The Maid's War (Kingfountain 0.5)

“I’m not from Pree,” Ankarette responded vaguely. “You have a different accent in the city.”

The girl nodded, accepting her explanation. Another thing Ankarette had learned about children was their natural inclination to be trusting—most of them knew nothing of spies and the machinations of court. Ankarette continued speaking with her for several moments—the girl was chatty, and Ankarette soon had her revealing helpful information. The King of Occitania had been assembling all the princes of the blood in preparation for whatever conflict was to come.

And then the waif said something that made Ankarette blink in surprise. “All the princes save La Marche. The king will keep him trapped in that awful tower.”

“The Duke of La Marche is here as well?” Ankarette asked. Her heart swelled with relief that the king’s Espion had been correct. She had secretly dreaded that the duke was being held deep in the hinterlands in some faraway dungeon.

The girl shrugged as she squeezed the rag into the bucket once more. The floor was polished and gleaming now. “Of course. He’s the king’s prisoner,” she said carelessly. “He’s been captive here for years. I like him. He never scolds me.”

Ankarette leaned forward eagerly, showing unfeigned interest. “The real duke of La Marche?” she pressed. “The one who fought alongside the Maid of Donremy?”

The waif nodded with sudden fire and delight. The story of the Maid was renowned throughout all the kingdoms. Even though the woman who had freed Occitania from Ceredigion’s hegemony had died a traitor, she was now remembered as one of the most celebrated Fountain-blessed of all. “Oh yes! He’s told me stories about her.”

“Has he? You are a lucky young woman.”

The girl blushed. “I’m not a woman yet. I’m only eight.”

“I wish I could meet him,” Ankarette sighed with disappointment. “I’ve always been fascinated by stories about the Maid. I’ve even visited Donremy. She led the king’s army when she was nineteen, did she not?”

The girl shook her head deliberately. “Seventeen. She was Fountain-blessed.” The last words were uttered like a prayer. Only the rarest of individuals could access the enormous power of the Fountain. They were each gifted in a different miraculous way, though the magic was not simply lavished on them—they had to develop unique habits to feed their power. Ankarette herself was Fountain-blessed, though only a few knew it.

The little girl looked hesitant. “I could show you . . . I could show you to the duke’s room. If you would like.”

“Is he not at the fête then? Are prisoners not allowed?”

The girl shook her head dramatically. “No, they are allowed. But he hates them,” she whispered. “I can show you where the king keeps him. He is allowed visitors, but no one sees him anymore.”

Could Ankarette’s quest to discover what had become of the Maid’s famous sword be resolved so easily?

“Thank you, yes!” Ankarette said with a kindly smile. The waif led her through the mazelike corridors of the palace, and the poisoner kept pace as she memorized all the twists and turns. The din of the party fell away behind them, and soon the only sounds were their steps and the hissing of torches. Occasionally they encountered other drudges, roused from their beds to prepare to scrub the ballroom clean before dawn.

They paused at the threshold of an ancient door with ornate iron hinges. “This is the one,” the girl said, pointing. Then she clung to the bucket handle with both hands. “The duke is kept up there.”

“There are no guards?” Ankarette asked, wrinkling her brow.

The girl shook her head. “He’s old, my lady. The king wishes him to pass away in comfort. None of the palace guards would ever let him leave.”

Ankarette nodded and then squeezed her shoulder. “Thank you. I’ll see him in the morning.”

The girl did a brief curtsy and then carried her bucket away. Ankarette stood by the imposing door, taking a steadying breath as she stared at the nicks and gouges in the wood.

Did she dare wake him? If King Lewis or one of his many poisoners caught her, she would be executed, but not before they attempted to extract secrets from her. Of course, she carried a quick-acting poison in a ring to prevent that from happening.

This was her chance to speak with the old duke uninterrupted. She trusted her instincts, honed from years of duplicity and cunning. If she met the Duke of La Marche, she would discern whether he was a risk to her or not. The Espion had reliable reports that his role in several attempted insurrections against the Spider King and his predecessor would have earned him a traitor’s death if not for his reputation among the people. If he did end up being a threat to her, she could dose him with a poisonous powder that would render him unconscious and wipe his memory clear of her. She could use another powder to get information from him even if he was unwilling to cooperate, but that was not her first choice. Either way, she needed answers; it alarmed her that King Lewis was celebrating in his palace while her king’s army was camped near a major river in Pree. Neither king was a fool. It was like a Wizr board with the opposing pieces arranged such that it was near impossible to predict the outcome of the next move.

Reaching for the handle, she found it locked. That obstacle was overcome in a moment, and she found herself facing a black stairwell. She quietly shut the door behind her and waited there, letting her eyes adjust to the darkness. There were arrow slits in the tower that let in faint starlight. Keeping her back to the wall, she slowly and silently made her way up the steps, her senses alert once again for any sound that would betray a guard.

There was a door at the top of the stairs, and a faint light emanated from beneath it. Many people slept with a candle lit, but Ankarette assumed nothing and took nothing for granted. She tried the handle and found that it opened to the touch. Prodding it with the toe of her shoe, she pushed it ajar and smelled the wax of burning candles, the leftover gravy of a partially eaten meal, and the smell of an aging man.

The Duke of La Marche was awake.

From the thin crack in the door, she saw him sitting at the window. There were only a few streaks of buttery color left in his mostly white hair. Although there was a book in his hands, he was staring out the window at the night sky, lost in thought.

Ankarette had spent many a long evening in such a pose—sitting by a window, reading books of tales from the past. This was a man who had been convicted of treason twice, only for the sentence to be commuted—both times—because he was a prince of the blood. He had lived history, and she was a bit in awe of him.

After taking a moment to gather her courage, Ankarette pushed open the door gently and then shut it behind her.