Fate's Ransom(The First Argentines #4)

Ransom rubbed his eyes. The memory of the Ondine’s words pulsed within his mind. It was painful realizing he was going to die. He wanted to tell Dearley, but he felt a throb of warning not to. It was his burden to carry.

“Are you all right?” Dearley asked softly.

“I don’t think I’ve been in a more terrible situation,” Ransom said. It was a struggle, but he composed himself. “We have to go defend Thorngate. But first, let me congratulate you on your daughter’s birth. I’m happy for you and your dear wife.”

Dearley rose, and the two men embraced. Even though the situation felt hopeless, there were still blessings worthy of rejoicing.

They talked for a few more moments before Ransom excused himself. “I should see how the king fares,” he said, clapping Dearley on the back before he turned to leave the room. As he made his way to and up the stairs, he double-checked to ensure the guards were in their places. They’d been posted at regular intervals.

When he arrived at the king’s sickchamber, he recoiled from the stench of death. He’d witnessed this kind of languishing death before with Jon-Landon’s family. How grateful he was that Duchess Emiloh had not lived to witness her final son’s murder.

There were two knights standing guard at the door, and they nodded to Ransom as he passed. The barber sat at the king’s side with a goblet of wine in his hand. The poison had progressed quickly, and Jon-Landon’s eyes were bleeding. Ransom clamped his mouth shut, noticing Devon curled up in a chair, fast asleep, breathing softly. What a horrible scene for the lad.

“Lord Ransom is here,” said the barber.

“Is he? Truly?” The king suppressed a cough.

“I am,” Ransom answered. The barber rose from the bedside and shook his head, indicating there was no hope left.

“I feared . . . you’d forsaken me,” Jon-Landon said. “But I knew . . . I knew you wouldn’t.”

“I fell asleep in the solar,” Ransom said. “I’m sorry. I would have come sooner.”

“I know. I’m not scolding you. You were there . . . unngh . . . when the first Argentines died. Fitting . . . fitting that you’d still be here when it’s my turn.”

Ransom gestured for the cup, and the barber gave it to him. Sitting by the edge of the bed, he brought his palm behind the king’s neck and lifted him slightly. “Drink this.”

The king took a very little sip and grimaced. Each breath seemed to pain him. “Thank you. Send the barber away.”

Ransom set the goblet down on the small table near the bed. He glanced at the barber, but he’d already risen to leave, likely grateful to have been relieved of his post.

“Is my son . . . still here?”

“He’s asleep on the chair.”

“I told him to go to bed, but he wouldn’t leave my side. I’m . . . glad he’s asleep. I didn’t want him to watch . . . me die.”

Ransom put his hand atop the king’s and gently squeezed.

“I can’t see. My eyes are . . . too sticky. But you’re here. You will . . . you will see that my son is made king?”

“I will,” Ransom answered.

The king exhaled a ragged breath. “I don’t know which pain is from the dagger and which is from the poison. Is she really my . . . my half sister?”

Ransom’s heart squeezed again with pain. “She is. What happened to your mother was terrible. But it was not her fault.”

“I . . . I wish I had known Mother better. Like you did. You served her for so long. I . . . was too resentful. My father poisoned me against her.”

“I know,” Ransom said sadly. “He shouldn’t have.”

“He was a proud man. You knew that.” His breath was coming in shorter and shorter gasps. His lips were turning blue.

“He was indeed,” Ransom said with a chuckle.

“He just . . . he wanted her to be proud of him. My mother. He wanted her . . . unnghh, respect.” The king weakly reached with his other hand and put it on Ransom’s. “Please . . . I don’t want . . . to die.”

Ransom could have used the scabbard to heal the dagger wound, just as he had used it to stanch Elodie’s bleeding during childbirth. But it did not work against poison, and it was the poison that would have prolonged the king’s death, making it even more painful.

“We all must go to the Deep Fathoms in our time,” Ransom said.

“I’m afraid,” Jon-Landon said with desperation.

“What of?”

“I didn’t believe . . . I didn’t want to believe. But I saw the flood come. I saw the wave that struck us. It’s real. The Fountain. The Lady. It’s real. And what will happen to me? Ransom? What if I’m cursed?” The panic in his voice was awful to hear.

Ransom waited, thinking, watching the gasping breaths come. It wouldn’t be long now.

“I don’t know what happens there,” Ransom said. “But I know that things do not end. When I served your father, one night in the palace I heard a voice calling my name. A quiet voice in the still of the night. I went to one of the fountains in the palace and saw the shade of King Gervase.”

Jon-Landon squeezed Ransom’s hand hard. “His . . . shade?”

“Truly. He told me of that other world. He told me it is different than this one. Kinder. Gentler. I think . . . I think they weep for us, my lord. At what we do to each other here.”

“Will my . . . father be there?”

“I think he’s there now. And Devon, Goff, and Bennett. And your mother.”

The king writhed in pain. “I’d be too ashamed to see them. After all I’ve done. How I’ve been persuaded to do . . . the unthinkable. What I’ve lost now.”

“I think they would understand the dilemmas you’ve faced,” Ransom said.

The king grunted. “A favor, Lord Ransom. A final one. Please.”

“Anything, my lord,” Ransom said, leaning forward.

“Don’t . . . don’t tell my wife.”

Ransom frowned. “Tell her what?”

“Don’t tell her what a wretched man I am. What I did . . . to your sister. To others. Especially the boy. His death haunts me the most. Men like Bodkin . . . encouraged me to do what I wanted. They told me the Deep Fathoms was only a myth for children, and there would be no price to pay for breaking the oaths of my office. I did awful things, Ransom. I was . . . horrible. I tried to . . . to break you.” His grip began to slacken. “But you were . . . made of stronger stuff. You were iron. I couldn’t . . . bend you. If she finds out . . . don’t lie. But please . . . don’t ruin her belief in me. I . . . oh, by the Lady . . . I . . . I . . . I’m dying . . . I’m dying. Can’t . . . breathe . . . don’t let me go . . . don’t let me die yet! Léa . . .”

Pain squeezed Ransom’s heart as he heard the final breath wheeze out. Tears trickled down Ransom’s cheeks. He grieved for the king, for the man he could have been, for the regrets that had tormented him at the end. Jon-Landon had longed for the comfort of his wife’s touch, her voice, in his final moment, but that wish hadn’t been granted to him. And Ransom doubted he would have that comfort either.

A prick of light stabbed him in the eye, coming from a chink in the storm clouds and shutters. Dawn had come with the king’s dying breath. Ransom sat in the stillness, hearing the gentle sigh of a little boy fast asleep. His own breath came in choking sobs as he mourned the death of yet another king. A king whose only friend, in the end, had been Ransom. The burden was too heavy. He felt it breaking him.

One of the knights standing guard stepped into the room.

“He’s gone, then?”

Ransom couldn’t speak, but he nodded.

“Then that’s the end of this,” the knight said darkly. “Foul and salty as the sea is, it will be made fouler still by Jon-Landon Argentine.”

“What of the boy?” asked another knight. “Do we stand guard still?”

“No,” Ransom said, rising from the bed. “I’ll take him to my room.”

Walking around the bedside, Ransom carefully cradled Devon Argentine in his arms and held him close as he walked away from the awful scene of death.