by Jeff Wheeler
“No, I’m in league with the Spider King.” He smiled absently at her, his mouth spreading wide. He was completely bedazzled.
“Are you a poisoner?” she asked him next.
“No. Lord Hux is, though. He taught me the powder. I like the powder. It feels good. It feels like this. Did you poison me?”
“What happened when Warrewik arrived?”
Vauclair stared up at the ceiling and grinned foolishly. She coughed to regain his attention.
“What happened when Warrewik came to Callait?” she repeated.
“I wouldn’t let him land,” he answered vaguely. “We even shot at his ship. So pretty. You are very pretty. I like you.”
“Why didn’t you let him land?”
He gazed back up at the ceiling. “He was helpless. Running away. He was vulnerable. My master thought it would be better to refuse him so he would come quickly to Pree and ask for help there. That would be better.” He cocked his head and scratched his inner ear vigorously.
“Did Warrewik go to Pree?”
Vauclair chuckled. “No. Shynom.”
Ankarette did not know where that was. “Where is that?”
He sniffed and smiled languidly. “Shynom is a palace. It is Lord Hux’s estate.”
Ankarette’s heart filled with dread. “King Lewis wants to use Warrewik as a tool?”
“Of course. He’s the Spider King.”
He started scratching his ear again, more violently this time. His face was beginning to show signs of confusion and irritation. The poison was wearing off.
“What of Warrewik’s daughter? Lady Isybelle? Did she have her child?”
Vauclair’s face twisted with pain. He began to look around the room in confusion.
“I d-don’t know,” he said, stuttering. “She never came ashore. I s-sent a b-bottle of wine.”
A bottle of wine. Poisoned, no doubt. Surely King Lewis would not want Dunsdworth to have an heir so soon. Not if he had other plans. Her mind whirled with the news, with the need to act and act quickly. The mad king had a son, an heir, who was being sheltered in Occitania.
And Warrewik had brought both of his daughters with him.
“You need to use the chamber pot,” she instructed him. “Now.”
Vauclair rose from the chair and started walking across the room to the private bed. She opened the door and saw the tray of food waiting on the floor with a silver chafing dish atop. Before she left, she added a poison to the sauce that would give him symptoms of violent dysentery for two days.
When she reached the main street where she had left the captain’s first mate, she found him waiting there still, clutching a flagon and rubbing his arms against the night’s cold. The streets were full of men who were laughing and singing and staggering with ale.
She did not disguise the sound of her approach. “What is the fastest route to Shynom?” she asked the first mate.
He sniffed and crinkled his eyes. “You can only reach it by horse. The fastest route is through Ploemeur in Brythonica.”
“Take me there,” she ordered, and started walking briskly back to the ship.
Ankarette was struck by the beauty of Brythonica. The cove was full of ships from every kingdom. Although the Duke of Brythonica owed fealty to King Lewis, it was an independent duchy and self-ruling. The palace was built on a craggy hilltop that would have been a tortuous ride up a series of sharp switchbacks. The Genevese traders deposited her in the harbor and stayed on to barter for some berries, which the duchy was famous for, before continuing to Genevar with the shallots.
The people of Ploemeur were friendly, and under different circumstances she would have been tempted to stay and explore. The hills were vibrant and bedecked with mansions all built above the cove. The calm waters of the bay looked idyllic, and she enjoyed the view and wished urgency didn’t compel her to make such a hasty visit. She secured a horse by trading jewels for it and then wrote a letter addressed to Lord Hux in which she congratulated him on his successful operation in securing the Duke of Warrewik’s allegiance. She intimated that keeping his allegiance would be a different matter. After dating it for two days before, she hired a courier to deliver it to Lord Hux at the palace of Shynom.
And then she followed the courier from a distance. Her years of hunting with Isybelle and making Espion journeys with Sir Thomas had trained her in the art of managing a horse, so she had no trouble keeping up with the courier’s pace.
