The Queen's Poisoner (The Kingfountain Series Book 1) (20 page)

She stared at him, her lips pressed tight, and he could see her consternation. “Like what?” she asked.

“I don’t know. It’s just an idea. I know you like your middle name, so maybe something that mixes it with your first? I was thinking . . . Evie.”

Her expression changed into a pleased smile when he said the name. “Evie. It’s a girl’s name, first of all. It means ‘lively.’ Do you think I’m lively?”

He couldn’t think of a better word to describe her and nodded eagerly. He hadn’t known the origin of the name before suggesting it. She was smarter than him that way.

She tapped her chin, thinking about it, as if it were the biggest decision in her life. “Well, I don’t think I’d mind too much . . . but I’d only let
you
call me that. A pet name.” She sat a little straighter, even though her clothes were sopping wet and her hair was scraggly. “Very well, Owen Kiskaddon. You
may
call me Evie.”

She continued to hold his hand as they walked back to the window from which they’d come. It was still ajar, still waiting for them. Owen helped her climb up, and after she listened at the tapestry for noises, she knelt on the ledge and helped him climb up. They scooted down and shut the window behind them, keeping the secret.

The desire to go back to the cistern and swim for the treasure was fading as they walked. She started chattering about something, her dark hair stringy and damp, her boots squeaking as they walked.

Turning the corner, they collided with a huge, fat man, and the impact nearly knocked them both down.

It was Mancini. Owen’s heart startled with fear, but he also felt a thrill—they had not been caught at the cistern.

“What are you doing over here?” the fat man asked in a chuffed voice. “Why are you so wet?”

“You know us, Mancini,” Evie said, grabbing Owen’s hand and swinging his arm. “We love to play in the fountains!”

“It’s disrespectful to play in fountains,” he said, his eyes narrowing.

“
You
did it,” Owen rebuffed, reminded of Mancini’s game with the pigeons at the sanctuary. The boy startled. He had
spoken
to an adult, to someone he normally feared.

Mancini stared at him as if he had suddenly sprouted a second nose. “Have you decided to start speaking at last, Master Kiskaddon? Is Lady Mortimer’s banter contagious?”

“It’s Elysabeth
Victoria
Mortimer,” Owen said challengingly. He felt a little naughty, defying a grown-up.

Then he gripped her hand and pulled her away before Mancini could ask any more questions.

The kingdom of Ceredigion has an interesting method for burying the dead, involving its rivers and waterfalls. When a person dies, they are not laid in a tomb or a sarcophagus—they are laid in a narrow boat or canoe with a few worldly possessions and set loose into a river near the falls. According to superstition, they are transported to the world of the Deep Fathoms after tumbling off the falls. This is why coins are tossed into fountains. They petition the dead for miracles in our world. Not only are the dead handled this way, it is also a form of justice for capital crimes. Someone guilty of treason is tied up in a canoe and shoved into the river. Vigilante justice dispenses with the boat altogether. If someone survives the fall, they are deemed innocent by the Fountain. You can imagine that only a few ever survive such an ordeal. I heard from Ratcliffe that Lord Asilomar failed his test of loyalty to the king and he, along with his children, will be “disembarking” from Our Lady tomorrow at noon. There is always a crowd at such events.

—Dominic Mancini, Espion of the Palace Kitchen

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Pinecone

Ankarette did not want to play Wizr that night. Instead, she taught Owen about potions and herbs and explained the properties of woundwort, feverfew, and wisteria, and how to recognize the various plants. He had noticed an improvement in his wheezing since drinking her tea each night, and he was curious to learn more. She taught him about harmful plants, like nightshade, which—depending on the dosage—could either help a mother during a difficult pregnancy or kill a man. While they talked, she listened eagerly to his tales of adventure with Evie, but he omitted the story about the cistern because he’d promised to keep it secret. He even told her about being rude to Mancini. He longed to ask her about the treasure he had seen, but he could not do that without betraying the secret.

The queen’s poisoner listened carefully, watching his face most intently. There was something about her keen interest that intrigued him. From the look in her eyes, it was as if he were sharing the most interesting story imaginable. She waited patiently until he was done, and then she grew serious.

“Owen, time is running short,” she said. “The king will start destroying those who were disloyal to him before Ambion Hill. I wanted to have more time to prepare, to practice with you, but we just don’t have it.”

His heart lurched and he felt a sick, dark feeling bloom in his chest.

“Many families will fall during the purge,” she said. “Maybe even your own. The thought of such a loss would be difficult for anyone, Owen. But especially for a little boy. Know that whatever happens, your parents would want you to live. To be safe. That is why they sent you here. Why the
Fountain
may have sent you here.”

