The Queen's Poisoner (Kingfountain, #1)(54)

“Look at it, Owen!” Evie said, when her grandfather showed her the crumpled banner. She stared at it in wonder before turning to look at him. “You saw it! You saw it in your dream!”

Horwath’s eyes were narrowed at him, his face a mask devoid of emotions. “Everyone is talking,” he said in his quiet way. “They are saying young Kiskaddon may be Fountain-blessed.”

“Of course he is, Grandpapa,” Evie answered with a glint in her eye. “I’ve always known that.” She grabbed and clung to Owen’s arm possessively.

There was a peculiar feeling in Owen’s stomach. A shy smile crossed his face, but he said nothing.

Later, as he knelt in the kitchen arranging tiles, he found it difficult to concentrate because of all the visitors coming in and out, wanting to see him. There were whispers and comments, and even though he was trying not to listen, he could pick out some of the words. Liona took the time to explain what he was doing to the visitors.

“Yes, he’s in the kitchen every day playing with those tiles. My husband Drew found them for him. He stacks them up and then knocks them down. No, he makes different patterns. Sometimes straight rows. Sometimes circles. It’s the oddest thing you’ve seen, I’ll warrant. Bless me if he doesn’t come here every day. He’s a clever lad. He’s always been shy and clever.”

“Ignore them.” Evie was lying on her stomach with her chin propped on her wrist. “I’ve always believed you were Fountain-blessed, Owen. Do you know how rare that is? There was a Fountain-blessed boy in North Cumbria once who could talk to wolves.”

He felt a prickle of apprehension that made him knock over one of the tiles and collapse the tower he was building. He frowned with anger and started building it again. All the attention made him feel good, but at the same time, he was lying to his best friend. He knew he wasn’t Fountain-blessed. This was Ankarette’s trick. He didn’t mind tricking the king. Or Ratcliffe. Especially not Dunsdworth. But he did not like the thought of tricking her.

“I wonder how many of our children will be that way,” Evie sighed dreamily. Grabbing a tile, she examined it closely before setting it back down. “It’s not impossible, but sometimes more than one child can have it. But usually just one in a family. One who is special. Your mother had many children, so odds were good that one of you would be. I think it’s that tuft of white hair that marks you. It was a sign from the Fountain.”

The feeling of discomfort wriggling in his stomach was growing worse. He wanted to tell her very badly. It was eating away inside of him.

“It’s almost as rare as surviving a waterfall,” she continued. She was always prattling, even when he didn’t feel like speaking. “About one in a hundred survive. There are always soldiers down at the bottom of the falls to see if anyone makes it. Lord Asilomar and his wife didn’t. They drowned.”

“That’s awful,” Owen said softly, working on the tower again.

“It’s the punishment for being a traitor, Owen. The king didn’t kill their boy. They had one son, who is four. The king sent him to be ward to Lord Lovel in Southport. I wouldn’t want to marry someone younger than me. That would be disagreeable. I’m glad we’re the same age.”

Owen was amazed at how many people continued to come through the kitchen that day. The old gray-haired butler, Berwick, entered several times and complained loudly about the ruckus and how meals were not going to be served on time because of all the talk and nonsense.

“Yud think the lad sprootid wings and tuck a turn in the sky,” he said brusquely. “A heap of bother. A lucky guess. Every’un knew Asilomar was a traitor. He’s from East Stowe!”

“None of us here knew it,” Liona said challengingly. “Being from the East doesn’t make someone a traitor, Berwick. Hold your tongue.”

“Hoold my tongue? You should hoold your tongue! Yuv been blabbing all day to visitors and such. Not an honest piece of work done all day long. It’ll quiet doown. You’ll see.”

“I don’t like Berwick,” Owen said softly.

“I enjoy hearing him talk,” Evie replied. “I love our quaint accent from the North. My father liked to hear me speak it.”

Owen looked up at her. “You can talk like that?”

She grinned. “Forsooth, young lad, ’tis but the only prooper way amongst countrymen.” She winked at him and returned to her normal way of speaking. “It’s for the lesser born, really. My grandpapa is quiet because he was raised in the North and his accent comes out more often. He trained me to speak like the court. I like hearing it, though. It’s musical.”

“Berwick’s always complaining,” Owen mumbled.

“Everyone complains,” she said, waving her hand. “Have you had any other dreams, Owen? About . . . us?”

The hopeful look in her eye made the guilt twist more deeply. He blushed and stared down at the tiles he was arranging. “I don’t control it,” he said limply.

“If you had a dream about me going into the river, you must tell me!” she said eagerly. “You know, some people have to be bound up because they’re so frightened. I wouldn’t want that. If I were condemned to die over the falls, I would want a paddle! Think of how it would feel! We’d go down together, you and I. Maybe we could hold hands from across our canoes? Papa said the people who survive point their toes down and keep as straight as a stick. Most of them die, though. I thought it would be fun to go over the falls with a big rope and have someone pull me up again from the bridge. But Papa said the falls would be too hard to pull against and I’d be dashed to pieces.” She had a dreamy look in her eye as she contemplated her death over the falls.