The Thief's Daughter (Kingfountain #2)

Etayne pulled a vial from her sleeve, uncorked it, and quickly tipped the liquid into Tyrell’s mouth as he gasped for breath. Owen watched her do it. He had ordered her to do it. He would not risk taking another poisoner captive, especially not one as skilled and deadly as Tyrell.

“What are you doing! What have you done!” shrieked Eyric, struggling against his captors. Realizing he had been duped, he started to sob hysterically. There would be no civil war. The embers of hope, which had burned so bright just moments before, had been crushed underfoot.

The choking sounds coming from Tyrell grew more spasmodic as he realized what kind of poison was in his mouth. Etayne backed away from him, her disguise gone, but except for her haughty, cold expression, she still resembled Elyse.

In moments, Tyrell hung limply. There was a hiss and a sigh from the Fountain as he died.

Owen walked over to the chest Tyrell had dropped onto the sand and picked it up. He was surprised at how heavy it was, but it fit under the crook of his arm. Etayne looked at him, her eyes glinting in the torchlight.

“What . . . what are you . . . going to do with me?” Eyric stammered, his cheeks pale.

“I’m going to turn you over to your uncle,” Owen said dispassionately. “After we’ve dealt with Chatriyon. Trust me, sir, I’m not going to let you out of my sight.”

Eyric’s lips twisted with rage. “You, you are just like him!”

Owen shunted aside the truth in the words. He didn’t want to falter, not at the final moment. It was too late to change the course he had chosen. He could only hope he was doing the right thing. “You should have heeded my warning in Atabyrion. What you will get now is much less than what you could have had.”

“I am the rightful king of Ceredigion,” Eyric said quaveringly.

“No,” Owen replied flatly. “You were only a pawn.”





CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT


Wizr




Owen carried the chest under his arm until they reached his warm pavilion. He was thrilled by the victory and frankly amazed it had gone off so well. He had been concerned that Tyrell would try to do something rash when he realized his gift of rancor was useless against Owen.

“Well done, my lord!” the beggar-clad Espion said, grinning broadly.

Eyric came into the tent, looking haggard and worried, and was followed by Etayne, still wearing Lady Elyse’s gown.

“Your work isn’t finished,” Owen said. “I want you to keep the Espion stationed around the perimeter of St. Penryn. Anyone who arrives to join the rabble is to be arrested and sent to Beestone castle.”

“Is that where you’re taking the pretender?” the Espion asked, giving Eyric a derisive look that made the man bristle with anger.

“Oh no,” Owen said with a chuckle. “He’s coming with me. I’ll present him to King Severn myself after I’ve lifted the siege of Averanche. What about the boats?”

The Espion nodded vigorously. “We did as you ordered. The boats from Atabyrion are no longer seaworthy, my lord. By morning, our ships will have blocked the waters to St. Penryn. No one comes or leaves without your express permission.”

“What about my wife?” Eyric asked, anger throbbing in his voice.

Owen turned to him. “What about Lady Kathryn?”

“Will she be coming with us?” Eyric asked, fidgeting.

Owen wrinkled his brow. “I don’t think she’s going to leave sanctuary. Do you?”

Eyric shook his head. “I didn’t know if you would still respect that privilege. Will you?” he asked with a taunt.

Owen ignored the question and turned back to his captain. “Get word to Ashby that we’re on the way. We ride before dawn. Leave sufficient men to guard St. Penryn. And get word to the king that we have his nephew in custody.”

“Aye, my lord.”

“Leave us,” Owen said, setting the chest down on the nearest folding table. Everyone other than Eyric and Etayne left the tent.

The deposed prince looked defeated as he slumped onto a camp chair, massaging his eyes dejectedly. “Why did you murder Tyrell?” Eyric said with a tone of sadness.

“One could hardly call that murder,” Etayne rebuffed. “He was coming at Owen with a poisoned dagger!”

“He was only trying to save me,” Eyric sighed. “Save me from my own stupidity.” He lifted his head and gave Etayne a scowl. “You are good, Poisoner. I could have sworn you were my sister. Even now, you resemble her, but I can tell the difference. Back at the sanctuary, you completely deceived me. I’m fortunate you didn’t use a knife when you embraced me.”

Etayne gave him a cold, triumphant smile and bowed graciously.

“So Tyrell was the one who rescued you from Bletchley?” Owen asked.

Eyric nodded bleakly. “He used his strange power to goad a henchman into smothering us. But Tyrell used a powder on the pillows. One that would make us fall unconscious.” He stared at the ground, his eyes haunted as a shudder went through him. “I will never forget the sensation I experienced when that man shoved the pillow against my face. I couldn’t breathe, but there was something noxious, some smell. I passed out. They threw our bodies into the cistern beneath the palace.” He shook his head. “I could hardly swim. My brother couldn’t swim at all. He never revived, and drowned there.” His voice fell off.

Owen stared at him, feeling the truth of his words.

“Then what happened?” Owen prompted.

Eyric looked up at him, his eyes bloodshot. “Tyrell came for me. He was grieved that my brother was dead. There was a boat in the cistern. He snuck me to the sanctuary of Our Lady and then onto a ship bound for Brugia. I was a prince no longer. But I was promised that I would return one day. Just as the prophecy of the Dreadful Deadman promised. A king who was dead returning again.”

Owen rubbed his own jaw. “But you’re not the Dreadful Deadman.”

Eyric shrugged with melancholy. “No. I’m just a dead man now.” He covered his face with his hands, his shoulder buckling with stifled sobs.

“Your uncle isn’t going to kill you,” Owen said. “If you had come with me from Atabyrion, you would have fared much better. He may, in time, have grown to trust you. Perhaps even made you his heir.”

Eyric looked up at him then, his eyes welling with tears. “You think I believe that? I’ve heard what he’s done to my cousin Dunsdworth. I would rather go over a waterfall than endure such dishonor.”

Owen sighed heavily. “Your uncle would have restored you as the Duke of Yuork. But now you’ve attempted twice to invade his kingdom and depose him. Hardly grounds for trust.”

“I have no reason to trust his word!” Eyric snapped. “Nor yours, for that matter. You came to Atabyrion to dupe me. You have finally succeeded. Well done, my lord,” he added contemptuously. “But my wife is wiser than I am. She will stay in St. Penryn. She will stay there just as my mother endured sanctuary. She will stay there until the . . .” He caught himself, realizing he was about to make a blunder. But Owen already knew the secret. The Fountain had told him.

“Until what?” Owen pressed.

“Nothing,” Eyric sulked.

“Until the babe is born?” Owen asked softly, and Eyric’s head jerked up in utter astonishment.

“What sort of Wizr are you!” the man gasped.