“No,” said Lord Ashel angrily. “I’ll not hear of it.”
Ransom glanced at Jon-Landon, whose gaze had sharpened. Lady Deborah had mentioned a maneuver that would overlook him as the possible heir, and the acid in his gaze was unmistakable.
“Be silent, Ashel,” said the king, waving his hand. “That is why I value her input so much. She says what no man among you is brave enough to say. You’ll notice she didn’t suggest this course, merely mentioned it. I can assure you I won’t do it, but I need to see all of the choices before I make a move.” The only sign that he was overwrought was his red, splotchy cheeks. “Like in Wizr, when you make a move, you cannot undo it.”
The door to the audience hall opened, and the king’s steward rushed in, his face pale. He hurried up, bent over, and whispered in the king’s ear.
Devon straightened, his eyes widening with shock. “Bring him in,” he commanded.
Lord Kinghorn steepled his fingers over his mouth and leaned back in his chair. Ransom wondered what had happened, but his suspense was soon lifted as a man entered wearing the livery of Occitania. He was not a knight, just a messenger. His black tunic bore the silver symbols of the fleurs-de-lis. He had doffed his velvet cap, and he came before them and bowed. The gray in his hair showed his age, as did the creases on his cheekbones.
“Well met, herald,” said the king. “I used to know your name. You served King Lewis.”
“My name is Moquet,” said the man in a strong Occitanian accent. “I was chosen because I did, indeed, serve our old king. My lord, I bring evil tidings.”
“I know,” said Devon. “Or you would not have come. Do you have a message for me?” He opened his palm.
The herald shook his head no. “These words are from King Estian himself, from his lips to my ears to yours. It grieves me, truly, to bear such evil tidings. Your son Duke Goff of Brythonica died in Chessy two days ago in an accident. He fell from his horse while hunting a white elk and was . . . he was trampled, my lord.”
A sickening feeling shot through Ransom’s heart. The man looked utterly convinced he was speaking the truth. There was no lie in his eyes, and the grief with which he delivered the news seemed genuine. But Ransom couldn’t accept it was an accident.
“My king was so overcome with grief,” said the herald, “that he wept openly before the people. I have never seen him so sorrowful, my lord. Truly. It was an accident. I swear it on the Lady of the Fountain.”
Ransom still didn’t believe it. He shifted his eyes to the king, who looked dumbstruck. Devon the Elder’s hands gripped the armrests of the chair, his knuckles white as bone.
The king found his voice at last. “What . . . pray tell me . . . was he doing in Chessy in the first place?”
“The p-prince . . . my king,” stammered Moquet, “had called for a tournament to welcome the spring. Your son Benedict invited his brother to the tournament. And so he came.”
Ransom glanced at Lady Deborah. Her expression suggested they were thinking along the same lines. Had Benedict caused his own brother’s death, to remove another obstacle to him taking the throne?
Or was this Estian’s ploy?
This bondage presses on me like an ache that will never heal. Emi and I had a long talk this morning. She sees my souring mood, the tears I try to hide. I abhor everything about this tower except my friendship with her. When I think of Atha Kleah, I cannot help but grieve that I may never see it again. Or Connaught or the barrow mounds. What if I never hear the lilting tongue of my true people from any mouth but my own? What if I am cursed to stay here until the end of time? Emi says I should not stay out of loyalty to her. I hold the key to my own prison. All I need do is agree to marry. I told her that my heart belongs to one man, and until he drowns in the Deep Fathoms, it is where it will belong.
I cannot tell Ransom this, for we agreed at the beginning that we would only write as friends and share nothing of our feelings. Feelings that, for me, grow stronger with every letter. He reveals only what he can about the war and a little about himself. I tell him about Legault and the Aos Sí, and what little stories I can of my long, tedious days. And I wait. And wait. And wait.
—Claire de Murrow
Cursed Tower, Kingfountain
CHAPTER TWENTY
The Test of the Heart
The news struck the king like a lance. He slumped down on his throne, head in his hands, and that was enough to dismiss the members of the council. Ransom wandered the palace aimlessly, feeling wretched at the news, convinced that Goff’s death was no accident. Had Alix played a role in the deaths of two of Devon’s sons? He was grateful he’d told the king about her when he did, but that did not lessen the feeling that he had failed to protect the king’s sons. Three heirs to the throne remained: Benedict, Jon-Landon, and now Goff and Constance’s son, who was still just a small child. They’d named him Andrew after the legendary king.
He found himself near the part of the palace with the cistern. The place was pleasant, full of memories that were more so, and no guards blocked his path. He went out there and found the little square empty. The solitude was just what he needed. He paced around the hole leading down into the cistern, wondering what the future would hold. The Elder King was now outnumbered in the coming conflict. James was coming with an army from Dundrennan. Benedict had Estian on his side and enough funds to summon an army of mercenaries to boost his forces from the Vexin. No help was expected from Brythonica; Lady Constance would not want to leave herself vulnerable in Brythonica after her husband’s death. Duke Rainor had been captured, and Westmarch was mostly overrun. In truth, Benedict had done a much better job of inciting a revolt than his older brother had. He’d learned from his mistakes and turned himself into a formidable enemy.
Ransom clenched his fist and grimaced. It was the king’s own fault things had come to this point. His arrogance and pride had led to this rebellion. And certainly Estian had done his part to curdle the milk.
Go to the king.
He recoiled upon hearing the whisper from the Fountain. He did not want to see the grief of Devon at that moment, nor did he imagine he would be of any comfort. What he wanted to say would be salt, not a balm. Yet the command had unmistakably come from the Fountain. It had not sprung from his own thoughts.
He’d promised to obey the voice.
Raking his fingers through his hair, he breathed out in a grunt. His stomach twisted with agitation. The very last thing he wished to do was confront the king, but he would do it. Even though he had no idea what to say.
Ransom left the courtyard and started walking toward the king’s personal chamber. Before reaching it, he encountered Lord Kinghorn, who looked grave as well.
“Are you looking for the king?” he asked.
“Yes. I was just on my way.”
Ransom was afraid his kinsman would counsel him to leave the king in peace, but the older man surprised him. “He’s out at the dock to be alone. I’ve wrestled with this feeling that he needs someone right now, and I am not the one. Will you go to him, Marshall?”
He nodded, feeling it was no accident he’d met Lord Kinghorn in the corridor. Ransom turned and hurried away, walking in long strides to the doorway leading to the dock along the river. Sir Harrold and Sir Axien guarded it, which did not come as a surprise, but they both knew Ransom and let him pass without a word.