Owen shuddered, feeling miserable. Would he never see Tatton Hall again? His world had become Kingfountain palace. The thought of not playing with Evie made him feel awful. What about Liona in the kitchen? He was already forgetting what home was like, for he had been away for so many months. This new world, this dangerous world, had become familiar. He squeezed Ankarette’s hands worriedly.

“Now is the time to act, Owen.” She reached out and smoothed some of his hair, then gently stroked the side of his head, as if she were petting him. “Time to trick the king. You must do this. The idea was mine, but you must be the one to act. Are you ready to hear more about the plan?”

He nodded nervously, trying to quell the budding panic in his stomach. “The king is clever.”

She nodded appreciatively. “But not as clever as I am. Listen to my idea. In the game Wizr, which is the most powerful piece? Is it the one marking the king?”

“No, it’s the Wizr piece. It can move in any direction as far as it wants.”

She nodded in agreement. “There will come a day when people forget what the Wizr piece represents. Perhaps they will even remove it from the board. The Wizr piece exists because it reminds us of the very first king of Ceredigion, King Andrew, the one who bound all the disparate chiefs and kings together under one crown. You see, that king had an advisor, someone who was Fountain-blessed. He was a great man, could move leagues away with his magic. That is why the piece can move the farthest. He was unique among his kind. He was called the king’s Wizr. In other lands, the title is Vizier. His name was Myrddin. He has an interesting story, but I won’t tell it to you now. Some Fountain-blessed are gifted with archery. Some with music. Some even with running. There’s the story of an ancient man who ran for three days without stopping and then died after delivering his message. Myrddin’s power, his magic from the Fountain, was his ability to see the future. They say it nearly drove him mad. It is the most rare gift that a Fountain-blessed can have, Owen.”

“I don’t understand,” Owen said, blinking with confusion.

“This is the gift that you must trick the king into believing you have,” she said with a wry smile. “Now lay your head on my lap and close your eyes.” They were both sitting on the edge of her bed. It was late, but Owen was not sleepy yet. Although he was still unsettled and confused, he did as she asked.

Once his head was settled in her lap, she began stroking the hair away from his forehead. “Keep your eyes closed and listen to my voice.” Her hand lightly stroked his forehead, smoothing away his hair. Her voice was soft, coaxing, melodious. “I had a dream last night. It was a strange dream. I was in a high tower. It was as tall as a mountain. I could see everything. Even the birds. As I looked from the window, I saw Our Lady. At Our Lady, I saw a branch with a swollen pinecone amidst the needles. The pinecone was fat and heavy. It fell off the branch into the river and went over the falls. That was my dream.”

“I like that,” Owen said, smiling. “I like pine trees, except for the sap.”

“The sap is sticky, isn’t it?” Ankarette said, a smile in her voice. She kept stroking his hair. “Let me tell you the story again. You must remember it.” Then with an even softer voice, she repeated the story, not deviating from a single word. She had memorized it. As she spoke, and as he listened, he felt the distant shushing noise of the river. It was the sound of the waterfall at Our Lady. Ankarette was a great storyteller. He could imagine the waters rushing and falling like an avalanche of snow. He could hear the far-off roar of the falls, even from the poisoner’s tower. And he could imagine a big, fat pinecone plopping into the water and being carried over the falls.

“Can you remember it?” she asked him. “Can you remember the story?”

“I think so,” Owen said.

“Let me tell you again,” she said. He felt her body move and shift and she stopped stroking his hair. Then she started again on the story, using the same words as before, the same lulling tone of voice. The churn of the water grew louder. Ankarette pressed something into his hand. It was hard and jagged and pointy. A pinecone. He did not want to squeeze it too hard, but he held it in a firm grip. Then he heard the sound of little things snapping. Ankarette put something in front of his nose, and he smelled the scent of pine needles. When she finished the story, he opened his eyes, still gripping the pinecone and smelling the scent.

“This is your dream, Owen,” she said, helping him sit up. She put a hand on his shoulder. “You must tell the king about it in the morning during breakfast.”

Owen stared at her in surprise. “Me?” he asked.

She squeezed his shoulder. “It’s better that you
don’t
understand what the dream means. He will. You
must
tell him this morning, Owen. The next day will be too late. Have courage.”

He stared at her solemnly. “This will trick the king?” he asked.

She nodded, eyes deep and serious.

“What will he do when I tell him?” Owen asked, excited and nervous at the same time.

“I don’t know,” she answered. “I can only guess. But it will be his move next. And I’m very good at Wizr.”

