The Queen's Poisoner (The Kingfountain Series Book 1) (35 page)

Lord Kiskaddon is a broken man, a husk. He’s a man standing on the brink of a waterfall, seeing the rushing waters whisking him toward his doom. Flail as he might, he cannot escape the current. He was almost too willing to speak to a total stranger—a Genevese, no less! His greatest regret? That Tunmore’s book reveals his wife was his partner in all things. She helped arrange and receive the messages from the pretend king who was slain at Ambion Hill. Their entire family is going to be shoved into the river after the Assizes. Well, all except one. Kiskaddon has come to Beestone Castle to beg for a pardon he won’t be getting.

—Dominic Mancini, Espion of the Assizes

I’m in shock. When I got back to the tavern, all was in an uproar. Ankarette is dead. Apparently she went after Ratcliffe at the Espion stronghold. I’ve heard only snippets, but she blew powder in his face to drug him. She was discovered by my colleagues and stabbed to death. There were easily a dozen men with blood on their shirts and daggers. Ratcliffe survived a neck wound—unfortunately—and has gone to the king in triumph. They’ve taken her corpse to the castle. What was she trying to accomplish? I have no idea. I saw her body myself, lying on a cold stone slab in the doctor’s chambers. Everyone is afraid to even touch her. Pale as marble, she is. Pale and beautiful in death.

—Dominic Mancini, Espion of the Doomed Boy

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

The White Pig

Owen was awakened by the touch of a woman’s fingers on his hair. The room was dark, but it was the birth of dawn. It was the time just before the birds started to sing, the cusp of a new day, the deep breath before the plunge.

The royal apartments in Beestone Castle were furnished and unfamiliar. As Owen blinked awake, it took him a moment to place himself. Was he in Tatton Hall? Kingfountain? He saw Ankarette kneeling beside the bed, her cheek resting on the mattress, her fingers playing absently with tufts of his hair. She had a languid smile on her pale face. A shudder rippled through her, and she bent her lips to the mattress to muffle a little cough. Then she gazed fondly at him again.

“Ankarette,” Owen whispered, feeling his heart lighten. He rubbed his eyes on his hand. “I tried to stay awake. I fell asleep waiting for you.”

“It’s all right, Owen,” she soothed. “I was . . . late.” She smiled.

“You’re quite pale,” the boy said, feeling concern.

She looked as if that didn’t matter at all. “I feel tired. I need a long sleep. Like you’ve had.” She pinched his cheek tenderly and grazed it with her thumb. “Shall I tell you about your dream? Will you be able to remember it?”

He nodded eagerly and stared into her eyes, lost in them for a moment.

“After I’ve told you,” she said softly, “you need to go to the king. Right away. You need to be brave, little Owen. Can you do that?”

“I have Evie’s braid. I can be brave like her.” Owen sat up, and noticed that she did not. She was kneeling at the edge of the bed, holding herself up on her arms.

“Very well. Listen carefully. You had a dream tonight. In the dream, three golden bucks came to Beestone Castle. The bucks all knelt before a white pig. You saw their antlers touch the ground before the pig. Then a rat with a knife walked up to the bucks to kill them and eat them. But the white pig shook its snout. It wouldn’t let the rat hurt the bucks. The pig walked to the river and the bucks followed. All of them boarded a boat except for one. The smallest of the bucks stayed with the pig. The boat went against the current of the river—upstream instead of down—and sailed away to a land of flowers.”

She stiffened and let out a soft breath of pain. She blinked, her eyes growing dazed. “Owen, then the pig sniffed the rat. When it did, it found a gold coin in its fur. The pig turned into a boar and grew tusks. With the tusks, the boar threw the rat into the river, and it drowned.”

Her fingers, which had been playing in his hair, went limp, and her wrist sagged to the mattress blanket. Her head lolled to one side.

“Ankarette?” Owen asked worriedly.

“So sleepy,” she whispered. She blinked rapidly, then lifted her head. Her eyes seemed to sharpen and focus. “Now go tell the king about your dream. This is important, Owen. This is how you can save your family.” She gave him a tender look, so poignant and full of love. Her weak fingers lifted and grazed the white patch of his hair. “Go. Then tell me what happens.”

“Will you be here when I get back?” Owen asked, his worry growing.

“I promise,” she answered, smiling sadly.

