by Jeff Wheeler
“Or did you come to kill me?” he asked her with a look of distrust.
“I came here to save you,” Ankarette said evenly. She would only kill him if he gave her no other choice.
He snorted. “Do you really think I believe that?”
“How much did you overhear?”
“Enough,” he said, stepping away from the door. His coppery hair was tangled, and sweat dripped down his brow. “Why should I believe you? I could call the guards and you’d be in chains in a moment.”
Ankarette would not let him do that. She stepped forward, but he wasn’t afraid of her—even though he should have been.
“Your brother sent me to offer terms of a deal. I am authorized to negotiate on his behalf.”
“Pfah,” he snorted again. “And who are you? A servant? A poisoner? What are you, Ankarette? What are you really?”
“I’m your wife’s friend. And yours if you will let me be. Look at the trap that’s been set for you. You are in Shynom, the castle of Lord Hux, the Occitanian king’s chief poisoner! Do you have any idea how much danger you are in?”
His eyes narrowed. He had always been shrewd, always looking out for his interests. She would play on that.
“Just hear me out,” she said.
“I’m listening.”
She was grateful for that. The Argentines were notoriously stubborn. “The only chance you have of staying alive is if you side with your brother. The only chance you have of prospering is if you side with your brother. Any other road leads to death and failure. I understand that Morvared’s son is now wed to Nan. Warrewik had intended for you to get the hollow crown. Not anymore.”
His teeth clenched into a ferocious look. “He promised me!”
“I know,” Ankarette soothed. “But he’s broken all of his promises. He gambled and lost. And now he’s gambling again, and he stands to lose even more. He no longer needs you. I’m sure you have sensed that here at Shynom.” It was a guess, but she saw she’d struck the mark by the way his expression wilted into resentment.
“Everyone looks down at me, talks down to me,” he said, and began pacing. “I’m a pariah now, but it was mine. It was all supposed to be mine!”
“Let it go,” Ankarette said, shaking her head. “Eredur has had a daughter. His next child may be one as well. You never know what the future holds.”
“Elyse is with child again?” Belle asked.
“Yes.” She gave Isybelle a sympathetic look. “It may also be a son, which would ruin your chance of being king, but there are worse fates than being a duke of Ceredigion. If you stay here, there is no hope for you. Ever.”
He stopped pacing and scowled. “I was told that Morvared would name me heir, in case there is no offspring. Nan is very young. So is the brat prince.”
“If you think she will honor that, you’re a fool. And I know you are not.” Ankarette saw the cogs turning in his skull. He was considering it seriously.
“We’re trapped here,” Dunsdworth said, shaking his head. “They have people watching me night and day. I’m practically a prisoner. If I could fly, I would go to Westmarch and beg Duke Kiskaddon to intercede for me. I’ve thought of that, but there is no way to cross the realm safely.”
“You don’t have to,” Ankarette said. She put her dagger away and then, steepling her fingers, began tapping her mouth. She stopped, still trying to quell the Fountain magic that was nearly bursting inside her, begging to be used. “Warrewik will need soldiers to invade. He’ll set you loose to gather the men of Clare. You’ll march against Eredur as you are ordered to, but when your two armies draw near, send a herald to discuss terms. You can join sides then. Keep your own men ignorant of your intentions until it’s too late. Otherwise, someone will betray you to Warrewik.”
He looked at her for a long moment, then nodded in understanding. “That could benefit Eredur immensely. I’ll know Warrewik’s plans.”
“Must you kill my father for this to succeed?” Isybelle asked pleadingly. “Cannot he be forgiven too?”
Ankarette turned and looked at her friend sadly. “Your father killed the queen’s father without a trial.”
“He deserved it,” Dunsdworth quipped.
Ankarette turned on him. “He did not, my lord. Would your brother be a just king if he allowed the blackest treason to go unpunished? He’ll go over the falls. If the Fountain declares him worthy, then he will not perish. I think that is the only hope you have.”
Isybelle looked downcast, but she nodded.
