“I’d rather not say in front of a deconeus.” Kiskaddon’s smile was smug, and Ransom squeezed his hands into fists to subdue his growing anger.
“I think I’m familiar with the sordid rumors,” Ransom said. “There have been plenty.”
“There have,” agreed Kiskaddon. “First, there was the Younger King’s wife. Then, after your marriage to Lady Claire, you ran off to visit Goff’s widow, Lady Constance. I even heard from Bennett’s chancellor that you seduced the masked emissary of the East Kingdoms and persuaded her to quit Brugia and stop bidding on the king’s ransom.” He reached out and tapped his forefinger on the Wizr board. “That’s why you’re here, doing the king’s bidding once more. He has you in his fist, and he’s squeezing you hard. Isn’t it also said in the legends that King Andrew’s first knight seduced his queen?”
The anger in Ransom’s heart nearly spilled out. He wanted to strike the Wizr board to the ground, to let the whole kingdom drown in infamy. It burned like a brand to hear that the rumors persisted still. The cruel and false tales about him had proliferated like weeds and hid in the stalks of truth. But he kept his emotions in check, refusing to let Kiskaddon goad him.
“Guivret knows about the Wizr board,” Ransom said. “He was with me when I took it.”
Kiskaddon chuffed and gesticulated. “He’s the one who told me of your affair with the Duchess of Brythonica! You can hardly count him as a witness of your honor!”
Ransom looked at the deconeus, whose eyes were wide with astonishment. He looked discomfited by the sordid tales.
“I have always loved Claire de Murrow,” Ransom said. “I’ve never betrayed her, and the accusations you throw at me are false. Estian’s sister was the one who tried to dishonor me, and I rejected her both then and in Brugia. She was the masked lady, and it was her conniving with her brother that led to our war with the East Kingdoms. I unmasked her, and she fled. As for the Duchess of Brythonica, I never laid a finger on her. She is the most honorable person I know, and the accusation of your knight must be roundly denounced.”
Ransom’s forceful speech had shocked Kiskaddon into silence.
“I see you are in earnest,” he said after a long pause, his eyes serious.
“There is only one thing a knight can do when such accusations have been leveled against him. I must defend my honor and my reputation. I challenge Sir Guivret to single combat. A trial of the sword. May the Fountain judge between us.”
Kiskaddon nodded. “That is just, although your reputation as a warrior would make any man balk. I will relay your challenge to Guivret. If he continues to denounce you, then you will both fight, without armor.”
“There will be no blood shed on these grounds,” the deconeus said firmly.
“We will hold the challenge on the bridge, before the gates of the sanctuary,” Kiskaddon offered. “Do you agree, my lord duke?”
“I do,” Ransom said, rising from his chair. He gave Kiskaddon a knightly salute.
It was returned.
The duel was arranged for later that afternoon. It was not a fight to the death, but a fight to submission. It would end with one man lying on his back, a blade to his throat, and declaring guilt. The knights who had come with Ransom lined the street on one side. The knights who had come with Kiskaddon lined the other. Ransom and Guivret faced off in the space in between. The roar of the falls blocked out all other noises.
Ransom stood alone, hand on his pommel, but he felt the support of his knights behind him. Guivret was speaking to Kiskaddon, but he left his mesnie and approached Ransom on the street.
Ransom wore a thin undertunic, open at the front. He was older than Guivret, more experienced, and he felt the confidence of his Fountain magic thrumming through him. The knowledge that he was in the right. Reaching out with his magic, he gauged Guivret’s abilities and found him to be highly skilled. The lad had always worked hard on his drills, and he was fearless by nature. But Ransom sensed a shadow in the young man’s soul, a taint undoubtedly caused by Alix’s strange gift of persuasion.
Ransom sighed. “I am innocent,” he said to the young knight.
“I know in my heart that you are a liar,” Guivret said with emotion. He looked conflicted, though, ravaged by distrust and the time he’d spent as the Occitanians’ prisoner.
Ransom felt a twinge of guilt. Had he managed to rescue Guivret, he could have saved him the pain of being a prisoner, of having his mind twisted against his friends. But Alix had never intended to let that happen. This was just another piece of unfairness in a world that sometimes felt harsh and uncaring.
“May the Fountain judge between us.”
“It will,” insisted Guivret. “You’ve always been better than me, Lord Ransom. But I believe in the Fountain. I believe it will deliver you into my hands.”
Ransom nodded and drew his bastard sword. He had the Raven scabbard and didn’t fear injury, but he didn’t want to hurt Guivret, and the young knight seemed ready to throw himself fully into the fight.
The deconeus and the sexton and their many acolytes had gathered at the gate to watch.
Guivret drew his weapon, also a bastard sword. His chest heaved as they faced off.
“I’m ready, lad,” Ransom said.
With a cry that sounded like an animal’s guttural roar, Guivret rushed him, swinging his sword in a blizzard of swirls. Ransom sensed what he would do, however, and he easily backstepped and deflected, the noise of their clashing blades ringing out on the street. They switched sides, circling each other. The whistle of the blade came for Ransom’s neck, but he raised his own weapon and parried. Guivret’s mouth contorted with anger and another emotion—guilt?—and he charged on, coming at Ransom with the energy and fury of youth.
Ransom felt calm and peaceful.
Before long, the younger man’s attack began to slacken, his energy spent.
It was then Ransom commenced his assault. In three swings, he sent Guivret’s sword skittering across the cobblestones until it rested far out of reach. Guivret’s eyes shot wide with terror and surprise. He dropped to his knees before Ransom and lifted his head, exposing his throat.
“Kill me, Lord Ransom, I beg you!” he groaned.
“I’ll not kill you, lad,” Ransom said.
“Please!” Guivret opened his arms, offering his life. “I cannot . . . bear . . . to live. Not when the boy . . . is dead. My heart cannot endure it. Kill me.”
Ransom lowered his sword. “Do you revoke your accusation? I did not dishonor anyone.”
Guivret’s shoulders slumped. Tears began to mix with the sweat on his cheeks. “I bear witness, before you all, that Lord Ransom is innocent!” he shouted. He began to sob.
A feeling of peace swelled in Ransom’s chest. He felt nothing but forgiveness and empathy for the young man. Reaching out, he laid a hand on Guivret’s shoulder.
“It’s not your fault,” he said. “Alix is blessed as well. Her words are magic. Even I have fallen under her spell and believed things that were not true. I forgive you, lad.”
Guivret looked up at him, the confusion and guilt fading from his eyes. He took Ransom’s hand and kissed it.
A surge of Fountain magic manifested, stunning Ransom in its intensity. And suddenly the river overwhelmed the grounds of the sanctuary. Everyone turned in surprise as a wall of water tumbled through the gardens, surged past the sanctuary, and then came spilling through the gates, drenching the hem of the deconeus’s robes. The river cut through their group, about as high as their knees, before surging against the buildings on the other side of the bridge and spilling down the alleys in between them until it dumped off the bridge.