by Jeff Wheeler
Drew shook his head miserably. “Duke Horwath is dead. Catsby hates me, and he doesn’t want me to become one of his knights. Can I go back to Tatton Hall with you?” he implored. “I think my mother is from Westmarch. I’d like to go to Westmarch. I’ve never been there before.”
Looking at the child’s despair was heartbreaking. Was this how Ankarette had felt? Kathryn was struggling to keep her composure. The boy looked so forlorn and unwanted that Owen experienced physical pain in his chest.
“You were born in Westmarch,” Owen said thickly, reaching down and tousling the boy’s fair hair.
Drew nodded, but didn’t meet his gaze. “You don’t want me to go with you?”
Owen stifled a snort, amazed at the power of the feelings twisting him apart. “It’s not that, lad. I just don’t think it would be right. To separate you from your mother again.”
He watched as his words wriggled inside Drew’s body. The boy was staring at the floor, but then a look stole over his face—confusion, recognition, realization. He raised his head and looked at Owen with a sort of hesitant hope. Then he turned and looked at Kathryn.
The young boy’s face continued to contort as the knowledge swept through him like a flood. “You? You are my . . . my maman?”
Tears rained down Kathryn’s cheeks as she nodded vigorously and then clutched the boy to her bosom, pressing hot kisses against his hair. His small arms clung to her, and Owen heard the shuddering sobs start in his chest.
Taking a step back, Owen stared at the two, his own eyes stinging with tears, which he roughly brushed away. He had to be strong. He had to do all that he could to bring this boy to the throne.
Owen knelt down by the side of the window seat and put his hand on Drew’s knee. “I had to tell you now, lad. There is more I cannot tell you quite yet.”
Drew wiped his nose and looked at Owen in astonishment. “Are you my father?” he demanded.
Owen chuckled softly. “No, lad. I’m your protector. The Fountain put you in my charge when you were born. All the times I came to Dundrennan? It wasn’t just to consult with the duke. I came to check on you.”
Drew was beaming with newfound joy. “I’m not a foundling,” he whispered to himself.
Owen nodded. “You are not. I will tell you more later, but know this. You cannot tell the king what you know. You must stay away from him, do not let him even touch you. He has power in his words. He can make you want to tell.”
Drew stared a moment and then he pumped his head up and down. “He’s done it to me before,” he said. “In Dundrennan!”
“You’re going to stay at the palace for now. I’ll be leaving for the North soon, if all goes well. When I return, I will tell you more of the secrets surrounding your birth. It has not been easy for your mother to have you raised away from her. She loves you, boy. She loves you deeply. As if I needed to tell you that!” Kathryn’s arms were still wrapped around the boy.
The boy was positively beaming. “I want to take a coin to the fountain,” he said seriously. “I have a crown I’ve been saving. I’d like to put it in the fountain now. I’ve been meaning to use it to ask the Fountain who my parents were.” He smiled. “I feel I should give it the coin now just to show how grateful I am.”
Owen rose and mussed the boy’s hair again. “I’ll take you there myself. Now, I have some business to attend to. I think the two of you should spend some time alone together.”
Drew nodded eagerly and turned to Lady Kathryn. “I always imagined you were beautiful,” he whispered shyly. Kathryn took his hands in hers and then kissed them. “Parting with you was my greatest sorrow.”
Owen left mother and son alone.
Back in the Star Chamber, Owen picked through the heap of missives that were back on his desk after he’d scattered them days ago. After he’d sorted them in the order he wanted, he slumped into the chair and tried to summon the motivation to start reading them. He was hopelessly behind in his duties as master of the Espion, but his attention was more focused on dethroning his king than on preserving him. He tapped one of the scrolls against his lip and then opened it and started reading. The words blurred before him as he thought about young Drew’s reaction to meeting his mother. The memory warmed him and only added to his distraction.
A knock sounded at the door, and Owen gave the order to enter.
Kevan appeared with a small tray of berries. “These just arrived from Brythonica, I was told,” he said. “A gift from your betrothed?” On the tray was a note written in Sinia’s elegant flourishes.
