The Thief's Daughter

by Jeff Wheeler

  “Rest, Owen. If you try standing now, you’re more than likely to end up on the floor in a puddle of vomit. Hold still while I finish the sutures.”

  Owen eased back down, scowling and wincing as she continued her work on his arm. When she finished, she dabbed ointment around the wound and then bound it with linen strips that she tied off with tiny knots. He noticed a bloodstained arrow on a camp table nearby, and the size of the head made him shudder.

  “Is my arm broken?” he asked.

  “No, but the arrow went deep,” she replied. “Let me give you something for the pain.”

  He shook his head. “I’ll deal with the pain. I want my wits about me. Where is Captain Stoker?”

  “He’s talking to Marshal Roux in your tent.”

  “Where is that?” Owen asked, looking around. “Where is Eyric?”

  “This is the tent where I was hiding Eyric. He’s in your tent now, with Stoker and Roux. You’ve won, Owen. You’ve defeated the Occitanian army. Do you know how many ransoms you will get for this?” She looked at him with delight, shaking her head. “Do you know how wealthy you will be after this battle? How many lands you will be entitled to?”

  “Where is Chatriyon?” Owen demanded.

  She shook her head. “He was never here. He sent all his marshals and captains to defeat you. He feared for his life. He’s been in Pree all along.”

  Owen tried to sit up again, and this time Etayne helped him. His arm was throbbing with pain, making him regret his refusal to take a potion. He blinked swiftly, realization slowly sinking in. The battle was over. He had won.

  “Let me find where they put that shirt for you,” Etayne said. Owen only then realized that he was stripped to the waist. His battered and stained hauberk was crumpled on the floor of the tent. There were rags stained in mud and dirt strewn about and a basin of filthy water. He looked down at himself and saw that he had been cleaned. Etayne seemed to notice the reason for his scrutiny and she flushed slightly, then hastened to find a shirt for him to wear.

  She helped him put it on, being especially delicate with his arm as he struggled to get it into the sleeve.

  “Thank you,” he said as she finished tying the crossweave at his neck. She brought out a padded vest, which was much easier to put on, and helped him stand. His legs were wobbly and his head spun for a while, nearly making him fall, but she was there to keep him steady.

  When he was finally standing without wavering, she looked him over critically, arranging his clothes a little to make him look more like a lord and less like a mud-spattered peasant. She then strapped the scabbard and sword to his waist, her hands deft and efficient. He was uncomfortable with her standing so near, dressing him.

  “I meant to thank you for saving my life,” Owen told her, trying to catch her eyes even though she was refusing to look at him.

  She shook her head slightly, ignoring his words. “It’s still storming. You need a cloak.”

  Once again, he sensed that she felt more for him than friendship and gratitude. He thought it only fair to disabuse her of the notion that they could ever be together. But doing so now, just after she had saved his life . . . well, it would feel a bit coldhearted. He grunted as a throb of pain burst to life in his elbow.

  She fetched a cloak, draped it over his shoulders, and lifted the cowl over his head. Once she was also equipped to face the rain, she took him through the rain-drenched camp to the command pavilion. Outside the main doors were two battle standards, the Aurum and the Raven. Both were dripping.

  Owen ducked his head as he entered the tent. It was dusk, and the pavilion was full, but he immediately spotted Captain Ashby and the mayor of Averanche inside. He also recognized Marshal Roux, who was still wearing a mud-spattered tunic over his armor. The marshal gave him an almost reproachful look, as if it bothered him that Owen had come to the meeting so late.

  “It is good to see you hale, my lord,” Roux said warmly, though his eyes were wary.

  “Thank you, lord marshal,” Owen said. “Your intervention, once again, could not have been better timed.” Even though that had decidedly worked in their favor on this occasion, there was still something about the Brythonican that set him on edge. He noticed Eyric sitting silently at the edge of the tent, listening to the conversation.

  The marshal bowed stiffly. “The duchess keeps her promises,” he said.

