by Jeff Wheeler
“Will you show her how you left the castle, Owen? We were all so surprised you were clever enough to figure it out. But I knew you were a smart lad from the start.”
Owen nodded again, anxious to reveal the secret door to Princess Elyse. Perhaps it would be their secret now. His heart was giddy as he finally reached out and took the king’s hand. With one touch, it was if he were transported onto a boat, floating away on calm waters. It was the first time he had felt safe since leaving Tatton Hall. Together, Owen and the king walked away from the queen and the bubbling fountain. The boy felt light-headed with happiness as he clung to the king’s hand, feeling its strong grip, the warmth of the leather.
Owen turned back to the queen. She was crying. Why? He waved back at her, nodding to tell her all was well. Then he looked down at the black and white tiles on the floor. He only stepped on the white ones. The king only stepped on the black ones. It was as if they were Wizr pieces, he thought, and the notion made him giggle.
“What amuses you, Owen?” the king asked kindly. His voice inspired confidence.
“The squares,” the boy said, pointing with his other hand. “The white and the black. Like a Wizr board.” It did not dawn on him that this was the first time he had addressed the king. He felt so comfortable with him now, it seemed as if they had always been the best of friends.
“You play Wizr?” the king asked with a surprised chuckle.
“My father taught me.”
“I also play Wizr,” the king said as they walked. “The game came from the eastern kingdoms. Did you know that?” They approached the huge doors of the sanctuary.
“It came from Chandigarl.”
“I knew you were a clever lad. Would you like a Wizr board, Owen? I can have one carved for you.”
He stared up at the king’s thoughtful face in rapture. “Would you?” he pleaded. “I’ve never had my own board!”
“Then you shall have one,” the king promised. “If you stay in the castle. You must stay in the castle, Owen.”
The boy nodded. It would be worth it if he got his own Wizr board. They left the sanctuary and walked toward the outer gates. Owen saw the reflecting pool and wondered where the fat man was. Mancini. He would have liked to have shared the muffin and watched him throw crumbs to the pigeons again.
A throb of fear nudged his heart. Even though the sun was beating down on them, he felt . . . cold. He adjusted his grip on the king’s hand, but the leather did not feel as soft anymore. It was almost as if the king were clenching his hand. It was almost uncomfortable. The king’s limp grew more pronounced as they walked. Owen heard a stifled gasp of pain and looked up to see the king glaring at the gates, his teeth clenched as if he were concentrating very hard.
The murmuring sound of the fountains began to recede. It felt as if he had been caught playing in the fountains and was about to get in trouble for doing so. A guilty feeling welled up inside his stomach. Something was wrong.
They reached the gate and the sanctuary men parted, allowing them room to pass. Owen looked up at the tall stone arch, then glanced back at the sanctuary. Ratcliffe was just behind them, scowling at him with raw anger and humiliation that made him even more uneasy.
The sexton stood by the gate. “Do you leave of your own free will?” he asked Owen sternly.
The boy nodded, feeling frightened by the man’s stern look. The bad feelings ebbed as the king shifted his grip on his hand. Nothing had changed. The king made him feel safe and he wanted his own carved Wizr board and to see Princess Elyse. What else truly mattered? He sidled up closer to the king.
“You heard the boy,” the king said with a suppressed groan.
Owen’s heart was beating faster now. They walked out the gate together, still hand in hand. Something made Owen glance back once more, and this time he saw the fat man standing by Ratcliffe, taking coins from his hand. Maybe Mancini was paying Ratcliffe to get him some muffins? But that did not make sense.
“Ratcliffe!” the king barked.
They were outside the gate now and had started toward the castle. Owen’s heart was like thunder in his chest. Why was he leaving sanctuary? Why had he come there in the first place? There had been a reason, and it seemed important, but he just could not remember it.
“Take him back to the palace,” the king said, sounding breathless. “I need to rest. It drained me. The lad has a strong will, thick as tree roots.”
“I envy your gifts, my lord,” Ratcliffe said tautly, joining them. He seized Owen’s other hand, tightening his grip until it was painful.