Owen saw the tray and smiled, nodding and gesturing to the desk. Kevan popped one of the berries into his mouth and blinked in surprise. “Quite tasty. I’ve heard good reports about the berries of that land. Perhaps you can arrange a change in my assignment once you become the Duke of Brythonica?”
Owen smiled and scooped up a few berries himself. They were delicious and sweet, so very sweet they made him blink in surprise. “Are you so anxious to leave Kingfountain, Kevan?”
The Espion chuckled, his hands clasped behind his back. “I don’t know how much longer I can endure it, to be honest,” he said. “The king’s temper is getting worse, if that’s possible.”
Owen smiled and picked up another berry. Kevan looked longingly at the tray, and Owen gestured for him to help himself; he did.
“You’re a capable man,” Owen told him. “And I appreciate you. I have been known to assist others to assignments better suited to their interests.” He smiled, thinking of Clark and Justine.
“I’m not asking for an assignment in Atabyrion, if that’s what you mean. I was Clark’s mentor long ago, but I have no desire to follow him there. If I may speak freely, my lord?”
“Of course.”
“I have a feeling that the king will still replace you as head of the Espion when this is over. I’ve enjoyed serving you, Lord Owen, and I would gratefully follow you to Tatton Hall or Ploemeur or wherever else you go. I speak this truthfully.”
Owen felt a flush of pleasure at the man’s words. “I value loyalty,” he said, wondering if he should take the Espion into his confidence. He’d tested Kevan with his magic before and found him to be genuine and forthright. And he was quite capable with his diplomacy skills; he could be an asset.
“I know you do,” Kevan said, nodding. “I hope I’ve demonstrated mine.”
The secret door in the room opened and Etayne rushed through it, startled to see Kevan there. He bowed to her and turned to leave.
“No, stay,” Etayne said, forestalling him.
Kevan turned with curiosity on his face.
“I’ve arranged a meeting with Bothwell. My . . . contact,” she said, giving Owen a knowing look, “said he agreed to meet me at the Candlewood Inn.”
“I know where that is,” Kevan said. “It’s near the sanctuary. Bothwell is Chatriyon’s poisoner, correct?”
“Yes, the one who poisoned our people in Edonburick,” Owen said. “He’s in the city. I’ve meant to tell you, but I’ve been too distracted of late. I told Etayne to arrange a meeting—”
“So you could swarm it with Espion,” Etayne finished for him.
Kevan looked flummoxed. “Most of my men are busy seeking Iago’s daughter. Let me gather as many of them as I can. If he’s at the Candlewood, it’s an opportunity worth seizing. How recently did your contact give you this news?”
Etayne flushed, but her expression was full of steel. “Just now. Bothwell’s there. I’ll go with you. I’ve defeated him before.”
The Espion looked relieved. “We’ll be grateful to have you with us. The longer we delay, the more we risk losing him.”
“I agree,” Owen said. “If you can capture him, then do so, but I wouldn’t shed tears if you impaled him with a crossbow instead. Well done, Etayne.”
She flushed and gave him a smile before turning and leaving the Star Chamber with Kevan.
Owen sat back in his chair, nibbling on berries from the tray. After getting rid o
f Bothwell, the next man to fall was Dragan. But how can you catch a man who can’t been seen? What a cunning gift from the Fountain. He rolled one of the scrolls from the table across his palm, imagining how he could set a trap to catch the thief. Etayne’s father had managed to infiltrate the dungeons, and somehow the king. Did he know about the Espion tunnels? It was likely he did. A sour feeling crept into Owen’s stomach.
Dragan was no fool, and the fact that he’d use his own daughter to further his interests was evidence enough of his lack of morals . . .
Owen’s stomach turned over, and he squirmed in the chair with discomfort. He was thinking about how to set a trap for a man like Dragan, but perhaps the thief may have already set a trap himself.
The onset of cramps in Owen’s stomach was so violent that it was an unmistakable confirmation of his suspicion. He moaned and felt his legs turn to jelly as all strength left them. The tray of berries on the table was eye level with him.