Owen scuttled off the edge of the bed and quickly threw on his clothes. He made sure Evie’s braid was in his pocket and he walked away from his room, wandering the halls.

He saw Mancini slumped in the corridor, a jug of wine crooked in his arm.

“Take me to the king’s room,” Owen told the Espion, tugging on his sleeve.

Mancini looked haggard, depressed, and irritable. His eyes opened slowly. His breath was awful. “You?” he said, looking pained.

“Where is it? I need to tell the king about my dream.”

“What dream?” Mancini said in confusion. “There are no more dreams. There is no more hope. It’s all been ruined. All is lost.” He shook the empty jug a little, listening to see if there was any liquid sloshing around inside. It was empty.

“Ankarette said I must!” Owen insisted, gripping the man’s shoulder.

Mancini’s face crinkled with confusion. “Who said?”

“Ankarette!” Owen seethed, frustrated at the man’s blockheadedness.

Mancini leaned forward. “You’ve . . .
seen
. . . her?”

“She’s in my room.” Owen hooked his thumb and pointed.

The expression on Mancini’s face transformed. He shoved away the empty jug and broke it in his haste to get back to his feet. “She is? At this very moment? But how?”

“Sshh!” Owen said, for he heard the sound of boots coming.

Mancini grabbed the boy’s hand and marched him down the hall. He swayed a bit as he walked, but he knew the way. Coming toward them were several night guards wearing the badge of the white boar and carrying torches.

One of the soldiers challenged them. “Who goes there?”

“This is the Kiskaddon brat—
boy
! He had another dream and must tell it to the king!”

The soldier looked at Owen in surprise. “Follow us, boy.”

Mancini’s cheeks were pink and rosy, and he looked elated. They marched back the way they had come and quickly went to the king’s bedchamber. As soon as they walked into the room, Owen saw Duke Horwath. Ratcliffe was also there, a bloody bandage around his neck, along with several other men who were talking angrily amongst themselves. To Owen’s surprise, Princess Elyse was also present, wearing a robe over her nightdress, her hair straggling as she paced the chamber in her slippers, her face pinched with worry.

“My liege,” the soldier announced, stamping his boots as he halted. “Found these two in the corridors. The boy has had another dream.”

The king, looking furious, turned when he heard the soldier’s announcement. His face was flushed with emotion, but he calmed when he saw Owen.

“Another one?” the king asked, his voice suddenly interested and concerned. He started walking toward Owen.

“My lord,” Ratcliffe broke in. “That can wait. You promised my reward. I have served you faithfully. I want Tatton Hall!”

The princess glowered at Ratcliffe, her face showing her absolute disapproval. Horwath looked angry too, his stern lips pressed hard together.

“Give it a rest, Dickon!” the king snapped. “This is important!”

Ratcliffe seethed with fury. “If you are still taking the Espion away from me, I deserve something in return! Something that won’t be a loss of reputation. If this is how you reward loyalty . . .”

The king was in no mood to hear him. His cheeks were full of stubble and he looked as if he hadn’t slept well or at all that night. It reminded Owen of the night he had found the secret tunnel leading to the king’s bedroom. The king’s face was full of weariness and agitation. But it softened when he dropped down on one knee in front of the boy, putting their eyes on a level.

“What is it, lad?” he asked in a kindly voice. “Tell me of your dream.”

Everyone was staring at Owen. The soldiers. Duke Horwath. The princess. Ratcliffe. The king. All their eyes bored into him, all their ears listened, and he realized he had power over these men. A king was kneeling in front of
him
because he believed Owen was Fountain-blessed and could read the future. He was convinced.

All Owen needed to do was speak.

His tongue grew thick in his mouth. The pressure of being the focus of so much pointed attention unearthed his hidden terrors and fears, which came popping up from the ground like worms after a rainstorm. Owen dug his hand into his pocket and felt the reassuring touch of his friend’s hair. He wished she were there. He could almost see her in his mind’s eye, standing behind the king with an impatient look.
Just tell him!

“My lord,” Ratcliffe interrupted, suddenly nervous. “It’s so early. Wouldn’t it be better to hear the lad later, during breakfast? The queen’s poisoner is dead, so you need not fear your meals now. It’s nearly dawn. Surely this can wait.”

The queen’s poisoner was dead? Owen’s stomach took an uneasy flop.

The king’s hand rested on the boy’s shoulder. “Tell me,” he said.

