The Thief's Daughter (4 page)

King Severn Argentine has not remarried following the death of his first wife, Lady Nanette, daughter of the Duke of Warrewik. They had one child, who died of fever not long into Severn’s reign. Then, shortly thereafter, his wife died. Some say she was poisoned, but that is always the first conclusion. The day of his wife’s death there was an eclipse. Some say it was a sign from the Fountain that Severn should not have taken the throne. But others who know him well say it was a mark of his deep grief at his lady’s passing. Some have nefariously insinuated the king secretly wishes to marry his niece, the lady Elyse. But those who have seen them together at court know their love is not romantic. They share a common bond of affection—a deep love of Eredur Argentine. Even after so many years, that ghost still casts a shadow.

—Polidoro Urbino, Court Historian of Kingfountain

CHAPTER FOUR

Severn

Since becoming the Duke of Westmarch, Owen had become accustomed to sending messengers to deliver news and give instructions. But this was news that needed to be delivered in person, particularly since an invasion might be imminent.

Owen’s feelings about King Severn were muddled and varying. The king was a hard man to serve, in part because of his razor-sharp tongue and characteristic moodiness, temper, and impatience. King Severn was Fountain-blessed too, and his power from the Fountain was the ability to persuade others with his words. He fueled that ability through diminishing others with his sarcasm and biting remarks. It was a strange combination of powers. Owen secretly wondered what would happen if the king switched to praise instead of ridicule. Would his gift be amplified? Or was giving a compliment even possible for such a hardened man?

Still, Severn valued loyalty above all else—his personal motto while serving his brother had been Loyalty Binds Me—and Owen admired the way he had surmounted the natural difficulties that arose from some defects of his birth. His shoulders were crooked, one of his arms a little bent. He often walked with a limp, though he tried to mask it.

The king had snatched the crown of Ceredigion after learning that Eredur had previously contracted a marriage, thus making his large posterity illegitimate. The boys had gone missing not long after, and there was a widespread belief that Severn had murdered his nephews in a grab for power. The knowledge of this public misperception tormented the king. Although he had not ordered the boys’ murders, it had happened under his reign, and he held himself responsible for their deaths. There had been no official proclamation of the event either.

That was a mistake.

Some conjectured the boys were alive and had been sent to the North to live in one of the king’s castles. Having been to all the king’s castles in the North, Owen knew the lads weren’t in any of them. It was a secret grief. Even after over a decade, it was a wound that still festered. Owen could scarcely imagine what emotions Severn would experience when he heard about the pretender’s claim, and the fact that four kingdoms were rallying to aid the imposter.

Owen and Clark rode hard from Westmarch, changing horses at several waypoints along the way and sleeping only for snatches to preserve their strength. Duke Horwath would remain in Averanche to make sure Westmarch was secure before joining Owen at Kingfountain. Of course Owen had shared the news with him, and Horwath had agreed the king needed to be told immediately. They were both anxious about Evie and the possibility of an invasion deep in the North.

It had been several years since Owen had last been to Kingfountain, and his heart churned with strange, conflicted feelings as he made his approach. He remembered being a little boy and riding to the castle in Duke Horwath’s saddle. Now his own men were riding with him, bearing his standard and badge for all to see. He was greeted with enthusiasm by the people, many of whom doffed their hats and waved them at him. Some of the women threw flowers as well, hoping to catch his eye. Word of his victory in Occitania had barely preceded him.

As he rode through the city and crossed the bridge to the sanctuary of Our Lady, he stared up at the spires and turrets, thinking about the time he had snuck away from the palace to try to claim sanctuary there. That was when he had first met Dominic Mancini, only a lowly Espion then, and the queen dowager, who still resided there. The thought sparked another—an idea he would mull upon until he saw the king.

They reached the palace hill and rode up swiftly, their horses exhausted from the long journey. It was a three-day ride from the borders of Occitania, and Owen was saddle-weary and hungry. He was tempted to sneak down to the kitchen to get some wafers from the cook, Liona, who had offered him so much comfort when he was just a boy.

Owen dismissed his escort and walked, hand on hilt, into the darkened halls of the palace. He was met, almost instantly, by Mancini.

“I’m surprised to see you here,” the fat man said with a cunning smile. “But it must be the Fountain’s will, for I have news.” Mancini had a few streaks of gray through his hair. He had lost weight in his new role, but while he no longer had the girth of the past, he would always be a big man. Dressed in the fashionable clothes of a courtier, he bore the badge of the white boar on his tunic and the chain of office around his neck. In the ten years since he had been named head of the Espion, he had increased his influence with the king through his expert advice and his knowledge of foreign lands. His knowledge of the trading nation Genevar had increased the king’s coffers significantly. Severn had sponsored several shipmasters in recent years and funded exploration to find new trade routes to the south. Some had been quite profitable.

