The Poisoner's Enemy (a Kingfountain prequel) (The Kingfountain Series)

by Jeff Wheeler

  BOOKS BY JEFF WHEELER

  The Kingfountain Series

  The Maid’s War (prequel)

  The Queen’s Poisoner

  The Thief’s Daughter

  The King’s Traitor

  The Hollow Crown

  The Silent Shield

  The Forsaken Throne

  The Legends of Muirwood Trilogy

  The Wretched of Muirwood

  The Blight of Muirwood

  The Scourge of Muirwood

  The Covenant of Muirwood Trilogy

  The Banished of Muirwood

  The Ciphers of Muirwood

  The Void 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 © 2017 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: 978-1981308668

  ISBN-10: 1981308660

  Cover design by Alexandre Rito

  Interior design by Steve R. Yeager

  Printed in the United States of America

  To Professor VanBeek

  CONTENTS

  Introduction

  PART I

  Chapter One - The Kingmaker’s Summons

  Chapter Two - The Earl’s Second Son

  Chapter Three - Warrewik

  Chapter Four - The Duke’s Daughter

  Chapter Five - The Misty Falls

  Interlude

  Chapter Six - The King

  Chapter Seven - The King’s Brother

  Chapter Eight - Queen of Ceredigion

  Chapter Nine - Discretion

  Chapter Ten - Lady Elyse

  Introduction

  PART II

  Chapter Eleven - Reunion

  Chapter Twelve - The Deconeus

  Chapter Thirteen - Fountain-Blessed

  Chapter Fourteen - Ambition

  Chapter Fifteen - Marshaw Manor

  Introduction

  PART III

  Chapter Sixteen - Rebellion

  Chapter Seventeen - Threat

  Chapter Eighteen - Yield

  Chapter Nineteen - Captivity

  Chapter Twenty - The Return

  Chapter Twenty-One - Blind

  Chapter Twenty-Two - Vauclair

  Chapter Twenty-Three - Discernment

  Chapter Twenty-Four - The Heir of Ceredigion

  Chapter Twenty-Five - Queen of Will

  Chapter Twenty-Six - Fearful

  Chapter Twenty-Seven - Indecision

  Chapter Twenty-Eight - The Cistern

  Chapter Twenty-Nine - The Dreadful Deadman

  Chapter Thirty - Marq

  Chapter Thirty-One - The King’s Gambit

  Chapter Thirty-Two - Crowspar

  Chapter Thirty-Three - The Bridge

  Chapter Thirty-Four - The Battle of Borehamwood

  Chapter Thirty-Five - Premonition

  Chapter Thirty-Six - Revenge

  Epilogue - The Mad King

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  CHARACTERS

  MONARCHIES

  Ceredigion: Eredur (House of Argentine): after his father was killed in an attempted insurrection, Eredur managed to wrest control of Ceredigion from his cousin, the mad king Henricus Argentine, son of the famous king who defeated Occitania at the Battle of Azinkeep. Eredur, a handsome and capable soldier, has consolidated his power while the mad king and his Occitanian queen (Morvared) have abandoned the realm to seek refuge in Edonburick. They still seek allies to restore the hollow crown to its “rightful” owner.

  Occitania: Lewis XI (House of Vertus): Lewis, known as the Spider King for his cunning, is delighted that the factions within Ceredigion have been brutally at war with each other. He has signed a treaty with Eredur, promising to withhold support from Ceredigion’s enemies in return for peace between the realms.

  Brugia: Philip (House of Temaire): the kingdoms of Brugia and Occitania are constantly at war. The port city of Callait is still held by Kingfountain and is maintained by Duke Warrewik with a large army as a means of preventing Brugia or Occitania from claiming this strategic location that offers many military advantages to Kingfountain.

  LORDS OF CEREDIGION

  Lord Warrewik: Duke of North Cumbria, governor of Callait, master of the Espion

  Severn Argentine: Duke of Glosstyr

  Dunsdworth Argentine: Duke of Clare

  Lord Kiskaddon: Duke of Westmarch

  Lord Pogue: Duke of East Stowe

  Lord Lovel: Duke of Southport

  I was born the year it all started. The year that the Duke of Yuork, Eyric Argentine, and his brother-in-law the Duke of North Cumbria, Nevin Warrewik, realized their king was truly, inescapably mad and utterly incapable of ruling. Queen Morvared summoned the two dukes to Kingfountain to answer charges of breaking the peace. They refused to obey, fearing for their lives, and were branded traitors to the crown. If caught, they would be executed for treason by being bound in boats and thrown into the river leading to the falls. Only someone who was Fountain-blessed could survive such a fate. An idea my father scoffed at.

  We lived in Yuork. My childhood was spent living in fear of the armed knights from both sides marauding the land, threatening to kill any who did not support their cause. My father was raised in Atabyrion and had left that land to study law. He still had a rich accent that I adored, and he often grew quite animated while explaining the intricacies of the conflict. As a child, I would listen to his stories of betrayal and sedition for hours. My mother would sit and listen too, always with needlework in her lap, and though I would begin to annoy my father with all my questions before long, she never said a word.

