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

by Jeff Wheeler

  Anger churning in his heart, Owen gave Mancini a sulky look. “She’s more clever than you, though. She’ll think of a way.”

  Mancini snorted. “Well, if she’s slipped into the castle, she won’t be slipping out, I can tell you that.”

  “You sound very sure of yourself.” It was Ankarette’s voice, ghosting up to them from the lip of the well. Owen startled, and Mancini had to lurch forward to keep from falling backward into the well in pure surprise.

  Owen’s faith in the queen’s poisoner had been vindicated once again. He leaned over the edge of the well, staring down into its dark throat. “Are you down in the well?” he whispered, his voice echoing down the shaft.

  “I am,” she replied, her voice kind but tired.

  “I can’t see you,” Owen said.

  “But I can see you,” she answered. “All is well.”

  “I’m beginning to believe in all this Fountain nonsense,” Mancini grumbled nastily, having partially recovered from his shock. “Where are you?”

  “There are tunnels honeycombing beneath the castle,” she whispered. “It’s one of the reasons that castle was named Beestone. This is a famous castle, Owen. Or an infamous one. Several kings have started their reign here. Studying the past sometimes helps us make the future. Dominic, have you found what I asked you to find?”

  Owen gripped the edge, his heart afire with hope.

  The spy frowned distastefully. “Yes, but it’s not good news, Ankarette. It would seem the king means to execute the lad’s family tomorrow. I was just telling him that. The Espion are all betting on it, coins changing hands.”

  “Thank you. Yes, it does seem very likely that the king will make an announcement tomorrow. This is the bit of news I needed to confirm. Do you know what time the Assizes will start? When must Kiskaddon arrive before he’s guilty of treason?”

  Mancini frowned, his arms folded. “Tenth hour. I heard he’s camped a league away.”

  “Dominic, I need you to go to him. I can’t ride that far and be back in time. You must go to Lord Kiskaddon and you must tell him to come to the Assizes tomorrow. He cannot be late.”

  “Why would he listen to me?” Mancini said.

  “Because I sent you. He will trust you because his wife trusts me. Believe this. You must persuade Owen’s father to come without a retinue. Without arms. He must put himself completely at the king’s mercy.”

  Owen shivered.

  The incredulous look on Mancini’s face said it all. “Are you serious?”

  “Quite so. You must deliver this message for me. Tonight. If you leave now, you can be at his camp and back before dawn. See if you can persuade him to come with you. He cannot be late to the Assizes. Will you do this?”

  “I’m risking my neck,” Mancini grumbled. “Will you not tell me your plan? I haven’t been able to get the book. The king keeps it with him at all times.”

  “He’s struggling to understand what is written in it. I need to know what’s in that book.”

  “But the king won’t let go,” Mancini said.

  “He’s not the only one who’s read it. Where are the Espion staying? Where is Ratcliffe?”

  “What?”

  “Where is Ratcliffe?” More insistently this time.

  “The . . . all the Espion are staying at the Holywell in town. It’s near Castle Hill, on the—”

  “I know it,” she said, cutting him off. Her voice sounded more tired, more pained. “Go, Dominic. Go warn Kiskaddon.”

  The spy grunted as he leaned away from the well and marched off toward the torchlight. Owen was grateful he was gone.

  “Are you feeling sick?” Owen whispered into the well.

  There was a long pause. “I’m very sick, Owen. And we’re running out of time.”

  He fidgeted nervously. “I wish there was a way I could help,” he said miserably. “I saw the book on the king’s bed today. I started reading it, but Ratcliffe took it away.”

  “That was clever of you,” she said, sounding pleased. “You could tell John Tunmore is Fountain-blessed just from reading it, couldn’t you?”

  “Yes,” Owen said. “Ankarette, what is the Dreadful Deadman?”

  She was quiet a moment. “How do you know about that name?” she finally asked. “Was it in the book?”

  “In a way,” he answered, feeling confused. “While I was reading the book, I heard the name. I heard it twice. The voice said King Eredur wasn’t the Dreadful Deadman. Then it said Lord Dunsdworth—not the boy, but his father—was also not the Dreadful Deadman. What is it?”

