The Thief's Daughter (3 page)

“Marshal Roux,” Duke Horwath said evenly.

The stern man seemed to notice Horwath for the first time. “Duke Horwath,” he said with a stiff nod and a slight accent. He adjusted himself in the saddle. “You’re a little
far
from North Cumbria, my lord. Aren’t you afraid of melting this far south? You lead this band? I thought it was Kiskaddon.”

“It is,” Owen said, feeling the Fountain’s force ebb to a trickle now. He could discern that although the man was gruff, he did not intend to attack. The young duke kept his hand on his sword hilt anyway. He did not trust in coincidences.

The marshal turned toward the sound of Owen’s voice, seeming to notice him for the first time. “Oh, you
are
here. I hadn’t recognized you in the dark. My lord duke, I have a message for you from my lady, the Duchess of Brythonica. She thanks you for your pains in defending her sovereign rights. Your timely involvement has routed Chatriyon’s army. We’ll take it from here. I’ve ordered my knights to harry them back to their own borders. She bids me to thank you and your king for interceding on her behalf. You have a loyal ally in Her Majesty. When war comes to Ceredigion, you may be assured she will not forget the favor done to her and she will repay your kindness with her own. Thus speaks my lady.” He bowed his head respectfully to Owen. He extended his arm and waved it ceremoniously. “Please divide the spoils amongst your men. Your bravery has earned you that right. I am Brendon Roux, marshal and protector of Brythonica. By your leave.”

“Tell your lady,” Owen said, nodding respectfully in return, “that it was our honor and privilege to come to her aid. Our lands border each other. We should be allies.”

The marshal’s brow knitted darkly. “I will tell her you said so,” he said stiffly. Then he turned and rode back, his armed knights following him back into the maze of flapping tents and groans.

Owen turned to Horwath, whose eyes bore a distrusting look.

The grizzled duke rubbed his chin. “It was interesting that his knights attacked Chatriyon’s army at exactly the same time as ours did. It was almost as if . . .”

“They were expecting us,” Owen said softly, frowning.

CHAPTER THREE

Resurgence

Later that morning, Owen’s pavilion was full of men, and it was all he could do to curb their enthusiasm. King Chatriyon VIII’s army had been routed and was still fleeing, nipped at the heels by Brythonic knights. The king had made it to the safety of a castle deeper in his own territory, and word of the victory was spreading throughout the hamlets of eastern Occitania. Owen’s captains had achieved victory without a single injury, a feat that had earned him enormous respect and gratitude. Young Kiskaddon’s gifts from the Fountain did not just extend to dreams of the future, it was whispered; he had an unparalleled ability for combat too.

“My lord,” Farnes said as the herald butted his way through two captains. He swiped his hand through his graying reddish hair. A grin threatened to break through his normally placid composure—and then did. “My lord, the mayor of Averanche has arrived with a delegation from the city.” His lips quivered with suppressed delight. “They’ve come . . . well, they’ve come to surrender their castle and city to you and swear loyalty to Ceredigion.”

Owen was taken aback. “Did I hear you correctly, Farnes? A town wants to surrender
before
we’ve attacked it? Where is Averanche? I need a map.”

“Over here, my lord,” said Captain Ashby.

Owen looked at Duke Horwath in disbelief, shrugging his shoulders and stifling a chuckle. Ashby brought over the map, and several men crowded around the precious document, trying to find the location of Averanche.

Owen shooed them away and motioned for Farnes and the duke to join him, and together they pored over the cartographer’s map. There was so little they knew of Occitania and her cities and duchies. The coastal ports were well marked, but the information about the interior castles and towns was vague. King Severn had a host of mapmakers under his employ, and the Espion had the most accurate maps of anyone, but they were guarded as state secrets. He couldn’t find Averanche.

“Well, Farnes, bring them in and they can point it out to us,” Owen said, clapping the herald on the back. Farnes chuckled and quickly left the tent.

Owen looked up at the captains clustered around the small space. “Start to break camp,” he ordered. “Change the guard and get ready to move. Await your orders.”

“Yes, my lord,” Captain Ashby said. The others hustled out of the tent, leaving only Owen and Duke Horwath.

“I can’t abide crowds,” Owen muttered. “Everyone wants to see you for some reason. There’s never a moment’s peace. What do you make of this development?”

Horwath frowned and gazed down at the map. “There is a long history of war between our kingdoms, lad. This could be a stronghold that benefits us later. Years ago we took Callait from Brugia, and it’s still a strategic port city for us on that continent. I’m sure the lord mayor doesn’t have enough men to defend his town, and what few he had fled with the king’s army last night. It’s like Wizr. You just made a strong move that your opponent wasn’t expecting. They’re vulnerable now, and we both know it.”

Farnes returned with the mayor of Averanche, a short, squat man with a gray beard and only a few strands of hair atop his waxy, sweating head. After a short, formal introduction, Owen learned that Averanche was a short distance away, with a castle along the coast, right on the border of the duchy of Brythonica. It was in the territory that Ceredigion had controlled centuries before, and the mayor was only too willing to discuss terms.

By midafternoon the same day, Owen found himself walking the ramparts of the castle with Averanche’s mayor, watching as the flag with three golden bucks on a field of blue flapped in the breeze. It was a surreal experience, to be sure, but Owen did not trust the hospitality of the local townspeople, and he had strictly forbidden his men to drink or carouse. He had soldiers patrolling the streets, learning the defenses in case they were attacked, and they were prepared to ride off at a moment’s notice if Occitania’s king should attempt to return with his hosts. Reports throughout the day showed that to be highly unlikely—the king was licking his wounded pride at being bested by a much younger man.