  I thought she was very boring when I was young—the way she’d do her needlework so quietly and patiently, listening but not speaking—but the constant needlework helped her dexterity. It made it easier for her to suture wounds.

  Mother was a midwife. I was her only child.

  By the time I was eleven, Eyric had been killed in an ambush, but his son Eredur rose to power. With his uncle Warrewik’s help, he defeated the mad king’s army and ascended the Argentine throne. The war was over, but we had all paid a price. My father, though not a soldier, had been killed for his support of Eredur.

  No matter how much we wished to believe otherwise, none of us believed the peace would last.

  —Ankarette Tryneowy

  PART ONE

  The Midwife's Daughter

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Kingmaker’s Summons

  Ankarette had been up all night and had seen a babe safely delivered into a bloody world. The healthy cries had been a relief, both to the mother and father and to Ankarette. She had often attended her mother in deliveries, but she was only a girl of twelve. This was one of the first birthings she’d handled alone. From her experiences with her mother, she’d learned birth was an ordeal of pain and suffering that could bring exquisite joy or crushing grief, and she was grateful this difficult night had ended in joy. She was exhausted, relieved, and excited to
share her success with her mother.

  The streets of Yuork were bustling with life. The air was filled with the noises of squawking chickens, the panting and yapping of dogs, the rattling of cart wheels, and the grumbling of voices thick with the accent of the North—all melodies she had listened to her entire life. Something jarred within the normal chorus, however—the heavy bootfalls and the slight jangle of spurs of someone walking behind her. It was those spurs that had pricked her attention, making the noise memorable and out of place.

  Ankarette was wrapped in a thin cloak and the morning air was just chilly enough to make her breath come out in a puff. The dress beneath her cloak was begrimed from the birthing process. She needed to wash the dress before she slept so that the bloodstains wouldn’t linger. She turned the corner, heading toward her mother’s small home, and the sound of the spurs followed her.

  She had noticed the noise before, but it hadn’t alarmed her. There were plenty of people on the street, and there’d been no reason to believe the footsteps were following her. Now, it was undeniable. The clink of the spurs continued at a steady rate, and the man—for it was a man, the tread was heavy enough—did not attempt to pass her. He was deliberately keeping his pace to match hers.

  A spike of unease pierced her chest, but she attempted to ignore it. She was near her home and there were others on the street. No one would accost her in daylight. In fact, most of the people of Yuork recognized the midwife’s daughter and would come to her aid if she called for help.

  Ankarette risked a backward glance, just a brief one, and saw that her pursuer was a soldier wearing a badge. The man carried a sword and made no attempt to hide his martial insignia: a lumpy tree with a muzzled bear. The Bear and Ragged Staff. That was the emblem of the Duke of Warrewik, the richest lord in all of Ceredigion. What would one of his soldiers be doing in Yuork?

  She quickened her stride, her fatigue from the long night melting away with the threat. Her mind began to work furiously, trying to decide on a strategy. In the horrible years of civil war, she had grown accustomed to dangers and threats. As the kingdom tottered between the control of various nobles, the citizens had borne much grief and heartache. Her own city, Yuork, had played a decisive role in the success of Eredur’s kingship.

  And her father’s murder.

  The jangle of the spurs didn’t increase with her new pace, and she felt a spurt of relief. Perhaps it had been foolish to assume the worst. She turned the corner of the crowded street and her mother’s dwelling came into sight—a narrow two-story home wedged in between the apothecary shop and Mickle the Barber. Her mother had cleverly chosen to move next to the apothecary to save time in fetching the various herbs used for remedies during childbirth. And Mickle had come because he sought to woo Ankarette’s mother, who was still a handsome woman. His attentions were treated with kindness, but the midwife had no intention of remarrying.

  Through the crowd, Ankarette noticed there were horses tied up in front of all three stores and soldiers were milling around. Soldiers who also wore the badge of the Bear and Ragged Staff.

  Ankarette’s stomach squeezed in on itself and she stopped in her tracks. Why were Warrewik’s soldiers there? It was possible they had come to see Mickle the Barber, but Ankarette felt a queer sensation that they had come instead for her.

  But why? She was twelve years old, a girl of significance to no one apart from the families she helped . . .

  There was no time to think. The subtle clink of the spurs came up behind her. The beat of her pulse in her temples was deafening. Her mouth was so dry she was afraid she’d choke. Her eyes were fixed on the guards stationed outside her home. One of them had already noticed her, and she watched as he leaned in and said something to the others. All their heads turned toward her as one.

  “It’s all right, lass,” said a voice in a Northern brogue behind her. “Don’t be alarmed. You should feel honored to have gained the notice of such a powerful lord. Your mother awaits you at home and can tell you the news first, as is proper.”