Then the king released Owen and the fog was gone. Owen remembered everything, like a sleepwalker awakened midstep. Confusion and terror battled within him.
“No need to flatter, Ratcliffe,” the king chuckled. “I can’t abide flattery. I know what I am. And so do you. Keep this boy under better watch, or I promise you that there will be a new Espion master and you will be sent to the North to polish Horwath’s boots. I expected better from you, Dickon. If I can’t trust you in the little things . . .” He let the threat dangle and then gestured dismissively at them both.
Ratcliffe flushed scarlet again, his jaw clenching with rage. “Come on!” he snarled, yanking Owen’s arm so hard it felt like his shoulder would come popping out.
Owen was near tears as he watched the sanctuary of Our Lady start to fade away. He realized, sickeningly, that he had made it there on his own, against all odds, but had been lured out again by some trick. He had been incapable of resisting the king. But why? Then he remembered the queen’s warning, and it struck him.
It was the king’s voice. It was something in his hands.
Owen had been incapable of resisting.
While they were halfway across the bridge, Owen tried to struggle away from Ratcliffe’s hand, wrenching and twisting—anything to free himself so he could flee back to the sanctuary.
A sharp smack on the back of his head put a stop to his resistance.
“Think, boy!” Ratcliffe snarled in his ear. “Think about your family.” He tugged Owen around until he was facing him and then lowered himself down to his height. The head of the Espion spoke softly, but his voice was full of venom. “You cross me again, and they will suffer for it! You escape one more time, and I will have your mother and your sisters thrown into the dungeons to starve and your father and brothers into the river to drown. I will not chase you or hunt you ever again, boy! You will obey me or the blood of your family will be on your scrawny little head. It will turn that white patch red! Make a fool of me again, and you will regret it. Am I understood?”
Owen trembled with shock and fright.
“Say it!” Ratcliffe barked.
Owen’s mouth would not work.
“Say it,” Ratcliffe warned, squeezing his hand until he cried out.
“Yes!” Owen wailed, crumpling to the ground in agony.
There is an adage as old as time, but it is universally true: No good deed goes unpunished. In finding Kiskaddon’s brat, I have been relocated to the palace to keep an eye on the little devil. I spent several years in the palace before and I hated it. This assignment will, in all likelihood, be very short. The boy is either going to get himself killed or his parents will do something reckless to seal his fate. I’m not sentimental about this and I only hope it happens quickly so I can move on to a more interesting assignment. The only patch of blue in the sky, as they say, is the lad likes to play in the kitchen. I hear Liona can spice and cook a goose like no other!
—Dominic Mancini, Espion of the Palace Kitchen
CHAPTER TEN
Ankarette
In the days that followed Owen’s escape, it seemed as if the sun had stopped shining. The little boy had been petted and coddled before. Now he was shunned and scolded. Monah Stirling was replaced with a stern old woman by the name of Jewel who did not suffer him to explore the grounds, was too gouty to climb tower steps or walk the corridors with him more than once a day, and kept him on a short leash, p
redominately in the kitchen, where a new addition had soured the haven.
Owen was surprised to find Mancini had taken up residence in the palace. Liona had explained in hushed tones that the man was a spy for the king, part of the Espion, and that he had been stationed at the palace to keep an eye on Owen. And so Liona and Drew had withdrawn their tenderness, fearful that the king would discover their role in Owen’s escape.
Mancini said very little to Owen, but he gave him knowing little smirks and winks that seemed almost threatening, as if he were daring the boy to misbehave so he’d have an excuse to report him to Ratcliffe. Occasionally he’d stomp his boot suddenly, like he’d done with the pigeons, just to see Owen start. He would chuckle to himself while Owen stacked his tiles and snort derisively when they all came tumbling down. And he helped himself liberally to the kitchen food throughout the day. Owen could tell Liona resented having to feed such a big man so often, but there was naught she could do.
Owen tried to find Princess Elyse and failed. And she made no attempt to contact him either. It was as if everything good and kind had been banished from the palace after Owen’s escape attempt. His wretched heart became a constant torment, and the palace itself felt like a dungeon. After several days of scolding from Jewel, he shrunk inside himself, his appetite waned, and he started at every shadow.
