Fate's Ransom(The First Argentines #4)

It was returned.



The duel was arranged for later that afternoon. It was not a fight to the death, but a fight to submission. It would end with one man lying on his back, a blade to his throat, and declaring guilt. The knights who had come with Ransom lined the street on one side. The knights who had come with Kiskaddon lined the other. Ransom and Guivret faced off in the space in between. The roar of the falls blocked out all other noises.

Ransom stood alone, hand on his pommel, but he felt the support of his knights behind him. Guivret was speaking to Kiskaddon, but he left his mesnie and approached Ransom on the street.

Ransom wore a thin undertunic, open at the front. He was older than Guivret, more experienced, and he felt the confidence of his Fountain magic thrumming through him. The knowledge that he was in the right. Reaching out with his magic, he gauged Guivret’s abilities and found him to be highly skilled. The lad had always worked hard on his drills, and he was fearless by nature. But Ransom sensed a shadow in the young man’s soul, a taint undoubtedly caused by Alix’s strange gift of persuasion.

Ransom sighed. “I am innocent,” he said to the young knight.

“I know in my heart that you are a liar,” Guivret said with emotion. He looked conflicted, though, ravaged by distrust and the time he’d spent as the Occitanians’ prisoner.

Ransom felt a twinge of guilt. Had he managed to rescue Guivret, he could have saved him the pain of being a prisoner, of having his mind twisted against his friends. But Alix had never intended to let that happen. This was just another piece of unfairness in a world that sometimes felt harsh and uncaring.

“May the Fountain judge between us.”

“It will,” insisted Guivret. “You’ve always been better than me, Lord Ransom. But I believe in the Fountain. I believe it will deliver you into my hands.”

Ransom nodded and drew his bastard sword. He had the Raven scabbard and didn’t fear injury, but he didn’t want to hurt Guivret, and the young knight seemed ready to throw himself fully into the fight.

The deconeus and the sexton and their many acolytes had gathered at the gate to watch.

Guivret drew his weapon, also a bastard sword. His chest heaved as they faced off.

“I’m ready, lad,” Ransom said.

With a cry that sounded like an animal’s guttural roar, Guivret rushed him, swinging his sword in a blizzard of swirls. Ransom sensed what he would do, however, and he easily backstepped and deflected, the noise of their clashing blades ringing out on the street. They switched sides, circling each other. The whistle of the blade came for Ransom’s neck, but he raised his own weapon and parried. Guivret’s mouth contorted with anger and another emotion—guilt?—and he charged on, coming at Ransom with the energy and fury of youth.

Ransom felt calm and peaceful.

Before long, the younger man’s attack began to slacken, his energy spent.

It was then Ransom commenced his assault. In three swings, he sent Guivret’s sword skittering across the cobblestones until it rested far out of reach. Guivret’s eyes shot wide with terror and surprise. He dropped to his knees before Ransom and lifted his head, exposing his throat.

“Kill me, Lord Ransom, I beg you!” he groaned.

“I’ll not kill you, lad,” Ransom said.

“Please!” Guivret opened his arms, offering his life. “I cannot . . . bear . . . to live. Not when the boy . . . is dead. My heart cannot endure it. Kill me.”

Ransom lowered his sword. “Do you revoke your accusation? I did not dishonor anyone.”

Guivret’s shoulders slumped. Tears began to mix with the sweat on his cheeks. “I bear witness, before you all, that Lord Ransom is innocent!” he shouted. He began to sob.

A feeling of peace swelled in Ransom’s chest. He felt nothing but forgiveness and empathy for the young man. Reaching out, he laid a hand on Guivret’s shoulder.

“It’s not your fault,” he said. “Alix is blessed as well. Her words are magic. Even I have fallen under her spell and believed things that were not true. I forgive you, lad.”

Guivret looked up at him, the confusion and guilt fading from his eyes. He took Ransom’s hand and kissed it.

A surge of Fountain magic manifested, stunning Ransom in its intensity. And suddenly the river overwhelmed the grounds of the sanctuary. Everyone turned in surprise as a wall of water tumbled through the gardens, surged past the sanctuary, and then came spilling through the gates, drenching the hem of the deconeus’s robes. The river cut through their group, about as high as their knees, before surging against the buildings on the other side of the bridge and spilling down the alleys in between them until it dumped off the bridge.

In all his years, Ransom had never heard of the river overtaking the sanctuary. The surge ended, and everyone stood staring at the wet cobblestones, stunned by the dramatic display of the river’s power. Guivret stared down at the water, then pressed his palms against the stones and bowed before Ransom.

“You are Fountain-blessed,” he said hoarsely.

Ransom turned and saw that his knights had dropped to a knee before him. Whirling around, he saw Kiskaddon and his men had done the same.

The miracle of the surging river had been witnessed by everyone. It had washed away any last doubts or defiance.

The gate leading to the sanctuary creaked as it opened, and the deconeus and sexton came out onto the river-soaked street. The deconeus had a feverish look in his eyes as he approached Ransom and came to a stop in front of him. “We’ve all witnessed it. The Lady of the Fountain has proven Lord Ransom’s innocence.”

Duke Kiskaddon rose and approached Ransom with a look of respect and chagrin. When he reached them, Guivret had come to his feet, his pants and boots soaked by the water.

“Everything you’ve said is true?” Kiskaddon asked.

“It is,” Ransom answered. “I’ve come in the king’s name. You will be pardoned if you submit to him again. I promise you.”

Kiskaddon sighed. “I trust you, Lord Ransom. It is the king I do not trust.”

“May I propose a solution to this conundrum?” said the deconeus.

“Please,” Ransom answered.

The deconeus squared his shoulders and assumed a dignified authority. “I propose a charter, to be signed by the king and his nobles across the land. It would diminish the king’s authority to punish the lords of the realm. Any noble accused of treason will stand trial by their peers and not the king himself. Only if the peerage finds guilt can the king execute the penalty for treason. It will prevent the king and his heirs from being arbitrary. If the king does not uphold the charter, then all nobles will be released from their vow of allegiance to him and suffer no forfeit of land or life.”

Kiskaddon studied the deconeus before speaking. “I would sign such a charter. I would rather let my fate be judged by my peers than a capricious king. But will Jon-Landon willingly give up some of his power?”

Ransom thought carefully. “If it unifies his realm and ends the war, I think he might.”

“Will he not forsake his word later?”

“If he does, then it will no longer be treason to rebel against him. I think it is fair. What will we call these courts? These trials by the peerage?”

The deconeus said, “The Assizes. The Elder King used a similar arrangement to settle land disputes without his direct involvement. Only we’ll be using them to resolve issues involving life and property.”

“The Assizes,” Kiskaddon said. “May we have your help, Deconeus, in crafting this charter so that Ransom might return to Averanche with it?”

“Indeed you may,” said the deconeus proudly.

The noise of clopping hooves came from the direction of the palace, and Ransom and Kiskaddon both turned in concern.

The far gate had been left open, and a knight came charging up with a worried expression.

“My lords,” he said breathlessly. “The docks are under attack! The Occitanians have come!”