The Thief's Daughter (Kingfountain #2)

Owen wanted to get his hands on the chest. It was sitting on the table, teasing him with its vulnerability. It was a riddle and a mystery, and he wanted to solve it. But he had no doubt that Tyrell would never allow it.

Kathryn’s eyes were doubtful. “My husband, your uncle is a cunning and shrewd man. He sent Lord Owen to deceive us once. Why would he not do so again? I feel”—she paused, her hand tightening on her stomach—“we can trust him, but I worry what will happen if you are caught. I could not bear to lose you.” Her look was so tender and loving that it made Owen regret what he was about to do.

“If I am caught,” Eyric said, dropping his voice lower. “We already discussed what I would do. What I would say. Have courage, dear one. It is time to cast the die. Iago Llewellyn may rid us of this monster once and for all. We must march against him now, while the tide is in our favor. We won’t get another chance.”

It was true.

Eyric turned to Owen. “Where is my uncle’s army?”

“He’s in the North.”

Eyric nodded firmly. “That was always his greatest bastion of support. But I was once the Duke of Yuork. The people there will forsake him as everyone else has done. He was never meant to rule Ceredigion. It is time we rectified that mischance.”

“Hold me,” Kathryn murmured worriedly, coming into her husband’s embrace. The couple lingered that way, and Owen’s heart wrenched inside his chest. He had to look away, and his gaze found Tyrell’s. The man’s face was twisted in rage. It was easy to guess at the cause: His efforts to stir up contention had failed because Owen’s magic deflected the magic of others. He was impotent in Owen’s presence. And he knew it.

“Come, my lord,” Tyrell insisted, almost whining. “Let’s summon your soldiers. We have two hundred men so far and more will come every day. The sooner we march, the sooner the people will rally to the Sun and Rose.”

“I perfectly agree,” Owen said, stepping forward. “I have a pavilion a short distance. Why don’t you and Lady Kathryn join us for a meal?”

Eyric shook his head. “My lady will not leave sanctuary until I return to bring her to the coronation. The Fountain will look after you in my absence.” He tipped up her chin and gave her a lingering kiss. Lady Kathryn blinked back tears.

“I will return for you, my love. I swear it.” He turned to Owen and Etayne. “Let’s gather at your camp then. I’d like to speak to your men. I hope to help them see the rightful cause they undertake.”

“My lord, I don’t think that’s wise,” Tyrell said, shaking his head.

“Come, Tyrell. I’ve lurked in shadows for long enough. It is time to face the light.” He gave Kathryn one last look before shifting his attention to the deconeus. “Your Grace, I leave my most precious jewels in your hands. Guard them well.”

“I will, Your Majesty,” the deconeus said with a plump smile.

Lady Kathryn gave Owen an imploring look. He was about to turn away, unable to bear her gaze any longer, but she caught his sleeve.

“Thank you,” she whispered. She blinked quickly. “I know you risk a great deal, Lord Owen, and I will not forget your kindness. The daughter of the Earl of Huntley is grateful. My father will reward you handsomely.”

Owen’s mouth was dry. “Thank you, Lady Kathryn. But I do not do this for the reward.” He looked into her eyes, knowing the memory of the trust he saw there would haunt him the rest of his life. It did not matter; he had a duty to perform. The Fountain had told him to protect Eyric’s son. It had not told him to defend the father. But despite that, it was still an agonizing conflict.

Tyrell hefted the chest under his arm and they started to walk together out of the sanctuary. Owen sensed he had a dagger concealed behind the chest. But the man was not wearing armor, so he was quite vulnerable to blades himself. The night was cold and misty. Men came quickly with torches, and a rabble of Atabyrion warriors drew in around them as protection. Some cheered Eyric’s name and others hoisted banners with the Sun and Rose. Eyric raised a fist and smiled. He was a handsome man and he looked like a true prince.

The call of a night bird came in the distance.

As they reached the gates, Tyrell cast furtive glances into the gloom, looking weary and sick with nerves. “My lord, where are your other guards? Should we not fetch them?”

“It’s only a meal, Tyrell,” Eyric said with a grunt. “I’ll be staying with my lady at the sanctuary tonight. Once the soldiers hear my speech, the word will spread faster. Trust me, old friend.”

Tyrell was growing frantic. He knew crossing the gate was dangerous, but he seemed to sense the tide had turned against him. Owen stared at Eyric, willing him to leave.

“It’s cold,” Etayne said with a shiver, bringing up her cowl. He wondered if her disguise was in danger of slipping.

“Of course,” Eyric said, hooking arms with her. “Let’s get you back to a brazier. Come, Tyrell. Quit skulking. Let us go.”

“My lord,” Tyrell moaned. “I have an ill feeling . . .”

Eyric snorted again, shaking his head at the man’s foolishness, and then pulled Etayne with him as they left the gate. Tyrell lingered at the threshold, clutching the chest to his body. His eyes burned into Owen’s with wrath and heat, but Owen merely gave him a confused expression, shrugged slightly, and followed Eyric. Tyrell gritted his teeth and left the sanctuary.

Their boots crunched on the gravel path heading back into the mist toward Owen’s camp. His heart, though tortured, felt a quick surge of hope. It was going to work. A little farther, just a little farther!

The beggar man sat at the side of the road with his cup, shaking it and making the coins inside rattle. “Alms, my lords! Alms!”

Eyric opened his purse and produced a crown. “Here you are, my good man. Your fortunes are changing.”

The coin thunked in the cup. “Thank you, my lord. So are yours.”

The Atabyrion warriors slowly lowered their torches and tugged free their tunics, revealing the badges of Owen’s house beneath—the bucks’ heads on a field of blue.

Owen turned to the deposed prince coldly. “I arrest you by the name of Eyric Argentine.”

The look of shock and horror on the prince’s face would also be seared into Owen’s mind forever.

“How . . . how!” Eyric gasped, his jaw quivering.

The chest thudded onto the ground. There was a flash of movement, and Owen saw Tyrell’s dagger plunging toward his heart.

Etayne caught the thrust and jammed the flat edge of her hand against Tyrell’s throat to crush his windpipe. She torqued the wrist, and Tyrell went face-first into the ground as some of the Espion rushed forward to restrain him. Seized by a hateful rage, he choked for air and thrashed against his captors.

Two of the Espion, one of them the beggar with the cup, grabbed Eyric.