by Jeff Wheeler
His tongue grew thick in his mouth. The pressure of being the focus of so much pointed attention unearthed his hidden terrors and fears, which came popping up from the ground like worms after a rainstorm. Owen dug his hand into his pocket and felt the reassuring touch of his friend’s hair. He wished she were there. He could almost see her in his mind’s eye, standing behind the king with an impatient look. Just tell him!
“My lord,” Ratcliffe interrupted, suddenly nervous. “It’s so early. Wouldn’t it be better to hear the lad later, during breakfast? The queen’s poisoner is dead, so you need not fear your meals now. It’s nearly dawn. Surely this can wait.”
The queen’s poisoner was dead? Owen’s stomach took an uneasy flop.
The king’s hand rested on the boy’s shoulder. “Tell me,” he said.
Owen licked his lips. He tried to speak, but his tongue wouldn’t work. A worried spurt of panic enveloped his gut. Was Ankarette dying? No! She had said she would wait for him to return. She was tired, that was all. Owen forced himself to concentrate.
“Go ahead,” Princess Elyse said coaxingly.
“My lord . . .” Ratcliffe whined.
“Shut it!” Horwath barked at him.
“I did have a dream,” Owen said, looking into the king’s gray eyes. A wavering smile hovered on the king’s mouth, encouraging him to continue. “In the dream, I saw three golden bucks. They had big antlers, though one of the bucks was small. They came walking across a field. There was a white pig in the field. A happy pig. The bucks knelt before the pig, their antlers touching the ground. While they were kneeling, a rat with a knife approached them.” Owen swallowed, feeling the hate burning at him from Ratcliffe’s eyes. He focused on the king’s face. “The rat wanted to slaughter the bucks. To eat them.”
“This is intolerable!” muttered Ratcliffe desperately.
The king held up his other hand, cutting him off. “Go on.”
“The white pig shook its snout. It would not let the rat hurt the deer.” Owen swallowed again, squirming. He understood the dream. He understood what Ankarette was trying to do. “The white pig . . . the white pig couldn’t trust the bucks, though. And so he went with them to the river.” The king’s grip on his shoulder tightened, almost painfully. His eyes stared into Owen’s eyes with a look of shock.
“Listen to him, my lord!” Ratcliffe said suddenly, his tone changing.
“The pig could not trust the bucks,” Owen went on. “They had not defended the pig when hunters were trying to kill him. So the pig, the white pig, put the bucks on a boat in the river. And he sent them to another land, a land full of flowers. The boat sailed upstream, away from the falls. Only one of the bucks stayed behind. The littlest buck stayed by the pig. It stayed right next to the pig.” Owen’s voice trailed off, almost to a whisper. The king was hanging on his every word.
Then Owen lifted his voice again. “What happened next was the pig sniffed at the rat. I think it was smelly. And there, in the rat’s fur, was a gold coin. The pig grew tusks, like a boar. And with the tusks, it threw the rat in the river. The rat . . . drowned.”
There was a series of gasps when he spoke the final part.
The king was astonished. His eyes were so curious, his expression so moved with emotion that he pressed several fingers against his lips, but he kept his other hand on Owen’s shoulder. Suddenly, Owen heard the rushing of the Fountain. The sound filled his ears and the king’s hand tightened on his shoulder. Owen felt the magic rushing down the king’s arm.
Can you hear me?
It was the king’s voice, in Owen’s mind.
Yes.
The king blinked, but did not seem surprised.
You know what your dream means, don’t you, Owen?
Yes. It means my parents are guilty of treason. I know that now.
The king quivered with suppressed emotions. His eyes were fierce. You know then, that I have to punish them. I cannot trust them. I cannot let your father serve me. Owen, you must understand this. I must destroy them or risk an even worse betrayal. Owen, please understand. I don’t wish to hurt you. But I cannot let them escape, not when I have power to stop further mischief. A prince must make difficult decisions betimes. A prince must destroy his enemies when he has the chance.
Owen felt the power of the Fountain rushing through him. The king was using his power to convince him that his parents must die. He could tell that the king truly believed he had no choice. That wisdom and prudence demanded justice for his parents’ involvement at Ambion Hill. Owen was utterly convinced it was just.
