The Thief's Daughter

by Jeff Wheeler

  “Roux was there?” Mancini said with shock. “I don’t believe it!”

  “He came in person,” Owen said to the king, nodding back to the spymaster. “I recognized him, and he recognized me. I think he’s Fountain-blessed, my lord. And he said the duchess is still our ally.”

  Severn gazed at Owen in awe, his blazing anger finally beginning to cool. He reached his hand around Owen’s neck in a fatherly gesture. Then clapped him on the back. “You have done well, my boy. You have done your king good service and honor. And for this, I will reward you. If you revealed yourself to Eyric, you took a huge risk. But I can see why you did it. You tried to persuade him, did you not? You tried to convince him to return willingly.”

  Owen nodded. “I did. I promised him a duchy. The same duchy he once held as a child.”

  Severn smiled. “And I would have honored your pledge. Instead of gaining a duchy, he will lose everything. I wish his father-in-law well, for he will be supporting these children with his own treasures. Oh, the irony of it galls me! He could have become my legitimate heir if he had proven himself an ally and friend. But he gropes for a prize he is not tall enough to reach. He’s a child.” The king shook his head. “And a disobedient one at that. I feel cheerful for the first time in days. I am hunted and oppressed. The wolves are yapping at my heels. But I have true subjects. I have warships and an army. And my enemies will learn that when they rouse the wrath of a beast they fear, they will feel the bloody tusks. To war then. I welcome it.”

  He slung his arm around Owen’s shoulder and led him back to the throne. He nodded to Mancini. “Now fetch me Horwath’s granddaughter. I’m in need of her grace and good cheer. I daresay if she asks me to build a fishpond in the great hall, I may just do it!” The king laughed, probably for the first time in weeks, and clapped Owen on the back. “Well done, lad. Well done.” Then his face grew more serious. “Oh, and Mancini. Have Tunmore join us from the tower for supper. It’s been two days since he’s eaten. I’m sure he’s hungry.”

  Owen’s smile faded as he realized what the king meant. Tunmore had already been dragged out of sanctuary.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Grave Secrets

  Owen and the spymaster Mancini walked side by side, moving deep into the palace’s Espion tunnels to the towers where the prisoners were kept. The dark corridors were frigid and Owen saw little puffs of mist as he exhaled. A deep sense of foreboding had settled inside him, thicker than the winter clouds shrouding Kingfountain.

  “You finally persuaded him,” Owen said, trying to master his anger. He still distrusted the man, but for the moment, he needed Mancini to believe they were on the same side.

  “Persuaded whom to do what?” Mancini asked. “Be clear, young man. I do a lot of persuading every day.”

  “You know what I meant,” Owen snapped. “Abducting Tunmore from the sanctuary.”

  “We should have done it years ago,” Mancini said dismissively. “The man’s been scheming from Our Lady all the while. Why should he be protected from his treason?”

  “How did you do it?”

  Mancini shifted the lantern he was carrying to his other hand and lifted it higher. “There are men in that place who do anything for enough coin.” Such as you, Owen thought darkly. “I had someone distract the sexton while half a dozen men waylaid Tunmore. He was carted out under a tarp, trussed up and gagged, and brought straight to the palace.” He snapped his fingers. “Easily done.”

  “How did you convince Severn to do it?”

  Mancini snorted. “I didn’t need to persuade him at all. Once we discovered what had happened with Elyse, you should have seen his fury. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him rage like that, not even when Ratcliffe turned traitor. Her betrayal was particularly personal because he had put so much trust in her.” The Espion turned and gave Owen a knowing look. “Even you betraying him would not have cut him to the quick like this. He needed vengeance. And it was Tunmore who turned her mind to Chatriyon.”

  “I’m surprised Severn didn’t throw him into the falls,” Owen muttered.

  “As we both know, that particular method of execution cannot be relied upon for the Fountain-blessed. No, the king has had Polidoro investigating all the details of the execution of the Maid of Donremy. He wants to make sure Tunmore stays dead.”

