Chapter
One
THE KING’S THREAT
“Wh-who are you?” asked King Iago of Atabyrion, his voice quavering with fear.
Ankarette had slipped from behind the curtains, exposing herself to the light from the hearth and the flame of the candle trembling in the king’s hand. She held his gaze, knowing the door to his private chamber was still unlocked. His knights were in the corridor beyond. One cry for help would summon them.
“You know who I am, my lord,” she answered softly. The dull ache in her abdomen presaged her growing need for a sip from the tincture that was prolonging her life. She was the poisoner of King Eredur of Kingfountain. And she had many enemies.
“You’re Eredur’s poisoner?” Iago said. Slowly, he set the candle down on the table. His eyes darted involuntarily to the sword and scabbard belt slung over a nearby chair. She’d waited until he’d disarmed himself before revealing her presence.
Although it was a royal dwelling, Rune Castle was hardly a castle at all, for the kingdom of Atabyrion was not wealthy. Rather, it was a single square tower that had been built in the Atabyrion hinterlands, then surrounded by an elegant manor house with chimneys and a single weathercock. The tower was defensible, with a few arrow slits in the walls and a thick balustrade at the top. But the royal residence wasn’t there—it was in the corner room with the gabled window overlooking the gardens and twin chimneys. Infiltrating it hadn’t been a challenge at all. At least, not for someone with Ankarette’s skills.
“I’m grateful for the chance to meet you, my lord,” she said.
He lunged for his weapon, and in a moment, the naked blade was hoisted from the scabbard. His arm stretched out, the tip of the blade extended toward her. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t move a muscle.
She tilted her head slightly. “Do you feel better holding a sword? Do you think that will save you?”
“I know your reputation, Poisoner,” he said, lips contorting. “And yes, I feel better holding it, thank you.”
The king’s accent was strong, as was common with his countrymen. Ankarette had been raised in North Cumbria, which had often exchanged hands between the Argentine kings and Iago’s Atabyrion ancestors. The poisoner school had removed all trace of her own accent, although she could feign the brogues of many kingdoms when she desired it. For now, she did not.
“I come with a message from my king,” she said. “Will you hear it?”
“I could have you dragged from this castle and drawn and quartered, my dear,” he said, his tone full of bravado. “You chose a poor time to reveal yourself.”
Sweat had beaded on his brow and began to drip. Though his eyebrows furrowed with concentration, his arm started to shake, as if the weight of the sword were getting heavier by the moment.
“I lured you away from Edonburick easily enough,” Ankarette said. “You think I don’t know how many knights you brought? Or whether they are too sick at the moment to stand up? Or where your son is sleeping tonight?”
She didn’t like her threats to involve children. She’d been raised by a midwife and a spy and had learned the trades of both her parents. She had killed for her king. But she refused to kill children for any reason. Still, Iago of Atabyrion didn’t know that.
He blanched. “Don’t. . . harm my child.”
“I’m here to deliver a message, Iago. It’s up to you whether our conversation ends poorly or not. Put the blade down before you
drop it.”
His arm was shaking badly now. And as his eyebrows lifted in sudden understanding, he set the sword on the table and began massaging his palm.
“Now you’re spreading the poison to your other hand,” she said. “That won’t do.”
“You. . . you came to deliver a message or to kill me?” he gasped. Fear was a powerful tool. She’d applied the poisoned oil to the hilt of the sword after he’d gone to use the privy in the corner of the room, which had been a rather noisy affair. She’d had plenty of time to figure out a hundred ways to kill him if she’d wanted to.
“I could have killed you and stuffed your body in the privy hole if that had been my aim, my lord. No, I come with a warning. This time.”
“The itch is insufferable!” Iago said, grabbing a rag from the table and using that to try to stanch the itching feeling, which must have been flaming up his entire arm. And it would now inflict his other hand too. Anywhere he touched, actually.
“But not fatal, fortunately for you,” she responded. “Your incursion into North Cumbria. Withdraw immediately. That is my message. And your only warning.”
“Those lands belonged to my grandfather,” Iago spat, his mouth twisting with offense.
“Aye, and he’s dead now. Your son is too young to rule, and your nobles are too fractious to trust. You’ve heeded the counsel of the treacherous king of Occitania who cares nothing for you. Or for the son who bears your name, as you bear your own father’s. Instead of making an enemy of Kingfountain, you should consider making an alliance. King Lewis is not your friend.”