But he also realized the king was using the magic of the Fountain on him. And so he turned it back against him.
But a king can pardon an enemy, Owen thought in response. You have that right and that power. My dream tells you the Fountain’s will for my parents. And its will for me. I will serve you. I will take their place.
Owen looked deep into the king’s eyes.
I know you didn’t murder your nephews. I know you care for your niece and would never hurt her. And I know you won’t hurt me. You are not the monster others pretend you are. I trust you.
The king let go of Owen’s shoulder as if it burned him. He rose to his feet, staggering backward in surprise and shock, his face totally unmasked of pretense and cunning. Owen’s words had cut him to his very center, had tapped into the secret need of his heart—the need to be loved and trusted by a child after the loss of his own son and his nephews.
“Uncle? Are you unwell?” Elyse said, rushing to him in concern. He was trembling, his entire body quaking with emotion. Tears trickled down the king’s cheeks. And then, falling to his knees in front of them all, the king wept.
The wish to acquire more is admittedly a very natural and common thing; and when men succeed, they are praised rather than condemned. But when they lack the ability to do so and yet want to acquire more at all costs, they deserve condemnation for their mistakes.
—Dominic Mancini, Espion of the Palace Kitchen
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
The Queen’s Midwife
“What is the meaning of this, Horwath? Unhand me! Unhand me, I say!” The voice was Ratcliffe’s, and the attention of those gathered in the royal chamber shifted from the grieving king and his niece to the master of the Espion. On Horwath’s barked command, several soldiers wearing the arrow-pierced lion had marched forward and seized Ratcliffe.
Horwath’s face was impassive, cold, and very menacing. “Search him,” he ordered brusquely.
“This is outrageous!” Ratcliffe snarled, struggling against the soldiers, but he was quickly overpowered. “What do you hope to find? A bag of gold? Of course I have a bag of gold! This is preposterous!”
“My lord duke?” one of the soldiers said, bringing forth a folded scrap of paper, the red waxy seal already broken. “It was in his pocket.”
Ratcliffe’s eyes widened with shock. “Where did you get that? I did not have that in my pocket. You must . . . you must have put it there!” He bucked against the soldiers, trying to free himself, and one of them clamped an arm around his neck to subdue him.
Owen stood by the princess, watching with building interest as Elysabeth’s grandfather unfolded the note and started reading it aloud.
“Master Ratcliffe, long has my master desired to earn your good opinion. Rumor crosses our borders that your master has a new Fountain-blessed. A little brat from Kiskaddon. Please arrange an accident to remove this threat to us. In return, you will inherit the lordship of one of our many pleasant estates on your borders with income received from the king’s coffers annually. Be quick, Master Ratcliffe. Your prompt cooperation will be amply rewarded.” Horwath’s frown and boiling anger intensified as he read. “Yours et cetera, Grey.”
Ratcliffe’s face turned as white as milk.
The king rose to his feet, his look so full of wrath and disappointment that it made Owen cower.
“How could you—you—turn traitor, Dickon?” the king said in a husky whisper. “You
, above all, know my heart. You, above all, have shared my history. I am not sure I can trust anyone now. For greed or gold? Was it worth it, old friend?” His hand closed against his dagger hilt, and for a brief instant, Owen feared the king would plunge the blade into Ratcliffe’s heart.
“My lord,” Mancini said politely.
The king turned his savage gaze to the Genevese man.
“There was an incident—quite recently—when I discovered little Owen and the duke’s granddaughter at play. Well, to be honest, they were being rather naughty and had found their way into the palace cistern. I happened to tell Master Ratcliffe this fact shortly thereafter and . . . well, rather coincidentally, the gate winches of the cistern drain were tugged on. That’s why the palace ran out of water. The two children were nearly swept into the river. I had no proof it was not an accident, of course. Until now. I thought I might mention it.”
Ratcliffe’s face turned green and he hung his head as if all his strength had failed him.
The king stared at Owen in mixed surprise and horror. “Is this true, lad?”
