The Thief's Daughter (31 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Fall of the Espion

Before going to the throne room, Owen changed into dry clothes. He belted the new scabbard to his waist and slid his sword into it. He wondered if there would be some manifestation from the Fountain when he did so, but there was not. Still, it should have been impossible for the leatherwork to be in such perfect condition after being submerged for so long.

Though his hair was still damp and mussed, Owen made his way to the throne room. Jack Paulen was still there, and the king was pacing with great agitation.

One of the things Owen did not like about the Duke of East Stowe was that the man was significantly taller than him. He was slightly taller even than the king, and had a handsome face and dark brown hair that was long and wavy. Jack was twice Owen’s age, with a younger wife and two small children. The badge of his duchy was the Bear and Ragged Staff, an emblem he had inherited from his ancestors. The bear was muzzled, and a chain connected it to a long tree trunk covered in stubs where once there had been branches. The bear was facing the trunk and its two front paws were extended, holding the beam upright. It was a symbol denoting power and strength, the ability of man to subdue a fierce and primal creature such as the bear. Although Jack had every reason to be agreeable—he was a handsome man and one of the few dukes of the realm—he had adopted the sardonic temperament of Severn.

The king stopped his pacing when he caught sight of Owen, but he was still full of brooding energy. “There you are, lad. You took your time coming.”

Owen let the comment pass. He bowed his head formally. “Mancini said there was news.”

“There is. But, curse this storm, it was delayed because of the roads. Jack rode in from East Stowe and I’ll let him tell you.”

“Hello, Jack,” Owen greeted, nodding.

The Duke of East Stowe gave Owen an angry scowl. They had never been close, for Owen’s loyalty was bound to the North and Duke Horwath, but nothing in their past would explain such open animosity. “The roads were pitiful, my lord,” he said, addressing the king rather than Owen. “It was hard going and cold. But I knew you would want to hear the news immediately.”

“Cut to the quick, man,” Severn snapped angrily. “I want to get Owen’s opinion.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed at the slight. “If it pleases Your Grace.” He looked at Owen again, seething. “News from Atabyrion. Seems you and the Mortimer lass rankled feelings during your visit. The king just told me that
you
went with her. I hadn’t known that.” Again, Owen sensed his resentment. “One of our trading ships arrived with news that Iago Llewellyn has summoned his nobles to court and they are stuffing provisions onto ships. The call has gone out to the warriors to come down from the hills and gather at Edonburick. The Earl of Huntley is the foremost among them. I heard you ruined one of his manors.”

Owen snorted. “Only a window. What else?”

The duke smirked. “News from abroad is always exaggerated. I’ll try not to repeat the sin. They tried to stop our ships in the harbor, but this one fought its way through. They were fired at from harbor defenses and took serious damage, but they escaped. Clearly Iago didn’t want them to warn us, which implies, as I told the king, that Atabyrion intends to invade immediately.”

Owen shifted his gaze to Severn, who was nodding in concurrence. “That’s what I think as well, Owen. Is that also your interpretation?”

Owen folded his arms, letting out a sigh. “I agree with you both,” he said tightly. “We warned him not to.”

“You did? Or Lady Elysabeth?” Jack asked, the challenge clear.

“She did, of course. But I spoke to Eyric myself. The King of Atabyrion invested too much into the alliance. Eyric married the Earl of Huntley’s daughter. He is the noble with the most treasure in the kingdom. I don’t think we can avoid a war with them.”

Jack sniffed. “My thoughts exactly. My lord, I have ships patrolling the coast of East Stowe. We have strong captains and can cast a wide net. I say we don’t even let the Atabyrions touch our sand. Let’s fight them at sea.”

Severn listened to him, but then he turned to Owen, which made Jack glower.

“Did you warn Stiev Horwath?” Owen asked the other duke. “They could just as easily strike the North as East Stowe.”

Jack blinked with surprise. “But the Duchy of East Stowe is the closest to Atabyrion. I . . . I thought—”

“In other words, no. You didn’t,” Severn scoffed. “You came running here straightaway to get the glory of telling me the news, but you thought about your own duchy instead of the kingdom.”

