Page 19 of The Rebel and the Rose (The City of Fantome #2)

Ransom chewed on his words. For too many years he had sat across from men more powerful than him, trying to swallow back the taste of his own revulsion at their power games, at his own part in them.

Without his crown, King Bertrand was not so different from Gaspard Dufort.

A greedy, brash man, prone to violence and insecurity.

Always grasping for more control, the power in his meaty fists never quite enough.

The king turned his face to the fire, his expression drawn.

‘Rebellion has its teeth in my kingdom. Rumours of Oriel’s final prophecy occupy my advisers’ every thought.

They speak now of nothing else. They believe these new saints will spell the end of our age.

Of kings and Shade, and man-appointed power.

As they crop up like weeds, we must stamp them out, before our control over Fantome and its surrounds diminishes entirely. Do you understand the urgency here?’

Ransom understood that the king was scared.

Truly, deeply frightened, not just of rebellion but of change foretold by an ancient diviner of fate.

He was speaking of them as though they faced the same threat, but Ransom was not a slave to power, no matter how often he consumed Shade or how it ate away at his soul.

He was not desperate at the thought of losing his standing in Fantome; it was that same power that had robbed him of himself.

Made him Ransom, and not Bastian.

He didn’t care for saints or kings, or magic at all. Deep down, all he truly coveted was freedom. Even if the possibility was long gone. And yet, he could see what the king wanted of him in that moment, and so he nodded and said, ‘I understand, Your Majesty.’

The king grunted in approval. ‘I want Prince Andreas and that acolyte dead, Ransom. And I want it done by King’s Day.’ A flash of yellowed teeth. ‘Consider it a birthday gift to me.’

King’s Day would dawn before the next full moon. Ordinarily, this would be ample time to find and kill a couple of marks, but these were no ordinary targets, and by all accounts, the People’s Saint was a slippery sort, ever present yet always moving.

Ransom said, ‘Consider it done.’

The king leaned back in his chair. ‘For the girl and Versini, this is a test.’

‘I gathered.’

‘Watch Seraphine Marchant. Keep her close to you.’ The king drilled his fingers along the armrest. ‘I want to know the true measure of her loyalty. What she is willing to do for the Crown. How easy she is to command.’

Ransom almost laughed. Seraphine Marchant was about as easy to control as an inferno.

But if the king knew how slim his chances were of wielding her as his own weapon, she’d never make it out of that dungeon, and Ransom would never get to unravel what she was to this kingdom now. What she was to him .

‘I’ll keep her in line.’

The king worried a black curl between his fingers. ‘You are easier than Dufort,’ he said, in what Ransom assumed was a compliment. ‘A good soldier does as he’s told and reaps his due.’

Ransom’s brows lifted.

‘When we spoke some months ago, you expressed a fervent interest in finding your family. Your mother, Gisele. Your sister, Anouk.’

‘Well remembered,’ said Ransom with some surprise.

Each name was a breath of fresh air in the stifled room.

A daring whisper of hope. Last year, Gaspard Dufort had promised Ransom the same thing – that he would enlist the king to find his family – but like most things Dufort had told him in secret, it had turned out to be a lie.

When Ransom mentioned his desire to track down his family to the king a few months ago, it was the first the king had ever heard of it.

Ransom couldn’t fight the stiffening of his spine now, the galloping in his chest as he leaned towards the king. ‘You’ve found them?’

‘My spymaster is on their scent.’ His smirk grew at Ransom’s undisguised eagerness.

‘His search has taken him to the town of Mauranus in the south-east, where a widowed basket weaver called Gisele lived with her daughter some years ago.’ Though Ransom had never been to Mauranus, he could picture the little fishing town perfectly, the white-washed cottages lining the pebbled shores, the taverns with their blue-striped awnings, the grey gulls circling over the white-capped waves.

‘There could be news any day now…’

More reason for Ransom to hasten back, of course.

King’s Day couldn’t come soon enough. Two dead saints were the cost of this information, of the two missing shards of his own heart.

Not that cost mattered at all. Ransom would have piled ten dead bodies at the king’s feet for a chance to embrace his mother, to see how his little sister Anouk had grown up.

‘You will have your marks before the month is out,’ he said. ‘Dead and gone. I vow it.’

The king’s smile was elastic. ‘If the Flames kick up any trouble, kill them on the road.’

‘I will,’ said Ransom easily.

‘You are dismissed, Dagger.’

Ransom stood, bowed low and left.