The Maid's War (Kingfountain 0.5)

He closed his hand on the middle of the scabbard. “When you are gone?”

“Yes, Gentle Duke. The sword is powerful, but the scabbard is even more so. Whoever wears it cannot be slain.” She raised her finger and gently caressed the raven symbol. “It comes from the drowned kingdom of Leoneyis, and its magic is of the Deep Fathoms. When it is healing me, the symbol of the raven begins to glow. Only I can see it. Yes, my body was broken by the fall. But as you can see, I am unharmed now. If others knew the source of my protection, this scabbard would be stolen from me and I would lose both magics.” She put her hand on top of his. “Now heed me, Gentle Duke. Those who look at this weapon cannot help but covet it. Even you, though you are too noble to admit it. It is the sword of kings. It is the sword of King Andrew.”

He felt the sudden violent urge to wrench the scabbard out of her hands. His fingers were still clenched around the middle. He was bigger than her, stronger. He could take it away by force. Anyone with the sword and scabbard in their possession could take back Occitania—nay, the world! But her hand was on top of his, so gentle and kind. The look in her eyes said, You can take it from me. But I know you will not.

That look was so trusting, so vulnerable. He felt sweat pop out on his forehead. He was so weak in that moment, his knees started to tremble. Oh, how he wanted the blade and scabbard for himself.

“Are you to give it to the king after he’s crowned?” he asked, his throat thick. The thought of Chatriyon taking the sword made bile rise in his throat.

She shook her head. “He could not be trusted with it,” she answered. “It is a weapon of great power, the scabbard more so than the blade. King Andrew died because it was stolen and replaced with a counterfeit before his last battle. He was critically wounded that day and his empire fell. He fell because someone coveted what was rightfully his.” She said the words almost imploringly. Her eyes said, Don’t let that be you, Gentle Duke.

He opened his fist and let go of the scabbard. The temptation immediately began to subside, and a smile of relief stole across Genette’s mouth. She patted his hand with fondness and then strapped the scabbard back around her waist.

“Now you know my secret,” she said.

“Now I know one of them,” he answered. “You said you would not survive the war. Tell me why. Tell me why this must happen.”

Her countenance fell as a look of sadness overtook her. “It is my burden to bear, Alensson,” she whispered. She turned away from him. “Let me bear it alone.”

He was tempted to put a comforting hand on her shoulder. But being alone with her was dangerous. He knew he should leave the tent because he should. He understood some important things in that moment. When he had asked her about having a boy in Donremy waiting for her, he had misunderstood her reaction. She did have feelings for someone. But they were forbidden feelings. They had been together a great deal and she had never done anything untoward with him, nor he with her. But he felt they were standing on the edge of a precipice. He backed away from her, even though he yearned to comfort her.

“I will not let anything happen to you,” he said as he turned to leave. He hesitated by the tent door.

“Just promise me you’ll remember what I said,” Genette told him. “What I told you about Virtus. You are such a man, Gentle Duke. Gentleness is one of the attributes of Virtus that has long been forgotten. You must teach them to the king after he’s been crowned at Ranz. You must be the example he looks up to.”

He stiffened at the magnitude of the task. “He barely listens to me—there are so many other voices at court.”

“Then your voice must win out. Do not abandon him, Alen. Without your influence, our kingdom will be brought to ruin. My mission is to set things right. Your mission is to keep it so.”

A voice sounded from outside the tent, the young squire. “The prince has arrived, my lord. He wishes to see you.”

Alensson looked over his shoulder at Genette, who gave him an encouraging nod.

He sighed and walked out of the tent.





CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The Anointing





It was a surreal moment to the Duke of La Marche, riding his warhorse amidst the banners of an army led by Chatriyon Vertus himself. Crowds had gathered along the road, peasants and tradesmen who had to witness the arrival of a man they had not seen in years—a man whom the Fountain had chosen to rule by the hand of a village girl not unlike themselves.

Genette rode at Chatriyon’s side, her armor glistering in the sun, her banner full of holes, the edges in tatters from the battles it had faced, but it still bore new embroideries that she had found time to work on during the journey. He watched her, blinking back the memories of when he had discovered the girl in a tavern outside Shynom. In the span of only so many weeks this girl had become both a general and a warrior. She had done the impossible. It was rare to meet one of the Fountain-blessed—much rarer to meet one such as Genette—and Alensson suspected the people had gathered to see her more than the man who was coming to be crowned.

Alensson wore his own battered armor, but it had been polished for the occasion. His wife, Jianne, was still in Lionn. Despite the risks, he wished she were with him. He longed to see her again, to banish the evil thoughts that continued to chip away at his resolve, worries that he might never regain La Marche to bestow the duchy on his child.

Some of the braver members of court were riding with the army, but most had been too frightened. No one knew when or if Deford would arrive with the back-up forces from Ceredigion. Ranz was deep in enemy territory and their stay would be brief. Some feared a surprise attack, but Genette had assured them that while they would face the Duke of Westmarch in battle, it would not be in Ranz. The road was open, and there were no garrisons left to intervene. Just as Genette had assured them, they faced no opposition as they rode toward Ranz.

Watching Chatriyon’s back, Alensson felt another pang of resentment toward the prince. Had any of this man’s blood been shed in their battles? Had he suffered so much as a bruise? He wore ceremonial armor, but it was just that—ceremony. It was an empty pretense. Hunger rose up in him again, and he found his gaze lowering to the scabbard belted to Genette’s waist.

No, no, no, you mustn’t. To distract himself, he pictured the small cottage where he had been reunited with his wife. That cottage was full of pleasant memories to dwell on. Jianne’s long, wavy hair, the bright cinnamon of her eyes, the way they’d been cocooned by verdant greenery.