The Maid's War (Kingfountain 0.5)

In the sludge-like mire of his thoughts, amidst the shouts and screams of mortal combat, even in the act of slicing one of his enemies who confronted him, Alensson felt a desire for that sword that overswept even the love he had for his wife. He had seen Genette use it before and it had not roused such feelings in him. But those feelings were so strong now, they threatened to change him from the inside.

Half-formed thoughts, grievances, and fears swirled around inside him. Who was Chatriyon Vertus but a sniveling coward? Did he deserve to be king? Did he deserve the loyalty that had been shown him by those who had risked everything?

Someone brought a battle axe down on Alensson, and he spun around and gutted the man with a savage stroke. He kicked him next, and then he was fighting beside Genette, in awe of her power, in awe of the sword she held, and for the briefest flicker of a moment, he was tempted to shove her down in the confusion and yank the blade out of her hand.

But no. No.

He shook his head as if to rouse himself from an intense, lurid dream. After all he had given up. After all he had sacrificed, after all the years he had spent in Ceredigic confinement, he would not sell his honor so cheaply. His integrity was the only possession he truly owned; he could not bear to lose it.

Alensson took up a position behind her, defending her back as the battle raged inside the tower. There were so many people that Alensson found himself fighting friend as well as foe in the confusion. He kept glancing back at Genette, making sure she was still within sight amidst the flood of men-at-arms.

“Stay near me, Gentle Duke,” he heard her say. “It is almost over.”

But the fighting grew more savage and desperate before it ended. These were the last defenders, a brave and mighty foe who would neither yield nor ransom themselves. They expected no mercy after all they had boasted, all the ills they had done while ravaging Occitania. Alensson was jostled by one man just as another lunged toward the Maid with a spear—he elbowed the one in the face and then chopped down at the spearhead, knocking it aside before it reached her.

There was a groan of wood, followed by the rending sound of metal. The other gate of the Turrels was being breached by the city soldiers. Another wall of soldiers came flooding into the courtyard. Everything seemed to slow down, and Alensson turned to watch the newcomers join the fray. They devastated the remaining defenders, many of whom finally flung down their weapons in despair and sank to their knees in humiliation and defeat. They had the hollowed, anguished look of men who didn’t know if they would live or die—and who didn’t seem to care. He recognized it because he had felt that way before.

In the viscous haze of battle, he saw a hummingbird flit through the melee, an incongruous sight. He could almost hear the frantic buzz of its wings. Genette was standing still, her banner arm drooping as she stood, eyes closed, as if listening to a voice no one else could hear. The storm of chaos meant nothing to her. There was a peaceful air about her, and when she finally opened her eyes and looked at him, they were filled with joy.

“We have won the battle, Alen,” she said with triumph, speaking above the noise. “But the war is not over.”

The fight ended like a spilled cask, all the energy draining out of one side as the other began to whoop and cheer. The pride of victory swelled within them, stronger because of how long they had been oppressed. The soldiers mingled with their brothers who had come across the bridge. Aspen Hext pushed through the crowd. His armor was stained with blood and grime, but tears of joy trickled down his ruddy cheeks and mingled with the grit sticking in his beard. Then he started laughing—big bellowing laughs like a bear—and he went and hugged Genette, pulling her off her feet and kissing her cheek. She smiled with embarrassment, unable to do anything with her arms pinned to her sides. The soldiers were jumbling to crowd around her, chanting over and over, “The Maid! The Maid! The Maid!”

Alensson felt a surge of pride in Genette as he watched Hext set her down. She patted the lord’s arm in an awkward gesture, her smile making her look very young and inexperienced. Sometimes it was easy to forget that both were true. Hext then led a cheer that could be heard all the way across the river. Alensson joined in until his throat was raw. The Maid looked discomfited, but she patted Hext’s arm again, trying to signal for him to stop even though she could not be heard. He was proud of her and ashamed at himself for the feelings that had momentarily insinuated themselves in him. He was a prince of the blood. But he was not the heir to the crown of Occitania. His duty as the Duke of La Marche was to fight for the man who was—not to decide if he deserved it. And he would play the role he’d been assigned, just as Genette had played her role as the redeemer of Lionn.

The surviving soldiers from Ceredigion were herded away and brought to the dungeons below the towers they had once claimed. Alensson felt sympathy for them, but he was grateful it was no longer his turn to play the captive. Lionn had been liberated in days, a feat that no one in Shynom would have imagined possible a fortnight ago. What miracle would happen next?

He saw Genette approach, the mayor of Lionn at her side. He saw the yellow lily in her gloved hand. The mayor was weeping with joy.

“This is for Jianne,” the Maid said, offering him the flower. “She will be arriving soon. I have seen her coming. Her father may still be imprisoned in Kingfountain, but this is his city, after all.”

“Thank you,” he said, taking the delicate flower from her. Like the hummingbird he’d seen, it was incongruous in this bloody place, yet all the more beautiful for it.

“Thank you,” Genette whispered, her voice falling low. “For not betraying me.”

And in that moment of candor, in that moment of forgiveness, he realized she had seen inside his soul and knew he had been tempted.





CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Poisoner





Ankarette watched Alensson’s face as he seated himself in silence at the window seat. The blush of dawn on the horizon was a reminder that their time together was growing short. The kitchen staff would be rising soon to pound loaves of bread with their fists. There would be chamberlains and squires to coax life back into the spent brazier coals.

But while the poisoner was starting to feel anxious—she had perhaps stayed too long—she did not rush him. It was clear he’d experienced the siege of Lionn anew in the telling of his story, and she could feel the residue of shame that still lingered in his soul.

“You didn’t have to tell me the part about how the sword tempted you,” she said in a comforting voice. “Perhaps you were too honest.”

A little twitch on his lip almost blossomed into a smile. He stroked his mouth, his shoulders hunched, his elbows close to his sides.