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

by Jeff Wheeler

  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.”

  I am caught in a web. How did I get entangled? I convinced myself that Ankarette was harmless, that providing information to her would aid me. How could I have been so blind? She has wrested secrets of the Espion from me and is using them to preserve the life of the Kiskaddon boy. I know it, and yet I dare not confront her. She is in the kitchen often now. And one does not double-cross a poisoner without pain.

  —Dominic Mancini, Espion of the Palace Kitchen

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Fountain-blessed

  As Owen finished telling the king about his dream, the look on the older man’s face completely transformed. Gone was the snide hostility. The king seemed thunderstruck, and he grabbed the table edge to steady himself. Ratcliffe, who had overheard the whole thing, stared at Owen incredulously as well, his mouth gaping.

  “Ratcliffe, did you tell him?” the king whispered hoarsely. “Is there any . . . is there any way he could have known?”

  Ratcliffe stared down at Owen with open distrust. “My lord, I don’t see how. It’s incredible.”

  “Your Espion in the kitchen . . . was he talking? Was he blabbing secrets?”

  “I . . . I don’t think so,” Ratcliffe said. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “It makes perfect sense,” the king said, his voice distant, his eyes intense. He stared down at Owen, his expression changing to one of pleasure. “So this was a dream you had, was it? Last night?”

  “Yes, my lord,” Owen answered meekly, still clinging to Evie’s hand to keep from drifting away in the current of fear that wanted to extinguish his voice.

  “A pinecone,” Severn repeated thoughtfully. He gave Ratcliffe a knowing look. Ankarette was right, there was no confusion at all, though Owen was still baffled.

  “Well, lad,” the king said, resting his other hand on Owen’s shoulder and giving it a playful nudge. “You will be sure to tell me should you have any other such dreams?”

  “If it pleases you, my lord,” Owen said with a small bow.

  “It does indeed, Owen. It pleases me much. How old are you again?”

  “He’s eight,” Ratcliffe said, fidgeting with great energy. “Shall we continue with our plans then?”

  “The Fountain has blessed it,” Severn said with a mocking laugh. “See it done, Ratcliffe. Immediately.” Then he turned his attention back to Owen. “Well, lad. Enjoy your breakfast.”

  As the king limped away, Owen realized the eyes of everyone in the room were fixed on him. There were servants and children, nobles who had come to petition the king. He had announced his dream in front of a hall full of witnesses. Many of them were beginning to whisper behind their hands, openly curious about the boy who had spoken.

  “You didn’t tell me you had a dream,” Evie said, pulling Owen aside. “Have you had these before?”

  He shook his head. “It was the first time. It was like a . . . a vision.” He felt guilty lying to her, but he could not reveal the truth, certainly not without Ankarette’s permission.

  The meaning of Ankarette’s story became tremendously clear later that morning when Lord Asilomar, from the east coast of Ceredigion, and his wife were trussed up on canoes and launched into the river from the island of Our Lady to plummet to their deaths over the falls. This was the first public execution Owen had attended in his life. They watched from the lower walls of the palace, and even from such a distance, they could see the thousands of people who had gathered to watch the canoes gain speed before charging off the falls. There was a collective gasp as the two vessels reached the terminus and pitched off. Owen stared, wondering again what it would be like.

  When Duke Horwath returned from Our Lady, he clutched something in his hand, a banner. Owen had not seen the duke for several days. He had left the palace on an assignment for the king, which was almost certainly related to today’s proceedings. And then Owen understood. The banner held the badge of House Asilomar. The badge of House Asilomar was a large pinecone stuck on a branch with pine needles. The pinecone had fallen into the river and run over the falls. Just like in Owen’s dream.

  “Look at it, Owen!” Evie said, when her grandfather showed her the crumpled banner. She stared at it in wonder before turning to look at him. “You saw it! You saw it in your dream!”

  Horwath’s eyes were narrowed at him, his face a mask devoid of emotions. “Everyone is talking,” he said in his quiet way. “They are saying young Kiskaddon may be Fountain-blessed.”

  “Of course he is, Grandpapa,” Evie answered with a glint in her eye. “I’ve always known that.” She grabbed and clung to Owen’s arm possessively.

  There was a peculiar feeling in Owen’s stomach. A shy smile crossed his face, but he said nothing.

  Later, as he knelt in the kitchen arranging tiles, he found it difficult to concentrate because of all the visitors coming in and out, wanting to see him. There were whispers and comments, and even though he was trying not to listen, he could pick o
ut some of the words. Liona took the time to explain what he was doing to the visitors.

