The Thief's Daughter (Kingfountain #2)

They had to climb a huge series of wooden steps fixed with railings to reach the court of King Iago. Several members of their party were fatigued after mounting so many steps, but Owen and Evie were accustomed to long hikes. As they ascended the terraced planks, the rushing sound of the waterfall became part of the general noise, but it was still impressive to see the falls. They were birthed from a river that twisted and moved within a steep chasm of tree-topped growth. The falls seemed to start a bend in the river, forming a crescent-shaped drop that was both wide and steep. Owen saw a black-slicked tree wedged against rocks at the top of the falls. The force of the current pinned it there, preventing it from dislodging and careening down. Farther upstream, he could see timber rafts landing at river docks that were located a good way inland from the falls.

The climb brought them to the wide plateau where the king’s lodge stood. Lodge was the word that best described it, for it had none of the majesty of the palace at Kingfountain. The structure was large, and there were several gabled wings attached to the symmetrical roof. A huge chimney rose from the center, belching a plume of soot. As he drew nearer, Owen saw the posts and beams were carved with an inlay of gold designs. The designs were of high craftsmanship and reminded Owen of the patterns found in leather weaving. At least two dozen armed warriors in leather and skirts were posted at the front of the lodge, equipped with thick spears and bronze helmets from which their braided hair and beards could be seen. Each man had half his face painted in blue woad.

Clark nudged Owen’s elbow and nodded toward a nobleman who was standing to the side of the porch accompanied by a small entourage of servants with caps and quills. The man was balding with strands of black hair combed from the front of his dome down to the back.

“He’s Espion,” Clark whispered. “Just showed me a hand sign.”

Owen nodded and followed Evie up the wooden steps of the lodge. The warriors guarding the entry peeled back, and the enormous wooden doors were yanked open by their stout iron handles, each taking a strong man to heave it open.

As the doors opened, the roar of the waterfall was overcome by the commotion of a lively celebration. There were flutes and pipes and the stomp of boots in fast dancing. Smoke billowed out, for every other man inside the room had a curved pipe to his lips, and an enormous fire burned in a sunken pit in the middle of the hall. Long spits of meat were hung over the pit, and lads were crouched by the edges, turning their hands to rotate the sizzling flesh. The air smelled of crisping fat, honeyed mead, and sharp cheese. The commotion and assault on the senses made Owen’s head whirl. He rested his hand on his sword hilt, feeling threats and dangers were everywhere.

“Follow me this way!” shouted the nobleman who had escorted them from the docks. His voice barely rose enough to be heard over the noise. Evie nodded, and they followed him around the perimeter of the hall, under wooden arches and beams that held up the massive roof. In the center of the roof was a huge opening leading to the chimney, allowing smoke from the fire and pipes to escape. Still, Owen felt the fumes sticking to his clothes and skin.

They approached the head of the hall, where a wide dais led to an empty wooden throne. Torches hung on the walls behind the throne, revealing a mosaic of engraved sigils inlaid with gold. Next to the throne was a small pedestal and a goblet made of bronze that looked apt to tumble off the edge.

Owen tried to catch a glimpse of King Iago or the pretender, but with all the whirling bodies, clapping, and stomping, it was impossible to make any sense of the scene. The footwork of the dancing was impressively complicated, nothing like the more stately, solemn, and slow movements Owen was used to from the court at Ceredigion. Each man held an arm up in a half-moon shape while he danced, holding his partner’s waist in a grip that mirrored the posture with the other arm.

How to describe the women? It was impossible to distinguish their hair color because each wore a stylish headdress of varying design that completely concealed her hair. No two headdresses were the same, or so it appeared to Owen. How they managed to keep them on was a mystery, particularly considering the velocity of the dancing. The small serving girls who scuttled in and out with trays of drink and food did not wear them, though their hair was meticulously braided, some even with flowers, but it was definitely a symbol of wealth or power or rank to have an ornate headdress. In contrast, the gowns of the ladies were far simpler than the fashions Owen had seen in his own kingdom.

Evie and her company were escorted to the empty throne at the head of the hall and made to wait. Then a tall, fat man who reminded Owen of Mancini raised a huge horn to his lips and let out a blat that nearly shook the walls. The horn came down and the man wiped his lips on his sleeve.

The dancing stopped midstep.

The nobleman who had escorted them raised his voice. “Lord King Iago, you have a visitor from the benighted realm of Ceredigion. Lady Mortimer has come to the great hall of Chambliss to seek your counsel.”

Considering the press of dancers, it was impossible to judge whom the nobleman was addressing. Owen searched the faces, trying to identify the king from the rabble. And then he spied him, for heads all around the great room turned to look at him, and a small opening peeled off to provide him a view of Evie and her escorts.

Iago was short.

By Owen’s reckoning, and from what he’d been told by Mancini, the young king was nearly twenty years old. He was sweating profusely, and his mane of black hair was disheveled by the dance. There was nothing in his Atabyrion garb that differentiated him from his peers at all except for a circlet of dark gold around his brow, which Owen had not noticed amidst the throng. The king held the hand of an exquisitely beautiful young woman in a white satin dress, so white that it appeared to be snow, with a dazzling silver girdle and billowing sleeves. Her ornate silver headdress concealed her hair but not her serious mouth, flushed cheeks, and hazel eyes. The king held her hand and escorted her down the tunnel of bodies until he reached another young man. As the king delivered the woman’s hand into the awaiting grip of the young man, restoring the bride to her husband by all looks of it, Owen realized instantly that he was their quarry.

This young man was the pretender, and he did indeed look like an Argentine.

The king dipped his head to the young woman, saying something in the thick brogue of his native tongue, then brushed his hands together vigorously and strode across the hall to greet them with a charming smile.

“My fair lady Mortimer!” the king said in a polished accent. “You have come just in time to join the dance. May I be the first to introduce you to the quaint traditions of my realm?” He bowed resplendently.

Evie’s eyes were like flint and she gave off a haughty manner, not submissive or impressed in the least.

“My lord, Lady Mortimer is my mother,” she said curtly. “I am Elysabeth Victoria Mortimer, granddaughter of Duke Horwath, who defeated Atabyrion at the Battle of the Steene thirteen years ago. I did not come here to dance, my lord. I came here to prevent another war.”

Her voice was commanding, imperious, and it sent a hush through the crowd more efficiently than the horn-man had done with his tune. The hush was followed immediately by a murmuring of anger and resentment, making Owen fear she had gone too far.