The lush countryside of Brythonica and Occitania were impressive and picturesque. The wooden signs marking the way made her think the courier was bound for Pree, but he took another road instead, leading deeper into the hinterlands. She had secured provisions for herself on board the ship as well as a bag of coins to provide for herself along the way.
The courier stopped in a village before nightfall. She chose the same one and made sure to stay out of his sight and keep her hood up. Everyone spoke Occitanian, and although she had learned the language in Pisan, it was difficult to understand the dialect. But she used the opportunity to immerse herself in the language and learn aught she could.
Her goal was still Shynom, and she had every intention of avoiding Warrewik once she arrived. Her misinformation to Vauclair had solely been intended as a ruse to sow confusion once the poison wore off. It was her plan to find Dunsdworth and persuade him to come back to his brother’s side.
She was desperate to see what had happened to Isybelle and their babe. Had Hux tried to poison the child and the mother? There were tinctures that could halt labor. There were others that would kill the babe in the womb. That thought made her shudder and long for the night to end.
When approached, she ordered very little and spoke even less, mostly pointing to what she wanted to make herself less conspicuous. The room she stayed in that night was cramped and sparse and smelled of dust. The inn was not well used for being along a main road. She awoke before dawn, brushed and braided her hair, and then sat awake listening for the sounds of the rousing patrons. Her courier was not urgent about her business at all and tapped her letter against his chin while he noisily ate a meal of lamb chops. She watched him go and then followed.
The fortress of Shynom had been built on a low hill below a thickly wooded forest and lorded over an expansive vineyard. It was the height of Occitanian beauty. Several ancient olive trees lined the footpath leading to the huge stone steps going up to the castle proper. It had been built centuries ago and was a mix of square turrets and round ones. It was not as impressive as Dundrennan, but it had been kept in a state of repair and the carved stone balustrade was perfectly symmetrical. She had caught up to the courier within a league of the castle. Though she’d rendered him unconscious and stolen his purse, she’d left him with the note she had written, to be discovered later.
As she arrived, the grounds were full of visitors wearing the high fashion of the Occitanian nobility. Lords and ladies wandered amidst the vibrant olive trees. Some sat on blankets enjoying picnics. There were liveried servants everywhere, and a groom came and fetched her horse. She showed him the duke’s badge and he then asked in the language of Ceredigion if she had enjoyed her afternoon ride. There were so many visitors, so many people thronging the castle that one more lady-in-waiting would not be noticed.
“It was quite well, thank you,” she answered cheerfully. After handing him the reins, she started walking toward the broad stone steps leading up to the castle’s entrance. There was no longer a moat, nor a drawbridge—although there was evidence of the remnant of them. As she walked, she observed that the olive trees were planted in a great lawn that had probably once been a moat but was now filled in. She felt the familiar, eerie feeling of the Fountain’s magic. She could hear water pattering in the courtyard ahead.
She sensed the presence of Lord Hux, the master of the castle.
He was there. King Lewis was probably also present. The Spider King had wanted her to serve him. Could she hope to get in and out without being noticed?
Steeling her courage, she started up the steps quickly.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The Heir of Ceredigion
There were so many servants bustling through the castle that her presence went unnoticed. She walked purposefully past the guards at the door, as if she had come and gone countless times, and since she was wearing the duke’s badge, none of them stopped to question her. In one of the corridors, she intercepted a cup bearer and asked in deliberately mangled Occitanian where she might find her lady.
He gave her directions, responding in her own language but with a strong accent, and waved his hand down the hall. She thanked him, and as she walked, she could sense she was going nearer to Lord Hux. Her nerves became as taut as harp strings. Hux was using his magic at that very moment. She dared not use hers, for if he sensed her, the charade would end. Biting her lip, she turned the corridor and found herself staring at a huge heavy door with ceremonial guards holding gleaming pikes on either side of it. A few servants were huddled before the door, some holding trays, talking amongst themselves. The guards stood impervious. No one was being let in.
Ankarette approached warily. From the muffled noises behind the door, she could tell it was the great hall of Shynom. It was the center of the gathering, which meant Warrewik was likely there. A place to avoid. She did need help navigating the castle, however.