  Captain Ashby came forward. “My lord, the lord marshal has been supplying Averanche for days. His ships brought casks and kegs to make sure the city was well provisioned. It was a siege, but we ate like kings! I wanted to get word to you that we could have held on much longer, only we could not get past the soldiers at our gates.”

  Owen felt a prickle of guilt for having distrusted the Brythonicans so much. But even after hearing about their generosity, he felt uneasy.

  The lord mayor looked particularly relieved. “We are grateful, Lord Kiskaddon, that you kept your word and did not forsake us. The people of Averanche long to welcome you back into your city. If I may suggest that you move from your camp to the castle to get out of this storm?”

  Owen smiled when another loud crackle of thunder followed the mayor’s words, causing him to stiffen in surprise.

  “I thank you, lord mayor, but must decline,” Owen said, shaking his head. “I long to get out of the wet, but we must ride back at once to bring tidings of our victory to King Severn. You may be sure that a celebration of our victory will be held in due time. At such an event, I hope we can have the pleasure of the duchess’s company?” Owen gave Roux a serious look.

  The marshal’s face was perfectly composed. “She rarely ventures from Brythonica, Lord Kiskaddon. As you can imagine, her situation is fraught with peril, and there is a considerable risk of her being kidnapped and made a hostage. She has authorized me to negotiate the peace terms and ransom distributions on her behalf, though she is wont to be generous to our allies from Westmarch. I am certain we will find an equitable arrangement?”

  “Indeed,” Owen said, feeling his curiosity about the duchess grow. His left arm started to throb painfully, and he felt sweat bead up on his brow. He wanted this conversation to be finished.

  Marshal Roux studied Owen’s face for a moment, so implacable. “We will depart then and seek shelter at the castle, as the lord mayor’s guests. If you permit it.”

  “I do,” Owen said with a nod.

  “We would be most gracious hosts, my lord,” said the mayor, grinning eagerly. He seemed the kind of man who relished having powerful guests.

  “Captain Ashby,” Owen said. “Provision the garrison to remain behind. Captain Stoker, have Farnes begin tallying the noteworthy hostages. Once it’s done, bring word of them to me at Kingfountain. The king’s nephew and I,” he said, looking Eyric in the eye, “will join him.”

  Marshal Roux inclined his head and was about to leave.

  Owen stopped him with a gesture. “My lord, have you heard anything about the battles in my realm? Anjers insisted that Severn was dead, but I’m convinced it was a trick.”

  The lord marshal’s brow furrowed slightly. “I pray the Fountain that your king is safe,” he said cryptically. “I have no spies in your realm, my lord. We would appreciate the same courtesy in return.” There was a slight tone of reprimand in his voice.

  “My best to the duchess,” Owen said.

  The lord marshal nodded. Then his eyes wandered over to the chest containing the ancient Wizr board. His lips pursed. “You may wish, my lord,” he said in an undertone, “to leave certain valuables in places where they cannot be easily stolen.”

  He then ducked under the tent flap and left. Owen was curious about his choice of words. As his captains prepared to leave the pavilion and enter the storm once again, Owen crept over to the chest. He carefully removed the lid, afraid the Wizr set inside might be missing. The pieces were still there, undisturbed.

  Except for one.

  His mouth went dry as he realized a move had been made. One of the
pawns on the white side had been replaced by the Wizr piece. His heart started pounding violently in his chest as he stared at the gleaming piece. It was on the left-hand side of the board. The pawn was now sitting in one of the adjacent trays for discarded totems.

  Had someone come into his tent and moved the piece? Or had it moved all by itself?

  King Severn Argentine returned to Kingfountain with his triumphant and frostbitten army. There is no doubt his life was preserved by the Fountain and that he is truly the King of Ceredigion. He defeated Iago Llewellyn’s forces with the help of his loyal friend, the Duke of Horwath, who cut off Iago’s retreat and captured him along with his chief nobles, including the wealthiest one, the Earl of Huntley. The prisoners are being held at the royal castle while preparations are underway for Iago to marry Lady Elysabeth Victoria Mortimer, who will become the Queen of Atabyrion and seal the new alliance between our kingdoms. An alliance that has been purchased with much blood. We now await the arrival of Duke Kiskaddon, who conquered the massive Occitanian army that came to invade Ceredigion. His success ranks as one of the most decisive, improbable victories since the defeat of the Occitanians at Azinkeep. All rumors of his defection and treason have proved false.