Owen reached out with his magic, trying to summon it, and felt the sluggish response as his bowels flexed and twisted like the ropes on a ship in a storm. The magic crept out of Owen nonetheless, and he detected the trace of poison coming from the tray of fruit. In the Star Chamber, he was isolated from the rest of the palace.
The raven sigil on his scabbard started to glow, responding to the pain roiling inside of Owen. He tried to pull himself up on the desk with his arms, despite his weak legs. If he could get a servant to run after Etayne . . .
The secret passageway opened, and Bothwell entered with a dagger already in hand.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Poisoner’s Kiss
Owen’s access to his magic drained rapidly as the poison worked through his system. The scabbard he wore had invoked its magic to try to sustain him, but he didn’t know how long it would last.
“I think you’ll forgive me for not making any little speeches,” Bothwell said in a snide tone, shutting the passage door behind him. “I’ve been looking forward to this reunion for many years now. Killing someone who’s Fountain-blessed isn’t easy.”
Owen leaned against the table, using his arms to hold himself there. His legs were trembling and certainly not ready for a fight. He had no time to draw a sword, but he grabbed at the nearest thing he could reach—a metal tray containing scrolls and letters.
As Bothwell brought his arm back to throw the knife at Owen, the duke brought up the tray. The knife slammed into it, disrupting the attack.
“You think that is going to stop me?” Bothwell said with a derisive snort. He charged into the room and kicked Owen in the ribs, knocking him to the ground. The pain in his stomach was already debilitating, and the blow knocked the wind from him. Owen did not let it stop him. He summoned his magic to defend himself, searching the room for anything he could use to save himself. Grabbing the hem of Bothwell’s tunic, he twisted his body, trying to drag the poisoner down on the ground next to him. There was a flash of metal, and then Owen felt a blade sink into his side. He groaned with pain and watched as the poisoner drew the weapon out and stabbed him again. Owen bucked and heaved, and the dagger caught his arm, slicing down to the bone.
“Hold still, you piddling sop!” Bothwell snarled, trying to get the blade to Owen’s neck. The tangle of Owen’s arms was the only thing that stopped him.
There was no longer any time to think or reason. The instinct for survival took over, sending a spurt of energy through Owen more powerful than the poison that flowed in his blood. He brought up his legs to protect himself and then kicked out, catching Bothwell and knocking him backward. Owen scrabbled across the floor and grabbed the poisoner’s fallen dagger off the floor.
“Nuh-uh-uh,” Bothwell sang, kicking the dagger out of his reach. “How are you still moving?”
The wounds on Owen’s arm and leg burned, and he expected them to leave a trail of blood behind as he crawled, but they did not. Somehow the wounds weren’t bleeding very much. The scabbard was working for him still. Even so, his stomach felt as if his enemy’s dagger were jabbing him relentlessly. This had to be the same poison that had nearly made Clark plummet off a cliff into a raging river. Owen’s head spun with nausea, and he felt himself growing weaker. His magic continued to dwindle.
The poisoner knelt over Owen and grabbed the scabbard belt. The thought of losing its protection filled him with a paroxysm of terror, and he jabbed his fingers at the poisoner’s eyes, trying to reach his nose, his ears, anything that would cause pain. Bothwell slammed Owen’s head against the ground—a blow that stunned him into a groggy stupor. He felt a loosening at his waist as the poisoner slit the leather strap and the scabbard fell away. Once its magic was no longer protecting him, the wounds in his side and arm swelled with blood. Owen barely saw the crimson bloom because he immediately went light-headed with pain.
“No more tricks, shall we?” Bothwell growled. “Be a good lad and stay dead this time. This will help.”
He stabbed Owen in the stomach again with the dagger, plunging the knife all the way to the hilt. The pain rocked down to his toes. Then the poisoner withdrew a cord and vial from around his own neck and unstoppered it quickly. “This is a little cocktail I invented. Three types of poison at once.”
Owen twitched and writhed on the floor, seeing spots dance before his eyes. He felt his grip on the tether of life slipping, and he experienced the sensation that he was about to fall. Was it all to end here?
“Drink up,” the poisoner laughed, pressing his fingers roughly into Owen’s cheeks to force his lips open. Then he upended the vial into the gap, spilling the black ichor into Owen’s mouth. The taste was fire and ash, and it instantly created a burning sensation.