Cautiously, she approached the door. One of the servants looked at her, saw her badge, and gave her a derisive look.
“No one is being admitted,” the haughty servant told her with a thick accent. “Not even you.”
“Is my lady in there?” Ankarette asked courteously.
“And who is your lady?” the servant said in a snubbing way.
“Lady Isybelle.”
The look changed, softened. “Oh, I see. Clare’s wife. The duchess. No, my dear. She’s still in her room recovering.”
Ankarette swallowed and tried a look of helpless pleading. “Can you show me? I keep getting lost here. I don’t speak much Occitanian.”
The servant pursed her lips, looking burdened by the request, but then she nodded. “Very well. Come quickly. When they open the door, I want to be ready.”
Ankarette thanked her and followed her down the hall. She began memorizing the decorations and other features to help her find her way back again. They reached a stairwell and the servant took it, bounding up the steps quickly. Ankarette kept pace, grateful to be heading away from the main hall.
“It is a shame your mistress is so unwell,” the servant said, casting a look back at Ankarette as they climbed. “She will miss the wedding revels tonight.”
Wedding? Ankarette had to be careful not to be too ignorant. “It is a shame. How do your people feel about the . . . the alliance?” She chose the last word in the hopes it would trigger some reaction.
“The ‘alliance’? What a word! Could anything other than the Fountain have arranged such an unlikely union? For certes, it was a miracle.”
“I suppose you could call it that,” Ankarette sighed. “Though it seems to me more an act of desperation.”
The servant smirked at her. “You are honest, for a servant. Yes, I suppose it is true. Queen Morvared is desperate to reclaim her throne. Duke Warrewik is desperate to rule Ceredigion once more. No one thought either would bend the knee and yield. But as we say in Occitania, feeding the wolf is dangerous. Not feeding the wolf, more so. Lest it consider you the next meal.”
So it had happened. Warrewik had married his second daughter to the heir of the mad king. Her stomach roiled with disgust. Nanette had always cared for Severn. She had seen the two of them multiple times, engaged in harmless flirting. This news would crush Eredur’s brother. And at the same time it would crush Dunsdworth’s hope of becoming king . . .
“That’s very wise,” Ankarette said with a forced smile.
They reached the top of the stairs and then walked quickly down the hall. The servant was very chatty. “For many years I have served Queen Morvared in her poverty after the hollow crown was wrenched from her poor husband’s head.” Her voice betrayed an inner fury. “Now her son will rule. He is old enough to go to war. And now that he has married Lady Nanette, her father will get what he desires. An alliance, as you called it. But I still think it is one of Lewis’s miracles. That is her door, with the filigree trim. Comfort her, if you can.” The young woman gave Ankarette a sympathetic look and then hastily returned the way she’d come.
Ankarette’s mind quickly began putting together the pieces and she felt her Fountain magic respond to the situation and the desire to understand it and use it to her advantage. The feeling terrified her, for if she summoned her power now, Hux would be aware of her. She strode to the door, trying to tamp out the burning embers in her scattered thoughts, and then knocked before entering. She did not wait for an invitation.
It was not a grand state room like Isybelle had enjoyed at Dundrennan or Kingfountain. The curtains were drawn, muffling the light. The room was sparsely furnished and there were gowns and doublets tossed around. A set of muddy boots. Her gaze shifted to the bed, and she saw someone sprawled there. For a moment, she was fearful she had caught Isybelle and her husband in bed together. She shut the door and walked in quietly. The air smelled of stale wine. She saw several bottles of it on the floor. Her ears listened for telltale sounds, her nose for telltale smells of a newborn babe. There was no crib. When she reached the bed, she saw Isybelle alone amidst the sheets, still in a nightdress. Still asleep. There was evidence of Dunsdworth in the room, but he was not there in person.
Her heart knew the truth before her mind did. The babe was already dead.
Ankarette’s throat tightened. She reached down and gently shook Isybelle’s arm. “Belle?”
