“You’re home,” sighed Maeg, hugging him again, her embrace even tighter this time. “You finally came home!”
He felt his mother’s grip loosen. She pulled back, caressing his face. “We thought you were dead. We feared the worst.”
“I put a coin in the fountain every day,” said Maeg, stifling her sobs. “Every day.”
He had tears in his eyes, but he brushed them away. And then he saw his brother, standing in the doorway, watching the scene. Ransom swallowed, trying to compose himself. He knew not what to expect.
His sister and mother peeled back from him.
And then his brother grasped him in a bear hug that took his breath away. “Welcome home, Brother!” he whispered, squeezing hard. He stepped back, grasping Ransom’s shoulders. His lips quivered. And they remained that way for a moment, holding each other, unable to speak.
I’ve not been to Kingfountain since I was but a lass, yet it has not changed. I’m not sure it ever will. Picture, in your mind, a castle on a windswept wooded hill. There are levels of walls around it, from the base of the hill to the crest, rings of stone defenses that have held off invaders. Add in a river of rushing water, surging and violent, that ends in a waterfall that is both noisy and ferocious. To these pictures, add another: an island astride this formidable river with a sanctuary as old as the legends of the Fountain itself. I think it was built by the Aos Sí, for no mortal could ever construct something so grand. On each side of the river, imagine a town that has grown upward where it cannot grow wide, with thatch roofs, timbers, plaster, and flowerbeds nailed outside windows. Next, add in the merchants lining both sides of the street, offering their wares of sizzling sausages, crumble pies, and honeyed wafers so sticky that even the bees are deceived.
That is the scene that awaited us as we rode into Kingfountain in preparation for the coronation of Devon the Younger. When we arrived at the palace, no less than three knights approached us and swore lifelong fidelity to me if I would but grant them a nod, a wink, even the promise of a kiss. Thankfully, the knights of Glosstyr aren’t so dramatic. Sir James didn’t try such foolishness with me. In fact, he was appropriately aloof, which was surprising, yet pleasing.
The palace is the place of dreams. Yet where is he? I’ve yet to catch sight of Ransom.
—Claire de Murrow
Kingdom of Ceredigion, Palace of Kingfountain
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The Fount of Blessings
A wooden palisade had been built behind the castle of the Heath to hold the stockyard animals that provided food and milk for the inhabitants. Ransom leaned against the wooden posts, listening to the lowing of the cattle and smelling the offal. He saw an orchard of peach trees, but it was too late in the season for any fruit, although his mother had said there were jars preserved in the cool storage rooms beneath the castle.
The evening before, he had sat in front of the blazing hearth with his family and told them stories about his life. Training in Averanche with his mother’s cousin, Lord Kinghorn. Fighting the Brugians. Competing in the tournaments at Chessy. But the tale they were most interested in was that of his capture and confinement with DeVaux’s men. They were all shocked to hear how much the queen had paid for his release.
“Five thousand livres,” his brother had whispered in awe. “Our lands don’t produce that much in five years.”
His brother had three knights in service, and they’d all listened to Ransom’s stories along with the members of his family. As a mesnie, it was very humble, and it confirmed Ransom’s decision not to return home to seek help, although at the time he’d stayed away because he’d feared his brother would not want to assist him.
His sister, Maeg, stood near him now, staring at the beasts. “I’m grateful you came home, Marshall. I feel as though I know you much better now.”
He smiled, giving her a tender look. “I wasn’t sure whether I’d be welcome. The last time I came . . . I was only too grateful to leave.”
“Father was a hard man,” Maeg said. “He always worried about whether there’d be enough. Enough food. Enough protection. Enough livres. He fretted and worried his whole life, trying to protect us.”
Ransom didn’t talk about his childhood memory of being offered as a human sacrifice to King Gervase. It still ached, but he didn’t wish to burden his sister.
“Was it painful when Father died?” Ransom asked Maeg.
“Of course,” she said, frowning. “When they brought his body back, I couldn’t believe it was him. I don’t think I ever saw him sit still for very long. I kept expecting his corpse to jump up and get back to work on the castle.” She shook her head, and her dark hair flashed in the autumn light. “He was a harsh man. An unfriendly one. We put his body on a bed of rushes and sent it floating onto the pond. No one came, it was just Mother and me and Sir Kace, who had brought the body back. No one wept, although we felt miserable. The Deep Fathoms didn’t claim him. The wolves did.”