The Thief's Daughter (Kingfountain #2)

Tunmore’s face sank into a mask of fear and dread. He looked like a man standing on a precarious bridge, one that was about to collapse. “You have no idea, little pup,” Tunmore whispered harshly, “what is truly happening here. What you risk in supporting that monster. This is not about kings and courts and Espion. There is more at stake here than you can even comprehend. You pretend to have the sight, but you see nothing!”

Just then Clark walked up to them. His face was composed and neutral, but his eyes were gleaming. There was a folded note in his hand, the wax seal broken.

“My lord, I found it,” Clark said as he handed the note to Owen.

“Where did you . . . ? That is mine!” Tunmore blustered. He reached for the note, but Clark seized his wrist and applied pressure to a sensitive spot. Suddenly the deconeus was wobbling on his feet, his features tight with pain.

Owen took the note from Clark and opened it. As the first words met his eyes, he felt the force of the Fountain again, but this time it was as strong as a river. Before Owen could be swept away by it, he steadied himself. When he looked down at the words again, it was as if he had become a boulder dividing the river. It went around him on both sides, making him a little dizzy from the rushing noise, but it could not budge him.

“How are you doing that?” Tunmore snarled, staring at Owen in amazement.

“Though it is your gift to sway others, you cannot force me to believe something against my will,” Owen said with scorn. “I see it clearly. You wrote the original. Now the information is being copied. The one we found in the king’s tent was a copy of a copy. You’re spreading lies to weaken King Severn just as you attempted to do years ago. This is misprision in the highest degree. Believe me, Deconeus, if you leave this sanctuary, you will not be thrown into a river to judge your guilt. We both know most Fountain-blessed would survive such a test. No, you will be taken to a mountaintop to freeze to death. Yes. I know that too!” Tunmore’s face went wild with disbelief and fear.

“You are guilty of treason, and everyone who has supported you and sent you messages is also guilty. If you wish me to intercede on your behalf with King Severn, there is one piece of information you must give me this very moment. Where will this pretender’s ships land? Where will they strike first? I know about Atabyrion striking the East and Occitania striking the West. Where in the North is the pretender going to land?”

Tunmore’s face was like dripping wax. “Despite what you may think, I have not committed treason. It is not treason to support the true king.”

“I may be young, but I am not a fool,” Owen said sharply. “Do you think I believe any of this rubbish?” he asked, wagging the papers in front of Tunmore’s face.

Tunmore shook his head. “It is not rubbish, you little upstart. I am the one who persuaded the king’s simpering former spymaster, Bletchley, to make the princes disappear. It was always my intent to keep the throne of Ceredigion unstable until the surviving lad was old enough to take the crown himself. I’ve hidden him in Brugia. I’ve hidden him in Legault. He’s been to every kingdom except his own. And he is returning, our true king! When he lands, the people will rise up and throw the tyrant into the river. You cannot stop the destiny of the Fountain, lad. You might as well try and turn a river with your hand!”

“Where is he landing?” Owen demanded.

“Even if I told you, you would not get there quickly enough,” Tunmore snarled.

Blackpool.

Owen heard the whisper in his mind. Tunmore stiffened, indicating he had heard it as well. Blackpool was one of the coastal cities in the north of Westmarch, the largest trading city.

“This explains why the queen dowager hasn’t been eager to leave sanctuary,” Owen said rudely. “I had come with a commission from the king to pardon her. I can see now that she is also behind the plot.”

“The queen is deathly ill,” Tunmore said roughly. The tone of his voice hinted that the man did not believe the ailment was natural. In light of Owen’s discovery in the tower, he wondered if Mancini was behind it.

Owen nodded to Clark, who was still gripping Tunmore’s wrist. Returning the nod, Clark released the man and shoved him toward the edge of the fountain, causing him to totter and then splash into it. The man sputtered and choked, coming up dripping wet, small beads of water dripping from his short hair.

“It’s considered sacrilegious to bathe in the fountain,” Owen said before turning on his heel and storming out.





The history of Ceredigion and the myths of the Fountain go back for almost a thousand years. Some historians have written that the Fountain myths go back even further, to the very creation of the world. They tell of a land birthed amidst ash and fire from a tumultuous sea called the Deep Fathoms. Boundaries were invoked by the great Wizrs of old to hold the Deep Fathoms at bay. The myths say that the kings of old came from the sea to learn how to tame the land. But one of those kings defiled the boundaries, and then there came a flood.



—Polidoro Urbino, Court Historian of Kingfountain





CHAPTER SEVEN


The Earl’s Daughter



The king’s army rode north as if the hooves of their steeds were on fire. Messengers had been loosed ahead of them to warn Evie of the danger, but Owen had insisted on riding at once. After hearing what Owen had learned in his confrontation with Tunmore, Severn had not only permitted it—he’d chosen to join him. They rode like thunder and lightning, a storm that swept across the kingdom in a sea of black flags bearing the white boar.

Owen’s confrontation with Tunmore played itself over and over in his mind. Facing another Fountain-blessed had been intimidating, but the young duke believed the deconeus had come away even more shaken by the encounter. He remembered Ankarette saying that Tunmore had been her mentor. The man had tutored her in the arts of deception and court intrigue, just as the king had trained Owen after Ankarette’s death. But Tunmore was not the adversary he had once been; his well of magic was nearly dry, and he had been deprived of opportunities to replenish it fully.

Their company changed horses frequently to gain more ground. The king had brought five hundred men and mounted archers. It would probably not be enough to defend his kingdom, but it was more urgent to get to Blackpool quickly than it was to do so en masse. Owen’s captains would be coming to Blackpool from Occitania, but they would likely not arrive for several days. However, Owen knew that the kingdom’s main fortress in the North could withstand a long siege, and if they managed to trap their enemy against its walls, they could expect victory in the end.

His mind was constantly plotting and assessing the situation, thinking of ways they could defend themselves if the kingdom faced attacks on all three sides.

On midday of their third day riding north, a horseman came with news that a fleet, bearing a man who claimed to be Ceredigion’s rightful king, had drawn ashore north of Blackpool. The pretender called himself King Eyric Argentine, and he had pitched Eredur’s standard—the Sun and Rose—on the beach.