  “Yes, he’s in the kitchen every day playing with those tiles. My husband Drew found them for him. He stacks them up and then knocks them down. No, he makes different patterns. Sometimes straight rows. Sometimes circles. It’s the oddest thing you’ve seen, I’ll warrant. Bless me if he doesn’t come here every day. He’s a clever lad. He’s always been shy and clever.”

  “Ignore them.” Evie was lying on her stomach with her chin propped on her wrist. “I’ve always believed you were Fountain-blessed, Owen. Do you know how rare that is? There was a Fountain-blessed boy in North Cumbria once who could talk to wolves.”

  He felt a prickle of apprehension that made him knock over one of the tiles and collapse the tower he was building. He frowned with anger and started building it again. All the attention made him feel good, but at the same time, he was lying to his best friend. He knew he wasn’t Fountain-blessed. This was Ankarette’s trick. He didn’t mind tricking the king. Or Ratcliffe. Especially not Dunsdworth. But he did not like the thought of tricking her.

  “I wonder how many of our children will be that way,” Evie sighed dreamily. Grabbing a tile, she examined it closely before setting it back down. “It’s not impossible, but sometimes more than one child can have it. But usually just one in a family. One who is special. Your mother had many children, so odds were good that one of you would be. I think it’s that tuft of white hair that marks you. It was a sign from the Fountain.”

  The feeling of discomfort wriggling in his stomach was growing worse. He wanted to tell her very badly. It was eating away inside of him.

  “It’s almost as rare as surviving a waterfall,” she continued. She was always prattling, even when he didn’t feel like speaking. “About one in a hundred survive. There are always soldiers down at the bottom of the falls to see if anyone makes it. Lord Asilomar and his wife didn’t. They drowned.”

  “That’s awful,” Owen said softly, working on the tower again.

  “It’s the punishment for being a traitor, Owen. The king didn’t kill their boy. They had one son, who is four. The king sent him to be ward to Lord Lovel in Southport. I wouldn’t want to marry someone younger than me. That would be disagreeable. I’m glad we’re the same age.”

  Owen was amazed at how many people continued to come through the kitchen that day. The old gray-haired butler, Berwick, entered several times and complained loudly about the ruckus and how meals were not going to be served on time because of all the talk and nonsense.

  “Yud think the lad sprootid wings and tuck a turn in the sky,” he said brusquely. “A heap of bother. A lucky guess. Every’un knew Asilomar was a traitor. He’s from East Stowe!”

  “None of us here knew it,” Liona said challengingly. “Being from the East doesn’t make someone a traitor, Berwick. Hold your tongue.”

  “Hoold my tongue? You should hoold your tongue! Yuv been blabbing all day to visitors and such. Not an honest piece of work done all day long. It’ll quiet doown. You’ll see.”

  “I don’t like Berwick,” Owen said softly.

  “I enjoy hearing him talk,” Evie replied. “I love our quaint accent from the North. My father liked to hear me speak it.”

  Owen looked up at her. “You can talk like that?”

  She grinned. “Forsooth, young lad, ’tis but the only prooper way amongst countrymen.” She winked at him and returned to her normal way of speaking. “It’s for the lesser born, really. My grandpapa is quiet because he was raised in the North and his accent comes out more often. He trained me to speak like the court. I like hearing it, though. It’s musical.”

  “Berwick’s always complaining,” Owen mumbled.

  “Everyone complains,” she said, waving her hand. “Have you had any other dreams, Owen? About . . . us?”

  The hopeful look in her eye made the guilt twist more deeply. He blushed and stared down at the tiles he was arranging. “I don’t control it,” he said limply.

  “If you had a dream about me going into the river, you must tell me!” she said eagerly. “You know, some people have to be bound up because they’re so frightened. I wouldn’t want that. If I were condemned to die over the falls, I would want a paddle! Think of how it would feel! We’d go down together, you and I. Maybe we could hold hands from across our canoes? Papa said the people who survive point their toes down and keep as straight as a stick. Most of them die, though. I thought it would be fun to go over the falls with a big rope and have someone pull me up again from the bridge. But Papa said the falls would be too hard to pull against and I’d be dashed to pieces.” She had a dreamy look in her eye as she contemplated her death over the falls.

  He dropped his voice lower. “Don’t you think it’s awful, though? That the king tries to trick people into being loyal to him?”

  She gave him a curious look. “That’s just gossip, Owen. The king wouldn’t do that.”