As Owen walked the battlement walls, he stared down at the lush valleys and farms below. In the distance, he could make out the coast, the flat gray waters too far for him to hear the rumble of the waves. There was an island off the coast, and he could see a fortress atop the crest.

“What is that place?” Owen asked the lord mayor as they walked, pointing out across the waters.

“Pardon? Oh, that is the sanctuary of Our Lady of Toussan. It is an ancient structure, the main sanctuary of Brythonica. The tide goes out once per day, allowing visitors in. Otherwise it is surrounded by water. It is the last defense of the duchess, our neighbor. The view is even better from the tower. Would you like to see it?”

“No,” Owen said, pausing to gaze. The sanctuary clearly surpassed the size of Our Lady of Kingfountain, which was also built on an island, albeit a much smaller one, amidst a river. This island jutted out from the sea. It was hard to tell where the sanctuary ended and the island began. The walls came all the way down to the sea, and there were ships moored there. Owen’s mind began working on how a person would go about conquering a place like that.

“What can you tell me of the Duchess of Brythonica?” Owen asked, clasping his hands behind his back.

“She is descended from an ancient house, my lord,” the mayor said. “The house of Montfort has long ruled Brythonica. Her lord father died six years ago, when she was eleven. Her people will only have a Montfort rule them, even a girl. They are . . . independent spirits, my lord. Very stubborn.”

“Very well, but that tells me of her people. What about her?”

The mayor frowned. “Well, I have only seen her rarely, my lord. I do not know her personality. She was twelve when I last beheld her, so I am really not to judge. She is fair, by all accounts. Is my lord . . .
interested
in getting to know her better?”

“By the Fountain, no!” Owen said, chuckling out loud. He had surrendered his heart to a water sprite in the North, and there was room for none other.

“That is wise,” the mayor said, sighing with relief. “I hoped you did not carry any such notion. Even though you are her age, I can assure you that the Duchess of Brythonica will only marry a king. She has been very unlucky in her suitors, you know. Her first betrothal, as an infant, was to King Eredur’s oldest son. That . . . did not end well. I hope I am being discreet enough in saying so. Her second betrothal was to a prince of Brugia. That did not end well either. The King of Occitania wants her lands for himself. Now that you have defeated his army, there will likely be a drawn-out negotiation for their marriage. Tell me, my lord. Is it true that your king is still unmarried after so many years?”

“It’s no secret,” Owen said in a neutral tone, but he was not about to reward the man’s curiosity with court gossip.

“Does your king have
intentions
to woo Lady Sinia for himself?”

The king was very old compared to the girl, and the mere thought of such a match made Owen’s stomach sour. There was no need to respond, however, for the mayor changed the subject. “It seems you have a visitor,” he said with a gentle cough. “Excuse me.”

When Owen turned away from the view, he saw Clark standing at a respectful distance. His posture was stiff and tense, full of foreboding. He looked like a hound at the gates before a race.

Owen dismissed the mayor and beckoned Clark to approach. The man hadn’t shaved in a day, and the stubble on his cheeks matched the stubble atop his head.

“My lord, I apologize for interrupting you, but this could not wait.”

“What is it, Clark?” Owen asked, concern blooming in his stomach. The Espion’s demeanor meant there was dreadful news, and he wanted it out in the open.

“During our raid last night, I had a man go through Chatriyon’s tent. This was just before Marshal Roux arrived. I’ve had several men reading his abandoned correspondence to see what information we could glean from it. There is a bit of news that must be reported to King Severn at once.”

“You seem anxious because of it, Clark,” Owen said, trying to curb his impatience.

“I’m anxious because of how the king may react,” Clark said. “He’s not a patient man. As you know.”

“Tell me,” Owen said, drawing closer to Clark and lowering his voice. He looked around, but there was no one anywhere close enough to overhear their conversation. The calm atmosphere belied the tension that had descended upon him. A few seabirds called from the sky overhead. The breeze caught the subtle tang of the ocean.

“My lord,” Clark said, his voice low and serious, “Chatriyon received a letter recently from a man in Legault. A nobleman by the name of Desmond claims he holds King Severn’s young nephew, the rightful ruler of Ceredigion. The king had two nephews, if you recall. The letter said that while the older nephew was indeed murdered in Kingfountain, the Fountain spared the younger one so that he could one day reclaim the throne. The letter was seeking Chatriyon’s assistance to attack Ceredigion. Occitania would attack from the west under the pretext of subduing Brythonica, Atabyrion would attack in the East. That would leave the
North
vulnerable to the pretender and Legault. It’s Ambion Hill all over again. We’ve known about the Occitanian treaty with Atabyrion for some time, but this one with Legault is a complete surprise. As I mentioned, the letter was recent. I believe our kingdom is on the brink of invasion. We disrupted this attack, but word of Chatriyon’s defeat might not travel quickly enough to prevent the two other forces from acting.”

Owen’s heart skipped, realizing that Evie was defending the North alone.

“You’re right, Clark. The king needs to hear of this straightaway. Another pretender has emerged.”

Clark shook his head. “It gets worse, my lord.” He squirmed with discomfort. “The king’s sister, the dowager queen of Brugia, is supporting this plot. Four kingdoms have formed an alliance against us. Four.” He shook his head in disbelief. “What I don’t understand is why the king’s own sister would believe the claims of an imposter? Which leads to the next logical question.” Clark’s voice fell to a whisper, his gaze earnest. “I was not part of the Espion at that time. I joined after. Well, what if it’s true? What if one of Eredur’s sons survived the murder attempt? He was just a boy then. Now he’s a man. At least twenty or twenty-one by my reckoning. This is . . . this is a true blow to the king!”

Owen clapped Clark on the shoulder and looked him straight in the eye. “Tell no man of this. Prepare our horses. We will ride back to Kingfountain at once.”