The Queen's Poisoner
Page 101
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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.
“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.