  The bleak feeling within Owen worsened. He did not have much pity for Tunmore, but something felt entirely wrong about forcing the man from sanctuary. Violating an ancient tradition out of petty revenge did not sit right. While Owen believed that some of the folk customs about the Fountain were merely superstitions, he knew for a fact that the Fountain was real, and he felt a queer sensation that it was offended.

  There were Espion guards waiting for them at the end of the corridor.

  “Good evening, Master Mancini,” one of them said.

  Mancini handed his lantern to one of them. He glanced at Owen. “I change the guard regularly, and we inspect his cell every hour. The man hasn’t slept or eaten in two days.”

  Owen felt a throb of pity.

  “He’s quite uncomfortable, per the king’s commands,” one of the guards added with a cunning smile.

  “Tonight, the king would like Tunmore to join him for supper.”

  The other man chuckled. “What will he serve him? Rat stew?”

  “With a side of kidney pie,” Mancini snapped. “Open the door.”

  A guard unlocked the heavy iron door and a drafty breeze came through. Together, Owen and Mancini started winding their way up the tower. The wind keened and moaned up the black shaft. It sounded like the pained moans of a man, a thought that made Owen shudder.

  “Do you think Severn will release him?” Owen asked Mancini.

  “Pfah, no! Nor would I advise him to. No, the man is going to die. Severn is implacable in that regard. He’s a changed man, boy. When Elyse betrayed him, something jarred loose. Or should I put it another way? His disposition altered rather suddenly and dramatically.”

  “How so?” Owen pressed, feeling the weight of his conscience grow heavier. He had sworn his loyalty to the man Severn was. What if Elyse’s betrayal had scarred him so deeply Owen could no longer serve the man he had become? All of Owen’s wealth, his status, and his holdings were due to his loyalty to the man. Was he willing to risk all of that? Was he willing to betray his king?

  “In many ways, many ways,” Mancini said. “For starters, his first impulse was to assassinate Chatriyon. But now that his temper has cooled, he’s determined to destroy him in person. He is planning to invade Occitania and shatter the lad’s kingdom. It may take him several years of austerity to finance such a venture, but he’s determined to depose him. To yank the crown from his head. All while Elyse watches helplessly. He will never trust her again. I don’t know if he will trust anyone again after this. Confound it, is that the wind or Tunmore’s moaning?”

  He seemed to have finally noticed the noise himself.

  When they reached the top of the tower, there were two more guards pacing nervously in front of the door.

  “He’s been moaning like a madman,” one of the guards said worriedly. “I’ve warned him to shut it or we’ll gag him, but he’s gibbering. He’s gone mad, he has!”

  “Open the door,” Mancini said sternly.

  The guard wrestled a key into the lock and opened it.

  The tower loft was ice cold. All the windows around the cell were open and snow hung in thick clumps throughout the freezing chamber. There were no beds, an empty brazier had been knocked over, and other than a filthy straw pallet, the only furnishing was a foul-smelling chamber pot.

  At first, Owen could not see Tunmore, but the moaning brought his attention to the man standing on a previously unnoticed bench by a double window. His arms were gripping the window ledge. He was making a terrible sound, his eyes filled with despair.

  “What are you . . . get down from . . . what are you doing, man?” Mancini shouted against the wind.

  T
unmore had sleet sticking to his face. His hair was spiky, and his skin had a grayish cast to it. There was a wild look in his eyes when they came to rest on Owen.

  “Chaaaah!!!” he groaned, recognizing the young man instantly. “It’s not too late! It’s not too late! Thank the Fountain! It’s not too late!”

  Owen stared at Tunmore without comprehension. “What is the matter with you?”

  “I am a dead man. I’ve seen the waters. I’ve seen the Deep Fathoms, so I thought it was too late. But you are here. You are Fountain-blessed! The Dreadful Deadman is coming! He returns to Ceredigion! He must wear the crown, boy. He must!”

  “What nonsense are you babbling about?” Mancini asked angrily.

  Owen felt something reach into his heart and clench it. A cold hand, a knife. “Who?” Owen demanded. “Eyric Argentine?”

