The Thief's Daughter (Kingfountain #2)

He took another step, using his fingers to tally. “Let us move on to Atabyrion. King Iago is nineteen years old and unmarried himself. He has many damsels to choose from in his own realm, the Earl of Huntley’s daughter, Kathryn, is the most beautiful in Mancini’s estimation, but he wishes to expand his domain rather than empowering one of his nobles even more. Iago Llewellyn would also love to woo the duchess if he could, but his domains are even smaller than Occitania’s. Then there is Brugia. There was no legitimate heir, so the many princes of that realm are preoccupied with slaughtering each other in an effort to unify the realm. I could throw the gauntlet down and marry one of their daughters, but that will entangle me in wars, over land that I care nothing for, and irk a possible ally. I think Duke Maxwell to be the likely victor. He is shrewd, cunning, and utterly ruthless.” He rubbed his hands together vigorously. “Pisan . . . too small. That leaves Genevar, which earns its coins trading and exploring. The council once tried to persuade me to marry my niece, Lady Elyse, but that would cause no end of trouble for me. Besides, it would repulse my subjects if I were to marry my brother’s daughter, whom I disinherited. To be honest, my dear . . . I have very few options, and all of them are unsavory to me. Is there anyone I am missing, my dear? Do you have any suggestions?”

She looked crestfallen and sad. “I . . . I don’t, my lord.”

“Then I trust you will not pester me about this again,” he said with just enough of a barb to sting. His mood was always mercurial, and Owen could see the anger thrumming through him now. It was common for countries to seal alliances with marriage. That none had tried or dared to offer one with Severn Argentine had to rankle.

The king turned back to the window. “Well, I’ll be blessed by the Fountain,” he said, his expression changing. “Your grandfather has ridden through a storm to get here.”




Before long, after a greeting delivered amidst a chorus of barking hounds, Duke Horwath was sitting in his favorite chair in front of the crackling hearth, savoring the mug of steaming broth in his hand. His cloak was dripping from a hook nearby, the plops sizzling when they hit the warm stone floor. The snow was melting from the cloak, and chunks of ice pattered off it.

Evie knelt by her grandfather’s chair, her face beaming with relief. He looked haggard and uncomfortable, but he did not complain, and the lines of weariness were slowly fading from his face.

Horwath rested his hand on the girl’s on the thick armrest, patting gently. “I heard what you did at Blackpool, child,” he said with warm affection. He patted her again. “You’ve my blood in you!”

She beamed at the soft-spoken praise and picked some dust or lint from his doublet. “You left me in charge, Grandfather. I didn’t want to disappoint you.”

He chuckled softly, then hooked his hand around her neck and pulled her close, kissing her hair in a mark of tender affection that made Owen swallow. How he wished he could be that open in his feelings for her.

Then Horwath tipped her chin up and gazed into her eyes. “You are beautiful. And the king is proud of you.” He looked over at Owen. “He’s proud of you both. He couldn’t ask for more loyal young people to serve him. Mark my words. You two are special. And you will both make Ceredigion stronger. I know you will.”

Owen felt his heart burning with pride. He walked up to the other side of the duke’s chair, glancing down at Evie. She looked so beautiful at that moment, the firelight shimmering in her dark hair, her eyes glowing with happiness. There was that familiar ache again, that growing impatience.

“The king was surprised you rode through the snow,” Evie said with an impish smile. “I think he’s forgotten he’s from the North as well.”

Horwath smiled as he stroked his gray goatee. “He’ll never forget that, lass. Not until the waters stop falling at Kingfountain. He has ice in his veins, as we like to say. Even young Kiskaddon here is a little frostbitten, I think. What say you, lad?”

Owen folded his arms, still gazing down at Evie. “I do love the North,” he murmured.

Her cheeks flushed a little, and she couldn’t hold back a grin.

The grizzled duke took one of her hands and then one of Owen’s, and for a moment, he looked as if he would join them together.

“It’s my deepest wish,” he said huskily, “to unite our houses and duchies. Before the king rides back to the palace, I plan to petition him for a boon. But only if you both are still willing.” He smiled wryly. “I’ve seen the way you look at each other. I’m old, not blind. I’d like to speak to the king on your behalf, Owen. He may take it better coming from me. But I didn’t want you to be startled in case he asks about your feelings.” His smile slipped a little. “His heart is so wounded, he may not have noticed the signs as I have.”

From the look on Evie’s face, Owen could tell she was trying to quell her excitement and enthusiasm. He could tell she wanted to burst out with her answer, but she was waiting for Owen to say something first.

“I would prefer to ask him myself,” Owen said, still looking at her, his heart so full he almost couldn’t speak.

Evie jumped to her feet and into his arms, quivering with joy. It was only when he felt the wetness on his neck that he realized she was crying.





After the defeat at Blackpool, King Severn sent warships to ravage the coast of Legault. They are on the hunt for the pretender’s ship. Their orders are to punish the Legaultans and prevent them from creating a safe haven for the pretender. A sizable reward has been offered for the capture of the man masquerading as Eyric Argentine, the lost son of King Eredur. I think it is far more likely that the pretender has sought haven elsewhere. The question is—which of the king’s enemies would shelter him?



—Polidoro Urbino, Court Historian of Kingfountain





CHAPTER NINE


The Duchess’s Warning



Owen walked with Severn across the bailey to where the king’s horse awaited him. The host of riders all wore the badge of the white boar and one carried a spear with a pennant that flapped in the cold wind. Their boots crunched on the thin cakes of snow in the yard. The king seemed invigorated by the cold, and there was no sign of a limp as he walked.

“My lord,” Owen asked, clearing his throat.

“What is it?” the king asked curtly, scanning the feathery clouds that crowned the massive mountains to the north.

A groomsman positioned a mounting block as they neared the king’s charger, and Severn swung up effortlessly into the saddle. The horse grunted with familiarity, and the king stroked his neck, smiling fondly at the beast.

Owen felt a tightening in his chest, a familiar sensation he had rarely experienced since childhood. His tongue became swollen in his mouth, preventing the words from coming out.

“Well?” the king demanded, his brows knitting. His gloved hand tightened on the reins.

“It’s a small matter,” Owen stammered, feeling a blush creep to his cheeks. By the Fountain, why did he have to get tongue-tied still!

“I’m not interested in small matters,” the king said petulantly. “We must away. Now that Horwath has returned to the North, I’d like you to return to Kingfountain in a fortnight. No more. I don’t think this pretender will strike the North twice, now that we’ve disrupted his plan. It is getting nearer to winter.” He gazed up at the clouds again. “Although here it is always winter. I miss it.” He looked down at Owen sternly. “A fortnight. No more. Then come.”

“I will, my lord,” Owen said, chafing with impatience.