The Thief's Daughter (Kingfountain #2)

When they reached the open doorway leading back into the warm corridor, the one they had used to reach the cistern, he helped hoist Evie up. Justine was already approaching with blankets, and she scolded Evie thoroughly as she wrapped her up.

Owen handed the box down through the window and then struggled to climb through himself, his body shaking so violently it wouldn’t obey him. He ended up tumbling onto the floor in a heap, his belly tight with laughter.

“Get up off the rushes, Master Owen,” Justine said, an amused look belying her frown. She swaddled him in a blanket as well, and they started quickly back to Evie’s room. There was a servant girl stoking the fire when they arrived, and both of them collapsed in front of it, savoring the cascading blasts of heat. The servant girl looked at them askance, and it was all it took for Evie to burst into giggles again. Owen could not help but join her.

Justine paced behind them, folding her arms. “My lady, we must get you out of those wet clothes at once. You’ve ruined your gown. Come to the changing screen. Master Owen, you can sit in those wet clothes for all I care.”

“I’ll be fine,” Owen said, trying to subdue his laughter. Evie smiled and paused to squeeze his shoulder before rising and hurrying over to the changing screen.

“If your grandfather only knew,” Justine said in a scolding whisper.

“You’d better not tell him,” Evie said. “You are the only other person who knows about our secret place. It needs to remain a secret, Justine.”

“You know you can trust me.”

“Don’t open the box yet!” Evie called from over the screen height. “I can hear you fidgeting with the straps! I’m almost done.”

She was right, of course, so Owen forbore what he had been doing until she hurried out from around the changing screen. Justine was trying to cover her head with a towel, but Evie shooed her away and rushed over to kneel at Owen’s side, wet hair dangling in front of her face in a deliciously tangled way.

“You look like a half-drowned mouse,” Owen said with a smirk.

“You are a half-drowned mouse,” she quipped back. “Open it!”

There was a firm pounding on the door and then it immediately opened. Both turned in shock as Mancini hurried into the room. There was no time to hide the box.

“There you both are,” Mancini said angrily, striding forward. “Look at you both! It’s as if you’ve been swimming . . . in . . . the . . .” His voice dropped off as he recognized the truth of his forming statement from their guilty looks, Owen’s soaked clothes, and Evie’s wild hair.

“What is it?” Owen asked, angry that the spymaster had caught them so quickly.

“It’s cold as death out there and you two were playing in the cistern again?” He gaped at them, but then his shrewd eyes saw the box lying before them. “What is that you have there? What’s in that box?”

“I don’t really know,” Owen said. “We haven’t opened it yet. Why are you here?”

“Because you were seen tramping about the palace soaked to the bone while I was trying to summon you to see the king! Jack Paulen arrived with news of the blizzard from East Stowe. The king wants to see you at once, Owen. I have news to share as well. But what is in that box? It looks long enough to hold a sword. Open it. Where did you get it?”

Owen didn’t fully trust the spymaster, but he was not sure how he could refuse.

“Go ahead, Owen. Open it. We didn’t do anything wrong.” Evie gave Mancini a look of unconcern. She was a great actress sometimes.

Owen bowed forward, his curiosity piqued, and started unfastening the leather straps holding the box closed. The leather was surprisingly hard for having been submerged underwater for who knew how long. The buckles were rusty, but the rust flaked off easily, revealing shiny metal. Evie worked on one of the straps while he did the other, and soon they were loose. Owen bit his lip as he studied the markings on the box. Upon closer inspection, it looked like a raven’s head. Wasn’t that Brythonica’s symbol?

Owen pried open the lip of the leather-bound box, and the hinges groaned a little and sloughed off rust as it opened.

“A scabbard,” Mancini said with a tone of disappointment. “That’s all?”

It was indeed a scabbard, devoid of a blade.

But it was not just any scabbard. It was made of leather, wrapped around a wooden sheath, hand-stitched with a wide belt fashioned into it. The hilt guard shared the same raven’s head sigil design as the box. The scabbard was scuffed and bloodstained. A few strands of leather had been tied into decorative knots. It was a beautiful work of craftsmanship and it looked quite old. A metal chape ended it with a filigree design.

Owen reached into the box and hefted it. The leather felt warm in his hands, which surprised him considering the cold place where it had been hiding. The interior of the box had no water stains, no sign of seepage, which also did not make sense.

“Just a scabbard,” Owen said. What sword had this scabbard held?

The sword of the Maid, came the answer.

“Where did you get it?” Mancini asked, his tone questioning and stern. “The cistern?”

Justine gasped and covered her mouth. Evie rolled her eyes in disgust.

“That answers that,” Mancini said, chuckling at the girl. “When you were children, you said something about there being a treasure in the water. I didn’t believe you. I was there when the cistern emptied. I saved your sorry carcasses from the falls. Let’s not forget that. But there was nothing on the cistern floor. Not even a florin.”

“But there is treasure on the floor,” Owen said, turning and looking up at the spymaster. “Only, you cannot see it.”

“But you can.”

Owen nodded.

“Is that what Tunmore was raving about then? Did he leave a treasure in the fountain at Our Lady?”

Owen didn’t want to answer, but he knew he should. “He did. I’ve seen the chest. But not open. It’s not long, like this one. It’s about this size.” He held up his hands about shoulder-width apart.

Mancini rubbed his mouth. “This is all very interesting and quite curious. I’m not one for superstitions, as you know. But I seem to have heard a legend or two about swords and fountains.” He glanced at Evie. “You know the ones.”

Evie nodded. “The greatest is the legend of King Andrew. He was a baseborn son of a duke. He drew a sword from a fountain and used it to claim the throne of Ceredigion.”

Mancini nodded curtly. “And the other?”

“The other was more recent. The Maid of Donremy drew a sword from a fountain in Occitania and used it to defeat Ceredigion. No one knows what happened to these swords . . . or if they were the same sword.”

The spymaster pursed his lips. “Very curious. Well, lad. Best you dry off and go see the king. Paulen is here, as I said, and the king wishes to consult with you on his strategy for defending the realm. I’m going to pay a little visit somewhere, and then will join you. I won’t be long.”