It hasn’t been all bad, though, and I have to admit I’ll miss the books. I love reading the histories, even if they’re full of a bunch of nonsense about Fountain-blessed lads and lasses. I prefer the Gaultic tales of the Aos Sí and the barrow magic. The stories my mother told me before she died of the pox. The only people I’m sorry to leave are the Gaultic undercook, Siena, and Ransom.
Looking back on it now, it’s obvious that King Gervase sowed the seeds of his own downfall when he wouldn’t murder an innocent child. It caused a row with the last lords supporting him. And then his only son choked and died, poor sod. With his wife and heir both dead, what else could he do but give the kingdom to Devon Argentine, the Duke of Westmarch? He caved to the inevitable and declared Argentine his heir, and wouldn’t you be amazed? The rebellions stopped at once.
Now King Gervase is dead too, poor sod, and today is his funeral. His corpse will be plopped in a boat coffin, they’ll shove him into the river, and down he’ll go over the falls by the sanctuary of Our Lady. I thought it more than peculiar the first time I witnessed it. They think we in Legault are a superstitious people, but they throw coins into fountains hoping for favor. I nicked one once when I first came here, but the servant who caught me made me put it back and warned me if I was caught again, I’d get tossed into the river too. After that, I always made sure no one was watching.
Da is finally taking me back to Legault today. I can’t wait to be home and go hunting again with him. I won’t miss the prattling chatter of the court.
It’s a glorious day.
—Claire de Murrow
Palace at Kingfountain
（on the death rites of a king）
CHAPTER ONE
A King’s End
It was the Gaultic girl’s fault that everyone had come to call him Ransom. She’d meant it as a joke at first. She did like to tease, and for some reason, she liked teasing him the most. But the name had stuck, mostly because everyone in the palace knew the story of how he’d nearly been hung from a trebuchet in front of the walls of his father’s castle. His father had gambled with his life, shrewdly predicting that the king wouldn’t go through with his threat. And he hadn’t. For which Ransom was deeply grateful and deeply hurt.
It was a breezy day, and so the words of the deconeus were difficult to hear as he rambled on in his liturgy, the prayer over the dead. Ransom crossed his hands in front of himself, standing still, even though he had the urge to crane his neck and try to get a better view. Everyone at the palace, servants and all, had gathered to witness the occasion. King Gervase’s stiff body lay in a canoe on the edge of the royal docks. His cheeks were gray and looked nothing like the man in the flesh. Yes, the body bore a strange resemblance to the man he’d known, but he didn’t look the same without his smile, which he’d always reserved for Ransom and Claire—of the dozen or so hostages of varying ranks—or the laugh lines around his eyes. Near the end, there wasn’t much the king could smile about. But he had always taken time for his son, Ransom, and Claire—a walk through the royal gardens, a pretend duel with wooden swords, or a sweet from the kitchen. He’d seemed lighter at those times, happier.
Ransom’s heart ached with loss. The king had been a true father to him. Tears stung Ransom’s eyes, but he willed them back and blinked quickly. He wouldn’t lose his composure, not in a crowd. Not when she might see him.
Ransom blinked quickly and shifted his gaze to where Claire stood side by side with her father. The man was a giant. He was huge, thick, and the sword belted over his chain tunic was nearly even with Ransom’s chin. She looked like a tiny thing in her father’s shadow, but she was a little taller than Ransom, and he was taller than most of the boys his age at the palace. He was taller than any of the new king’s sons, who all stood dutifully by Devon and his wife, Emiloh, although the youngest was fidgeting. They were younger than him.
His gaze went back to Claire’s hair, which looked deceptively brown in her father’s shadow. Her hair had always fascinated him. He’d heard that many in Legault had hair the color of pumpkins, but Claire’s wasn’t like that. Its color seemed to change throughout the day, the brighter light revealing shades of crimson. She turned her head, as if she’d heard his thought, and caught him looking at her. He quickly looked away, but not fast enough because he caught that teasing smile again.
The wind died down, and the deconeus’s voice reached Ransom’s burning ears.
“May his soul find solace and rest in the depths of the Deep Fathoms. And may the stains of blood from this terrible war be washed away, giving us peace in our noble realm at last. The Lady hear us.”