years. I won’t seek vengeance for the plots she has spun against me. Tell her that.”

  “I will, my lord,” Owen said, pleased to see the king’s trust in him.

  The king patted him fondly on the cheek. “Get you a bath first, though. You’re in need. Be quick about it, lad. I’ll be sending you to the North tomorrow morn to catch a pretend king!”

  The best poisoners, they say, are trained in Pisan. Whoever comes to lead in that island kingdom is subject to the petty whims of the nobles who would betray their own fathers for a chance to rise in power. The diplomacy of poison is practiced there with an almost religious fervor. Even the most circumspect of princes must keep a poisoner in their employ. If only to counter those who are sent to murder them.

  —Polidoro Urbino, Court Historian of Kingfountain

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The Poisoner’s Tower

  Liona was still the best cook in all of Ceredigion, and she kept a jar of fresh wafers ready for those who visited the kitchen. She had always spoiled Owen horribly, which was why he liked going there.

  “Bless me, child, but how you’ve sprouted!” Liona crooned, mussing up his freshly washed hair as he sat on a barrel’s edge eating a wafer.
“When you first came here, I didn’t need a ladder to kiss your cheeks! Look at you, a man grown.” She stroked the edge of his arm, smiling at him with tenderness.

  Her husband, Drew, whose hair was more silver than red now, smiled fondly. “Do you still have that satchel, Owen? With all those tiles for stacking?”

  Owen smirked and nodded, dabbing a crumb from his mouth. “Of course! Only the collection has grown. Sometimes Evie and I bring them into the great hall when her grandfather is away and build our designs there.”

  “In the great hall?” Liona asked, surprised. “Bless me. I’d like to see that.”

  After Owen finished off the wafer, Liona offered him the jar again, and he eagerly took another. The kitchen looked smaller than in his memories. When he glanced at the corner where he used to play by himself, he could almost see the ghost of the little boy he had been. So shy and bashful, afraid to speak to anyone. Owen was rarely tongue-tied now, and his good looks and confidence made him approachable. There was still that solitary little boy inside him, though, and he would always prefer the company of a few to the company of many.

  It felt good to be back in the kitchen with his dear friends, but there was a feeling of sadness as well. The kitchen invoked memories of Ankarette, and in so doing, freshened the hurt of losing her.

  He glanced at the wall that concealed the secret door leading to the maze of tunnels that could be used to secretly navigate the palace. Through the upper window in the kitchen, he could still see the poisoner’s tower, Ankarette’s former home. In that tower, she had coached him in the ways of her arts and the arts of the Espion. He remembered her lessons well, but he had not ventured up there since.

  Drew clapped his shoulder. “I’ve a tree that needs to be felled. Off I go before Berwick complains. It’s great seeing you, Owen.”

  “Berwick’s still alive?” Owen asked, chuckling. The butler had seemed ancient to Owen when he was a boy.

  Liona pursed her lips. “He’s got gout now and waddles when he walks. But he’s determined to keep serving. Bend down so I can kiss you, my boy. I’m not fetching a stool!”

  Owen complied and bent his head down. She kissed him on the forehead, patted his cheek as if he were still eight, and then bustled around the kitchen. Breathing in the comforting smells of baking bread and yeast, he sat there for a while longer, but his gaze kept returning to the secret door.

  Owen scooted off the barrel and walked over to his old corner. Though he’d spent many hours playing there alone, he’d spent many more with Elysabeth Victoria Mortimer. The thought of the danger she was currently facing made him frown. If anything happened to her, he would never forgive himself for not being there. At the thought, a spark of pain shot through his chest that turned into a dull, throbbing ache. He clenched his teeth, anxious to fulfill his duties and get into his saddle again.

  But first, he needed to visit a ghost.

  Owen looked around to make sure no one was watching, then tripped the latch of the secret door and stole into the secret corridor beyond. He walked quickly. He wasn’t afraid of being caught by the Espion now, for they all knew that the Duke of Westmarch was part of the spy ring himself. The corridor was small and dusty, and it felt more cramped than it had when he was a little boy.

  Soon he was tramping up the tower steps, listening to the sigh of the wind through the arrow slits as he continued his upward trek. His heart began pounding with the effort, but it wasn’t just from the physical exertion—a feeling of dread and nervousness began to bore into his heart. Was he ready to face the memories of Ankarette again? He owed so much to her—the chain of office around his neck, his arrangement with Mancini, even his continued life. Everything he was today could be ascribed to her subtle influence and care. He slowed as he reached the pinnacle of the tower. He looked forward to seeing her things—the intricate embroideries she had done, her lovely dresses—but he reminded himself that the tower room would be covered in dust.

  Owen reached the door and steeled himself, his hand tightening on the latch. Sweat clung to the roots of his hair. He sighed deeply and clutched the handle and unlatched it, giving it a firm push.

