The Thief's Daughter

by Jeff Wheeler

  The king had not accompanied them to the sickchamber, choosing instead to give Evie space to grieve amongst her own people.

  “Please, Justine,” Evie begged, her face pinched with sadness. “You can do this! You can pull through! Please don’t abandon hope. There was so much we were going to do together. Please try to live! You must try. If you’d only awaken, you’d be able to eat and build your strength.” Evie wiped tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand, the other hand still gripping Justine’s pale fingers.

  Owen hated to watch Evie suffer. He took a step toward her and put his hand on her shoulder. She looked up at him disconsolately, trembling with pent-up sorrow.

  “I can’t bear to lose her,” Evie whispered. “I cannot.”

  “I’ve done all that I know, my lady,” Etayne said wearily. “Poison affects people in different ways. Clark was stronger.”

  “And I feel weak as a kitten still,” Clark said. Then he stared down at the girl’s sickbed once more, his mouth turning into a deep frown. “Poor lass.”

  “I can’t give up; I won’t lose hope!” Evie said with frustration. “Please, Justine! I need you! I need your comfort and your companionship. You are so dear to me. Please!”

  The gasps were getting more pronounced. It was agony to watch her frail chest heave and sigh. The intervals between her breaths were punctuated by moments of stillness.

  A timid knock came at the door. Evie looked furious at the interruption, so Owen walked to the door and opened it. Lord Bothwell stood on the other side, his face flushed.

  “What is it?” Owen asked.

  Lord Bothwell covered his mouth. “The . . . ahem . . . the individual we were seeking. Tell your mistress,” he craned his neck to try to see around Owen, who blocked the view deliberately. “Tell her he was found. At the bottom of the falls. A fisherman caught him in his nets. There was a knife wound in his back. I suspect that means the poisoner is still at large. Do be careful, sir. Guard your mistress. It looks like her protection rests in your hands entirely now.”

  “I will indeed,” Owen said. “Thank you, Bothwell.” He started to shut the door, but the Atabyrion noble held it.

  “If there is anything I might do to be of service . . . ?”

  “Her ladyship would appreciate a moment to grieve in private,” Owen said. Then he shut the door and blocked the man’s view entirely.

  Owen noticed the sound of the girl’s rattled breathing had quieted. A final sigh escaped from Justine’s lips, and then she was gone.

  “No! No!” Evie said bitterly, weeping as a horrible flood of emotions buffeted her. Sobs and groans racked her chest as she buried her face against Justine’s breast.

  Owen felt the trickle of the Fountain bubbling up inside of him. He had not summoned the magic, but he felt it awakening inside of himself nonetheless. Etayne’s head jerked up, her eyes meeting his with confusion. She felt it too.

  “She’s gone,” Clark said with finality, his voice thick with despair.

  Owen slid the door’s bolt into place, moving almost unconsciously, and followed the flow of the Fountain to the bed. He could sense a presence in the room. Justine lay silent and still, her lifespark having left the waxy shell of her body. The true Justine was still with them in the room, however, and Owen could feel the comforting thoughts she was directing toward Evie, who was too anguished to feel them.

  Stepping forward slowly, warily, Owen stood behind Evie, staring down at the body of her friend. Something was welling up inside him. The waters of the Fountain were churning now, lapping at him in waves. A shiver of fear ran down his legs.

  Etayne stared at him, her eyes widening with awe. But she was the only one who seemed to sense there was something brewing.

  Owen felt the shrinking edges of his magic expand for a moment, swelling as if the waters of a great river were filling him.

  He stood by the bedstead, near Justine’s head, gazing down at the untidy black wisps of her hair. He knew what he needed to do. From some deep well of memory, he could see a sickroom in Tatton Hall. Hear the sounds of grief coming from his parents. There was a stillborn babe with a downy fluff of white against his scalp. The blood-slick babe was cradled in the arms of the midwife. Ankarette Tryneowy—the queen’s poisoner. She had used all her knowledge and the power of herbs to save him, but it had not been enough. But there was another power she possessed. A power that would drain her very essence.

