The Queen's Poisoner
Page 49
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“You already know,” Elyse said uncomfortably. Her voice was quavering. “What my mother suggested you do. I’m not . . . opposed to it, Uncle.”
He coughed against his fist. Owen could tell by the sound. “It’s not that simple, lass. Things are never that simple. Off with you now. Go.” His voice was coaxing, calm.
Owen heard the door open and shut again. Ratcliffe sounded uptight when he spoke next. “There will be rumors again,” he said.
“I already know that,” the king said flatly. “After her first plan failed, my brother’s widow hoped to wed Princess Elyse to my rival so she could become Queen of Ceredigion and keep the line going. That intrigue cost me the wounds at Ambion Hill. By the Fountain, Elyse could be queen in her own right. She or Dunsdworth if they both weren’t barred. But that boy is too much like his father to ever entrust with the throne.”
“And you won’t name her your heir?” Ratcliffe asked prudently.
“I can’t,” he said softly. “Not after everything that has happened.”
Ratcliffe sighed. Owen’s arms felt like they were going to fall off. Drops of sweat dripped down his chest. But he would not let go. He held himself up by sheer force of will, ordering himself to be as rigid as one of his tiles.
“Well, the lass certainly cares for you. She came running here straightaway. I know she’s your niece, my liege, but there are . . . precedents for it. It would give stability to the realm if you married again.” He chuckled. “As she said, even her mother desires a return to power enough to persuade her daughter to make the match.”
“You’re wheedling me,” Severn snapped. “Stop it. I’ll send Horwath to find me a wife when I’m ready. If I’m ever ready again. A nice foreign-born girl who doesn’t speak our language or understand our customs. That would be my choice. Pity the Occitanian princess is so young. That realm would be a good addition to my power.”
“Well, I’ll leave you to your brooding then,” Ratcliffe said. Owen heard the approaching sound of his boots as he moved to the doorway. He entered the secret corridor and shut the door, securing the latch and slipping the spyhole cover back into place. He marched back down the corridor, and still Owen trembled until he was smothered in blackness.
He waited until there were no more sounds at all. There was also no light. And Owen realized with dread he would have to spend the night in the black tunnel, for it would be nearly impossible to find his way out without a candle.
And he dared not go into the king’s bedroom to retrieve it.
We should not be encumbered by what we cannot control and change as suits the times. A promise given in the past was a necessity of the past. A broken vow is a necessity of the present. There is no such thing as “honor,” or “I give him my word.” Words, as you know, are meaningless, and only fools trust in them.
—Dominic Mancini, Espion of the Palace Kitchen
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Fear
If Owen had experienced fear before coming to Kingfountain, it was nothing compared to wandering the secret tunnels of the palace without a candle. He tried his best to judge the right way, groping with blindness and even crawling on the ground, but his efforts were totally wasted. He was lost, hopelessly so, and the night seemed as if it would go on forever. There were sounds that he understood—the scuttling of rats, the creaking of timbers, and the occasional gusts of wind. But there were also sounds that put him in mind of a person moaning. His imagination supplied the rest—they were the ghosts of the dead princes, the ones whose bodies had never been found.
His courage was utterly spent, his misery complete. Ahead, he thought he saw a translucent shape, a phantom shaped like a man but made entirely of dust motes. The phantom stalked toward him in silence. Owen closed his eyes and buried his face in his hands. He listened for the sound of footfalls. Nothing, not even a whisper of breath. He peeked up again, and it was waiting for him—the shape of a man, all gnats and swirling dust.
Owen groaned with fear and then began to sob. He waited for the being to grab him and carry him away into the void. Terror made him huddle in a ball on the floor and sob in choking heaves that grew louder and louder. He could not help himself. Anything was better than staying lost in the tunnels until morning. He wept bitterly, wishing his parents had never given birth to him.
He did not know how long he lay crumpled on the floor, crying. He waited with anguish and suspense for the worst to happen. And then his eyelids detected light. Ratcliffe! He almost welcomed capture at this point. He lifted his head, still trying to breathe through his tears, gulping, and then he saw Ankarette coming toward him with a candle.
