“Careful, lad,” the duke warned, seeing Owen’s faraway look. “Keep your thoughts here in Occitania, where they belong. You don’t want to be daydreaming when a sword comes at your helmet.”
Owen had indeed been daydreaming, so he smiled ruefully. The duke meant him well—after all these years, he was almost a grandfather to him too. Owen could see the grizzled duke hoped for an alliance between their duchies. Though Owen and Evie were never allowed to go off alone together, not without Evie’s maid, the three of them were known to plunge off rocks into the river at the base of waterfalls and take some unnecessary risks to their health.
“When do we call in the captains?” Owen asked, chafing his gloved hands. He was impatient for dawn.
“They are settling down the soldiers for the night. They’ll be here shortly. You keep pacing. Should have brought your tiles to stack.”
Owen smirked. One habit that had survived boyhood was his love for stacking tiles into intricate patterns. Now that he was older, the patterns were even more ridiculously complex, and his collection had grown to an impressive quantity of tiles.
Owen’s herald, an officer by the name of Farnes, ducked into the tent. He was in his mid-forties and already had some gray in his reddish hair. He knew protocol better than anyone and had served Owen’s father in many battles. “My lords,” he said after a stiff bow. “The herald from the King of Occitania just arrived in camp. He wishes for an audience with you both.”
Owen looked over to Horwath, who frowned slightly. But rather than offer his opinion, the grizzled duke just said, “It’s your army, lad.”
“Well, send him in, Farnes,” Owen said. As soon as the man left, Owen clasped his hands behind his back and started pacing again. “My guess is he’s here to bribe or threaten us. A bribe is more likely. He can always pay us with the coins he’s planning to rob from the Duchess of Brythonica’s coffers.” The current hostilities had been sparked, in part, by the King of Occitania’s attempts to force the duchess to marry him against her will. The duchess had begged assistance from all the neighboring kingdoms, and Severn had heeded her call to secure an ally. “How much do you think he’ll offer to send us away without a fight?” Owen continued.
Duke Horwath chuckled to himself. “Does it even matter how much it is?”
“Of course not. He doesn’t understand us . . . or Ceredigion. I just want to get a sense of whether I should feel insulted or not.” Hearing the sound of boots approaching, he paused to listen. “Here they come.”
The herald announced the visitor as Anjers, and the Occitanian proceeded to enter the tent, striking his head on the tent flap when he didn’t duck low enough while entering. It mussed up his hair somewhat, making Owen stifle a smile.
There was something about Occitanian fashion that Owen hated. The man’s tunic was puffed velvet, a lavender color with lilies on it. The collar was stiff, straight, and high, making it almost look like a chain around the man’s neck. The hair, as always, was combed forward, regardless of whether a man was balding or not, making the front point out. It was combed forward on the sides as well, making the tips look like feathers. No matter the fashion, the Occitanians were darkly handsome, and Anjers was no exception, even at twice Owen’s age.
“Ah, the young duke,” Anjers said, trying to fix the hair that had been mussed by the tent flap. He spoke Owen’s language flawlessly. Commenting on Owen’s age was not the best way he could have begun his speech.
“You have a message from your master?” Owen asked in a bored tone. He folded his arms and gave Duke Horwath a sidelong look.
“Yes, my name is Anjers, herald to Chatriyon, King of Occitania. Once again he is making an invocation of peace to Ceredigion. The affair with Brythonica is a matter of no concern to you. The king would be your ally and friend. As such, he proposes to pay the expenses for your campaign. If a battle is required to appease your bloodthirsty king, then he will allow the slaughter of three thousand men of his ranks to appease the Butcher of Ceredigion. It is my master’s hope, however, that as princes, a truce can be signed between our realms without shedding any blood. The king rightfully seeks the hand of Lady Sinia, one of his own subjects, and a unified realm. At what price may my master be assured that this meddling will end?”
Owen listened patiently to the speech, but he was bristling inside at the words being used, both the accusations against his king and the brutal offer of collusion. He released some of his pent-up Fountain magic to discern the man’s weakness and saw that he was a diplomat, not a soldier. He wore no armor beneath his puffy sleeves and was completely vulnerable. Owen had learned much about his abilities over the years from the king himself, who had tutored him on drawing his magic from the Fountain. The two had learned that Owen’s well of capability had greater depth than the king’s, which may have been a result of the fact that the king hadn’t discovered his own gifts until much later in life.
Though Owen knew from Mancini that King Severn was deprecated in foreign courts as a ruthless tyrant, a villain, and a child killer, that version of him was no more the real King Severn than a toy sword could create true slices. Though the king’s nephews had indeed disappeared, he was not responsible for their deaths. His mistake had been to allow untrustworthy men to take the children into custody.
The herald had long since finished speaking, and the silence grew awkward. Owen stared the man in the eye, letting the silence draw out longer, increasing the herald’s discomfort. Men always felt uncomfortable in silence. He stared at Anjers all the while.
“I don’t know which offends me more,” Owen said evenly. “That your master believed he could buy us with a battlefield victory. Or that he thought we could be bought at all. Especially after his father tried to purchase my death at the hands of our former spymaster when I was a child.” Owen paused a moment to let his words sink in. His supposed ability to see the future had been perceived as a threat by the realm’s enemies, which had led to the assassination attempt. “I knew you were coming tonight,” Owen said, letting his voice develop a mystical quality. “You tell your master this. When the sun dawns over this field, he will know the true measure of the men of Ceredigion. There is no gold that will turn us away from our purpose. My king and master made an oath to the Duchess of Brythonica that he would defend her realm. Your master will see that we do keep our vows. Tell him this, Herald. And return to this camp again at your peril. My king has not forgotten that this land was once ours. We have every right to come to the defense of our true subjects.”
The herald’s expression flickered with rage and contempt. “By your leave then. Boy.”
He turned and marched back out of the tent, smacking against the tent fold again. This time he nearly knocked himself down, and it was all Owen could do not to laugh. He would have to tell Evie all about it later.
The Thief's Daughter (Kingfountain #2)
Jeff Wheeler's books
- The Queen's Poisoner (Kingfountain, #1)
- The Banished of Muirwood (Covenant of Muirwood, #1)
- The Void of Muirwood (Covenant of Muirwood Book 3)
- Landmoor
- Poisonwell (Whispers from Mirrowen #3)
- Silverkin
- The Lost Abbey (Covenant of Muirwood 0.5)
- Fireblood (Whispers from Mirrowen #1)
- The Blight of Muirwood (Legends of Muirwood #2)
- The Scourge of Muirwood (Legends of Muirwood #3)
- The Wretched of Muirwood (Legends of Muirwood #1)
- The Hollow Crown (Kingfountain #4)