Jack’s face went pale with rage and humiliation. He was flummoxed.

Owen intervened. “No, he did the right thing by coming here straightaway. In such a moment, I would have overlooked it as well.”

“Not likely,” Severn snorted, and Owen wished the king would keep his barbed tongue behind his teeth.

“Regardless,” Owen said with a cough, trying to change the tenor of the conversation. “Duke Horwath needs to be told immediately.”

“Agreed. I’ll send his granddaughter. A little snow won’t stop her. You should hear the common folk complaining about this storm. It disgusts me. I’ve enjoyed seeing the palace shrouded in white.”

Owen noticed that Jack was still fuming, his eyes flashing angrily at the king.

“I agree. It makes sense to send Evie to the North immediately to warn her grandfather.”

“I’m not going to wait here and do nothing,” Severn said, starting to pace again. “If Eyric wants my crown, he’ll have to wrench it from my head while I’m lying in a pool of my own blood. I’m not afraid of Iago or my brother’s son. He would have fared far better had he listened to you and come to my side. I think I should go to the North. They are the most loyal to me, and the people would come in droves to protect the kingdom if we’re attacked.”

Owen shook his head.

“You disagree?”

“We don’t know where the Atabyrions will strike. And I’ve had no dreams to offer guidance. My advice, my lord, if you’ll heed it, calls for a different strategy.”

The king beamed. “That’s why I summoned you, lad. I wanted you to plan our defenses.”

“But my ships are already defending us!” Jack said petulantly.

The king only sneered at him, not bothering to respond.

Owen gave up trying to save the other duke from himself. “And your ships are probably too spread out to communicate with each other. Iago will come with a fleet and he will slice through your net. His people are sailors, and they are warriors. They will strike hard. Eyric is convinced, my lord, that you will be killed upfront to make way for him. Occitania sent a poisoner to accomplish this! Better to keep you moving. Go to Beestone castle. It’s in the heart of your realm.”

“It’s closer to Westmarch,” Jack sniped.

“I’m pleased you know your geography, my lord,” Owen said. “Since we cannot predict where he will land, we must stand ready to respond as soon as he does. Let Iago try and put one of our cities under siege. Let him see what happens.”

The king smiled grimly. “Then we collapse around him on all sides.”

“First we cut off his escape,” Owen added. “Trap him inside our realm. And then we teach him the cost of betting foolishly.”

The king’s smile turned into a smirk. “I like your thinking, lad. So your plan is to return to Westmarch, gather your forces, and stand ready. All the dukes will do the same. Wait until Iago lands and then—” He suddenly clapped his hands together, letting out a sharp noise that startled Jack. “Like a fly caught between two hands.”

Owen felt a queasy sensation in his stomach. In his mind flashed the quicksilver thought of Iago kissing Evie. Well, if Iago were dead, the rivalry between them would end. But still . . . it felt unfair that Iago was being maneuvered into attacking Ceredigion only to fail as part of a larger conspiracy. The King of Atabyrion was operating under imperfect knowledge.

“What vexes you?” the king asked Owen, his brow narrowing.

Owen shook his head. “It’s something I cannot say,” he said, struggling to put his doubts into words. “Give me a moment to think on it.”

“By all means,” the king said. He came up and slapped Owen’s shoulder affectionately. Then he turned to the duke. “Sail back to East Stowe, my lord. If this blizzard keeps up, the roads will be difficult. Call your retainers, those who owe you loyalty, and prepare for war. Go.”

It was a firm dismissal, and Jack Paulen bowed stiffly, his complexion showing the hue of his jealousy and resentment. He stared at the king with eyes full of wrath, taking Owen by surprise. The look was beyond humiliation; the man’s eyes were full of murder.

“I would speak to you about Mancini,” the king said to Owen, his back already turned to Jack. Owen could not rip his eyes off Jack’s face—the emotions there were boiling hotter and hotter. He felt a trickle of warning from the Fountain and realized its power had been seeping into the room.

The king seemed to sense it as well, for his head jerked up and his hand dropped to his dagger hilt.

Owen stepped around the king and walked briskly over to Jack, putting his hand on the man’s shoulder. “What are you doing?” he asked in a low voice.