There was a loud knock at the door. Ankarette froze and Dunsdworth went pale. Casting her eyes around the chamber, Ankarette darted to the changing screen and quickly hid behind it. There were gowns spilled everywhere on the floor, some hanging from the top of the screen. Ankarette yanked them down and sprawled on the floor, covering herself with the discarded ones.
Dunsdworth walked to the door and cleared his throat. “Who is it?”
Ankarette recognized the voice instantly.
“It is I, Lord Hux,” he said through the thick door. “Queen Morvared wishes to see Lady Isybelle. May we come in?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Queen of Will
The sound of the door creaking made her suddenly still. Isybelle sniffed, and the quiet of the room was invaded by noise from the hall.
“Ah, Lord Dunsdworth!” Hux said agreeably. “After my lady saw you leave the hall, she grew concerned about the delicate health of your dear wife. Lady Isybelle, I bow to you graciously. How are you feeling? Not so well, I should think.”
Hux had such an easygoing manner, a voice that dripped sincerity. Ankarette felt his magic sweep through the room and she held her breath and tried to clear every thought from her mind. Ankarette feared even the thought of violence or anger might betray her to Hux’s magic.
“I am not well,” Isybelle said weakly. “The strain of the journey has been great.”
“I can imagine so. I do not think you have been introduced to Her Excellent Majesty, Queen Morvared. The true queen of Ceredigion, who has lived these many years in exile here in Occitania.”
The swish of skirts announced her arrival. Ankarette lay still, although she burned to see what the other woman looked like.
“Is it not the tradition in Ceredigion to kneel before your queen for her mercy?” Morvared’s diminutive voice came as a surprise. It sounded like the pleasant trill of a songbird, or the dulcet tones of an innocent young woman, although Ankarette knew she was forty years old. But that small, sweet-sounding voice could not disguise the force of will behind it.
“My wife is in a delicate—”
“Kneel,” Morvared cut in ruthlessly.
Ankarette heard the order and then she waited. And waited. The room was silent, stiflingly so. She heard Dunsdworth’s seething breath. Heard Isybelle’s groans of pain. Morvared said nothing, and the moment stretched longer and longer. Pitilessly long. The old queen was having her revenge. She would not be denied even a crumb of it.
Ankarette began to count in her mind. This was not the humble bow as a sign of respect. This was a measure of forced humiliation, a payment owed and due. She could not see what was happening in the room, but the impact of it was palpable. She heard Isybelle start to weep softly. Not in a hundred lifetimes could she imagine Queen Elyse doing this to someone.
The stifling gowns were smothering her and then she heard soft steps approaching the changing screen. Fear surged in her breast. It was Hux, coming to inspect the room and be sure no one was hidden. She wanted to reach for her knife or twist a poisoned ring on her finger. But would doing so reveal her as a threat? While she did not know how his powers manifested, judging from his reactions to her in Dundrennan, it seemed likely he would know. She emptied herself of all hostility and held her breath to keep the fabric from moving.
She felt Lord Hux standing near her head. Even though she could not see him, she experienced his presence as a series of tingling sensations, like her arm felt when someone was
about to touch it. She sank deeper and deeper inside herself, wishing she could drop through the stones of the floor, wishing she could melt away into oblivion. She heard a sniff and felt a shoe nudge the pile of clothes just by her head. A fraction closer, and he would have felt her skull. Then he retreated from the changing screen. Sweat had gathered in the hollow of her throat and on her brow. She didn’t dare even think.
“You may rise,” said Morvared’s mellifluous voice.
She imagined Dunsdworth had helped Isybelle rise because she heard a soft murmur of thanks amidst more groans.
“It grieves me that you have taken ill, Lady Isybelle,” Morvared continued. “We are going to Pree, and I will make sure the finest doctors attend to you there.”
“Pree?” Dunsdworth asked in confusion.
“Yes, you simpleton. King Lewis has promised me an army to invade Ceredigion. I will reclaim my throne and wrest the hollow crown from the head of your usurping brother. I will not be denied this time, putrid duke. After Lord Warrewik has struck his blow, you will be sent to Clare to rally your retainers. And you will do as you are ordered to do. Lady Isybelle will remain with me.” Her voice had a malevolent edge to it. “Her sister has dire need of her companionship. I don’t think she is taking well to being a bride. And I don’t think your wife is up to more hard travel. Poor sweetling.” There was not even a speck of sympathy in her voice. “Her presence will ensure your obedience. Am I clear, Lord Dunsdwick? You will do as you are told.”