“I wonder if our news is the same,” Owen said, not slowing his pace.

“Judging by the urgent pace you young people like to keep, it may well be. Have you had any
dreams
lately, my lord?” Mancini asked with an oily smirk.

“I have, in fact,” Owen said. While he appreciated Mancini’s abilities, he was always wary of the man, for he knew he kept most of what he heard to himself. “I dreamed of the land of Legault.”

Mancini pursed his lips. “Then you’ve heard about the imposter. I’ve already told the king. Don’t look angry, lad, it’s my
job
to tell him something before he finds out another way. Had I known you were coming, I would have waited another day. But such news cannot be delayed.”

“I understand, Mancini,” Owen said, though what he understood was that Mancini would always look out for himself first and foremost. “Where is the king?”

“Where he usually is when he’s angry. Come with me.”

They walked together to the throne room of the palace. Owen was sticky with sweat and irritated from lack of sleep. He needed a bath and a meal desperately, but he was anxious about Evie and wanted to head north to ensure she was well. The possibility of an army landing in the North in a surprise attack by the false prince caused a twist of anxiety in his gut.

They were announced by trumpet before entering the hall, a ceremony that Owen hated and knew the king did as well. Owen’s eyes found Severn as soon as he and Mancini strode into the throne room together.

Owen could not help but think how much things had changed since he had been presented to the king all those years ago. The king had aged quite a bit. His black hair now had a few silver glints near his ears, but it was still long, as was the fashion in Ceredigion. He wore black, though his tunics were becoming more and more elaborate as his wealth increased. Owen saw he was twitching with his dagger still—loosening it in its scabbard, drawing it out a bit, and then slamming it back down. It was an unconscious habit that gave one the perception he was accustomed to stabbing people. The way he was leaning forward on the throne—his chin resting on one fist—disguised the deformity of his back.

“Owen,” the king said in surprise, his look softening as the young man knelt in front of the throne. He gestured impatiently for him to rise.

“My lord, I rode as hard as I could,” Owen said, feeling sweat trickle down his back.

“Your arrival couldn’t be more opportune,” the king said gravely. “I applaud your victory. Word arrived only yesterday. You did well, lad. I expected nothing less. But there is trouble. A storm is brewing out at sea.” His look darkened again, his mouth turning into a frown.

“I know,” Owen said, drawing closer to the king. Mancini kept a respectful distance away. After clearing his throat, Owen continued, “Pardon me, my lord, but I’m weary from the journey. I had a dream in Westmarch. One I had to tell.”

“You did?” the king asked. “Tell me!” He seemed very agitated, his eyes wide with a keen desire to hear about Owen’s supposedly prophetic dream.

“It was a short dream,” Owen said. “I dreamed I was walking in a garden. There was a withered rosebush, but when I passed it, I noticed there was a single white rose on it. I plucked the rose and smelled it, but in dreams you cannot smell. I could not tell if it was living or not.”

The king’s eyes narrowed. “A white rose.”

Owen nodded. He had used the imagery of the rose deliberately because the Sun and Rose was the battle standard of Eredur. Reaching into his vest, he withdrew the letter found in Chatriyon’s tent. “Then we faced Occitania’s army and my man Clark found this in the king’s tent. The dream made more sense to me after I read it.”

The king snatched the paper away and unfolded it, scanning the contents feverishly. His countenance burned white with livid fury as he read it.

“Blast the Fountain!” the king thundered, throwing the letter down to the ground. He rose from his throne, quivering with rage. Servants were already slipping out the doors to escape the great hall before the coming storm. Owen felt his heart rattled by the king’s blasphemy, but he said nothing. He knew from long experience that it was best to ride out the weather silently.

The king’s boot trampled the letter as he walked off the dais. “Must I always be plagued by malcontents and whisperers? Am I never to have a moment of peace? I had two enemies, two
wolves
snarling and snapping at my boots. Now a hunter comes with a long spear aimed at my heart. And my sister, no less, is behind this. My own sister.”

Owen stared at him, knowing it wasn’t yet time to speak. The king’s wrath was still flaming.

Severn muttered dark curses under his breath. “I am hated everywhere,” he said. “Hated, feared, despised. Dogs yap at me as I pass. Once, the house of Argentine commanded such respect and devotion. Nations quivered in dread of offending us. Now look at them. Conspiring and plotting to bring me down. Like a boar.” His voice deepened to a growl. “But I won’t be captured. I won’t be speared.”

He seemed to become aware that he was talking to himself. Straightening, he turned back to look at Owen and Mancini, who were staring at him.

“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.”