As soon as he touched Jack’s shoulder, he felt as if the waters of the Fountain had been diverted—like a river splitting off around a boulder. Jack blinked suddenly, the anger purging from his expression.

“I . . . I’m not feeling well,” Jack stammered, his forehead suddenly rimmed with sweat beads. The power of the Fountain was emanating from the doorway of the throne room. It was rushing toward where Owen and Jack were standing, but the power of its intention was broken now that Owen was standing there. He remembered Etayne saying that Tyrell was Fountain-blessed.

“It’s coming—” Owen started.

“—from the doorway,” Severn added.

Both of them drew their weapons and started toward the closed throne room doors.

“Open the doors,” the king commanded the soldiers standing guard there.

The rushing sensation from the Fountain vanished in an instant.

The guards yanked on the door handles and pulled them open. As the doors opened, the air filled with noisy commotion. Servants and soldiers were running up and down the corridors in absolute confusion. There was a mass of bodies, so many it was impossible to discern who had summoned the Fountain’s magic, but as Owen reached the opening, he sensed the residue of the magic on the doorframe itself.

Clark broke out of the crowd and rushed forward, his face grave and streaked with sweat.

“What’s going on?” Owen shouted above the ruckus as the Espion came into the room and shoved the doors closed, muffling some of the racket.

Clark pressed himself against the doors. “My lord,” he said, facing the king. “The people were rioting in the streets. The palace doors have been barred and sealed, and your guard is being summoned.”

“For what cause?” Severn snapped, his eyes piercing and fierce. “Bring me my sword! What has happened?”

Clark leaned back against the door, panting. “My lord. Mancini is dead. He went to the sanctuary of Our Lady. He had several Espion with him. When he arrived, the deconeus denounced him. He said he had broken the privilege of sanctuary by abducting Tunmore. He said . . . he said you
threw
Tunmore from the tower window yourself!”

“That’s a lie!” Owen shouted.

“Tell that to the mob,” Clark said, gesturing with his head. “They grabbed Mancini and hauled him to the river.”

Severn’s face was aghast. He mouthed the word no.

Clark nodded vigorously as Owen felt his own stomach tighten with horror. “The mob threw him into the river, my lord. He went over the falls. A friend of mine saw him go over the edge. Now they are marching on the palace. We must get you out of the city. The mob is coming here next!”

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Retribution

When Owen looked at Severn, he saw the king’s implacable will turn his face to stone, sending ripples of the Fountain into the room. The king’s eyes were like flint and his mouth twisted to a deep frown.

“If I abandon my crown to a mob,” Severn told Clark in a tight, barely controlled voice that quickly rose to a shout, “then I do not deserve to wear it. By the Fountain, I will make this rabble kneel in obedience!” He grabbed Jack Paulen’s tunic and jostled the man. “Go through the castle and rouse every man with the spleen to fight. Every butler, every knave, even my woodsman Drew. We’re to gather in the courtyard and open the gates.” He turned to face Owen. “I want my armor and my horse. They will not evict me from this place willingly. Will you stand with me, lad?”

Owen admired the king’s bravery and courage. He had no idea what was going to happen, but his instincts told him Severn was right. If he fled from the mob, he would not be allowed to return. But there would be blood spilled. Mobs responded to force, not sugared words.

“Loyalty binds me,” Owen said gravely, gripping his own sword hilt.

“This is the proof of it.” He glanced at Jack who was quailing with fear. “Why are you still standing there, man?” he barked, and the duke hurried to the doors.

Owen turned to Clark. “Summon every Espion in the palace and arm them. We fight with the king or so help me, every last one of the spies will drown with us. No one leaves the docks. Not a single ship is to set sail. Lock down the harbor, Clark. Now!”

“It will be done,” Clark said darkly and rushed from the room.

Moments later, a few of the more levelheaded servants arrived, bearing armor for the king and Owen. Severn was impatient with his squires, but they managed to help him shrug on the hauberk and plates despite his constant epithets. Owen donned a hauberk and hood himself, wearing his own badge this time. While the king was finishing his preparations, Owen went to the open doorway, his eyes drawn to smudges on the lintels. There was a stain on the wood that had not been there before; it looked like some bloody mixture had been dabbed over it. It was out of place and ominous, and he called over a servant to fetch some soap and water to clean it.