The final words were uttered in such a condescending air that Ankarette could imagine the hostile look on Dunsdworth’s face as he heard it.
A great yawning silence descended on the room. Ankarette held her breath.
“I understand,” he answered hotly. “My brother will never forgive me. What other choice do I have?”
“I’m glad you see it that way,” Queen Morvared said. “Now, Isybelle. I know you are grieving for the loss of your child. I have lost babes before in a like manner. I am not without pity. But believe me when I say that I am now grateful for the losses I’ve endured. They have hardened me to disappointment. They have given me resoluteness of purpose. You are young. You do not even yet know what it means to suffer. Not fully. You are but a child yourself, pretending to be a woman. I am a woman. Your father was too lax in the rearing of his daughters. Too indulgent. Too distracted. I’m afraid I have much work to do to correct his shortcomings. But I am a patient teacher. And you will learn.”
“Y-yes, Your Majesty,” Isybelle mumbled.
“Hmmm? Speak crisply. With purpose.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Better. Now get dressed and come down to the fete. You are attracting too much pity, wallowing up here in your misery. If you are to become a true woman, you must act like one. Women are strength. I am stronger than Eredur. Not with a sword, but with my will. And I shall bend him until he breaks and then cast him aside as a broken thing. Just as I will do to anyone who defies me.” She offered a gay little laugh. “Add some rouge to your cheeks. You are too pale. I expect to see you downstairs within the hour.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“I knew I would like our little visit,” Lord Hux said with delight. “It is all resolved. We will see you downstairs shortly. I’ll send my butler to announce you.”
When they had left, Ankarette waited several moments and then shed the coverings and emerged from behind the changing screen. Isybelle had sagged to the floor weeping, and Dunsdworth, in an act of compassion, knelt beside her, holding her. His cheek pressed against her hair. When he looked at Ankarette, his eyes were full of hate.
“You must get us both out of here,” Dunsdworth told her angrily. “I’m ready to ride for Tatton Hall right now. I cannot endure another moment with that she-wolf.”
Isybelle looked up, her eyes red and swollen, her cheeks wet. “I c-can’t ride, not like—”
“I cannot endure it!” Dunsdworth snarled.
Ankarette wanted to kick him in the ribs. “That is exactly what she and Hux are expecting. He is the chief of Lewis’s poisoners. He was trying to provoke you into fleeing. To give him an excuse to kill you. To kill you both. They’d like nothing better.”
Isybelle shuddered and buried her face in her husband’s chest.
“Heed my counsel,” Ankarette said, coming up to them. She put her hand on Dunsdworth’s shoulder. “Go along with her request. Pretend to be a beaten man.”
His mouth quivered with rage and she squeezed the meat of his arm. “I would rather die,” he growled. “Warrewik won’t let her injure his daughters.”
“He will be gone soon and have no way of protecting them. They’ll send someone along to make sure you obey their orders. You won’t tell your soldiers, nay, not even your captain, what you are really about. Everyone must believe that you are still at odds with your brother. Every word you say must imply it. I will make sure no harm comes to Isybelle.” She rubbed her friend’s back and stroked her hair.
Isybelle sniffed again and dabbed her eyes. “Thank you, Ankarette. My sister—can you do nothing for Nan?”
The girl’s mother-in-law was a formidable foe.
“I will do what I can,” Ankarette promised. “Before I sneak away, let me help you get dressed. You must obey the queen as if your life depends on it. Can you do that?” Her words were for Isybelle, but her eyes sought out Dunsdworth’s.
The young man nodded stiffly, his lips pressed firmly together. He was shrewd. Hopefully, he was shrewd enough.
