The Thief's Daughter (20 page)

Owen felt a coldness settle over him. He knew what she meant, but he wasn’t going to say it. “Am I?”

She nodded with certainty. “I have a suspicion. Mancini never told me about you, you know. He told me about Ankarette, the greatest spy of them all, and how she had helped him become master of the Espion. But he never once mentioned you. After you and I met, I found myself wondering why. I think it’s because Ankarette helped you both. When you were brought to Kingfountain as a young boy, I remember hearing about you. I think I even saw you once at the sanctuary. All by yourself. Then I learned about the little boy who could see the future in his dreams.” She blinked. “That’s not true, is it?”

Owen took a deep breath. This was so dangerous, talking to her. Yet she had secrets of her own, some of which he now knew. She had trusted him with the story of her past, something he realized she rarely, if ever, did.

Over the years Owen had missed his relationship with Ankarette—there had been no lies between them, and yet she had also understood and could relate to his powers. What if he lost Evie? Not having a companion to confide in and trust would make his life an utter misery. He shared Etayne’s eagerness for friendship, but he felt conflicted by it, particularly because he knew she would be able to understand him in ways that Evie could not. Evie
should
be the one with whom he shared everything; Evie, who was not Fountain-blessed.

The feelings wrestled inside him like snakes, and he could not bring himself to say the words. But she was looking at him so imploringly, so desperate for anything resembling friendship, that he could not resist. He shook his head no.

Etayne breathed out. Her voice was very low when she spoke again. “That wasn’t easy for you to admit. Thank you for your trust.” Then she looked him in the eye, her face vulnerable and intense. “I swear by the Fountain that I won’t tell anyone. I swear it.”

“Thank you,” Owen whispered. “I won’t tell anyone about you either. You have my word.”

She straightened her shoulders. “I will do whatever you ask, Lord Owen. Anything. Just teach me. If I’m truly Fountain-blessed, that is a secret I don’t want anyone else to know. Especially Mancini.”

Owen nodded.

She sighed, relieved. “How do you use the power then? How do you summon it?”

“It’s difficult to describe,” Owen said thoughtfully. “It just seems to happen naturally for me. I don’t need to force it, but I do need to open myself to it. I can feel the Fountain all around me. It’s like a river of rushing water, always flowing. When I want to access the power, I just open myself to it and let the current take me. Let me show you.”

He let out his breath and opened himself to the Fountain’s magic, letting it flow from him into her. There it was again, that sensation of his power draining away and not being replenished. This time, he wasn’t trying to probe for her weaknesses. He just wanted her to feel what it was like. She closed her eyes, lifting her chin slightly, and sighed.

“I can feel it,” she murmured. “It’s like rain.”

“Good,” he said coaxingly. “Now try to use it. I don’t know how the power will manifest in you, but let it flow through you, and then try to—I don’t know—
direct
it back at me.”

He watched as she stood there, eyes closed, hands pressing against the edge of the windowsill. She was concentrating, or perhaps meditating was the better word. It did not seem to be a strain or difficulty.

He remembered how Ankarette had tried to teach him about the nuances of the Fountain when he was a little boy. She had been so patient, so tender with him. He could tell that Etayne had experienced little tenderness in her life.

“Is that what she looks like?” Etayne asked. “I see a woman’s face in my mind. It’s coming from you. Is that Ankarette Tryneowy?”

Owen was startled. Was she reading his mind?

“Yes, I was just thinking about her.”

“She was pretty,” Etayne said, eyes still closed. He felt the flow of the Fountain magic shift, a ripple like a huge stone plunging into placid waters.

His vision rippled like the waves and he blinked rapidly.

The person next to him by the window wasn’t Etayne anymore.

It was Ankarette.

“By the Veil!” Owen gasped in shock. It looked just like her!

The mirage vanished as Etayne opened her eyes wide in surprise. “What? What happened? I feel faint.” She started to wobble and Owen had to catch her before she crumpled.

There has always persisted deep enmity between Ceredigion and Occitania. Over the centuries, great wars have been fought to assert rights of rulership in Occitania. The greatest and most interesting war occurred nigh on fifty years ago. A young girl from Donremy in Occitania arrived at the court of the exiled prince of Occitania claiming the Fountain had spoken to her and that she had been instructed to take the prince to the sanctuary of Rannes and there crown him king. And she did. Never underestimate the power of those who are Fountain-blessed to achieve great things.

—Polidoro Urbino, Court Historian of Kingfountain

CHAPTER TWENTY

Evie’s Duty

Etayne’s dizziness did not last long. Owen helped her into a nearby chair and quickly found some of the invalids’ broth for her to drink. She took a swallow, blinking rapidly, and then took a longer sip.

Staring down into her eyes, Owen pressed, “Have you done this before?”

She shook her head. “That was the first time. I’m surprised how tired I got so quickly. Like I was plunged into a river. I struggled to swim in it. But if I practice, I think I can get used to it.”

Owen nodded in agreement. “It can weary you if done for too long. But you are right, Etayne. If you practice, it will get easier and easier.” He could imagine many ways such a gift could be used, especially by a member of the Espion.

