The Thief's Daughter (Kingfountain #2)

Evie was curled up on the couch near Owen, her nose in a book. She did not look up as she turned the page. “Why do you think he is so good, my lord? He plays against me.”

The king chuckled at her haughty tone and then stood, wincing as he came to his feet. He limped to the huge window and watched the fluffy flakes of snow coming down. His expression softened as he ran his hand across the pane of glass, and the gray skies above chased away the shadows on his face. Though it was not yet winter, the mountains were notorious for bizarre snowstorms that could strike unpredictably.

Owen sorted the pieces and returned them to their wooden box. He stared at Evie, who seemed to sense his attention and shifted her eyes back to his. She was giving him her I’m proud of you look, then winked at him and returned to her book.

“I have many a fond memory of Dundrennan,” the king said in a brooding voice, still staring out the window at the gentle snow. He turned away, folding his arms and leaning against the crook on the wall near the window seat. “I used to play Wizr in this very room with my cousin, Nanette.” His voice fell as he mentioned the name of his dead wife. “As children, we’d catch snowflakes on our tongues. I think every child does that.” He chuckled softly to himself, and Owen felt he could see the oozing wounds of the king’s heart.

Evie put the book down, her attention drawn to the king’s raw grief. The light from the window made his black hair look like it was glowing. He stared down at the rushes that covered the floor, lost in a storm of memories.

“How old was she when she married the Prince of Occitania?” Evie asked. It was a sensitive question to pose. Lady Nanette’s short first marriage was likely a bitter memory for him.

The king’s eyes were as sharp as sword blades. His mouth twisted in shape, the expression somewhere between a smile and a frown. “You know your history, my dear. Many have forgotten those dark years. Those months my brother and I spent in exile in Brugia. Those months she spent married to that princeling.” His voice was so thick with scorn that Owen could see the wound had not fully healed. “She was seventeen.”

Owen glanced at Evie, who was the same age that Nanette had been. The possibility of losing her to another man made him grow warm with anger.

“It was a marriage that would have made her Queen of Occitania,” Evie said. “But it was a reckless match. Your uncle lost his life because of it.”

“We all lost much that year,” the king said bitterly. “And gained much. She lost her father and the throne of Occitania. And she gained another husband and the throne of Ceredigion. For a time.”

There was so much hurt in his voice that Owen wanted to steer the conversation away from such painful waters. Evie’s eyes were full of so much sympathy, she looked liable to go hug the king.

“You have not married again, my lord,” she whispered softly. “Is it because you truly loved her?”

Owen gaped at her audacity, but she was one who tended to jump into cisterns without a second thought. Perhaps it should not have surprised him.

The king looked taken aback, but he did not appear offended. He folded his arms across his chest and walked away from the window. “Aye, I loved her,” he said, breaking into a subtle Northern accent, as if honoring the memory of his late wife. “You can imagine it was awkward between us at first. We were raised together in this very place, this idyllic mountain valley. Dundrennan. I fought her father and bested him. I fought her husband, that little princeling, and bested him not far from Tatton Hall, where he was trying to escape back to Occitania. Scampering away like Chatriyon.” He chuckled mercilessly, glancing at Owen. “You’ve made an enemy there, Lord Kiskaddon. No king likes losing a game of Wizr. And losing a fight is every bit more galling. But I see how you play the game. You’re more than a match for that runt.”

She was not to be deterred. “But why haven’t you remarried, my lord?” she pressed. “It’s been ten years since your lady died. You have no heir. Surely it is time to set aside your grief?” Her look was sad but sincere, and very sympathetic.

The king stared at her for a moment. “You do speak your mind,” he said with a chuckle. “And like a dog with a bone, it won’t be wrested from you.”

She dimpled slightly. “If I’m being too presumptuous, forgive me. But I cannot believe your council hasn’t mentioned this to you.”

“My council!” he snorted with a bark-like laugh. “They wanted me to force the Duchess of Brythonica into a marriage alliance. She’s of an age with you and Owen.” He wrinkled his nose in disgust. “It has been forty years, this month, since I received the water rite and my name. How could I look on the duchess . . . and not see you, Elysabeth Victoria Mortimer?” He frowned deeply, shaking his head. “No, my council has not yet persuaded me to take a wife. It is customary, you know, for a king to marry the princess of another realm. My brother’s choice of a bride offended many, including my uncle, who committed treason because of it.”

He paced as he spoke, his voice throbbing with strong emotion. “Let me count the options. They are few. Save for the Duchess of Brythonica, there are no princesses in Occitania. Chatriyon has been vying for her himself, as Owen can attest. She has made it perfectly clear she wants nothing to do with him. She rules in her own right, and I cannot blame her for not yielding to a man who wants her domain perhaps more than he wants her hand. Even if Chatriyon were to succeed in marrying her, they will not produce children for several years, so there are no prospects for me there. And to boot, the duchess fears I am a child murderer and a misbegotten demon. That tree of opportunity is quite barren.”