The Thief's Daughter (Kingfountain #2)

“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.

Bothwell frowned. “You don’t know him.”

“Don’t be so sure,” she replied, quickly scanning the encrypted message. She brought it closer to the candle. Owen watched as the young man began flexing his fingers, testing the strength of his bonds. Feeling himself reviving, Owen leaned forward from the bedstead, though the movement made him dizzy. He swung his legs off the side, but he knew it would be recklessly foolish to try to stand.

Bothwell’s eyes were affixed to Etayne’s face. Her look grew darker as she read.

“Who ordered this?” she demanded, slapping the paper across her hand. “Chatriyon? I don’t think even he’s that stupid.”

Bothwell’s eyes blazed.

“What is it?” Owen asked, his voice wary. The whole business of poisoners and death. It was like playing Wizr, except someone could remove your piece without entering the game.

Etayne turned and gave him a worried look. “A poisoner is going after King Severn.”

Owen gasped in shock. He turned on Bothwell. “Who?”

The young man’s frown was nervous. “I am only doing my part,” he snapped. “There cannot be peace between Ceredigion and Atabyrion. It would be a disaster!”

“Answer his question!” Etayne insisted.

Bothwell’s eyes darted from her to Owen. “If you release me . . .” he suggested.

“I’ll release you into the river!” Etayne threatened.

Bothwell blanched. “There’s no need to be nasty!”

Etayne shook her head. “Every moment we delay increases the jeopardy of my king. We are loyal to him, Bothwell. I assure you of that.”

The poisoner snorted. “Then you are going to be startled when you find out he’s no longer the king.”

Owen wanted to start choking the man. “And who will rule Ceredigion? Eyric? The people don’t know him. They don’t trust him. His claim may be true, but he has been missing for too long. The people are prosperous. They will rally behind Severn.”

Bothwell shook his head. “Perhaps you are right. But you don’t see what is truly going on. You are missing the waterfall because of all the mist. You can hear it, maybe. But you cannot see it.”

“Stop speaking in riddles,” Etayne said. “Perhaps we can make this more simple. How about a dose of henbane? Hmmm? Or better yet . . . pure nightshade.”

Bothwell’s eyes bulged and he started rocking in the seat. “You may as well just kill me!” he snarled. “If I tell you, I am a dead man regardless!”

“But the best part,” she said, “is that you won’t even remember telling us.”

“Gormless!” Bothwell cursed. He sighed. “I will tell you. I will tell you!” He shook his head, defeated. “It’s probably too late for me anyway. Chatriyon doesn’t want Eyric to rule. He’s just a pawn. A distraction. Chatriyon’s humiliated because of his defeat at the hands of that little prig Kiskaddon. You see, he was going after Brythonica to sate his ambition, but now he’s changed his mind. Now he wants a bigger jewel. He wants Ceredigion.”

Owen shook his head. “That’s not ambition. That’s madness.”

Bothwell snorted. “That may well be true. But he’s determined. He wishes to provoke Severn to war with Atabyrion by killing the Mortimer lass. Then he’ll kill Severn by poison and claim the throne through a forced marriage with the crouch-back’s niece. That’s the plot, Etayne. That’s all of it. He will rule Ceredigion through his wife. Tunmore’s role is to persuade the girl. He’s Fountain-blessed, if you didn’t know. We’ve been poisoning her mother for weeks to help sour her on the old man. The fact that you are here in Atabyrion, Etayne,” he chuckled darkly, “will only make it easier for Tyrell to get to the king.”





Every person who is Fountain-blessed demonstrates a remarkable power, and sometimes more than one. They keep their lore secret from the world, except for some general principles that I will speak on. The terms used to describe the two major ways in which they draw in power are “rigor” and “vigor.” The term “rigor” implies severity and strictness. The magic comes through meticulous and persistent adherence to some regimented craft or routine. These individuals are iron-willed and self-disciplined to a degree very uncommon amongst their fellows. The term “vigor” implies effort, energy, and enthusiasm. To do a task out of the love of it, not for ambition’s sake alone. These two concepts mark the twin horses by which the magic of the Fountain can be drawn. Why one individual may prefer one to the other or whether there is difference in the efficacy of these methods remains, to the rest of us, a mystery.



—Polidoro Urbino, Court Historian of Kingfountain





CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE


Glazier