They were walking just at the edge of the water, and as he drew nearer them, he noticed the sea never touched them, even though they were walking within its reach. The lapping waters always reoriented themselves to leave a gap for them to continue their journey. The foamy tide reached his own horse and the rest of the beach behind him.
After he closed the distance between them, the woman finally turned to look at him.
It was not Alix.
He was stunned by her otherworldly beauty, the serious eyes, the somber mouth. She was barefoot, and he saw the glimmer of jewelry around her ankle. Devon, who had been walking alongside her, carried a satchel around his shoulders and supported it with both hands. He, too, turned. His eyes had a glazed look, as if he were sleepwalking.
“Who are you?” Ransom asked, his voice suddenly husky with fear. She was powerful with Fountain magic. He sensed it thrumming inside her, while his had been diminished from the efforts of the escape.
“The game is nearly over,” she said, her voice rich and melodious but full of significance. “If it is allowed to end now, with the Argentine line failing, the kingdom of Ceredigion will drown in a flood. Not from the sea, as before. It will perish in a storm that will last a hundred years.”
His throat caught at her pronouncement. “You speak prophecy.”
“I have the mantic gifts,” she answered.
He swallowed. “The end you see . . . I have tried to prevent it. I have done all that the Fountain has asked of me.”
“It is not enough. Would you give even more?” she asked him, tilting her head. Hair the color of copper rustled with the wind. Again the water from the crashing surf slid up the beach to reach him, but it stopped just short of the pair before him.
The painful throbbing of his heart made him tremble. “What must I do?”
She looked at him without sympathy or judgment. “You can escape the fate of Ceredigion two ways. You can return to the Fair Isle. Take as many as will come. You will save your family and any who come willingly. But Ceredigion will fall. Or you can once again face the Black King’s army in battle. If you choose that end, you will die. Your children will be left without a father. Your wife without a husband. But Ceredigion will be saved. The fate of the kingdom and the game will be determined by the move you make on the board. It is your choice, Sir Knight. It always has been.”
Her pronouncement smote him between the ribs. He’d sent his sons back to Legault already, and he believed Claire was still there. Whatever came next, his family was safe. That was for the best, but he missed them terribly. The thought of never seeing them again filled him with the deepest anguish he’d ever experienced.
He could hear the distant sound of his men on the beach behind him. Voices were crying his name, but he could not break his eyes from the gaze of the otherworldly woman. Everything within him was fixed on that moment, on her fateful demand.
“Are you the Lady of the Fountain?” he whispered. The power and majesty of her person overwhelmed him, as if she were made of lightning and storm. He trembled with emotion.
“No, Sir Knight. I am an Ondine. A water sprite of the Deep Fathoms.”
“Do you serve the Lady?”
A smile flickered on her beautiful mouth. “The Lady you speak of is not what you think. Your people have conjured some strange beliefs about our world.”
He stared at her in confusion. “Are you one of the Aos Sí, then?”
“Again, no. That is another conjuring. A fable told and believed and twisted.” Her brow softened. “I serve the Essaios—that is their true name. The Unwearying Ones. There was a time when the truth was taught plainly, but even then there were those who would not believe it.”
He was confused, but her words were confirmed by the gentle assurances of the Fountain magic inside him. He nodded in acceptance.
“So the Aos Sí are a legend too,” he said.
“Yes. A legend from another time. No one was banished beneath the waves. The first man and first woman came to these shores as exiles, half-drowned and hungry. All of this you will learn when your time is finished. After your choice is made.” She gave him a meaningful look.
He heard more shouts behind him, along with the crashing of water as the tide came in faster. Still, he could not look away from her.
“If I choose to stay,” he asked, “then Devon will live? And his sister?”
“Yes, Sir Knight. And many more.”
The awful burden settled on him. He shifted his gaze to Devon—taking in his vacant look, his small hands gripping the leather strap of the satchel. His vision blurred, and he saw another little boy with a spot of white in his hair, clinging to a satchel. Then the image cleared, and it was Devon again.
“I will,” Ransom told her. “On my honor as a knight. I will.”
Her neutral expression melted into a tender smile. “Until we meet again, Sir Knight. In the Deep Fathoms.”
Suddenly a surging wave crashed into his horse. Some of the spray stung Ransom’s eyes and drenched both him and the beast. He lifted a hand to wipe his eyes, and when he lowered it, she was gone. Devon had been knocked over by the surf and was sputtering on his hands and knees.
“Lad, come to me!” Ransom called. They were near the cliffs, but there was still a stretch of beach ahead of them.
Devon lifted his head. “S-sir Ransom?” he called in relief.
Another wave was building, this one larger.
“Hurry, lad!”
The prince picked himself up from the gritty sand and came to Ransom, who reached down and pulled him up into the saddle as the next wave struck them. His horse nickered worriedly and adjusted to the force of the wave, which had struck it broadside. As Devon settled on the horse behind him, his little arms wrapped around Ransom’s waist.
“I was so scared,” the boy said. “Papa told me to take the crown and hide by the rocks. He said she would kill me.”
“Who?” Ransom demanded, turning. His knights were waving at him and shouting, but he couldn’t hear their words over the wind and the waves.
“The poisoner came,” Devon said. “She stabbed Papa. I saw it. Then I ran.”
Another awful blow.
Ransom rode away from the pummeling waves, back up to his knights. The king was sitting on the saddle of a horse now, doubled over in pain. Relief filled his eyes when Devon poked his head out from behind Ransom.
Sir Galt approached them first, his face showing alarm. “My lord, that was a water sprite! She was luring you into the waves!”
Another knight spoke up. “We cried for you to come back. Did you hear the music?”
“What music?” Ransom asked.
“It was the strangest music,” Galt said in wonder. “Yet you broke her spell.”
Ransom wrinkled his nose in confusion because their words didn’t make sense to him. The Ondine had saved the boy by taking him away from Alix. She’d warned Ransom of what was to come. However, he thought of the superstitions of his people. Of course they had believed his life was in danger—after being raised on legends of creatures of the Deep Fathoms who could lure men to their deaths with their song.
He looked at the king, but his Fountain magic affirmed Devon’s words were true. He could sense the wound. “You’re injured,” he said.