The Maid's War (Kingfountain 0.5)

She is a maid.

The whisper cut through the commotion of the room, striking the center of Alensson’s heart. It startled him, because it was not a spoken voice so much as a feeling. His whole life he had longed for the Fountain to speak to him. That it should do so inside this squalid inn amidst drunken men, and not in a sanctuary, made him wonder. Squinting against the stabs of light, he rose and started toward the youth. As he studied her face, he realized his mistake. This was a girl, maybe sixteen years old, wearing a man’s clothes. Her hair was shorn to her shoulders, but her face and hands were more delicate than a lad’s. The look in her eyes spoke of pain and disappointment, and a tear trickled down her cheek as she stared out the window.

He felt an inexplicable pull toward her, as if a river current were tugging him along. He did not know her name, he knew nothing about her, and his wife was still changing upstairs, yet he found himself pulling aside a chair and sitting across from this stranger who had been humiliated, not for the first time, in front of the folk at the inn.

“Why do you weep?” he heard himself say to her, leaning forward. The words just came from his mouth.

She looked across the table at him and then stiffened in surprise, as if she recognized him. “Gentle duke,” she said softly, “I weep because they will not let me see the prince.”

She had called him by his title. His attire was fancier than hers, to be sure, but a stranger would have taken him for a knight, not a prince of the blood.

“Do you know who I am?” he asked her. His heart began to hammer at the strangeness of the experience, but beneath it there was a deep, soothing peace.

“You are the Duke of La Marche,” she said as if that were the most obvious thing in the world. “Do you not know your own name?”

“Yes, but how did you know?” he asked her.

“The Fountain whispered it to me,” she said, gazing back at the window a moment. Then she reached across the table and grabbed his arm. Her fingers were surprisingly strong. “Will you take me to the prince? I cannot get past the guards. They treat me very rudely and drag me from the doors. They mock me.”

“Why must you see the prince?” he asked her in confusion.

Her dark brown eyes were piercing in their intensity. “Because I must obey the Fountain. It commands me to tell Prince Chatriyon that he is the true king of Occitania. He must be crowned at the sanctuary of Our Lady at Ranz. That is where the holy oil is. That is where he must be crowned to take his rightful place as regent. If he gives me an army, I will drive his enemies away.”

Alensson stared at her in disbelief, his heart immediately torn between disappointment and something brighter, purer. He had wanted to be the chosen one. He had desired it more than anything. And yet . . . this girl seemed lit from within. He had never heard someone so passionate, so full of purpose and determination. Could she be Fountain-blessed? She had known who he was without any introduction. Trying to balance his emotions, he fumbled with his words.

“Who are you? Where are you from?”

“My name is Genette,” she answered meekly. “My father’s name is Jeannow. I am from Donremy.”

“That’s a peasant name,” he said.

She let go of his arm. “I am!” she said proudly, almost defiantly. “Take me to the prince, gentle duke. I beg you. The Fountain has spoken to me. I swear this by all the saints. I swear this by the Deep Fathoms. I swear this as a maid. I am sent to bring the prince to Ranz and see him crowned,” she repeated deliberately, firmly, passionately. “You must take me to see him! If Lionn falls, all is lost.”

Her words throbbed in his skull and in his heart. She was not deluded. She was not some drunk babbler or pretender. He could see that in her eyes. And he felt as deep as his marrow that she was telling the truth.

He realized, with growing awareness and respect, that the girl sitting across from him was indeed Fountain-blessed.

“When did you—” he paused, nearly choking on the words. His words proceeded as a whisper. “When did you first hear it speaking to you?”

She blinked at him, looking at him boldly. “When I was but a child.”

As he listened, a spear of jealousy stabbed inside him.





CHAPTER SIX

The Vertus Prince





The kings of Occitania had always ruled from the royal palace in Pree, a thronging city full of the splendors of trade and the majesty of a realm that was ancient in its customs and rites. But Pree was held by Ceredigion, and its peoples cheered for the Duke of Westmarch now. How much of the adulation was genuine, feigned, or driven by fear was inconsequential. So the Occitanian court had moved west, beyond the rivers, woods, and ravines that protected the hinterlands, to the ancient fortress of Shynom. It was a piece of irony that it had been the stronghold of the first Argentine king centuries before.

Alensson found the troubled prince there. Chatriyon was the lawful heir of Occitania, but he’d been driven into exile following the defeat of Azinkeep. At Shynom, he was protected by huge walls of thick stone, and his courtiers only granted a royal audience to people who shared their beliefs and allegiances. Thus it was no easy task to see the prince. Bribes helped pave the way, but while Alensson had no money, he was a prince of the blood himself, a cousin of the nobility, and a young man with a reputation for courage that preceded him. No one else had dared stand up to Deford so boldly after Alensson’s defeat. He might have lost Vernay and brought trouble to the prince, but at least he had tried to do something. He was allowed inside the ballroom filled with lords and ladies dressed in bright silks and velvets. The ladies’ hair was coiffed with intricate headdresses, a fashion that was copied by their Atabyrion allies. The odor of strong wine hung in the air, and the clamor of loud laughter and debate battled against the musicians for dominance. The polished floor was made of white and black marble like a Wizr board.

The young duke worked his way through the throng, accosted every few steps by a butler offering him a goblet, which he refused, as he searched for his sworn lord.

Chatriyon was found in halfhearted conversation with two lords and a deconeus. He had dark hair that was combed forward, barely seen under a puffy, wide-brimmed velvet hat. He wore a red tunic with a fur collar that billowed out at the shoulders in a V shape, giving the illusion that he was a muscular man. His gaze darted to and fro above his pear-shaped nose as he listened to his companions. It was obvious he longed for an escape. His eyes widened with sudden interest when he noticed Alensson’s approach.

“And here’s the man himself, my noble cousin!” Chatriyon said good-naturedly, a genuine smile spreading across his face.