He spied Evie approaching him from down the hall, her face flushed. Justine trailed behind her.

“The city is in an uproar,” she said passionately. She paused at the threshold by Owen, then stared at the king. “He’s going to fight them?”

“And what would you have me do, my lady?” Severn snapped, his every motion accompanied by a clang of the metal armor. “Surrender to mob justice? If I’m going over the falls, at least I’ll drown if I’m not shattered to pieces.”

Evie stared at him. “The people are afraid, my lord. They are superstitious because of the snow. They think you caused it by taking Tunmore out of sanctuary!”

“They may think many things that are unreasonable and foolish,” Severn shot back. “The only thing they’ll understand is force.”

He looked at Owen. “The time has come.”

Evie caught Owen’s arm, but her gaze was pinned on the king. “Don’t just kill them, my lord. They are panicked, frightened of the early winter storms. Try to appease them first.”

Severn’s face twisted with anger. “They think I’m a butcher,” he said with a voice full of loathing. “Well, even the sheep flee from wolves.”

“You are not a wolf,” Evie insisted. “You are a man. A misunderstood man. Do not support their fears through actions that seem to confirm them. Let Owen speak on your behalf if you are too angry! He was in the tower when Tunmore jumped! He was a witness.”

“They’ll not believe us,” the king said, shaking his head. “Men believe what they will. I do not fear them. I don’t fear death.” He snorted, his eyes flashing with fire. “I would welcome it.” But then he paused, giving consideration to her words. “If they won’t listen, I will
compel
their obedience.”

“Do that, my lord,” Evie said, releasing Owen’s arm. Her cheeks were flushed. “We only detest that which we do not truly understand. You can be very persuasive, my lord. Try that first. Try your gift of words first.”

The king sighed. “My gift only works one to one. I’d never be able to persuade so many.”

“At least you can try,” Evie pleaded.

The king gave her a pitying look, as if he thought she was quite naive. He glanced at Owen to solicit his thoughts.

“I trust her judgment,” Owen said. “The worst that can happen is the people drag you from your horse and throw you into the river. Any less than that is a victory. But if you are going into the river, so am I. We may even survive it.”

The king smirked at the words. Then his face hardened. “Well said, lad.” And he marched out of the throne room, sword in hand.

The courtyard teemed with soldiers wearing the badge of the white boar. There were a few who had Owen’s badge and even fewer who bore the badge of East Stowe. When the soldiers had learned the king intended to suppress the uprising personally, they had taken courage and rallied behind their master. Muddy snow had built up on the flagstones, and stable boys were using muck rakes to drag it clear. Fresh snow fell in gentle waves, sticking to the black tunics and giving them a silvery cast.

Owen’s mount shifted nervously and snorted with the cold. Noise from the mob could be heard beyond the portcullis, louder than the distant roar of the waterfall. Severn sat on his warhorse, his face firm and resolute. He wore a helmet that had been fashioned to hold the crown—the same battered helm he had worn at Ambion Hill. But while Owen’s father had made a different decision on that fateful day, Owen rode at the king’s side.

Evie was also there, much to Owen’s annoyance, with a group of men wearing her grandfather’s badge. She would not be kept away from the action, and she’d insisted that the presence of a lady might help prevent violence.

“Open the doors!” the king shouted over the ruckus. “But do not raise the portcullis. Not until I command you.” He looked to his right and then to his left. “When I give the order, we charge. Your swords are sharp. Your courage is tested. These are our countrymen, but they will yield or they will perish. The choice is theirs.”

“Aye, my lord!” shouted the gate captain. Four men on either side helped haul the doors open, revealing a tangled mass of men. As soon as they saw King Severn astride his horse, their roars turned into screams. Rocks came tumbling into the courtyard. Clubs and staves rattled the iron bars of the portcullis.

The king shouted at the mass of angry faces, trying to be heard, but the mob only grew louder, more truculent. Some of the men were heaving at the portcullis, trying to winch it open with their brute strength.

