Ransom’s mind. It unnerved him that he found it so compelling. If he had to go down, part of him wanted to take Estian with him.
“I shall stand,” said the king defiantly. He glared at both men, but it lacked the power it had once possessed. His whole body trembled. After catching his breath, he looked at his son. “I know what you want, and it’s yours. The throne. The entire kingdom. Your mother. The hollow crown. You’ve won. Take it. Take them all.”
Ransom could almost taste the bitterness in the king’s words.
Benedict didn’t gloat. He stared at his father without love, but his expression lacked any antipathy. His heart was scarred as well.
“I wonder if this is how you felt after defeating Gervase,” Benedict said. “I’d always assumed you had felt victorious. No matter. What’s done is done. I am the King of Ceredigion.”
“One thing more,” said Estian, his mood altering slightly. “There is something else required to ensure the peace.” He looked at Ransom, and his mouth twitched in a smile. “Seventy-five thousand livres to be paid annually over the span of three years beginning now and ending at the culmination of the truce.” He smirked. “And the duchy of Bayree. I think those terms are more than fair.”
Ransom winced at the reversal of fortunes. Of course, Estian had only paid a third of the agreed-upon sum before he’d found a way to slither out of the obligation.
The significance of the request was not lost on the king either. “Only seventy-five? So generous, Estian. So very generous of you. I shall leave the new king to pay my debt. He’s already stolen my treasury.”
“I will honor your agreement, Father,” said Benedict in a subdued voice.
“It is settled, then,” said Estian. “Peace instead of violence. It is the way of the Lady. May we conclude this truce with her kiss of peace. Between father and son at long last.”
Benedict approached his father for an embrace. Had he expected to feel his father’s pride? Perhaps he’d hoped to earn his respect by defeating him?
“I ask one more thing,” said Devon, holding up his hand. Benedict stood there, his moment of triumph tottering, on the verge of collapse. Would his father refuse to concede defeat even now?
Ransom didn’t know what the king was thinking. He remained stiff as a post, a source of strength for the king to lean on.
“What is it?” Estian asked, his words precise and clipped.
“Give me a list of those who defected,” said Devon. “Let me know the names of the rats. James Wigant being chief among them. I want to know who else betrayed me.”
“Very well,” said Estian. “You shall have it by tomorrow morning.”
The king bowed his head. “Thank you.” Then he removed his hand from Ransom’s arm and lifted the crown from his head. His arms trembled from its weight. Benedict stood in front of him, head slightly bowed, a look of remorse in his eyes. From his expression, it was apparent this moment had not lived up to his expectations, whatever those had been.
Devon put the crown on Benedict’s head. “It is yours, my son.” He pressed a gentle kiss on Benedict’s brow and then grabbed his son’s tunic in his fist, clenching it, his eyes wild with wrath. “May the Fountain grant I not die till I’ve had my revenge on you!”
I cannot shake this feeling that nothing will end well. I walk the corridors of Kingfountain, and all the servants are subdued and worried. Many whisper about what it will be like when Benedict is king. Everyone liked Devon the Younger. He always had a smile for people, even the lowliest. But Benedict has always been bold and impatient and relentless. The world exists to serve him and his interests. And then there’s the talk about how relentless he was in taming the Vexin.
My stomach is in knots today. The duke has always been jealous of Ransom. I fear that he will brook no rivals. When a knight or a noble is of no use or no longer trusted by a king, they are sent into exile. That is the fate I fear for my Ransom. I would take him to Legault if I could. I would claim him as my own, and we would stay away from Ceredigion forever. But that would require me to abandon my father’s home of Glosstyr. My fate is bound to both realms.
—Claire de Murrow, the Never Queen
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The Death of the First Argentine
The next