The King's Traitor (Kingfountain #3)(80)

“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 of 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.