Fate's Ransom(The First Argentines #4)

Duke Kiskaddon leaned back in the wooden chair, rubbing his upper lip and gazing quizzically at the Wizr board. Ransom seated himself across and examined the board himself. The deconeus stood to one side of the room, watching them, his expression grave.

“The board isn’t set up properly,” Kiskaddon observed. “I think that’s deliberate. What are you playing at, Ransom?”

The piece representing the king was at the edge of the board with just one smaller pawn next to it. The other king was surrounded by two castle pieces and the Wizr piece.

“Bennett had a Wizr board,” Ransom said seriously, looking across the table at Kiskaddon. “A special one. Did he ever tell you of it?”

“He wasn’t fond of such games.” He shrugged without concern. “He didn’t have the patience to master them. But I do recall . . . he did mention he had a set that had been stolen from King Estian. That’s all I know.”

“I’m the one who took it from Estian,” Ransom said, folding his arms. “Although it was made of stone, it was imbued with the power of the Fountain.”

Kiskaddon snorted. “To what purpose?”

“It’s a relic from the days of King Andrew and Queen Genevieve. The pieces can move themselves. They represent the different factions within a kingdom—two kingdoms. The game being played was a game of conquest between Ceredigion and Occitania. One that impacted the real world.”

“You seem serious, but I find the story absurd.”

“Hear him out, lord duke,” said the deconeus gravely.

Kiskaddon waved a dismissive hand at the board. “Go on, then.”

Studying him, Ransom said, “It is played between two rulers, each seeking to dominate the other. I believe Estian’s forefathers inherited the game after the drowning of Leoneyis.”

“You believe that really happened?”

Ransom ignored his doubtful tone. “The Vertus family wishes to create their own dynasty, one to rival the glory of King Andrew’s domain. There’s a reason why so many of those legends were written down in the old tongue. Passed on and dimmed with time. They wanted us to forget. But we mustn’t. The board is real, and so are other artifacts from that time.”

“I fail to see your point.”

“Then let me make it. This piece represents Jon-Landon. If he dies, then his son is the last Argentine heir. If his children are killed, the game ends.”

“Every game must end eventually,” Kiskaddon said with a snide smile. Ransom could see he had little love for the king or his offspring, not that he was surprised. Jon-Landon had done nothing to earn goodwill.

“That’s the problem. When this game ends, Ceredigion is destroyed.”

Kiskaddon’s brow wrinkled. “It’s only a game. Threat and mate. It ends.”

Ransom shook his head. “In Wizr, we always stop before the king is taken. That is the rule. The game ends when you say ‘threat and mate.’ But that’s not how that board works. When the king piece is taken, if there are no heirs left, the kingdom is destroyed by flood.”

Kiskaddon glanced at the deconeus and then back again, as if he thought they were jesting. When he saw they were quite serious, he asked, “Why didn’t that happen when Gervase died? Or his son?”

Ransom opened his palms. “Because Devon Argentine was the true heir. His mother was named heir, but Gervase claimed the hollow crown before it could be given to her. That started the civil war. The board is real. I’ve seen the pieces move on their own accord. And I’ve seen the Argentine heirs move them. It was a closely guarded secret.”

“Can you prove it? Where is the board now if this isn’t it?”

“When Bennett was murdered, it was stolen back by Estian and his poisoner, Lady Alix. They are intent on ending the rivalry between us. Permanently.”

Kiskaddon scratched his eyebrow. “You came all the way from Averanche with this childish tale, hoping it would convince me that I need to trust a man who has no more honor than a pile of horse dung?”

“If the game ends, the people will die. You as well.”

“Why didn’t I know about this? Why were you the trusted one?”

“Because I’m Fountain-blessed,” Ransom said simply. Although he’d anticipated Kiskaddon’s response, he was frustrated by it.

“Another legend,” Kiskaddon said with a wry smile. “May I be completely honest with you, Ransom?”

“I encourage it,” Ransom said.

“I’ve often wondered why you cowed to Jon-Landon. Why you, a man so principled and honorable, would suffer himself to be kicked like a dog by a ruthless master.”

Ransom bristled at the comparison, but he kept silent and listened carefully.

“I believe Jon-Landon knows of some crime or indiscretion he is holding over you. Some knowledge gained from the Espion that, if revealed, would tarnish your reputation. So you surrendered to that cruel tyrant to avoid the truth being known. If not for your clever wife, you’d still be the king’s hostage. That is what I think.”

Ransom’s mouth was dry with anger, but he kept his voice controlled. “And what do you believe the king has been holding over me?”

“I’d rather not say in front of a deconeus.” Kiskaddon’s smile was smug, and Ransom squeezed his hands into fists to subdue his growing anger.

“I think I’m familiar with the sordid rumors,” Ransom said. “There have been plenty.”

“There have,” agreed Kiskaddon. “First, there was the Younger King’s wife. Then, after your marriage to Lady Claire, you ran off to visit Goff’s widow, Lady Constance. I even heard from Bennett’s chancellor that you seduced the masked emissary of the East Kingdoms and persuaded her to quit Brugia and stop bidding on the king’s ransom.” He reached out and tapped his forefinger on the Wizr board. “That’s why you’re here, doing the king’s bidding once more. He has you in his fist, and he’s squeezing you hard. Isn’t it also said in the legends that King Andrew’s first knight seduced his queen?”

The anger in Ransom’s heart nearly spilled out. He wanted to strike the Wizr board to the ground, to let the whole kingdom drown in infamy. It burned like a brand to hear that the rumors persisted still. The cruel and false tales about him had proliferated like weeds and hid in the stalks of truth. But he kept his emotions in check, refusing to let Kiskaddon goad him.

“Guivret knows about the Wizr board,” Ransom said. “He was with me when I took it.”

Kiskaddon chuffed and gesticulated. “He’s the one who told me of your affair with the Duchess of Brythonica! You can hardly count him as a witness of your honor!”

Ransom looked at the deconeus, whose eyes were wide with astonishment. He looked discomfited by the sordid tales.

“I have always loved Claire de Murrow,” Ransom said. “I’ve never betrayed her, and the accusations you throw at me are false. Estian’s sister was the one who tried to dishonor me, and I rejected her both then and in Brugia. She was the masked lady, and it was her conniving with her brother that led to our war with the East Kingdoms. I unmasked her, and she fled. As for the Duchess of Brythonica, I never laid a finger on her. She is the most honorable person I know, and the accusation of your knight must be roundly denounced.”

Ransom’s forceful speech had shocked Kiskaddon into silence.

“I see you are in earnest,” he said after a long pause, his eyes serious.

“There is only one thing a knight can do when such accusations have been leveled against him. I must defend my honor and my reputation. I challenge Sir Guivret to single combat. A trial of the sword. May the Fountain judge between us.”

Kiskaddon nodded. “That is just, although your reputation as a warrior would make any man balk. I will relay your challenge to Guivret. If he continues to denounce you, then you will both fight, without armor.”

“There will be no blood shed on these grounds,” the deconeus said firmly.

“We will hold the challenge on the bridge, before the gates of the sanctuary,” Kiskaddon offered. “Do you agree, my lord duke?”

“I do,” Ransom said, rising from his chair. He gave Kiskaddon a knightly salute.