The Thief's Daughter (8 page)

The king looked at her with satisfaction; his gray eyes were lit with gratitude. “Well done, Lady Mortimer. Lady Elysabeth Victoria Mortimer, pardon me,” he added, seeing she was about to correct him. “You’ve shown great sense, bravery, and pluck, and you will be rewarded. I promise you that. To also use the parlance of Wizr, you have proven you are more than a pawn. I best make good use of you then. Tell me all that happened. Leave nothing out.”

The Duke of North Cumbria oversees a vast land in Northern Ceredigion. It is a land of towering mountains wreathed with snow and ice. There are glaciers there that are older than time and riddled with ice caves from the melt. I have spoken to the palace mapmaker, who informs me that the river feeding Kingfountain comes from this land of ice and snow. The winters in North Cumbria are harsh, and there is little travel in or out during those months. The people are used to it. They are hardy folk with a queer dialect not dissimilar to that of Atabyrion. There is belief that Atabyrion was once part of Ceredigion. The lands are only separated by narrow gaps of water. The Dukes of the North have been loyal to the Argentines for generations. King Severn himself was raised in the North when his uncle Warrewik governed the land from the mighty stronghold of the North. The fortress is called Dundrennan.

—Polidoro Urbino, Court Historian of Kingfountain

CHAPTER EIGHT

Dundrennan

Owen could hear the fire in the hearth crackling and feel the warmth of its flames on his shoulders. But his eyes were fixed on the Wizr board. It was the beautiful, handcrafted set that King Severn had given to him when he was eight years old. And this time he was playing the king himself.

Severn’s eyes were as gray as storms as he bent over the board, his gaze intense and his lips pressed hard together. He was losing. Again. Owen knew it rankled the king that a seventeen-year-old could best him half the time. Sometimes Owen let him win and the king would look at him suspiciously, never certain if his victory had been hard-won or yielded out of graciousness.

“Hold nothing back,” Severn admonished him, bringing forward a piece shaped like a knight on horseback. The king’s free hand fidgeted with his dagger. “If I win, I want to earn it.”

The king let go of the piece.

When Owen played Wizr, he deliberately kept his face neutral. He had learned from playing with Evie that he tended to smile when his opponent was about to make a mistake. She used to keep watch on his mouth from start to finish, which had lost him plenty of games. He had trained himself not to give anything away.

Owen lifted his hand and moved his Wizr piece forward from across the board. “Threat and . . . defeat.”
Then
he smiled.

The king’s face darkened with a scowl. “By the Fountain!” he growled. “Do you use your gift of second sight in games? Who taught you to play so well?”

Owen met the king’s gaze, but he dared not reveal the truth. That he had been taught to play Wizr by a woman the king had feared would poison him.

“Never lose sight of the Wizr,” Owen said with a hint of smugness. “But as a practical matter, my lord, I’m just very good at this game.”

The king snorted and chuckled. “When I said hold nothing back, I didn’t realize it would be prophetic. You have a keen mind, Owen. Do you agree, my dear?” he said, addressing Evie. “I would like to see the two of you play Wizr.”

Evie was curled up on the couch near Owen, her nose in a book. She did not look up as she turned the page. “Why do you think he is so good, my lord? He plays against
me
.”

The king chuckled at her haughty tone and then stood, wincing as he came to his feet. He limped to the huge window and watched the fluffy flakes of snow coming down. His expression softened as he ran his hand across the pane of glass, and the gray skies above chased away the shadows on his face. Though it was not yet winter, the mountains were notorious for bizarre snowstorms that could strike unpredictably.

Owen sorted the pieces and returned them to their wooden box. He stared at Evie, who seemed to sense his attention and shifted her eyes back to his. She was giving him her
I’m proud of you
look, then winked at him and returned to her book.

“I have many a fond memory of Dundrennan,” the king said in a brooding voice, still staring out the window at the gentle snow. He turned away, folding his arms and leaning against the crook on the wall near the window seat. “I used to play Wizr in this very room with my cousin, Nanette.” His voice fell as he mentioned the name of his dead wife. “As children, we’d catch snowflakes on our tongues. I think every child does that.” He chuckled softly to himself, and Owen felt he could see the oozing wounds of the king’s heart.

