The King's Traitor (The Kingfountain Series Book 3) (26 page)

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 his 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.

The raven sigil on the scabbard started to glow, and he felt the magic work on him once again. He was so weak he couldn’t move at all, he could only breathe and stare into her eyes. He saw the wet poison on her lips.

She looked peaceful.

He tried to sit up, but the pain racking his body prevented any such movement. “No, Etayne! No!” he croaked.

Her face looked like a child about to fall asleep. “I knew I would die of love,” she whispered faintly. “You could never be mine.” Her hand lifted weakly, and she stroked the white tuft of hair amidst his thick locks.

Memories of Ankarette’s death slammed into Owen, and he thought his heart would burst if he lost this other friend, this other protector. He reached out and touched the side of Etayne’s face, grazing the skin with his fingers. Her eyes closed and a pleased smile spread across her face. “At last,” she whispered.

“Etayne,” Owen said in a broken voice as he watched the first convulsions start to twitch in her body. Her face went pale, but she didn’t fight the poison. Owen thought the pain in his heart would kill him. He had no magic left himself. His well was absolutely void. If he could have traded places with her, he would have done so in an instant.

The poisoner’s lips parted. There was no reproach in her eyes. No regret. “She’s better for you,” she whispered. “I see it even if I have not admitted it to you. I envy Sinia.”

The eyes opened with panic as a tremor of pain rocked through her. “Good-bye, my love,” Etayne breathed, and said no more.

Owen watched helplessly as his best friend died in front of him.

Dear Owen,

I have sent this note by way of the Duchess of Brythonica, who has assured me it will reach you swiftly and beyond the notice of the Espion. I am grateful to have Genevieve back, and she tells me that you literally saved her life. Children are prone to exaggeration, but if her tale is true, I owe you more than I can ever repay. You have my trust and allegiance. By the time you receive this, our invasion of the North will be underway. We plan to rally the people by striking at the heart of my rightful lands. Thanks to your cleverness, we can depose Severn with little bloodshed. That is my hope. I cannot take this step without great pain of heart and conflict in my soul. Were you not the one instigating it, I would never have dared. Iago bids me tell you that we will both be landing in the North. We’ve entrusted our children to faithful allies here, including Earl of Huntley, who longs to see his daughter again. The injustices we have all suffered under the hands of King Severn may hopefully come to an end.

Yours with loyalty,

Elysabeth Victoria Mortimer Llewellyn

Queen of Atabyrion