The Thief's Daughter

by Jeff Wheeler

  Bothwell frowned. “You don’t know him.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” she replied, quickly scanning the encrypted message. She brought it closer to the candle. Owen watched as the young man began flexing his fingers, testing the strength of his bonds. Feeling himself reviving, Owen leaned forward from the bedstead, though the movement made him dizzy. He swung his legs off the side, but he knew it would be recklessly foolish to try to stand.

  Bothwell’s eyes were affixed to Etayne’s face. Her look grew darker as she read.

  “Who ordered this?” she demanded, slapping the paper across her hand. “Chatriyon? I don’t think even he’s that stupid.”

  Bothwell’s eyes blazed.

  “What is it?” Owen asked, his voice wary. The whole business of poisoners and death. It was like playing Wizr, except someone could remove your piece without entering the game.

  Etayne turned and gave him a worried look. “A poisoner is going after King Severn.”

  Owen gasped in shock. He turned on Bothwell. “Who?”

  The young man’s frown was nervous. “I am only doing my part,” he snapped. “There cannot be peace between Ceredigion and Atabyrion. It would be a disaster!”

  “Answer his question!” Etayne insisted.

  Bothwell’s eyes darted from her to Owen. “If you release me . . .” he suggested.

  “I’ll release you into the river!” Etayne threatened.

  Bothwell blanched. “There’s no need to be nasty!”

  Etayne shook her head. “Every moment we delay increases the jeopardy of my king. We are loyal to him, Bothwell. I assure you of that.”

  The poisoner snorted. “Then you are going to be startled when you find out he’s no longer the king.”

  Owen wanted to start choking the man. “And who will rule Ceredigion? Eyric? The people don’t know him. They don’t trust him. His claim may be true, but he has been missing for too long. The people are prosperous. They will rally behind Severn.”

  Bothwell shook his head. “Perhaps you are right. But you don’t see what is truly going on. You are missing the waterfall because of all the mist. You can hear it, maybe. But you cannot see it.”

  “Stop speaking in riddles,” Etayne said. “Perhaps we can make this more simple. How about a dose of henbane? Hmmm? Or better yet . . . pure nightshade.”

  Bothwell’s eyes bulged and he started rocking in the seat. “You may as well just kill me!” he snarled. “If I tell you, I am a dead man regardless!”

  “But the best part,” she said, “is that you won’t even remember telling us.”

  “Gormless!” Bothwell cursed. He sighed. “I will tell you. I will tell you!” He shook his head, defeated. “It’s probably too late for me anyway. Chatriyon doesn’t want Eyric to rule. He’s just a pawn. A distraction. Chatriyon’s humiliated because of his defeat at the hands of that little prig Kiskaddon. You see, he was going after Brythonica to sate his ambition, but now he’s changed his mind. Now he wants a bigger jewel. He wants Ceredigion.”

  Owen shook his head. “That’s not ambition. That’s madness.”

  Bothwell snorted. “That may well be true. But he’s determined. He wishes to provoke Severn to war with Atabyrion by killing the Mortimer lass. Then he’ll kill Severn by poison and claim the throne through a forced marriage with the crouch-back’s niece. That’s the plot, Etayne. That’s all of it. He will rule Ceredigion through his wife. Tunmore’s role is to persuade the girl. He’s Fountain-blessed, if you didn’t know. We’ve been poisoning her mother for weeks to help sour her on the old man. The fact that you are here in Atabyrion, Etayne,” he chuckled darkly, “will only make it easier for Tyrell to get to the king.”

  Every person who is Fountain-blessed demonstrates a remarkable power, and sometimes more than one. They keep their lore secret from the world, except for some general principles that I will speak on. The terms used to describe the two major ways in which they draw in power are “rigor” and “vigor.” The term “rigor” implies severity and strictness. The magic comes through meticulous and persistent adherence to some regimented craft or routine. These individuals are iron-willed and self-disciplined to a degree very uncommon amongst their fellows. The term “vigor” implies effort, energy, and enthusiasm. To do a task out of the love of it, not for ambition’s sake alone. These two concepts mark the twin horses by which the magic of the Fountain can be drawn. Why one individual may prefer one to the other or whether there is difference in the efficacy of these methods remains, to the rest of us, a mystery.