Ankarette’s plan worked well until she was nearly out of Occitania. There was no reason to ride for Ploemeur since the Genevese ship was already gone, so she had chosen the road leading to Westmarch, or La Marche as the Occitanians liked to call it. What she had not anticipated was that the border would be closed in anticipation of the impending war. At a small border village called Courbevoy, the inns were all full of merchants who had crossed from Westmarch with goods but were not being allowed to go back. There were Occitanian soldiers everywhere, not a single room to rent, and the tension between the kingdoms was fierce.
Now she regretted leaving the letter for Hux with the courier. The man had probably recovered, which meant Hux was no doubt aware of her presence in Occitania. The letter had come from Ploemeur, but he would not be deceived easily. She had to return to Kingfountain to warn Eredur of the invasion.
Ankarette’s horse was weary, and she rested it at a small fountain in the village square. The beast had been pushed to its limits the last few days. Should she steal another horse? No, the beast she had gotten in Ploemeur was used to her. Another animal might not work as hard for her.
She wished she had a map of the area, but maps were the purview of the Espion. Rulers did not wish for their borders to be well documented. Borders ebbed and flowed like the tide. She did know that Westmarch and Tatton Hall were to the east. If she could get into Lord Kiskaddon’s duchy, the torture would end. Her mother was still there.
Sitting at the edge of the fountain, she reached in and touched the waters. Bowing her head, she felt the cool water against her fingers and summoned her magic. She needed an escape, a strategy.
The water grew cold against her fingers, and she felt the flowing sensation of the Fountain’s power. It was as if, for a moment, she hovered over herself—as if she saw herself resting by the edge of the water. Her horse stamped impatiently and snorted. The swirl of life in the village—the muttering of the angry merchants, the hostility of the Occitanians—all continued in the background. But as she stared at the scene, she thought she saw streams of light emanating from the fountain where she sat. The streams of light were angled like spokes from a wagon wheel and the fountain was the hub. One of the lines pointed northeast like a beacon. A vision opened in her mind and she saw where it led—to another fountain inside the manor at Tatton Hall. She saw it as clearly as if it were in front of her. Something connected the two fountains.
There was a strange feeling, as if she were about to
jump off the boulder into the river by Dundrennan. It was the anticipation of falling. She sensed a word, a breath was all it would take for her to plummet. But nothing happened and the vision abruptly faded.
A rough hand grabbed her shoulder. “Who are you?”
She was brought back to herself in that moment. Two Occitanian soldiers stood by her, looking at her with suspicion.
“Pardon?” she asked, trying her best Occitanian accent.
“Are you from Courbevoy?” one of them challenged. “Where is your husband?”
Husband?
“She has no husband,” the other snorted. “On your feet. Let’s bring her to Captain Gallay. I think he’ll like this one.”
“I was just resting,” Ankarette said, but one of them seized her arm and yanked her to her feet. His grip was hard and painful.
“Did you hear her?” the man said. “She’s not Occitanian. She’s probably the daughter of one of those cursed merchants.”
“Let me go,” she warned. She tried to jerk her arm free.
The man backhanded her across the face, a blow so stinging and sudden that she had not anticipated it. Her skull rocked with pain. Her eyebrow hurt and she felt sweat or blood trickle down her face.
“Her father’s probably getting drunk. Come on, let’s bring her to Capt—”
Ankarette kneed the soldier gripping her in the groin. He doubled over in pain and she smashed the heel of her hand into his nose, sending him flying backward into the fountain with a loud splash. The other soldier grabbed a fistful of her cloak, trying to get to her neck, but she kicked the side of his knee and released the catch of her cloak in the same moment, leaving him holding that and nothing else. She twisted her needle ring and then struck him across the face, slapping him hard. The needle left a gash in his cheek that surprised and hurt him. His face twisted with fury before going slack, and he dropped to the ground in a heap.
Ankarette stood over him.
“I said I’m not for sale!” she shrieked at him and his friend in Occitanian. For good measure, she kicked the man who had collapsed in the gut. The crowd roared with laughter, and she witnessed encouraging and delighted looks from many of the villagers. She snatched her cloak from the clutches of the man she’d poisoned with her ring. Then, putting it on with a dignified air, she tossed her head and went to her horse. She only realized her temple was bleeding when she saw the blood on her gown.