The Thief's Daughter (Kingfountain #2)

“I already knew that. Now tell me something about Lord Owen Kiskaddon. I insist. Not a secret. Nothing too personal. What does he look like? What is his personality? Is he as rude as you are?”

Evie laughed at the question. “Very well, my lord, if it will please you.” She took a moment, seeming to steady herself. Owen’s ears were aflame, and he was frozen in place, feeling an acute sense of misery. “Owen’s older brother was a hostage of King Severn’s, and because of his parents’ complicity in the plot to topple the king, he was thrown from the falls after the king’s victory at Ambion Hill. Owen was then sent to Kingfountain as a replacement hostage while the king and his advisors planned the fate of his family.”

“He must have been terrified,” Iago observed in a contemplative tone.

“He was,” Evie said. “My grandfather, Duke Horwath, brought me to Kingfountain to be his friend.”

“And your father, Lord Mortimer, died at Ambion Hill himself?”

Evie paused. “You knew that?”

“I do. That must have been very painful for you. Losing your father. When my father died, it affected me deeply. But please, go on.”

The king was more sensitive than Owen had realized. He nudged a clump of grass with the tip of his boot, wishing a flock of squawking ducks would flap overhead to interrupt things.

“Well, I will just say that Owen and I became close friends. And we have remained close ever since.” She paused, and he could hear the pain in her voice when she continued. “He is very dear to me still.”

Owen felt tears sting his eyes and one of them escaped, streaking down his cheek before he knew it had come. He clenched his jaw and willed them to cease.

“Then your mission to Atabyrion comes at a great personal cost,” Iago said in a low, sympathetic voice. “You have a duty to your king and a duty to your heart. All I can say is Owen Kiskaddon is a lucky man to have such a devoted friend. He is a powerful lord in your realm. Word arrived in Edonburick that he defeated the King of Occitania in a surprise night battle and sent him scampering. That’s the equivalent of defeating someone in Wizr in only two moves, which is theoretically impossible. I would that I could meet him someday. What does he look like?”

“He’s rather handsome,” Evie said in a tone that implied, to Owen, that she enjoyed talking about him. “He has brown hair with a patch that . . . he never combs. His hair is quite unruly.” Skating away from dangerous territory, she continued, “He is kind and thoughtful and very brave. He stands up for those who are weak, and petitions the king to have mercy. The king knows he is loyal, and listens to his counsel and advice.”

And Owen could tell she wanted to say, And he is standing right there listening to our conversation. But she did not.

Owen surreptitiously wiped the tearstain from his cheek, his heart burning inside his chest for the girl he loved.

“I guess I must ask you this,” Iago said softly. “When someone has conflicting duties, they must choose one of them. Can I surmise that you wouldn’t have come to Atabyrion if you weren’t prepared to fulfill your king’s wishes?”

“Are you prepared to release the pretender to my custody so that I might bring him back to Ceredigion?”

Iago sighed with pain. “I do understand conflicting loyalties,” the king said. “I gave Eyric my sworn word that I would aid and protect him. If I broke that vow to him, how could you ever trust that I’d keep a vow made to you?”

“You made that vow hastily,” Evie said pointedly.

“Indeed. If only you had come sooner. But there may be a way around it.” His voice grew more serious. “If Severn were no longer King of Ceredigion, then you would no longer have to hold fealty to him.”

As soon as he said the words, Owen’s mind began to race.

Suddenly a serving girl came rushing up to the patio. “My lord, I beg your pardon! My lady! Your maid is sinking fast. Her breathing is troubled. There is fear she is dying. I was sent to find you.”

Evie pushed away from the table and the Wizr board and started to run back to the sickroom. Owen was fast at her heels.





CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE


A Quiet Breath




As Owen stood to the side, watching Justine gasp, his heart was sick with sadness. Evie barely managed to hold back tears as she knelt by the bedside of her friend and companion and squeezed her hands. The Atabyrion doctor shook his head solemnly, giving the universal shrug of helplessness, and exited the room. Clark was sitting up unassisted now, and his look was dark and troubled as he stared at the pale girl. Standing beside him, Etayne looked haggard with exhaustion. The small band from Ceredigion was silent as they listened to Justine’s quiet, labored breaths.

The king had not accompanied them to the sickchamber, choosing instead to give Evie space to grieve amongst her own people.

“Please, Justine,” Evie begged, her face pinched with sadness. “You can do this! You can pull through! Please don’t abandon hope. There was so much we were going to do together. Please try to live! You must try. If you’d only awaken, you’d be able to eat and build your strength.” Evie wiped tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand, the other hand still gripping Justine’s pale fingers.

Owen hated to watch Evie suffer. He took a step toward her and put his hand on her shoulder. She looked up at him disconsolately, trembling with pent-up sorrow.

“I can’t bear to lose her,” Evie whispered. “I cannot.”

“I’ve done all that I know, my lady,” Etayne said wearily. “Poison affects people in different ways. Clark was stronger.”

“And I feel weak as a kitten still,” Clark said. Then he stared down at the girl’s sickbed once more, his mouth turning into a deep frown. “Poor lass.”

“I can’t give up; I won’t lose hope!” Evie said with frustration. “Please, Justine! I need you! I need your comfort and your companionship. You are so dear to me. Please!”

The gasps were getting more pronounced. It was agony to watch her frail chest heave and sigh. The intervals between her breaths were punctuated by moments of stillness.

A timid knock came at the door. Evie looked furious at the interruption, so Owen walked to the door and opened it. Lord Bothwell stood on the other side, his face flushed.

“What is it?” Owen asked.

Lord Bothwell covered his mouth. “The . . . ahem . . . the individual we were seeking. Tell your mistress,” he craned his neck to try to see around Owen, who blocked the view deliberately. “Tell her he was found. At the bottom of the falls. A fisherman caught him in his nets. There was a knife wound in his back. I suspect that means the poisoner is still at large. Do be careful, sir. Guard your mistress. It looks like her protection rests in your hands entirely now.”

“I will indeed,” Owen said. “Thank you, Bothwell.” He started to shut the door, but the Atabyrion noble held it.

“If there is anything I might do to be of service . . . ?”