Ahead, he saw the servants gripping spears and standing before the camels worriedly. The beasts brayed with concern, but they were tethered together in a circle and could not flee.
He killed three more men before they reached the caravan. The survivors fled down another hill, realizing they’d die if they didn’t abandon their objective. He’d killed eight of the attackers, and his breathing had hardly picked up. It almost frightened him how efficient he was at killing people. The darkness inside him swelled with pride. He tamped it down.
Kohler grinned down at him and offered a salaam, a gesture of respect from the desert world. “I don’t think we’ll have any more trouble before we reach the oasis.”
The Chandleer Oasis was an impressive sight in the middle of the desert. On the horizon, red- and orange-hued mountains jutted up from the dunes, forming a natural barrier to the east. The oasis was fortified, with a series of sandstone walls mixed with vibrant palm trees. The group reached it as the sun went down, and the guards opened the gates, allowing them to join the other caravans that had braved the distance and were taking a much-needed rest.
There were many natural pools of water throughout the enclosure, enough to provide all the men and beasts with essential refreshment. Ransom refilled his flask and gulped it down, taking in the sights around him. There was a palace within the oasis itself, a grand structure with outer corridors, archways, and sculpted stone fashioned into dazzling parapets. Many travelers had set up their tents outside the palace, and Ransom helped his group do the same. Once the tents were up, Kohler broke off to speak to some of the other merchants in Genevese. Some of the other merchants had warriors with them too, and Ransom saw a few knights talking amongst themselves. One saw him and tapped his thumb against his chest in a familiar gesture. Ransom smiled and returned the salute.
Three knights walked up to him.
“Where do you hail from?” they asked in Occitanian.
He didn’t want to announce himself, not sure how far his reputation might have spread. Although he’d been cleared of any wrongdoing after Devon’s death, he knew it hadn’t prevented people from whispering about him.
“A small castle in the country,” he replied, matching their language. It wasn’t a lie, as he’d won a small castle in Occitania at a tournament. “What about you three?”
“Much the same,” said one of them. “How long have you been in the desert? It seems a good long time?”
“Over a year,” Ransom answered.
“I took a ship from Brugia months ago,” said another. “King Lewis is dead. It’s said he died of apoplexy. The Black Prince is king now. Had you heard?”
Ransom almost physically flinched. The old king was the one who’d sent a cloaked woman to kill Devon. She was the same woman who had probably killed Claire’s father. Ransom had seen her face, and she bore an uncanny resemblance to Queen Emiloh. He suspected the woman was the queen’s daughter, born before her marriage to Devon the Elder. He had told no one.
“No,” Ransom answered, shaking off the memories. “I’m surprised to hear it.”
The knight shrugged. “We’ve been talking about going back to Occitania,” said the knight. “The new king will need as many knights as he can take on. Might be another war with Ceredigion, eh?” He spoke the name of Ransom’s country with a tone of open contempt. “You returning after this trip? Or continuing on to the East Kingdoms?”
“I don’t know,” Ransom said. “My contract ends here.”
“Bah, who cares about a contract,” said one of the other knights. “It pays the most to serve yourself.”
The sentiment rankled Ransom. Their king, the one who’d died, had made a show of Virtus—the virtues of knighthood, which included honesty, valor, and integrity—but clearly it had failed to make an impact on his own knights. Or at least these three. “If that’s how you see it. I must be on my way.”
“You could come with us if you want,” offered one of them.
He didn’t but thanked them anyway and started walking toward the palace. The building was constructed of polished marble, and it struck him with wonder that such a place should exist in the middle of a vast desert. The gate stood open, and the armed warriors who guarded it stood by, allowing him to enter.
Torches in brackets lined the inner walls, holding back the coming dark. As he entered, servants approached with trays of apricots, figs, and cups of a pink drink. He took some of the fruit and waved away the drink. A few birds flitted around the indoor trellises, which were thick with fragrant star jasmine vines. He stopped and inspected them, inhaling the sweet fragrance, and noticed several of the merchants had preceded him inside. Kohler was among them. His robes and turban were gone; in their place, he wore his costly raiment, and his dark beard stretched into a massive grin. Laughter continued to emanate from the men as they shared experiences and stories. The celebratory atmosphere reminded Ransom of the end of a tournament, only this was a prize for merchants rather than knights—a reward for having endured the difficult journey.
A servant walked by with a tray of another kind of fruit. It had a mottled green rind and pink flesh. The bystanders took wedged slices and ate from them, spitting black seeds onto the marble floor. Other servants came and swept up the seeds.
Ransom continued to walk around, observing the guests and admiring the wealth on display. He wondered who ruled and defended such a place. It was a mystery to him, and it made him feel even more out of place than usual. Although he wasn’t sure what he was looking for, he felt a mental nudge when he saw a set of doors at the far end of the luxurious hall. He walked to the doors and then outside into the gardens. There were others there, merchants roaming the space together. Beautiful dark-haired servants continued to offer delicacies to eat, skewered meat and green olives.
Ransom kept walking. Because of the fall of night, he couldn’t see the mountains in the distance, but he imagined it was a splendid view during the day. Fountains shimmered throughout the garden, seemingly lit from within. His pulse quickened, and he felt a stirring in his heart. He’d come leagues through harsh terrain to reach this place. A pilgrimage to the East Kingdoms was, according to the deconeus of St. Penryn, a way for the Fountain-blessed to understand their calling. If he was lucky, the Fountain might also recognize him with a gift.
He walked past at least three different fountains, but the tugging sensation continued to draw him deeper into the gardens. Soon the glowing water sources were behind him. He wandered down a garden path, following it by instinct, and arrived at a small, nondescript well. A lip of stone surrounded it, and a wooden structure topped it, with a rope securing a jug to the wood. This was where servants came to draw water.
He glanced back, finding himself secluded from the other visitors and servants, and then rested his hand on the wooden structure. At first the only sound was that of distant laughter, but the sound faded, and in its wake came the rushing of waters, the noise of the falls outside the palace of Kingfountain. His skin prickled with awareness. It felt like he wasn’t alone.
Ransom dropped to one knee by the edge of the rim. His chest began to heave as he felt emotions rush through him, unfamiliar, powerful.
Go down.
It was a thought, but it was not his own. Ransom didn’t hesitate. He grabbed the sturdy rope and lowered the jug down into the well until he heard it splash into the water. After securing the rope, he gripped its fibrous length and began to lower himself down. The darkness engulfed him. He felt the strain from the weight of his armor, but he clenched his teeth and went down quickly. The water touched his legs, then his hips, and then he was hanging there, wondering how deep it went.