by Jeff Wheeler
In the poisoner school, she had learned that most nobles killed each other for rank and power. Very few poisoners were ever asked to dispatch infants, although she had been trained in the best ways to accomplish it. She closed her eyes a moment, listening to the sound of the water, falling deeper into her thoughts. How could she protect the queen’s babe without betraying Warrewik? If she thought about it hard enough, she was sure she could come up with a solution.
As her mind wrestled with the dilemma, she felt the stirrings of something inside her. There it was again, that strange mercurial feeling that seemed to come and go of its own volition. She worried that recognizing its presence might frighten it away, so she kept her eyes closed and held perfectly still, trying to understand what was happening inside of her. The feeling swelled, expanding like a soap bubble on the verge of popping. There were others standing nearby, but she lost sense of them, almost as if the world had hushed around her, drawing her deeper into herself. A feeling of warmth and happiness trembled in her breast, and she sensed rather than saw color and light behind her closed eyes.
All will be well.
They were not so much whispered words as a surge of feelings of relief. Her eyes blinked open, and she looked around to see if someone was standing nearby. She was still alone. But someone had spoken to her.
No, she realized—not a person. The feelings had come from the bubbling waters.
Then she sensed the power she had felt earlier, in the duke’s chamber, emanating from an alcove of the inner sanctum. She turned her head and spied the deconeus standing in the shadows, gazing down at her. She sensed his presence and recognized it from earlier that morning. And she knew, instinctively, that he sensed her as well.
Tunmore walked across the tiles, hands clasped behind his back. He bowed his head to one family and offered a banal benediction to them. But she sensed he was crossing the room toward her, and she kept still and waited for him to arrive. He did not look threatening. He looked intrigued.
He came to stand beside her at the fountain’s edge, his head bowed as if in prayer. “Many find solace here,” he said to her in a low, confidential voice.
“Yes, I can see that,” Ankarette answered. She turned and gazed up at him.
“You’re Warrewik’s girl,” he said offhandedly. “The one returned from school.”
“I am,” she answered. “I didn’t know you had recommended me. We never spoke when you came to Dundrennan.”
The deconeus’s lips pursed. He did not look at her, just at the waters. “Does the duke know?”
That question baffled her. Certainly, she could try to reason through it to divine his meaning, but she decided it would be better to just ask. “Know what, sir?”
He sniffed, still not meeting her gaze. “That you are Fountain-blessed.”
Her first instinct was to toss it aside as a jest. Her father had been her teacher and her hero. She’d trusted his word in all things. So, while she’d heard all the stories of Fountain-blessed heroes like the Maid of Donremy, the mighty king Henricus, and the Wizr called Myrddin, she’d believed they were merely stories. That there was no magic connected to the mysteries of the Deep Fathoms. And yet . . . she felt the sudden veracity of the deconeus’s words throb deep inside her. She was Fountain-blessed.
The realization sent a tremor down from her head to her ankles. Her intuition, which she had long since learned to follow and trust, had always seemed a little different, a little keener than other people’s. Now she knew why.
“How old are you?” he asked her simply.
“Fifteen.”
He nodded. “How old were you when the Fountain began speaking to you?”
She bit her lip. “Until this very moment, I didn’t believe it was real. I think it happened a few times when I was younger. But when I was twelve and living in Dundrennan—that’s when I started to notice it more.”
Tunmore rocked on his heels. “It’s rare for very young children to exhibit the traits. For most, it begins in adolescence. I am Fountain-blessed as well,” he confided. “Though it is a secret I choose to keep. So I ask again. Does your master know? He usually brags about his accomplishments. He’s never mentioned it, although I’ve suspected it after sensing you use the power on Lord Hux in the great hall of Dundrennan.”
Ankarette shook her head. “I didn’t use it on Lord Hux deliberately. If I used the . . . power on him, it slipped out, you could say. And no, I haven’t told the duke. Do you think I should? I only just found out myself.”
“No, child,” he said seriously. “Not yet. The magic is very . . . elusive. It takes training and discipline. It is a sign from the Fountain that it has chosen you to be one of its pawns on the earth. If Warrewik knew, he would exploit you.”
She turned and faced him, her voice very serious. “As you did to him today? I did not just come here for solace, Deconeus. I sensed you using the power on the duke. What did you make him sign?”
The deconeus looked surprised by her accusation. Then pleased. “That was rather clever, girl. You caught me in a trap.” His smile broadened. “I think you will enjoy playing this game of secrets and favors. But like any game, there are multiple sides. And any number of rules.”
“And whose side are you on, Deconeus?” she asked him pointedly.
He grinned. “The Fountain’s.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Fountain-Blessed
The deconeus showed Ankarette to his private chambers within the majestic sanctuary. The room was locked and he produced the key from a set of rings belted at his waist. The smell of incense was particularly strong and she noticed an assortment of thuribles of various styles hanging from pegs on the wall. More incense sticks poked out from various urns, many of which bore the marks of antiquity. The room was a treasure trove of artifacts.
