by Jeff Wheeler
BOOKS BY JEFF WHEELER
The Kingfountain Series
The Maid’s War
The Queen’s Poisoner
The Thief’s Daughter
The King’s Traitor
The Hollow Crown
The Covenant of Muirwood Trilogy
The Banished of Muirwood
The Ciphers of Muirwood
The Void of Muirwood
The Legends of Muirwood Trilogy
The Wretched of Muirwood
The Blight of Muirwood
The Scourge of Muirwood
Whispers from Mirrowen Trilogy
Fireblood
Dryad-Born
Poisonwell
Landmoor Series
Landmoor
Silverkin
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2016 Jeff Wheeler
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Amberlin
ISBN-13: 978-1537798004
ISBN-10: 1537798006
Cover design by Shasti O’Leary-Soudant
Interior design by Steve R. Yeager
Printed in the United States of America
To Scott & Sierra
CONTENTS
Chapter One - The Queen's Poisoner
Chapter Two - Vernay
Chapter Three - Revenge
Chapter Four - A Duke's Ransom
Chapter Five - Genette of Donremy
Chapter Six - The Vertus Prince
Chapter Seven - Signs
Chapter Eight - Firebos
Chapter Nine - Resurgence
Chapter Ten - The Maid's Fury
Chapter Eleven - The Siege of Lionn
Chapter Twelve - Triumph
Chapter Thirteen - Poisoner
Chapter Fourteen - A New Heart
Chapter Fifteen - The Maid's Vow
Chapter Sixteen - The Raven Scabbard
Chapter Seventeen - The Anointing
Chapter Eighteen - Stealing a Duke
Chapter Nineteen - Defending Pree
Chapter Twenty - Breath
Chapter Twenty-One - Abandoned
Chapter Twenty-Two - The Squire's Gift
Chapter Twenty-Three - Escape
Chapter Twenty-Four - Risk
Chapter Twenty-Five - Beauvoir Castle
Chapter Twenty-Six - Broken
Chapter Twenty-Seven - Kingfountain
Chapter Twenty-Eight - The Deconeus of Ely
Chapter Twenty-Nine - Trial of Innocence
Chapter Thirty - Into the Falls
Chapter Thirty-One - Secrets of Ice
Chapter Thirty-Two - The Maid's Grave
Chapter Thirty-Three - Black Knight
Chapter Thirty-Four - Secrets of the Grave
Chapter Thirty-Five - The Shameful Treaty
Chapter Thirty-Six - The Heir of La Marche
Author’s Note
About the Author
CHARACTERS
MONARCHIES
Ceredigion: Eredur (House of Argentine): after a brutal civil war, led by his father, resulted in his father’s death and his family’s exile to Brugia, Eredur wrested control of Ceredigion from King Henricus. Now in possession of the hollow crown, Eredur has consolidated his power and joined forces with Brugia to wage war on the King of Occitania, seeking to reclaim lands forfeited generations before. Eredur’s banner, the Sun and Rose, has been unfurled, and the invasion of Occitania has begun.
Occitania: Lewis XI (House of Vertus): Lewis, known as the Spider King for his cunning, wants nothing more than to prevent another disastrous defeat such as the one his grandfather’s army suffered at the Battle of Azinkeep a generation before. Lewis is the son of Chatriyon, who was the prince who defied Ceredigion and, with the help of the famous Maid of Donremy, secured his right to rule Occitania despite overwhelming odds. Lewis would rather bribe his way out of a conflict with his powerful neighbor than take the field against him.
Brugia: Philip (House of Temaire): succeeded his father as King of Brugia at age twenty-three after his father was murdered, purportedly by a poisoner hired by Chatriyon Vertus, Crown Prince of Occitania. The kingdoms of Brugia and Occitania have been enemies ever since. Philip has involved Eredur in his disputes with King Lewis, and the two kingdoms have joined forces to defeat and humble their ancient enemy.