“I think we should keep this a secret for now,” he said earnestly. “At least until we get back to Mancini.”

She smiled wryly. “I have no problem keeping this from him altogether. I can only imagine how he’d want to exploit it.”

“True,” Owen agreed. “It will be our secret then. For now. Can you try it again? Are you strong enough?”

She nodded vigorously and set the mug down on the floor. “I was startled, that’s all. Help me feel the magic first. Can you summon it again?”

Owen did, allowing a gentle ripple of Fountain magic to swell inside him. She closed her eyes, immersing herself in it. He watched her eyes squeeze harder, as if she were struggling with some internal discomfort. Then a shimmer danced over her face and her features changed. This was someone different—a handsome older woman with dark hair and wrinkles at her eyes and cheekbones.

“Who are you now?” Owen asked curiously, feeling his excitement growing moment by moment. Yes, another Fountain-blessed would know she was using magic, but they would have no way of knowing how the magic was being used. This power she possessed was truly impressive. It was an obvious manifestation of her determined efforts to disguise herself. He had never read about such a power, not in all his studies.

The image shimmered and then vanished. Etayne’s eyes were solemn. “That was my mother.”

By the next morning, Clark had roused from his fever. He was weak and pale, but the violence of the seizures had passed. By midmorning he was slowly taking in broth and managing to sit up on his own. Walking was impossible, but his strength was slowly returning.

The poison had devastated Justine, who had not stirred at all. The look of dread and misery on Evie’s face was torture to Owen, as was the sight of his friend’s suffering. Justine’s black glossy hair was dull and fraying. Her skin, normally pale, had a greenish cast to it. Her cheekbones were sunken, and the bruises under her eyes gave her a frightening cast. Etayne had done everything she could, even forcing broth down her throat to bring her vital sustenance. But poor Justine was withering before their eyes.

Their Espion contact in Atabyrion, Lord Bothwell, arrived midmorning to examine the invalids. “I am greatly disturbed by this outrage,” he said with unctuous concern. “I thought you would wish to know the results of my investigation.”

Clark glanced at Owen from the sickbed, his brow furrowing with distrust and anger.

“What have you learned?” Owen asked, as patiently as he could. He had been up all night and was bone weary and sick at heart. His eyes darted to Evie, who was still sitting by Justine’s bed, clasping her limp hand.

Lord Bothwell frowned. “You don’t suspect that
I
was behind this?”

“At the risk of sounding impertinent,” Owen said sharply, “it would help matters if you’d get to your point quickly and leave the suspicions to us. My lady’s maid is very ill and our tempers are short.”

“I see,” Lord Bothwell stammered, looking rather waxy with sweat. “I assure you that I am doing everything I can to resolve this matter. It is fortunate you brought someone trained as a . . . midwife with you. Her skills have certainly been of great use. As I was saying, I have investigated the matter on behalf of Iago. He is most anxious to understand if one of his servants is to blame. There were two men under suspicion, and one of them has failed to arrive at the palace since the outing yesterday. His whereabouts remain unknown, but I feel confident he’s our man. We are searching for him now, and if need be, we will torture him to get a confession.”

Evie looked sickened by the notion. “Under torture, a man might confess anything. Find out what you can about him, but please, let’s understand his motive before you become barbaric.”

Bothwell was chagrined. “I thought it was the custom in Ceredigion. I beg your pardon, my lady.”

Evie shook her head. “No doubt you have heard many rumors about our realm that simply aren’t true.”

There was a knock at the door and a servant opened it. “His Grace would like to visit the injured,” the serving girl said, dipping into a clumsy curtsy.

Looking startled, Lord Bothwell bowed deeply. “As I was saying,” he continued in a very different tack, “I see you are indisposed this morning and that further outings would not be appealing to you.”

“You’re here, Bothwell?” Iago said, entering the sick chamber with a jaunty walk and clapping Bothwell on the back. “I thought I told you to find out who poisoned our friends and bring them to justice?”

“I . . . I . . . I was merely taking the courtesy of telling Lady Elysabeth . . . M-Mortimer, that you had indeed entrusted me with that very duty—”

Iago looked perturbed. “Then get on with it and quit annoying her. Go.”

The interaction made Owen appraise Lord Bothwell in a new light. His opinion of himself and his influence with the king was probably exaggerated. Perhaps it was possible that Iago was not as vapid as the spy assumed.

Iago came and stood by Justine’s bedside, his face darkening with emotion. “Ah, I was hoping to see some improvement this morning. ’Tis not so.” He glanced at Clark, who was struggling to sit up. Etayne hurried over to his side and helped him. “At least your knight appears to be recovering. How fare you, sir?”

“Much improved since yesterday,” Clark replied with a hoarse voice.

Iago nodded with respect. “You do your kingdom honor. I wish you a hastened recovery.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

Iago turned back toward Evie, pursing his lips. “You look terrible.”

Evie had not changed her gown or brushed her hair since their harried arrival from the outing the day before. “As you can see, my lord, my maid is quite indisposed,” she said sharply.

Iago waved his hand. “I jest, that is all. I was told you waited up all night with your servant. Your friend, more likely than not. It is commendable. Would you walk with me? I think some fresh air would suit you.”