  Owen knew he would be weakened by it. He knew he would not be able to summon the magic again, perhaps for days or even weeks. That was a serious risk for all of them. But his heart was swayed by Evie’s heartrending tears and his own feelings toward Justine. And more than that, he sensed it was the Fountain’s will.

  Trying to tame his nerves and fear, Owen moved closer. He planted one hand on Evie’s shuddering shoulder and then stooped low over the bed. With his other hand, he smoothed away the dark hair from Justine’s brow.

  Evie lifted her head, her nose dripping, her face full of grief and sadness and a touch of confusion.

  This was not something Owen had been taught, but somehow he knew what to do.

  He brought his mouth down to hover just above Justine’s cold lips. There was no heat emanating from her body, but he still felt her presence in the room and the flow of the Fountain inside him. Poised over her mouth, he felt the word and then said it.

  “Nesh-ama.”

  Breathe.

  Owen lightly kissed her mouth, and when his skin touched hers, the Fountain waters rushed from inside him and filled Justine. For a moment, Owen was lost in the swirl of the magic, his ears tingling as well as his fingertips.

  Justine breathed in a long, shuddering sigh and her eyes blinked open.

  Owen lifted himself, still feeling the magic rushing through him, and his eyes met Justine’s. She knew. She had been dead moments before, but she had not gone back to the Deep Fathoms. He had rescued her from the brink, just before the plunge.

  “Justine!” Evie gasped in absolute surprise.

  Owen’s legs buckled as all feeling of Fountain magic abandoned him. He was empty, completely hollowed out, and felt like he weighed no more than a feather. Darkness clouded his vision, and he fell.

  When Owen awoke, he had no idea how much time had passed.

  He heard the sound of a snapping hearth fire. But it was the sound of a window opening that had awakened him. A sigh of air came in from the outside, bringing with it the distant rumble of the waterfall. One of the hinges on the window creaked gently, ever so gently. The sound made him worry.

  Owen’s eyes were as heavy as iron doors. He tried to shove them open, but all he could see was a slender slit of light. The room was dark, so it was well after nightfall. How long had he slept? It was the sickroom. He recognized the smell of it instantly.

  A boot scuff.

  Owen tried to turn his head, but it felt as heavy as an anvil. He managed to move only a few degrees. He was lying on a bed covered in thin sheets and sweating heavily. His chain hauberk had been removed. He could see it hanging over a chair next to the bed, glinting in the dim light. There was a blot of shadow by the window, darker than the rest of the room. That shadow was moving.

  A frantic sense of panic bubbled up inside of Owen. He felt completely bereft of Fountain magic. His cup was empty, not a single drop remaining. He had never experienced that sensation before, for he had never let his cup run low since discovering he was Fountain-blessed. Now there was not even a whisper of magic. It felt about as wrong and strange as if his arm had been amputated.

  Where was Evie? Where were Clark and Etayne? In the bed next to his, he saw Justine’s black hair and her chest slowly rising and falling in deep slumber. There was no more anguished breathing. It was the clear, light sound of someone in deep sleep.

  Memories came trickling back into his mind. Justine had died earlier, but he had saved her. Was it that morning? Or had more than a day gone by? There was no way he could tell except his stomach felt as
empty as his store of Fountain magic.

  The shadow slowly moved away from the now-open window and approached Owen’s bed. He heard another soft scuff of boots on the floor, and the shadow stilled. Other memories came rushing back to Owen, filling him with panic. Bothwell had come and revealed their prime suspect was dead.

  Which meant the person who’d poisoned the food was still at large.

  And, as likely as not, Owen realized with further alarm, the poisoner was now sneaking up to finish his botched assignment.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Betrayed

  The feeling of helplessness was terrible. Owen searched the room for a way to escape, but even if he found one, his limbs were sluggish and heavy, so bereft of strength that he could hardly move at all. He tried to speak and found that at least his mouth worked.

  “I see you,” Owen said in a low voice.

  The shadow froze midstep. The deep silence was interrupted by the sound of the waterfall from the open window.

  “As I see you,” said a familiar voice from the shadows. The voice was no longer simpering, but Owen recognized it nonetheless. Lord Bothwell.