“Are you saying you’re here to negotiate a truce, lass?” He looked defiant but hopeful. Atabyrions were stubborn and proud but keen on intrigue. All these things she’d learned from Pisan and had found them to be true from her own experience.
Ankarette shook her head. “I’m no royal herald, my lord. Just a poisoner. Let your itching hands remind you of the cost of your greed. The king needs the duke of the North for higher duties than fending you off. Withdraw. Bide your time. Then consider alternatives to arrows and swords to grow your power and your son’s future.” She narrowed her gaze at him. “If I come to Atabyrion again, it will be to kill you, and you won’t even know I was here. Good night.”
He was still scrubbing at his red-streaked palm. Welts were already forming on his hands. This particular poison was made from the oil of a rare weed added to a tincture that accelerated its effects. It would irritate the king for at least a week, annoying and incapacitating him from fighting. There were other concoctions she could have chosen, but she’d determined this one would get his attention the most. The memory of his itching hands would linger.
“Are my knights truly incapacitated? How were you planning to leave?” he asked challengingly. “Or were you hoping to get a safe-conduct from me?”
“I don’t leave things to chance, my lord. I had a way out prepared long ago. Hopefully, we will never need to meet again.”
She returned to the rustling curtains. The window was still open.
“Save me from this infernal itching!” he yelled.
She didn’t think it prudent to respond. Some people could not endure discomfort. It made them irrational. And irrational men could be dangerous.
She grabbed the rope dangling outside the window. Clenching it with her hand, she leaped into the darkness outside. The rope was rigged to a block and tackle attached to a sack of grain brought by one of Eredur’s Espion, who had helped her set it up. As her weight pulled down, the grain countered it, which slowed her fall. As soon as she reached the bottom, a cloaked man approached with two horses, saddled and ready to flee to a boat waiting off the coast. She didn’t trust Iago not to try to hunt her down, so she’d arranged for a hasty escape.
As soon as her feet touched the ground, she let go of the rope, and the sack of grain came plummeting down, rattling the block and tackle. The sack ruptured when it collided with the ground, spilling wheat seeds everywhere.
“Shall we, my lady?” the Espion asked, handing the reins to her.
Ankarette quickly mounted, and the two rode off through the gardens and into the trees. She’d walked the grounds herself for a few days, both day and night, so that she’d be able to find her way in the dark. Things always appeared different at night. Her gut clenched again, but
she didn’t have time to stop for a sip.
The poison Lord Hux had given her two years ago would kill her eventually. It was a delayed death. She’d sought the source, of course, but to no avail. No one knew about it at the school, nor anywhere else. Hux had given her a tincture to delay the inevitable. And, on occasion, he arranged for fresh supplies to appear for her use. It wasn’t a kindness. The king Ankarette served had taken the throne from his mad uncle. His aunt, Queen Morvared, sister to the King of Occitania, had then attempted to grab power for herself. She was now a prisoner in his tower, and Lord Hux had made it very clear that if anything happened to the queen, then Ankarette would die as well. The supply of antidote would stop, and the poison inside her would reach its climax in days or weeks.
Lord Hux worked for the King of Occitania. He was the best poisoner in all the kingdoms, but Ankarette was coming into her own. She’d found that she could still achieve the king’s ends without murdering all his rivals. And they had a deal. For every life she had to take in his service, she would use her midwifery skills to save someone.
“You think they will chase us, my lady?” the Espion asked gruffly.
“I don’t. But discretion is still the better part of valor.”
After riding for nearly a league, they arrived at the inlet where the Espion ship was waiting to take them back to Kingfountain. Since they hadn’t been pursued, they’d be able to bring the horses too.
A man with a hooded lantern produced a few bursts of light to help guide them. Ankarette and her escort slowed to a trot as they approached the crashing surf. The cliff walls were being pummeled by the waves, but she saw the ship at anchor in the moonlight. A crew of sailors were on shore with a rowboat to carry them back to the main ship and bring the animals too.
Ankarette dismounted swiftly, anxious to be underway. The cloaked man with the lantern had a familiar gait. Her hand reached for one of her daggers and drew it.
“Och, lass, I forgot you had the eyes of a falcon,” he said, holding up the lantern with one hand. He tugged his cowl down and then lifted his palm to show he was unarmed.
