The Thief's Daughter (Kingfountain #2)

“He’s talking to Marshal Roux in your tent.”

“Where is that?” Owen asked, looking around. “Where is Eyric?”

“This is the tent where I was hiding Eyric. He’s in your tent now, with Stoker and Roux. You’ve won, Owen. You’ve defeated the Occitanian army. Do you know how many ransoms you will get for this?” She looked at him with delight, shaking her head. “Do you know how wealthy you will be after this battle? How many lands you will be entitled to?”

“Where is Chatriyon?” Owen demanded.

She shook her head. “He was never here. He sent all his marshals and captains to defeat you. He feared for his life. He’s been in Pree all along.”

Owen tried to sit up again, and this time Etayne helped him. His arm was throbbing with pain, making him regret his refusal to take a potion. He blinked swiftly, realization slowly sinking in. The battle was over. He had won.

“Let me find where they put that shirt for you,” Etayne said. Owen only then realized that he was stripped to the waist. His battered and stained hauberk was crumpled on the floor of the tent. There were rags stained in mud and dirt strewn about and a basin of filthy water. He looked down at himself and saw that he had been cleaned. Etayne seemed to notice the reason for his scrutiny and she flushed slightly, then hastened to find a shirt for him to wear.

She helped him put it on, being especially delicate with his arm as he struggled to get it into the sleeve.

“Thank you,” he said as she finished tying the crossweave at his neck. She brought out a padded vest, which was much easier to put on, and helped him stand. His legs were wobbly and his head spun for a while, nearly making him fall, but she was there to keep him steady.

When he was finally standing without wavering, she looked him over critically, arranging his clothes a little to make him look more like a lord and less like a mud-spattered peasant. She then strapped the scabbard and sword to his waist, her hands deft and efficient. He was uncomfortable with her standing so near, dressing him.

“I meant to thank you for saving my life,” Owen told her, trying to catch her eyes even though she was refusing to look at him.

She shook her head slightly, ignoring his words. “It’s still storming. You need a cloak.”

Once again, he sensed that she felt more for him than friendship and gratitude. He thought it only fair to disabuse her of the notion that they could ever be together. But doing so now, just after she had saved his life . . . well, it would feel a bit coldhearted. He grunted as a throb of pain burst to life in his elbow.

She fetched a cloak, draped it over his shoulders, and lifted the cowl over his head. Once she was also equipped to face the rain, she took him through the rain-drenched camp to the command pavilion. Outside the main doors were two battle standards, the Aurum and the Raven. Both were dripping.

Owen ducked his head as he entered the tent. It was dusk, and the pavilion was full, but he immediately spotted Captain Ashby and the mayor of Averanche inside. He also recognized Marshal Roux, who was still wearing a mud-spattered tunic over his armor. The marshal gave him an almost reproachful look, as if it bothered him that Owen had come to the meeting so late.

“It is good to see you hale, my lord,” Roux said warmly, though his eyes were wary.

“Thank you, lord marshal,” Owen said. “Your intervention, once again, could not have been better timed.” Even though that had decidedly worked in their favor on this occasion, there was still something about the Brythonican that set him on edge. He noticed Eyric sitting silently at the edge of the tent, listening to the conversation.

The marshal bowed stiffly. “The duchess keeps her promises,” he said.

Captain Ashby came forward. “My lord, the lord marshal has been supplying Averanche for days. His ships brought casks and kegs to make sure the city was well provisioned. It was a siege, but we ate like kings! I wanted to get word to you that we could have held on much longer, only we could not get past the soldiers at our gates.”

Owen felt a prickle of guilt for having distrusted the Brythonicans so much. But even after hearing about their generosity, he felt uneasy.

The lord mayor looked particularly relieved. “We are grateful, Lord Kiskaddon, that you kept your word and did not forsake us. The people of Averanche long to welcome you back into your city. If I may suggest that you move from your camp to the castle to get out of this storm?”

Owen smiled when another loud crackle of thunder followed the mayor’s words, causing him to stiffen in surprise.

“I thank you, lord mayor, but must decline,” Owen said, shaking his head. “I long to get out of the wet, but we must ride back at once to bring tidings of our victory to King Severn. You may be sure that a celebration of our victory will be held in due time. At such an event, I hope we can have the pleasure of the duchess’s company?” Owen gave Roux a serious look.

The marshal’s face was perfectly composed. “She rarely ventures from Brythonica, Lord Kiskaddon. As you can imagine, her situation is fraught with peril, and there is a considerable risk of her being kidnapped and made a hostage. She has authorized me to negotiate the peace terms and ransom distributions on her behalf, though she is wont to be generous to our allies from Westmarch. I am certain we will find an equitable arrangement?”

“Indeed,” Owen said, feeling his curiosity about the duchess grow. His left arm started to throb painfully, and he felt sweat bead up on his brow. He wanted this conversation to be finished.

Marshal Roux studied Owen’s face for a moment, so implacable. “We will depart then and seek shelter at the castle, as the lord mayor’s guests. If you permit it.”

“I do,” Owen said with a nod.

“We would be most gracious hosts, my lord,” said the mayor, grinning eagerly. He seemed the kind of man who relished having powerful guests.

“Captain Ashby,” Owen said. “Provision the garrison to remain behind. Captain Stoker, have Farnes begin tallying the noteworthy hostages. Once it’s done, bring word of them to me at Kingfountain. The king’s nephew and I,” he said, looking Eyric in the eye, “will join him.”

Marshal Roux inclined his head and was about to leave.

Owen stopped him with a gesture. “My lord, have you heard anything about the battles in my realm? Anjers insisted that Severn was dead, but I’m convinced it was a trick.”

The lord marshal’s brow furrowed slightly. “I pray the Fountain that your king is safe,” he said cryptically. “I have no spies in your realm, my lord. We would appreciate the same courtesy in return.” There was a slight tone of reprimand in his voice.

“My best to the duchess,” Owen said.