“Take me to the king’s room,” Owen told the Espion, tugging on his sleeve.
Mancini looked haggard, depressed, and irritable. His eyes opened slowly. His breath was awful. “You?” he said, looking pained.
“Where is it? I need to tell the king about my dream.”
“What dream?” Mancini said in confusion. “There are no more dreams. There is no more hope. It’s all been ruined. All is lost.” He shook the empty jug a little, listening to see if there was any liquid sloshing around inside. It was empty.
“Ankarette said I must!” Owen insisted, gripping the man’s shoulder.
Mancini’s face crinkled with confusion. “Who said?”
“Ankarette!” Owen seethed, frustrated at the man’s blockheadedness.
Mancini leaned forward. “You’ve . . . seen . . . her?”
“She’s in my room.” Owen hooked his thumb and pointed.
The expression on Mancini’s face transformed. He shoved away the empty jug and broke it in his haste to get back to his feet. “She is? At this very moment? But how?”
“Sshh!” Owen said, for he heard the sound of boots coming.
Mancini grabbed the boy’s hand and marched him down the hall. He swayed a bit as he walked, but he knew the way. Coming toward them were several night guards wearing the badge of the white boar and carrying torches.
One of the soldiers challenged them. “Who goes there?”
“This is the Kiskaddon brat—boy! He had another dream and must tell it to the king!”
The soldier looked at Owen in surprise. “Follow us, boy.”
Mancini’s cheeks were pink and rosy, and he looked elated. They marched back the way they had come and quickly went to the king’s bedchamber. As soon as they walked into the room, Owen saw Duke Horwath. Ratcliffe was also there, a bloody bandage around his neck, along with several other men who were talking angrily amongst themselves. To Owen’s surprise, Princess Elyse was also present, wearing a robe over her nightdress, her hair straggling as she paced the chamber in her slippers, her face pinched with worry.
“My liege,” the soldier announced, stamping his boots as he halted. “Found these two in the corridors. The boy has had another dream.”
The king, looking furious, turned when he heard the soldier’s announcement. His face was flushed with emotion, but he calmed when he saw Owen.
“Another one?” the king asked, his voice suddenly interested and concerned. He started walking toward Owen.
“My lord,” Ratcliffe broke in. “That can wait. You promised my reward. I have served you faithfully. I want Tatton Hall!”
The princess glowered at Ratcliffe, her face showing her absolute disapproval. Horwath looked angry too, his stern lips pressed hard together.
“Give it a rest, Dickon!” the king snapped. “This is important!”
Ratcliffe seethed with fury. “If you are still taking the Espion away from me, I deserve something in return! Something that won’t be a loss of reputation. If this is how you reward loyalty . . .”
The king was in no mood to hear him. His cheeks were full of stubble and he looked as if he hadn’t slept well or at all that night. It reminded Owen of the night he had found the secret tunnel leading to the king’s bedroom. The king’s face was full of weariness and agitation. But it softened when he dropped down on one knee in front of the boy, putting their eyes on a level.
“What is it, lad?” he asked in a kindly voice. “Tell me of your dream.”
Everyone was staring at Owen. The soldiers. Duke Horwath. The princess. Ratcliffe. The king. All their eyes bored into him, all their ears listened, and he realized he had power over these men. A king was kneeling in front of him because he believed Owen was Fountain-blessed and could read the future. He was convinced.
All Owen needed to do was speak.
His tongue grew thick in his mouth. The pressure of being the focus of so much pointed attention unearthed his hidden terrors and fears, which came popping up from the ground like worms after a rainstorm. Owen dug his hand into his pocket and felt the reassuring touch of his friend’s hair. He wished she were there. He could almost see her in his mind’s eye, standing behind the king with an impatient look. Just tell him!
“My lord,” Ratcliffe interrupted, suddenly nervous. “It’s so early. Wouldn’t it be better to hear the lad later, during breakfast? The queen’s poisoner is dead, so you need not fear your meals now. It’s nearly dawn. Surely this can wait.”
The queen’s poisoner was dead? Owen’s stomach took an uneasy flop.
The king’s hand rested on the boy’s shoulder. “Tell me,” he said.
Owen licked his lips. He tried to speak, but his tongue wouldn’t work. A worried spurt of panic enveloped his gut. Was Ankarette dying? No! She had said she would wait for him to return. She was tired, that was all. Owen forced himself to concentrate.
“Go ahead,” Princess Elyse said coaxingly.
“My lord . . .” Ratcliffe whined.