The door of the Star Chamber burst open, and Owen heard Etayne gasp in horror. Bothwell looked up in surprise, and it was the opportunity Owen needed to shove the vial from his mouth. He lolled his head to the side and tried to expel the poison, but Bothwell pressed his thumb against Owen’s throat and forced his swallow reflex. He felt the poison burn a path of fire down his throat.
“No!” Etayne howled in dismay. A dagger sailed from her hand. Bothwell turned in time to avoid being struck in the heart, but it embedded itself in his shoulder. The poisoner rushed to his feet as Etayne launched herself across the room.
Owen’s lids were growing heavy as he tried to scoot himself away. The scrolls of the desk exploded in a plume of parchment as Etayne and Bothwell fought each other without words, without taunts. He watched as Bothwell’s head collided with the brazier, but moments later he managed to entangle Etayne’s heels and force her off her feet. Owen distantly watched as she dodged Bothwell’s attempt to crush her skull with an inkwell.
Owen’s limbs slackened as the poison traveled through his system. He began to tremble uncontrollably and lost feeling in his legs, his hips. The dagger still protruded from his stomach, and he stared at it, amazed he was even alive. The scabbard lay near him, the raven sigil dull and lifeless. He tried to reach for it, but his arm was quivering too much. The path of fire down his throat blazed to life. The well of his magic was trickling now, almost completely spent. It would not be long.
There was a cry of pain from Etayne and then a grunt from Bothwell. He heard the crack of bone and then a man’s howl cut short by a hiss and a bubbling sound.
Etayne rose from across the desk, blood trickling from her temple, and rushed to where Owen lay convulsing.
“No! No!” she moaned, her look full of agony, not for herself, but for Owen. He stared at her, grateful he wasn’t alone in this moment. Grateful he would have a friend to see him to the other side. He could hear the distant murmur of the Deep Fathoms coming closer. He was going over the falls. There was nothing to stop him.
“Please, no!” Etayne gasped, her chest racked with sobs. She bent over Owen in bewildered torment, and her hand reached out toward the vial on the ground by his neck, surrounded by a small puddle of the black dreck. Owen stopped breathing, feeling the last bit of air pressed from his chest as h
is throat closed. He looked at her in wild panic. He couldn’t breathe.
His fingers clawed numbly for the scabbard, unable to function. Sensing his intention, she lifted the scabbard and put it on his chest, closing his hand atop his sword’s pommel as if she were dressing a corpse for the canoe. She slid the dagger out of his body and let it tumble to the floor. He felt nothing.
“I love you,” she whispered feverishly, her face so near his. He was slipping away, and he felt certain her words would be the last that he heard. At least they were good tidings to hear at the end. He stared into her eyes, trying to focus as his vision dimmed.
There was a jarring sensation, the feeling of a glove being pulled off a hand. Suddenly he was looking at her from a different angle, from above rather than below. There was a pool of blood on the floor beneath him—his own lifeblood drained away. His body had stopped twitching and rested still. Owen felt the strange realization that he had died, and he felt a pulling, like a river current was trying to take him away.
Etayne was sobbing, pressing her face against his chest. How could he hear her still? He felt all of her love, all of her regret, all of her thwarted passion roiling inside her. Then she lifted her head as if startled by a sound.
The thief’s daughter cupped Owen’s cheeks tenderly, and he felt her magic swell as wide as the moon’s glow. She bowed her head, her mouth hovering just above his.
“Nesh-ama,” she whispered. Breathe.
And then she kissed him.
Etayne had been present when he used the magic to save Justine’s life. Her kiss was not as tender.
The tug on Owen’s soul reversed, and suddenly he was falling, a sheet of light blinding him as he tumbled back into his body and his chest filled with air and life. His back arched with pain, for his wounds were brought back to life as well. He felt her mouth on his, and he could taste the poison there.
No!
The realization struck him like an iron hammer on an anvil. His eyes blinked open and he could see the tears of happiness streaking down her face. He sensed her magic was completely spent. She had used it all to save him. Her lids began to droop. She clutched his hand and then fell next to him.