The Thief's Daughter (Kingfountain #2)

“Is she truly amidst your army, Anjers?” Owen asked. “Perhaps I would be persuaded of this fanciful tale if I could actually see and speak with her.”

“By all means! You are most welcome to come with me to see her,” Anjers said. “But do not think us mad enough to trust her amongst those who would wish to do her harm. Or pretend to be her,” he added with emphasis. “What is your answer, my lord? I grow impatient with this dallying. Will you submit to your rightful queen?”

“I will gladly submit to my rightful queen,” Owen replied with a bow. “When there is one to submit to. Thank you for your pains in delivering the message. You will receive our response shortly.”

Anjers sniffed, clipped his heels together, and bowed to Owen before departing from the tent. As soon as he was gone, Owen let out a pent-up breath.

“Is the king truly dead?” Stoker asked in a strained whisper. “I cannot believe he would lose to that Atabyrion peasant!”

Owen put his fists down on the map. He had studied warfare since he was a child. He had read the accounts of all the major battles in the last few centuries. All of his instincts screamed that this was a trick. If Severn had died, the Espion would have gotten him a message. But with Mancini dead, it made sense that there would be confusion and chaos in the way messages were handled and delivered.

He stared at the pieces on the map, looking from his small cluster of pegs to the Occitanians’ enormous army. In a straight battle, the odds were not in Owen’s favor. He had not chosen the ground. His supply lines would get longer and longer the farther he went from Tatton Hall. Owen grimaced, feeling the weight of the decision on his shoulders. If Severn were dead, then continuing to fight would be construed as treason. Besides, Elyse would make a better ruler than Eyric, a man who no longer knew his country or his countrymen. He would submit to Elyse, but only after he had seen the king’s corpse.

“What should we do, my lord?” Stoker pressed anxiously.

“Out,” Owen said sharply. “I need a moment to think. All of you—out!”

The captains abandoned his tent, leaving Owen in the muddled silence of the camp. He stared down at the map and opened himself to the Fountain’s magic. How could he turn this situation to his advantage? A nighttime raid would be predicted and prevented. Chatriyon would not be duped the same way twice. He could try to send Etayne into their camp to murder the king, but they would undoubtedly be expecting it. He rubbed his throbbing temples, feeling the trickle of the Fountain as it rushed into him. He stared at the emblems on the map representing the Brythonican forces. If the alliance with Brythonica were real, then having Marshal Roux there would actually help his cause. But he could not trust that the lord marshal was a true ally. He had been involved all along, working toward his own unknown motives, ever since Owen’s first encounter with the Occitanian army. And then there was the uncanny way he always seemed to know where to be and when . . . No, Owen could not trust him. But he could test him.

The Fountain filled Owen’s mind. It was like he saw a Wizr board mapped out in his mind. It almost felt as if Ankarette were there in the tent with him, leading him from the Deep Fathoms. He felt his throat catch and thicken with tears. She was the one who had taught him about Wizr, who had shown him how to defeat an opponent quickly and decisively. But she had given him another lesson in the game. When an opponent threatens you, the best way to respond is not by reacting to the threat but by turning the game around and delivering a new threat.

The way you won a game of Wizr was by capturing the king.

The strategy unfolded in Owen’s mind, blooming like a flower kissed by the first rays of the sun.




Owen watched Etayne’s face for her reaction as he explained his plan to her.

As she grasped the full scope of it, her eyebrows lifted. “You’re going to march against the capital of Occitania, the city of Pree?”

Owen nodded. “I won’t need supply lines, because my men can feed off the wagons that Chatriyon is sending to support his own army. More importantly, it pulls him after us, away from Kingfountain. It buys Severn time.”

“But what if Severn truly is dead?” Etayne asked, still dumbstruck.

“I don’t believe he is,” Owen said, shaking his head. “We would have heard. We need to give the king time to bring his army down here. Then we will have caught the Occitanians between us. And by marching on this side,” Owen said, pointing to his map, “we keep the Occitanians between us and Roux’s men. There’s no opportunity for him to flank us. If he’s on our side, it actually pinches the Occitanians between us. They won’t be expecting it.”

“But we only have a few thousand men,” Etayne said, shaking her head. “This plan is full of risks, Owen.”

“A smaller force defeated Occitania years ago at Azinkeep. Surely they won’t have forgotten that. I’m going to leave behind a column to block the road, then I’ll have the men come around in circles to make it seem like reinforcements are arriving constantly. War is all about deception, Etayne. If we’re going to face this army, I want to do it on ground we’ve chosen. On our terms, not theirs.”

“You are either mad or brilliant,” Etayne said, shaking her head. “When will you do this?”

“Now,” Owen said. “Roux always seems to be one step ahead of me. I hope to catch him off guard this once. Tell the captains to come in. We’re leaving camp right away. We’ll leave all the tents up to disguise what we’re doing. I want to start marching while there is still daylight left.”

The captains were amazed to learn that Owen was planning such a bold maneuver, but they assured him the army would be ready to move quickly. Clouds from off the coast began to churn in the sky, promising fog or a sea storm. Owen strapped his sword to his waist, wearing his hauberk, and nodded to his flag bearer. Farnes had been sent ahead to advise the Occitanians of Owen’s decision not to join forces. But he would give them no warning as to his plans.

His stomach churned with worry as he watched his army begin to march in thin columns. There was movement in the Occitanian forces—the troops were lining up for battle, assembling soldiers to form the vanguard. The wind whipped up, making the pennants and flags flap sharply. The air smelled of mud and filth. Owen could not remember the last time he had bathed.

He led the column with his captains, some mounted archers going off ahead to clear the way. The Espion had chosen a road through a small wooded area where the army could divert from Averanche and join the main road to Pree.

A few splattering drops of rain began to strike against Owen and his steed. The clouds were black and roiling in the skies overhead. Soon it became a downpour. Owen marched on grimly, trying not to let the weather foul his mood. The roads became muddy and clogged within the hour, and the men began to grumble.