The Thief's Daughter (Kingfountain #2)

Owen felt the push of the king’s will against his mind as the king’s fingers dug into his shoulder. He knew the king was in earnest. And for the first time since he was a boy, he felt his life was at risk from this man.

Swallowing, Owen rested his hand on his sword hilt and steeled his courage. “I will not fail you, my lord,” he said solemnly.

“Then go at once. Do not waste a moment. Get you to Westmarch.”

Owen felt conflicted. He wanted to see if Evie was recovered, but the look in the king’s eyes showed that he was testing Owen. Duke Horwath had lost his own son, Evie’s father, in the Battle of Ambion Hill. Yet instead of going north to comfort his daughter and granddaughter, he had gone to Tatton Hall to fetch Owen. He knew this is what the king was expecting of him, although he would not say it.

“Send word for Etayne to join me, my lord,” Owen said with determination, swallowing his rising discomfort. “I leave at once.”

The king gave him a proud smirk. “Bless you, lad. May the Fountain bless you.”

With the king’s hand on his shoulder, they walked across the black and white tiles to the door of the sanctuary. As they crossed the threshold, Owen noticed that all the clouds had fled and a deep blue sky filled the horizon end to end. The snow and icicles were already starting to drip and slough.

“The storm has passed,” the king said with a touch of irony in his voice. “That’s all it was. Just a storm.”

But Owen had the distinct impression that it was something else that had caused the snow to abate. Something involving the chest that had miraculously disappeared from the fountain of Our Lady. And he also had a suspicion of where he might find it next, as well as the person who had taken it there. He would be going west, but not to Tatton Hall or to see the mayor of Averanche in the new territory he had won.

No, Owen would be going straight to the sanctuary at St. Penryn.





CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE


St. Penryn



The air had the chill of winter. Owen walked through the camp of his soldiers at dawn, hand on his hilt. His sword was sheathed in the braided leather scabbard he had withdrawn from the cistern waters at Kingfountain. It gave him a strange feeling of peace. The sky was gray and shallow wreaths of snow encircled the grounds. He could hear the sound of the surf crashing nearby.

Leaving his pavilion and the warm brazier inside behind, he trekked toward the water, following a sandy footpath overgrown with scrub. His mind was full of worries and doubts, of tangled plots and subtle machinations. This felt like a game of Wizr, only he could not see all the pieces on the board and shadowy hands were moving them.

The footpath ended abruptly, pitching steeply before a wash that led to the crashing waves below. The churning sea was impressive and came in undulating waves that crashed against jutting stones covered in seaweed and urchins. The beach was flat and gold, the sand fine and smooth. To the north, he saw the sanctuary of St. Penryn a short distance away. The sanctuary was built against the cliffside, a tall, stocky structure with many arches on each face. Thick balustrades offered support, and the main facade had twin towers on each side, set within a triangular-shaped roof.

Owen perched one boot on a boulder and stared at the structure. The stones it was made from were variegated bricks, giving it an almost mottled look. It was an ancient structure, in existence long before Ceredigion had become a kingdom.

It was also where Owen was setting his trap.

His mind wandered to Evie, as it so often did. His final words to her had been his declaration of love. The words burned in his chest, along with a sickening dread that Severn would continue to keep them apart. Part of him hoped that Iago Llewellyn would be slain in the coming battle. It was an ungenerous thought, but he did not regret it. The more he pondered the possibility of losing Evie to that man, the sicker his heart felt.

So many tiles were being arranged. But they were being arranged by someone else, someone who knew the pattern and knew the goal to achieve. The more Owen thought on it, the more he suspected that perhaps it was Marshal Roux of Brythonica who was behind the mist and shadows. Owen had long suspected the man was Fountain-blessed. Surely the Duchess of Brythonica would bring the most able and intelligent men to her service, men capable of impressive deeds. Roux had been there the night of Owen’s attack on Chatriyon’s army. He had come to Edonburick with a message of warning at exactly the right time to catch Owen and the others. But might there not have been another reason for his visit? Bothwell had escaped after that point, after all. Owen had not reasoned this out before, but he thought it possible that Tunmore might have been an ally of the marshal’s. Did the sheath bear the mark of the Raven because the treasure was connected to Brythonica? If so, then it would make sense that Roux knew about and would try to seize the chest himself. But as far as Owen knew, the marshal had never tried to conceal his comings and goings, and no tangible link existed between him and the others. Tyrell, on the other hand, was a skilled poisoner, and Bothwell had identified him as the man who had been sent after the king. There was more evidence indicating he had been the thief, but that did not mean it was the correct answer.

Owen stared at the walls of the sanctuary, frowning deeply. He was convinced that the chest Tunmore had hidden in the sanctuary of Our Lady of Kingfountain had been brought to St. Penryn. The snow that hung thick on the sanctuary walls and the tents of his camp was a further testament to his intuition. The storm had moved to the coast next. He knew with an unshakable certainty that something in that chest was making it happen. Even though it had remained hidden in the palace for years, the unfolding of recent events had done something to trigger whatever was hidden inside it. A force powerful enough to affect the very weather.

The sound of approaching boots pounded up the footpath and Owen turned, catching sight of his herald, Farnes, in the mist. Dawn was creeping in slowly. The sound of a gull’s shriek split the air.

“There you are, my lord,” Farnes said with a sniff, rubbing his arms to ward away the cold. “I was told you’d wandered off this way. Best to stay closer to your men, I think. These cliffs can be treacherous.”

Owen shoved off the boulder he had been leaning against and met Farnes a few steps farther down. “What news, Farnes?”

“You wanted to be told when the Espion girl arrived. She’s in your tent right now.”

“Thank you,” Owen said with a nod. He was anxious to see Etayne, hoping for news about Evie’s health.

“And word has also arrived from Averanche,” Farnes continued, a gleam in his eye. “You were right, my lord. They have word of Occitanian troops marching toward the city. You have several hundred men holding the city’s defenses. They can hold the city until the rest of our army arrives.”