The tangled mass of hair moved slightly. Her head lifted. “Ankarette?”
Ankarette knelt at the bedside, reaching out and squeezing her hand. “I’m here.”
A low groan came from her friend’s mouth. “You came. Oh, you came! Oh, Ankarette!” She sat up and the two embraced. Isybelle’s shoulders quaked as she sobbed. She felt feverish to the touch, her skin moist with sweat beneath the nightdress. Tears squeezed through Ankarette’s lashes as she held her friend.
“Too late,” Isybelle moaned. “You’re too late. I lost him, Ankarette. I lost him.”
Her own throat was so tight she could hardly speak. She pulled back, sweeping Isybelle’s hair away from her face. “The babe?”
Isybelle nodded in misery, her fingers squeezing Ankarette’s arms so hard it hurt. “M-my son,” she wailed. Her mourning was fresh, the grief raw and oozing.
“What happened?” Ankarette asked with sympathy. “Tell me. Please tell me.”
Isybelle used some of the sheet to dab her nose. “It’s such a comfort you’re here. Even mother . . . has been distant. Everyone is so worried. We were going to lose it all. But father’s plan may save us. Or curse us. It is treason, Ankarette. The blackest treason.” She sniffed. “When we fled Kingfountain, after Eredur escaped, I was so worried that I started to labor. The pangs were fierce. There was no doctor on the ship. Not a one. We sailed to Callait, but that blackguard Vauclair wouldn’t let us dock. Father pleaded with him to let me ashore or to permit a doctor to come to me.” She shook her head, her eyes blazing with painful memories. “Oh, Ankarette. He had no compassion, none at all. He said we were enemies of Ceredigion and he wouldn’t risk going over the falls to help us. The only thing he did, the only thing, was to send a bottle of wine to ease my discomfort.” Her shoulders sagged. “I lost him . . . before dawn. We b-buried him . . . at sea. He’s in the Deep Fathoms now. My poor babe. My little son.” She looked at Ankarette in misery, squeezing again. “If you were there, you could have saved him.”
The tears were flowing freely from Ankarette’s eyes. What could she say? It devastated her that her friend had endured such an awful loss.
Isybelle looked down. “It’s not your fault. I know that. It’s father’s faul
t. He wouldn’t listen to anyone. He sent you away when we needed you most. He doesn’t trust you. He thinks you and Sir Thomas are lovers.”
Ankarette paled. “We are not,” she said defensively.
“I know, Ankarette. Of course I know. Do you know what has happened? Did you know there was a wedding?”
She nodded. “I heard it before coming upstairs. Nanette and the prince?”
Isybelle looked anguished. “She didn’t want it. She never wanted it.” She sniffled, trying to compose her voice. “Nanette tried to convince me to run away with her. To flee Occitania for Westmarch. It’s the closest duchy. She’s loyal to Eredur. In truth, we both are. If Dunne cannot have the throne, it should be an Argentine. Father has forced us to side with our enemies.”
Ankarette gripped Isybelle’s shoulders. “It’s not too late to return.”
“It is too late,” she moaned. “The wedding is done. They will invade Ceredigion. Once father secures the throne for the mad king, the prince and his mother will set sail for Kingfountain. My father has pledged to risk his life and give Occitania the prize.” Her eyes were full of loathing and anger. “And my husband and I get only ashes.”
“It is not too late,” Ankarette said, shaking her head. “Eredur sent me. If Dunne returns willingly, all is forgiven. There will be no forgiveness for your father. Not after what he’s done. But you and your sister can still come home. You will not be disinherited when the Assizes happen. Dunne can retain his lands and stand to gain great favor. Do you think he will listen?”
“He already is,” said a voice from the doorway.
It startled her so badly that she whirled away from Isybelle, drawing her knife and holding it up.
There was Dunsdworth. Cold and implacable. Judging by his bloodshot eyes, he was slightly drunk, and his sallow cheeks indicated those empty bottles on the floor had all been emptied by him. He wobbled a bit and then shut the door behind him, leaning back against it. Barring her way of escape.