  Tunmore’s face twisted with pain. “He’s not the Dreadful Deadman! You will know. You will know him! You are part of him! You serve him. You’ve always served him! Be loyal to your true king, Kiskaddon.”

  “King Kiskaddon!” Mancini shouted in surprise, but Owen knew the spymaster had misunderstood.

  There was a feverish look on Tunmore’s face. “It’s not too late! It’s still not too late! The chest! Boy, the chest! You must move it or all is lost! Take it to the fountain at St. Penryn. The waters there will quiet the curse. Do it, boy! Before all here perish!”

  “He’s raving,” Mancini said with a whisper.

  “Who is the Dreadful Deadman?” Owen asked, taking a step toward Tunmore. “Do you know?”

  “He is coming! He is returning! As it was, so will it be. You are his champion. The true king . . . !”

  His words were cut off by a roar of wind that jolted the castle tower and brought in flurries of ice. Owen shielded his face from the sting of sleet.

  “Take him!” Mancini shouted to the soldiers. “Grab him before he jumps!”

  But it was too late. Through squinted eyes, Owen watched as Tunmore toppled over the window ledge. He raced over to the window, staring in shock, his heart thundering in his chest. The wind knifed against the keep towers, sending swirls of snow with it. When he looked down at the inner bailey, he saw a crumpled body spread-eagled on the flagstones below.

  “He killed himself?” Mancini shouted, grabbing Owen’s shoulder. The spymaster gazed down at the body, shook his head with revulsion, and then ordered the soldiers to hurry down and conceal the body. Owen felt dizzy from the great height, and the deconeus’s words had shaken him to his core.

  “What was he raving about?” Mancini asked in a troubled voice. “I couldn’t hear the last words. Did he name you . . . did he name you king, lad?” The grip on Owen’s shoulder tightened. “I thought he did. He was a deconeus. Was it a prophecy?”

  Owen could see Mancini’s mistake, but he was too confused and heartsick to know what to say.

  “He was delirious,” Owen finally answered, shaking his head. “You drove him mad by putting him up here.”

  But the young man remembered seeing the chest in the waters at the fountain of Our Lady. A chest that he had first seen in the cistern waters beneath the palace. He was confused and shaken, but something told him Tunmore’s words were not meaningless ravings.

  “So he was trying to do more mischief?” Mancini asked. “Trying to sow the seed of rebellion in you? I wouldn’t put it past him. That man was a cunning eel. He said something about St. Penryn. That’s a sanctuary in Westmarch, isn’t it?”

  Owen wished the spymaster hadn’t heard that part. “Yes,” he answered. It was a fishing village along the coast in a deep corner of Owen’s domain. He had heard curious tales about that place. Fishermen routinely dredged up strange items along the coast—shields, rusted helmets, and horseshoes.

  There was a history to the land of Penryn. Owen did not know much about it, having spent so much time in the North. But he knew of two people who did know a great deal about history. He had to see Evie and the court historian, Polidoro Urbino.

  But first they needed to tell the king that his enemy had fallen to his death from the tower and would not be joining him for dinner.

  In my time at Kingfountain, I have found no legend more commonly known but ephemeral than that of the first king of Ceredigion. Chasing this legend is like chasing a ghost. Very little has been documented, and most of the documents that do exist date back centuries and are duplicates of earlier sources. The legend depicts a time in the distant past. A time when powerful Wizrs walked the land. A time when bravery was accounted as the foremost virtue. It was an era when a young man, a Fountain-blessed boy named Andrew, united a fractured kingdom and stopped the wars and bloodshed that tortured Ceredigion. This young man became a great and mighty king, perhaps the mightiest of kings, and he had Wizrs who advised him. It is said that he had a magic Wizr set. A set that, if played, would predict the outcome of battles and determine the destiny of nations. King Andrew was so wise that he never lost but one game, a game he played against his bastard son. King Andrew was defeated shortly thereafter, flooding the world with darkness. But there was a prophecy by the great Wizr Myrddin that Andrew would one day return. The prophecy is called the Dreadful Deadman.

