The Thief's Daughter (Kingfountain #2)

Tunmore’s face twisted with pain. “He’s not the Dreadful Deadman! You will know. You will know him! You are part of him! You serve him. You’ve always served him! Be loyal to your true king, Kiskaddon.”

“King Kiskaddon!” Mancini shouted in surprise, but Owen knew the spymaster had misunderstood.

There was a feverish look on Tunmore’s face. “It’s not too late! It’s still not too late! The chest! Boy, the chest! You must move it or all is lost! Take it to the fountain at St. Penryn. The waters there will quiet the curse. Do it, boy! Before all here perish!”

“He’s raving,” Mancini said with a whisper.

“Who is the Dreadful Deadman?” Owen asked, taking a step toward Tunmore. “Do you know?”

“He is coming! He is returning! As it was, so will it be. You are his champion. The true king . . . !”

His words were cut off by a roar of wind that jolted the castle tower and brought in flurries of ice. Owen shielded his face from the sting of sleet.

“Take him!” Mancini shouted to the soldiers. “Grab him before he jumps!”

But it was too late. Through squinted eyes, Owen watched as Tunmore toppled over the window ledge. He raced over to the window, staring in shock, his heart thundering in his chest. The wind knifed against the keep towers, sending swirls of snow with it. When he looked down at the inner bailey, he saw a crumpled body spread-eagled on the flagstones below.

“He killed himself?” Mancini shouted, grabbing Owen’s shoulder. The spymaster gazed down at the body, shook his head with revulsion, and then ordered the soldiers to hurry down and conceal the body. Owen felt dizzy from the great height, and the deconeus’s words had shaken him to his core.

“What was he raving about?” Mancini asked in a troubled voice. “I couldn’t hear the last words. Did he name you . . . did he name you king, lad?” The grip on Owen’s shoulder tightened. “I thought he did. He was a deconeus. Was it a prophecy?”

Owen could see Mancini’s mistake, but he was too confused and heartsick to know what to say.

“He was delirious,” Owen finally answered, shaking his head. “You drove him mad by putting him up here.”

But the young man remembered seeing the chest in the waters at the fountain of Our Lady. A chest that he had first seen in the cistern waters beneath the palace. He was confused and shaken, but something told him Tunmore’s words were not meaningless ravings.

“So he was trying to do more mischief?” Mancini asked. “Trying to sow the seed of rebellion in you? I wouldn’t put it past him. That man was a cunning eel. He said something about St. Penryn. That’s a sanctuary in Westmarch, isn’t it?”

Owen wished the spymaster hadn’t heard that part. “Yes,” he answered. It was a fishing village along the coast in a deep corner of Owen’s domain. He had heard curious tales about that place. Fishermen routinely dredged up strange items along the coast—shields, rusted helmets, and horseshoes.

There was a history to the land of Penryn. Owen did not know much about it, having spent so much time in the North. But he knew of two people who did know a great deal about history. He had to see Evie and the court historian, Polidoro Urbino.

But first they needed to tell the king that his enemy had fallen to his death from the tower and would not be joining him for dinner.





In my time at Kingfountain, I have found no legend more commonly known but ephemeral than that of the first king of Ceredigion. Chasing this legend is like chasing a ghost. Very little has been documented, and most of the documents that do exist date back centuries and are duplicates of earlier sources. The legend depicts a time in the distant past. A time when powerful Wizrs walked the land. A time when bravery was accounted as the foremost virtue. It was an era when a young man, a Fountain-blessed boy named Andrew, united a fractured kingdom and stopped the wars and bloodshed that tortured Ceredigion. This young man became a great and mighty king, perhaps the mightiest of kings, and he had Wizrs who advised him. It is said that he had a magic Wizr set. A set that, if played, would predict the outcome of battles and determine the destiny of nations. King Andrew was so wise that he never lost but one game, a game he played against his bastard son. King Andrew was defeated shortly thereafter, flooding the world with darkness. But there was a prophecy by the great Wizr Myrddin that Andrew would one day return. The prophecy is called the Dreadful Deadman.



—Polidoro Urbino, Court Historian of Kingfountain





CHAPTER THIRTY


Leoneyis




Owen knelt on the floor, arranging the final pieces of a massive tile tower that was so delicate it was already starting to wobble. He felt Fountain magic seeping into him, replenishing him from the earlier drought. Justine was working on an embroidery nearby, but she occasionally glanced over at him and Evie on the floor, their heads nearly touching as they concentrated on the final pieces.

He had shared with Evie every detail of his confrontation with Tunmore in the tower. Speaking the words out loud had allowed him to sift through his thoughts, arranging what he knew and did not know. He knew he lacked all the pieces to solve the riddle.

“How did Severn react to Tunmore’s death?” Evie asked, handing him the final tile.

Owen shook his head. “He was surprised but not sorrowful. I would almost say he exulted in the man’s downfall.”

“But you didn’t tell him what you told me. About the chest.”

“No, and neither did Mancini. I’m sure the Espion will be watching the sanctuary. But Mancini thinks the Fountain is a superstition. He can’t see the treasure. Now that Tunmore’s gone, I might be the only one who can. I think Mancini took Tunmore’s words as the ravings of a madman before committing suicide.”

“But you think there’s more to it,” Evie said softly. Her eyes were shifting colors at the moment, moving from silver to blue to green. She was deep in thought.

“It is so frustrating!” Owen complained. “All these hints and secrets are maddening. When I faced Eyric, I could tell he had been told something. A legend? A secret? I’m not sure what it was. But it influenced him greatly. And he tried to influence me to join him. But how could I without knowing more? I don’t relish being someone’s fool.”

“I know,” Evie said sagely. She reached out and patted his hand. “No one does. You’re wise to be wary about what Tunmore said. He implied that some sort of imminent danger was coming and you were the only one who could prevent it. That would naturally make you curious, but it could well be a trap.”