“The Younger King is dead,” said Ransom darkly.
The sentry rose and brushed off his legs. “Then my task is finished. He’s all yours.”
The man walked past him and started up the stairs, and Ransom slid the dead bolt free and opened the door. The dungeon was lit from within by torchlight. He sensed the presence of the lady, the nearness of her as she approached him, but he could not see her. Where was she coming from? He could only tell it was from somewhere ahead, within the prison, not behind him.
Ransom drew his sword and entered. The light made shadows on the floor, showing a diagonal form of the cells’ barred doors. He smelled moldy straw and urine. There was only one prisoner, Sir Robert Tregoss, standing against the bars.
“Hello, Ransom,” he said, his face twisting into a leer. “Come for vengeance?” He didn’t appear worried.
Ransom walked deeper into the dungeon, moving the torch from side to side to illuminate what he saw. Robert turned away from the glare, his eyes unused to such brightness.
“Who is she?” Ransom asked.
“Who is who? Am I supposed to read your mind?”
“The lady in the cloak. The one who came to the tavern that night. The one who killed Lord Archer. The one who killed our king.”
Sir Robert shrugged. “Why don’t you ask her yourself?”
Ransom sensed her presence more strongly now. He heard a little scrape of stone coming from the far end of the corridor. A throb of warning struck him. Danger. She’d come here for him. He lifted the torch.
Sir Robert reached suddenly from behind the bars, seizing Ransom’s arm, the one with the torch, and yanked him hard against the metal.
The news is such a shock that I cannot bring myself to believe it. Devon the Younger is dead? Can this be true? The knight who brought the morning meal said he had heard it directly from Lord Kinghorn. Beestone castle has been reclaimed. How could Devon have fallen ill so quickly? This is no ordinary malady. In fact, I’m suspicious that he was poisoned. Princess Noemie was not at Beestone. She fled back to Pree the instant her husband became ill. What madness is this?
Lord Kinghorn has a son, several years younger than me. He has greeted me several times in recent days. I wonder if this is yet another of the Elder King’s ploys to sway me in the hopes that I will consent to marry at last. But I will not yield. My heart is still broken, and I will not let him force me to marry. Still, it galls me that the Elder King bleeds my inheritance away from me, coin by coin. He uses none of it to punish those horrid nobles in Legault who pick over the scraps like carrion birds. The king is a greedy man. But he’ll find I’m a stubborn woman.
—Claire de Murrow
Queen’s Tower
（written resolutely）
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
The Hour of Crows
Ransom collided with the bars, the impact briefly stunning him. Sir Robert wrenched against his arm with both hands, trying to pull his limb inside the cell. Ransom dropped the torch involuntarily, and it spun when it struck the ground, sending a dizzying flare of light in circles, revealing a cloaked shape emerging from the far end of the corridor. The figure held a cranked crossbow.
“Come on, you favored crow!” Robert snarled, trying to bend Ransom’s arm. “It’s your hour to die now!”
Ransom pulled with all his strength, slamming Robert face-first into the bars. The man grunted in pain but held fast. Ransom tried to maneuver the tip of his sword through the bars to stab the other knight, but it only clanged against the metal. Left with no other options, Ransom pulled the other way as hard as he could, wrenching his shoulder uncomfortably as he did so.
The twang of the crossbow sounded, and in the blink of an eye, he felt the bolt pierce his leg, the same leg that had been injured before. Pain shot through him, not just the feeling of the bolt embedded in his muscle, but the memory of the injury that had come before. Ransom gasped with anguish, looking down to see the shaft, the fletching, and the blood already spilling from the wound.
He needed the Fountain’s power—now—or he’d die in this dank dungeon.
Whatever you ask of me, I will do, he thought in silent determination. This I swear to you as a knight. Please help me now, as you’ve done in the past.
As soon as the thought went through his mind, he heard the roar of the falls amidst the cacophony. Strength filled him, mixed with firm determination and purpose. He hoisted Robert off his heels, slamming him into the bars again. This time he used the hilt of his bastard sword instead of the tip, clubbing Robert on the temple with it.