The Queen's Poisoner (Kingfountain, #1)(92)

“I know about Ratcliffe’s message,” Ankarette said, her voice quiet and distant. “I put it in his pocket last night at the inn. It was hidden among his papers.” She paused, struggling for breath. “Owen, remember how I said that secrets always try to get out? Do you remember that?”

“Um-hmm,” he said, hardly able to speak through his tears. He looked up at her face, and the loving smile he saw there made his heart hurt even more.

“There’s one more . . . in my heart, trying to get out. I think it’s been . . . keeping me from dying. But I need . . . to let it out now.” She sighed, her eyes closing as if she were falling asleep. Or dying. “I was trained . . . to be a poisoner . . . from a midwife. That’s common, actually.” Her hand strokes were getting slower. “So many of the herbs . . . and medicines that can save . . . can also kill. One of my favorites . . . is nightshade. It’s used . . . in childbirth . . . when the mother has too much pain.” Her voice trailed off again.

“Ankarette?” Owen pleaded, shaking her gently.

Her eyes fluttered open. “Nightshade . . . has many purposes. I used it on Ratcliffe . . . last night. He told me his secrets. He told me about the letter. But when it . . . when it wears off . . . you can’t remember what you did . . . what you said. That’s how I tricked Ratcliffe into forgetting. That’s how I learned what was in the book. But that’s not my secret.” Her voice thickened with pain. “When you were stillborn, I was . . . the midwife . . . who helped your mother. For you. You’ve always been precious to me, Owen. I had to give you . . . some of my magic . . . for you to live. I learned . . . when you give of the magic . . . it grows stronger. Remember that. I’ve tried to help you the best . . . I could. Now you . . . now you must use your magic . . . to help others. Remember.”

Her hand slipped down. She had no strength left.

“Ankarette!” Owen moaned, taking her hand and squeezing it.

Her eyelashes fluttered. She stared at him, blinking dreamily. The sad smile was gone. Her expression was full of peace.

“I love you,” he whispered, kissing her cheek.

“I . . . love you, my little prince,” she whispered back thickly. Then her eyes shut and her last breath sighed out.




“Where is that little brat?” Mancini muttered from the doorway.

When Owen heard the voice, his little heart shriveled like a prune. “Down here,” he called, pulling himself from under the bed. He rose disheveled, but the tears were all gone now.

“You’ve been crying?” Mancini said aghast. “After all the king has given you, you’ve been crying?”

“Ankarette is dead.”

Mancini frowned. “It’s a miracle she was not dead hours ago. She was knifed several times after she snuck into Ratcliffe’s room at the inn. To think, it was all part of her plan.”

Owen glared at him. “She’s under the bed, Mancini. I need your help. I can’t lift her on my own. She needs to go back to the Fountain. We need to get her into a boat.”

Mancini sighed. “Lad, that’s just out of the question. I just became the temporary head of the Espion. I’m not about to lose it on some risky gamble with a corpse!”

“No!” Owen said. “She needs to go back to the Fountain. A boat, Mancini. You need to arrange for a boat. She needs to go back to the Fountain!”

Mancini stared at Owen as if he were being childish. “I am not superstitious, boy. All this talk of gurgling waters and dreams is a bunch of nonsense. We both know that. Ankarette Tryneowy was the most cunning woman living, as far as I’m concerned. But she’s dead now, and I wash my hands of her.”

Owen was furious. He wanted to command Mancini to obey him, but he knew that people forced against their will were not persuaded. He needed to outthink Mancini, to maneuver his actions as if this were a game of Wizr. He felt a little trickle rippling through him. An idea came.

“If you will do this for me, I will give you a stipend from my duchy independent of the king,” Owen said flatly, folding his arms.

The fat man stared at him in surprise. “A stipend, you say? How much would this stipend entail, to be precise?”

A number came to Owen’s mind. “Fifty florins a year. In Genevese coins.”

Again Mancini looked startled. “My young man, you have yourself a bargain. I like how you think. You and I are going to be great friends from now on.”





It was a tender farewell between the Kiskaddon brat and his family. Even I found myself dabbing an eye with a kerchief. The Assizes were a dreadful affair, with evidence brought, witnesses testifying, and verdicts rendered. There was a collective gasp of fearful breath when Duke Horwath read the guilty verdict against Lord and Lady Kiskaddon, followed by much weeping and anguish. They were beloved in Westmarch. But they gambled that King Severn would fail when they supported the pretender before Ambion Hill. When you gamble, you often lose. Now imagine, if you will, how the despair turned to joy when the king pronounced the punishment. Lord and Lady Kiskaddon and their sons and daughters would be banished from Ceredigion instead of meeting their fate at a river like Dickon Ratcliffe. And then the king proclaimed that their youngest son, the little brat, would inherit the duchy at eight years old. The tears of anguish turned to tears of rejoicing. Not a dry eye when the lad hugged his parents and kissed them in farewell. Except for Horwath—that man is made of stone! But what was even more pleasurable was knowing the outcome before the masses did. This is the way of politics and power. This is what I was born for!