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

The mouth of the cistern was wide—it would probably take thirty men to encircle it—and a set of stairs led up to it from either side of the low stone wall forming the lip. He walked in a circuit around it, repeatedly going up and down the steps. For a castle on a hill, having a cistern was imperative, especially during a siege. Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew a coin. There was no moon yet, so the metal looked dull in his hand. The cistern waters were dark and gloomy.

Ransom bowed his head and tossed the coin into the waters. It landed with a small splash. He turned and sat down, his back against the upper wall of the cistern, and listened to the breeze and the sound of the guards talking to each other in Brugian. He imagined his coin had sunk until it settled on the bottom of the cistern floor. How long would it stay there? Would it ever be found? Would tarnish eventually dissolve it? How long would that unspoken prayer last?

He sat like that for a long time, waiting in the quiet of the courtyard, one of the shadows, one with the dark. He could hear the lapping of the water far below, and it brought him a modicum of peace.

As time sped by and he watched the swirl of stars shift and change position, he knew it was nearly midnight. Ransom was about to rise, but then he stopped and stayed on his knees. He remembered how Constance had shown him another way to pray to the Fountain. What he needed was help and wisdom. And, more importantly, the determination to do whatever was asked of him, even if it was something he loathed.

Bowing his head, he spoke within his heart.

I am here. I have done what I was asked to do. Give me strength to do this task. To do the will of the Fountain.

He remembered how Constance, suffering from the agony of missing her child, had prayed for him. The memory made him tremble with emotion.

Bless the Duchess of Brythonica. Bless her in her grief. Bless my wife, Claire. Bless our children, Willem and Devon. Bless the child who has not yet been born.

As he thought about all the people who held his loyalty, his heart swelled, and he felt the magic of the Fountain seep inside him, making him stronger, more determined.

Bless Bennett in his prison. Bless Emiloh with wisdom and understanding.

The power grew stronger. He could feel his stores of Fountain magic increasing, as if the cistern inside his chest were growing larger. He remembered when he’d seen the shade of Gervase in Kingfountain. He pressed his hand to the edge of the cistern wall. It seemed as if he heard a whisper.

Go, my boy. All is well.

Gripping the edge of the wall, he rose to his feet, full of new power and strength. He walked across the courtyard, his tread soft. When he reached the doorway, he opened it and started up the stairs until he reached the second level. Then he went to the door leading to Noemie’s tower and opened it. It was unlocked.

He climbed the steps in the dark shaft, feeling the uncomfortable press of her power, but he was stronger now. Even though the shaft was dark, he felt light pulsing inside of him, through him.

When he reached her door, he saw dim light emanating from beneath it. Candlelight. He opened the door and stepped inside.

Noemie wore a pale white chemise. The mask was gone, the golden headdress as well. The first buttons of the chemise were undone, revealing a golden necklace and some ink stains on her breastbone, forming a design of some kind. He looked up into her glowing silver eyes.

“I knew you’d come,” she said with a victorious smile. “You are mine now, heart and soul. Give yourself to me, Ransom. You know that you want to. It is the only way you can save your king.”

He sensed the lie as it passed her beautiful mouth. She was exultant, relishing her power. Understanding flooded him—her power came from the curious medallion she wore around her neck.

Feelings battered him like howling winds attempting to rip down a sturdy oak. He felt his roots straining against the savage torrent. There had ever existed a darkness in his soul. His proclivity for violence had always frightened him, which was why he’d invariably sought to put his talents to good use rather than selfish purposes. But that inner darkness—the thrill of battle and plunder and war—swelled inside him now, making him stare at her with hunger.

“Come, Ransom,” she breathed. “Come and take me. You’ve always wanted it.”

Take the medallion.

The whisper cut through the storm, sharp as a blade.

Before his determination could melt in the heat of desire, he closed the gap between them. Her breath came in heady gasps as she reached for him.

His fingers grazed her skin as he felt for the edges of the chain. Then he grasped the medallion between his fingers and jerked hard. The golden strand snapped effortlessly.

The silver in her eyes vanished, and the calamitous feelings rushed from the room so violently the silk curtains began to flail. He held the source of the magic in his hand, a howling windstorm of power, while the broken chain dangled from his clenched fist. The presence of magic vanished, leaving both of them suddenly gasping.

“What have you done!” Noemie accused.

Holding it tightly, he turned and walked away.

“Come back here! I order you to come back here!” she began to shriek. “Give it to me!”

He reached for the door handle and twisted it, looking back at her. A sudden insight took hold of him, driving out any remaining influence of the medallion. “You were never going to pay for Benedict’s release. And neither was Estian. You just wanted to prevent anyone else from claiming him. It’s over, Noemie. Go back to Chandigarl. You have no power here anymore.” He squeezed the medallion until its edges hurt his hand.

“Give it to me!” she pleaded desperately.

He saw the truth in her face. She had tried seducing him to the dark side of the Wizr board before. To shift his allegiance and make him one of Estian’s pieces. Her intent had been the same this time, and she’d had new tools to help her succeed. But he knew about the medallions now. He would not fall prey to one again.

She rushed at him, her eyes wild with determination, but he slipped out the door and wrenched the handle with all his strength. It came off, and he left it on the floor. He heard a rattling sound on the other side and then her small fists pounding against the wooden door, but she was incapable of breaking it down. Ransom hurried down the steps, gripping the medallion still, and went out to the courtyard again.

Standing at the edge of the cistern, he raised the medallion to his lips as if it were a coin meant for an offering. In the darkness, he dropped it into the waters, listening to the little plunk it made when it entered the pool.

As if in answer, the moon rose above the wall of the castle, its silver light blinding him. He thought of Claire, back in Glosstyr, and wondered if she was awake too, watching the same moonrise. He hoped so.

Gratitude and joy filled him until he felt almost giddy. And then, as he stood by the cistern, he realized someone else was awake that night. He could almost feel Constance’s eyes on him through the seering stones.

And he could see her smiling in satisfaction that he’d faced his challenge and won.





Sir Dawson’s force was attacked by surprise. It was a bloody conflict with many lost on each side. But Sir Dawson won the day and returned to Glosstyr with eleven hostages from the Occitanian ranks. It was a much-needed victory.

Duke Ashel has arrayed his knights on the bridge spanning the waterfall. The wedding will happen this week, and then Jon-Landon will, no doubt, try to seize the castle. The eejit is taking a great risk. If Benedict returns, he would be guilty of treason. Word from the North is Lord James is holding out for as long as he can, but he will go where the wind blows. Everything can turn one way or the other. Still no word from Brugia.

And yet, I feel hopeful that Ransom will succeed. Last night, I couldn’t sleep, but when the moon rose, I felt confidence fill me. If anyone can right this ship, it is my Ransom. A storm is coming. Let it come.

—Claire de Murrow

Glosstyr

(determined)





CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX