A ship from Genevar sought safe harbor today. It had fled Blackpool two days ago and was nearly torn apart by the storm. It will limp down to Atha Kleah for repairs. The waters around the Fair Isle are much calmer. But the news the captain brought made my heart chill. He said Faulkes and James nearly destroyed each other in their fight before the charter was revealed. They lost, between them, about one hundred and sixty knights and hundreds of foot soldiers. The Genevese ship was sent to bring mercenaries to join the fight, but they’ve judged the odds to be stacked against them, and they want nothing of it now.
Occitania has invaded Ceredigion. And Ransom is facing the onslaught by himself. I have no ships to send. What I had, I already did, and I’ve still not heard from the fleet I sent earlier. I fear they might not return. Ransom, if I could walk on the waters between these lands, I would, to come to you.
I’m sick at heart. Please, beloved. I love you too much for you to die.
—Claire de Murrow
Connaught Castle
(on the fate of a Genevese ship)
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
A Final Breath, Then Dawn
Ransom startled awake and realized he’d fallen asleep in a chair at the table. His eyes felt puffy, and he could feel the grit of the sand still chafing his skin beneath his clothes. The only light came from the hearth, which crackled with some fresh logs.
“You’re awake,” Dearley said with a smile in his voice.
Ransom blinked at the sight of his friend sitting in a stuffed chair by the door leading from the solar. They’d finally made it to the fortress of Glosstyr, soaked to the bone, but Ransom hadn’t expected Dearley. At least not yet.
“When did you get here?” Ransom asked, stretching and hearing little pops in his back.
Dearley shrugged. “By midnight. The waves were too fierce to bring the ship closer, so we came on smaller boats from the harbor. I’ve got a hundred men with me.”
That wouldn’t be nearly enough to overcome the force Estian had brought.
“Is the king still alive?” Ransom asked.
“He’s struggling to breathe, but yes. When I saw him, he looked like a corpse.”
“I should go to him,” Ransom said, pushing himself to stand.
“James is here,” Dearley said. “Dawson came to tell you, but I thought you needed some sleep, even if it was on a tabletop. Simon arranged a bed for the duke.”
“Thank you.” He gave Dearley a probing look, and his heart suddenly seized with pain. “How is Claire?” He barely managed to get the words out.
“Worried about you. So am I. If I understand the situation, it’s pretty hopeless. Jon-Landon is about to go to the Deep Fathoms. Two duchies nearly choked each other to death. And Estian has laid siege to Thorngate, where the queen and her daughter have sought shelter. It won’t hold for long. There’s also news of some charter the king signed. But what good is it now?”
Ransom rubbed his eyes. The memory of the Ondine’s words pulsed within his mind. It was painful realizing he was going to die. He wanted to tell Dearley, but he felt a throb of warning not to. It was his burden to carry.
“Are you all right?” Dearley asked softly.
“I don’t think I’ve been in a more terrible situation,” Ransom said. It was a struggle, but he composed himself. “We have to go defend Thorngate. But first, let me congratulate you on your daughter’s birth. I’m happy for you and your dear wife.”
Dearley rose, and the two men embraced. Even though the situation felt hopeless, there were still blessings worthy of rejoicing.
They talked for a few more moments before Ransom excused himself. “I should see how the king fares,” he said, clapping Dearley on the back before he turned to leave the room. As he made his way to and up the stairs, he double-checked to ensure the guards were in their places. They’d been posted at regular intervals.
When he arrived at the king’s sickchamber, he recoiled from the stench of death. He’d witnessed this kind of languishing death before with Jon-Landon’s family. How grateful he was that Duchess Emiloh had not lived to witness her final son’s murder.
There were two knights standing guard at the door, and they nodded to Ransom as he passed. The barber sat at the king’s side with a goblet of wine in his hand. The poison had progressed quickly, and Jon-Landon’s eyes were bleeding. Ransom clamped his mouth shut, noticing Devon curled up in a chair, fast asleep, breathing softly. What a horrible scene for the lad.
“Lord Ransom is here,” said the barber.
“Is he? Truly?” The king suppressed a cough.
“I am,” Ransom answered. The barber rose from the bedside and shook his head, indicating there was no hope left.
“I feared . . . you’d forsaken me,” Jon-Landon said. “But I knew . . . I knew you wouldn’t.”
“I fell asleep in the solar,” Ransom said. “I’m sorry. I would have come sooner.”
“I know. I’m not scolding you. You were there . . . unngh . . . when the first Argentines died. Fitting . . . fitting that you’d still be here when it’s my turn.”
Ransom gestured for the cup, and the barber gave it to him. Sitting by the edge of the bed, he brought his palm behind the king’s neck and lifted him slightly. “Drink this.”
The king took a very little sip and grimaced. Each breath seemed to pain him. “Thank you. Send the barber away.”
Ransom set the goblet down on the small table near the bed. He glanced at the barber, but he’d already risen to leave, likely grateful to have been relieved of his post.
“Is my son . . . still here?”
“He’s asleep on the chair.”
“I told him to go to bed, but he wouldn’t leave my side. I’m . . . glad he’s asleep. I didn’t want him to watch . . . me die.”
Ransom put his hand atop the king’s and gently squeezed.
“I can’t see. My eyes are . . . too sticky. But you’re here. You will . . . you will see that my son is made king?”
“I will,” Ransom answered.
The king exhaled a ragged breath. “I don’t know which pain is from the dagger and which is from the poison. Is she really my . . . my half sister?”
Ransom’s heart squeezed again with pain. “She is. What happened to your mother was terrible. But it was not her fault.”
“I . . . I wish I had known Mother better. Like you did. You served her for so long. I . . . was too resentful. My father poisoned me against her.”
“I know,” Ransom said sadly. “He shouldn’t have.”
“He was a proud man. You knew that.” His breath was coming in shorter and shorter gasps. His lips were turning blue.
“He was indeed,” Ransom said with a chuckle.
“He just . . . he wanted her to be proud of him. My mother. He wanted her . . . unnghh, respect.” The king weakly reached with his other hand and put it on Ransom’s. “Please . . . I don’t want . . . to die.”
Ransom could have used the scabbard to heal the dagger wound, just as he had used it to stanch Elodie’s bleeding during childbirth. But it did not work against poison, and it was the poison that would have prolonged the king’s death, making it even more painful.