The Thief's Daughter (29 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Grave Secrets

Owen and the spymaster Mancini walked side by side, moving deep into the palace’s Espion tunnels to the towers where the prisoners were kept. The dark corridors were frigid and Owen saw little puffs of mist as he exhaled. A deep sense of foreboding had settled inside him, thicker than the winter clouds shrouding Kingfountain.

“You finally persuaded him,” Owen said, trying to master his anger. He still distrusted the man, but for the moment, he needed Mancini to believe they were on the same side.

“Persuaded whom to do what?” Mancini asked. “Be clear, young man. I do a lot of persuading every day.”

“You know what I meant,” Owen snapped. “Abducting Tunmore from the sanctuary.”

“We should have done it years ago,” Mancini said dismissively. “The man’s been scheming from Our Lady all the while. Why should he be protected from his treason?”

“How did you do it?”

Mancini shifted the lantern he was carrying to his other hand and lifted it higher. “There are men in that place who do anything for enough coin.”
Such as you
,
Owen thought darkly. “I had someone distract the sexton while half a dozen men waylaid Tunmore. He was carted out under a tarp, trussed up and gagged, and brought straight to the palace.” He snapped his fingers. “Easily done.”

“How did you convince Severn to do it?”

Mancini snorted. “I didn’t need to persuade him at all. Once we discovered what had happened with Elyse, you should have seen his fury. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him rage like that, not even when Ratcliffe turned traitor. Her betrayal was particularly personal because he had put so much trust in her.” The Espion turned and gave Owen a knowing look. “Even you betraying him would not have cut him to the quick like this. He needed vengeance. And it was Tunmore who turned her mind to Chatriyon.”

“I’m surprised Severn didn’t throw him into the falls,” Owen muttered.

“As we both know, that particular method of execution cannot be relied upon for the Fountain-blessed. No, the king has had Polidoro investigating all the details of the execution of the Maid of Donremy. He wants to make sure Tunmore stays dead.”

The bleak feeling within Owen worsened. He did not have much pity for Tunmore, but something felt entirely wrong about forcing the man from sanctuary. Violating an ancient tradition out of petty revenge did not sit right. While Owen believed that some of the folk customs about the Fountain were merely superstitions, he knew for a fact that the Fountain was real, and he felt a queer sensation that it was offended.

There were Espion guards waiting for them at the end of the corridor.

“Good evening, Master Mancini,” one of them said.

Mancini handed his lantern to one of them. He glanced at Owen. “I change the guard regularly, and we inspect his cell every hour. The man hasn’t slept or eaten in two days.”

Owen felt a throb of pity.

“He’s quite uncomfortable, per the king’s commands,” one of the guards added with a cunning smile.

“Tonight, the king would like Tunmore to join him for supper.”

The other man chuckled. “What will he serve him? Rat stew?”

“With a side of kidney pie,” Mancini snapped. “Open the door.”

A guard unlocked the heavy iron door and a drafty breeze came through. Together, Owen and Mancini started winding their way up the tower. The wind keened and moaned up the black shaft. It sounded like the pained moans of a man, a thought that made Owen shudder.

“Do you think Severn will release him?” Owen asked Mancini.

“Pfah, no! Nor would I advise him to. No, the man is going to die. Severn is implacable in that regard. He’s a changed man, boy. When Elyse betrayed him, something jarred loose. Or should I put it another way? His disposition altered rather suddenly and dramatically.”

“How so?” Owen pressed, feeling the weight of his conscience grow heavier. He had sworn his loyalty to the man Severn
was
. What if Elyse’s betrayal had scarred him so deeply Owen could no longer serve the man he had become? All of Owen’s wealth, his status, and his holdings were due to his loyalty to the man. Was he willing to risk all of that? Was he willing to betray his king?

“In many ways, many ways,” Mancini said. “For starters, his first impulse was to assassinate Chatriyon. But now that his temper has cooled, he’s determined to destroy him in person. He is planning to invade Occitania and shatter the lad’s kingdom. It may take him several years of austerity to finance such a venture, but he’s determined to depose him. To yank the crown from his head. All while Elyse watches helplessly. He will never trust her again. I don’t know if he will trust
anyone
again after this. Confound it, is that the wind or Tunmore’s moaning?”

He seemed to have finally noticed the noise himself.

When they reached the top of the tower, there were two more guards pacing nervously in front of the door.

“He’s been moaning like a madman,” one of the guards said worriedly. “I’ve warned him to shut it or we’ll gag him, but he’s gibbering. He’s gone mad, he has!”

“Open the door,” Mancini said sternly.

The guard wrestled a key into the lock and opened it.

The tower loft was ice cold. All the windows around the cell were open and snow hung in thick clumps throughout the freezing chamber. There were no beds, an empty brazier had been knocked over, and other than a filthy straw pallet, the only furnishing was a foul-smelling chamber pot.

At first, Owen could not see Tunmore, but the moaning brought his attention to the man standing on a previously unnoticed bench by a double window. His arms were gripping the window ledge. He was making a terrible sound, his eyes filled with despair.

