Fate's Ransom(The First Argentines #4)

“No, I just want to ensure there’s no misunderstanding,” Ransom said. “I didn’t think you would agree to it.”

“Ransom, you know me better than that,” the king said with a smirk. “Just as I know you to be . . . a loyal man, and I’m very willing for you to pay him homage. You see, the more you have, the greater will be your services to me.”

The declaration did little to ease Ransom’s mind. For it implied the king considered this a favor, one he would use as leverage to demand a return favor from Ransom. Would it be something that Ransom’s conscience allowed him to deliver?

“I will negotiate the terms, then,” he said. “I’ll leave on the morrow.”

The king gave him another cunning smile. “You should stay. You look weary. Get some rest.”

Ransom had no reason to refuse, so he stayed, and when Dearley and the rest of his escort arrived, they were given an empty table. The meal was hearty, and the music and performances continued into the night.

Dearley leaned forward. “I can’t read your expression. What did he say?”

“He said yes,” answered Ransom, keeping his eyes fixed on the king’s face. Things had not turned out the way he’d expected. Even though the king had done as he wished, he felt uneasy about it. It struck him that Jon-Landon was a few years older than Bennett had been when he died. He’d made it longer than either of his brothers.

“That’s good news,” said Dearley. He smiled broadly and lifted a cup. “I can’t wait to tell Elodie. We’re going home.”

Ransom raised his cup and struck it against Dearley’s.

And yet, the feeling of dread persisted.





Some ill news arrived today from a few ships of Genevese merchants. Estian’s fleet barred them from docking in the Vexin. Forbidden to sail to their destination, they came to Atha Kleah instead. Does this new blockade mean Estian is preparing to invade Emiloh’s duchy? I’ve ordered ships to bring supplies to Emiloh’s duchy. With Brythonica as its own entity, at least communication can get in and out of the territory by means other than the sea. But it takes longer to send a messenger by horse than by ship.

I’ve sent Ransom a note of warning, but it will take days before it reaches him. The last message I had from him was that he was going to Beestone to meet the king’s council. I shudder to think of what would happen should the Vexin fall to Occitania again. Legault would be vulnerable next. I will summon the lords of Legault to prepare in case this disruption of the Genevese merchants proves to be a foretelling of worse things to come.

—Claire de Murrow, “Duchess” of Legault Atha Kleah





CHAPTER FOUR


Guardian of the Grove


Ransom rode with two hundred knights to Josselin castle. He sent scouts both ahead and behind them to ensure there were no surprise attacks. But they encountered no one and saw no signs of Occitanian forces at any point during the several-day journey. Dearley was perplexed by the overtures of peace. So was Ransom, particularly since he could not yet see the motives behind the offer. As always in the game of Wizr, when a piece was moved, it could mean many things. And the magical Wizr board, which might have helped them understand the meaning of such movements, was, presumably, in the hands of the enemy.

As they traveled, they witnessed the ravages of the constant state of war, from the burnt fields to the stumps left behind after the trees were axed down for firewood, to the looks of fear in villagers’ eyes as the knights rode past. Was this what things had been like during the tumult between Devon the Elder and King Gervase? In those days, Ceredigion had nearly been rent apart from within. This time, the damage had mostly been inflicted by foreign enemies.

One evening, as they camped for the night, sitting around a small fire for warmth, Dearley said solemnly, “I hope this leads to a lasting peace. Every year I look forward to the coming of winter because at least the fighting will have to stop for a season.”

Ransom nodded in agreement, tossing a fresh stick into the crackling blaze. He, too, enjoyed the long winters in Legault at Connaught. Watching his twin sons wrestle and chase each other through the castle. His daughter Sibyl had taken an interest in fletching arrows instead of needlework. Her hair matched her mother’s, a lovely mix of brown and crimson. Then there was the littlest one, Keeva. He’d missed so much of their childhood already, performing his duties to the king. Longing coursed through him at the thought of them, at the image of Claire, her hair unbound. Yes, a large part of him hoped that peace would happen.

“I think we’ll reach Josselin tomorrow,” Dearley said. “Elodie will be jealous. I wish I could bring her back there. We have so many fond memories of it. We were practically children when we fell in love.”

Ransom smiled. “You were afraid that I was going to marry her.”

“Why shouldn’t I have feared it? We were your wards, and you know the way of things. Besides, you were the famous knight, in favor with the Elder King! I was no one.”

“You were my first knight. And you’ve proven yourself time and again.”

Dearley blushed. “I still don’t feel adequate, but I try not to disappoint you.”

Ransom shook his head. “You’ve never disappointed me, Dearley.”

“Oh? What about that first battle when you got skewered by a lance because you were defending me?”

The Raven scabbard had saved Ransom that day. Dearley still didn’t know about it. It was a gift from the Fountain, and he’d kept it secret, telling as few people as possible. “I’ve had worse.”

A knight walked up to their fire. “Sorry to interrupt, my lord,” he said. “The patrol just returned. There’s no one within a league of us in any direction.”

“That’s good news,” Dearley said, cocking his head.

Ransom believed the report. His Fountain magic usually warned him of danger, but its influence had been more difficult to feel since serving Jon-Landon’s interests. The king’s wavering moods, distrust, and lack of compassion had created an antipathy within Ransom that strained his connection to the magic. He had respected the previous kings he’d served in different ways. But not Jon-Landon. He always felt unsafe when he was with the king.

“You can rest easy tonight, my lord,” said the knight.

Ransom gave him a salute, and the man walked away.

“Perhaps Estian truly does want peace,” Dearley said hopefully.

“We’ll have a better idea by tomorrow.”

They reached Josselin castle by early evening the following day. The sight of the Fleur-de-Lis pennant hanging above the castle made him frown. Did he really wish to treat with Estian? To promise him even a shred of loyalty? The night the castle had been taken, Ransom had very nearly taken it back—only Estian had threatened to hang the prisoners who’d been taken with the castle, one by one, if Ransom didn’t withdraw his men. He still begrudged the king that and many other affronts. Estian touted the honorable code of Virtus in his tournament circuits, but his court was rotten on the inside, like a piece of spoiled fruit.

As they advanced, they saw soldiers patrolling the battlement walls. He reached out with his Fountain magic, trying to sense the defenders’ intention. Was this a trap?

He felt a ripple in his magic, but it was not a warning. It felt like . . . sympathy. The feelings of unease he’d been brooding on since the meeting with Jon-Landon faded. There was no sense of the poisoner Alix either. He would have known if she were there.

All of his men were wearing armor. It might be a diplomatic mission, but there was little to no trust between the opposing factions.

“Let’s go a little closer,” Ransom said, nudging Dappled forward. The town looked to be thriving, and he heard the bleating of sheep from across the river. The familiar smell of tallow from large cooking vats lingered in the air. As they passed, he heard the townsfolk speaking Occitanian. Those who had once lived here had fled to Glosstyr.