The Maid's War (Kingfountain 0.5)

“How fares she?” he asked. “Is the surgeon still here?”

“I’m here,” called the man. “Is that the Duke of La Marche?”

“Aye,” said the squire.

“He can come in,” Genette said.

When Alensson ducked through the opening, he saw her sitting on a camp stool. Her battered armor was hanging from the spokes of its iron stand, and it was clear the young squire had been in the middle of cleaning it. The doctor stood behind her, one hand on her bare shoulder, the other on her ribs. She had covered her front with a sheet, and when she saw Alensson looking at her, he could have sworn she started to blush.

“Is her back broken?” Alensson asked the doctor, a bearded middle-aged man who was balding at the top.

“It was earlier,” he answered, shaking his head. “Sit straighter, my dear. Pull your shoulders back.”

She complied, looking a bit exasperated at his instructions. Alensson felt a throb of emotion akin to possessiveness—as if she belonged to him and no one else. The doctor frowned, then shook his head.

“Astonishing,” he muttered.

“I told you,” the Maid said, “I will be fine. Surely there are others whose injuries require more attention?”

The doctor wagged his finger at her. “When I first entered, you were in violent pain. Your shoulder was broken, your back was broken, your left arm was broken, and possibly one of your legs. How far do you say she fell?” he added, looking at Alensson.

“The distance from a cottager’s roof,” the duke said, remembering it vividly. “She landed on her back in full armor.”

He nodded in dismay. “Her initial injuries bore witness to such a fall. But as I live, Duke Alensson, I have watched her heal before my very eyes. Her shoulder was here”—he pointed to a spot on her back—“and now it is here.” He traced the path with his finger. “Truly the lass cannot be harmed.”

“Thank you, Surgeon. Go tend to the other wounded.”

The man flung up his hands in a helpless gesture and then collected his things. Brendin continued to clean her armor with a rag and jar of polishing wax. Keeping the sheet raised to protect her modesty, Genette slipped behind the narrow changing screen.

Alensson was upset without quite understanding why. He scowled at the doctor as he left. Then he turned to the squire. “Go fetch some food and wine,” he commanded.

The young man made a furtive glance at the changing screen, then bowed meekly to the duke and forsook the tent, leaving the two of them alone.

“Why did you send my squire away?” Genette asked, coming around the changing screen in a plain undershirt with leather ties at the front.

“Because I need to talk to you and I don’t think he should hear what I have to say,” he answered in a low voice.

Her countenance changed to one of wariness. “What would you speak of, Gentle Duke?” she asked him, her tone very low and private.

“How is it that you are uninjured?” he demanded.

She had barely managed to hobble to her tent and now she was starting to pace, all signs of suffering and agony gone.

“Why do you wish to know?” she asked him.

“Because you take great risks in our battles. The arrow that struck your breast should have killed you. It was meant to kill you. Yet you barely bled when you pulled it out. Your bones were broken. I knew it myself without the doctor saying so. And yet here you stand. How is it possible?”

She let out a pent-up breath. “Is that all? Why does it matter how the Fountain chooses to heal me?”

He took a step toward her. “It matters because you suffer!” he hissed at her. “Your magic doesn’t prevent you from injury. It doesn’t protect you from pain. I don’t like seeing you . . .” He stopped, unwilling to say the words until he had mastered himself again. In a low, deliberate voice, he continued, “I don’t like seeing you in pain.”

She was looking at him now, the flush in her cheeks was gone. She seemed to be drinking in his words. Her eyes were fixed on his face and he thought he saw a tremble in her hands. “Are you worried about me?” she asked him with just the hint of a laugh.

“I am,” he answered truthfully. “And not because you’re the Maid. Because you are Genette. You’re from an obscure village and now you’re here fighting a man’s war better than any of the men.” The words were tumbling out of his mouth all at once. He couldn’t stop himself. “I admire your courage and your pluck. I admire your confidence. I wish I had it. But you said something during the battle. You said I would survive this war. And you would not.” He shook his head. “I don’t understand it. How can that be if you cannot be killed?”

Taking a deep breath, she turned away from him and paced in a small square on the floor, her hands clasped together in front of her, her index fingers steepled and pressed against her mouth. “I should not have told you that,” she answered. “Now you will worry about me needlessly.”

“Then tell me what you refuse to,” he said, fixing her with his eyes.

She was debating with herself. He could see the conflict tumbling around in her mind. Maybe she was communing with her inner voices, asking for permission to tell. He waited patiently, absorbed by this small slip of a girl who had already fought and won several battles. She was only seventeen years old, by the Fountain!

Then she paused and turned to face him. “Will you keep my secrets, Gentle Duke? If I tell you?”

“You know I will,” he vowed.

His answer seemed to satisfy her, but rather than speak, she brought her arms down and began unbuckling her scabbard belt. He was confused by this, wondering what she meant to do. Then she approached him with the scabbard in her hands. It was made of leather and had a belt woven into the design so that it was all one thing. The raven, which he’d noticed before, was a more ancient version of the sigil of Brythonica.

“This is the source of my healing,” she whispered to him, holding out the scabbard so he could inspect it.

“The blade?” he asked, his eyes on the hilt and the pommel, which did not bear the scars of war despite all the battles it had weathered.

She shook her head. “The sword is powerful, Gentle Duke. With it, I am filled with the wisdom of battles from centuries past. Holding it, I have seen visions from the days of King Andrew. I have seen the king’s court and the principles of Virtus that governed it. Those principles are lost now.” She gave him a reproachful look. “Our prince is but a shadow. His name is Vertus, but he has forgotten its meaning. You must remember this, when I am gone.”