“What are you . . . get down from . . . what are you doing, man?” Mancini shouted against the wind.

Tunmore had sleet sticking to his face. His hair was spiky, and his skin had a grayish cast to it. There was a wild look in his eyes when they came to rest on Owen.

“Chaaaah!!!” he groaned, recognizing the young man instantly. “It’s not too late! It’s not too late! Thank the Fountain! It’s not too late!”

Owen stared at Tunmore without comprehension. “What is the matter with you?”

“I am a dead man. I’ve seen the waters. I’ve seen the Deep Fathoms, so I thought it was too late. But you are here.
You
are Fountain-blessed! The Dreadful Deadman is coming! He returns to Ceredigion! He must wear the crown, boy. He
must
!”

“What nonsense are you babbling about?” Mancini asked angrily.

Owen felt something reach into his heart and clench it. A cold hand, a knife. “Who?” Owen demanded. “Eyric Argentine?”

Tunmore’s face twisted with pain. “He’s
not
the Dreadful Deadman! You will know. You will know him! You are part of him! You serve him. You’ve always served him! Be loyal to your
true
king, Kiskaddon.”

“King Kiskaddon!” Mancini shouted in surprise, but Owen knew the spymaster had misunderstood.

There was a feverish look on Tunmore’s face. “It’s not too late! It’s still not too late! The chest! Boy, the chest! You must move it or all is lost! Take it to the fountain at St. Penryn. The waters there will quiet the curse. Do it, boy! Before
all
here perish!”

“He’s raving,” Mancini said with a whisper.

“Who is the Dreadful Deadman?” Owen asked, taking a step toward Tunmore. “Do you know?”

“He is coming! He is returning! As it was, so will it be. You are his champion. The true king . . . !”

His words were cut off by a roar of wind that jolted the castle tower and brought in flurries of ice. Owen shielded his face from the sting of sleet.

“Take him!” Mancini shouted to the soldiers. “Grab him before he jumps!”

But it was too late. Through squinted eyes, Owen watched as Tunmore toppled over the window ledge. He raced over to the window, staring in shock, his heart thundering in his chest. The wind knifed against the keep towers, sending swirls of snow with it. When he looked down at the inner bailey, he saw a crumpled body spread-eagled on the flagstones below.

“He killed himself?” Mancini shouted, grabbing Owen’s shoulder. The spymaster gazed down at the body, shook his head with revulsion, and then ordered the soldiers to hurry down and conceal the body. Owen felt dizzy from the great height, and the deconeus’s words had shaken him to his core.

“What was he raving about?” Mancini asked in a troubled voice. “I couldn’t hear the last words. Did he name you . . . did he name
you
king, lad?” The grip on Owen’s shoulder tightened. “I thought he did. He was a deconeus. Was it a prophecy?”

Owen could see Mancini’s mistake, but he was too confused and heartsick to know what to say.

“He was delirious,” Owen finally answered, shaking his head. “You drove him mad by putting him up here.”

But the young man remembered seeing the chest in the waters at the fountain of Our Lady. A chest that he had first seen in the cistern waters beneath the palace. He was confused and shaken, but something told him Tunmore’s words were not meaningless ravings.

“So he was trying to do more mischief?” Mancini asked. “Trying to sow the seed of rebellion in you? I wouldn’t put it past him. That man was a cunning eel. He said something about St. Penryn. That’s a sanctuary in Westmarch, isn’t it?”

Owen wished the spymaster hadn’t heard that part. “Yes,” he answered. It was a fishing village along the coast in a deep corner of Owen’s domain. He had heard curious tales about that place. Fishermen routinely dredged up strange items along the coast—shields, rusted helmets, and horseshoes.

There was a history to the land of Penryn. Owen did not know much about it, having spent so much time in the North. But he knew of two people who did know a great deal about history. He had to see Evie and the court historian, Polidoro Urbino.

But first they needed to tell the king that his enemy had fallen to his death from the tower and would not be joining him for dinner.

In my time at Kingfountain, I have found no legend more commonly known but ephemeral than that of the first king of Ceredigion. Chasing this legend is like chasing a ghost. Very little has been documented, and most of the documents that do exist date back centuries and are duplicates of earlier sources. The legend depicts a time in the distant past. A time when powerful Wizrs walked the land. A time when bravery was accounted as the foremost virtue. It was an era when a young man, a Fountain-blessed boy named Andrew, united a fractured kingdom and stopped the wars and bloodshed that tortured Ceredigion. This young man became a great and mighty king, perhaps the mightiest of kings, and he had Wizrs who advised him. It is said that he had a magic Wizr set. A set that, if played, would predict the outcome of battles and determine the destiny of nations. King Andrew was so wise that he never lost but one game, a game he played against his bastard son. King Andrew was defeated shortly thereafter, flooding the world with darkness. But there was a prophecy by the great Wizr Myrddin that Andrew would one day return. The prophecy is called the Dreadful Deadman.

—Polidoro Urbino, Court Historian of Kingfountain