  —Polidoro Urbino, Court Historian of Kingfountain

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  The Queen of Atabyrion

  It was a brisk autumn day when Owen rode his weary stallion beneath the portcullis of the palace of Kingfountain. The cheers from his ride through the city were still ringing in his ears as he dismounted in the bailey. Eyric sat stock-still on his mount, gazing up at the spires and towers of the palace with a look that combined nostalgia and fear. Owen’s left arm ached from his wound. Etayne had changed the dressing regularly, and it was strapped to his chest with some leather as he rode. The cloak he wore concealed the crooked bend of it, and he could not help but harbor the dark thought that he was slowly, ponderously, turning into a shadow of Severn himself.

  One of the groomsmen offered a hand to Eyric, who at first blinked at the disruption and then took the hand and dismounted as well. Etayne appeared behind him, her eyes assessing the various onlookers for any sign of a threat. With a nod, Owen bade her to keep an eye on Eyric, and she gave him a subtle motion with her head to acknowledge it.

  Although Owen’s stomach craved refreshment, he felt so worried and nauseous he would not be able to eat. Word had reached him of the king’s alliance with Iago Llewellyn—and the price of that alliance. He was haunted by the grim reality that he was losing Evie forever. He had clung to the hope that his victory against Occitania would be enough to sway the king into granting him his heart’s desire. But every league he had crossed to return to the palace had filled him with fresh despair; his worst fears were about to come to pass.

  “My lord,” Justine’s voice said at his shoulder. He had not seen her approach, but that was not surprising, for he was in a fog of misery. She looked mournful, which only pushed the knife deeper into his heart.

  “She is here?” Owen asked hoarsely. “The wedding arrangements are underway?” He desperately wanted to be contradicted.

  Justine flushed a delicate pink. “They are, my lord. She asked me . . . she wants to speak with you herself. Before you see the king. She’s at your secret place. Waiting.” Justine looked as if she wanted to say more. He saw tears in her eyes, and then she reached out and put her hand on his arm, making him flinch with pain.

  “I hurt you!” she gasped. “I’m sorry! That’s your wounded arm. I’m—”

  “It’s not your fault,” Owen said, shaking his head, trying to banish the memory of the pain. “I will go at once.”

  Owen knew that Severn would be expecting him in the throne room. He should go there first and deliver his report in person. But he had to see Evie. He had to listen to her words himself. As he started across the yard, he caught sight of Etayne. “Wait for me outside the throne room,” he told her.

  She nodded and hooked arms with Eyric, who was shuddering with fear as he crossed the threshold of his childhood palace.

  Owen had a thought and caught Etayne’s arm. “Take him to Liona first,” he whispered to her. “Let him see a friendly face.”

  He stared back across the yard at the yawning portcullis. The last time he was here a violent mob had been pressing against the gates with the intent of throwing Severn into the river. The memory hit Owen like a spike of pain: Evie facing down the mob and trying to persuade them to relent. Evie falling. He had held her in his lap, afterward, as the blood flowed from her brow. It was the last time he had seen her or touched her. He had seen an unusually large number of armed soldiers wearing the symbol of the white boar while passing through the city. There was a curfew now where there had not been one before. They were preparations in case of another riot.

  Owen’s throat tightened painfully, but he swallowed and entered the palace. When he reached the corridor leading to the cistern, he found the door at the far end ajar. He tried to control his breathing, but he felt as if he were about to plunge over a waterfall. He pushed the door open gently, gazing out at the place where he had shared so many memories with her.

  Evie was pacing near the edge of the cistern hole. She was wearing a dark green gown with silver stitching. He would have recognized the sound of her leather boots anywhere. Her hair was long, with little braids woven together in an intricate and exquisite pattern. As the sound of the creaking door reached her, she spun around to look at him.

