The Maid's War (Kingfountain 0.5)

Her words burned the inside of Alensson’s chest as if she’d grabbed a poker from the coals and jabbed him with it. A stillborn child. His wife was pregnant with their first child. Would the child be stillborn then? Would Genette’s word of power be able to save him? A mix of grief and hope and fear battled inside him, and he didn’t know what to say, let alone what to think.

“I will only say the word of power once,” Genette said, cupping her hands together and placing them on the corpse’s waxlike hands. “You must remember it. You must never forget it, Gentle Duke. Promise me.”

“I swear it,” he said. “On the—”

“It is enough,” she said, cutting him off. She leaned over the boy’s face, the peaceful face beneath the thatch of thick flaxen hair. Alensson felt his skin prickle and gooseflesh spread down his arms, across his neck. He shivered and started to tremble. Her face was serene and, despite the smudges, filled with unearthly beauty.

“Nesh-ama,” she breathed and then planted a gentle kiss on the boy’s cold lips.

There was a distant rushing sound like a waterfall.

And then the boy began to breathe.

Alensson watched as the boy’s chest rose and fell and color blushed his cheeks. The squire’s fingers stiffened against the scabbard of the sword. Then the black wound on the boy’s chest began to shrink before his eyes. The duke felt as if he were in a holy place and could not utter a word for fear of disturbing the reverence.

Brendin’s eyelashes fluttered open. He stared up at them in confusion, but with a look of tranquility. Genette stroked his fair hair tenderly, then Alensson watched helplessly as her eyes rolled back in her head and she slumped to the ground unconscious.



The Duke of La Marche had helped knights get in and out of armor many times. But getting Genette out of hers was fraught with peculiar sensations. She was a woman, not his sister, not his wife—of no relation to him at all. But she was his friend, and their friendship had been forged in the furnace of war. A sister in arms, truly. He removed the battered breastplate, bracers, and greaves.

Her skin had turned chalk white and she was listless and unresponsive. The doctor he had summoned lifted her eyelids, checked her pulse, and tried to rouse her with hartshorn—which failed. The bandages the doctor wrapped around her leg were soon soaked with blood. He used needle and thread to stitch the wound shut, but the bleeding did not stop. Alensson paced in the tent, gazing down at her and fearing that she had traded her life to save the boy’s. Her breath was too shallow to hear and her chest rose and fell at distant intervals.

The squire was sleeping on a pallet, clutching the sword to his bosom. Alensson had inspected the lad’s foot where the bolt had pierced it—all that remained was a pink scar.

“I can’t stop the bleeding,” the doctor said worriedly, shaking his head. He had a bowl full of bloody water and stained rags. “I think I have some woad in my tent. Here, press your hand against the wound rag until I return.”

Alensson knelt by her side, doing as the doctor had asked, and the man rushed from the tent. He glanced at the boy, wondering if he should take the scabbard away and bring it to her. He knew it would heal her wound. But the boy’s injuries had stolen his life. While the external injuries had been healed, he did not know how long it would take for the scabbard to heal the inward ones.

He heard a faint whisper from Genette’s mouth.

Looking down, he saw her eyelids fluttering. She was so weak she couldn’t move at all. He pressed the bandage even harder against her leg, willing it to stop bleeding.

“Are you awake, Genette?” he asked, bending close to her mouth.

“Alen . . . sson,” she whispered.

“I’m here,” he said, his heart churning with worry. “I’m going to bring the scabbard.”

“No,” she whispered. “Or he won’t . . . recover. I’ll not die yet. Not yet, Gentle Duke. Just weak. So weak.”

He felt a surge of relief, but while he believed her, it did not stop him from worrying. He was still looking down at her pale face and seeping wound. “The doctor is getting some woad.”

“Pretty yellow flower,” she mumbled. Her head lolled to one side. She blinked her eyes open fully, gazing up at him. “I’m cold,” she said.

Keeping his hand pressed against the wound, he pulled the blanket up to her chin. She closed her eyes again. “Promise me.”

“What? Did you say something?”

“Promise me.”

He strained to hear her over the commotion of the camp. He leaned so far forward that his ear was nearly to her lips. “What? Promise you what?”

“That you’ll not kill the king,” she said. “He must live. Even if I must die.”

A piercing pain shot through his heart. “I don’t understand.”

“I know. I know. There is so much . . . you don’t understand. Promise me that you won’t kill him. Or his child.”

“I wouldn’t kill a child,” Alensson said indignantly.

“Lewis won’t always be a child,” she said with sigh. “Promise me, Gentle Duke. Please. Even if you don’t understand. Promise me. The game must go on.”

“What game? What are you talking of, Genette? Tell me!”

“I can’t. You must find out . . . for yourself. Promise me.” She gave him a pleading look. “Or my death will be worth nothing.”

“Have you seen your death, Genette? Do you know when it will be?”

She stared at him and then slowly nodded. It was the first time she’d moved her body since breathing life back into Brendin. “Promise me. Please.”

He let out his breath. She had given everything to see Chatriyon crowned. She had suffered and she had bled and she was bleeding still, yet she was determined to see him king. It didn’t matter that Chatriyon was ungrateful, that he was perhaps unsuited to leadership.

It was not an easy promise for Alensson to make, and he did not make it lightly. Still pressing the soaked cloth to the oozing wound on her leg, he rested his other hand on top of hers. “I promise you, Genette of Donremy.”

A rustle of the tent fabric announced the doctor’s return.

“What took you?” Alensson grumbled, turning and glancing at the doctor. The man looked haggard and spent as he crossed the tent to where the Maid lay. There was a stalk of vibrant violet-tipped flowers in his hand. Violet, not yellow.

When Alensson gazed down at Genette, she was looking at him, her mouth turned into a frown. “That’s not woad,” he said.

The doctor’s eyes were full of panic. “He . . . is . . . outside,” he panted. His voice was hoarse.