Evie put the book down, her attention drawn to the king’s raw grief. The light from the window made his black hair look like it was glowing. He stared down at the rushes that covered the floor, lost in a storm of memories.

“How old was she when she married the Prince of Occitania?” Evie asked. It was a sensitive question to pose. Lady Nanette’s short first marriage was likely a bitter memory for him.

The king’s eyes were as sharp as sword blades. His mouth twisted in shape, the expression somewhere between a smile and a frown. “You know your history, my dear. Many have forgotten those dark years. Those months my brother and I spent in exile in Brugia. Those months she spent married to that
princeling
.” His voice was so thick with scorn that Owen could see the wound had not fully healed. “She was seventeen.”

Owen glanced at Evie, who was the same age that Nanette had been. The possibility of losing her to another man made him grow warm with anger.

“It was a marriage that would have made her Queen of Occitania,” Evie said. “But it was a reckless match. Your uncle lost his life because of it.”

“We all lost much that year,” the king said bitterly. “And gained much. She lost her father and the throne of Occitania. And she gained another husband and the throne of Ceredigion. For a time.”

There was so much hurt in his voice that Owen wanted to steer the conversation away from such painful waters. Evie’s eyes were full of so much sympathy, she looked liable to go hug the king.

“You have not married again, my lord,” she whispered softly. “Is it because you truly loved her?”

Owen gaped at her audacity, but she was one who tended to jump into cisterns without a second thought. Perhaps it should not have surprised him.

The king looked taken aback, but he did not appear offended. He folded his arms across his chest and walked away from the window. “Aye, I loved her,” he said, breaking into a subtle Northern accent, as if honoring the memory of his late wife. “You can imagine it was awkward between us at first. We were raised together in this very place, this idyllic mountain valley. Dundrennan. I fought her father and bested him. I fought her husband, that little
princeling
, and bested him not far from Tatton Hall, where he was trying to escape back to Occitania. Scampering away like Chatriyon.” He chuckled mercilessly, glancing at Owen. “You’ve made an enemy there, Lord Kiskaddon. No king likes losing a game of Wizr. And losing a fight is every bit more galling. But I see how you play the game. You’re more than a match for that runt.”

She was not to be deterred. “But why haven’t you remarried, my lord?” she pressed. “It’s been ten years since your lady died. You have no heir. Surely it is time to set aside your grief?” Her look was sad but sincere, and very sympathetic.

The king stared at her for a moment. “You do speak your mind,” he said with a chuckle. “And like a dog with a bone, it won’t be wrested from you.”

She dimpled slightly. “If I’m being too presumptuous, forgive me. But I cannot believe your council hasn’t mentioned this to you.”

“My council!” he snorted with a bark-like laugh. “They wanted me to force the Duchess of Brythonica into a marriage alliance. She’s of an age with you and Owen.” He wrinkled his nose in disgust. “It has been forty years, this month, since I received the water rite and my name. How could I look on the duchess . . . and not see
you
, Elysabeth Victoria Mortimer?” He frowned deeply, shaking his head. “No, my council has not yet persuaded me to take a wife. It is customary, you know, for a king to marry the princess of another realm. My brother’s choice of a bride offended many, including my uncle, who committed treason because of it.”

He paced as he spoke, his voice throbbing with strong emotion. “Let me count the options. They are few. Save for the Duchess of Brythonica, there are no princesses in Occitania. Chatriyon has been vying for her himself, as Owen can attest. She has made it perfectly clear she wants nothing to do with him. She rules in her own right, and I cannot blame her for not yielding to a man who wants her domain perhaps more than he wants her hand. Even if Chatriyon were to succeed in marrying her, they will not produce children for several years, so there are no prospects for me there. And to boot, the duchess
fears
I am a child murderer and a misbegotten demon.
That
tree of opportunity is quite barren.”