  —Polidoro Urbino, Court Historian of Kingfountain

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Glazier

  Bothwell was secretly removed from Iago’s palace and confined to a cell in the hold of Evie’s ship. It was Owen’s intention to bring him back to Ceredigion with them and then challenge Mancini for further information about the Espion master’s true loyalties. The man’s news had rattled Owen, and the threat to King Severn made him anxious to fulfill their mission in Atabyrion and return home.

  Owen and Etayne had both heard of Tyrell before, but in different contexts. Owen remembered his name in connection with the murder of Severn’s nephews, while Etayne knew quite a bit of secondhand information about him from her time in Pisan. He was at least Severn’s age, he had a reputation for hired murder, a handsome face, and a small gap between his front teeth. With any luck, it would help them find him.

  After capturing Bothwell, Owen and Etayne filled the others in on the particulars of the plot. It was decided that Clark would return immediately to Kingfountain to warn the king and begin the hunt for Tyrell. Owen, Evie, and Etayne would remain behind to finish the tasks assigned to them as quickly as they could.

  Etayne made more broth for Owen, who felt his strength and health returning. But his connection with Fountain magic was still not available to him. He needed to find some books to read, play Wizr, or do something else to fill his reserves, but those things required time—of which he had very little.

  To focus his thoughts, he took a quick walk around the royal manor, stretching his legs and loosening the knots in his shoulders. His mind was preoccupied with the many threats bearing down on them, and as he wandered the grounds, he tried to piece together a strategy. In the past, it had always been easy for him to quickly get to the heart of a problem. Having been drained of his magic, he could hardly remember all the details of the Occitanians’ murky plot, let alone create a plan of action.

  About midday, a servant came and told him that Lady Mortimer wished to see him. He quickly complied and made his way to her room. His own body felt like a stranger to him.

  As he entered the room, he saw Clark conferring with Etayne in the back corner while Justine was up and about, fussing over Evie’s dress. Her recovery had been complete and dramatic. When she saw him, her cheeks flushed and she whispered into Evie’s ear, who immediately turned and looked at him.

  “My lady?” he said formally.

  Evie beamed at him. “Justine is too shy to say it, so I will do so in her place. Owen, she knows she died yesterday, and she’s aware that you summoned her back to life.”

  Owen looked at Justine in surprise; the girl’s flush increased and she nodded emphatically.

  “I don’t see why you can’t tell him yourself,” Evie said with a hint of exasperation. “It’s not as if you two have never spoken before.”

  “This is different, my lady,” Justine said meekly. She seemed completely in awe of Owen now.

  “I did what I could do, Justine.” Owen saw she was growing uncomfortable, and he was beginning to feel that way himself, so he decided to change the topic. “Clark, when do you set sail?”

  The Espion turned his gaze. “We will leave at high tide. There is a merchant ship leaving with timber that will give me a ride to one of our ships anchored off the coast. I hope to be back at Kingfountain by midnight. I was wondering if I should take Bothwell with me.”

  Etayne shook her head. “You are too
weak still. Better to leave him here with us. There may be more information I can wring from him. And Owen wishes to discuss certain matters relating to our prisoner with Mancini. Besides, even in a cage, he’s dangerous.”

  Clark pursed his lips. “I still think I should take him. If he can help us identify where the poisoner is hiding, it would save us time in catching him.”

  Owen could see the logic in both positions. Again, he keenly felt the lack of his magic. “I’d like to keep him close. I have no doubt he will try to escape. Etayne, I want you to find out where Eyric is staying. I think Bothwell mentioned earlier it was at one of the Huntley manors.”

  “I could ask Iago,” Evie suggested.

  Owen shook his head. “You weren’t even supposed to know about this part of the mission. Iago is cleverer than he looks. If he knew I was here, I’d find myself in a dungeon somewhere.”

