The Thief's Daughter (Kingfountain #2)

Owen glanced over his shoulder at Etayne, who knelt by the bedside, offering Kathryn sips of broth and potions to help her keep up her strength. “I could not tell you one way or the other,” Owen answered truthfully.

The deconeus seemed to notice the blade and backed away. “Forgive my intrusion, my lord. I swear to you, by the Fountain and by the chest you hid here, that I will not reveal you. There is no one here at the sanctuary right now, my lord. Not a soul.” He glanced heavenward. “But there looks to be a squall blowing in from the sea. Are you sure you wish to risk the babe’s health by riding in a storm? He is to be our king.”

“May the Fountain make it so,” Owen said, shutting the door in his face when he heard Kathryn moaning in agony again.

He leaned back against the door, blinking rapidly. He had the Espion chasing ghosts all over the realm at the moment. He had even concocted a possible threat from his imagination—both to give himself an excuse to be away from the palace and to keep Severn distracted. The king was desperate to see Lady Kathryn, to get to know her, to woo her. Owen wiped his mouth, remembering all the lies and tricks he had used to forestall the inevitable.

Lady Kathryn had stayed in sanctuary for five months. At first Owen had reported that it was her fear of Severn that kept her away, followed by the excuse of a long illness. And then she went into labor early—months early—and it was all Owen could do to get Etayne and himself there without drawing the notice of the other Espion. Etayne had trained as a midwife, and she had been practicing over the months in anticipation of this birth.

Owen’s job would be to bring the babe to a safe haven, a place where the child could be raised in anonymity. The arrangements had been made with the help of Duke Horwath, though the story Owen had told the duke was not true. He’d spun a tale of a young widow who had lost her husband in the Battle of Averanche, a woman who was carrying her husband’s child but couldn’t afford to care for the babe without a husband. He had promised to find someone to raise the child to be a soldier like his father—to teach him honor and duty and loyalty.

Owen knuckled his brow.

Kathryn lay still. A solemn silence fell over the room. He saw Etayne swaddling the bloody infant. An infant who made no sound.

Kathryn was gasping. “I . . . I can’t . . . hear. I can’t . . . hear . . . him. Is it a boy . . . truly?”

“He’s a boy,” Etayne said in a solemn voice. A voice full of dread. Owen met her gaze and knew the truth. He could see it in her eyes.

The babe was stillborn.

Owen’s heart wrenched with pain. He sheathed his sword and approached the bed, feeling the dizziness threaten to knock him down.

“Let me . . . see . . . him,” Kathryn gasped.

Etayne looked heartsick. She wiped splotches of blood and goo from the babe’s puckered face. She held the boy as tenderly as the mother herself would have, gazing sadly down at the face, the cold, limp face. Owen saw the tears well in Etayne’s eyes as she pressed a kiss to the babe’s forehead.

“Let me . . . hold him,” Kathryn pleaded.

Etayne offered the child to his mother. Sweat made her auburn hair cling to her forehead. She was utterly spent and exhausted from the difficult labor. Her black gown was hanging over a chair, and her white chemise was soaked with sweat and blood. Owen watched Kathryn’s face twist with emotion as she stared down at the little child in her weak arms.

“No . . . no!” she moaned. “It can’t be!” Sobs began to rack her chest.

Owen stared at the babe. And then he knew what he needed to do.

Fighting his doubts, he approached the bedside and took the babe from the weeping mother. Etayne stared at Owen, her eyes widening with the realization of what would happen.

The babe had been born . . . dead.

Just like Owen.

The prophecy of the Dreadful Deadman spoke of a dead king who came back to life. Owen felt the power of the Fountain well inside his heart. He could hear it in the crashing surf beyond the sanctuary walls. He could feel it in the storm clouds scudding across the sky.

Owen cradled the tiny infant in his arms, staring at his waxy skin. He felt the love of the mother radiating from the woman below. He remembered watching as Eyric suffered at Kingfountain, a prisoner bound by bitter fate in companionship to Dunsdworth, maintaining a lie so that his offspring might be kept safe. Owen felt a spark of hope as he stared at the little babe—the hope that a better reign might soon come to the land.

Owen brought the babe’s face close to his lips. He didn’t remember the words. But somehow he knew what to say in a language he’d only spoken once. He felt the power of the Fountain gushing from him as he whispered it.

“Nesh-ama.”

Breathe.

The tiny eyelids of the quiet king fluttered open.





AUTHOR’S NOTE

There is usually some basis of fact in my books and this one is no exception. During my studies of the Wars of the Roses in medieval England, I learned about the mystery of Perkin Warbeck and how he claimed to be one of the lost princes murdered by Richard III. Because this story is set in an alternate universe in which Richard III won the battle instead of Henry VII, I thought it would be even more interesting to explore how Warbeck’s claim to the throne would be received by the uncle who purportedly murdered him. It created some great tension for the story and some guidance on the plot. For those interested in learning more, I’d recommend Ann Wroe’s book The Perfect Prince: The Mystery of Perkin Warbeck and His Quest for the Throne of England. One of the elements of the book that has haunted me was what happened to the child of Perkin and Lady Katherine, the Earl of Huntley’s daughter. Historians don’t really know. Why is it that we authors are attracted to such mysteries?

I’ve mentioned many times a fondness for middle books. I don’t know if I will be able to say that about this one because I’ve never cried as an author as much as I did writing the concluding chapters of this book. If you feel you’ve been put through some form of emotional torture, I have been there right alongside you. I’m deeply involved in the lives of the characters.

There is a story told about the sculptor Michelangelo. As he was chiseling the statue David out of a huge marble block, a young boy asked him, “How did you know he was in there?” For me, writing books is a similar process. It feels sometimes like I am bringing to life a story that has always existed. This was part of the story that needed to be told. In our lives, we don’t always get what we deserve or what we want. But how we deal with those misfortunes mold our character.

As with this second book, time will leap-frog again into the future for book three, where the ramifications of the decisions made here will play out. You will also learn more about the mysteries that have been eluding Owen for so long. Get ready for some surprises ahead in The King’s Traitor.