If Owen had experienced fear before coming to Kingfountain, it was nothing compared to wandering the secret tunnels of the palace without a candle. He tried his best to judge the right way, groping with blindness and even crawling on the ground, but his efforts were totally wasted. He was lost, hopelessly so, and the night seemed as if it would go on forever. There were sounds that he understood—the scuttling of rats, the creaking of timbers, and the occasional gusts of wind. But there were also sounds that put him in mind of a person moaning. His imagination supplied the rest—they were the ghosts of the dead princes, the ones whose bodies had never been found.
His courage was utterly spent, his misery complete. Ahead, he thought he saw a translucent shape, a phantom shaped like a man but made entirely of dust motes. The phantom stalked toward him in silence. Owen closed his eyes and buried his face in his hands. He listened for the sound of footfalls. Nothing, not even a whisper of breath. He peeked up again, and it was waiting for him—the shape of a man, all gnats and swirling dust.
Owen groaned with fear and then began to sob. He waited for the being to grab him and carry him away into the void. Terror made him huddle in a ball on the floor and sob in choking heaves that grew louder and louder. He could not help himself. Anything was better than staying lost in the tunnels until morning. He wept bitterly, wishing his parents had never given birth to him.
He did not know how long he lay crumpled on the floor, crying. He waited with anguish and suspense for the worst to happen. And then his eyelids detected light. Ratcliffe! He almost welcomed capture at this point. He lifted his head, still trying to breathe through his tears, gulping, and then he saw Ankarette coming toward him with a candle.
Owen wasn’t sure if it was his imagination, but he got to his feet and ran to her with relief. As soon as he reached her, he wrapped his arms around her middle and pressed his cheek against her stomach. He was so grateful to see her, so relieved to have been found.
She set the candlestick down and folded her arms around his head. She stroked his hair, his neck, murmuring softly that everything would be all right. She smelled wonderful. Even in the safety of her arms, he shivered and shuddered, unable to quell the terror.
Ankarette knelt down, bringing herself level with his face, and cupped his cheek in her hand. Not saying anything, she peered into his eyes, her gaze full of sadness and serenity. Then she leaned forward and kissed the corner of his eye, where the tears were still coming. She murmured a word in a language he didn’t know, and suddenly he felt peace. His heartbeat began to slow down. The tears stopped. Instead of terror, he felt relief. Warmth and kindness suffused him, putting a stop to his spasms.
Still kneeling, Ankarette took up the candlestick. She then rose to her feet and offered Owen her hand. He clung to it, so grateful to be led away from the darkness.
She took him back to his bedroom and set the candlestick on the table near the bed before helping him under the covers. He could only stare at her with reverence. He would have done anything in the world she asked him to do. Once he was settled, she knelt by his bedside and planted her elbow on the mattress so she could rest her chin on her knuckles.
“There’s my little Owen,” she whispered with affection, reaching out and smoothing some of his hair from his forehead. “You had quite a scare tonight.”
He nodded, feeling a twinge of horror try to well up inside him. It could not rise above the well-being in his heart.
“Was that . . . was that magic?” he asked her simply.
She wrinkled her brow a bit. “Was what?”
“You kissed my eye and whispered something. Was that magic?”
She smiled languidly and then nodded once.
“Can you teach it to me?” he begged.
“You are too young,” she answered, tapping his nose with her slender finger.
“Will you teach me when I’m older?”
She pursed her lips, as if his question caused her pain. “If I can,” she answered after the hesitation.
“I don’t want to be an Espion anymore,” Owen said, shaking his head firmly. His eyelids were drooping, and he felt so tired all of a sudden. “I was so afraid.”
“You got lost in the tunnels?”
He nodded sleepily. “I found the king’s room. And then Ratcliffe came up behind me. I thought I would be caught. I never want to do that again.”
“But you weren’t caught, were you?”