The Queen's Poisoner (Kingfountain, #1)(4)

Tatton Hall was his world, and he knew the innermost corners of it from basement to garret. There were some parts of the manor he was afraid of—the wine cellar was dark and had a funny smell—but there were secret places that only he knew, places where he could hide himself away and never be found. The gardens were vast and he had spent countless days enjoying the simple pleasures of running in the grass or resting on beds of leaves to watch the ants and ticklebugs crawl in the earth. He loved how the ticklebugs would coil themselves up into little pebbles that he could roll around on his palm. And then, when he held still, their little legs would start squirming again until they were upright and he’d let them crawl around his hand in circles.

Owen loved nature and the outdoors, but he loved the indoors even more. Books fascinated him, and the effect that letters had on his eyes was much like the thrill of the ticklebugs on his skin. When he read, it was as if he were transported to some dreamland where he could not hear whispers or shouting. He read anything and everything he could get his little hands on, and he remembered it all. His hunger for books was never satisfied, and his favorites were stories about the exploits of the Fountain-blessed.

Tatton Hall disappeared with the sound of clopping hooves. His entire childhood was being banished. Horwath rode stiffly in his saddle, saying nothing to the child as they rode together, except for an occasional question about whether he was hungry or thirsty or needed to use the privy when they stopped to rest the horses.

The duke was not a giant of a man, and he was older than Owen’s father. Beneath his black velvet cap, his hair was thick and gray, cut short around the nape of his neck, and he had a thick goatee to match. His face carried a stern, sour expression that told Owen he did not enjoy escorting a boy of eight summers across the kingdom, and wanted the task done as quickly and painlessly as possible. The duke stayed almost as silent as Owen, while the knights of his household joked amongst themselves and were far more interesting companions to observe.

All the nobles of the realm had badges and mottos. Owen was particularly proud of his own family’s, having seen it all his life. The badge of House Kiskaddon was called the Aurum, and it was a slash of bright blue decorated with three golden bucks’ heads with sharp, thornlike antlers. Horwath’s livery was red with a golden lion with an arrow through its open mouth. Owen did not like the look of it, for he could not stop thinking of the lion’s pain. The duke had the badge on his tunic, and his standard-bearer, who rode on a horse immediately behind them, carried a flag bearing the image, announcing to everyone who they were and to stay away. Since some of the knights had bows as well as swords, Owen kept his mouth shut for more than one reason.

The boy lost track of time as they rode. Several days had passed. Each morning the duke would jostle him awake at dawn, frown at him, and lead him back to the horse. Owen said nothing. The duke said nothing. It was like that all the way to Kingfountain.

When Owen was three years old, he had come to the royal city of Ceredigion with his family. Enough time had passed that he only had vague snatches of the memory. But as they approached the city from the main road, those little memories began to fuse together and it looked vaguely familiar.

What was striking about Kingfountain was that it had been built around a vast river just at the point where the ground sharply gave way to a raging waterfall. No matter how swollen or low the river was, the waterfall never stopped. There was a large island in the middle of the river where a sanctuary had been constructed—Our Lady of Kingfountain. Huge boulders and rocks emerged from the falls, some with spindly trees somehow clinging to them in spite of the surge of foaming water.

Owen knew the building bore that name because of legends from the past, but none of his reading had been able to explain it to him in as much detail as he wanted. The texts he had tried reading to learn more were full of knights, battles, and disparate kingdoms that no longer existed, but they were written in a style too long and boring to hold his interest. The sanctuary had two sturdy towers and a series of arches that loomed over the back shell of the building. The waterways under the arches always flowed, making the sanctuary a replica of the waterfall itself. On one bank of the river lay the city proper, with its wedge-shaped roofs and smoking chimneys. The noise of bleating goats, lowing oxen, and trundling carts and wagons was barely discernible through the constant roar of the waterfall. On the other bank of the river, on the high ground, stood the palace, and it made Tatton Hall seem like a toy in comparison.

A stone bridge connected the palace to the island and several wooden bridges connected the island to the main shore and the rest of the city. It was a breathtaking sight, and Owen kept leaning in the saddle to get a better view. The rushing of the waterfall could be heard from miles away, the steady churn of waves that sounded like a constant storm.

The palace was built on a green hill full of lush woods and had many tiers and layers, with sharp-edged walls and easily a dozen turrets flying the royal banners. Owen could see gardens and trees rising above portions of the old stone walls, and to his inexperienced eye, it looked as if the castle had stood for thousands of years. Still, the facade was free of ivy or vines, and had been meticulously kept.

So this would be his new home. The king had summoned Owen to live in the palace as his ward. Owen’s older brother Jorganon had also lived at Kingfountain for a time. And now he was dead. Was that why Maman and Papan had wept so much when Owen left? The palace did not feel like a home. It felt like a monument, a relic of the ages, a dangerous place.