by Jeff Wheeler
“It’s Bromin. The dogs have a scent. I think someone was hiding in the wood and went into the moat. Tell Captain about it. I think he’ll want a full search.”
“You sure, Bromin? I don’t want to wake him for naught.”
“It could be nothing, Gollenbock. But with ten thousand coming to fetch her, I wouldn’t put it past someone to send in a poisoner, you know? I’m trusting the hounds on this one. Just to be sure.”
“Stay there. I’ll fetch Captain.”
Alensson knew some of their names, which would be helpful, but now he needed to escape before all the guards were awakened to search for him. Knowing the guards and dogs were nearby, he crept quietly away from the arch, hugging the rim of the moat ravine and increasing his pace with every step he took. The moat didn’t surround the entire castle, just the back half, so he needed to climb some vines and roots to get out. If he made it back into the woods, he would go as far as he could and fight his way clear. It would be a long night still, but if he could hold out until dawn, when other people would appear to add distraction, he would have a much better chance of escaping. He didn’t know how long it would take for the captain to be summoned.
Alensson crossed the dry moat and then looked for handholds to start climbing back up. As he searched, he heard a sound above him and froze, his heart suddenly in his throat.
He looked up slowly, expecting to see a crossbow aimed at his head. There was no one there. His knees were trembling. Turning, he looked around and then heard another noise. It came from high above him. From the tower.
In the moonlight, he saw someone poking out of the window of the tower, a black smudge against the light gray stone wall.
Then he heard a whisper falling down like rain. “Alensson!”
It was Genette. He stared up at her, his heart beating in relief. She knew he was coming! The Fountain had told her! His heart began to thrum with confidence and hope. He could do this. Somehow he’d figure out a way for them both to escape.
He watched in horror as she leaped from the window.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Broken
She fell.
There was no time to rush and catch her. There was no warning whatsoever except that one whispered word. She soared from the window in a giant leap and then he saw her plummet to the bottom of the moat in a heap. The sound of cracking bones hung in the air—sickening and terrifying.
For a moment, he disbelieved what he’d seen, and then he rushed to her side, unbuckling the scabbard from his waist as he moved. She was sprawled out amidst the dirt and rocks, seemingly lifeless, the air crushed out of her from her shattered ribs.
“Genette!” he gasped in shock and despair. She tried to lift her head, then collapsed. She was still alive, if barely.
He dared not roll her over, so he laid the scabbard across her back and offered a silent and impassioned plea to the Fountain to save her life. His healing skills were completely inadequate to save her. He knew that. But he believed the Fountain’s magic could do what he could not.
Listening fearfully for the sound of approaching guards—they, too, must have heard her fall—he knelt amidst the debris, his hands clasped together tightly, his heart hammering wildly. She couldn’t die. If she died, so would his child. Tears pricked his eyes and he mutely shook his head, still not able to believe he’d witnessed what he had. He treasured her friendship, how she had made him into a better man. The thought of losing her devastated him.
There was no sign from the scabbard to show whether it was working, but she was breathing. Then, as he stared at her still form in the moonlight, he saw her shoulders start to rise and fall with greater vigor. He heard little cracks and snaps coming from her body, and it made him shudder at the enormity of the healing taking place in an instant.
Then Genette let out a sigh. “You came?” she croaked.
He was still concerned about the guards finding them. How was he going to rescue her and get her away? Her body was fixing itself, but it would take time. And that was something of which they had precious little.
“Of course I did,” he whispered, bending low. “They’ve sold you to our enemies.”
“I know,” she answered. “They arrive on the morrow. I don’t . . . want . . . to go to Kingfountain.”
“I’m going to take you away. There’s a little cottage tucked into the valley of Izzt. You will rest there. You will get stronger. I need you to come with me.”
“I can’t, Gentle Duke.”
It was like a physical blow. “You need to come, Genette. You said yourself, you said the child needs your magic.”
“I know what I said, Gentle Duke. It was a prophecy . . . of sorts. My whole body hurts,” she added with a groan.
“You just fell from a tower. No, you jumped! Why did you jump, Genette?”
She moved her head, wincing with the effort. There was blood trickling from her mouth. “It was the only way . . . to save you.”
He stared at her in surprise. “What do you mean?”
“Nnnghh,” she grumbled. “This hurts so much, but I feel the magic healing me. My legs and hip aren’t broken anymore. You shouldn’t have come, Alensson. I don’t want to go to Kingfountain, but I must go there. I must speak to the boy king of Ceredigion. I don’t want to, understand. But my voices . . . the Fountain bids me. I must make a warning before I . . . before my duty is through.”
