The Thief's Daughter (16 page)

“Now this will be interesting,” Evie muttered under her breath to Owen. Then she straightened imperiously and started down the gangplank.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Iago Llewellyn

They had to climb a huge series of wooden steps fixed with railings to reach the court of King Iago. Several members of their party were fatigued after mounting so many steps, but Owen and Evie were accustomed to long hikes. As they ascended the terraced planks, the rushing sound of the waterfall became part of the general noise, but it was still impressive to see the falls. They were birthed from a river that twisted and moved within a steep chasm of tree-topped growth. The falls seemed to start a bend in the river, forming a crescent-shaped drop that was both wide and steep. Owen saw a black-slicked tree wedged against rocks at the top of the falls. The force of the current pinned it there, preventing it from dislodging and careening down. Farther upstream, he could see timber rafts landing at river docks that were located a good way inland from the falls.

The climb brought them to the wide plateau where the king’s lodge stood.
Lodge
was the word that best described it, for it had none of the majesty of the palace at Kingfountain. The structure was large, and there were several gabled wings attached to the symmetrical roof. A huge chimney rose from the center, belching a plume of soot. As he drew nearer, Owen saw the posts and beams were carved with an inlay of gold designs. The designs were of high craftsmanship and reminded Owen of the patterns found in leather weaving. At least two dozen armed warriors in leather and skirts were posted at the front of the lodge, equipped with thick spears and bronze helmets from which their braided hair and beards could be seen. Each man had half his face painted in blue woad.

Clark nudged Owen’s elbow and nodded toward a nobleman who was standing to the side of the porch accompanied by a small entourage of servants with caps and quills. The man was balding with strands of black hair combed from the front of his dome down to the back.

“He’s Espion,” Clark whispered. “Just showed me a hand sign.”

Owen nodded and followed Evie up the wooden steps of the lodge. The warriors guarding the entry peeled back, and the enormous wooden doors were yanked open by their stout iron handles, each taking a strong man to heave it open.

As the doors opened, the roar of the waterfall was overcome by the commotion of a lively celebration. There were flutes and pipes and the stomp of boots in fast dancing. Smoke billowed out, for every other man inside the room had a curved pipe to his lips, and an enormous fire burned in a sunken pit in the middle of the hall. Long spits of meat were hung over the pit, and lads were crouched by the edges, turning their hands to rotate the sizzling flesh. The air smelled of crisping fat, honeyed mead, and sharp cheese. The commotion and assault on the senses made Owen’s head whirl. He rested his hand on his sword hilt, feeling threats and dangers were everywhere.

“Follow me this way!” shouted the nobleman who had escorted them from the docks. His voice barely rose enough to be heard over the noise. Evie nodded, and they followed him around the perimeter of the hall, under wooden arches and beams that held up the massive roof. In the center of the roof was a huge opening leading to the chimney, allowing smoke from the fire and pipes to escape. Still, Owen felt the fumes sticking to his clothes and skin.

They approached the head of the hall, where a wide dais led to an empty wooden throne. Torches hung on the walls behind the throne, revealing a mosaic of engraved sigils inlaid with gold. Next to the throne was a small pedestal and a goblet made of bronze that looked apt to tumble off the edge.

Owen tried to catch a glimpse of King Iago or the pretender, but with all the whirling bodies, clapping, and stomping, it was impossible to make any sense of the scene. The footwork of the dancing was impressively complicated, nothing like the more stately, solemn, and slow movements Owen was used to from the court at Ceredigion. Each man held an arm up in a half-moon shape while he danced, holding his partner’s waist in a grip that mirrored the posture with the other arm.

How to describe the women? It was impossible to distinguish their hair color because each wore a stylish headdress of varying design that completely concealed her hair. No two headdresses were the same, or so it appeared to Owen. How they managed to keep them on was a mystery, particularly considering the velocity of the dancing. The small serving girls who scuttled in and out with trays of drink and food did not wear them, though their hair was meticulously braided, some even with flowers, but it was definitely a symbol of wealth or power or rank to have an ornate headdress. In contrast, the gowns of the ladies were far simpler than the fashions Owen had seen in his own kingdom.