Owen’s misery during the king’s breakfast grew exquisite. No longer was he spared the king’s enmity. On the third day after the botched escape, the king looked almost gleeful as he entered the great hall and advanced on Owen.
“What? Still here, Master Owen?” he said mockingly. He gripped his dagger hilt with his fist and loosed it from its scabbard before slamming it back down—the gesture Owen had always found horrifying. “It has been days since my entire household has been frantically searching for you. You cannot imagine what a bother that is in such a spacious fortress as this one. And since then, my kitchen expenses have begun to soar. You have my thanks.”
Owen shrank from the attention, too frightened to say anything. Dunsdworth coughed a laugh into his fist, which he should not have done, because the king turned on him with delight.
“Shut it, Dunsdworth,” the king snapped. “If I wanted your commentary, I would beat it out of you.”
“I . . . I was . . . it was only a cough!” Dunsdworth objected in a whiny tone.
“Well, then keep your coughs and your sneezes and your bad airs within, lad. If there was anyone in this hall I wanted to escape, it would be you.”
The young man went scarlet with anger and mortification and Owen could not hide a smile of revenge. Unfortunately, Dunsdworth turned to look at him at that exact moment. The look on his face promised such revenge that the smile cleared away in a blink.
The king hastily ate his breakfast, picking from the trays that others had already sampled. Owen surreptitiously studied the king’s face as he put his guests down and made them squirm. He seemed satisfied with the contention he brewed at every meal, as if it fed him more than Liona’s fare.
After breakfast, Owen started making his way to the kitchen, but a strong arm closed around his neck from behind. The air vanished from his lungs and a heavy weight crushed against him.
“Laugh at me? Who are you to laugh at anyone?” Dunsdworth’s voice was low and rough in his ear. A punch to his stomach made him gasp, and he could not breathe. The arm was still choking him.
“You are doomed, Kisky,” Dunsdworth jibed. “If you ever laugh at me again, I’ll drown you in a barrel of wine. I would be doing the king a favor. You hear me, boy? I’ll push you in a wine barrel and hammer down the lid. Don’t you ever laugh at me!” After delivering another punch to the stomach, he threw Owen to the floor where the boy started to sob.
Dunsdworth kicked Owen’s arm with his sharp boot and Owen knew it would leave a huge bruise. He held his stomach, staining the tiles with his tears, as the older boy sauntered away. For a few moments, Owen soothed himself by imagining ways to get revenge. But soon even his fiery anger cooled and he knelt in the passageway, shuddering and trembling as servants passed by him, no one stopping to see what was wrong.
When Owen managed to stumble into the kitchen, no one noticed him except Mancini, who queried if there were any goodies left in the great hall to pluck. Owen nodded, and he was gone. The boy retreated to his corner and sat there in the shadows, his back to the rest of the kitchen, his shoulders slumped, too sad even to stack tiles from his satchel. It took him a moment to notice the scattered tiles waiting for him there. Tears hung thick on his lashes as he edged nearer. Instead of spelling his name, the tiles spelled W-A-I-T. It was a curious message from Drew, but it did not interest him. He suddenly missed his parents dreadfully. No one had ever thrashed him before. His arm throbbed from the kick, and he rubbed it, but the pain did not lessen. Maybe his arm was broken. No one would care if it were.
How had the king talked him into leaving the sanctuary? His memory was a blur. He only remembered how persuasive the king had been, how kind and generous he had seemed. Somehow he had tricked Owen. The boy did not understand how, but he knew it had happened. He gritted his teeth, brushing his tears away on his sleeve.
The day seemed to pass away in a blur and he obeyed the message that had been left with the tiles. He sat and waited and did not eat any food. He did not think he would ever be hungry again. Even when Liona tried to coax him to eat a muffin, he only shook his head.
“By all means give it to me then, Liona!” Mancini said with a laugh. “The boy’s not hungry. The man is!”
The butler Berwick snorted. “Yuv eaten as much as sixteen men!” he complained darkly in his Northern accent. “Your appetite is going to bankrupt the king!”
