Lord Kiskaddon is a broken man, a husk. He’s a man standing on the brink of a waterfall, seeing the rushing waters whisking him toward his doom. Flail as he might, he cannot escape the current. He was almost too willing to speak to a total stranger—a Genevese, no less! His greatest regret? That Tunmore’s book reveals his wife was his partner in all things. She helped arrange and receive the messages from the pretend king who was slain at Ambion Hill. Their entire family is going to be shoved into the river after the Assizes. Well, all except one. Kiskaddon has come to Beestone Castle to beg for a pardon he won’t be getting.
—Dominic Mancini, Espion of the Assizes
I’m in shock. When I got back to the tavern, all was in an uproar. Ankarette is dead. Apparently she went after Ratcliffe at the Espion stronghold. I’ve heard only snippets, but she blew powder in his face to drug him. She was discovered by my colleagues and stabbed to death. There were easily a dozen men with blood on their shirts and daggers. Ratcliffe survived a neck wound—unfortunately—and has gone to the king in triumph. They’ve taken her corpse to the castle. What was she trying to accomplish? I have no idea. I saw her body myself, lying on a cold stone slab in the doctor’s chambers. Everyone is afraid to even touch her. Pale as marble, she is. Pale and beautiful in death.
—Dominic Mancini, Espion of the Doomed Boy
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
The White Pig
Owen was awakened by the touch of a woman’s fingers on his hair. The room was dark, but it was the birth of dawn. It was the time just before the birds started to sing, the cusp of a new day, the deep breath before the plunge.
The royal apartments in Beestone Castle were furnished and unfamiliar. As Owen blinked awake, it took him a moment to place himself. Was he in Tatton Hall? Kingfountain? He saw Ankarette kneeling beside the bed, her cheek resting on the mattress, her fingers playing absently with tufts of his hair. She had a languid smile on her pale face. A shudder rippled through her, and she bent her lips to the mattress to muffle a little cough. Then she gazed fondly at him again.
“Ankarette,” Owen whispered, feeling his heart lighten. He rubbed his eyes on his hand. “I tried to stay awake. I fell asleep waiting for you.”
“It’s all right, Owen,” she soothed. “I was . . . late.” She smiled.
“You’re quite pale,” the boy said, feeling concern.
She looked as if that didn’t matter at all. “I feel tired. I need a long sleep. Like you’ve had.” She pinched his cheek tenderly and grazed it with her thumb. “Shall I tell you about your dream? Will you be able to remember it?”
He nodded eagerly and stared into her eyes, lost in them for a moment.
“After I’ve told you,” she said softly, “you need to go to the king. Right away. You need to be brave, little Owen. Can you do that?”
“I have Evie’s braid. I can be brave like her.” Owen sat up, and noticed that she did not. She was kneeling at the edge of the bed, holding herself up on her arms.
“Very well. Listen carefully. You had a dream tonight. In the dream, three golden bucks came to Beestone Castle. The bucks all knelt before a white pig. You saw their antlers touch the ground before the pig. Then a rat with a knife walked up to the bucks to kill them and eat them. But the white pig shook its snout. It wouldn’t let the rat hurt the bucks. The pig walked to the river and the bucks followed. All of them boarded a boat except for one. The smallest of the bucks stayed with the pig. The boat went against the current of the river—upstream instead of down—and sailed away to a land of flowers.”
She stiffened and let out a soft breath of pain. She blinked, her eyes growing dazed. “Owen, then the pig sniffed the rat. When it did, it found a gold coin in its fur. The pig turned into a boar and grew tusks. With the tusks, the boar threw the rat into the river, and it drowned.”
Her fingers, which had been playing in his hair, went limp, and her wrist sagged to the mattress blanket. Her head lolled to one side.
“Ankarette?” Owen asked worriedly.
“So sleepy,” she whispered. She blinked rapidly, then lifted her head. Her eyes seemed to sharpen and focus. “Now go tell the king about your dream. This is important, Owen. This is how you can save your family.” She gave him a tender look, so poignant and full of love. Her weak fingers lifted and grazed the white patch of his hair. “Go. Then tell me what happens.”
“Will you be here when I get back?” Owen asked, his worry growing.
“I promise,” she answered, smiling sadly.
Owen scuttled off the edge of the bed and quickly threw on his clothes. He made sure Evie’s braid was in his pocket and he walked away from his room, wandering the halls.
He saw Mancini slumped in the corridor, a jug of wine crooked in his arm.