LORDS OF CEREDIGION
Severn Argentine: Duke of Glosstyr
Dunsdworth Argentine: Duke of Clare
Lord Horwath: Duke of North Cumbria
Lord Kiskaddon: Duke of Westmarch
Lord Asilomar: Duke of East Stowe
Lord Hastings: Duke of Southport, king’s chancellor
The tree of Argentine kings has many branches and knots, the bark scarred with many usurpations and upheavals. But there is no disagreement that one of the greatest battles ever fought, by one of the greatest kings ever crowned, was the Battle of Azinkeep. Remember the Battle of Azinkeep. The King of Ceredigion defeated twenty thousand and only lost eighty of his own men. He became the ruler of Occitania when he married the princess and her father died. One simply cannot underestimate the depth of Occitanian hatred following such a humiliating defeat. But one must understand Azinkeep to understand the loamy soil that sprouted a Fountain-blessed girl. A girl who would change history. But I get ahead of myself. This girl would never have been permitted to meet an outcast prince in his outcast court had someone important not first believed in her. Her entire history blooms into vibrant color because of one young nobleman.
—Polidoro Urbino, Historia Ceredigica
CHAPTER ONE
The Queen's Poisoner
The sound of laughter, conversation, and clinking goblets drifted in from the overcrowded ballroom down the corridor. Music bubbled over the din. The celebration seemed a little too exuberant considering the kingdom was facing yet another war with Ceredigion. Ankarette Tryneowy paused before a pillar, watching the light from the torch mirrored on the polished marble floor. She’d heard a sound, the clip of a boot, and wondered if she was being followed by a drunken Occitanian lord more interested in trying to steal a kiss than in returning to the rough camp of the army hunkering around the city of Pree.
The sound of shuffled steps in heavy boots came from behind, followed by a grunt and a slurred bit of Occitanian. She paused, adjusting her skirts, and then wobbled slightly and caught her hand on the pillar, giving the impression that she’d had too much to drink. As she pressed her stomach and breathed deeply, she dug her fingers into the folds of her dress, ready to seize the dagger hidden there to defend herself.
Ankarette’s delicate beauty conveyed the impression of defenselessness, but she was his majesty’s poisoner, the most dangerous woman in her realm. If she hadn’t been, her king would never have sent her into the heart of the enemy’s capital on the eve of war to seek a man who was one of the Occitanian crown’s most notorious prisoners. The army of Ceredigion was encamped several leagues away on the other side of a river—the farthest they had marched into Occitania since the invasion that had led to their stunning victory at the Battle of Azinkeep. No cities had been taken as of yet, but the threat of conflict seethed in the air like smoke. Her instincts were taut and ready for battle.
The shuffling steps halted and then she heard the unmistakable sound of a man relieving himself against a stone wall. If he was that drunk, he posed no threat to her at all. Still, she did
not lower her guard until the drunken lord staggered past her, oblivious to her presence even then. She thought for a moment that it might be a ruse, that this man was one of King Lewis’s poisoners, come to kill her, but the man’s bleary eyes, shuffling steps, and moans indicated liver infection. He must have been a man who frequently indulged in such nocturnal pleasures. Soon he was gone, and Ankarette let out a sigh of relief.
Moments later, a little palace drudge appeared with a bucket and rags and began mopping up the mess the nobleman had left reeking against the wall. The waif was a pretty little thing, but she could be no more than eight. She should not have been kept up so late. Ankarette had observed many such drudges in the palace, lurking in the shadows to earn their bread by serving the whims of the Occitanian nobility. They were invisible to most people and treated like dogs.
Turning from the column, she approached the girl and sank down onto her knees to be at her level. The waif blinked in surprise, taking in Ankarette’s rich, fashionable gown and her delicately coiffed hair.