Owen stared at the king purposefully. He nodded and then looked at Duke Horwath. “Mancini saved both of us. He broke down the door and caught us before we went over the falls.”
“By the Fountain!” the king exclaimed. He knelt in front of Owen and mussed the boy’s hair, looking at him with wonder and the utmost relief. “Is this true? Were you spared the horrors of it? I almost cannot bear to look at you without weeping anew.”
It took him a moment to master his emotions. Then the king rose like a thunderhead, and when he next spoke, his voice was full of menace and warning. “You desire wealth and fame like a sick man craves his drink. But you were not meant for so much power, Dickon. You are as inept as you are ambitious. This message reeks of the smell of Occitania, the nation that has always sought our overthrow and humiliation. For this, you would have murdered two innocent children . . . just like Bletchley. How could you, man? How could you?” His jaw was clenched with rage. “My lord duke of North Cumbria, acting as chief justice, arrest this man of high treason and commit his body to the waters. May the Fountain spare his life if he be innocent or bury him in the Deep Fathoms with all the moldering treasures of the world for him to feast his greedy eyes on without being able to touch once his skin turns to bones. Out of my sight!”
The soldiers hauled up Ratcliffe, but his legs no longer seemed to work. His face dripped with so much sweat that he looked like a melting candle.
Duke Horwath, stiff and imperious, stood in front of him. “I arrest you on grounds of high treason, by the name of Dickon, Lord Ratcliffe of Brent.” He grabbed the chain of office around Ratcliffe’s neck and snapped it, then hurled it to the floor like refuse. That done, he smacked Ratcliffe across the face so hard it rocked his head back. He nodded curtly to the soldiers to drag him away, and as they did, Owen heard the man sobbing.
The king’s frown was fierce and determined. He stared after Ratcliffe, his heart closing with another wound.
“Uncle, I am so sorry,” Princess Elyse murmured. “But in truth, I am not surprised. I have had fears for Owen’s life since he came to Kingfountain.” She came and stood behind Owen, resting her hands on his shoulders. “That is why I asked if I could look after him.”
The king nodded at her words. “I should have listened to you, Niece. I should have heeded your counsel. I would have you near me to always give me your advice. To help me steer this ship of state. You are wise beyond your years. I would value your suggestions.”
The princess smiled, pleased. “I would like that, Uncle.” She squeezed Owen’s shoulders. “So may I look after him now?”
The king smiled wanly and then shook his head. “No, Elyse.”
“But why not? What are you going to do with him?” Her voice had an edge of worry.
“Indeed. What will I do with him?” the king muttered calmly. His gray eyes were serious and intense as he looked into Owen’s. “I will make him into a duke. A lord of the realm. He will need to be taught. He will need to be trained. When I was nine, my brother made me the Duke of Glosstyr, and I was sent to the North to be trained by my uncle Warrewik. After the Assizes, I will name Owen the Duke of Westmarch, and he will be sent to the North under the wardship of my faithful friend, who knows the price of loyalty. There is a little granddaughter, I believe, who was recently sent back to Cumbria?”
The duke’s stern mouth broke into a smile. “She is, Your Grace. She was. I think a season or two up in the North would strengthen this little pup. Make a man out of him.”
“Then I give his wardship to you, Stiev. Make a man out of him. Make a lord out of him.” The king stared at Owen with kindness. “For your parents’ treason, I will pardon them. For your sake, Owen. They will never be permitted back to Ceredigion on pain of death. But I will not forbid you from seeing them. My lord duke, when you draw up the attainder, please be sure that Owen is excluded.”
“I will, Your Grace.” The duke was still smiling, and Owen could imagine why.
The king knelt down on the ground and picked up the broken chain and badge that Horwath had thrown down. He rose, staring at the fine workmanship of the badge, the symbol of the rose and star made of gold. Then he looked warily at Mancini.
“For now,” the king said with almost a threat in his voice, and offered the medallion to him.
“Your Grace,” Mancini replied meekly, bowing.
Owen hurried back to his bedchamber, and his heart gave a shiver and a lurch when he found it empty. His heart was boiling inside, ready to burst with relief. He had to tell her.
