The Thief's Daughter (Kingfountain #2)

“It’s hard to be dispassionate in such a match of wits,” Severn said darkly. “That is why I need you, Owen, Dominic. I cannot see through the haze of my anger right now. Three enemies, four if you include Brugia. May as well bring back the Dreadful Deadman prophecy and have all six kingdoms attack us at once.” He tapped his lips and shook his head worriedly. “The Dreadful Deadman prophecy. I hadn’t thought of that. What if this is the fulfillment of that prophecy? A king rises from the dead and unites Ceredigion. My brother thought it was himself. So did I at one time. But what if it is this pretender? What if this is a game I cannot win?”

“My lord,” Mancini said patiently. “It is no use clinging to the ravings of dead men. There are plenty of living ones who threaten you. Princes play Wizr and kingdoms are the prize. Your protégé just handed a nasty defeat to Chatriyon VIII in Occitania. He wanted to increase his power by marrying the Duchess of Brythonica, and you’ve blocked him. Why else would he be supporting this . . . this . . . draper’s boy in Legault as King of Ceredigion! He fears you, my lord, and he fears losing to you in a fair battle. He may as well have crowned an ape! The imposter won’t last the month, let alone a year. It’s a game. A maneuver. You will have time to punish Occitania for its treachery.”

“And Legault?” the king demanded hotly.

“And Legault,” Mancini said. “And Atabyrion too. The way you win this game of Wizr is by being ruthless and bold. As I’ve told you time and again, you will not be loved by your people as your brother was. You must stop expecting this of yourself. It is better to be feared than loved.”

The king’s angry look was softening. “You speak wisely, Dominic. And I assure you, I intend to punish those who defy me. If I am too lenient, I will only risk more defiance.”

“The last time it helped,” Owen said in a subdued tone, “that you had the real Dunsdworth here at the palace. That was easy to prove. This one will not be. But I have an idea you might consider.”

“I treasure your ideas, lad. You know that,” the king said with a nod.

Owen looked around to ensure that all the servants were indeed gone. As soon as he was sure the three of them were alone in the throne room, he said, “A thought struck me as I rode past Our Lady on the way to Kingfountain. The prince’s mother still resides there. So does John Tunmore. They might be behind this resurgence. You remember the lies in that book Tunmore wrote about you? You let me read it all eventually because, for some reason, the magic of the other Fountain-blessed doesn’t work on me.” Owen looked steadily at the king. Both men knew that Owen’s innate resistance to the magic was not typical. He could not be easily deceived, which made him a great asset. “Tunmore’s gift from the Fountain is his ability to convince people through his writing.” Owen bent down and picked up the crumpled letter. “I have a feeling he may have written the original. He cannot get himself out of sanctuary, but it would only be too easy to smuggle something he’s written out of Our Lady. He may be persuading others to believe in the upstart.”

The king looked at Owen, impressed. “I had not thought of that.”

“Neither had I,” Mancini said, giving a little nod of acknowledgment.

Owen felt a little flush rise to his cheeks. “With your permission, Your Majesty, may I visit the sanctuary to see what I can learn? Perhaps he knows more about the pretender’s designs.”

“Or, as an alternative,” Mancini said eagerly, “I could have him removed from the sanctuary. Just give the command. I will have him here before you by supper.”

Owen scowled.

The king noticed. “You don’t approve, Owen. Even though you know the legends of the Fountain’s divine protection are false?”

Owen shook his head. He tightened his lips, not sure he wanted to speak.

“Tell me,” the king said.

“I’m not a child anymore,” Owen said. “Yes, I know that the sexton rakes the offerings thrown into the fountains and fills your coffers with them. But even that happens at night, not in front of the people. You cannot change the rules of Wizr just because you want one piece to move four places instead of two. If you change the rules, others will do the same.” Owen shook his head. “You might not like the consequences. Don’t risk the deconeus speaking out against you. The people wouldn’t take it well.”

The king’s eyes narrowed. He approached Owen and reached out to put a hand on the younger man’s shoulder, like a father would to a favored son. “You speak wisdom for one so young. I trust you, Owen. Go have a discussion with Tunmore.” His lips wrinkled into a sneer. “I grow more and more impatient with that man. While you are there, see if you can persuade the queen to leave sanctuary. It’s been twelve years. I won’t seek vengeance for the plots she has spun against me. Tell her that.”

“I will, my lord,” Owen said, pleased to see the king’s trust in him.

The king patted him fondly on the cheek. “Get you a bath first, though. You’re in need. Be quick about it, lad. I’ll be sending you to the North tomorrow morn to catch a pretend king!”





The best poisoners, they say, are trained in Pisan. Whoever comes to lead in that island kingdom is subject to the petty whims of the nobles who would betray their own fathers for a chance to rise in power. The diplomacy of poison is practiced there with an almost religious fervor. Even the most circumspect of princes must keep a poisoner in their employ. If only to counter those who are sent to murder them.



—Polidoro Urbino, Court Historian of Kingfountain





CHAPTER FIVE


The Poisoner’s Tower



Liona was still the best cook in all of Ceredigion, and she kept a jar of fresh wafers ready for those who visited the kitchen. She had always spoiled Owen horribly, which was why he liked going there.

“Bless me, child, but how you’ve sprouted!” Liona crooned, mussing up his freshly washed hair as he sat on a barrel’s edge eating a wafer. “When you first came here, I didn’t need a ladder to kiss your cheeks! Look at you, a man grown.” She stroked the edge of his arm, smiling at him with tenderness.

Her husband, Drew, whose hair was more silver than red now, smiled fondly. “Do you still have that satchel, Owen? With all those tiles for stacking?”

Owen smirked and nodded, dabbing a crumb from his mouth. “Of course! Only the collection has grown. Sometimes Evie and I bring them into the great hall when her grandfather is away and build our designs there.”

“In the great hall?” Liona asked, surprised. “Bless me. I’d like to see that.”

After Owen finished off the wafer, Liona offered him the jar again, and he eagerly took another. The kitchen looked smaller than in his memories. When he glanced at the corner where he used to play by himself, he could almost see the ghost of the little boy he had been. So shy and bashful, afraid to speak to anyone. Owen was rarely tongue-tied now, and his good looks and confidence made him approachable. There was still that solitary little boy inside him, though, and he would always prefer the company of a few to the company of many.