  “I don’t know for certain,” Ankarette said, her voice soft and subdued. “It is a superstition, mostly. One that is whispered about late at night. It is a legend of the first king of Ceredigion, the one who ruled before Occitania invaded our lands. I told you before of his Wizr. Myrddin was Fountain-blessed and could see the future. There are stories that he left a prophecy. Before he disappeared, he said that the first king of Ceredigion would return someday. He would come back from the dead to rule Ceredigion and Occitania. This prophecy was named the Dreadful Deadman, for when he returns, there will be much war and bloodshed. This legend is not written down, but the people believe in it. It is rumor ladled on gossip and served in a trencher of lies. King Eredur claimed he was the Dreadful Deadman. It’s a ploy many have used to become king. But that is the nature of prophecies. They are much speculated about. I know the Occitanians fear this prophecy. To them it is certainly dreadful. But in this case, Owen, I cannot tell you what is true and what is false. I do not know.”

  Owen rubbed his hand over the cool, smooth stone of the well. He kept staring into the depths, wishing he could see her. “Are you truly down there?” he asked.

  “I am,” she answered, a smile in her voice. “Now, you said you wished you could help.”

  “Can I?” he asked, growing more hopeful.

  “Owen, you are the biggest help of all. You are the one who is going to save your family.”

  He leaned forward so far he almost fell in. “Really? How?”

  “You are going to tell the king your family is guilty of treason.”

  His hope suddenly wilted. “Ankarette?”

  “Listen to me, my boy. The verdict of the Assizes has already been determined. There must be enough evidence in that book to condemn your parents. I cannot do anything about that. The king has already made up his mind. He will use Duke Horwath to execute his will and deliver the king’s justice. No matter what is said tomorrow at the Assizes, your family will be declared guilty of treason and will be attainted. Do you know that word?”

  “No,” Owen groaned miserably. He wanted to be sick.

  “Attainder means the forfeiture of land and rights as a consequence of a sentence of death for treason or felony. It means the king will strip away Westmarch from your family and put them to death. Then he can claim the duchy as royal lands or give them to another person. That is what happens. That is what is going to happen tomorrow. What I need to know is what is in that book. Because you are going to have a dream tonight, Owen, and you are going to share it with the king before the Assizes begins. You will confess your family’s treason. That exhibition of your power will not only astonish the king, but the fact that you used it to benefit him will put you in a position of trust. The Assizes, Owen, is your test of loyalty. Your parents have already failed theirs. They failed it months ago when your father didn’t fight for the king at Ambion Hill until it was too late. Your father is useless to the king now, for he can never trust him again. What Severn needs to know is if you will be faithful to him.”

  Owen felt tears stinging his eyes. “But I don’t want my family to die!” he gasped. He felt utterly miserable.

  “I know, I know,” Ankarette soothed, her voice thickening with pain. “But you can save them, Owen. Listen. Don’t let your grief run away with you. I’m doing the best I can to help you.” Her voice trailed off and Owen stifled his own sobs, wanting so much to reach into the black
hole to comfort her.

  “Listen to me . . .” she whispered, her voice so soft. “Your dream will reveal your parents’ treason. I will find out what’s in the black book so I can tell you tonight. It will solidify your reputation as one who can see the future.”

  “But how?” Owen asked, confused. “What my parents did was in the past. Why would knowing that convince the king I can see the future?” The sound of approaching boots met his ears, and when he looked up, he saw Duke Horwath approaching, a look of concern on his face.

  “He’s coming,” Owen whimpered nervously.

  “Listen carefully,” Ankarette said. “Even if someone is attainted, found guilty, the king can show mercy and pardon them. We will make the future. Your dream will predict that the king will pardon your family and banish them from the realm. Exile. That is what your dream must tell him. I will work out the details tonight. I’ll find you before dawn.”

  “He’s almost here!” Owen warned.

