The Poisoner's Enemy (Kingfountain, #0.4)

by Jeff Wheeler

“Let me be frank, child. I am asking that you sacrifice part of your life in your service to the hollow crown. You will need to live beyond reproach yourself, or many ill-intentioned men will seek your favor. You will care for the children of my heirs. To be a midwife and companion in a noble household is a position of incomparable trust and confidence. My trust and confidence in you must be absolute. What say you, Ankarette Tryneowy? Do you recognize the honor you have been chosen for?” She had listened to his words and felt a niggling of doubt in her mind. Was he asking her to serve his interests or the king’s? Was it his intention to marry Isybelle to Eredur? Something was going on that she didn’t understand. She felt completely out of her depth, struggling to break to the surface of a dark pool. “It is a great honor, my lord,” Ankarette said, trying not to stammer. “Am I to understand that I shall serve you as well as the king? King Eredur?” “Yes, yes, of course,” the duke said, giving her a patient smile. There was something in his eyes, though . . . A smug look. “Eredur wears the hollow crown. He is the rightful king.

It was while I was living in the duke’s household that I began to hone my own intuition. I began to see the difference between what people said and what they meant. At the time, I didn’t really understand what those stirring thoughts really meant. I came to realize that later.

“People talk, Dunne. It doesn’t make it true.”

There is no pain as awful as that of suspense. It was a lesson from one of the masters of the school. He had once said that a victim could die believing they’d been poisoned even if they’d been given nothing but an innocuous powder. The belief that it was fatal could make it so. A person’s mind was a powerful tool that could be used against them.

He had gotten what he had wanted from her. The promise of her lands and wealth and a possible heir. Now his pleasantries and flirtation had largely faded away.

I didn’t think it was my place to encourage you to reward him. I feared you would take that suggestion amiss or question my motives. Maybe the king . . . persuaded him to change sides. It was reckless on Sir Thomas’s part, but I do think he would have been vulnerable to temptation. And the king had everything to gain by it.”

“I’ve never seen you cry,” he said softly. “Not even after I took you from your home. You’ve been worried about her, I can see. I don’t doubt it.” But he didn’t understand everything. He didn’t know how she felt about him. “Thank you,” she managed, mangling the words. Her nose was starting to run, which mortified her. Unable to bear it, she clutched the front of his tunic and pulled herself against him, resting her forehead on his chest to hide her face, her feelings. He stood there awkwardly a moment, then patted her back soothingly. “It’s all right, lass. It’ll be all right. Go to Westmarch and see your mother. Then come to Kingfountain. You’ll be needed there.” “I will, Sir Thomas,” she said, dabbing her nose on the edge of her cloak. She had mastered herself at last. “I’m sorry.” He shook his head in sympathy. “You’ve carried a heavy burden these last months. It will be over soon.”

Yes, and her outward aplomb makes it difficult to see the evidence of that strain. Its a mark of her trust in him that she allowed him to see it.

But as we say in Occitania, feeding the wolf is dangerous. Not feeding the wolf, more so. Lest it consider you the next meal.”

years old. But that small, sweet-sounding voice could not disguise the force of will behind it. “My wife is in a delicate—” “Kneel,” Morvared cut in ruthlessly. Ankarette heard the order and then she waited. And waited. The room was silent, stiflingly so. She heard Dunsdworth’s seething breath. Heard Isybelle’s groans of pain. Morvared said nothing, and the moment stretched longer and longer. Pitilessly long. The old queen was having her revenge. She would not be denied even a crumb of it. Ankarette began to count in her mind. This was not the humble bow as a sign of respect. This was a measure of forced humiliation, a payment owed and due. She could not see what was happening in the room, but the impact of it was palpable. She heard Isybelle start to weep softly. Not in a hundred lifetimes could she imagine Queen Elyse doing this to someone.

After hugging her father, she walked up to her teenage uncle, Severn, and hugged him as well. Her kindness touched him, melting past the seething anger. He too bent down and hugged her, patting her head tenderly. “Keep Papa safe,” little Elyse told him. “Loyalty binds me,” he said.

Horwath is staunch. He’ll fight to the end.” “I’m counting on that,” Eredur said. “I’ve always respected that man. He does what he says he’ll do. And he was loyal to my father from the beginning.”