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.