Warrior's Ransom (The First Argentines #2) - Jeff Wheeler Page 0,99

a few pleasantries. He could see the kohl marking her eyes beneath the veil.

“Sir Ransom,” she said as he gave her a bow.

“I am sorry for all that has befallen your family. My words are inadequate compensation for your grief.”

“These are dark times,” said Lady Constance. “I did not want my husband to go to Pree. I don’t trust Estian. I never have.”

Ransom nodded in agreement. “I brought Sir Terencourt’s body with me—”

“Did you bring the ring?” she interrupted.

Ransom dug into his pocket and retrieved it. “He gave this to me as he lay dying.”

She looked at him, her frown serious and concerned, not angry. “You are to wear it.”

Ransom sighed. “He told me as much, but I don’t understand what it means. He said you would explain.”

Lady Constance turned away from him and told her son to sit on the throne. He toddled over and climbed up onto the footrest before clambering onto the seat. She watched him, her shoulders shaking with suppressed emotion.

“He’s all I have left,” she whispered. When she turned to face Ransom again, he took a step closer. “The ring is an artifact of the Deep Fathoms, Sir Ransom. And so is the scabbard you wear. When you were last here, you were not wearing it. But I recognize it as an heirloom of this ancient land.”

“My loyalty is to the King of Ceredigion,” Ransom said, “but I promised him that I would guard your son. His grandson. Are you . . . do you hear the voice, my lady?”

“I do, Sir Ransom. The voice bid me send my knights to rescue you. You are Fountain-blessed. I’ve known it for some time, and not because of the rumors.” She looked down, gathering her thoughts. “When you first defeated Sir Terencourt in the tournament, he told me that you would replace him. I didn’t want to believe it at first.” She looked at him again. “He told me that Sir Robert Tregoss would be the man who killed him and, in doing so, become the protector of Brythonica by right. But he also said that you, Sir Ransom, would kill Sir Robert and win that right yourself. You have been chosen by the Fountain to defend the Argentine line, from which will come the rebirth of King Andrew. It is my hope that it comes through my son, which is why I named him Andrew. He cannot defend himself, nor can I defend him from the threat of the King of Occitania, who will surely seek the boy’s life. With this ring, you will be able to protect him.”

It shocked him to hear her say it, but there was no denying her story matched what the voice had told him—that the scion would come from the Argentine family. “How?”

She stepped closer, dropping her voice to a whisper. “There is magic in this world, Sir Ransom, that you do not understand. When the Wizr Myrddin was banished to another world, he was sent away with an artifact more powerful even than that ring or your scabbard. It is a silver bowl called the Gradalis. It was once kept at Kerjean castle in Bayree by the Fisher Kings, but it was taken from that place by a champion of King Andrew. A champion much like yourself. The Gradalis is here in Brythonica in a secret place. If you put on that ring and accept the role of master of the wood, I can use it to summon you. If someone tries to steal the Gradalis, it will summon you as well. That is the power of the ring. And the responsibility.” She grasped his arm. “I need you, Sir Ransom. My son needs you. Do you accept your role as protector?”

He swallowed his nervousness. Much of what she said confused and baffled him, starting with the fact that Sir Terencourt had apparently presaged his own death, but he felt reassurance from the Fountain. Its soothing burbling filled his ears.

“The Fountain bids me accept,” he answered her.

“Put on the ring,” she told him. “It is yours until you give it to another when your time is fulfilled or you are defeated in single combat. I bless you by the Fountain, Sir Ransom. You are needed more than you know.”

He gazed at her face through the veil. “I will do my best.”

“It is enough. Now, put on the ring.”

Ransom stared down at it in his hand. Sir Terencourt had worn it on the forefinger of his left hand, so he