  She turned fully around, getting a good look at him for the first time. He had eyes that were gray or green—she wasn’t sure which—a knight’s swagger, and a precocious smile. His thumbs hooked in a broad leather belt that boasted the nicked and scarred sheath of a sword that had clearly seen battle. His knuckles had been battered, there was a scar on his brow, and the little flat part on his nose indicated a healed break. His hair was dark brown, thick around his ears and shorn above his collar. There was a ring on his finger—not a wedding band, for it was on his littlest finger. He wore a chain hauberk beneath his tunic. If she were to guess, the man was five or six years her senior.

  “Who are you?” she asked him, staring at his face. He was handsome, despite his scars.

  “Sir Thomas,” he answered with a courteous nod. “Do you recognize my badge, lass?”

  She nodded, her throat slowly unloosing as she tried to force her thoughts to be calm. “You serve the Duke of Warrewik.”

  “Aye, lass. I do. You look weary. You’ve been up all night.”

  She noticed his eyes were bleary. He did not look well rested either.

  “Go,” he bid her. “My men will wait out here while you speak to your mother. I came to fetch you, lass. I don’t like to keep my master waiting.”

  Ankarette shut the door behind her. Her mother was pacing the small space anxiously, and as soon as the door thumped shut, her gaze snapped to Ankarette.

  “Did you see the soldiers?” she asked, striding quickly to the door.

  Ankarette trembled. “They are Warrewik’s men. Is this about Father?”

  Her mother shook her head no. “It’s about you.”

  Ankarette tried to unhook the clasp of her cloak, but her fingers were trembling too much. Her mother, so swift with her fingers, did it for her. “You must change. You can’t go to Dundrennan like this.”

  “Dundrennan?” Ankarette gasped.

  Her mother looked worried, anxious. “Yes, child. You’ve been summoned by the duke.”

  “But why?” She was completely baffled.

  Her mother stroked her golden brown hair—a feature they shared—and hugged her close, squeezing her hard enough to hurt. Then she pulled back, shaking her head. “Listen to me, Daughter. Neither of us have any say in this. Not really. Powerful men like the duke must be obeyed.” She bit her lip and shook her head. “Too soon, too soon. You must grow up too soon.” She hugged her again, tears falling down her cheeks. Ankarette started to cry softly, hugging her mother close.

  “Tell me, please!”

  “Daughter.” Her mother stepped back and knelt, gripping her shoulders. “The duke seeks a companion for his eldest daughter, Isybelle. A friend. He’s chosen you.” She cupped Ankarette’s chin. “Only the Fountain knows why you were chosen. I had hoped to train you more, to prepare you to serve a noble household someday.” She shook her head. “I haven’t had enough time. You’ll be taken from me. And somehow I must bear being alone.”

  Ankarette hugged her mother tightly, her mind whirling with the new information. Dundrennan was the chief castle in the North. Part of her thrilled at the sudden opportunity, but she felt guilty for the corresponding excitement. She didn’t wish to leave her mother.

  “There is much I still need to learn,” Ankarette said, shaking her head.

  “Aye, and you will!” her mother said tearfully. “The duke can afford the best of schools. He is always thinking ahead, that one. He’s a cunning, ambitious man. You remember what Father used to call him?”

  That was her mother’s way—she’d never participated in Ankarette’s father’s conversations about politics, but she’d listened and learned.

  “The kingmaker,” Ankarette said softly, realizing that she would be part of the duke’s household. The magnitude of it overwhelmed her.

  “Aye,” her mother whispered. “The most powerful man in the kingdom. Even more powerful than the king himself. Be obedient to him, Daughter. He rewards
those who serve him faithfully.”

  “I will, Mother,” Ankarette promised, wiping tears from her cheeks.

  The door was jostled open and Sir Thomas barged into the space, his bulk instantly making the room feel smaller. “Daylight is wasting, lass,” he said. “I need to get you to Dundrennan before nightfall. I don’t think you would feel comfortable bedding down for the night in the heath surrounded by soldiers. No one would harm you, lass, so no need to fear that. But I’d rather avoid the temptation altogether since some of these men are rough. Now, kiss your mother’s cheek and we’ll be off.”

  Ankarette blinked quickly, realizing she hadn’t yet changed out of her bloody dress. “Can I put on a new dress first?”

  He sighed and stamped his boot, jangling the spur. “I don’t see what difference a new one will make,” he complained. “You’ll be wearing one of the duke’s gowns ere you see him. The faster we get there, the better. On our way, then.”

  She felt a gentle pinch on her arm. Turning, she saw her mother’s insistent look. Obey the duke . . . obey his men. Ankarette hesitated, unsure of what to do. She had no idea what her future held and how this moment would affect her. Looking back at Sir Thomas, she saw the impatient look in his eyes. He was impatient, yes, but was he trustworthy?

  A little ripple came into her heart as she continued to stare at him. A calming feeling. It was there one moment, gone the next, but it was enough to guide her.

  Ankarette kissed her mother’s cheek. “The babe was a son. All went well.”