It was Sir Thomas. Sir Thomas Mortimer.
The man she’d loved and lost.
Chapter
Two
WOUNDS OF THE HEART
Ankarette wasn’t often surprised. She and Sir Thomas boarded the rowboat without taking the horses. He’d told her King Eredur wanted her to return in all haste. After a brief slog through choppy waters, they were hoisted up and were soon on their way back to Kingfountain. They’d be there before dawn if they timed the tides right. The skiff was sleeker and faster than the galley vessel she’d left on days before.
Sir Thomas and the crew, and the Espion who’d accompanied Ankarette on her mission, were given some food to ease their hunger, and she hunkered down on a bench to eat, enjoying the wind on her face. After she ate a few hasty bites, her stomach panged again with discomfort, so she surreptitiously withdrew the vial of tincture that staved the pain for a few days. She took a quick, measured sip of the bitter drink.
Sir Thomas sidled up next to her on the bench, so close that the sway of the waves made them bump shoulders. He offered her a steaming mug.
“Maybe this will chase away the ichor’s nasty flavor,” he said.
She arched an eyebrow at him and then accepted the cup. She smelled it first, inhaling the fragrance of lemon, herbs, and honey. A poisoner could never be too cautious.
“Tea?” she asked.
He chuckled ruefully. “Don’t you trust me, Ankarette?”
Sir Thomas was part of her history. Fate had entwined them together. He’d served Eredur’s uncle, Duke Warrewik, as his trusted man, and in that capacity, he’d recruited Ankarette into the duke’s service, first as a companion to the man’s daughters, Isybelle and Nanette. Then the duke had sent Ankarette to Pisan, at great expense, to study at the poisoner school. Having a poisoner was a near necessity in these turbulent times. After the mad king’s reign ended, and his wife, Morvared, tried to seize power, Warrewik had cast his allegiance with her, forcing his daughter Nanette to marry the mad king’s son.
Thomas had remained loyal to the crown. Ankarette too. They’d been loyal to each other too, friends and confidants, and their feelings had deepened to love. But when Sir Thomas had been given his dream of marrying Lord Horwath’s daughter, his heir, which would someday grant him the title of Duke of North Cumbria. . . well, he’d seized the opportunity. Some nights, when she was feeling especially sorry for herself, Ankarette remembered their last kiss.
She’d let her thoughts wander, his question dangling, unanswered. “I’m surprised is all,” she confessed. “I thought you were in the North with Lord Horwath’s army?”
“Aye. And I was. I’m here on Espion business, Ankarette. I’m sick of that life, truly. But my father-in-law dispatched me to court with news on the Atabyrion conflict. When I got there, the king asked for a special favor. He sent me to get you.”
His voice still held the subtle accent of a man from the North. She adored hearing it. But those feelings had to be quelled. He was married to Horwath’s proud and vain daughter. There could be nothing between them now.
Ankarette lifted the mug to her lips and took a small sip. The honey did as Sir Thomas had promised, soothing the bad flavor still in her mouth. She experimented with it before swallowing, breathing in through her nose again to judge whether anything toxic might be in the brew. It was just tea. She’d become more distrustful in this life of hers. That couldn’t be helped. She swallowed.
“I was already on his
errand,” she said with confusion. “Why interrupt it? I accomplished the mission, but he didn’t know that.”
“This is more important than threatening the King of Atabyrion. Which, I’m not surprised to hear, you succeeded at. That means I can go back to Dundrennan.”
Ankarette shrugged. “I believe he took the threat to heart. He also didn’t chase me.”
“He would be foolish to play in one of King Lewis’s intrigues. And I’ve never doubted your skills of persuasion, Ankarette. Only a fool would.”
She sipped more tea, calming her heart from the effects of his praise. The last thing she wanted to do was to flush in front of him.
“So what’s the matter? Why was this so urgent?” she pressed.
“The king’s brothers are at each other’s throats.”
Ankarette sighed. “What is it this time? Is there another title Dunsdworth wants forfeited?”
“Eredur wouldn’t have sent for you if that were the case. I’ll admit I’ve been too preoccupied with this business in the North to follow the latest tantrums amongst the Argentine siblings, but this particular snit is about Warrewik’s daughters.”
“Why would they be the cause of so much ire?” Ankarette asked.
“Severn wants to wants to marry Nanette. ...
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