Her gaze lingered on a vase carved with the symbol of a raven. It was riddled with chips and cracks, yet there was something about it that held the eye . . . that made her feel something. She couldn’t remember seeing that symbol in any of her studies in Pisan.
Tunmore locked the door and went to his desk. There were heaps of coins there, most of them blotched with rust and grime.
“Who made this?” she asked, not daring to touch the vase. She committed the symbol to her memory, determined to embroider it later.
“I bought it from a Genevese trader who does business in Ploemeur,” he answered, easing into the stuffed chair at the end of the desk. He leaned forward, elbows on the desk, his fingers steepled over his mouth.
“Brythonica?”
“Yes indeed,” he answered. “I collect artifacts, as you can see.” He gestured expansively at the room and its treasures. There were several chests and locked boxes in addition to the various vases and the coins piled atop his desk. “But I do not keep my best treasures here in my chambers. There are too many thieves wandering around. There is a way to hide such things within the Deep Fathoms itself.”
She stared at him with surprise and curiosity. He smiled back in a cunning way.
“I propose a truce between us,” he said, his voice firm but deliberate. “I will give you knowledge that would otherwise take you years to discover on your own. I will loan you books to read about the tradition of the Fountain-blessed. In return, you will keep my secret and I will keep yours.”
Tunmore had a commanding presence. She had heard he was an able diplomat and had quickly worked his way up the hierarchy of the religion. It seemed likely his gift from the Fountain had much to do with it.
“You said you were on the Fountain’s side,” Ankarette said, stepping toward him and coming close enough to see the beads of sweat on his brow. He was a powerful man, but it would seem he was also nervous. The poisoner school of Pisan had a reputation. He knew that she could kill him. He swallowed, then reached for a goblet of wine and took a sip, wincing at the flavor. It was a common reaction that someone who was afraid would find their favorite food or drink to be off-putting.
&nb
sp; “I am,” he answered hesitantly. He was trying to read her posture, looking to see what kind of danger he was in.
“I’m not going to hurt you unless you do something foolish,” she said seriously. “Show me the letter you had the duke sign.”
He nodded in acquiescence and withdrew something from the stack on his desk. “This is the one. You’ll recognize his signature.”
He handed it to her and she cautiously took it. As she began to unfold it, she felt the strange flowing sensation in her gut. She stopped and looked at him accusingly.
“What’s in this letter?” she demanded.
Tunmore frowned. There was sweat on his lip now. “Read it and see for yourself.”
She shook her head warily.
“Come now,” he said. “You want answers. Read it.”
Walking forward until her gown swished against his desk, she stared at him coldly. “Don’t play games with me, Deconeus.”
“It is a game, and as I said, there are rules. Rule number one—someone who is Fountain-blessed can discern the presence of someone else who shares the power, and we can sense when that person is using their ability. Rule number two—each is blessed with a different gift or gifts. You will need to learn what yours is. But the best way to teach someone how to use their gift is to allow them to experience yours. My gift from the Fountain is manifested in my writing. Hence, the letter. Read it so I can explain how it works. You are going to have to trust me, my dear, for this arrangement to work.”
The paper quivered in her hand. She did not trust him. She had only just met him. Any number of things could go wrong. Looking intently into his eyes, she wondered what secrets he was hiding. Having someone with his experience and knowledge as an ally would be very useful to her. Though she had sensed the Fountain magic inside her, she lacked training.
“Well?” he asked challengingly, a smug look on his face.
She wished there was a way she could gauge his trustworthiness, but her instincts clashed with each other when it came to this man. And so, just as she had jumped from the boulder into the river, she plunged ahead.
As she opened the letter, she felt the churn of the magic surround her. Her eyes darted quickly to the duke’s signature and she recognized that it had indeed been signed by his hand. As she quickly scanned the content, she saw that it was a license to procure wine at a discount from Brugian merchants and store them in Callait before sale in Kingfountain. As she read, her mind became numb with fatigue. It was a boring contract, with little strategic value. The deconeus enjoyed his wine and it was ultimately a selfish endeavor on his part. She nearly tossed the letter aside, but something inside her made her persist. She clenched her jaw and stared at the words, reading them again and again, until the words on the page began to jumble.
The bearer of this letter is authorized to command the Espion stationed in Callait.
The words jolted her. The whisper was almost faint enough to be inaudible, but the words pierced down to her heart. She broke her gaze away from the letter and saw the deconeus staring at her in surprise.
“Did you hear it?” he asked anxiously.
“I heard . . . something,” she hedged.
He stood, planting his hands on the desk, his eyes feverish with interest. “You heard the voice of the Fountain. You began to see the true words I had written. My gift from the Fountain, my blessing, is the ability to persuade with the written word. I can embed secret meanings within my messages. Someone reading it might see a list, a deposition, a cargo manifest. But there are those who can divine the true meaning, not through the words themselves but through the power of the Fountain.”
He gazed at her eagerly. “The duke’s strongest asset is his rule of Callait. With this letter, I can command the Espion in that city. The captain’s name is Vauclair. He is a greedy, self-serving man. If you want anything there, you must pay him a bribe.
