The Thief's Daughter (21 page)

“That is kind of you to inquire,” Evie said evasively, her voice sounding more and more uncomfortable. “But I would rather not discuss such personal matters over a game of Wizr.”

“You could hardly call this a game of Wizr,” Iago spat. “You have completely obliterated my self-confidence and my pride. I’ll admit, I’m not all that fond of the game anyway. I would rather swing a sword at someone than move a few bits of carved wood around a board. They say that Wizr shows you how someone’s mind works, though, and you’ve shown me that you are far smarter than I will ever be.” He sniffed and sighed. “Well, Lady
Mortimer
, if you aren’t comfortable telling me about your feelings, can you at least tell me something about Lord Kiskaddon? All I have heard are the inflated legends that grant him mystical qualities.”

“They’re probably all true,” Evie said with the hint of a smile in her voice.

“Will you disabuse none of my illusions then?” Iago implored, exasperated. His voice sounded calmer when he continued. “I can see why he would be jealous of parting with you. You’ve only been here a short while, and I’m already taken with your vivacity, your wit, and your courage. Those are traits that I admire and never thought I would find in a . . . a . . .
lass from the frozen North
.”

“We may be used to the cold, but our blood burns hot,” Evie said.

“I already knew that. Now tell me something about Lord Owen Kiskaddon. I insist. Not a secret. Nothing too personal. What does he look like? What is his personality? Is he as rude as you are?”

Evie laughed at the question. “Very well, my lord, if it will please you.” She took a moment, seeming to steady herself. Owen’s ears were aflame, and he was frozen in place, feeling an acute sense of misery. “Owen’s older brother was a hostage of King Severn’s, and because of his parents’ complicity in the plot to topple the king, he was thrown from the falls after the king’s victory at Ambion Hill. Owen was then sent to Kingfountain as a replacement hostage while the king and his advisors planned the fate of his family.”

“He must have been terrified,” Iago observed in a contemplative tone.

“He was,” Evie said. “My grandfather, Duke Horwath, brought me to Kingfountain to be his friend.”

“And your father, Lord Mortimer, died at Ambion Hill himself?”

Evie paused. “You knew that?”

“I do. That must have been very painful for you. Losing your father. When my father died, it affected me deeply. But please, go on.”

The king was more sensitive than Owen had realized. He nudged a clump of grass with the tip of his boot, wishing a flock of squawking ducks would flap overhead to interrupt things.

“Well, I will just say that Owen and I became close friends. And we have remained close ever since.” She paused, and he could hear the pain in her voice when she continued. “He is very dear to me still.”

Owen felt tears sting his eyes and one of them escaped, streaking down his cheek before he knew it had come. He clenched his jaw and willed them to cease.

“Then your mission to Atabyrion comes at a great personal cost,” Iago said in a low, sympathetic voice. “You have a duty to your king and a duty to your heart. All I can say is Owen Kiskaddon is a lucky man to have such a devoted friend. He is a powerful lord in your realm. Word arrived in Edonburick that he defeated the King of Occitania in a surprise night battle and sent him scampering. That’s the equivalent of defeating someone in Wizr in only
two
moves, which is theoretically impossible. I would that I could meet him someday. What does he look like?”

“He’s rather handsome,” Evie said in a tone that implied, to Owen, that she enjoyed talking about him. “He has brown hair with a patch that . . . he never combs. His hair is quite unruly.” Skating away from dangerous territory, she continued, “He is kind and thoughtful and very brave. He stands up for those who are weak, and petitions the king to have mercy. The king knows he is loyal, and listens to his counsel and advice.”

And Owen could tell she wanted to say,
And he is standing right there listening to our conversation.
But she did not.

Owen surreptitiously wiped the tearstain from his cheek, his heart burning inside his chest for the girl he loved.

“I guess I must ask you this,” Iago said softly. “When someone has conflicting duties, they must choose one of them. Can I surmise that you wouldn’t have come to Atabyrion if you weren’t prepared to fulfill your king’s wishes?”

“Are
you
prepared to release the pretender to my custody so that I might bring him back to Ceredigion?”

Iago sighed with pain. “I do understand conflicting loyalties,” the king said. “I gave Eyric my sworn word that I would aid and protect him. If I broke that vow to him, how could you ever trust that I’d keep a vow made to you?”

“You made that vow hastily,” Evie said pointedly.

“Indeed. If only you had come sooner. But there may be a way around it.” His voice grew more serious. “If Severn were no longer King of Ceredigion, then you would no longer have to hold fealty to him.”

As soon as he said the words, Owen’s mind began to race.

Suddenly a serving girl came rushing up to the patio. “My lord, I beg your pardon! My lady! Your maid is sinking fast. Her breathing is troubled. There is fear she is dying. I was sent to find you.”

Evie pushed away from the table and the Wizr board and started to run back to the sickroom. Owen was fast at her heels.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

A Quiet Breath

As Owen stood to the side, watching Justine gasp, his heart was sick with sadness. Evie barely managed to hold back tears as she knelt by the bedside of her friend and companion and squeezed her hands. The Atabyrion doctor shook his head solemnly, giving the universal shrug of helplessness, and exited the room. Clark was sitting up unassisted now, and his look was dark and troubled as he stared at the pale girl. Standing beside him, Etayne looked haggard with exhaustion. The small band from Ceredigion was silent as they listened to Justine’s quiet, labored breaths.

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.