The Thief's Daughter (Kingfountain #2)

They reached the palace hill and rode up swiftly, their horses exhausted from the long journey. It was a three-day ride from the borders of Occitania, and Owen was saddle-weary and hungry. He was tempted to sneak down to the kitchen to get some wafers from the cook, Liona, who had offered him so much comfort when he was just a boy.

Owen dismissed his escort and walked, hand on hilt, into the darkened halls of the palace. He was met, almost instantly, by Mancini.

“I’m surprised to see you here,” the fat man said with a cunning smile. “But it must be the Fountain’s will, for I have news.” Mancini had a few streaks of gray through his hair. He had lost weight in his new role, but while he no longer had the girth of the past, he would always be a big man. Dressed in the fashionable clothes of a courtier, he bore the badge of the white boar on his tunic and the chain of office around his neck. In the ten years since he had been named head of the Espion, he had increased his influence with the king through his expert advice and his knowledge of foreign lands. His knowledge of the trading nation Genevar had increased the king’s coffers significantly. Severn had sponsored several shipmasters in recent years and funded exploration to find new trade routes to the south. Some had been quite profitable.

“I wonder if our news is the same,” Owen said, not slowing his pace.

“Judging by the urgent pace you young people like to keep, it may well be. Have you had any dreams lately, my lord?” Mancini asked with an oily smirk.

“I have, in fact,” Owen said. While he appreciated Mancini’s abilities, he was always wary of the man, for he knew he kept most of what he heard to himself. “I dreamed of the land of Legault.”

Mancini pursed his lips. “Then you’ve heard about the imposter. I’ve already told the king. Don’t look angry, lad, it’s my job to tell him something before he finds out another way. Had I known you were coming, I would have waited another day. But such news cannot be delayed.”

“I understand, Mancini,” Owen said, though what he understood was that Mancini would always look out for himself first and foremost. “Where is the king?”

“Where he usually is when he’s angry. Come with me.”

They walked together to the throne room of the palace. Owen was sticky with sweat and irritated from lack of sleep. He needed a bath and a meal desperately, but he was anxious about Evie and wanted to head north to ensure she was well. The possibility of an army landing in the North in a surprise attack by the false prince caused a twist of anxiety in his gut.

They were announced by trumpet before entering the hall, a ceremony that Owen hated and knew the king did as well. Owen’s eyes found Severn as soon as he and Mancini strode into the throne room together.

Owen could not help but think how much things had changed since he had been presented to the king all those years ago. The king had aged quite a bit. His black hair now had a few silver glints near his ears, but it was still long, as was the fashion in Ceredigion. He wore black, though his tunics were becoming more and more elaborate as his wealth increased. Owen saw he was twitching with his dagger still—loosening it in its scabbard, drawing it out a bit, and then slamming it back down. It was an unconscious habit that gave one the perception he was accustomed to stabbing people. The way he was leaning forward on the throne—his chin resting on one fist—disguised the deformity of his back.

“Owen,” the king said in surprise, his look softening as the young man knelt in front of the throne. He gestured impatiently for him to rise.

“My lord, I rode as hard as I could,” Owen said, feeling sweat trickle down his back.

“Your arrival couldn’t be more opportune,” the king said gravely. “I applaud your victory. Word arrived only yesterday. You did well, lad. I expected nothing less. But there is trouble. A storm is brewing out at sea.” His look darkened again, his mouth turning into a frown.

“I know,” Owen said, drawing closer to the king. Mancini kept a respectful distance away. After clearing his throat, Owen continued, “Pardon me, my lord, but I’m weary from the journey. I had a dream in Westmarch. One I had to tell.”

“You did?” the king asked. “Tell me!” He seemed very agitated, his eyes wide with a keen desire to hear about Owen’s supposedly prophetic dream.

“It was a short dream,” Owen said. “I dreamed I was walking in a garden. There was a withered rosebush, but when I passed it, I noticed there was a single white rose on it. I plucked the rose and smelled it, but in dreams you cannot smell. I could not tell if it was living or not.”

The king’s eyes narrowed. “A white rose.”

Owen nodded. He had used the imagery of the rose deliberately because the Sun and Rose was the battle standard of Eredur. Reaching into his vest, he withdrew the letter found in Chatriyon’s tent. “Then we faced Occitania’s army and my man Clark found this in the king’s tent. The dream made more sense to me after I read it.”

The king snatched the paper away and unfolded it, scanning the contents feverishly. His countenance burned white with livid fury as he read it.

“Blast the Fountain!” the king thundered, throwing the letter down to the ground. He rose from his throne, quivering with rage. Servants were already slipping out the doors to escape the great hall before the coming storm. Owen felt his heart rattled by the king’s blasphemy, but he said nothing. He knew from long experience that it was best to ride out the weather silently.

The king’s boot trampled the letter as he walked off the dais. “Must I always be plagued by malcontents and whisperers? Am I never to have a moment of peace? I had two enemies, two wolves snarling and snapping at my boots. Now a hunter comes with a long spear aimed at my heart. And my sister, no less, is behind this. My own sister.”

Owen stared at him, knowing it wasn’t yet time to speak. The king’s wrath was still flaming.

Severn muttered dark curses under his breath. “I am hated everywhere,” he said. “Hated, feared, despised. Dogs yap at me as I pass. Once, the house of Argentine commanded such respect and devotion. Nations quivered in dread of offending us. Now look at them. Conspiring and plotting to bring me down. Like a boar.” His voice deepened to a growl. “But I won’t be captured. I won’t be speared.”

He seemed to become aware that he was talking to himself. Straightening, he turned back to look at Owen and Mancini, who were staring at him.