“The duke believes he has given me something of very little value. The best wines are from Occitania, after all, not Brugia. But I seek to write books, to harness this gift from the Fountain for the betterment of the world, and the best book printers are in Brugia. Importing those books would be very expensive. Vauclair sees to that. But when I finish writing my book I will be able to produce it for much less in Brugia and ship it without tax throughout the kingdoms. This letter prepares the way.”
He seated himself again. “You have caught me in my trap. You could show the duke the letter, of course, but he will only see what was written there, not the true meaning. I do not fear that. What I do fear is the possibility that you could expose my gift to common knowledge. If it were known that I was Fountain-blessed, you can imagine how many people would come flocking to the sanctuary to beseech me to use my gift on their behalf or to seek my blessing.”
She looked at him in bafflement. “Isn’t that your role, Deconeus?” She could see he was, at heart, a self-serving man.
“You are not so naive as that,” he replied, then shook his head firmly. “It would be a living torture to me. I would not be able to fulfill the work the Fountain has asked me to do. So in return for you silence, I will teach you the secrets of harnessing the magic for yourself.”
He might be selfish, but it was likely their needs intersected.
“When will you teach me?” she asked. His words had ignited her excitement and imagination. She felt the budding gifts inside of her. If she could learn to use them . . .
“Now. I will start teaching you now. And I will teach you further after you have practiced what you learn. In return, you will safeguard my secret and not use it against me.”
“But what if our aims are counter to each other’s?” she asked. “I have loyalties that I must maintain.” She did not wish to tell him that she was truly loyal to the king.
“My aim is the preservation of the kingdom of Ceredigion,” he stated. “There must be an Argentine king on the throne.” He looked emphatic.
“There is one now,” she said. “And the mad king locked in the tower is also one. Who do you support?”
Tunmore shook his head. “It doesn’t matter which. This game has its rules, my dear. There must be a king. If Eredur dies without a male heir, then I will support another taking his stead. The line must be preserved. It is imperative.”
“For what?” she challenged.
He shook his head. “You cannot handle the full truth yet. You are only just discovering who you really are. Your role in all of this. Tell me, my dear. Do you have any habits that you do routinely? That bring you comfort and solace and allow your mind to wander free? Everyone who is Fountain-blessed must feed their power somehow. This would be something you’ve done since you were a child. Something that helps you think clearly, something—”
“There is,” she said, interrupting him. “My mother taught me to stitch and sew. I like to do embroidery, to make things that are pleasing.”
Tunmore looked exultant. “I thought so. Everyone who manifests power in the Fountain has something. This is the source of your power. This is a ritual you must safeguard throughout your life. It will replenish you. Imagine that the Fountain’s power is like a well of water. Use too much and you will be bereft of your powers for a time. You must continue to practice your stitching, every day.”
“But how will I know what gift I have?” she asked him.
Tunmore shrugged. “It will manifest itself in due time, my dear. The powers of the Fountain-blessed are limitless. The Wizr Myrddin could see the future. Read the stories and you will begin to see the various manifestations that are possible. You will need to try and understand your gift.”
She felt confused and a little frustrated. “But how will I know?”
“Practice. That is the key. You may have the potential for multiple gifts. My advice is to practice your embroidery until you feel the power swelling inside you. Then . . . see where it takes you. Let it carry you away. Water always makes its own path. Sometimes it stays in the known riverbanks. Sometimes it runs amok a
nd carves new ground. Water is always changing. Practice your embroidery and see if you can sense the power building up inside you. Then come see me again and I will teach you how to unleash it.”
He rose from the table and went to a bookshelf. He perused several titles before choosing one. “Start with this one. On the surface, it is a book of stories about our great King Andrew, but there are precepts in here that will teach you more about the power. As you read, listen for the Fountain. It will help you find the parts that will guide you. There are powerful words in this book, though only a Wizr could discover all of them.” He handed it to her and she accepted it gratefully.
“Thank you, Deconeus,” she said.
“Until we meet anew, Ankarette. It is my hope that we can remain allies through what happens next.”
“What do you mean?”
He gave her an incisive look. “It’s obvious to me that Warrewik is about to make his next move.”
When Ankarette had left her home in Yuork as a child, she had ridden to Dundrennan behind Sir Thomas and clung to him the entire way. Now that she was older and skilled in riding, she had her own steed, but he was once again her companion. This time, however, they rode alone, and they traveled toward her mother rather than away from her. The ride to Marshaw was long enough that they would need to spend the night in Blackpool, and the long hours in the saddle gave Ankarette plenty of time to think. Though she and her mother had corresponded, this would be their first visit in years. So much had changed since they’d last seen each other . . .
Sir Thomas kept quiet for a time, leaving her to her thoughts, but as they neared Blackpool he struck up a conversation about the current affairs in Kingfountain. She found herself telling him about Warrewik’s implied directive that she should murder the queen’s offspring if it were a boy.
“What a burden to put on you,” he said with disgust. “That man has no conscience left. There’s no room for one anymore. His ambition has crowded out all else.” They rode at a companionable gait, but Sir Thomas was always one to push on and make the horses suffer for the pace.
