The Thief's Daughter (Kingfountain #2)

After Anjers was gone, Owen turned to give the old duke a questioning look.

“I think he meant to offend you with that parting comment,” Horwath said.

Farnes chuckled to himself, shaking his head slowly, recognizing Anjer’s blunder of almost criminally underestimating Owen.

“Farnes,” Owen said, turning to face his herald. “Fetch Clark. I want the Espion to tail Anjers back to his camp and report on the reaction of the king.”

“As you wish,” Farnes said, ducking out of the tent without ruffling a hair on his head.

“What mean you to do, lad?” Horwath asked, wrinkling his brow.

Owen smirked. “What the King of Occitania least expects us to do. We’re going to attack him tonight.”

The duke’s eyebrows furrowed more. “That is a very risky move, lad.”

“Well, I did warn him I would,” Owen said, holding up his hands. “Remember? Come morning, he would see the true measure of the men of Ceredigion? By morning, it’ll all be over. In the panic, his own army will probably start attacking itself. Let’s call in the captains now. I’m impatient to knock down the first tile.”





It is a common misunderstanding that kingdoms are defined places with fixed borders. A kingdom can be a city. It can also spread across a continent. Much depends on the ambition and ability of the kingdom’s ruler. Weak rulers lose ground; strong ones gain it. It is the historian’s purpose to shed light on the lives of the great people of time. Truly, it is the great ones and their decisions who guide the course of events—they are the cogs in the wheel.



Severn Argentine is feared by his people but also respected for his military prowess. He is sarcastic, impatient, and immune to flattery because he is not comely and has some acute deformations of the body. In the twelve years since he rose to power, he has consolidated his strength, placed trusted dukes throughout his domain, and he now seeks to expand his hegemony. The King of Occitania has only come into his rights as king since turning twenty-one a year ago. He is young and untested and half the age of his rival. Chatriyon loves fashion, music, dancing, falconry, and he is only now learning the arts of war. His eagerness to prove himself may play into King Severn’s hands. It will be interesting to see how the maps change once this rivalry has ended.



—Polidoro Urbino, Court Historian of Kingfountain





CHAPTER TWO


Marshal Roux




The night was lit by a pale moon, and it only took a moment for Owen’s vision to adjust to the meager light. He swayed slightly in the saddle, feeling his nerves tingle with excitement at the prospect of the upcoming night raid. He carried his helmet in the crook of his arm because he did not want anything to obstruct his hearing. The hooves of the horses were making an incredible racket, but they were going to ditch the horses and approach on foot to minimize the risk of discovery. The maneuver was dangerous, but it would not endanger his entire army.

Owen’s plan was simple. His main force, the one he was leading personally, consisted of one hundred men, of which only two dozen were archers. The archers were to send a hail of arrows into the Occitanian camp first to cause confusion and panic, and then the soldiers would rush in with swords and shields, trying to stir up enough noise that the Occitanians would think Owen’s entire army was upon them. Two more groups of fifty each had taken different roads, and they would await the sounds of fighting before doing the same thing on the flanks of the army. Owen wanted to catch the Occitanian king off guard and trick him into thinking he was outnumbered. Basically, he hoped to frighten him into running away. Of course, the king could be held for ransom if captured, and Owen wasn’t opposed to that outcome.

He ran the risk, however, that his men would make too much noise and the Occitanians would be waiting to ambush them. But he felt that was unlikely, for they had given the Occitanians no reason to predict his night raid. Owen had also set Espion up along the roads to catch any stragglers who might blunder into them by mistake. They were going to take out the other side’s night watch as well, allowing Owen to get as close as possible.

Duke Horwath rode next to him, silent and unobtrusive as always. He had picked at Owen’s plan repeatedly, telling him everything that could, and likely would, go wrong. The ground was unfamiliar. The scouts had not been precise in determining how far away the Occitanian army was. Rivers or streams might obstruct the way. Owen was grateful for the reasoning, but his own logic had held up. They were risking only a fraction of their army, and if they succeeded, the rewards would be well worth it.

A night bird called out from the woods to the left, and Owen jerked his head in response to the sudden sound. He felt a slight fluttering in his heart that reminded him of when he was a young child and he had been brought to the palace at Kingfountain, as a hostage to King Severn. Everything used to frighten him then. His courage had improved, but he still remembered being that scared little boy with the patch of white in his mouse-brown hair.

Like most memories, this one led the way back to Evie. That white patch she so loved was still in his hair, but it was partially hidden by the rest of his thick locks. She would reach up and touch it sometimes as they wandered the mountains of North Cumbria together, looking down on the vistas that filled him with awe and wonder. They longed to explore the ice caves together, but they had not had the chance; pressing affairs of state always kept them moving from castle to castle. Sometimes a celebration would require them to go to Kingfountain. Sometimes trouble in Owen’s lands meant he had to return home to judge a matter of land between lesser nobles or farmers. He was treated with great dignity and love at Tatton Hall, and always returned there during the winter months when North Cumbria was blanketed in ice. In his mind’s eye, he could see Evie kneeling in front of the hearth fire, reading one of her histories, chewing a bit of her hair as she let herself be engrossed by the stories of kings and battles and plagues, which she would later tell him about or share with him. She was unpredictable, lively, and heartbreakingly pretty. Sometimes she would catch him looking at her and her cheeks would flush. When that happened, it made his heart ache in a way that felt almost soothing.

“You’ll be needing your wits soon,” Duke Horwath said, riding so close their legs nearly rubbed together. “Stay focused.”

Owen wondered what had given him away, but Horwath was an observant man. While he was as tight-lipped as a turtle shell, he was always watching. He was one of the few people the king’s barbed tongue could never injure.