The Queen's Poisoner (Kingfountain, #1)(23)

“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!