  “But shouldn’t we tell Iago something?” Evie pressed. “The Occitanians are undermining the very alliance they made with him. They’re counting on him to fail! Wouldn’t it help our cause if he knew that?”

  “I see where you’re coming from,” Owen said. “Sharing the Occitanian plot would sour his opinion of Occitania, but it wouldn’t dissuade him from backing Eyric to topple Severn. You have seen how much Iago wants this war. I think it would do more harm to give him the impression that you were involved in our plot,” he said. “My hope is to persuade Eyric to join us. But if we can’t do that, we may have to resort to other measures.” He gave Etayne a knowing look.

  “I’d best be on my way to the docks then,” Clark said, but he glanced furtively at Justine, who blushed furiously and looked down at the ground.

  Evie noticed her friend’s reaction. “There was something I left down at the ship,” she said. “Justine, would you be a dear and walk down to fetch it for me? The blue gown with the silver trim. I’ve wanted to wear that one.”

  Clark’s eyes looked hopeful. “I can escort her down to the docks, if you would like, my lady?”

  Justine blinked with surprise, and a timid smile twitched on her mouth. “The blue damask one? I remember it. I would be happy to fetch it for you. If Lady Etayne will be your chaperone while I am away.”

  Etayne gave a deep, formal curtsy, but there was a wry gleam in her eyes.

  Clark extended his elbow and Justine took it. Giving Evie a look that beamed with gratitude, she left with her escort.

  Once the door had shut behind them, Evie sighed. “They are both so quiet that they’ll likely walk the entire way in silence.” She looked wistful for a moment and then turned to Owen. “I can’t thank you enough for what you did for her,” she said, her eyes softening. They looked more blue than silver or green today. She took Owen’s hands in hers and squeezed them. “My heart nearly broke in half. And then you saved her. Thank you.”

  Owen felt abashed. “I wasn’t sure what I was doing, and I’m far from certain I could do it again. But you’re welcome.”

  Evie tugged on his hands. “You still have no connection to your magic? You look a bit forlorn today. Like a lost soul. Am I reading your countenance right?”

  Owen nodded, feeling pain tighten in his chest. She read his moods so well, always had.

  “I thought so. In that case, I think I have something for you that may come in handy. I asked Iago for this during breakfast and he had his glazier assemble it. It’s one of the reasons I sent for you. Come look.”

  She brought him over to the dresser, where he noticed a wooden box. His heart began to pound as she opened the quiet hinges and revealed row after row of gleaming rectangular glass tiles.

  “I thought,” Evie said with delight, seeing his smile, “that this might help.”

  Owen almost started to tremble at the sight of the tiles. He felt like a man dying of thirst who had been given a huge drink to quench it. Or the parched ground the moment rainclouds appear. It was a visceral, greedy feeling, one of childlike wonder and excitement.

  Evie lifted the box off the table, and in silent agreement the two knelt down, clearing away the floor rushes to provide a flat surface on which to stack the tiles. The glazier had provided an assortment of colors and a variety of shapes. As Owen knelt on the floor, he began fingering the pieces, and in a moment, he was eight years old again, kneeling on the kitchen floor. He could almost smell the baking loaves in Liona’s kitchen and hear the sounds of servants bustling to and fro. The instant he started to arrange the pieces, he felt the trickle of the Fountain responding, the first drops of power drawing into him.

  Evie helped by handing him pieces, a victorious smile on her mouth.

  “Thank you,” Owen breathed softly. They were bent so close together he could smell her hair. The scent seemed to draw in the Fountain waters faster, and for the first time, he realized that Evie was tied to his magic in some way. He could not dwell on the thought, though, for his mind was racing this way and that as his fingers deftly stacked the pieces.

  After the box was empty, Owen let Evie knock the first set down. The glass made a different sound as it tumbled down, a tinkling sound that reverberated inside him, filling his heart with curiosity and delight. For a moment, he was a child again; everything was simple, he and Evie knew they were meant for each other, and they spent their days holding hands and jumping into cisterns, eating honeyed wafers, and relishing the sun.

