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

“This is a wicked place,” Ransom said, shaking his head.

Claire looked at him with hurt and surprise. “Hardly. It’s a sacred place.” She gestured again for him to take her hand. “There are magical protections that safeguard this place from trespassers, but my family belongs here. No harm will come to either of us.”

His stomach clenched with dread, but he couldn’t deny her, nor did she seem in the least concerned by the dangerous feelings battering him. He took her hand, and they started forward together.

She tugged him by the hand, smiling at him, although there was a look of worry in her eyes. “I’ve been here before, Ransom. It’s not dangerous.”

He did not agree. It felt like they were surrounded by invisible beings, and the closer they got, the more oppressive the feeling became. Sweat began to trickle down his cheek. The dark gap between the arch of stones seemed alive, menacing.

As they reached the first stones, he saw they had been carved with designs similar to the silver ends of the braided bracelet he wore on his left arm. The entire face of the stone was carved with a whorl-like pattern. The markings were indistinct, like ivy, but the lines wove around the rock, each one leading to the entrance. He felt he was going to be sick. Weakness overpowered his joints.

Claire touched the first stone, grazing her hand across it, and continued forward.

Ransom’s mind went black with terror. The impulse to flee was immense, but he kept moving forward—one hand grasping Claire’s, the other grasping the hilt of his bastard sword. The opening in the stone seemed to sigh.

Claire turned sideways so she could slip through the narrow gap. Ransom balked, his arms trembling, but she turned to face him, smiling at him as if nothing at all were wrong.

“Come on,” she said.

His stomach heaved as he looked at the designs on the nearest stones. A black serpent slithered by his foot. He cried out, but it had already disappeared from view.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

“I saw a snake,” he said.

“There are no serpents in Legault,” she told him. “It was probably just a lizard.”

He was breathing fast. Releasing the hilt of his bastard sword, he touched the stone as he, too, shifted sideways to enter. It felt as if the boulders were teeth, and he was about to be swallowed by a giant, but he made it into the barrow mound after Claire.

The darkness closed in around him, then Claire said a single word in Gaultic. “Solas.”

Two burning coals appeared in the blackness of the tomb. Ransom watched as the fiery coals gradually brightened, revealing another boulder at the end of the barrow, about a stone’s throw from where they stood. The two points were actually the eyes of a face carved into the rock. It was a menacing face, a bearded man with wild hair and an awful visage. The light from the burning eyes revealed stone shelves containing urns.

As the barrow mound brightened, the feeling of dread and gloom dissipated. Relief calmed him.

“You can let go now,” Claire said to him, and he realized he’d been clenching her hand too hard. He relaxed his grip, and she massaged her palm but didn’t scold him or tease him.

The walls were full of intricate carvings, some of beasts, some of moose elk, each image wrapped in lines that twisted and wove. It was amazing handiwork, and now that the strange fear had left him, he could admire it with new eyes.

Claire walked into the middle of the chamber. “This is where my ancestors sleep. Their bones are sacred to us. The name of this burial place is called the Elf Barrow—though none of us know why.” She approached one of the stone benches and touched a stone jar etched with designs similar to the rest. “This jar was my mother’s,” she said, stroking it with fondness.

Ransom looked around, feeling more and more at ease. There were many such jars throughout the chamber, each one representing a life long gone.

“I used to come here to feel close to her,” she said. “That’s why I’ve never understood why your people cast away the bones of the dead.”

“My people?” he asked, feeling a wrinkle in his heart at her choice of words.

“There is more Gaultic blood in me than any other kind,” she said, looking over her shoulder at him. “I’ve always remembered my heritage. I need but look in a mirror to see it, after all,” she said, reaching and twirling some hair around her finger. Her gaze grew serious, then intense. “Is breá liom an iomarca duit, Ransom.”

“What does that mean?” he asked in confusion.

“It means ‘I love you too much.’” She shook her head. “I want so much to show you this world, but I’m afraid you’ll reject it because it’s not what you were born to know. Our customs are so different from those of Ceredigion.” A pause. “I could tell the safeguards bothered you earlier. I’m sorry for that. I’ve only been here with my father, and I don’t remember whether they affected him. My bloodline protects me.”

He gazed down at the ground. “I want to learn, Claire. Truly.” He hesitated. “But the Fountain is real. I know it is.”

She approached and then took his hands in hers. “The stories of the Fountain began when the Lady gave a sword that could spurt flame to the mortal world. They called it Firebos, did they not?”

“The sword of King Andrew,” Ransom said, nodding. “I believe it’s real.”

“I do as well, Ransom,” she said. “The Lady came from the waters of a pool. A pool not unlike the one we just came from, thick with lily pads and frogs. The sword was made by the Aos Sí, Ransom. Their stories go even further back than the legends of the Lady. They existed long before people began throwing coins into pools. If the tradition you believe in is ancient, might it not be possible there is one even more ancient?”

Her words made sense, but they also felt blasphemous. What was it she’d said? When something is new, it can feel like a threat. Perhaps the followers of the Aos Sí had felt the same way many, many years ago, when new traditions had sprung to life. Might there not be middle ground between them?

“Who is that bearded man in the carving? It seems very old.”

She turned and beckoned him to approach it with her. He did, for it no longer felt as threatening as it had.

“He has many names. You’ll find this visage carved into trees as well as stone. He’s known as an Fear Glas—the Green Man. Others call him an Ridire Glas. The Green Knight. He’s immortal, having learned the secrets of undying life from the Aos Sí, and cursed to roam the world for all time. The legend is that if you cut off his head, he will not die. It’s a frightening story, actually.”

As Ransom stared at the carving with its burning eyes, he understood that fear.

“Others call him the Green Druid,” she said somberly. “The first Wizr.”

Ransom gazed around at the stone jars on the shelves. So many years were represented here. So many generations. “I wonder if that’s connected to the legend of King Andrew in some way?” he wondered aloud. “The Green Knight who can come back to life? The legend of King Andrew says he was mortally wounded and taken away to a distant land to heal so he could be born again and rule once more. What sort of magic could make that possible?”

She tilted her head and smiled at him. “I know the legend. People will believe anything so long as it gives them hope.”

He felt a little stab of discomfort, the fear their beliefs might be incompatible.

“Let’s go drag our kill to the hunting lodge,” she offered. Then she turned to the stone carving of the Green Man and said, “Dorcha.”

Everything went black again, except for the pale strip of light coming from the narrow exit. She took Ransom’s hand, and they left together.

Once they were past the stones, he felt the terror rising in his chest again. He didn’t understand the magic of the place. Nor did he particularly want to, other than as a way to understand Claire.