The Queen's Poisoner (Kingfountain, #1)(91)

The soldiers hauled up Ratcliffe, but his legs no longer seemed to work. His face dripped with so much sweat that he looked like a melting candle.

Duke Horwath, stiff and imperious, stood in front of him. “I arrest you on grounds of high treason, by the name of Dickon, Lord Ratcliffe of Brent.” He grabbed the chain of office around Ratcliffe’s neck and snapped it, then hurled it to the floor like refuse. That done, he smacked Ratcliffe across the face so hard it rocked his head back. He nodded curtly to the soldiers to drag him away, and as they did, Owen heard the man sobbing.

The king’s frown was fierce and determined. He stared after Ratcliffe, his heart closing with another wound.

“Uncle, I am so sorry,” Princess Elyse murmured. “But in truth, I am not surprised. I have had fears for Owen’s life since he came to Kingfountain.” She came and stood behind Owen, resting her hands on his shoulders. “That is why I asked if I could look after him.”

The king nodded at her words. “I should have listened to you, Niece. I should have heeded your counsel. I would have you near me to always give me your advice. To help me steer this ship of state. You are wise beyond your years. I would value your suggestions.”

The princess smiled, pleased. “I would like that, Uncle.” She squeezed Owen’s shoulders. “So may I look after him now?”

The king smiled wanly and then shook his head. “No, Elyse.”

“But why not? What are you going to do with him?” Her voice had an edge of worry.

“Indeed. What will I do with him?” the king muttered calmly. His gray eyes were serious and intense as he looked into Owen’s. “I will make him into a duke. A lord of the realm. He will need to be taught. He will need to be trained. When I was nine, my brother made me the Duke of Glosstyr, and I was sent to the North to be trained by my uncle Warrewik. After the Assizes, I will name Owen the Duke of Westmarch, and he will be sent to the North under the wardship of my faithful friend, who knows the price of loyalty. There is a little granddaughter, I believe, who was recently sent back to Cumbria?”

The duke’s stern mouth broke into a smile. “She is, Your Grace. She was. I think a season or two up in the North would strengthen this little pup. Make a man out of him.”

“Then I give his wardship to you, Stiev. Make a man out of him. Make a lord out of him.” The king stared at Owen with kindness. “For your parents’ treason, I will pardon them. For your sake, Owen. They will never be permitted back to Ceredigion on pain of death. But I will not forbid you from seeing them. My lord duke, when you draw up the attainder, please be sure that Owen is excluded.”

“I will, Your Grace.” The duke was still smiling, and Owen could imagine why.

The king knelt down on the ground and picked up the broken chain and badge that Horwath had thrown down. He rose, staring at the fine workmanship of the badge, the symbol of the rose and star made of gold. Then he looked warily at Mancini.

“For now,” the king said with almost a threat in his voice, and offered the medallion to him.

“Your Grace,” Mancini replied meekly, bowing.




Owen hurried back to his bedchamber, and his heart gave a shiver and a lurch when he found it empty. His heart was boiling inside, ready to burst with relief. He had to tell her.

“Ankarette?” Owen whispered, carefully padding to the other side of the bed. He found a bloodstain on the floor.

His heart was hammering faster and faster. “Ankarette?” he whispered again.

She was gone.

“Owen.”

Her voice was so soft, muffled, he almost didn’t hear it, but it came from under the bed. Owen dropped to his knees and looked and found her curled up under the bedframe, her head resting on her arm.

Afraid, he crawled under the bed beside her. Her face was pale, her eyelids purple and bruised. She looked so weak and tired, as though she lacked the strength to even move.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

“I’m very sick, Owen,” she whispered, her voice so faint that he had to bring his ear near her mouth to hear her. “I’ve been sick for months.”

“But you will get better now,” Owen said, his mouth tightening into a frown.

“No, Owen.” She sighed deeply. Very slowly, she lifted her fingers and grazed his hair. “Tell me . . . what happened.”

He swallowed some tears before they could spill. His throat was thick and tight. He burrowed himself against her. She felt cold. Her hand limply stroked his hair.

“I’m going to be a duke,” he stammered. “Duke Kiskaddon, like my father. The king is giving me Westmarch. But I’m going North first. To be with Evie and trained by her grandfather. I’m . . . I’m not going to see you again, am I?”

“Sshhh,” she soothed. “I’m going to the Deep Fathoms now. Where I can rest. Where I can sleep without pain. Sshhhh, don’t cry.”

He was crying. The tears were hot against his cheeks. “I don’t want you to go,” he moaned. “You need to keep teaching me. I can’t do this without you. I am Fountain-blessed, Ankarette. You were right about me. The king tried using his magic on me and I . . . I turned it back on him. I felt it. So did he. Someone sent Ratcliffe to kill me. I . . . I need you, Ankarette!”

She was quiet for a while, so still it felt as if she wasn’t breathing. Her hand still stroked his hair. He sobbed quietly into her, burying his face in her gown. She let him grieve, gently patting his back.