  “Why are you here now?” Owen asked. He had to do something to stall him. Could he shout for help? How quickly would it take for someone to come? He could not defend himself, but did his enemy know that?

  “Isn’t it rather obvious?” Bothwell replied snidely. He started toward the bed again, keeping to the shadows, his hand gripping a dagger. “I was paid to help you, but I was paid even more to make sure you all die.”

  Owen felt a prickle of gooseflesh down his back. “All of us?”

  “Well, especially Lady Mortimer. If she’s assassinated in Atabyrion, it will more than provoke your king to invade. And that will draw his eyes away.”

  “Away from what?” Owen pressed, anxiety hammering inside his heart. He was utterly helpless.

  The shadowed man clucked his tongue. “Things are not as they seem. Now, be a good boy and stay down so I can kill you properly. It’ll be painless and quick. You have my word.”

  He took a few steps closer, and Owen saw a faint outline of his face. The act of subservient affability had been discarded. There was no question Bothwell intended to murder him.

  “You weren’t with us at the falls. Who tried to poison us?” Owen challenged, a bead of sweat dripping down from his forehead.

  “It was supposed to look like an accident. A year ago, I hired a servant in Iago Llewellyn’s household, waiting for an opportunity such as this one. You ruined it, and I had to throw him into the river. Ah, well, at least I can leave this backward land and return to a more civilized kingdom. Happy morrow, boy.”

  Bothwell loomed over Owen’s bedside, his face leering down at him in the dim light.

  A dagger plunged into the side of the man’s hip.

  Owen registered that it was a woman’s hand holding the hilt as the blade jerked free. He tried to roll off the bed, but he only managed to lift himself partway. His heart was hammering in his chest, and he felt tingles in his fingers and toes as fresh blood surged through him.

  Bothwell jerked away and lunged toward the bed where Justine had been lying so still, his dagger out and ready. Only it wasn’t Justine.

  Owen saw a flash of black hair, but he instantly recognized Etayne’s face beneath it. Her eyes were wild with passion as she kicked the poisoner in the stomach. He fell backward, then did a roll to get clear of her, but Etayne was ready. She sprang from the bed, dagger in hand, and charged after him. Owen kicked against the sheets, trying to free his legs, trying to do something. The air was rent with grunts and curses as the two poisoners fought on the ground in the shadows. He saw a dagger rise up in the light, then saw Etayne’s hand grip the man’s wrist. There was some violent cursing, a chair wobbled and tipped over, and suddenly Etayne was on her feet, backing away, dagger held out. Some of the black hair from the wig stuck to the sweat on her face. She positioned herself by Owen’s bed, acting as a shield.

  The grim-faced man rose, bent over with pain. “You are too young,” he growled. “Too green. I have heard about you from the school. And surely you have heard of Foulcart. You’re good with disguises, but I am better at knife work, and you know it.”

  “How certain are you?” Etayne asked warily, holding her dagger underhanded now, her arms close to her chest.

  Bothwell took a faint step forward and then collapsed onto the floor face-first.

  “Which is why I poisoned my dagger before stabbing you,” Etayne said with a smirk.

  Bothwell twitched and convulsed.

  Etayne stepped on his wrist and then pried the dagger from his hand.

  “You knew of him?” Owen asked, filling his lungs with grateful breaths. Etayne had made herself up to look just like Justine; she was even wearing the other girl’s gown.

  “We went to the same poisoner school in Pisan. He went by a secret name to hide his identity,” she said, wiping sweat from her cheek. “He works for Occitania now, I believe. I’d never met him in person, or I would have recognized him.”

  Etayne picked up the fallen chair and hoisted the comatose man into it. She then proceeded to bind his wrists and ankles to the wood while his head lolled to the side.

  “Is the poison you used fatal?” Owen asked.

  “No. It’s paralytic. I stabbed him in the leg to make it more difficult for him to fight, and also so the poison would go directly into his blood.” She sheathed her dagger in a girdle strap and then came over to the bed and helped Owen sit up against the headboard.

  “Thank you for saving my life,” he said, looking at her with gratitude. She mussed with his shirt to arrange it.

