The Queen's Poisoner (Kingfountain, #1)(68)

Owen took a few more steps, feeling as if all of his bones had become unhinged. He was trembling and fearful. Dunsdworth glanced up, saw him, and his face tightened with pent-up anger. It was nearly enough to make Owen lose his resolve.

“What is it, lad?” the king suddenly asked him, his voice dropping low. He was giving Owen a serious look, as if he were concerned about him. He walked up to him, and Owen hardly noticed his limp. He saw the hand gripping the dagger hilt, loosening it from the scabbard. In his mind, he saw a blizzard of white feathers, set free by Ankarette’s blade. He blinked rapidly, trying to calm himself.

“Are you unwell?” the king asked, pitching his voice softer. He set a hand on the boy’s shoulder, and the sudden weight nearly made his knees buckle. He wanted to flee, to dash away, to find a dark tunnel and curl up and start crying. How could someone so little be asked to do this?

His eyes were watering, which was embarrassing. He wasn’t crying. They were just watering. He looked up at the king’s face, saw the pointed jaw that was so freshly shaved it still gleamed with shiny oil. He had a smell about him too, a smell of leather and metal. Owen nearly fainted.

But he noticed that Evie had come around behind the king, so that she could meet Owen’s eyes. She willed him to speak, her eyes fierce and determined and utterly fearless. It was like she was pouring her courage into his cup through her look.

Just tell him! she seemed to say.

“Do you . . . do you care for . . . for eels?”

Owen didn’t know why those words popped out of his mouth.

The king looked at him in confusion. “Do I care for eels?”

Owen nodded.

“Not really,” the king said. “Do you fancy them?”

“Not really,” Owen said, trying to master himself. “I was in the kitchen this morning. Liona said she was making eels.”

The king snorted. “You don’t have to eat them if you don’t care for them, lad. I thought . . . well, never mind.” He lifted his hand away and frowned with disappointment.

Owen was losing his nerve and his chance. “When she said that about the eels,” he forced himself to continue, “I started to feel . . . strange.” He blinked rapidly.

He had the king’s attention again. “You did? Like another vision?” He seemed eager, almost hungry, when Owen nodded.

“Ratcliffe!” the king barked, gesturing for him to hurry over. Ratcliffe frowned with annoyance and made his way to them. Evie beamed with pride at Owen.

“Go on!” the king implored, his voice low and coaxing, his eyes shining with interest.

“It was like a dream, except I was awake,” Owen said. “I was an eel. And there was a hook in my mouth, like a fisherman’s hook, tugging me out of the water. I was wiggling and trying to get free, but the hook kept pulling. It hurt. And when I came out of the water, it wasn’t a fisherman at all. A rat was holding the pole. A grinning rat.” Owen swallowed, feeling relief that he had gotten it out.

The king stared at him in confusion. “That is a strange thing, Owen. Peculiar.” He glanced at Ratcliffe for clarification.

Ratcliffe shrugged, totally perplexed. “I make no sense of it. The boy doesn’t like eels. Not many do. Did you know the second king of Ceredigion died from eating too many eels?”

The king’s expression hardened. “That was lampreys, you fool.” He turned back to Owen and patted his shoulder. “You don’t have to eat them. Have Liona make you a roast capon or another fish that you prefer.”

Owen nodded, very hungry now, and grabbed a muffin from the table. It had little seeds in it and reminded him of the one he had eaten while riding into the city for the first time.

Evie butted into his shoulder, just slightly, as she stood next to him by the table. She gazed across the assortment of food, carefully decided, and then chose a pear.

“You did it,” she whispered, not looking at him.

He wanted to collapse under the table in relief.

The king’s sharp voice echoed in the hall. “What?”

All eyes turned to him. The queasy-looking man Owen had noticed earlier was standing by the king and Ratcliffe. He looked like he had just said something.

Then, in unison, the king and Ratcliffe turned and looked at Owen.





I’ve learned this above all else. You must bind men to you by benefits, or else make sure of them in some other way. Never reduce them to the alternative of having either to destroy you or perish themselves. I fear that Ratcliffe, in his efforts to secure his master’s throne, may be risking it all the more. There is never anything more tenuous than peace.



—Dominic Mancini, Espion of the Palace Kitchen





CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT


Loyalty





Ankarette had predicted, correctly as it turned out, that the king would immediately assemble his councillors after such a miraculous demonstration of Owen’s gift. So when the men started to gather in the king’s council chambers, Owen and Ankarette were already poised by the spyhole in the secret door, ready to watch and to listen. She held a finger to her lips, warning him to be absolutely still, but her eyes gleamed with the thrill of bearing silent witness to such a meeting. Owen shifted so his legs wouldn’t get too tired as he watched and listened.