The Thief's Daughter (37 page)

“I have no idea,” Owen said with a depressed sigh. “That may all depend on whether we
survive
the next fortnight.” He looked at her seriously. “I will serve my king however he wishes. I am not like Mancini,” he said reassuringly.

She nodded. “Indeed, you are not. He was very . . . selfish.” And she left it at that before turning away. Her back was to him when she spoke again. “I don’t think the king intends to let you marry Lady Elysabeth,” she said over her shoulder. “I know Mancini was persuading him against it. The king will use you to expand his realm. Even if it breaks your heart.”

Owen had the sensation of being a castle gate struck by a huge battering ram. He jolted at her words, not wanting them to be true, but fearing that she was right. It rattled him to his core. But he felt helpless, unable to prevent the separation between him and Evie without destroying the king.

“How do you know this?” Owen whispered hoarsely.

She glanced back again, almost shyly. Her hand smoothed her gown in a nervous gesture. “I overheard them discussing it.”

“And they did not know you were there,” Owen said, trying but failing to conceal a sad smile.

Etayne shrugged. “When Eredur ruled Ceredigion, he had his brother do many unpleasant things. Things that were required under the circumstances. Things that tested Severn’s loyalty.” She turned and looked him in the eye. “He will do that to you, my lord. He will test your loyalty to the breaking point.”

Owen gritted his teeth, feeling his cheeks flush with heat.

Etayne’s eyes narrowed coldly. Her voice was just a whisper. “But remember this, Owen. I am loyal to
you
.”

We anxiously await news. The king’s army has faced Iago Llewellyn at the village of Taunton. They fought during a blizzard. We have no word yet who won the battle. Some have said the king was betrayed and fell. Not since Ambion Hill has such uncertainty hung over this realm. If the Duke of Westmarch had been at Taunton, what would have happened? But the duke has joined forces with the army of Occitania. The betrayal of Owen Kiskaddon to his king will live in infamy.

—Polidoro Urbino, Court Historian of Kingfountain

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

The Queen of Ceredigion

Staring at the map, Owen felt his pulse quicken and his stomach twist with dread. Although he was physically tired from the hard journey back to his army, the news awaiting him was ominous. He stared at the map again, wishing the situation were only a dream. Like one of those nightmares that forced him to blink awake, heart hammering in his chest.

“How many does Chatriyon have?” Owen asked again, swallowing thickly.

“At least twenty thousand,” Captain Stoker said. “We have four . . . almost five thousand. They continue to hammer away at the defenses of Averanche, but the Occitanian army is poised for battle. Their camp is disciplined, and they have guards day and night.”

Owen stared at the map. Surely Chatriyon was not leaving things to chance. He was bringing the brunt of his army into action following his defeat. This wasn’t a border skirmish. This was a full-out war.

Owen tapped the map, which was covered in metal markers to indicate the size and composition of the various forces at play. “And the Brythonican troops, you say they have blockaded the harbor as well and have troops encamped here . . . and here?”

“Aye, my lord. Marshal Roux leads them.”

“And his soldiers are right there, betwixt us and Chatriyon’s? He could be on
either
side,” Owen added darkly. “Have we had any messages from him?”

“Only one. The lord marshal sent his herald with the missive that Brythonica stands with you. My lord, if you attack the Occitanian line, it would give Roux the perfect opportunity to flank us.”

“I see that plainly,” Owen grunted. “How many men does he have?”

“Two thousand. Possibly three. And he may have more soldiers in the ships in the harbor.”

Owen gritted his teeth. “And there’s no way to tell?”

The Espion in charge, a man by the name of Kevan, shook his head. “We can’t get close enough. Roux’s fleet is preventing us from providing any relief to Averanche, and if there are additional soldiers on board, they are rotating them with the crew so that we do not know. My lord, this is clearly a trap. Ashby’s men are cut off in Averanche. I advise we draw back to Westmarch and choose the ground we defend. Better to lose five hundred than risk losing them all.”

Owen looked at Kevan and scowled. “I won’t abandon Captain Ashby.”

Captain Stoker looked angry. “Nor do I recommend it, my lord. If the king’s army were coming up the road behind us, perhaps we would stand a chance, but he isn’t.”