Evie and her company were escorted to the empty throne at the head of the hall and made to wait. Then a tall, fat man who reminded Owen of Mancini raised a huge horn to his lips and let out a blat that nearly shook the walls. The horn came down and the man wiped his lips on his sleeve.

The dancing stopped midstep.

The nobleman who had escorted them raised his voice. “Lord King Iago, you have a visitor from the benighted realm of Ceredigion. Lady Mortimer has come to the great hall of Chambliss to seek your counsel.”

Considering the press of dancers, it was impossible to judge whom the nobleman was addressing. Owen searched the faces, trying to identify the king from the rabble. And then he spied him, for heads all around the great room turned to look at him, and a small opening peeled off to provide him a view of Evie and her escorts.

Iago was short.

By Owen’s reckoning, and from what he’d been told by Mancini, the young king was nearly twenty years old. He was sweating profusely, and his mane of black hair was disheveled by the dance. There was nothing in his Atabyrion garb that differentiated him from his peers at all except for a circlet of dark gold around his brow, which Owen had not noticed amidst the throng. The king held the hand of an exquisitely beautiful young woman in a white satin dress, so white that it appeared to be snow, with a dazzling silver girdle and billowing sleeves. Her ornate silver headdress concealed her hair but not her serious mouth, flushed cheeks, and hazel eyes. The king held her hand and escorted her down the tunnel of bodies until he reached another young man. As the king delivered the woman’s hand into the awaiting grip of the young man, restoring the bride to her husband by all looks of it, Owen realized instantly that he was their quarry.

This young man was the pretender, and he did indeed
look
like an Argentine.

The king dipped his head to the young woman, saying something in the thick brogue of his native tongue, then brushed his hands together vigorously and strode across the hall to greet them with a charming smile.

“My fair lady Mortimer!” the king said in a polished accent. “You have come just in time to join the dance. May I be the first to introduce you to the quaint traditions of my realm?” He bowed resplendently.

Evie’s eyes were like flint and she gave off a haughty manner, not submissive or impressed in the least.

“My lord, Lady Mortimer is my mother,” she said curtly. “I am Elysabeth Victoria Mortimer, granddaughter of Duke Horwath, who defeated Atabyrion at the Battle of the Steene thirteen years ago. I did not come here to
dance
, my lord. I came here to
prevent
another war.”

Her voice was commanding, imperious, and it sent a hush through the crowd more efficiently than the horn-man had done with his tune. The hush was followed immediately by a murmuring of anger and resentment, making Owen fear she had gone too far.

The king’s eyes narrowed as the sweat continued to trickle down his face. Owen realized they were sequestered at the end of the hall that was farthest from the doors. It was quite a vulnerable position.

“Well—” the king said tightly, his face betraying strong emotions, none of them positive, “—you speak very
boldly
to a king, Lady Mortimer.”

“Lady Elysabeth will do if you cannot pronounce my entire name,” she said pointedly. “You are, by rights, the king of this realm. But remember, my lord, that the Duke of North Cumbria holds domains far vaster than this puny island.”

He gritted his teeth at her audacity. “You are outspoken,” he said evenly. “So my
cousin
Severn bids a little girl of his realm to come and lecture me on history? I fear him not, Lady
Mortimer
. For I hold in my court the true king of Ceredigion.” He raised his hand and snapped his fingers, gesturing for the young man Owen had previously identified to approach.

Owen’s stomach twisted with concern at how Evie was handling the situation. She, an earl’s daughter, was treating herself as equal to the King of Atabyrion. She was establishing her authority as emissary of a realm that dwarfed the size of Atabyrion and could afford to treat it with impunity. It was a highly offensive approach, and Owen hoped it would not destroy her standing.