“Shouldn’t you be abed?” Ankarette asked the child in a quiet, kind voice, reaching out and brushing some of the girl’s hair away from her face. Her Occitanian was fluent, but she knew the capital Pree had its own flairs. Hopefully, her accent would suffice.
The girl seemed even more surprised by the show of compassion. “No, my lady. I napped earlier, but the fête is almost finished and we’ll be cleaning till dawn.”
It was only just after midnight. “That’s a shame,” Ankarette said, patting the girl’s cheek. “It must be difficult cleaning up the messes of others.”
The waif sniffed and shrugged. “You have a strange accent,” the girl said offhandedly, dipping a rag into the bucket.
Children always noticed things that others passed over. Ankarette had made it a rule never to underestimate their usefulness.
“I’m not from Pree,” Ankarette responded vaguely. “You have a different accent in the city.”
The girl nodded, accepting her explanation. Another thing Ankarette had learned about children was their natural inclination to be trusting—most of them knew nothing of spies and the machinations of court. Ankarette continued speaking with her for several moments—the girl was chatty, and Ankarette soon had her revealing helpful information. The King of Occitania had been assembling all the princes of the blood in preparation for whatever conflict was to come.
And then the waif said something that made Ankarette blink in surprise. “All the princes save La Marche. The king will keep him trapped in that awful tower.”
“The Duke of La Marche is here as well?” Ankarette asked. Her heart swelled with relief that the king’s Espion had been correct. She had secretly dreaded that the duke was being held deep in the hinterlands in some faraway dungeon.
The girl shrugged as she squeezed the rag into the bucket once more. The floor was polished and gleaming now. “Of course. He’s the king’s prisoner,” she said carelessly. “He’s been captive here for years. I like him. He never scolds me.”
Ankarette leaned forward eagerly, showing unfeigned interest. “The real duke of La Marche?” she pressed. “The one who fought alongside the Maid of Donremy?”
The waif nodded with sudden fire and delight. The story of the Maid was renowned throughout all the kingdoms. Even though the woman who had freed Occitania from Ceredigion’s hegemony had died a traitor, she was now remembered as one of the most celebrated Fountain-blessed of all. “Oh yes! He’s told me stories about her.”
“Has he? You are a lucky young woman.”
The girl blushed. “I’m not a woman yet. I’m only eight.”
“I wish I could meet him,” Ankarette sighed with disappointment. “I’ve always been fascinated by stories about the Maid. I’ve even visited Donremy. She led the king’s army when she was nineteen, did she not?”
The girl shook her head deliberately. “Seventeen. She was Fountain-blessed.” The last words were uttered like a prayer. Only the rarest of individuals could access the enormous power of the Fountain. They were each gifted in a different miraculous way, though the magic was not simply lavished on them—they had to develop unique habits to feed their power. Ankarette herself was Fountain-blessed, though only a few knew it.
The little girl looked hesitant. “I could show you . . . I could show you to the duke’s room. If you would like.”
“Is he not at the fête then? Are prisoners not allowed?”
The girl shook her head dramatically. “No, they are allowed. But he hates them,” she whispered. “I can show you where the king keeps him. He is allowed visitors, but no one sees him anymore.”
Could Ankarette’s quest to discover what had become of the Maid’s famous sword be resolved so easily?
“Thank you, yes!” Ankarette said with a kindly smile. The waif led her through the mazelike corridors of the palace, and the poisoner kept pace as she memorized all the twists and turns. The din of the party fell away behind them, and soon the only sounds were their steps and the hissing of torches. Occasionally they encountered other drudges, roused from their beds to prepare to scrub the ballroom clean before dawn.
They paused at the threshold of an ancient door with ornate iron hinges. “This is the one,” the girl said, pointing. Then she clung to the bucket handle with both hands. “The duke is kept up there.”
“There are no guards?” Ankarette asked, wrinkling her brow.
The girl shook her head. “He’s old, my lady. The king wishes him to pass away in comfort. None of the palace guards would ever let him leave.”
