She nodded encouragingly. “You’re right. You must stay here for now. But I have been giving this some thought. I’m very good at thinking, Owen—a poisoner must be, for a single mistake can be deadly. I’m going to be honest with you, and I hope you will be honest with me in return. Your parents may die. If I can stop that from happening, I will. But the king does not trust them and he will test their loyalty. But know this, Owen. They did not abandon you. It was a difficult choice for them, but they did their best to protect their whole family. Including you. They thought you would be the safest at the palace if I were still here to care for you. And I will do everything within my power to help you. You see . . .” Her words halted, her voice becoming thick. She reached out and smoothed his hair, just as his mother used to do.

“I miss Maman,” Owen sighed softly. Her shoulder looked soft.

“And I am certain she misses you terribly, Owen,” she whispered. She reached up her gloved hand and dabbed it against the tip of his nose. “You are a darling little boy, Owen. So young. The king is wrong to keep you away from your parents.”

Owen was getting tired, and he leaned against her arm, resting his head against her shoulder. “Can you really help me?” he asked hopefully.

She put her arm around him. “I think so, Owen. I’m working on a plan.”

“Really?”

“Just the beginnings of one.”

“Will you tell me?” he begged.

Hugging his shoulders, she planted a kiss on the top of his head. “Not yet. I have some ideas, but I need to ponder them more. Thoughts have a way of growing. If you put your mind to it, you can accomplish surprising things.”

“Truly?”

“Truly, Owen. Most people suffer from a lack of imagination. They don’t dare enough. But I do. I helped Eredur become king. Both times.” She nudged his arm. “The reason most people don’t arrive at a destination is they never embark. They think of all the reasons why they can’t do it, so they don’t even try.”

“I thought I could escape,” Owen said dejectedly. “I went to the sanctuary, but the king . . . he tricked me into coming out.”

He heard a silvery laugh at that. “Oh yes, he did indeed! The king is Fountain-blessed, Owen. Do you know what that is?”

He scrunched up his nose in surprise. “He is? I’ve never met one before, but in the stories they are like heroes. The king . . . isn’t like that.”

She hugged him again, as if she were very much enjoying sitting next to him. “Not exactly, Owen. You know how every baby is taken to a sanctuary so the deconeus can bathe his head with fountain water? That’s called the water rite. It marks a hope that the child will be Fountain-blessed. But very few are. Only one child in a thousand is Fountain-blessed.”

He turned and looked at her, gazing up at her pretty face. “I heard Monah talking about it. She said a man who made bread was Fountain-blessed.”

“From Pisan, yes. I heard about him. I know you’ve heard some of this before, but it will be easier to explain if I start at the beginning. Let me tell you about the true nature of the Fountain. The Fountain is all around us. It’s like a rushing of waters that you can feel but not hear. Have you ever lay down and shut your eyes and felt like you were . . . drifting?”

Owen nodded energetically.

“When someone is Fountain-blessed, they can gather the energy of the Fountain. Like filling a cup with water. Then they can use that power to do something. Something amazing! King Severn’s power is in his voice. When he uses the magic of the Fountain, when he speaks to you and touches you, he can make you believe what he is saying is true. But as I said, everyone who is Fountain-blessed needs to somehow draw in the magic. The king has an unusual way of filling his cup. Have you noticed it?”

Owen stared at her in surprise and tilted his head. “Is it his dagger? He’s always slamming it.”

Ankarette smiled fondly. “No . . . that’s just a nervous habit. He’s restless. Think about his words. He has power with his words.”

Owen frowned, deep in thought. “He’s always angry, except with the princess.”

“I told you that you were clever.” She brought her hands together under her chin. “There is power in words, Owen. So much power. When you tell your mother you love her, it makes her feel warm and happy. If you tell her that you hate her,” her voice became darker, crueler, as one of her hands reached away from her mouth and tapped his chest. “That carries hurt.”