Owen licked his lips. He tried to speak, but his tongue wouldn’t work. A worried spurt of panic enveloped his gut. Was Ankarette dying? No! She had said she would wait for him to return. She was tired, that was all. Owen forced himself to concentrate.

“Go ahead,” Princess Elyse said coaxingly.

“My lord . . .” Ratcliffe whined.

“Shut it!” Horwath barked at him.

“I did have a dream,” Owen said, looking into the king’s gray eyes. A wavering smile hovered on the king’s mouth, encouraging him to continue. “In the dream, I saw three golden bucks. They had big antlers, though one of the bucks was small. They came walking across a field. There was a white pig in the field. A happy pig. The bucks knelt before the pig, their antlers touching the ground. While they were kneeling, a rat with a knife approached them.” Owen swallowed, feeling the hate burning at him from Ratcliffe’s eyes. He focused on the king’s face. “The rat wanted to slaughter the bucks. To eat them.”

“This is intolerable!” muttered Ratcliffe desperately.

The king held up his other hand, cutting him off. “Go on.”

“The white pig shook its snout. It would not let the rat hurt the deer.” Owen swallowed again, squirming. He understood the dream. He understood what Ankarette was trying to do. “The white pig . . . the white pig couldn’t
trust
the bucks, though. And so he went with them to the river.” The king’s grip on his shoulder tightened, almost painfully. His eyes stared into Owen’s eyes with a look of shock.

“Listen to him, my lord!” Ratcliffe said suddenly, his tone changing.

“The pig could not trust the bucks,” Owen went on. “They had not defended the pig when hunters were trying to kill him. So the pig, the
white
pig, put the bucks on a boat in the river. And he sent them to another land, a land full of flowers. The boat sailed upstream, away from the falls. Only one of the bucks stayed behind. The littlest buck stayed by the pig. It stayed right next to the pig.” Owen’s voice trailed off, almost to a whisper. The king was hanging on his every word.

Then Owen lifted his voice again. “What happened next was the pig sniffed at the rat. I think it was smelly. And there, in the rat’s fur, was a gold coin. The pig grew tusks, like a boar. And with the tusks, it threw the rat in the river. The rat . . . drowned.”

There was a series of gasps when he spoke the final part.

The king was astonished. His eyes were so curious, his expression so moved with emotion that he pressed several fingers against his lips, but he kept his other hand on Owen’s shoulder. Suddenly, Owen heard the rushing of the Fountain. The sound filled his ears and the king’s hand tightened on his shoulder. Owen felt the magic rushing down the king’s arm.

Can you hear me?

It was the king’s voice, in Owen’s mind.

Yes
.

The king blinked, but did not seem surprised.

You know what your dream means, don’t you, Owen?

Yes. It means my parents are guilty of treason. I know that now.

The king quivered with suppressed emotions. His eyes were fierce.
You know then, that I have to punish them. I cannot trust them. I cannot let your father serve me. Owen, you must understand this. I
must
destroy them or risk an even worse betrayal. Owen, please understand. I don’t wish to hurt you. But I cannot let them escape, not when I have power to stop further mischief. A prince must make difficult decisions betimes. A prince must destroy his enemies when he has the chance.

Owen felt the power of the Fountain rushing through him. The king was using his power to convince him that his parents must die. He could tell that the king truly believed he had no choice. That wisdom and prudence demanded justice for his parents’ involvement at Ambion Hill. Owen was utterly convinced it was just.

But he also realized the king was using the magic of the Fountain on him. And so he turned it back against him.

But a king can pardon an enemy
,
Owen thought in response.
You have that right and that power. My dream tells you the Fountain’s will for my parents. And its will for me. I will serve you. I will take their place.

Owen looked deep into the king’s eyes.

I know you didn’t murder your nephews. I know you care for your niece and would never hurt her. And I know you won’t hurt me. You are not the monster others pretend you are. I trust you.

The king let go of Owen’s shoulder as if it burned him. He rose to his feet, staggering backward in surprise and shock, his face totally unmasked of pretense and cunning. Owen’s words had cut him to his very center, had tapped into the secret need of his heart—the need to be loved and trusted by a child after the loss of his own son and his nephews.

“Uncle? Are you unwell?” Elyse said, rushing to him in concern. He was trembling, his entire body quaking with emotion. Tears trickled down the king’s cheeks. And then, falling to his knees in front of them all, the king wept.