Owen fidgeted nervously in the breakfast hall. He had stayed up quite late talking with Ankarette, but he was not sleepy at all. She normally sent him to bed when she felt pain, but for some reason, she had felt better, and they had stayed up talking.

Evie was chattering away next to Owen, but he was having a difficult time concentrating on her words.

“I hope Jewel falls asleep again today, but it might be too much to ask,” she said conspiratorially. “I would love to jump back into the cistern again. Especially in the afternoon when it’s so hot. But two days in a row would be suspicious. The servants may discover us. Let’s not go back today. I really don’t think it would be wise. Where else would you like to explore? We haven’t been to the stables in a while. How about there?”

She waited a moment and then tugged on his arm. “How about the stables?”

“What?” he asked, turning to face her.

There was a mischievous look on her face. “You weren’t even listening! How rude, Owen Kiskaddon. I don’t think I’ll marry you after all, if that’s how you’re going to behave. You’re probably daydreaming about the treasure.”

He saw Dunsdworth approaching and quickly warned her to be silent.

“What treasure?” Dunsdworth asked, coming closer. “What were you saying, Elysabeth?”

“It’s Elysabeth Victoria—”

“I know your
name
,” he sneered. “You’ve reminded me enough times, haven’t you? No one wants to use so many words when they talk to a person.”

“At least she has a
pretty
name,” Owen said, only then realizing his thoughts had spilled out of his mouth before he could think through the wisdom of sharing them.

Evie went into a hysterical fit of shocked giggles, but the blood rushed into Dunsdworth’s face and his mouth twisted into an angry frown.

“What?” the bigger boy said coldly.

Owen was saved by Ratcliffe’s sudden entrance into the breakfast hall. He glanced around Dunsdworth, almost sighing with relief. Seeing his look, the older boy whirled around as the Espion master strode into the room. He turned back to give Owen a look that promised future vengeance and stalked away.

Ratcliffe clapped his hands. “The king is coming, the king is coming!” he said with his hasty breath. “Much is happening today, so no dawdling.”

“You were brilliant,” Evie whispered in Owen’s ear. She gave him a light kiss on the cheek.

It was Owen’s turn to flush. “He’s a bully,” he said brusquely, his insides starting to squirm.

Ratcliffe made a few curt announcements and then Owen heard the shuffle-step portending the king’s entrance into the breakfast hall. As he came inside, a dark claw seemed to reach out and pierce Owen’s heart. Even after jumping into the cistern, even after talking to Ankarette almost all night, his courage wilted from the mere sight of the king and the dagger hanging from his belt.

“Ooh, the thimbleberries are ripe!” Evie crooned, tugging Owen toward the table. She loved the fresh berries from the palace gardens. Everyone began to sample the delights of bread, fruit, and cheese that the kitchen had prepared. The king, as he usually did, lurked amidst the guests and ate sparingly.

“You’re dropping half those berries on the floor,” the king chided Evie as he passed. “Slow down. The cook will make the leftovers into jellies.”

“They are delicious, my lord!” she said with a grin, impervious to his criticism. Then she grabbed a wafer and crammed it into her mouth.

“Ah, a respite from her tales,” the king said mockingly, but his expression was pleased. Besides Princess Elyse, who happened to be there that morning, Evie was the only person in the breakfast hall who wasn’t intimidated by him. Although the king teased her, he seemed to respect her courage and never aimed to wound her.

Severn looked at her with his gray eyes, and Owen noticed the dark smudges in his hollows. He was fidgeting with his dagger again, making the boy’s courage shrivel even more. This was the best opportunity Owen was going to get, but his tongue felt swollen in his mouth.

Evie grabbed a goblet and quickly gulped down some drink as Owen stared at the king, willing himself to speak. The king’s gaze met his own, and there was a moment of curiosity, of interest. He seemed to realize that Owen wanted to speak to him, and so he paused, just slightly, his look observant and interested.

Owen just stared at him, his legs like rocks, his stomach churning like butter. His throat was so dry he wanted to snatch the goblet away from Evie and drown in it.

The king, narrowing his eyebrows with a flicker of disappointment, turned away from them and took a halting step toward Ratcliffe, who was approaching rapidly.

Owen felt the sickness of defeat encase his heart, dragging him down. He had failed.

He felt Evie’s hand clasp his own.

“What is it, Owen?” she asked him. “You look . . . sick.”

Her hand.

They had jumped together into the cistern.

Holding her hand, he could do it. He squeezed her fingers hard, before he could shrink with fear.

Ratcliffe was almost to the king when Owen’s little voice croaked out, “My lord, I had a dream last night. It was a strange dream.”