“Your complaining is going to bankrupt my patience,” Mancini shot back. “If you had the brains the Fountain gave a sheep, you’d know it’s not wise to stand between a fat hungry man and his food. I could eat you, Berwick.”
The butler snorted angrily at the reproof, but Mancini was always joking and no one seemed to pay him any mind.
“He clearly doesn’t want the muffin, Liona.” Mancini continued his campaign for more food, beckoning with his sausage-like fingers. “Bring it over.”
The cook looked pleadingly at Owen, begging him to take it, but he would not.
“See! I told you the lad wasn’t hungry today. And it is certainly a sin to let a muffin go to waste.” Liona almost threw it at him, but he took it greedily and ate it with little mumbles of relish that sickened Owen. “I am Genevese,” he said, spitting a few crumbs as he spoke, to no one in particular. “And I am not ashamed of it! We love our food. This . . . this is the height of deliciousness. I applaud you, morsel! If there are any more, Liona . . . ?”
She gave him a disgusted look and did not reply.
Owen was too tired and hurt to do much that day. He obeyed when Jewel came for him and did as he was told in a listless way. Even her suggestion of reading in the library was met with refusal. He just wanted to sit in the kitchen, to smell the baking bread and try to recapture his memories of Tatton Hall. But his life there was so different from his present reality that the memories were slipping way, dissolving into the air like smoke. He lay down on the warm stone tiles, pressing his cheek against them, and thought about his parents and his siblings. He tried to remember the carefree days he’d spent reading in the library and ambling around the grounds.
He might have fallen asleep there. He dazed and dozed, drifting in and out of consciousness. Sometimes snatches of words, mumbled softly nearby, would linger close enough that he could grab them.
“Poor dear. He misses home,” Liona murmured.
“The king is a cruel man. Do you think he will kill the boy?” Drew asked. “He killed his nephews. The man has no qualms.”
“Carry him to bed, Drew. It’s getting late.”
“Let him sleep, Liona. Let him dream of better days. I’ll come by early in the morning and carry him to his room.”
They left hi
m in the kitchen. The clinking of pots and spoons ended. Mancini grunted as he hiked up the steps. Soon all was peaceful and quiet and warm. Owen’s arm throbbed painfully when he turned over on his shoulder. He blinked, feeling some of his mussed hair tickle his forehead. They had all gone. The windows showed the black night sky, and he saw the outline of the knife-blade tower and a single light coming from the upper window. It looked like a star.
He sat up and listened to the deep quiet. It was vast and penetrating. An occasional sound, like the sloughing of ash in the oven, came like a whisper. Owen’s heart was a painful thing, almost as sore as his bruised arm.
“I don’t want to die,” he whispered into the stillness.
There was a grating sound, so soft he almost did not hear it. It took Owen a moment to place it as the sound of polished stone scuffing stone. Then a woman entered the kitchen from a shadowed recess nearby, where the tiles had awaited him with their cryptic message. She was dressed in a pale gray cloak that seemed to match the color of the stone wall. The cowl was up, concealing her face, so he only caught a glimpse of her hair.
His heart started to beat faster. She was slightly taller than Princess Elyse, and for a brief moment, Owen thought she might be a ghost. Then her arms lifted to lower the cowl, revealing a long coil of dark hair that was pinned up around her head like a crown with a single braid coming down and draped across her shoulder. A thin necklace with a brooch hung at the base of her throat. Her elbow-length gloves matched her gown—a light, satin texture that was silver and fashionable. She stood still for a moment, listening to the silence, wrapped in the velvety darkness of night.
“Owen?” she whispered softly.
His heart beat even faster. He swallowed, afraid but hopeful. She knew his name. She was looking for him. It suddenly dawned on him that Drew was not the one who had been leaving him messages with the tiles after all.
He shifted on the floor and her head turned in response to the little noise, her braid slipping down her back. Though he was half-hidden by shadows in the dark corner, that small sound was all it had taken to capture her attention. Aside from the fire embers, only the moon lit the kitchen.