  There was a knock at the door, interrupting the moment of pure joy. Owen rushed to his feet. He did not want the servants to see him playing with the tiles. Everyone knew that Owen Kiskaddon had a penchant for tiles and playing Wizr. If he were discovered . . .

  The rapping on the door grew firmer and a muffled voice said, “It’s Justine!”

  Etayne unlocked the door and let the girl in, then shut it fast behind her.

  Justine looked flushed and worried. She had been gone for perhaps an hour, though it felt as if only moments had passed. The blue gown was draped over her arm, but her face was animated with worry.

  “I wanted to tell you quickly,” Justine said, panting. “A ship from Brythonica just arrived in port. I was barely able to get back up the steps ahead of them. I think the duchess has come! They’re on their way to the great hall.”

  Owen and Evie exchanged glances. Brythonica?

  In short order, Owen was back in his hooded hauberk and the tunic of Horwath. Evie had changed into the blue damask gown, the color of which mixed with her eyes in a lovely and elusive fashion. While Justine brushed out her mistress’s hair, Etayne quickly returned the tiles to the box.

  Owen could feel Fountain magic again. His cup was far from full; it was akin to the palace cistern when the water lapped at the lowest mark on the stone column measuring its depths. But at least he was no longer empty.

  While Evie fidgeted with her dress, she launched question after question at Justine about the visitors, but Justine did not know for certain who had come. She could only repeat the speculation of those around her. Someone thought the duchess had come, but Justine had not seen any noble ladies disembark from the ship.

  As soon as they were ready, they left Evie’s room and headed to the great hall. Upon their arrival at Atabyrion, the hall had been crowded with guests for the wedding. Those guests had long since departed, and now the hall was mostly full of servants, guards, and a pacing and nervous Iago Llewellyn. When he saw Evie, he blinked with surprise and delight and came rushing up to her.

  “I’ve only just heard the news myself,” he said with an animated tone. “But an embassy from Brythonica has just arrived. This is a rare honor.”

  “That is what my lady told me,” Evie said, nodding to Justine. “Do you know who it is?”

  Iago shook his head. “I have no idea. The visit is completely unexpected.” He looked agitated. “I can’t find Lord Bothwell at all. No one has seen him today.”

  They kept their expressions guarded. It was a comforting relief for Owen to have his magic back. With it, he was so much more attuned to the expressions and demeanors of
those around him. He hadn’t realized how rich and layered his ability with the Fountain was until it was taken away from him. He also wondered if the Duchess of Brythonica had come, for he’d never met her and was curious to know more.

  They had not been in the great hall long when the embassy arrived. A horn was sounded to announce the visitors.

  “Lord Marshal Brendon Roux of the duchy of Brythonica!” the portly man shouted.

  That was not the person Owen had been expecting. In fact, he was surprised to find a man of his rank and prominence on such a mission unless the intent of that mission was to declare war. He was the protector of the duchy, the guardian of the duchess.

  Owen recognized him instantly. His short gray hair was combed in the Occitanian fashion, and he looked as stern and brooding as he had when Owen met him in Chatriyon’s abandoned camp. He strode into the hall, a man with a cause and a mission, and frowned when he saw Iago and Evie standing together near the dais. And Owen realized with growing horror that the lord marshal might see through his disguise as a knight. It would probably be wise to remain out of the man’s sight.

  As if hearing Owen’s private thoughts, the lord marshal turned to look his way. His eyebrows lifted, just slightly, and a look of recognition came into his eyes.

  Hello, Lord Marshal, Owen said through his Fountain magic, gritting his teeth for not having acted sooner.

  And he had the sinking suspicion that Roux had once again outmaneuvered him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Lord Marshal

  Owen’s stomach tightened into knots as he wondered whether the lord marshal would betray him to Iago. The king would be embarrassed and likely furious if he found out that Owen Kiskaddon was masquerading as one of Evie’s protectors. Even more concerning was the marshal’s presence in Atabyrion. What fate had brought Owen and Roux together again?