The Thief's Daughter (Kingfountain #2)

The lord marshal nodded. Then his eyes wandered over to the chest containing the ancient Wizr board. His lips pursed. “You may wish, my lord,” he said in an undertone, “to leave certain valuables in places where they cannot be easily stolen.”

He then ducked under the tent flap and left. Owen was curious about his choice of words. As his captains prepared to leave the pavilion and enter the storm once again, Owen crept over to the chest. He carefully removed the lid, afraid the Wizr set inside might be missing. The pieces were still there, undisturbed.

Except for one.

His mouth went dry as he realized a move had been made. One of the pawns on the white side had been replaced by the Wizr piece. His heart started pounding violently in his chest as he stared at the gleaming piece. It was on the left-hand side of the board. The pawn was now sitting in one of the adjacent trays for discarded totems.

Had someone come into his tent and moved the piece? Or had it moved all by itself?





King Severn Argentine returned to Kingfountain with his triumphant and frostbitten army. There is no doubt his life was preserved by the Fountain and that he is truly the King of Ceredigion. He defeated Iago Llewellyn’s forces with the help of his loyal friend, the Duke of Horwath, who cut off Iago’s retreat and captured him along with his chief nobles, including the wealthiest one, the Earl of Huntley. The prisoners are being held at the royal castle while preparations are underway for Iago to marry Lady Elysabeth Victoria Mortimer, who will become the Queen of Atabyrion and seal the new alliance between our kingdoms. An alliance that has been purchased with much blood. We now await the arrival of Duke Kiskaddon, who conquered the massive Occitanian army that came to invade Ceredigion. His success ranks as one of the most decisive, improbable victories since the defeat of the Occitanians at Azinkeep. All rumors of his defection and treason have proved false.



—Polidoro Urbino, Court Historian of Kingfountain





CHAPTER FORTY-ONE


The Queen of Atabyrion




It was a brisk autumn day when Owen rode his weary stallion beneath the portcullis of the palace of Kingfountain. The cheers from his ride through the city were still ringing in his ears as he dismounted in the bailey. Eyric sat stock-still on his mount, gazing up at the spires and towers of the palace with a look that combined nostalgia and fear. Owen’s left arm ached from his wound. Etayne had changed the dressing regularly, and it was strapped to his chest with some leather as he rode. The cloak he wore concealed the crooked bend of it, and he could not help but harbor the dark thought that he was slowly, ponderously, turning into a shadow of Severn himself.

One of the groomsmen offered a hand to Eyric, who at first blinked at the disruption and then took the hand and dismounted as well. Etayne appeared behind him, her eyes assessing the various onlookers for any sign of a threat. With a nod, Owen bade her to keep an eye on Eyric, and she gave him a subtle motion with her head to acknowledge it.

Although Owen’s stomach craved refreshment, he felt so worried and nauseous he would not be able to eat. Word had reached him of the king’s alliance with Iago Llewellyn—and the price of that alliance. He was haunted by the grim reality that he was losing Evie forever. He had clung to the hope that his victory against Occitania would be enough to sway the king into granting him his heart’s desire. But every league he had crossed to return to the palace had filled him with fresh despair; his worst fears were about to come to pass.

“My lord,” Justine’s voice said at his shoulder. He had not seen her approach, but that was not surprising, for he was in a fog of misery. She looked mournful, which only pushed the knife deeper into his heart.

“She is here?” Owen asked hoarsely. “The wedding arrangements are underway?” He desperately wanted to be contradicted.

Justine flushed a delicate pink. “They are, my lord. She asked me . . . she wants to speak with you herself. Before you see the king. She’s at your secret place. Waiting.” Justine looked as if she wanted to say more. He saw tears in her eyes, and then she reached out and put her hand on his arm, making him flinch with pain.

“I hurt you!” she gasped. “I’m sorry! That’s your wounded arm. I’m—”

“It’s not your fault,” Owen said, shaking his head, trying to banish the memory of the pain. “I will go at once.”

Owen knew that Severn would be expecting him in the throne room. He should go there first and deliver his report in person. But he had to see Evie. He had to listen to her words himself. As he started across the yard, he caught sight of Etayne. “Wait for me outside the throne room,” he told her.

She nodded and hooked arms with Eyric, who was shuddering with fear as he crossed the threshold of his childhood palace.

Owen had a thought and caught Etayne’s arm. “Take him to Liona first,” he whispered to her. “Let him see a friendly face.”

He stared back across the yard at the yawning portcullis. The last time he was here a violent mob had been pressing against the gates with the intent of throwing Severn into the river. The memory hit Owen like a spike of pain: Evie facing down the mob and trying to persuade them to relent. Evie falling. He had held her in his lap, afterward, as the blood flowed from her brow. It was the last time he had seen her or touched her. He had seen an unusually large number of armed soldiers wearing the symbol of the white boar while passing through the city. There was a curfew now where there had not been one before. They were preparations in case of another riot.

Owen’s throat tightened painfully, but he swallowed and entered the palace. When he reached the corridor leading to the cistern, he found the door at the far end ajar. He tried to control his breathing, but he felt as if he were about to plunge over a waterfall. He pushed the door open gently, gazing out at the place where he had shared so many memories with her.

Evie was pacing near the edge of the cistern hole. She was wearing a dark green gown with silver stitching. He would have recognized the sound of her leather boots anywhere. Her hair was long, with little braids woven together in an intricate and exquisite pattern. As the sound of the creaking door reached her, she spun around to look at him.

The worried look in her eyes was the final affirmation that his life with her was over.

“Owen,” she murmured, and he saw tears dance in her lashes as she rushed to him.

He took her into his arms, crushing her against him, feeling his own tears burning down his cheeks. His heart ached with a torment that was different from when Ankarette had died. This was a new sort of death. He didn’t know how to endure it.

Owen felt her tremble and sob as she clutched the front of his tunic, his one good arm wrapped around her shoulders. His left arm was in agony, but the pain was nothing compared to what was in his heart.