Free The Thief's Daughter by Jeff Wheeler Page A

growled. “Do you use your gift of second sight in games? Who taught you to play so well?”
    Owen met the king’s gaze, but he dared not reveal the truth. That he had been taught to play Wizr by a woman the king had feared would poison him.
    “Never lose sight of the Wizr,” Owen said with a hint of smugness. “But as a practical matter, my lord, I’m just very good at this game.”
    The king snorted and chuckled. “When I said hold nothing back, I didn’t realize it would be prophetic. You have a keen mind, Owen. Do you agree, my dear?” he said, addressing Evie. “I would like to see the two of you play Wizr.”
    Evie was curled up on the couch near Owen, her nose in a book. She did not look up as she turned the page. “Why do you think he is so good, my lord? He plays against me .”
    The king chuckled at her haughty tone and then stood, wincing as he came to his feet. He limped to the huge window and watched the fluffy flakes of snow coming down. His expression softened as he ran his hand across the pane of glass, and the gray skies above chased away the shadows on his face. Though it was not yet winter, the mountains were notorious for bizarre snowstorms that could strike unpredictably.
    Owen sorted the pieces and returned them to their wooden box. He stared at Evie, who seemed to sense his attention and shifted her eyes back to his. She was giving him her I’m proud of you look, then winked at him and returned to her book.
    “I have many a fond memory of Dundrennan,” the king said in a brooding voice, still staring out the window at the gentle snow. He turned away, folding his arms and leaning against the crook on the wall near the window seat. “I used to play Wizr in this very room with my cousin, Nanette.” His voice fell as he mentioned the name of his dead wife. “As children, we’d catch snowflakes on our tongues. I think every child does that.” He chuckled softly to himself, and Owen felt he could see the oozing wounds of the king’s heart.
    Evie put the book down, her attention drawn to the king’s raw grief. The light from the window made his black hair look like it was glowing. He stared down at the rushes that covered the floor, lost in a storm of memories.
    “How old was she when she married the Prince of Occitania?” Evie asked. It was a sensitive question to pose. Lady Nanette’s short first marriage was likely a bitter memory for him.
    The king’s eyes were as sharp as sword blades. His mouth twisted in shape, the expression somewhere between a smile and a frown. “You know your history, my dear. Many have forgotten those dark years. Those months my brother and I spent in exile in Brugia. Those months she spent married to that princeling .” His voice was so thick with scorn that Owen could see the wound had not fully healed. “She was seventeen.”
    Owen glanced at Evie, who was the same age that Nanette had been. The possibility of losing her to another man made him grow warm with anger.
    “It was a marriage that would have made her Queen of Occitania,” Evie said. “But it was a reckless match. Your uncle lost his life because of it.”
    “We all lost much that year,” the king said bitterly. “And gained much. She lost her father and the throne of Occitania. And she gained another husband and the throne of Ceredigion. For a time.”
    There was so much hurt in his voice that Owen wanted to steer the conversation away from such painful waters. Evie’s eyes were full of so much sympathy, she looked liable to go hug the king.
    “You have not married again, my lord,” she whispered softly. “Is it because you truly loved her?”
    Owen gaped at her audacity, but she was one who tended to jump into cisterns without a second thought. Perhaps it should not have surprised him.
    The king looked taken aback, but he did not appear offended. He folded his arms across his chest and walked away from the window. “Aye, I loved her,” he said, breaking into a subtle Northern