  The worried look in her eyes was the final affirmation that his life with her was over.

  “Owen,” she murmured, and he saw tears dance in her lashes as she rushed to him.

  He took her into his arms, crushing her against him, feeling his own tears burning down his cheeks. His heart ached with a torment that was different from when Ankarette had died. This was a new sort of death. He didn’t know how to endure it.

  Owen felt her tremble and sob as she clutched the front of his tunic, his one good arm wrapped around her shoulders. His left arm was in agony, but the pain was nothing compared to what was in his heart.

  He stroked her hair, feeling the softness, savoring it. “Say the word, and I will take you from this place. Say the word, my love, and I will take you far, far away. I cannot bear this, Evie! It hurts. It hurts so much.”

  “I know,” she replied with a shiver in her voice. “I would be lying if I said otherwise.” She pulled back slightly, pushing some hair behind her ear and dabbing her dripping nose on her sleeve. “But this must be, Owen. This must be. We must both learn to accept that life isn’t fair. That not all our dreams will come true. That sometimes we must be parted from those we cannot live without.” Her face crumpled into a look of misery. She struggled to keep her composure as tears streamed down her face. She took a steadying breath. “I choose this, Owen. This is not happening against my will. I care for . . . I care for Iago. He sincerely loves me, I know that. I think he can make me happy.” She glanced down for just a moment. “I think I can make him a better man . . . a better king. But I cannot be happy to see you grieve like this. It will be a torment to me, Owen. I am willing to endure it. But you must . . . please . . . you must try! You must try to care for someone else.”

  Owen hung his head, ashamed that she was handling her emotions better than he was. He tried to wrestle his heart into submission. “How can I pretend?” he whispered thickly. “How can I pretend this will never stop hurting?”

  She shook her head and stroked his arm, his good arm. “It won’t stop hurting,” she said softly. “Not a day goes by that I don’t miss my papa. But it lessens in time. And so will this. We are still young, Owen. I’m not doing this because I’ll become a queen. I would rather have been a . . . a duchess.” She squeezed his arm. “I’m doing this because it is my duty. It is our duty. Loyalty binds us. Isn’t that what we’ve been taught for so long? When I heard the rumors that you had forsaken him, I could not believe them. I knew it was a trick, a deception. I knew you would not d
o that to him.” She gave him a look of adoration. “Not my Owen. Never my Owen.” She shook her head. “But you are mine, no longer. I will be Elysabeth Victoria Mortimer Llewellyn. We can do this, Owen. We must. He needs you. Go to your king. Submit to his will, as I have done.”

  Owen reached out and took her hand. Her fingers were so soft and warm. It was holding her hand that had given him the courage to jump into the cistern waters. She had taught him everything he knew about bravery and fidelity. And love.

  “As you command, my lady,” Owen whispered huskily. He pressed her knuckles to his lips. If she could endure this, then so could he. As he turned, he spied Justine standing in the doorway, sobbing.

  He walked past her, pausing only to pat her shoulder and push her to join Evie in the cistern yard. Owen did not want her to be there when he went to see Severn.

  Etayne was waiting with Eyric outside the throne room doors, which were closed. The man looked positively greensick. The poisoner saw Owen’s crestfallen look, and her expression filled with shared pain.

  “He is waiting for you both,” she murmured in his ear. “Everyone else has been ordered out.”

  Owen nodded and took Eyric by the elbow. The guards gripped the massive handles of the doors and pulled them open. Something told Owen that Severn would be pacing inside, and indeed, that was the first thing he noticed. The king was chafing with obvious impatience and agitation.

  Eyric, for a moment, couldn’t move, until Owen tugged on his arm. Severn turned immediately, his expression a mixture of excitement, worry, and triumph. His black garb was a contrast to Eyric’s more princely raiment. The king wore his battle sword as well as a dagger in his belt. Eyric was unarmed, a defeated rebel.

  “My lord king,” Owen announced in a firm, controlled voice. “The rebel Eyric Argentine was captured, and I bring him to you for justice.”