by Jeff Wheeler
“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.”
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.”
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nbsp; 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.
The spell of madness passed, and before Alensson knew it, they were riding under the arches of Ranz. He craned his neck and watched as flower petals, small and fragrant, were rained down on them like snow. They passed through the tranquil blizzard, and then they were on the main street heading to the sanctuary, which rose like a mountain before them.
The sanctuary was ancient, as defensible as the strongest of castles. The entrance had a triple archway facade—the center one was rounded and the two flanking it were more pointed. All three arches were inset into the thick stone walls. There was a huge stained-glass window above the center arch that was easily wider than the cottage in Izzt. It was circular with leaflike shapes extending from the center spoke—as if it were a bubbling fountain seen directly from above. Twin towers rose up on either side of the window, thick and impressive and full of small arches and windows. Alensson had not been to Ranz since he was a child and he still felt dwarfed by the sheer size and shape.
The company rode their horses up the main steps to the massive wooden doors, which had been opened to greet them. As the prince and the Maid ascended, Alensson lowered his hand to his hilt, scanning the crowd for any signs of trouble. The captains kept a portion of the soldiers in the city square and greenyard, taking a defensive position, and soldiers also patrolled the grounds of the sanctuary looking for trouble. The crowds from the road had followed them in and quickly filled the courtyard, but the troops kept a path clear for the king to use after the ceremony, using spears and pikes to hold the masses back. There was a lot of noise as people talked amongst themselves in hushed tones.
Once Alensson was confident there would be no disturbance, he rode his horse into the massive sanctuary. The floor was made of black and white tiles, set in octagonal patterns that formed a giant labyrinth on the floor. There was an enormous bubbling fountain at the head of the huge hall, raised from the rest of the room. The deconeus waited there with his multitude of sextons. Impressively sculpted statues stood as pillars on the eaves, holding up the massive vaulted roof. Light from the stained-glass window spread colored patterns on the floor. The subtle scent of incense hung in the air.
After dismounting, Alensson handed the reins to a squire and then followed the others on foot. As a prince of the blood himself, he had a prominent position to occupy near the prince. Genette was standing on the platform by the sextons, her face beaming with happiness. After all of their struggles, she was about to witness the fulfillment of her visions.
“Well met, my lord!” the deconeus greeted Chatriyon. He looked nervous and a little flustered. He was probably wondering what would happen to him when or if Deford arrived with the next army.
“Are you ready to do your office?” the Earl of Doone asked pointedly. He was never far from Chatriyon, and had ridden into the sanctuary before Alensson.
“I am . . . I am,” the deconeus said, stumbling a bit over his words. “We have the consecration oil. Did you bring the crown?”
There was something in his voice as he said it. Something that bespoke significance.
“We have it,” Doone said with a knowing look.
“Then it is the Fountain’s will,” the deconeus said. He strode forward, wearing his ceremonial vestments, and stood at the top of the steps. Then, slowly, he made his way down each one. A hush fell over the precincts. Even the horses were silent.
“Since the days of King Andrew, the nobles of each realm have been crowned king according to their right and according to the rites of the Fountain. As a child, you were given the water rite to purge your stain, cleansing your fallen nature. Now you will be anointed with oil that has been consecrated to bestow the right to rule, to preside, to lead this people of Occitania. In the ancient tongue I speak it! Nominus. Clarinus. Debemus!”
A ripple of amen came from those assembled.
The deconeus pulled out a jeweled vial and then uncorked it. He covered the open end with his littlest finger and quickly jerked the vial back to dab its contents on his flesh. Then he used that finger to anoint Ch
atriyon on his forehead, both shoulders, and finally on his breast.
While the deconeus refastened the lid of the vial, one of the nobles approached holding a satchel. The man reached inside and his hand emerged with the royal crown. It was an ancient, tarnished-looking thing. As Alensson saw it come out of the bag, he felt his heart flare with a pulse of sudden hatred and envy. He doesn’t deserve it. He tried to master himself, tried to vanquish the evil thoughts, but they were nearly strangling as he watched the man give the crown to the deconeus.
Then his gaze found Genette, who was looking at him with a disapproving frown. Seeing her quiet rebuke shamed him instantly and squelched the ill feelings that had been sprouting in his soul. A trickle of sweat went down the side of his head. He could breathe again, and he quickly took in some air and forced his mind to surrender to the goodness inside of him. His heart began to slow and he felt peaceful once again.
A little smile quirked on Genette’s mouth and she gave an approving nod, even though her eyes had already returned to the king.
They both watched in silence as the deconeus hefted the tarnished crown and then gently set it down amidst the unruly locks of Chatriyon’s dark hair. There was a strange feeling in the room, like the grinding of a stone door closing. It shook Alensson to his heels.
The air was suddenly filled with shouts of Natalis! which signified the birth of a new king. Trumpets began to blare in the open hall, gripped by courtiers who had come to witness the occasion, and soon the stone walls were ringing with so much noise and confusion, Alensson’s ears were nearly split from it. He wondered if the great glass window would shatter. He winced, his ears aching, his eyes searching the hall for signs of a threat.
Then he saw Genette come down from the steps and kneel before King Chatriyon, her banner pole fixed next to her, its curtain hanging limply. The noise continued to pierce his ears and he stepped closer, trying to listen to them.