He coughed against his fist. Owen could tell by the sound. “It’s not that simple, lass. Things are never that simple. Off with you now. Go.” His voice was coaxing, calm.
Owen heard the door open and shut again. Ratcliffe sounded uptight when he spoke next. “There will be rumors again,” he said.
“I already know that,” the king said flatly. “After her first plan failed, my brother’s widow hoped to wed Princess Elyse to my rival so she could become Queen of Ceredigion and keep the line going. That intrigue cost me the wounds at Ambion Hill. By the Fountain, Elyse could be queen in her own right. She or Dunsdworth if they both weren’t barred. But that boy is too much like his father to ever entrust with the throne.”
“And you won’t name her your heir?” Ratcliffe asked prudently.
“I can’t,” he said softly. “Not after everything that has happened.”
Ratcliffe sighed. Owen’s arms felt like they were going to fall off. Drops of sweat dripped down his chest. But he would not let go. He held himself up by sheer force of will, ordering himself to be as rigid as one of his tiles.
“Well, the lass certainly cares for you. She came running here straightaway. I know she’s your niece, my liege, but there are . . . precedents for it. It would give stability to the realm if you married again.” He chuckled. “As she said, even her mother desires a return to power enough to persuade her daughter to make the match.”
“You’re wheedling me,” Severn snapped. “Stop it. I’ll send Horwath to find me a wife when I’m ready. If I’m ever ready again. A nice foreign-born girl who doesn’t speak our language or understand our customs. That would be my choice. Pity the Occitanian princess is so young. That realm would be a good addition to my power.”
“Well, I’ll leave you to your brooding then,” Ratcliffe said. Owen heard the approaching sound of his boots as he moved to the doorway. He entered the secret corridor and shut the door, securing the latch and slipping the spyhole cover back into place. He marched back down the corridor, and still Owen trembled until he was smothered in blackness.
He waited until there were no more sounds at all. There was also no light. And Owen realized with dread he would have to spend the night in the black tunnel, for it would be nearly impossible to find his way out without a candle.
And he dared not go into the king’s bedroom to retrieve it.
We should not be encumbered by what we cannot control and change as suits the times. A promise given in the past was a necessity of the past. A broken vow is a necessity of the present. There is no such thing as “honor,” or “I give him my word.” Words, as you know, are meaningless, and only fools trust in them.
—Dominic Mancini, Espion of the Palace Kitchen
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Fear
If Owen had experienced fear before coming to Kingfountain, it was nothing compared to wandering the secret tunnels of the palace without a candle. He tried his best to judge the right way, groping with blindness and even crawling on the ground, but his efforts were totally wasted. He was lost, hopelessly so, and the night seemed as if it would go on forever. There were sounds that he understood—the scuttling of rats, the creaking of timbers, and the occasional gusts of wind. But there were also sounds that put him in mind of a person moaning. His imagination supplied the rest—they were the ghosts of the dead princes, the ones whose bodies had never been found.
His courage was utterly spent, his misery complete. Ahead, he thought he saw a translucent shape, a phantom shaped like a man but made entirely of dust motes. The phantom stalked toward him in silence. Owen closed his eyes and buried his face in his hands. He listened for the sound of footfalls. Nothing, not even a whisper of breath. He peeked up again, and it was waiting for him—the shape of a man, all gnats and swirling dust.
Owen groaned with fear and then began to sob. He waited for the being to grab him and carry him away into the void. Terror made him huddle in a ball on the floor and sob in choking heaves that grew louder and louder. He could not help himself. Anything was better than staying lost in the tunnels until morning. He wept bitterly, wishing his parents had never given birth to him.
He did not know how long he lay crumpled on the floor, crying. He waited with anguish and suspense for the worst to happen. And then his eyelids detected light. Ratcliffe! He almost welcomed capture at this point. He lifted his head, still trying to breathe through his tears, gulping, and then he saw Ankarette coming toward him with a candle.