He took another step, using his fingers to tally. “Let us move on to Atabyrion. King Iago is nineteen years old and unmarried himself. He has many damsels to choose from in his own realm, the Earl of Huntley’s daughter, Kathryn, is the most beautiful in Mancini’s estimation, but he wishes to expand his domain rather than empowering one of his nobles even more. Iago Llewellyn would also love to woo the duchess if he could, but his domains are even smaller than Occitania’s. Then there is Brugia. There was no legitimate heir, so the many princes of that realm are preoccupied with slaughtering each other in an effort to unify the realm. I could throw the gauntlet down and marry one of their daughters, but that will entangle me in wars, over land that I care nothing for, and irk a possible ally. I think Duke Maxwell to be the likely victor. He is shrewd, cunning, and utterly ruthless.” He rubbed his hands together vigorously. “Pisan . . . too small. That leaves Genevar, which earns its coins trading and exploring. The council once tried to persuade me to marry my niece, Lady Elyse, but that would cause no end of trouble for me. Besides, it would repulse my subjects if I were to marry my brother’s daughter, whom I disinherited. To be honest, my dear . . . I have very few options, and all of them are unsavory to me. Is there anyone I am missing, my dear? Do
you
have any suggestions?”

She looked crestfallen and sad. “I . . . I don’t, my lord.”

“Then I trust you will not
pester
me about this again,” he said with just enough of a barb to sting. His mood was always mercurial, and Owen could see the anger thrumming through him now. It was common for countries to seal alliances with marriage. That none had tried or dared to offer one with Severn Argentine had to rankle.

The king turned back to the window. “Well, I’ll be blessed by the Fountain,” he said, his expression changing. “Your grandfather has ridden through a storm to get here.”

Before long, after a greeting delivered amidst a chorus of barking hounds, Duke Horwath was sitting in his favorite chair in front of the crackling hearth, savoring the mug of steaming broth in his hand. His cloak was dripping from a hook nearby, the plops sizzling when they hit the warm stone floor. The snow was melting from the cloak, and chunks of ice pattered off it.

Evie knelt by her grandfather’s chair, her face beaming with relief. He looked haggard and uncomfortable, but he did not complain, and the lines of weariness were slowly fading from his face.

Horwath rested his hand on the girl’s on the thick armrest, patting gently. “I heard what you did at Blackpool, child,” he said with warm affection. He patted her again. “You’ve my blood in you!”

She beamed at the soft-spoken praise and picked some dust or lint from his doublet. “You left me in
charge
, Grandfather. I didn’t want to disappoint you.”

He chuckled softly, then hooked his hand around her neck and pulled her close, kissing her hair in a mark of tender affection that made Owen swallow. How he wished he could be that open in his feelings for her.

Then Horwath tipped her chin up and gazed into her eyes. “You are beautiful. And the king is proud of you.” He looked over at Owen. “He’s proud of you
both
. He couldn’t ask for more loyal young people to serve him. Mark my words. You two are special. And you will both make Ceredigion stronger. I know you will.”

Owen felt his heart burning with pride. He walked up to the other side of the duke’s chair, glancing down at Evie. She looked so beautiful at that moment, the firelight shimmering in her dark hair, her eyes glowing with happiness. There was that familiar ache again, that growing impatience.

“The king was surprised you rode through the snow,” Evie said with an impish smile. “I think he’s forgotten he’s from the North as well.”

Horwath smiled as he stroked his gray goatee. “He’ll never forget that, lass. Not until the waters stop falling at Kingfountain. He has ice in his veins, as we like to say. Even young Kiskaddon here is a little frostbitten, I think. What say you, lad?”

Owen folded his arms, still gazing down at Evie. “I do love the North,” he murmured.

Her cheeks flushed a little, and she couldn’t hold back a grin.

The grizzled duke took one of her hands and then one of Owen’s, and for a moment, he looked as if he would join them together.

“It’s my deepest wish,” he said huskily, “to unite our houses and duchies. Before the king rides back to the palace, I plan to petition him for a boon. But only if you both are still willing.” He smiled wryly. “I’ve seen the way you look at each other. I’m old, not blind. I’d like to speak to the king on your behalf, Owen. He may take it better coming from me. But I didn’t want you to be startled in case he asks about your feelings.” His smile slipped a little. “His heart is so wounded, he may not have noticed the signs as I have.”