  “And in your dream,” she whispered, her voice ghosting up from the well hole, “the rat dies.”

  Lord Kiskaddon is a broken man, a husk. He’s a man standing on the brink of a waterfall, seeing the rushing waters whisking him toward his doom. Flail as he might, he cannot escape the current. He was almost too willing to speak to a total stranger—a Genevese, no less! His greatest regret? That Tunmore’s book reveals his wife was his partner in all things. She helped arrange and receive the messages from the pretend king who was slain at Ambion Hill. Their entire family is going to be shoved into the river after the Assizes. Well, all except one. Kiskaddon has come to Beestone Castle to beg for a pardon he won’t be getting.

  —Dominic Mancini, Espion of the Assizes

  I’m in shock. When I got back to the tavern, all was in an uproar. Ankarette is dead. Apparently she went after Ratcliffe at the Espion stronghold. I’ve heard only snippets, but she blew powder in his face to drug him. She was discovered by my colleagues and stabbed to death. There were easily a dozen men with blood on their shirts and daggers. Ratcliffe survived a neck wound—unfortunately—and has gone to the king in triumph. They’ve taken her corpse to the castle. What was she trying to accomplish? I have no idea. I saw her body myself, lying on a cold stone slab in the doctor’s chambers. Everyone is afraid to even touch her. Pale as marble, she is. Pale and beautiful in death.

  —Dominic Mancini, Espion of the Doomed Boy

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  The White Pig

  Owen was awakened by the touch of a woman’s fingers on his hair. The room was dark, but it was the birth of dawn. It was the time just before the birds started to sing, the cusp of a new day, the deep breath before the plunge.

  The royal apartments in Beestone Castle were furnished and unfamiliar. As Owen blinked awake, it took him a moment to place himself. Was he in Tatton Hall? Kingfountain? He saw Ankarette kneeling beside the bed, her cheek resting on the mattress, her fingers playing absently with tufts of his hair. She had a languid smile on her pale face. A shudder rippled through her, and she bent her lips to the mattress to muffle a little cough. Then she gazed fondly at him again.

  “Ankarette,” Owen whispered, feeling his heart lighten. He rubbed his eyes on his hand. “I tried to stay awake. I fell asleep waiting for you.”

  “It’s all right, Owen,” she soothed. “I was . . . late.” She smiled.

  “You’re quite pale,” the boy said, feeling concern.

  She looked as if that didn’t matter at all. “I feel tired. I need a long sleep. Like you’ve had.” She pinched his cheek tenderly and grazed it with her thumb. “Shall I tell you about your dream? Will you be able to remember it?”

  He nodded eagerly and stared into her eyes, lost in them for a moment.

  “After I’ve told you,” she said softly, “you need to go to the king. Right away. You need to be brave, little Owen. Can you do that?”

  “I have Evie’s braid. I can be brave like her.” Owen sat up, and noticed that she did not. She was kneeling at the edge of the bed, holding herself up on her arms.

  “Very well. Listen carefully. You had a dream tonight. In the dream, three golden bucks came to Beestone Castle. The bucks all knelt before a white pig. You saw their antlers touch the ground before the pig. Then a rat with a knife walked up to the bucks to kill them and eat them. But the white pig shook its snout. It wouldn’t let the rat hurt the bucks. The pig walked to the river and the bucks followed. All of them boarded a boat except for one. The smallest of the bucks stayed with the pig. The boat went against the current of the river—upstream instead of down—and sailed away to a land of flowers.”

  She stiffened and let out a soft breath of pain. She blinked, her eyes growing dazed. “Owen, then the pig sniffed the rat. When it did, it found a gold coin in its fur. The pig turned into a boar and grew tusks. With the tusks, the boar threw the rat into the river, and it drowned.”

  Her fingers, which had been playing in his hair, went limp, and her wrist sagged to the mattress blanket. Her head lolled to one side.

  “Ankarette?” Owen asked worriedly.