“Ankarette?” Owen whispered, carefully padding to the other side of the bed. He found a bloodstain on the floor.
His heart was hammering faster and faster. “Ankarette?” he whispered again.
She was gone.
“Owen.”
Her voice was so soft, muffled, he almost didn’t hear it, but it came from under the bed. Owen dropped to his knees and looked and found her curled up under the bedframe, her head resting on her arm.
Afraid, he crawled under the bed beside her. Her face was pale, her eyelids purple and bruised. She looked so weak and tired, as though she lacked the strength to even move.
“Are you hurt?” he asked.
“I’m very sick, Owen,” she whispered, her voice so faint that he had to bring his ear near her mouth to hear her. “I’ve been sick for months.”
“But you will get better now,” Owen said, his mouth tightening into a frown.
“No, Owen.” She sighed deeply. Very slowly, she lifted her fingers and grazed his hair. “Tell me . . . what happened.”
He swallowed some tears before they could spill. His throat was thick and tight. He burrowed himself against her. She felt cold. Her hand limply stroked his hair.
“I’m going to be a duke,” he stammered. “Duke Kiskaddon, like my father. The king is giving me Westmarch. But I’m going North first. To be with Evie and trained by her grandfather. I’m . . . I’m not going to see you again, am I?”
“Sshhh,” she soothed. “I’m going to the Deep Fathoms now. Where I can rest. Where I can sleep without pain. Sshhhh, don’t cry.”
He was crying. The tears were hot against his cheeks. “I don’t want you to go,” he moaned. “You need to keep teaching me. I can’t do this without you. I am Fountain-blessed, Ankarette. You were right about me. The king tried using his magic on me and I . . . I turned it back on him. I felt it. So did he. Someone sent Ratcliffe to kill me. I . . . I need you, Ankarette!”
She was quiet for a while, so still it felt as if she wasn’t breathing. Her hand still stroked his hair. He sobbed quietly into her, burying his face in her gown. She let him grieve, gently patting his back.
“I know about Ratcliffe’s message,” Ankarette said, her voice quiet and distant. “I put it in his pocket last night at the inn. It was hidden among his papers.” She paused, struggling for breath. “Owen, remember how I said that sec
rets always try to get out? Do you remember that?”
“Um-hmm,” he said, hardly able to speak through his tears. He looked up at her face, and the loving smile he saw there made his heart hurt even more.
“There’s one more . . . in my heart, trying to get out. I think it’s been . . . keeping me from dying. But I need . . . to let it out now.” She sighed, her eyes closing as if she were falling asleep. Or dying. “I was trained . . . to be a poisoner . . . from a midwife. That’s common, actually.” Her hand strokes were getting slower. “So many of the herbs . . . and medicines that can save . . . can also kill. One of my favorites . . . is nightshade. It’s used . . . in childbirth . . . when the mother has too much pain.” Her voice trailed off again.
“Ankarette?” Owen pleaded, shaking her gently.
Her eyes fluttered open. “Nightshade . . . has many purposes. I used it on Ratcliffe . . . last night. He told me his secrets. He told me about the letter. But when it . . . when it wears off . . . you can’t remember what you did . . . what you said. That’s how I tricked Ratcliffe into forgetting. That’s how I learned what was in the book. But that’s not my secret.” Her voice thickened with pain. “When you were stillborn, I was . . . the midwife . . . who helped your mother. For you. You’ve always been precious to me, Owen. I had to give you . . . some of my magic . . . for you to live. I learned . . . when you give of the magic . . . it grows stronger. Remember that. I’ve tried to help you the best . . . I could. Now you . . . now you must use your magic . . . to help others. Remember.”
Her hand slipped down. She had no strength left.
“Ankarette!” Owen moaned, taking her hand and squeezing it.
Her eyelashes fluttered. She stared at him, blinking dreamily. The sad smile was gone. Her expression was full of peace.
“I love you,” he whispered, kissing her cheek.
“I . . . love you, my little prince,” she whispered back thickly. Then her eyes shut and her last breath sighed out.
