The steward beamed. “That is a commendable place to visit. If you’ll accompany the knights, I will send an extra servant to bring you to the sanctuary to pay your respects.”
“Thank you,” Ransom said. “I would be grateful. Is it the oldest sanctuary in Brythonica?”
“Oh yes,” said the man with enthusiasm. “It is quite remarkable. I hope you enjoy your stay with us, Sir Ransom.”
“So do I,” he replied. Perhaps he’d also find a gift for Claire while he was here. He recalled the necklace she’d shown him years before. He’d like to get her another one—a token she could wear, much like the bracelet still on his wrist.
The sanctuary of Our Lady of Toussan was even more impressive up close when one stood beneath the tall arches and gazed up at the imposing spiked towers. Gurgling fountains surrounded the grounds, and Ransom enjoyed watching the visitors approach them with a coin or two. In approaching the sanctuary, he’d witnessed several children, some as young as two, kiss their coins before throwing them into the water with a shriek of delight.
He had to ascend a mountain of stairs to reach the sturdy doors to the inner sanctum, and his anticipation built with every step. Once he stepped inside, a worshipful silence engulfed him. Only whispers were spoken here. He felt a sense of solitude as he entered the space, the speckled stone more aged than that of Kingfountain, but it was a strangely comforting feeling. His runaway thoughts finally eased their grip. The sexton at the doors greeted him with a benevolent smile that Ransom acknowledged with a nod.
An oval-shaped pool of clear water sat at the exact center of the enormous hall with its black-and-white-tiled floor. Many knelt around it, he counted nearly a dozen, hands clasped and heads bowed. Some looked into the waters. Some looked up to the interlacing buttresses in the ceiling overhead. Brilliant, multicolored light sparkled in through stained-glass windows. At the apex of the hall stood an enormous statue dedicated to the Lady of the Fountain. A pair of young people stood in front of it, hands clasped, gazing adoringly up at it.
Ransom felt strange and a little out of place. Out of everyone kneeling around the main fountain, only one was a knight like himself. A few of the other visitors had taken note of his presence, but Ransom overcame his feeling of self-consciousness and knelt by the stone ridge of the pool. Something didn’t feel right, however, and he had the impulse to wander a bit more. Trusting in the sensation, he rose and started walking.
In his exploration, he found a small anteroom with a little stained fountain bubbling within it. It was a confined space, not at all as striking as the huge hall, and the stone of the fountain looked worn away from the constant pressure of the water. It smelled old and dank, but it felt better. No one else was in the anteroom, and so he entered it and walked around the fountain, watching the water burbling from the spout at the top and listening to the splashing noises it made as it fell.
The rim of the fountain was wide enough to form a bench seat, so he sat down on it, immediately feeling the cold through his clothes. A few coins lay at the tiled bottom, nearly black with stain. How long had they been sitting in the waters?
In the solitude of the room, he planted his palms on the cool stone and bowed his head. He tried to summon the feeling of the rushing waters. Nothing happened. Was this what had happened to Lord Kinghorn?
He waited, trying to wrestle through his feelings. He felt unworthy, even a little ashamed of his act of reverence. Feelings of angst and self-delusion stole over him. What was he doing there? Who was he to think that the Fountain would speak to him? That he might be Fountain-blessed? No, he was the second son of an insignificant lord who was dead and gone. He was a knight with too much blood on his hands. When he died, his corpse would be buried in a mass grave after some tragic battle, not decorated like King Gervase’s and sent into the river.
He remembered the funeral, the solemn knights carrying their king to the edge of the water. The sound of the falls seemed to whisper to him that he would never be a great man like Gervase.
“May I help you?”
With the noise of the fountain, he hadn’t heard any footsteps approach. Ransom’s head snapped up, and he stared into the eyes of the aging deconeus, the gray-and-white robes revealing his office.
Ransom stood quickly, embarrassed to have been discovered there. “Pardon me, Deconeus. I meant no disrespect.”
“Of course you didn’t,” said the man in a kindly way. “You come from Ceredigion. I recognize the badge on your tunic. You are one of the king’s knights, I presume? A guest at the palace?”