  “So sleepy,” she whispered. She blinked rapidly, then lifted her head. Her eyes seemed to sharpen and focus. “Now go tell the king about your dream. This is important, Owen. This is how you can save your family.” She gave him a tender look, so poignant and full of love. Her weak fingers lifted and grazed the white patch of his hair. “Go. Then tell me what happens.”

  “Will you be here when I get back?” Owen asked, his worry growing.

  “I promise,” she answered, smiling sadly.

  Owen scuttled off the edge of the bed and quickly threw on his clothes. He made sure Evie’s braid was in his pocket and he walked away from his room, wandering the halls.

  He saw Mancini slumped in the corridor, a jug of wine crooked in his arm.

  “Take me to the king’s room,” Owen told the Espion, tugging on his sleeve.

  Mancini looked haggard, depressed, and irritable. His eyes opened slowly. His breath was awful. “You?” he said, looking pained.

  “Where is it? I need to tell the king about my dream.”

  “What dream?” Mancini said in confusion. “There are no more dreams. There is no more hope. It’s all been ruined. All is lost.” He shook the empty jug a little, listening to see if there was any liquid sloshing around inside. It was empty.

  “Ankarette said I must!” Owen insisted, gripping the man’s shoulder.

  Mancini’s face crinkled with confusion. “Who said?”

  “Ankarette!” Owen seethed, frustrated at the man’s blockheadedness.

  Mancini leaned forward. “You’ve . . . seen . . . her?”

  “She’s in my room.” Owen hooked his thumb and pointed.

  The expression on Mancini’s face transformed. He shoved away the empty jug and broke it in his haste to get back to his feet. “She is? At this very moment? But how?”

  “Sshh!” Owen said, for he heard the sound of boots coming.

  Mancini grabbed the boy’s hand and marched him down the hall. He swayed a bit as he walked, but he knew the way. Coming toward them were several night guards wearing the badge of the white boar and carrying torches.

  One of the soldiers challenged them. “Who goes there?”

  “This is the Kiskaddon brat—boy! He had another dream and must tell it to the king!”

  The soldier looked at Owen in surprise. “Follow us, boy.”

  Mancini’s cheeks were pink and rosy, and he looked elated. They marched back the way they had come and quickly went to the king’s bedchamber. As soon as they walked into the room, Owen saw Duke Horwath. Ratcliffe was also there, a bloody bandage around his neck, along with several other men who were talking angrily amongst themselves. To Owen’s surprise, Princess Elyse was also present, wearing a robe over her nightdress, her hair straggling as she paced the chamber in her slippers, her face pinched with worry.

  “My liege,” the soldier announced, stamping his boots as he halted.
“Found these two in the corridors. The boy has had another dream.”

  The king, looking furious, turned when he heard the soldier’s announcement. His face was flushed with emotion, but he calmed when he saw Owen.

  “Another one?” the king asked, his voice suddenly interested and concerned. He started walking toward Owen.

  “My lord,” Ratcliffe broke in. “That can wait. You promised my reward. I have served you faithfully. I want Tatton Hall!”

  The princess glowered at Ratcliffe, her face showing her absolute disapproval. Horwath looked angry too, his stern lips pressed hard together.

  “Give it a rest, Dickon!” the king snapped. “This is important!”

  Ratcliffe seethed with fury. “If you are still taking the Espion away from me, I deserve something in return! Something that won’t be a loss of reputation. If this is how you reward loyalty . . .”

  The king was in no mood to hear him. His cheeks were full of stubble and he looked as if he hadn’t slept well or at all that night. It reminded Owen of the night he had found the secret tunnel leading to the king’s bedroom. The king’s face was full of weariness and agitation. But it softened when he dropped down on one knee in front of the boy, putting their eyes on a level.

  “What is it, lad?” he asked in a kindly voice. “Tell me of your dream.”

  Everyone was staring at Owen. The soldiers. Duke Horwath. The princess. Ratcliffe. The king. All their eyes bored into him, all their ears listened, and he realized he had power over these men. A king was kneeling in front of him because he believed Owen was Fountain-blessed and could read the future. He was convinced.

  All Owen needed to do was speak.