The Thief's Daughter (Kingfountain #2)

The Thief's Daughter (Kingfountain #2)

Jeff Wheeler




CHAPTER ONE


The Duke of Westmarch




Owen Kiskaddon wasn’t comfortable wearing a full suit of armor. It made him feel constrained, like he was wearing someone else’s boots, so he rarely put on more than a chain hauberk. He was dressed that way now, his hand resting on his sword pommel, as he walked through the camp of soldiers on the eve before his first battle as commander. The night was settling in quickly, and even in the early twilight, he could see a few stars winking at him.

He missed the cold and beautiful North, which had become his home for nearly ten years. And he missed his closest friend, Evie, the Duke of North Cumbria’s granddaughter. She would be desperate for news about his first battle, and he was both nervous and excited for what was to come. Although he was expecting blood, he wasn’t looking forward to seeing the crimson stain. He knew the techniques of battle, but he had not yet tested them. For years he had trained in the saddle, trained with swords, axes, bows, and lances. Most importantly, he loved reading about battles, studying the accounts of the famous ones, ancient and modern. He could recite, from memory, how many soldiers had marched onto the muddy fields of Azinkeep and how the king had used a mixture of sharpened stakes, archers, and well-chosen ground to defeat a much larger force. But while everyone studied the histories, Owen brought it a step further. He liked to re-invent them.

What would he have done, as the battle commander of the Occitanian army, to defeat the King of Ceredigion at Azinkeep? Like the game of Wizr, he didn’t just look at opportunities from his own side’s perspective. He looked at it from the other sides too. And long ago, he had realized that there were more than just two sides to any conflict in the game of king and crowns, and there were always unexpected pieces waiting to be introduced to the board.

“Evening, my lord,” said one of Owen’s soldiers as he passed the man’s campfire, lost in thought.

Owen paused and stared down at the man, whose name he could not remember. “Good eventide. Who do you serve under?” Owen asked. Even though the man was twice his own age, he looked up at Owen with reverence and respect.

“Harkins, my lord. My name is Will, and I serve under Harkins. Do you think this weather will hold for the battle tomorrow?”

“Well met, Will. Hopefully it does with a little luck, eh?”

Owen gave him a tired smile, a grateful nod, and continued on his way toward the command tents. He did not think he would sleep at all. How many of the soldiers were feeling jitters and nerves over putting their trust in such a young man? King Severn had led his first battle at the age of eighteen. Owen was a year younger than that. He felt the weight of the responsibility on his shoulders.

It bothered Owen a little, more than a little actually, that his men had such blind faith in him. Very few people could sense the ripples of Fountain magic, but those who did were endowed with magical abilities that amplified some of their natural talents. These gifts were so rare that everyone knew the stories of how Owen’s ability with the Fountain had been discovered when he was just a child. What they didn’t realize was that while he was Fountain-blessed, his supposed gift of seeing the future was a total deception. The cunning Ankarette Tryneowy, the queen’s poisoner, had helped him perpetuate the ruse when he was a child in order to make him indispensable to the king. Together, they had misled the entire kingdom. After Ankarette’s death, the deception had continued with the help of Dominic Mancini, the king’s master of the Espion, who fed him some of the larger political developments before they were commonly known, cementing Owen’s reputation for future-seeing both within Ceredigion and abroad. Although the king had said Mancini’s appointment would only be temporary, the spymaster had an uncanny way of improving the king’s interests, and had managed to hold on to his position for years. Owen and Mancini had a mutually beneficial partnership, one that served both of them well.

Sometimes Owen had already guessed the news the Espion snuck to him because of his keen ability to predict the cause and effect of things. For example, Mancini had not told him that King Iago Llewellyn of Atabyrion would strike an alliance with Chatriyon of Occitania, uniting the two kingdoms against Ceredigion, but he wasn’t surprised in the least that it had happened. It wasn’t being Fountain-blessed. It was being smart.

As Owen approached the command tent, the guards protecting it lifted their poleaxes to let him through. At seventeen, Owen had not finished growing yet, but he was already a man’s height, and he was wearing his family badge, the Aurum—three golden bucks’ heads on a field of blue.

The instant he ducked under the entryway, Owen saw Duke Horwath, who was wearing his battle armor and holding a goblet of sweet-smelling wine. His hair had gone grayer over the past few years, but he still had the same calm, unflappable demeanor that had always impressed the young man. He was a soldier, through and through, and had fought in numerous battles over the last fifty years. His steady presence filled Owen with confidence.

“Evening, lad,” Horwath said, dipping his head, giving him a wry smile.

“You don’t look at all nervous,” Owen said, hardly able to suppress a smile.

Horwath shrugged, took another sip, and set his cup down on a small table near a fur rug.

“Any word from your granddaughter?” Owen asked hopefully.

“She said she’d hold the North if the Atabyrions invade while we’re here doing battle with the Occitanians. I think she’s hoping they do. She’s a little jealous, you know, that you get to be part of a battle before she does.”

Owen smiled at the sentiment, picturing her in his mind. Doing so always made him feel strangely excited, as if a cloud of butterflies had all clustered inside his stomach. He didn’t know whether the feeling was battle jitters or the simple longing to see her again. He did his best not to mope, but he did miss her. She had lovely brown hair that was long and thick. Sometimes it was braided. Sometimes not. She had eyes that were the most transfixing shade of blue . . . no, they were green . . . or gray. It really depended on the light and her mood. He missed her way of chattering on and on, her quick wit, and her wickedly delightful sense of humor. Elysabeth Victoria Mortimer—Evie—was his best friend in the entire world and the only other person aside from Mancini who knew his deepest secret.