“Hold!” she pleaded.
Her strength failed before his did. As she reached to grab him higher, to pull herself up more, she lost her grip and went plunging down into the darkness. He heard her body strike the stones an instant later.
Without her weight, he sighed in relief. He still sensed her, down at the base of the tower, still alive—still breathing. That surprised him. The fall should have killed her.
And then it did.
The sense of her Fountain magic guttered out.
His wrist screamed in pain. He knew he couldn’t hold on any longer. In a moment, he’d join Alix on the stones, a strange embrace of two enemies at the end.
He thought of Claire calling him an eejit. It made him smile as his grip finally failed.
Two young hands grabbed at his hauberk, and another two grabbed his wrist.
“Pull, Léanore! Pull!” said the prince, his teeth chattering with cold.
“I am! He’s . . . too . . . heavy!” moaned the princess.
“We can do it. Pull your hardest!”
Ransom dangled from the tower, twisting slowly, his strength gone. He had no dregs of Fountain magic left. No scabbard to heal his injuries. What remained of his life was literally in the hands of two young children.
“We have to pull him up,” Devon said. “We have to! Come now! Pull!”
The two children strained. Ransom reached out with his other hand and caught the lip of the railing. With his own power assisting them, they got him on his chest on the edge of the ledge. Dawson and his knights found them then and helped haul him the rest of the way over.
He lay panting on the balcony floor, gazing into the eyes of the prince and the princess.
Alix had come to kill them, and if he hadn’t been there to stop it, she would have. His life had been spared, for a little while, by the strength of an eight-year-old boy and his sister, who had refused to let him go.
I will save my tears for later. They can do me no good today.
—Claire de Murrow
Palace at Kingfountain
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Beloved
The deconeus of the sanctuary of Our Lady finished the rite and bowed his head in solemnity as the commotion of the river rushed past. It was time to lift the canoe with the pallid body stretched inside. The barber who’d prepared it had meticulously wiped away the scabs of dried blood around the eyes and nose. The lifeless hands were crossed over the corpse’s chest.
Ransom breathed out, preparing for the pain as he grabbed the staff and helped hoist the body. He couldn’t conceal the grunt caused by a jolt of pain in his leg where Alix had stabbed him, and the small yet soon-to-be fatal wound on his wrist. He felt a trickle of blood go down his leg, but he performed his duty. Faulkes held the other end of the staff and gave Ransom a worried look, prepared to shoulder the front of the canoe himself if Ransom faltered.
He would not falter.
With a limp, he marched in step with the others and carried Jon-Landon’s body down the planks to the edge of the platform. Simon and his Espion had said that a large crowd had gathered on the bridge to witness the rites. The sun was directly overhead, but it was a cool autumn day, and the gentle breeze was soothing to his soul. His insides were on fire, though, a series of cramps and burning sensations that rode his every step. The same poison that had killed Jon-Landon. And Benedict. And both Devons.
When they reached the end of the docks, he squinted and prepared to lower the staff, which he and the other knights did with practiced grace. The men in the rear, including Sir Dawson and Lord DeVaux, lifted their end a little higher. The canoe plunged down and splashed into the river. It bobbed a moment before the current dragged it away, sending it on its one-way journey to the Deep Fathoms.
As Ransom watched it go, he thought about the king’s final moments of grief and guilt. Four kings he had failed to save. But the fifth, named after his predecessors, would be crowned this day. The boy would have a clean slate, a fresh chance.
He released his grip on the staff and turned to the crowd assembled at the docks, mostly nobles and knights. The queen dowager—so strange to think of Léa with that title now, for she was still so young—dabbed her eyes with a kerchief. The look of misery on her face moved him. The prince stood at her side, silent and resolute. The young princess approached Ransom, squeezed his hand, and told him that he’d done his duty well.
He smiled at her and thanked her before limping back toward the castle. Dawson walked behind him, providing distance but also ready to lend aid if it was needed. He appreciated the concern. Before either of them reached the door, they heard a collective gasp as the boat carrying Jon-Landon’s body arrived at the falls.
“It is over,” Dawson said.
Ransom nodded, grateful to be alive but grief-stricken that his own death would so quickly follow that of the king.
“Can I help you climb the stairs?” Dawson asked.
“I was going to the queen’s garden,” Ransom said. “I’d like to be alone.”
“I’ll check on Cecily, then. I never knew about your scabbard, Lord Ransom. I cannot thank you enough for saving her life. She’s weak, but the wound is nearly healed. We’re lucky the blade wasn’t poisoned.”
Ransom turned and gave Dawson an affectionate smile. “It has served me well these many years. Please keep its secret. I haven’t even told Dearley.”
Dawson gave him a knightly salute, his pledge to honor the request.
After they separated, Ransom moved his way gently through the interior of the palace, watching as the servants prepared a luncheon for those who had attended the rites. The cramps were becoming more severe. Sweat trickled down his back. A seizure of sudden pain came so startlingly fast that he had to stop and lean against the wall to keep from crumpling to the ground. So this was the agony the others had endured. He would bear it too.
Once the searing pain had ebbed slightly, he continued through the corridor and exited into the garden. He forced himself, step by step, to go to the nearest fountain and sat at the edge, grateful to relieve the pain in his leg. Lowering his head, he breathed out slowly, trying to master the anguish ravaging his innards. A blob of sweat dripped from the tip of his nose. The sound of the fountain waters was soothing.
He looked up at the trees. Their leaves had turned into a dazzling array of autumn colors. Some yellow, some as orange as pumpkins, and others the same crimson as the streaks in Claire’s hair. A stab of pain dug into his heart. He would miss running his fingers through her hair. Miss waking with her at his side, their bodies generating warmth and feelings of safety. For many months of their marriage, she had wakened alone because of his calls of duty to the king and because of the malice of others who had brought war to their land. Peace. That was all that he wanted now. Estian could endure his confinement a little longer. Bennett had in Brugia. It was time for a change of seasons. An end of war, an ushering in of peace.
He didn’t know how long he’d sat there, breathing through the stabs of pain and tormenting thoughts, but he heard voices, and he recognized them. He tried to stand to greet his family, but the needles were too strong.
Willem and Dev rounded the corner at a run, followed by little Sibyl, who brightened when she saw his face. Tears stung his eyes at the sight of his family, Claire coming next with Keeva in her arms, escorted by Dearley himself.