The King's Traitor (Kingfountain #3)(81)

“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.