The pretender approached. Tall and athletic, he looked to be a few years older than Owen and Evie. He had the Argentine chin, but he did not share Severn’s dark looks. No, his hair was gold, and he was every bit as handsome as Eredur was purported to have been. The girl in the white dress was on his arm, her expression serious and concerned, troubled. She seemed to understand the language of Ceredigion, or so her appearance indicated.

“I bid you greet Eyric Argentine, true king of Ceredigion, and his wife, Lady Kathryn, the Earl of Huntley’s daughter,” Iago said, his voice full of hostility. “They were wed this morning. It is their wedding celebration you are interrupting so rudely with your provocations.”

Eyric—or was it Urbick?—was not dressed like the others in the room, and his more formal attire, although almost indistinguishable from the uniform of underservants within Kingfountain palace, was probably the finest outfit in the entire island kingdom. Even the earl’s daughter’s dress—the white one—was inferior to Etayne’s and Justine’s and far less fashionable. The wealth in the kingdom had obviously not recovered from the loss of the original city and a long history of conflicts. They were not in a position, financially, to wage war on Ceredigion.

“We meet at last!” Evie said with a false cheerfulness, turning her iron gaze on the would-be prince. “Why, it was only a few weeks ago that I dispersed your ships and defeated the rabble you called an invasion army. Yes, my pretend lord. Those were my forces that ran you out. And you didn’t even have the courage to land yourself.” She turned back to Iago, her face flushing with anger. “No one in Ceredigion believes this young man is their true king. We have a true king, anointed and crowned. Even if this young person
were
Eyric Argentine, the line was judged to be illegitimate by law, as my lord’s lawyers can prove and attest. So can his ‘sister,’ Lady Elyse. You provoke my lord king to wrath by such impertinence, Prince Iago. You do so at your peril. I have come to negotiate a truce with you. Perhaps I have wasted my time.”

The young man, Eyric, strode forward a step, his face flushed with fury. He set aside his new wife’s hand from his arm and stood next to King Iago, towering over him. Owen was tempted to test the young man with his magic, but to do so would risk exposing his ability to anyone in the hall who shared it.

“You
dare
to speak of my uncle as the true king of Ceredigion,” Eyric said, his voice quavering with emotion. “Perhaps you have not heard the tale of how I survived his attempt to
murder
me.”

Evie looked at him coldly, unmoved. “I have read it,
sir
. But as I said, no one in Ceredigion believes it.” She turned back to Iago, not giving the young man any more of her attention. “My lord, we have evidence of this young man’s true parentage, confessions written and received. He is an imposter, and you provoke Severn’s sword of war by harboring him in your realm. It affronts us, in a most grievous fashion, that you have not only supported his false claim but endorsed it by arranging a marriage between him and the daughter of one of your nobles. Believe me, my king
will
come and fetch this young man in person if he must. And your hall will shake for it if he does.”

As Evie spoke, Owen scrutinized Lady Kathryn, and his heart pained for her. This was her wedding day, and she believed she had wed the future king of Ceredigion. It was clear from the hostility in the air that they
all
believed the boy’s tale to be true. But what Owen did not know was whether they also had been tricked by Tunmore’s magically persuasive words.

Iago folded his arms proudly. “I have no doubt, Lady Mortimer, that my cousin has arranged any number of people who are willing to swear Eyric was a pig keeper—”

“A fisherman’s son, but close enough,” Evie shot back.

Iago ground his teeth. “I know this man’s sad tale, and I am not the only ruler who believes it. Severn the Usurper will soon discover that he is the only ruler who
doesn’t
.” He took a step forward. “Do you think I fear your threats? If Severn attacks me, he will be invaded by four other kingdoms in his rear. You know he will. We all believe Eyric to be the true king. That bit about illegitimacy? The story the king has spun about Eredur’s previous secret marriage?” He snorted. “
That
is the deception. Severn has barred his niece from her true rights, even as he’s sought to woo her into his bed. Eyric has been in hiding because he was too young to fight his uncle. But he is a man grown now. When people see him, they will give their loyalty to their true king. And then the people of Ceredigion will hurl that crouch-back into the river to be dashed to pieces!”