It was after midnight, and Ransom lay on his bed, hands behind his head, staring at the beams supporting the ceiling. Moonlight streamed through the window in silvery beams. He tried to summon memories of Alix to quiet the torment, but the thought of her kisses only made him feel guiltier because he hadn’t told the king what he knew about her. Because he hadn’t spoken to Claire about any of it.
Because he was no longer sure how he felt about the heiress of Bayree.
What would happen after the truth came to light? He had witnessed firsthand how the king had reacted to his sons’ betrayal. The memory of that cry of pain from the pavilion had haunted him for years. And the king still had not visited his wife, Queen Emiloh, in her tower. Ransom did not want to disappoint the king that way. He did not want to be yet one more person to disappoint him.
Frustrated, he rose from the bed and dug his fingers into his hair. He felt like crying. No, he felt like going down to the training yard, bastard sword in hand, and taking his feelings out on an opponent or two.
He’d been back in Kingfountain for two days, and each moment he felt more conflicted, less certain of his path. Ransom had written a letter to Alix letting her know of the king’s intention of a winter marriage, but he wished he could call back the courier. Part of him still felt he should marry her—a strong part of him wanted to—and yet doubt had welled through him. Did he only wish to wed her because he owed her a debt for saving his life? She had killed the Younger King, his former master, but she’d been ordered to do so by Estian’s father, who should rightly bear the brunt of the blame. And what of the curse she’d mentioned?
Ransom went to the window, parting the curtain. He could see the courtyard below, dark with swirling shadows. Sentries bearing torches patrolled the grounds as their duty required.
That idea mocked him. What duty required. Duty required him to tell the king what he knew. There was no way around it.
Ransom.
He heard the whisper and started. It had been felt more than heard, although he sensed this wasn’t the voice of the Fountain. He turned around abruptly, noticing a strange blue light emanating from the corner of the room. The raven-head sigil on his scabbard, which was slung on a nearby chair, was shining. He blinked in surprise, his concerns shoved aside by a growing sense of dread and fear.
It usually didn’t glow on its own, only when its magic was healing him.
Ransom.
He heard the whisper again, although this time it sounded farther away. There was a pleading quality to it. A beckoning.
Was his mind playing tricks on him?
Perhaps, but Ransom felt compelled to leave his room. Cautiously, he went to the chair and pulled his tunic on over his undershirt. Then he wrapped the scabbard belt around his waist. As he cinched it, he felt comforted by having his weapon with him. He finished by tugging on his boots and went to the door and pulled the latch.
He gazed out into the darkened corridor and saw nothing but shadow. He didn’t know which way to go, so he started toward the stairs leading to the main floor of the castle. Having spent many years here as a child, he knew the palace better than most. Memories of those sunlit afternoons made his heart pang with loss. He gritted his teeth and slowly made his way down the steps.
He wandered the halls, empty now of servants, looking for something he couldn’t explain. He could barely see, the glowing raven sigil his only source of light, but his other senses guided his steps. The hush of night over the castle brought a feeling of stillness that went as deep as his bones. He walked steadily, peering through the darkness. And then, he saw another source of blue light glowing up ahead.
He slowed his walk, his heart tugging with unease.
Ransom.
The voice was coming from the blue light. It sounded . . . familiar. A man’s voice. His heart hammering with emotions he didn’t understand, Ransom walked faster, approaching the light. As he approached, he could see it emanated from one of the decorative fountains in the palace. The lapping of its waters filled his ears as he entered the anteroom containing the fountain. Bizarre light suffused the space, emanating from the very waters of the fountain. A spray of mist rose from the depths, creating a sheath of vapor that rose to the ceiling, and standing within that swirling pillar of mist was King Gervase, a ghostlike apparition.
Ransom stared at him in shock as the old king looked on him with a smile of welcome and kindness. As soon as he registered what he saw, he dropped to his knee, bowing his head, his emotions unraveling into a chaotic mess.
My boy. It is I.
Again, he heard the voice in his mind rather than with his ears. The words penetrated his heart like a lance tip. Tears began to streak down his cheeks.
“M-my lord,” Ransom gasped, feeling like a child again. He felt too overwhelmed to look up, too fearful of seeing judgment in the old king’s eyes.
Look at me.
Ransom dreaded it, but he obeyed. The ghost king’s eyes were wells of compassion, and there was a kindly smile on his bearded face. He missed seeing that face. King Gervase had made him feel safe and appreciated. At home. When had he felt that way since? It had all been ripped away upon his mentor’s death. He gasped again, trying to compose himself, but failed.
I’ve missed you, my boy. But I’m at peace now in the Deep Fathoms. I’ve come to warn you.
Ransom blinked away tears, but they wouldn’t dissipate, so he swiped them with his wrist. “Warn me?”
Confined in the mortal coil, you are blind to so much around you. I was the same way. I spent my life half blind. Will you heed my warning, my boy?
Ransom swallowed and nodded emphatically. “I will. I will do whatever the Fountain bids me to do.”
Even if it causes you pain? Even if you must die?
The thought filled him with dread, but he was resolved. “I will do it.”
The ghost king smiled again. I see much better now the role I played during my reign. Much of what I thought was important is not. I needed someone like you, Ransom, an advisor I could trust implicitly. One who would tell me the truth. The Fountain chose you to help the Argentines because of your feelings of duty. You were chosen before you were born.
Ransom looked at him in astonishment. “How is that possible?”
I did not understand it myself at first. How can I expect you to? When I was king, I felt as if every choice I made had been predetermined. The actions that led to my rise. My fall. It was all decided in advance, and I was dancing to a tune plucked by a minstrel I could not see. My actions were often prompted by the obligations I felt at the core of my being, ones I’d carried from a previous existence.
In wonderment, Ransom shook his head. “That feels unjust. How can our choices matter, then?”
The ghost of Gervase smiled knowingly. Like the abhorrence of murdering an innocent child? Circumstances may suggest such an action is prudent, especially when power is to be gained or kept, but we cringe involuntarily from such horrors. Yet the choices we make are always our own. The obligations we feel belong to a different world, founded on kindness, scruples, sacrifices—a world entirely different from the one you’re still in. The Deep Fathoms is the place from which we emerge to be born, before returning thither, to live under the empire of those unknown laws we have strived to obey because we bore their teaching within us without knowing who had taught us. Yet still we choose which world influences us most in our earthly existence.