Lady's Ransom (The First Argentines, #3)

He collapsed on a polished stone floor, still gripping the chest. The blue light from the scabbard flared even brighter as his vision blurred. The poison had incapacitated him. Suddenly Constance was there, tugging on his arm, trying to help him stand, but his strength failed.

His last thought before he lost consciousness was that Guivret was in the poisoner’s hands now.

And there wasn’t anything Ransom could do to save him.



When consciousness returned, it was sluggish and fleeting. He tried to force himself to move, but only managed to rip a blanket away before falling again on the bed.

“He’s waking, my lady,” said a familiar voice. The barber, he realized. Matthew.

“Ransom? Can you hear me?” Constance asked.

He tried to speak, but his mouth was dry. When he tried to sit up again, he felt her warm hand against the bare skin of his chest, pushing him back down. “Don’t struggle, Ransom. Let it happen gradually. Your wounds were very deep.”

He tried to summon some moisture in his mouth and failed. His eyes opened, and he saw the barber’s and the duchess’s faces hovering over him.

“Would you like something to drink?” she asked.

He nodded, and she fetched a cup, propping his neck a little so he could drink. It was morning, and he heard birds chirping outside. He’d slept through the night. He felt some of the liquid spill down the side of his neck, but Constance mopped it with her sleeve.

“Guivret,” he managed to say. “Did you know?”

“Yes.” Her voice was soft, her tone sad.

He shut his eyes again, wanting to swear in anger. He clenched his fists instead. They’d removed his hauberk and his shirt, leaving his pants and boots on, as well as his scabbard. He felt his body healing from the magic, but the soreness of the cuts still troubled him.

When he opened his eyes again, he saw the barber looking at him with pity. “I bandaged your wounds as well as I could,” he said. “The lady bid me not stitch them. She said they’d heal on their own, although they were severe. That’s all I can do, my lady.”

“You’ve done enough,” Constance said and nodded for him to go. She sat at the bedside.

When the barber was gone, Ransom turned his neck and looked at her. “Why? Why did you send Guivret if you knew he’d be captured?”

“It wasn’t my choice, Ransom.”

“Wasn’t it? If I had gone alone . . .”

She lowered her head with sadness. “The Fountain had a reason for him to be there. I don’t know what purpose, but I knew he would not come back. If I told you, you would not have taken him.”

“She could kill him!” Ransom said, his emotions trembling on the verge of rage.

Constance traced her finger along his neck. “As she tried to kill you. I know what she’s capable of, Ransom . . . and that this pains you even more because you know what it’s like to be a hostage. I am sorry.”

Her words cut him to the quick. Yes, he knew those feelings. And he didn’t want Guivret or anyone else to suffer as he had. He was the lord of a mesnie. It was his duty to safeguard his knights. Yet he knew some would fall in battle serving him. It was a heavy burden to carry.

He felt a shiver start. “Where is my shirt?”

She rose from the bed and started toward a little table, where he saw his clothes. “We took it off, as well as your armor, to see to your wounds. There’s one on your leg as well, but . . . I thought it prudent to leave that one for the scabbard alone to heal. The wounds are all nearly closed.”

He sat up, feeling dizzy, but didn’t collapse again. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, and she handed his shirt to him. He saw a bandage tied around his arm and felt another one wrapped around his chest. Grimacing, he pulled on the shirt and noticed Constance wincing as she looked at him. She had sent him to Pree knowing he’d be hurt. But she’d endured that knowledge just as she was now enduring the sight of his pain. If she could bear it, so could he.

Ransom rubbed the back of his neck. “Where is the chest?” he asked in a gentle tone.

“Over here,” she said. “Can you stand? I can bring it to you.”

He came to his feet and felt a throb of pain run the length of his injured thigh. Still, he managed to limp to the chest, which Constance had set on a small round table near a couch. Looking around, he didn’t recognize the room . . . and then he realized why. She’d had him brought to her private chamber. The curtains were open, revealing an incredible view of the cove. He massaged his throbbing forearm. Why had she brought him here?

Constance unlatched the chest and opened the lid. The Wizr set was inside, each piece intricately carved and unique, playing on a board made of polished stone with alternating colors of dark and light. He sensed the power of the Fountain radiating from it. The pieces were already in play, as if a game were in progress.

“Let me share what I’ve learned so far,” she said. “The pieces are welded to the board somehow. I’ve tried to move them, but they won’t budge. See for yourself.”

Ransom tried one of the smaller pawns and discovered she was right. He nodded in agreement.

“The pieces represent Occitania and Ceredigion. I think this is you,” she said, pointing to a knight piece near one of the edges of the board. “The square you’re on is halfway between the two sides. I think this part of the board represents Brythonica, and the piece next to yours is mine.” The piece she indicated was the same color as the knight piece, but he didn’t recognize the shape. “This is Alix,” she said, pointing to one of the opposing team’s pieces, “and I think this is where Pree is on the board. Here is Emiloh on the other side. I don’t know if I’m right, but I think so. Notice that both of the kings are gone from the board. When Estian returns, I think his piece will show up again. The same with Bennett. The board represents real people, the state of the game being played.” She touched the knight piece, the one that represented him.

Ransom stared at the board. “Claire has been reading the book you warned me of. The Hidden Vulgate. She said she read a passage about this Wizr set. It plays itself, she said. She believed the Aos Sí were trapped by it, that after so many games were played, it would unlock the gates of their prison.”

Constance tilted her head slightly. “Tell me more of the Aos Sí. I’m not as familiar with their legends as I am with the Fountain.”

Ransom thought a moment and then told her the stories Claire had shared with him about the Aos Sí’s war with the Wizrs. How they’d tried to drive them into submission with various magical artifacts. How the war had ended with the Aos Sí “winning” half the world . . . the half beneath the sea.

She listened patiently, asking few questions, until he was done.

“Ransom,” Constance said, “is it not possible the Black Wizr himself spawned these legends in The Hidden Vulgate? The book has been in Legault all this time.” She paused. “He was a dangerous foe, full of power and cunning. I don’t believe any ‘truths’ revealed in that book.”

“It’s hard to understand what is true, my lady,” he said. “If I were raised in Legault, I would have believed the legends just as they do.”

“Of course. The world is full of strange things. Things that have no explanation because the source has been lost to time.”

“Indeed,” he agreed. “When I first arrived, Claire took me to the barrow mounds. It is where they bury the bones of their ancestors. There was a stone with a face carved—” He stopped when he saw the startled look on her face. “Do you know of it?”

“There is something like that here in Brythonica,” she said softly. “It is a great secret.”