  He was almost blinded when he entered. The curtains had always been drawn, for Ankarette had slept during the day, but now they were wide open. He saw the outline of the bed and a few tables, but there were also things that should not be there. Gowns that hung from wooden frames, and casks of jewels that winked in the radiant light. A few pairs of slippers were arranged under the bed, a washbowl full of water, and a brush with gold strands of hair clinging to it. The room didn’t smell of roses. It smelled of something more subtle . . . lavender, perhaps?

  He found himself standing in the middle of the room, one hand shielding his eyes from the sunlight as he took in the change of scene. Except for the white-and-purple Wizr set, the room was not as Ankarette had left it. It belonged to someone else. Another woman.

  He heard a faint scuff on the floor, the deliberate tread of someone trying to sneak up on him. His ears had always been sharp, alert to the sound of anything out of place. There was someone behind him, someone who had hidden behind the open door.

  Owen jumped toward the table with the washbowl and ewer, turning as he landed. A slender arm with a dagger was thrusting at him. As he grabbed the woman’s wrist, he barely had time to notice the purple powder on the blade’s tip—poison—before she tried to strike his throat with her other hand. He warded off the blow with his free hand, not budging the hand restraining her wrist. He was fighting by instinct now, and he knew it would all be over if she stabbed him with the poisoned dagger.

  She hooked her slippered foot around his heel, and he felt her body shift to trip him. Grabbing a fistful of her golden hair with the hand he’d used to block her throat jab, he shouted, “Peace! I don’t want to hurt you!”

  And suddenly the room was spinning and Owen landed on his back, hard, the blow knocking the wind from him. He grunted with pain, still clutching her hair, only then realizing he was holding a wig.

  She stood over him, knife at the ready, her shorn hair giving her a boyish look despite the pearl-colored gown and necklace that were clearly Ankarette’s.

  “Hurt me?” she said disdainfully. “You flatter yourself. Stay down, boy, or you’ll bleed.”

  Owen did not want to lose sight of that dagger, but he also wanted to get a better look at her. From his position on the floor, he could kick her legs, but he expected that she was anticipating that. Being called a boy was deliberately offensive, which he also thought was part of her plan. He propped himself up on his elbow, but did not try to sit.

  “I’m sorry if I startled you,” he gasped, trying to calm his racing heart.

  “You made enough noise, but you didn’t startle me at all. Now give me my hair back before you ruin it.” She extended her free hand, gesturing for it.

  He felt rather silly holding the wig, so he leaned forward slowly and offered it to her. She snatched it from him and then set it on the table.

  She was older than him by just a few years. She was beautiful, even with the shorn hair, in a way that was calculated to drive a man to desire. Her haughty look told him she felt completely in control of the situation. It irked him to see this stranger wearing Ankarette’s gown, her jewels.

  Owen licked his lips, trying to keep himself calm and focused. “Can I sit up without getting stabbed? I won’t attack you. You have my word.”

  “Turn your head to the side,” she commanded. He complied, but didn’t let her out of his sight. “No,” she said impatiently, “turn the other way!”

  He did, and her look changed immediately, wilting into surprise.

  “Oh dear, you’re the Duke of Westmarch,” she said, then smiled. “Look who I’ve caught in my web.”

  “And who are you?” Owen asked, feeling his stomach twist and clench.

  “I’m the King’s Poisoner obviously,” she answered. Then she lowered the dagger. “Get up, my lord. You’re fortunate I didn’
t kill you on accident. This tower is forbidden. Even for you. And haven’t you the least sense of courtesy to knock before entering a woman’s chamber?”

  Owen was flustered a moment, his cheeks turning pink. “I assure you that I believed this tower was deserted.”

  “Stand up, I said. You look ridiculous sprawled on the floor. I’m not going to hurt you now that I know who you are.”

  Owen rose cautiously to his feet, his eyes still narrowed on the purple dust on the dagger tip, but at least the blade was pointed away from him. The girl scrubbed her nails through her shorn hair, then hurled the dagger into the wooden beam on Owen’s left. It made a loud thunk sound, the pommel shuddering under the force of the throw.

  She held her hands open. “You are too trusting. If I had wanted to kill you, it would have been easy. Remember that in case another poisoner is sent to threaten you.”

  “You serve King Severn?” Owen demanded, reining in his anger.

  She nodded imperiously.

  “Who are you? What is your name?”

  “If they wanted you to know that, they would have told you about me. Now if you would please get out of my tower.”

  Owen felt he was losing control of his anger. “This was hers before it was ever yours.”

  The girl started, giving him another look of utter surprise. “You knew about Ankarette? Ankarette Tryneowy?”

  “She saved my life,” Owen said fiercely, trembling slightly at the rush of feelings. It dawned on him that he should have kept his mouth shut. It was clear she had not known about his connection with Ankarette. He cursed himself.

  “I see,” the poisoner said in an offhand tone that was belied by the intelligent gleam of her eyes. Some of the haughtiness faded. “So you used to come up here back when you were a hostage?”

  He nodded sternly, saying nothing more.

  “That explains some mysteries then.”

  “What do you mean? What mysteries?”

  “She left a note. I think it was meant for you. And one of her embroideries had your name and badge on it.”