“Idle rumors,” Ransom said. But the words made him flinch, for they reminded him once again of the golden-haired poisoner, Emiloh’s daughter. He wanted to ask Jex what he knew, but he didn’t know whether the man could be trusted. So he remained silent until they reached the great hall.
Inside, Benedict was pacing. He’d only grown larger since their last meeting. He was almost as tall as Ransom now. Almost. And he had long golden hair and a red-flecked beard that he’d grown out, counter to the Occitanian preference for clean-shaven men. He looked like a warrior of Ceredigion as he paced like the restless lion on his emblem.
Upon seeing them, Benedict stopped his pacing.
“My lord duke,” Jex said, “the embassy has arrived from Kingfountain.” He bowed gracefully and doffed his puffy hat, revealing little stubs of hair on his bald head.
“I can see that,” said Benedict, giving Ransom a wary look.
Ransom met his gaze. He felt his senses reach out, like water seeking lower ground, and envelope Benedict. The Fountain magic within him knew the younger man in just a moment. Yes, he was strong and hardened by years of conflict. He was gifted with weapons but preferred battle axes to swords, which allowed him to use his great strength to cut down his enemies. His health was in its prime, showing no signs of injury or impairment. Except for one—he was reckless and impatient. He always had been. In a long contest, his strength would flag, and he’d make costly mistakes. The knowledge that seeped into Ransom ensured he would win a fight with the duke.
That he should know such things seemed lopsided, unfair. But there was no denying he did know them, and if he had to use them to his advantage, he would.
“Have you come with a message for me?” Benedict asked with a cool aloofness.
“I have, my lord,” Ransom said. He felt the reassuring weight of his hauberk. He felt the dignity of his office. And he felt the king’s trust, which filled him with purpose. With power.
Benedict gave him a mocking look, a partial sneer on his lips. “Don’t leave me waiting. What’s the message from the old man?”
“It’s a reminder and a warning, Bennett. Your father gave you the Vexin. He can take it away.”
The duke was not amused, nor did he seem troubled by the threat. “I can see why he sent you to deliver such a boast, Ransom. Who else could he have sent that I wouldn’t have laughed out of the Vexin? You serve the king now, like you did my brother. But I must ask you. How does he intend to take it away? Does he intend to wrest it from me, like a sweet from a child? Will he send a horde of mercenaries who are loyal to coin and not to him?” Benedict grunted. “You tell my father that if he moves against me, he will find that he has miscalculated my strength. And yours. I’m not afraid of you, Ransom. The last time we met, you bested me. I’m not so weak anymore.”
Ransom stared at him, feeling the rage and hostility inside those blue eyes. “Fighting your father destroyed Devon. I watched it happen,” Ransom said softly. He remembered the sunken face, the bloodied lips of the Younger King. The look of defeat in his eyes. “Don’t make the same mistake. Make peace with him. Before it’s too late.”
The words affected Benedict. His bravado began to fade. “He makes enemies where there is no need, from his own sons to our neighboring kingdoms. But he was wise to send you. I want him to free my mother. If she must be in confinement, then let it be here, among her own people. His revenge is . . . blind. Whatever she may have done, it is not worth this punishment. I also wish to be named his heir. I want to see both orders in a writ before I meet with him again.”
Ransom stared at him, knowing how implacable the Elder King was on this one issue. While he suspected the king wouldn’t hesitate to name Benedict his heir—it was clearly his intention to pass the kingdom to him—he would never willingly free his wife. “I, too, wish he would free her, Bennett. But do not provoke him. Bend your knee to your father, your king, and he may be more willing to listen to wisdom.”
The duke snorted in disgust. “What if I make him bend the knee to me?”
Pride. Ransom could see it seething inside Benedict like a hungry flame. He’d witnessed what it had done to the older brother. He dreaded it happening again. Ransom’s talents flourished in battle, but he would prefer not to use them against his own countrymen.
Benedict looked away in the silence, his mood darkening then shifting again to reflection. “I am nearly the age my father was when he began conquering his lands. And I’m not like my brother. I could do this thing. I feel it in my heart. I would win.”
“Why take by force what would be willingly given?” Ransom asked. “He sees you as his heir.”
“Does he? That’s more than he’s confessed to me.”
Ransom stepped closer. “His words are wounding. I won’t deny it. And yet I find myself remembering the night he captured you and your brother. You heard your father’s pain that night. We all did. Do not betray him again. Be loyal, and he will reward you.”
“You seem so sure, Ransom. I almost pity you. But my father is good at making promises. He’s not as good at keeping them.”
The look of defiance in Benedict’s eyes showed Ransom that the trouble between the sons and their father was far from over. And the prince’s words were the sort that wouldn’t leave him anytime soon—he had given his allegiance to King Devon, but all the king had given him could be easily taken away, like grains of sand slipping through a fist.
It was such a delight to get a letter from Ransom. He confided that he received permission from the king to send letters to me on occasion. His letter was much too short for my taste, but he told me a little about his journey—the sand and heat of it, the strange creatures he encountered in the desert. He told me also about the shock he felt to have so quickly found himself in the king’s favor, which isn’t surprising at all to anyone who knows him. Choosing Ransom is one of the only good decisions Devon’s made.
Ransom actually asked if I would be open to writing back to him, the eejit, as if he didn’t know this is the best news I’ve received in years. I don’t know how faithful a correspondent he will prove, but the prospect alone makes the confinement of the tower more bearable. I already wrote one back, asking for more details about his journey to the East Kingdoms. I’m jealous to hear anything he can say about it. My world is so small now.
The queen grows more anxious every day. The palace is droning like a hive of bees. Knights flock to the castle bearing the standards of the various duchies. We may be in a tower, but we can still see. Sir Dalian says little, but it seems the Elder King is preparing for another war. Another war with one of his sons. Emi is worried and rightly so. The last war ended in the death of her eldest. Yet if Duke Benedict wins, it means our freedom.
It’s like the game of Wizr the Occitanians enjoy so much. We can see pieces moving on the board, but confined to this tower as we are, we cannot understand the strategy of the hand that moves them. Benedict has spent the last several years fighting battles for his father. Does he know the kind of mind he faces? Can anyone understand the wild imaginings of this Argentine king?
—Claire de Murrow
Queen’s Tower