“The king is facing Iago Llewellyn amidst a storm,” Owen said, rubbing his lip. The tent flap moved and grim-faced Farnes entered, looking as if he had been blown in on an ill wind.

“What is it, Farnes?” Owen asked his herald.

“The Occitanian herald just arrived. You remember him. Anjers.”

The last time they had faced each other, Anjers had tried to bribe Owen into relinquishing his campaign. The soldiers in his tent scowled. He wished Etayne were with him, but she was guarding Eyric in another tent, making sure he was not privy to their plans.

“Send him in,” Owen snapped.

In a moment, Anjers arrived, ducking low enough that he did not smack his head on the tent flap as he’d done before. He wore his garish Occitanian finery and had a sneering look on his face as he approached.

“Back so soon?” Owen quipped.

Anjers flushed with anger. “Still so smug, Lord Kiskaddon?” he replied in a saucy tone. “Then surely you have not yet received notice of your king’s death at the Battle of Taunton.” He rubbed his hands together, giving Owen an imperious look. “Her Majesty Queen Elyse is now the lawful ruler of Ceredigion. She bids me command you, on pain of death, to join your forces with ours as she marches on Kingfountain to seize the city.”

Owen could see the troubled looks on his captains’ faces. He kept his own expression carefully neutral. “I find it incongruous, my lord, that
you
would hear of this before I did. Whence came this sorry news?”

“It came,” Anjers said disdainfully, “from our poisoner. You know the man, I am sure, for he duped you in Atabyrion. Birds travel faster than horses, my lord,” he added condescendingly. “We will march with you or
through
you. If you wish to preserve your rank and your lands, then you will submit to Queen Elyse’s authority at once. To do otherwise would be an act of treason.”

“Is she truly amidst your army, Anjers?” Owen asked. “Perhaps I would be persuaded of this fanciful tale if I could actually see and speak with her.”

“By all means! You are most welcome to come with me to see her,” Anjers said. “But do not think us mad enough to trust her amongst those who would wish to do her harm. Or
pretend
to be her,” he added with emphasis. “What is your answer, my lord? I grow impatient with this dallying. Will you submit to your rightful queen?”

“I will gladly submit to my
rightful
queen,” Owen replied with a bow. “When there
is
one to submit to. Thank you for your pains in delivering the message. You will receive our response shortly.”

Anjers sniffed, clipped his heels together, and bowed to Owen before departing from the tent. As soon as he was gone, Owen let out a pent-up breath.

“Is the king truly dead?” Stoker asked in a strained whisper. “I cannot believe he would lose to that Atabyrion peasant!”

Owen put his fists down on the map. He had studied warfare since he was a child. He had read the accounts of all the major battles in the last few centuries. All of his instincts screamed that this was a trick. If Severn had died, the Espion would have gotten him a message. But with Mancini dead, it made sense that there would be confusion and chaos in the way messages were handled and delivered.

He stared at the pieces on the map, looking from his small cluster of pegs to the Occitanians’ enormous army. In a straight battle, the odds were not in Owen’s favor. He had not chosen the ground. His supply lines would get longer and longer the farther he went from Tatton Hall. Owen grimaced, feeling the weight of the decision on his shoulders. If Severn were dead, then continuing to fight would be construed as treason. Besides, Elyse would make a better ruler than Eyric, a man who no longer knew his country or his countrymen. He would submit to Elyse, but only after he had seen the king’s corpse.

“What should we do, my lord?” Stoker pressed anxiously.

“Out,” Owen said sharply. “I need a moment to think. All of you—out!”

The captains abandoned his tent, leaving Owen in the muddled silence of the camp. He stared down at the map and opened himself to the Fountain’s magic. How could he turn this situation to his advantage? A nighttime raid would be predicted and prevented. Chatriyon would not be duped the same way twice. He could try to send Etayne into their camp to murder the king, but they would undoubtedly be expecting it. He rubbed his throbbing temples, feeling the trickle of the Fountain as it rushed into him. He stared at the emblems on the map representing the Brythonican forces. If the alliance with Brythonica were real, then having Marshal Roux there would actually help his cause. But he could not trust that the lord marshal was a true ally. He had been involved all along, working toward his own unknown motives, ever since Owen’s first encounter with the Occitanian army. And then there was the uncanny way he always seemed to know where to be and when . . . No, Owen could not trust him. But he could test him.

