“Indeed, sir,” Ransom said. “If you’ll excuse me.”
“Tarry, if you will,” coaxed the deconeus. “I don’t often find many visitors here. Most say their prayers around the large pool over yon.”
“I didn’t know it was off-limits,” Ransom said.
“It isn’t, but few people come here. Why have you come, Sir Knight? To pray for victory in the tournament?”
Ransom felt unsure of himself. The dark feelings he’d experienced had rattled him. “No.”
“Then why have you come? Why to this fountain in particular?”
Part of him wanted to trust the old man. Part of him feared what the deconeus might say. His reluctance to seek out the voice still churned inside him. He wrestled within himself.
“I see you are reluctant to speak,” said the deconeus. “Then I will. While I was going about my duties, I heard a whisper from the Fountain to come here. And so I came. And then I found you. I could have ignored that whispering. Many do. But I’ve learned over the years to heed it. I was supposed to find you, although I know not why. Perhaps you do?”
Ransom blinked in surprise at the deconeus’s words. “The Fountain told you to come here?”
“It did, sir, although it was more of a feeling than a request made in words. I imagine it brought you here as well. Why did you come? What are you seeking?”
He still wasn’t sure if he should trust the old man—he felt vulnerable here, as if he’d gone into battle without his armor—but the deconeus’s story was compelling. And Queen Emiloh had sent him here with a purpose.
“I seek a blessing from the Fountain,” Ransom said softly.
The deconeus squinted a bit and nodded. “Ah. I thought so. You will not find that here. Try St. Penryn. That sanctuary is even older.”
His feelings of confusion intensified. Why hadn’t the Fountain whispered its directive to him rather than the deconeus? But perhaps this nudge was all that he needed. St. Penryn wasn’t that far. A boat could get him there and back in a day.
He sighed with frustration and stepped out of the anteroom. When he returned to the large pool, fewer people were there. But one stood out to him. A lady knelt at the edge, her silk veil concealing her face. But her braided chestnut hair was familiar to him, as was the fine dress she took no pains to conceal.
It was Noemie, kneeling in prayer.
He felt something inside him lurch. A sound filled his ears, although it was not that of the fountain but the dissonance of stone grinding on stone. Dizziness washed over him, and he had to put his hand on a pillar to keep from swooning. The feeling left as quickly as it had come, but it made him feel sick inside.
Noemie lifted her head and raised the veil. She turned and looked at him.
Her eyes widened with shock, and then a look of hope filled them. She rose and started walking toward him.
He looked at the door, wanting to run.
“You came,” she whispered excitedly when she neared him. “I prayed that you would.”
The Elder King’s resentment has not waned. Someone reported to him that we had been seen near the cistern. I was brought before the king’s council and interrogated on who was there and what was said. They suspect another bout of treason, at least that is what the questions led me to believe. I’ve witnessed nothing of the sort. Just a mother who loves her eldest son and a son who wishes to spend time with her. They asked me if Ransom was behind the meeting, but I took responsibility and said it was my idea. They seemed almost disappointed it wasn’t more insidious.
How long will this confinement last? The Elder King’s will is implacable. He still hates Emiloh. But there is something more than the rebellion of her sons. This hurt goes deeper than that. I wish I knew what lay behind it. A wound can be healed if it is treated in time. This one still festers.
—Claire de Murrow
Queen’s Tower
（guilty of meddling in the affairs of kings and queens）
CHAPTER THIRTY
Shadows Unseen
Noemie reached out and touched his arm, making Ransom recoil from her touch. His cheeks burned with consternation, and he took a step backward.
“It was not your prayers that brought me here,” he said in a warning voice. “I must go.”
“No!” She clutched his tunic instead, her fingers curling into a fist. “No, please . . . not yet.”
“This is unseemly, Your Highness,” he said, wondering if he should break her grip himself. People were already starting to look their way. If news should reach Sir Robert or Devon himself . . .