  —Polidoro Urbino, Court Historian of Kingfountain

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Leoneyis

  Owen knelt on the floor, arranging the final pieces of a massive tile tower that was so delicate it was already starting to wobble. He felt Fountain magic seeping into him, replenishing him from the earlier drought. Justine was working on an embroidery nearby, but she occasionally glanced over at him and Evie on the floor, their heads nearly touching as they concentrated on the final pieces.

  He had shared with Evie every detail of his confrontation with Tunmore in the tower. Speaking the words out loud had allowed him to sift through his thoughts, arranging what he knew and did not know. He knew he lacked all the pieces to solve the riddle.

  “How did Severn react to Tunmore’s death?” Evie asked, handing him the final tile.

  Owen shook his head. “He was surprised but not sorrowful. I would almost say he exulted in the man’s downfall.”

  “But you didn’t tell him what you told me. About the chest.”

  “No, and neither did Mancini. I’m sure the Espion will be watching the sanctuary. But Mancini thinks the Fountain is a superstition. He can’t see the treasure. Now that Tunmore’s gone, I might be the only one who can. I think Mancini took Tunmore’s words as the ravings of a madman before committing suicide.”

  “But you think there’s more to it,” Evie said softly. Her eyes were shifting colors at the moment, moving from silver to blue to green. She was deep in thought.

  “It is so frustrating!” Owen complained. “All these hints and secrets are maddening. When I faced Eyric, I could tell he had been told something. A legend? A secret? I’m not sure what it was. But it influenced him greatly. And he tried to influence me to join him. But how could I without knowing more? I don’t relish being someone’s fool.”

  “I know,” Evie said sagely. She reached out and patted his hand. “No one does. You’re wise to be wary about what Tunmore said. He implied that some sort of imminent danger was coming and you were the only one who could prevent it. That would naturally make you curious, but it could well be a trap.”

  Owen looked into her eyes. “He literally gave his life because of this information. It was like a burden he had been carrying, but he told me what I must do without explaining why. If I listen to him, if I carry the chest to St. Penryn, won’t that implicate me in a greater plot? Yet if I tell the king, what will he say? He is Fountain-blessed himself. Will he seek the treasure?” Owen frowned and tried to tame his frustration. “I remember something Ankarette said. That Dunsdworth’s father could see the treasure in the waters but could not claim it. It drove him mad and he drowned himself.”

  “You nearly drowned yourself trying to get it too,” Evie reminded him.

  “No I didn’t!”
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br />   Evie shook her head, exasperated. “I remember it very well, Owen. I was worried about you. You were under the water for so long. There was something wrong about what you were doing. I could feel it.”

  He continued to frown at her, but there was some truth in her words. “I don’t know what to do, Evie. I’m so confused. Our kingdom is about to be invaded by three men, Eyric, Iago, and Chatriyon are going to fight us—and one another—to lay claim to Severn’s crown.”

  “Iago doesn’t want the crown, but go on,” Evie said simply.

  Owen squelched the sudden pang of jealousy. “Well, the man wants something. My point is that we’re about to be invaded. But there is something else happening as well. Something we can’t see. Another player moving on the board. It has something to do with the past, but it’s affecting us today. And at the center is this myth about the Dreadful Deadman. I’ve told you about the whispers I used to hear from the Fountain about the Deadman. I still hear them. Somehow I’m part of this prophecy.”

  Evie blinked. “Are you the Dreadful Deadman?” she asked him.

  Owen stared at her. “Why do you ask that? Of course I’m not.”

  “Think on it, though. You told me the story long ago. You were stillborn. And then you came back to life. Just like you brought Justine back from the brink in Edonburick. This power you have, Owen. This is not a superstition. It’s real. I’ve seen it. Maybe you are the fulfillment of that prophecy.”

  Owen continued to stare at her, his heart beating wildly in his chest. He was feeling the flow of the Fountain all around him, in him. Then he heard its whisper.

  You are not the Dreadful Deadman. But you will be one of the first who will see him.

  A shudder rippled through Owen, and Evie looked at him in alarm.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “I’m not,” he said, shaking his head. “But the Fountain told me he’s coming. That I will be one of the first who sees him.”