“I swear to you, he will live! Don’t throw away your last chance to save him!”
She refused to speak to him. He was consumed with revenge. The only thing he feared was his own death. She swung at him again and again, but he blocked and parried, countering with attacks of his own. The warriors around them couldn’t assist him; the blast had damaged their eyes.
Rucrius was full of life and power, and she sensed that he was resistant to aging, that he was one of the Wizrs of old who had lived for generations. Perhaps he was like Myrddin. But he knew he was vulnerable to her. She saw it in his pale cheeks, in his quivering lips as he sought to control his terror. When he decided to flee, she sensed his intention immediately.
Dundrennan was a nexus for the ley lines. It had appeared as such on every map Trynne had ever seen. The ley lines that passed through it went to Ploemeur, Kingfountain, and Edonburick. It seemed that his Tay al-Ard was not functional from overusing it, but he could still flee another way.
She couldn’t let it happen.
As he was uttering the word of power that would launch him through the ley lines, she joined her mind to his. Dropping one of her swords, she gripped his tunic, and suddenly it felt as if she’d stepped into a rushing waterfall. She clung to the Wizr, feeling his thoughts buck and weave as he panicked. He kept changing destinations, trying to shake her loose. Images of fountains flickered through her mind, the noise of babbling waters of an endless variety mixed with the rush and roar of mighty waterfalls. They were passing swiftly, zigzagging across the continents, her insides wrenching with spasms, but still she held on to him. She sensed his weakness, his mounting desperation to survive. His magic was beginning to fail, and he was forced to carry her weight as well, which was only tiring him faster.
They finally appeared in a small alcove in a damp-smelling chapel. It was well past midnight and the waters of the fountain had been stilled. Trynne fell to her knees with exhaustion, her fingers still digging into Rucrius’s robes. He fell as well, dropping his sword in the water with a loud splash and catching himself on his staff. His legs trembled violently. It was a familiar chapel—one she had been to recently. On her last visit, the twisting snakes carved into the walls had been illuminated by the orange light of torches. She recognized the old smell, a mildewy scent of waterways and damp corners. This was the poisoner school in Pisan, the same fountain she and Morwenna had traveled to before going to Chandigarl.
“Don’t,” Rucrius said, his voice quavering. “Don’t!”
It was considered the height of sacrilege to murder someone in a fountain. But she felt the murmur of the Fountain’s voice.
Slay him.
Rucrius’s eyes widened, as if he too had heard the command. His face twisted with grief and fear. Trynne slowly rose to her feet, her limbs feeling weak, her stomach roiling with nausea.
She had sworn an oath to obey the Fountain. She didn’t have the desire to kill him. The idea repulsed her. But the Fountain demanded it of her, and she had sworn an oath to do its bidding.
“Please,” Rucrius babbled. “I will tell you where your father is. I will serve you and no other. All that I have, all my wealth and power will be—”
She blocked out his words, grabbed a fistful of his tawny mane, and fulfilled the Fountain’s will while standing inside the fountain.
Trynne knelt next to the fountain, her shoulders heaving as she cried softly. The tears kept coming for a mixture of reasons. She had killed before but had never executed someone. She did not feel guilt—no, it was more a feeling of relief. But it anguished her to think her father might truly die because of what she had done. If Rucrius had left orders for his murder, she might have unwittingly sentenced him to death. That thought was unbearable to her, but she trusted the Fountain. She knew her father did as well. And perhaps the Fountain had seen to his protection somehow.
A noise coming from the outside corridor roused her moments later.
The light from a lamp appeared in the corridor, and she heard two men speaking in the language of Pisan. There was no need to utter the word of power that allowed her to understand all languages; she was familiar with this one from the merchants she had met in Ploemeur.
“I know I heard something. It came from the chapel.”
“I heard nothing,” muttered an angry voice.
Their footsteps drew nearer and Trynne rose, stifling the tears that were still fresh in her eyes. She stared down at the fountain water, expecting it to be clouded with blood, but the water was strangely clear. Rucrius’s body was still and silent; all evidence of his magic and power had been snuffed out.