Knight's Ransom (The First Argentines #1)(33)

She arched her eyebrows, looking up at Ransom’s face. “That’s good to hear.” Then she lifted the confection and took a little bite. “Oh my. This couldn’t have been made by mortals. You have stolen it from the Aos Sí!”

The baker looked confused. “Eh, demoiselle?”

“Thank you. This is delicious.” She savored another bite. Ransom smiled at the look of pleasure on her face.

They walked away after enjoying the treats.

“Do you like my necklace?” she asked.

He hadn’t seen it, covered as it was by the clasp of her cape, but she pulled that aside and showed him. The necklace was made of jeweled glass. It was Brythonican—he recognized it immediately—and much too costly for someone of his means. There were merchants who sold jewelry like that in Pree.

“That’s sea glass,” he said. “Did you buy that here? I hope not because you would have paid too much for it.”

“No,” she said with a laugh. “We came through Ploemeur on the way. The duchess has a plight troth to one of King Devon’s sons. Goff, I think.”

“Yes. The oldest son is married. The next is biding his time. Was the necklace a gift?”

“It was,” said Claire. “I visited the beach where the glass is found. It’s all a lot of nonsense if you ask me.”

“What nonsense?”

“The myth of Leoneyis being drowned by the Deep Fathoms. That an entire kingdom should perish because of the wickedness of its flawed king. It’s all so tragic, but it’s nothing but a myth. A story. A fable.”

He didn’t like the way she teased about it. He’d always found those stories to be utterly fascinating. Especially the ones about the Fountain-blessed. The people of Occitania revered the heroes of old, and statues throughout the realm paid homage to them.

“Why are you frowning, Ransom?” she asked, and it was only then that he realized he’d made a face.

“The stories are quite popular here. Why don’t you believe them?”

“Because they don’t make sense. Do you really believe your prayer will be answered if you put a coin in a fountain? It’s absurd.”

Ransom had deposited coins in the fountains of Pree. He felt a prickle of uneasiness.

“I know I shouldn’t be so harsh,” she said, tugging on his arm. “I forget how touchy people can be about this sort of thing. It’s just that the traditions of Legault go back much farther. They go back even before the legends of King Andrew and Queen Genevieve. Before the stories of the Deep Fathoms caught on. In Legault, we believe in a race of beings called the Aos Sí, who are marvelous and dangerous and supremely powerful. There was a war fought between these immortals and mankind, but Wizrs invented magical relics that could harm the Aos Sí and, eventually, drive them out.”

“Drive them where?” Ransom asked. What she was saying could just as easily be called fantastical as a belief in the Lady of the Fountain, but he was too polite to say so.

“Well, when the Aos Sí were defeated, the world was divided into two realms,” Claire answered. “The King of Legault was to make this division. He gave the Aos Sí half of the world. The half beneath the water. Does that not sound to you like the source of the myths of the Deep Fathoms?” She shook her head. It was dark now, and the firelight glowed softly against her hair. “Everyone is taught to revere the Lady. We esteem her too holy to fight unless she chooses a maiden to champion her will.” She sighed. “In Legault, it is different. It would be deemed no less strange for me to don a hauberk and grab a bow than it would be for you. This . . . this tradition of courtliness started by the Occitanians spreads like a pox.” She sighed and gestured at all the tents. “Even this tournament upholds it, makes it stronger. King Lewis may be known as Lewis the Wise, but I’d prefer to call him Lewis the Shrewd. He’s remaking the world in his image. Before long, even in Legault we’ll start throwing our dead into rivers. It’s barmy, Ransom.”

He didn’t agree with her. In fact, her words troubled him. He wanted to tell her that he had experienced things he could not explain. That he could hear a rush of water every time he lifted a sword against an opponent, so long as he rested between bouts and continued to practice. The emptiness he’d felt after the battles with the Brugians had been replenished completely since coming to Chessy. Lord Kinghorn had misunderstood him all those years ago. It wasn’t that he liked playing at war. He needed it.

He still wasn’t sure what that meant—could a good man need violence?—but it made the principles of Virtus even more important to him. If he adhered to them, if he did what he was supposed to do and found a respectable lord to serve, someone whose judgment he could trust, surely he could use his abilities for good. Or so he told himself.

“I’m glad I found you,” she said, disturbing the awkward silence that had settled between them. “Before Sir Anselm complains about me too much, I’ll show you to my father’s tent. I’d like to give you something when we get there.”

A thrill of surprise shot through him at her words. “A gift? You didn’t even know I would be here.”

“So? Does it hurt to be prepared?” she said. “This way.”

They left the main thoroughfare and began wandering around the various encampments where knights were gathered around fires, drinking Occitanian wine and boasting about the exploits they’d not yet accomplished.