The Fountain filled Owen’s mind. It was like he saw a Wizr board mapped out in his mind. It almost felt as if Ankarette were there in the tent with him, leading him from the Deep Fathoms. He felt his throat catch and thicken with tears. She was the one who had taught him about Wizr, who had shown him how to defeat an opponent quickly and decisively. But she had given him another lesson in the game. When an opponent threatens you, the best way to respond is not by reacting to the threat but by turning the game around and delivering a new threat.

The way you won a game of Wizr was by capturing the king.

The strategy unfolded in Owen’s mind, blooming like a flower kissed by the first rays of the sun.

Owen watched Etayne’s face for her reaction as he explained his plan to her.

As she grasped the full scope of it, her eyebrows lifted. “You’re going to march against the capital of Occitania, the city of Pree?”

Owen nodded. “I won’t need supply lines, because my men can feed off the wagons that Chatriyon is sending to support his own army. More importantly, it pulls him after us, away from Kingfountain. It buys Severn time.”

“But what if Severn truly is dead?” Etayne asked, still dumbstruck.

“I don’t believe he is,” Owen said, shaking his head. “We would have heard. We need to give the king time to bring his army down here. Then we will have caught the Occitanians between us. And by marching on this side,” Owen said, pointing to his map, “we keep the Occitanians between us and Roux’s men. There’s no opportunity for him to flank us. If he’s on our side, it actually pinches the Occitanians between us. They won’t be expecting it.”

“But we only have a few thousand men,” Etayne said, shaking her head. “This plan is full of risks, Owen.”

“A smaller force defeated Occitania years ago at Azinkeep. Surely they won’t have forgotten that. I’m going to leave behind a column to block the road, then I’ll have the men come around in circles to make it seem like reinforcements are arriving constantly. War is all about deception, Etayne. If we’re going to face this army, I want to do it on ground
we’ve
chosen. On
our
terms, not theirs.”

“You are either mad or brilliant,” Etayne said, shaking her head. “When will you do this?”

“Now,” Owen said. “Roux always seems to be one step ahead of me. I hope to catch him off guard this once. Tell the captains to come in. We’re leaving camp right away. We’ll leave all the tents up to disguise what we’re doing. I want to start marching while there is still daylight left.”

The captains were amazed to learn that Owen was planning such a bold maneuver, but they assured him the army would be ready to move quickly. Clouds from off the coast began to churn in the sky, promising fog or a sea storm. Owen strapped his sword to his waist, wearing his hauberk, and nodded to his flag bearer. Farnes had been sent ahead to advise the Occitanians of Owen’s decision not to join forces. But he would give them no warning as to his plans.

His stomach churned with worry as he watched his army begin to march in thin columns. There was movement in the Occitanian forces—the troops were lining up for battle, assembling soldiers to form the vanguard. The wind whipped up, making the pennants and flags flap sharply. The air smelled of mud and filth. Owen could not remember the last time he had bathed.

He led the column with his captains, some mounted archers going off ahead to clear the way. The Espion had chosen a road through a small wooded area where the army could divert from Averanche and join the main road to Pree.

A few splattering drops of rain began to strike against Owen and his steed. The clouds were black and roiling in the skies overhead. Soon it became a downpour. Owen marched on grimly, trying not to let the weather foul his mood. The roads became muddy and clogged within the hour, and the men began to grumble.

Lightning forked across the sky in the distance, followed by the distant rumble of thunder.

They reached the main road to Pree, which was able to accommodate a much larger column. They were now at the flank of the Occitanian army, cutting off their supply lines and blocking their way to their capital. Owen felt as if a giant hand were looming over his head, releasing a Wizr piece and saying in sepulchral tones,
Threat.

Moments later, a soaked and bedraggled Espion came riding up to him from the road to Pree, having scouted ahead. “My lord!” he called above the torrent. His face was spattered in mud.

“What news, man?” Owen shouted.

“The supply wagons are stuck in the mud yonder,” he replied, pointing down the road they traveled. “Enough of them to feed us a good while. But there’s a problem, my lord. There are several thousand Occitanian soldiers coming up the road from Averanche right now to stop us from claiming it! They’ll be on us within the hour!”