The King's Traitor (Kingfountain #3)(88)

“Are you taking Dragan with you?” Owen said in challenge.

The king stopped, a look of annoyance on his face. Without speaking, he motioned for the guard to open the door. Kevan gave Owen a forlorn and helpless look over the chest he still clutched. Severn nodded to the two Espion protectors to leave as well. The door shut behind them, leaving Owen alone in the room, in chains, with Dragan.

The thief appeared before him. He drew a long-stemmed pipe and sauntered over to the brazier. With a pair of tongs, he lit the bowl, and the mash inside began to sizzle and spread noxious fumes in the room.

Dragan stuck the pipe between his teeth and breathed in deep, hooking his thumbs in his belt.

“I asked the king for a special promise ere you left on the morrow,” he said smugly.

“I’m sure you did,” Owen said, feeling nothing but hatred and disgust for the man.

“A small favor. He wasn’t against the notion, I tell you. I thoughts to myself, I did, I thoughts, ‘Dragan, that lad turned your own flesh and blood against you.’ Aye, he did. A most unnatural thing he did. A child’s first loyalty should be to his parents. You’ve always been an unnatural child, I sez. Betrayin’ your own kin and serving Lord Severn. Unnatural. Well, you had my daughter kilt protectin’ you.” His eyes smoldered with anger. “Bothwell promised he’d spare her because I asked it. But she died because of you.”

“Because of me? You let him into the castle!” Owen said, affronted and furious.

Dragan shook his head. “I’m a simple man. I seez what you did to her. How you turned her away from her own father. Well, I wants compensation for that. I took her jewels and such from her room. Hardly worth ten crowns, if you ask me. Some fancy vials, little knick-knacks.” He began cracking his knuckles. “But it don’t pardon ye in my eyes. And besides, Chatriyon said he’d pay fifty thousand for your left hand. The left hand, mind ye. I don’t know what such a lord needs for your claw. But it’s fifty thousand all the same. And I’ll be checking out that cistern too. Might be more baubles down there, eh?” He drew a knife from his belt. “Now be a good lad and hold still while I cut it off. The king promised me my due. And you won’t be needing it no longer anyway, I reckon, when you’ve frozen.”





CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE


Helvellyn




As Owen listened to Dragan’s little speech, he gently, surreptitiously summoned his own magic to prepare his defense. He had small reserves and knew he would not be able to sustain the onslaught long, but he wanted to test the thief’s defenses, to learn of his vulnerabilities. As his magic seeped away from him, Owen learned some immediate facts about Etayne’s father. First, he was a coward at heart and would flee in an instant should a situation turn against him. Second, the somewhat stocky man had an unhealthy heart. He enjoyed his feasts and mugs of ale, and had spent most of his life without doing an honest day’s work.

The insights gave Owen courage he otherwise might have lacked, considering his own circumstances. He didn’t need his magic to reveal to him that he was unfit for mortal combat at the moment. His wounds were still healing, and sudden motions could easily rip the sinews binding his skin closed.

But just like in the game of Wizr, sometimes it was better to go on the offensive when facing a threat.

“Well, if you’re determined to have it,” Owen said, “best to get it over with quickly.” He planted his iron-encircled wrist on the small wooden table in the corner, pulling the cuff higher to expose his wrist. He stared into Dragan’s eyes and locked wills with him.

“That’s mighty generous of you, lad,” he said distrustfully. The thief seemed to sense something in the room had changed, and his whiskers twitched as he sniffed at the air.

“Be quick about your work,” Owen chided, nodding to his exposed wrist.

“It’s usually better to be quick in moments like this,” Dragan offered with a shrug. Then suddenly the dagger plunged down, the tip heading straight for the tendons in Owen’s arm. Not to slice off the hand, but to impale his arm to the desk.

Thankfully, Owen had suspected the move, and jerked his hand away just in time to watch the dagger sink into the wood rather than into his flesh. He leaned forward, putting his weight on his arms atop the table, and swung his leg forward to kick Dragan hard in the groin. The thief’s eyes bulged with pain, and he crumpled over double, eyes widening with panic.

Owen yanked the dagger out of the table as the thief lord scurried backward and used his magic to vanish. But Owen had been expecting that as well, so he took a large step forward and kicked again, catching the man on the shoulder or the side of his head, hearing the body flop to the ground and roll. He could hear Dragan’s breathing, his tortured gasps and stifled groans, and used the sounds to locate him. Owen knelt down and hammered the dagger’s pommel into the blank space before a boot kicked him in the stomach, knocking him back.

The blow was a solid one, and Owen found himself crashing into the table. There were scrabbling sounds as Dragan struggled to reach the door.

Owen’s blood was up, and he sought vengeance against the father who had done so much to hurt and frighten Etayne. He grabbed the edge of the wooden table and flung it hard toward the door. As he twisted, he felt some of the stitches rip in his side, making him double over in pain. The table smashed into the door with an echoing crash, sending fragments of wood everywhere.