  “It was a gambit,” she said with a shrug. “Clark is still in no condition to fight, and you were as weak as a newborn pup after the Fountain drained you. So we spread the rumor that you were ailing too, and Justine was too sick to be moved. I disguised myself as her and took her place. The earl’s daughter is safe as well. I thought the other poisoner might use this as an easy chance to kill you both, and he did. Bothwell fell into my trap.”

  “I’ve never been so weak,” Owen said, not certain how he felt about being used as the bait in her trap.

  “I can help with that,” Etayne said. First, she shut the window and barred it. Then she lit a candle to provide more light. Bothwell was starting to snore, his head still hanging low. The poisoner fetched some herbs from her bag and quickly added them to a cup of broth on the small dresser. She stirred it with a spoon and then came to Owen’s side.

  As she pressed the cup to his lips, he inhaled the aroma of chicken and vegetable broth and saw little lumps of lentil grain in it. She tipped it and he swallowed, tasting the salty broth and a hint of some herbs he recognized from his time with Ankarette. These were the healing herbs a midwife used. He had drunk a similar concoction as a child.

  He took several deep swallows of the tepid broth, and when Etayne encouraged him to drink more, he managed to finish the cup.

  “There,” she said, using her finger to dab his wet mouth. “Your strength will return faster now.”

  It made him nervous and uncomfortable to feel her so close. She gazed at him, her eyes traveling along his scalp to the patch of white in his hair. For a moment, he thought she was going to touch it. Then she leaned away and set the cup back on the small dresser.

  Etayne began rifling through the poisoner’s pockets. She removed a vial that hung around his neck from a piece of twine and carefully sniffed the tip that was plugged by cork. Then she proceeded to remove a second dagger, along with all the rings from his fingers. The poisons must have been added recently, or Owen’s power would have detected them.

  Etayne discovered some papers hidden in a pouch secured to the man’s chest with leather straps.

  Bothwell’s head snapped up, his eyes blinking. “Gaawww!” he moaned, his eyes wild with panic. He jerked on the bonds hard enough for the chair to lurch in place. Etayne put her hand on his shoulder
to keep it from tipping over.

  “If you fall forward, you’ll break your nose,” Etayne warned.

  “You won?” Bothwell asked with disbelief. He looked absolutely furious.

  She patted his cheek condescendingly. “Things are not as they seem. Now, be a good boy and stay still so I can kill you properly.”

  His eyes widened at her deliberate insult. “That was good, Etayne. Ooooh, just the right amount of venom to sting and burn.” He struggled against the ropes, frowning angrily. “What did you use on me? Catspaw?”

  “Veregrain,” she countered.

  “That was my next guess. Ah, I see. The first stab,” he said with a grunt. “You waited until my back was to you.”

  She shrugged and tried not to look pleased. “You still serve Chatriyon, it seems.”

  Bothwell’s eyes narrowed with resentment. “I serve those who provide the best opportunities. So should you,” he said emphatically. “I don’t care how much Mancini pays you. Chatriyon can best it. A girl with your talents would go far in Occitania. Kill the boy, though, he’s listening in.”

  “I know,” Etayne said. “I’m a little tempted by your offer. By a little, I mean not at all. Loyalty binds me.”

  Bothwell spat out an oath. “Don’t mock me, Etayne. You are loyal to yourself. To your own interests. This is a better offer. If you want to still serve Ceredigion, by all means, do so after the usurper falls. Even better, be a spy for us from within the kingdom. Like Mancini is.”

  Etayne wrinkled her brow. “I found some papers on you.” She teased him with them, waving them through the air. “What kind of ciphers did they use, I wonder?”

  His eyes widened with terror. “Give those back.”

  Etayne clucked her tongue. “I beat you, Bothwell. Remember?” Owen watched as she opened the papers. “The formian cipher,” she asked with an exaggerated sigh. “Really, you disappoint me.”

  He bucked against the bonds. “We didn’t think you would be sent.”

  “Is that the royal ‘we’?” Etayne asked sarcastically. Owen had picked up on the slip as well. He wished he could use his Fountain-blessed ability to study Bothwell again, but trying to tap into his magic was like blowing into a hollow jug. He was completely bereft of his power.