Evie frowned. “I’m afraid I must decline. Justine is looking worse and I want to be here in case . . .”

“I was just going to take you for a walk around the grounds,” he said. “We will not be far, I assure you, and we can be fetched immediately if her situation worsens. Come, my lady. Walk with me.” He offered his elbow.

It was a sensitive and thoughtful gesture, and Owen begrudgingly admired him for it. Evie stared at Iago warily, looking conflicted about accepting his offer, but then she nodded brusquely and rose. After smoothing some of the wrinkles from her gown, she accepted Iago’s arm and glanced at Owen, giving him a nod to follow, which he had already intended to do.

Owen looked at Etayne, who nodded in a silent agreement that she would stay behind with the sick ones, and he followed the two as they began their walk around the grounds. Iago pointed out different aspects of the building’s architecture, explaining that the braided design of gold was called a Kiltec weave. Owen paid little attention to their talk, choosing to walk at a discreet distance and observe the scenery for himself. The sour smell of pipe smoke lingered in the air, mixed with the fresh fragrance of evergreen sap. There was much commotion on the grounds, woodsmen cutting firewood, blacksmiths grinding with whetstones, and a constant parade of children, ribbons, and barking dogs. There was nothing about Iago’s clothes that set him apart from his people, nothing that proclaimed him the king of the land.

“You really do?” Evie asked the king in surprise, drawing Owen’s attention back to the conversation, although he had missed much of it.

“Of course!” Iago answered, then lowered his voice. “I roam the mountain valleys often. How else am I to learn the troubles and needs of my people? Most of the folk outside of Edonburick have no idea what I look like anyway, and travelers are common. I’ve slept in many a hayloft and supped with plenty of pottagers and their wives.”

“What is a pottager?” Evie asked curiously.

“One who tends a garden. What are they called in Ceredigion?”

“Farmers, I suppose,” Evie responded. “I’d not heard that word before.”

“The land is so rugged here,” Iago said. “Everything grows at a slant. There isn’t room for oxen and plow horses. Pottagers fix up the land as they may, growing leeks or squash or whatever will survive here. Leek soup is one of my favorites!”

Evie smiled at that. “And do you hear things about yourself that offend you while you’re staying with a pottager?”

“Constantly,” he replied with a jovial laugh. “But I never let on who I am. Iago is a common name in Atabyrion. The equivalent in your country is James. Hardly a cause for suspicion. Ah, here we are.” They were approaching a roofed porch with a bench, a table, and a Wizr board. It was open air and set near a small flower garden surrounded by a stone hedge.

“You brought me all the way out here to play Wizr?” Evie asked with uncertainty.

“You don’t fancy the game? Shall I teach you?”

Evie smoothed some hair over her ear. “I’m not very good,” she feigned. “I lose all the time when I play.”

“I will try not to take advantage of you then,” he said gallantly and ushered her over to the bench. She sat down, placing her elbows on the table, and risked a quick look at Owen as Iago circled the table to seat himself.

Owen wanted to sigh dramatically, but he was afraid it would make her start giggling. So he feigned interest in the flower garden while staying within earshot.

“The pieces are carved out of wood, not stone,” Evie said.

“I imagine the set is not as fancy as the ones to which you’re accustomed. But the rules are still the same. You’ve chosen the light? I’ll play the dark side.”

Owen had to cover his mouth to hide a smile when she beat him in four moves.

“Well,” Iago said, half-chuckling, half-incensed. “Shall we play again?”

“If you’d like,” she replied meekly.

Then she beat him in six moves, using a technique Owen had taught her.

Owen risked a look at Iago, whose face was darkening. “You were being modest, I see.”

“No, I
really
do lose most of the time I play,” she answered.

Then he seemed to understand. “Ah, I see. I’d forgotten. You grew up with Lord Kiskaddon, the boy who’s Fountain-blessed. Let me try this again. Please don’t toy with me. If I’m going to beat you, I want to earn it.” He reassembled the pieces.

She defeated him in eight moves.

“Humph!”
he grunted, sitting back and staring at the board. “If you play this well, I’d fancy seeing a game between you and Kiskaddon.”

It was all Owen could do not to cough on his sleeve. He turned his back to the pair of them so that neither would see his face.

“I’ll be honest,” Evie said. “He taught me to play Wizr. He’s fairly skilled at this game.”

“I would imagine,” Iago said. Then his voice took a more serious tone. “What you told me yesterday, before the commotion. You said you were here to negotiate a truce between our kingdoms. That Severn was offering
you
as one of the terms.” He paused a moment, choosing his words carefully. Owen’s stomach plummeted. “It was
my
understanding, well . . . I suppose it’s no more than gossip really, that you and Lord Kiskaddon were betrothed. Are you doing this to please your king? Or is it what you would wish?”

What Owen wished was that he could pick up a dirt clod and throw it at Iago’s head. What could Evie say, knowing that Owen was standing so near? It was probably torturing her. At least, he hoped it was torturing her half as much as it was giving him pain. He bit his lip to keep from swearing under his breath, but he remained stock-still and utterly silent.