The Maid's War (Kingfountain 0.5)

And then it was over, the wheel surged forward again, and the noise of the earl’s men faded. Alensson stared after them, noticing the boy, still gripping his father, had turned in the saddle and was staring back at him. Alensson nodded to the boy, coaxed by some preternatural feeling, and then he was lost in the crowd that filled in the gap made by the horsemen.

He did not know what had summoned those strange feelings, and it unnerved him that such a young boy had taken notice of him amidst the crowd. Why had he not bowed his head to the earl’s son meekly like the others and let the entourage pass without giving him any attention? He cursed inside his mind—he’d let his imagination run rampant—and walked vigorously until he reached the sanctuary gates.

The Duke of La Marche was well-versed in the strange traditions of Ceredigion. He had heard that many unlawful men resided on the sanctuary grounds, where the king’s law could not pursue them. The privilege had been in existence since the beginning of time, it seemed, and no one had ever offered him a satisfactory explanation as to why grown men still heeded it. It was said that the protections of sanctuary would last until the river stopped flowing, which would never happen considering it was fed by mighty glaciers in the North that provided the unending supply of water to the river. There were many stories about knights who had rebelled against kings and sought—and found—protection at the many sanctuaries in the realm. For this reason, Alensson felt a middling portion of peace upon entering the gates.

As he had done at Beauvoir, he instantly began walking the grounds, seeking to understand the location. There were many fountains throughout the outer courtyard, and individuals and families were clustered around them. Many were tossing coins into the waters. As he drew closer, he noticed the heap of rusty coins on the bottom of each. It was another shared tradition, he knew, not to remove the coins. If someone was caught stealing them, a crowd of violent citizens could instantly rise up, seize the offender, and throw him or her into the river.

He also wandered the grounds behind the sanctuary and was surprised to find a small dock there. He thought that very strange considering the violent pull of the waters, but perhaps goods were sometimes sent from upstream. From this angle, he saw the profile of the palace up on the hill. The sight took his breath away and spread a sick feeling through his heart. He had never seen the like—there were many levels of walls and bulwarks built into the hillside to provide rings of protection to the castle atop. He sighed and shook his head, seeing the futility of attacking such a place. But with the thought, he imagined seeing Genette’s face and her confident look. If the Fountain had bidden her to do it, he had no doubt she would have attempted it—and he had no doubt she would have succeeded.

After walking the grounds, he went to the sanctuary itself and took a seat on a stone bench. The black and white tiles of the marble floor were arranged like the squares on a Wizr board. Despite the constant tide of traffic in and out, the floor was swept and clean. Judging by their clothes, the families who visited came from a vast array of backgrounds, but all were welcome on the grounds.

Alensson lingered, watching and observant, for a long while, but the day was passing quickly and he knew he’d need a place to spend the night and possibly the next few days. Were there places to sleep on the island? There had to be, didn’t there? If not, where did the sanctuary men stay after the gates were shut?

He approached the sexton with a submissive air, wringing his hands nervously. “Excuse me,” he said, hoping the accent wouldn’t betray him. “I didn’t want to bother the deconeus. I need to spend the night. Is there . . . is there a room?”

The sexton looked at him with concern and Alensson felt his worry begin to mount. Perhaps he should have taken refuge in one of the inns on the bridge.

“You will need to see the deconeus, I’m afraid,” the sexton said. “He is the one who grants permission. Come with me.”

Choosing to risk his luck and trust the Maid because she had sent him there, he followed the sexton and was led to an anteroom and told to wait there on a stone bench. He folded his arms, feeling a dark cloud of foreboding close in around him. He had been among soldiers from Ceredigion often enough that he thought he could mask his identity.

Soon the door opened and the sexton gestured for him to enter.

The deconeus was a middle-aged man with well-silvered, close-shorn hair. He had an arched nose and an imperious stance, bull-chested and not fragile. He looked down at Alensson with wary eyes. “Soldier or mercenary?” he asked curtly.

Alensson didn’t know the names of the nobles well enough to dissemble, but if he earned the deconeus’s disdain, he might escape a closer interrogation. “Mercenary, my lord,” Alensson said, hastily bowing his head. “Was a bit too friendly with the captain’s wife, if you understand me. I didn’t do anything, to be sure, but he flew into a rage and threatened to kill me. I thought . . . I thought I’d find protection here for a few days. Hopefully he’ll forget about me after a while.”

The deconeus chuckled to himself. “Well, you’re a handsome man, I can see how this misunderstanding may have happened.” He rubbed his mouth, giving Alensson a keen look. It wasn’t distrustful, though—it was the look of a man doing business in his head. “You’ll only be here a few days?”

Alensson raised his hands helplessly. “I think so. I won’t be any trouble.”

“Of course you won’t be any trouble,” the deconeus quipped. “On this island, inside these gates, you are under my authority. Not even the Duke of Westmarch could arrest you here if he had a mind to do so. Why did you flinch?”

Alensson realized he had reacted to the deconeus’s mention of his rival’s name.

“You weren’t courting the duke’s wife, were you?” the deconeus asked, appalled.

“No! No!” Alensson said, laughing weakly. “I was stationed at Pree recently when the duke arrived. We’re all still bleeding from the lashes he gave us.”

The deconeus nodded and sniffed in through his nose. “He’s not a patient man, I assure you, and he’s no friend of mine. You’ll be safe here. I will let you know if your captain comes looking for you. May be best to stay in your cell for a few days.”

“A cell?” Alensson asked, imagining a dungeon.

“We have a lot of visitors,” the deconeus said with an oily smile. “They tend to stay a while. Each room is divided into smaller cells. You’ll be sharing yours with several other men. It costs five florins a day, but you must get your own food. You can pay a lad to go outside the gates and fetch you a meat pie or whatever you like. Three pents—I’ll take a week’s worth right now. If you’re a mercenary, you should have some wages?”