  “I think he does,” Owen said, growing more uncomfortable. He wanted so much to tell her about Ankarette.

  She shook her head. “I’ll ask Grandpapa.”

  Owen frowned. “What if it’s true?”

  She shrugged, unconcerned. “Then I’ll tell the king he must stop it.”

  And Owen did not doubt for a moment that she would.

  When the castle was finally dark and fast asleep, Owen slipped out of his room to visit Ankarette. He was eager to see her again, and he hoped to get her permission to share at least part of his secret with Evie. He walked on cat’s feet down the dark corridor and tripped the latch to enter one of the secret doors of the palace. He started down the corridor without a candle, for he knew the way even in the dark. When he reached the tower steps, he halted in his tracks and his heart started to hammer with fear.

  There were men’s voices coming from Ankarette’s room.

  Slowly, he crept up the stairwell, his body tense and low to the ground. He was ready to flee at a moment’s warning. Had Ratcliffe discovered her hiding place at last? No, it wasn’t his voice.

  As he drew closer, he heard Ankarette. “It is as simple as that, Dominic. I want the boy to survive. And I need your help. Give me another bit of news. Something not even Ratcliffe knows. Nothing pivotal—nothing that will harm you. But something that will lend credibility to the rumor that Owen is Fountain-blessed.”

  “You are asking me,” Mancini growled, “to risk my life, trusting your word.”

  “What she is askin’,” came a third voice, and Owen recognized it immediately as the butler Berwick, “is that you stop eatin’ in the kitchun and actually doo what Ratcliffe pays ya to doo! Look at yur flesh, man! You are lit’rally eatin’ yourself to death!”

  Ankarette’s voice interrupted. “Patience, Berwick. You cannot coax a man beyond his willingness to suffer. If our friend wants to meet his end through his stomach, I have sympathy for that. We should not condemn him.”

  “He’s increased the househoold costs of the palace fourfold!” Berwick complained.

  “It’s a trifle,” Ankarette soothed. “When he becomes the head of the Espion, it will no longer matter.”

  “That is still your plan?” Mancini demanded in a wary voice. “I may be fat. I may be lazy. But I am not often called a fool. When the boy spouted off about pinecones, you can trust every Espion in the palace began pointing fingers at each other. I was actually startled enough that my defense seemed plausible. I didn’t tell the boy anything!”

  “Nor will you,” Ankarette said placatingly. “You will tell me, and I will tell him. And in such a way that it cannot possibly come back and hurt you. In such a way that it will ultimately benefit you.”

  Owen heard the scratching sound of fingernails against whiskers. “I cannot believe I’ve been duped this easily. My pride is wounded.”

  “Your liver is wounded,” Berwick taunted. “This woman is the queen’s poisoner. She’s the wiliest person in the kingdom, Fountain-blessed herself! I owe quite a bit to h
er, and I have kept foolk from wanderin’ up these steps for years. When she gives her word, she means it.”

  “No one means it,” Mancini grumbled. “Trust is an eggshell. Bah, I’m going to get myself killed. If I could run away, I would. My legs would protest, unfortunately.”

  “Still he complains,” Berwick muttered darkly. “Finish him now, lass. A little drink of that black vial would rid you of him.”

  “That’s supposed to inspire my confidence?” Mancini wailed.

  “You must pardon Berwick,” Ankarette said. “He is loyal. I’ve kept his secret for years and he’s been rewarded for turning a blind eye to my movements. I’ve helped him, just as I’ve offered to help you. Now . . . repeat again what we need from you.”

  “My unflinching courage,” Mancini snapped.

  “Goch, he’s tiresome!” Berwick complained.

  “Let him speak,” Ankarette soothed.

  “I need to provide you with some news that is going to reach the king through Ratcliffe. But the king must hear it from the boy first. So the tiding must hearken to something slightly less interesting than treason but more important than the rising cost of butter and treacle in the palace kitchen. Something short and easy to remember. Something that will make the boy look more mystical.” He sighed wearily. “I’m going to regret this. I’m already regretting this. Why did you make me come up all these steps? Maybe you thought to kill me by exercise.”

  “No, Dominic,” Ankarette said. “It’s to show that I trust you. This is a delicate dance. You trust no one. But I promise you, when this is done, the king will value you so much that he will name you head of the Espion. And you’ll be worthy of the post. I haven’t forgotten my promise to teach you my history. How I came to live in this tower. But that will be another night. Go find us your news, Dominic. Give it to Berwick, who can reach me faster.”