He slung his arm around Owen’s shoulder and led him back to the throne. He nodded to Mancini. “Now fetch me Horwath’s granddaughter. I’m in need of her grace and good cheer. I daresay if she asks me to build a fishpond in the great hall, I may just do it!” The king laughed, probably for the first time in weeks, and clapped Owen on the back. “Well done, lad. Well done.” Then his face grew more serious. “Oh, and Mancini. Have Tunmore join us from the tower for supper. It’s been two days since he’s eaten. I’m sure he’s hungry.”
Owen’s smile faded as he realized what the king meant. Tunmore had already been dragged out of sanctuary.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Grave Secrets
Owen and the spymaster Mancini walked side by side, moving deep into the palace’s Espion tunnels to the towers where the prisoners were kept. The dark corridors were frigid and Owen saw little puffs of mist as he exhaled. A deep sense of foreboding had settled inside him, thicker than the winter clouds shrouding Kingfountain.
“You finally persuaded him,” Owen said, trying to master his anger. He still distrusted the man, but for the moment, he needed Mancini to believe they were on the same side.
“Persuaded whom to do what?” Mancini asked. “Be clear, young man. I do a lot of persuading every day.”
“You know what I meant,” Owen snapped. “Abducting Tunmore from the sanctuary.”
“We should have done it years ago,” Mancini said dismissively. “The man’s been scheming from Our Lady all the while. Why should he be protected from his treason?”
“How did you do it?”
Mancini shifted the lantern he was carrying to his other hand and lifted it higher. “There are men in that place who do anything for enough coin.” Such as you, Owen thought darkly. “I had someone distract the sexton while half a dozen men waylaid Tunmore. He was carted out under a tarp, trussed up and gagged, and brought straight to the palace.” He snapped his fingers. “Easily done.”
“How did you convince Severn to do it?”
Mancini snorted. “I didn’t need to persuade him at all. Once we discovered what had happened with Elyse, you should have seen his fury. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him rage like that, not even when Ratcliffe turned traitor. Her betrayal was particularly personal because he had put so much trust in her.” The Espion turned and gave Owen a knowing look. “Even you betraying him would not have cut him to the quick like this. He needed vengeance. And it was Tunmore who turned her mind to Chatriyon.”
“I’m surprised Severn didn’t throw him into the falls,” Owen muttered.
“As we both know, that particular method of execution cannot be relied upon for the Fountain-blessed. No, the king has had Polidoro investigating all the details of the execution of the Maid of Donremy. He wants to make sure Tunmore stays dead.”
The bleak feeling within Owen worsened. He did not have much pity for Tunmore, but something felt entirely wrong about forcing the man from sanctuary. Violating an ancient tradition out of petty revenge did not sit right. While Owen believed that some of the folk customs about the Fountain were merely superstitions, he knew for a fact that the Fountain was real, and he felt a queer sensation that it was offended.
There were Espion guards waiting for them at the end of the corridor.
“Good evening, Master Mancini,” one of them said.
Mancini handed his lantern to one of them. He glanced at Owen. “I change the guard regularly, and we inspect his cell every hour. The man hasn’t slept or eaten in two days.”
Owen felt a throb of pity.
“He’s quite uncomfortable, per the king’s commands,” one of the guards added with a cunning smile.
“Tonight, the king would like Tunmore to join him for supper.”
The other man chuckled. “What will he serve him? Rat stew?”
“With a side of kidney pie,” Mancini snapped. “Open the door.”
A guard unlocked the heavy iron door and a drafty breeze came through. Together, Owen and Mancini started winding their way up the tower. The wind keened and moaned up the black shaft. It sounded like the pained moans of a man, a thought that made Owen shudder.
“Do you think Severn will release him?” Owen asked Mancini.
“Pfah, no! Nor would I advise him to. No, the man is going to die. Severn is implacable in that regard. He’s a changed man, boy. When Elyse betrayed him, something jarred loose. Or should I put it another way? His disposition altered rather suddenly and dramatically.”
“How so?” Owen pressed, feeling the weight of his conscience grow heavier. He had sworn his loyalty to the man Severn was. What if Elyse’s betrayal had scarred him so deeply Owen could no longer serve the man he had become? All of Owen’s wealth, his status, and his holdings were due to his loyalty to the man. Was he willing to risk all of that? Was he willing to betray his king?
“In many ways, many ways,” Mancini said. “For starters, his first impulse was to assassinate Chatriyon. But now that his temper has cooled, he’s determined to destroy him in person. He is planning to invade Occitania and shatter the lad’s kingdom. It may take him several years of austerity to finance such a venture, but he’s determined to depose him. To yank the crown from his head. All while Elyse watches helplessly. He will never trust her again. I don’t know if he will trust anyone again after this. Confound it, is that the wind or Tunmore’s moaning?”
He seemed to have finally noticed the noise himself.
When they reached the top of the tower, there were two more guards pacing nervously in front of the door.
“He’s been moaning like a madman,” one of the guards said worriedly. “I’ve warned him to shut it or we’ll gag him, but he’s gibbering. He’s gone mad, he has!”
“Open the door,” Mancini said sternly.
The guard wrestled a key into the lock and opened it.
The tower loft was ice cold. All the windows around the cell were open and snow hung in thick clumps throughout the freezing chamber. There were no beds, an empty brazier had been knocked over, and other than a filthy straw pallet, the only furnishing was a foul-smelling chamber pot.
At first, Owen could not see Tunmore, but the moaning brought his attention to the man standing on a previously unnoticed bench by a double window. His arms were gripping the window ledge. He was making a terrible sound, his eyes filled with despair.
“What are you . . . get down from . . . what are you doing, man?” Mancini shouted against the wind.
Tunmore had sleet sticking to his face. His hair was spiky, and his skin had a grayish cast to it. There was a wild look in his eyes when they came to rest on Owen.
“Chaaaah!!!” he groaned, recognizing the young man instantly. “It’s not too late! It’s not too late! Thank the Fountain! It’s not too late!”
Owen stared at Tunmore without comprehension. “What is the matter with you?”
“I am a dead man. I’ve seen the waters. I’ve seen the Deep Fathoms, so I thought it was too late. But you are here. You are Fountain-blessed! The Dreadful Deadman is coming! He returns to Ceredigion! He must wear the crown, boy. He must!”
“What nonsense are you babbling about?” Mancini asked angrily.
Owen felt something reach into his heart and clench it. A cold hand, a knife. “Who?” Owen demanded. “Eyric Argentine?”
The Thief's Daughter (Kingfountain #2)
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