Ankarette nodded and then squeezed her shoulder. “Thank you. I’ll see him in the morning.”
The girl did a brief curtsy and then carried her bucket away. Ankarette stood by the imposing door, taking a steadying breath as she stared at the nicks and gouges in the wood.
Did she dare wake him? If King Lewis or one of his many poisoners caught her, she would be executed, but not before they attempted to extract secrets from her. Of course, she carried a quick-acting poison in a ring to prevent that from happening.
This was her chance to speak with the old duke uninterrupted. She trusted her instincts, honed from years of duplicity and cunning. If she met the Duke of La Marche, she would discern whether he was a risk to her or not. The Espion had reliable reports that his role in several attempted insurrections against the Spider King and his predecessor would have earned him a traitor’s death if not for his reputation among the people. If he did end up being a threat to her, she could dose him with a poisonous powder that would render him unconscious and wipe his memory clear of her. She could use another powder to get information from him even if he was unwilling to cooperate, but that was not her first choice. Either way, she needed answers; it alarmed her that King Lewis was celebrating in his palace while her king’s army was camped near a major river in Pree. Neither king was a fool. It was like a Wizr board with the opposing pieces arranged such that it was near impossible to predict the outcome of the next move.
Reaching for the handle, she found it locked. That obstacle was overcome in a moment, and she found herself facing a black stairwell. She quietly shut the door behind her and waited there, letting her eyes adjust to the darkness. There were arrow slits in the tower that let in faint starlight. Keeping her back to the wall, she slowly and silently made her way up the steps, her senses alert once again for any sound that would betray a guard.
There was a door at the top of the stairs, and a faint light emanated from beneath it. Many people slept with a candle lit, but Ankarette assumed nothing and took nothing for granted. She tried the handle and found that it opened to the touch. Prodding it with the toe of her shoe, she pushed it ajar and smelled the wax of burning candles, the leftover gravy of a partially eaten meal, and the smell of an aging man.
The Duke of La Marche was awake.
From the thin crack in the door, she saw him sitting at the window. There were only a few streaks of buttery color left in his mostly whi
te hair. Although there was a book in his hands, he was staring out the window at the night sky, lost in thought.
Ankarette had spent many a long evening in such a pose—sitting by a window, reading books of tales from the past. This was a man who had been convicted of treason twice, only for the sentence to be commuted—both times—because he was a prince of the blood. He had lived history, and she was a bit in awe of him.
After taking a moment to gather her courage, Ankarette pushed open the door gently and then shut it behind her.
The movement caught his sharp instincts, and he was out of the window seat in a moment—book down, dagger in hand. He had the stance of a soldier. Even though he was older, he’d not let his body go to waste. So much for the old and feeble man the waif had implied she’d find.
Then his posture changed. He stared at her, his blue eyes narrowing with scrutiny. “Oh, it’s you,” he said with a gravelly voice.
That took Ankarette off her guard. “Were you expecting someone?” she asked, standing by the door, preparing to flee. She did not want to fight this man. She did not want to hurt him. Her heart had the deepest reverence for people who fought with conviction and honor.
“Of course I was!” he said with a bark and a laugh. “She told me years ago you’d come. ‘Gentle duke,’ she said.” A tingle ran down Ankarette’s spine. The Maid. His voice suddenly caught with emotion. “ ‘One night, when you are very old and a prisoner in the palace, you will meet a woman who is a poisoner. She will not come to kill you. She will come to listen to your story. You must tell her your story, gentle duke. And you must teach her about me.’ ” He stared down at the knife in his hand, turning it over once before he set it down on the window seat.
Ankarette felt a throb in her heart, followed by a sudden dizziness, and then she heard it. The gentle murmuring of the Fountain. It was so subtle that even the Fountain-blessed sometimes didn’t notice its influence. But Ankarette had trained herself to listen for it, to be guided by it. And she realized it had guided her to this very tower, this very night.