The Queen's Poisoner

Owen smiled eagerly and nodded. Yes, he would like that. He would like that very much.

“Will you show her how you left the castle, Owen? We were all so surprised you were clever enough to figure it out. But I knew you were a smart lad from the start.”

Owen nodded again, anxious to reveal the secret door to Princess Elyse. Perhaps it would be their secret now. His heart was giddy as he finally reached out and took the king’s hand. With one touch, it was if he were transported onto a boat, floating away on calm waters. It was the first time he had felt safe since leaving Tatton Hall. Together, Owen and the king walked away from the queen and the bubbling fountain. The boy felt light-headed with happiness as he clung to the king’s hand, feeling its strong grip, the warmth of the leather.

Owen turned back to the queen. She was crying. Why? He waved back at her, nodding to tell her all was well. Then he looked down at the black and white tiles on the floor. He only stepped on the white ones. The king only stepped on the black ones. It was as if they were Wizr pieces, he thought, and the notion made him giggle.

“What amuses you, Owen?” the king asked kindly. His voice inspired confidence.

“The squares,” the boy said, pointing with his other hand. “The white and the black. Like a Wizr board.” It did not dawn on him that this was the first time he had addressed the king. He felt so comfortable with him now, it seemed as if they had always been the best of friends.

“You play Wizr?” the king asked with a surprised chuckle.

“My father taught me.”

“I also play Wizr,” the king said as they walked. “The game came from the eastern kingdoms. Did you know that?” They approached the huge doors of the sanctuary.

“It came from Chandigarl.”

“I knew you were a clever lad. Would you like a Wizr board, Owen? I can have one carved for you.”

He stared up at the king’s thoughtful face in rapture. “Would you?” he pleaded. “I’ve never had my own board!”

“Then you shall have one,” the king promised. “If you stay in the castle. You must stay in the castle, Owen.”

The boy nodded. It would be worth it if he got his own Wizr board. They left the sanctuary and walked toward the outer gates. Owen saw the reflecting pool and wondered where the fat man was. Mancini. He would have liked to have shared the muffin and watched him throw crumbs to the pigeons again.

A throb of fear nudged his heart. Even though the sun was beating down on them, he felt . . . cold. He adjusted his grip on the king’s hand, but the leather did not feel as soft anymore. It was almost as if the king were clenching his hand. It was almost uncomfortable. The king’s limp grew more pronounced as they walked. Owen heard a stifled gasp of pain and looked up to see the king glaring at the gates, his teeth clenched as if he were concentrating very hard.

The murmuring sound of the fountains began to recede. It felt as if he had been caught playing in the fountains and was about to get in trouble for doing so. A guilty feeling welled up inside his stomach. Something was wrong.

They reached the gate and the sanctuary men parted, allowing them room to pass. Owen looked up at the tall stone arch, then glanced back at the sanctuary. Ratcliffe was just behind them, scowling at him with raw anger and humiliation that made him even more uneasy.

The sexton stood by the gate. “Do you leave of your own free will?” he asked Owen sternly.

The boy nodded, feeling frightened by the man’s stern look. The bad feelings ebbed as the king shifted his grip on his hand. Nothing had changed. The king made him feel safe and he wanted his own carved Wizr board and to see Princess Elyse. What else truly mattered? He sidled up closer to the king.

“You heard the boy,” the king said with a suppressed groan.

Owen’s heart was beating faster now. They walked out the gate together, still hand in hand. Something made Owen glance back once more, and this time he saw the fat man standing by Ratcliffe, taking coins from his hand. Maybe Mancini was paying Ratcliffe to get him some muffins? But that did not make sense.

“Ratcliffe!” the king barked.

They were outside the gate now and had started toward the castle. Owen’s heart was like thunder in his chest. Why was he leaving sanctuary? Why had he come there in the first place? There had been a reason, and it seemed important, but he just could not remember it.

“Take him back to the palace,” the king said, sounding breathless. “I need to rest. It drained me. The lad has a strong will, thick as tree roots.”

“I envy your gifts, my lord,” Ratcliffe said tautly, joining them. He seized Owen’s other hand, tightening his grip until it was painful.