“They won’t even listen,” the king said with a snarl of contempt. Owen saw his hand start to lift, ready to give the signal to open the gates and attack. His stomach roiled with despair at the imminent slaughter. The mob was ferocious, true, but how many had survived a battlefield before? How many were used to the pain and disfigurement that armed warriors could inflict?

Then Evie’s horse charged forward toward the gate, and Owen watched in horror as she positioned herself in front of the king. Her action completely startled everyone, including the rioters; those in the front ranks quieted somewhat when they saw her.

“Foolish girl!” Severn muttered, nudging his stallion forward as Owen did the same.

“Stop this!” Evie said in a clear, strong voice. “Stop this at once! Go back to your homes before there is violence. Think of your families! Think of your children and your sisters! Retreat from the palace immediately, and none of you will be harmed!”

“The king has broken sanctuary!” someone screamed and instantly the flashfire of shouting went up again. Yells and jeers came from the crowd, the noise so loud it drowned out any further chance for Evie to be heard. Owen felt a throb of pride and a twinge of panic. She was totally fearless . . . and totally exposed.

Someone threw a club through the gate and it struck her stallion’s foreleg. The beast reared in surprise, and Owen watched as Evie tried to cling to the saddle horn. Then the horse’s hooves slipped on the ice and both beast and girl went down. Owen gasped in shock, unable to move quickly enough. He swung out of his saddle and rushed to her side.

She was so still on the stones, her face so pale, and his heart spasmed in pain and panic as he knelt beside her, lifting her head and cradling it in his arms.

The winches of the portcullis were groaning, and Owen saw the iron teeth lifting from the holes. Suddenly the mob was turning in fear, pressing against each other to escape the wrath that would hail down on them. The sound of archers loosing strings came from the battlement walls, and then a swarm of arrows began to descend on the mob. Owen cradled Evie’s head, his heart breaking with despair.

Bellowing with rage, the king was the first through the portcullis, followed by rows of battle-tested war horses. The white boar pennant fluttered in the snowy breeze. Owen caressed Evie’s hair, his chest heaving with emotion. Was she dead? He pressed his ear to her mouth, trying to hear or feel even a puff of air amidst the chaos around him.

He would use every bit of his magic to save her life. He began summoning Fountain magic, drawing it inside him. Was her skull broken? Was her neck? There was no blood he could see, but he felt the knot of a bump on the back of her head.

Owen felt her lips kiss his ear. “I’m fine, silly boy. I’ve fallen off horses before.”

He lifted his head and looked down at her, her eyes gray in the low light. She blinked quickly, and a smile stretched across her mouth as she awoke in his arms.

He could not believe she was even speaking, not with her cheeks so pale. Evie sat up, holding Owen’s shoulders and drawing her legs in toward her chest to keep from getting trampled by all the horses charging through the gates. The thrum of bowstrings continued to sound and a cheer went up from the soldiers who were now chasing the mob away.

She put her hand on Owen’s cheek. “Go to the king. Go right away.”

Owen shook his head. He felt a hand on his shoulder, but he didn’t even look to see who it was. “I won’t leave you,” he said with determination.

She blinked and gave him a look that said he was being foolish. She let her hand linger on his cheek. “I fell off my
horse
, Owen. This is not the first time. I’ll be all right. But you need to go to the king. To rein him in before he massacres all of them.” Her eyes burned into his. “He’s in a rage now. Stop him before he goes too far.” She smoothed her thumb along his bottom lip. “Etayne will help me. I’ll be all right.”

Owen glanced back and saw it was Etayne’s hand that was on his shoulder. As he watched, she stepped forward and applied a compress to Evie’s wound to stanch the bleeding.

“I’ll take her back to the palace,” Etayne promised.

A conflict raged inside of Owen, but he knew Evie was right. She was always right. And in hindsight, her intercession had disrupted the riot. Although it was an accident, it had caused the rabble to start to flee, struck by the shame of their conduct.

He stared down at Evie, his heart nearly breaking. “I love you,” he whispered.

Evie closed her eyes, smiling as if savoring something delicious. Then she opened them again and patted his cheek. “Finally,” she said with a contented sigh.