Alensson shook his head, gazing at her almost with anger. “No.”
“I must, Gentle Duke. I must go there first.”
“They won’t ransom you, Genette. If you go there, they will kill you. They will throw you into the river and let you rush over the falls.”
She pursed her lips. “It’s not easy to kill someone who is Fountain-blessed. As you can plainly see.”
“Do you think they will let you keep the scabbard?” he chuffed. “No.”
“Of course they won’t. But the scabbard needs . . . it needs to go to Kingfountain, Alensson. You must bring it there, for I cannot. That is why—” She stiffened suddenly with pain and moaned weakly. He felt absolutely helpless and terrified in the face of her suffering. “I’m sorry . . . I’m sorry,” she panted. “It just hurts so much. Do you think a waterfall . . . .hurts this much?”
“I have no idea,” he said in despair. Kingfountain? He had to go there next?
She squeezed her eyes shut. “Hold my hand.”
He leaned over her, wishing he could take her pain on himself. Her arm was stretched out before her, elbow bent. He put his hand on top of hers and squeezed it very gently, watching to see if she flinched.
“It’s the only part that doesn’t hurt,” she gasped. Her thumb grazed his. “I had to jump, Alensson, because you would have been captured tonight,” she explained in an almost matter-of-fact way. “You were very foolish to come here and hide at night. The Fountain whispered to me that you’d be caught. That you brought the sword and that it would be taken away from you. You are not following the will of the Fountain.”
“But how am I to even know the will of the Fountain?” he said, feeling desperate and confused and shaken by the knowledge tumbling from her lips. “How was I to know?”
“You knew before you left the cottage,” she whispered. “You’ve been seeking your own will for so long, Gentle Duke. All now is confusion and despair. So I had to go alone to fulfill the Fountain’s will in all things. Even though I do not want to. When I learned you came, when I learned you’d be captured, I paced and paced, trying to understand what I could do to save you. This was all. The Fountain said if I fell, it would draw attention to my escape. They would forget about seeking the intruder they know is here.”
She blinked, gazing at him adoringly. “If I was to save you, I had to jump. I’m afraid . . . I’m afraid of heights, Alensson. Truly I am. I’ve always been afraid, but the Fountain gives me the strength to conquer my fears. Scaling the battlement walls that day in Foucaulx was . . . it was my test. Sometimes we must face our greatest
fears. If we obey, the Fountain will bless us.” A crooked smile came on her mouth. “I knew if I fell, I wouldn’t die because you would come to me. You would save me. So I must ask you now to save yourself. Hide in the bushes over there, behind us, against the wall of the moat.” Her voice was getting stronger and stronger. “The magic is healing me quickly. When the guards come, you must hide and let them take me.”
“But I want to take you away!” His heart was full of anxiousness and confusion.
She shook her head slowly. “That cannot be! If you carried me, how far would we get before the hounds found us? Hmmm? No, you must heed me. You must believe in me still, Alensson. Go before me. Go to Kingfountain. Both scabbard and sword must go there. You must bring them there.”
“What about Jianne? What about my child?”
She closed her eyes. “I know this is difficult, Alensson, but you must trust me. I serve the Fountain’s will. There is nothing more I could want . . .” She stopped, swallowing, then shook her head slowly. “It is such a temptation. Please, you must stop asking that. It tempts me. But I will be strong. I will do my duty.”
“What are you talking about?” he said, growing even more confused.
“I’ve seen what happens, Gentle Duke. The game must go on. Trust me. Please, you must . . . just . . . trust me. I save you. Then you save me. At Kingfountain.”
Alensson heard the sound of hounds and the crunch of boots, and panic seized him. The guards had descended into the moat and were coming from the direction of the bridge he had hid under.
“If you hide in that bush,” Genette whispered, her gaze piercing him. “They will not find you. It’s a thorn bush. It will hurt. But there are berries in it that will confuse the hounds. And they will find me because your scent leads them here. Take the scabbard. It will protect you from the thorns. Then heed me, Alensson. Wait for me there. Stay at the sanctuary of Our Lady. They cannot arrest you there. You will be one of many pilgrims who will come and pray at the fountain of Our Lady. There you will find a little boy. Nine years old. He’ll have cropped black hair. He’s Fountain-blessed. Give the boy the scabbard, not the sword. If I have the scabbard, I will survive the falls. The boy will help me get the scabbard when I need it. Trust me, Gentle Duke. Do your part. Go to Kingfountain and wait for me.”
Her voice was racing with concern as she spoke, her eyes glittering in the moonlight. “Take it and go! Go!”
“But your wounds!” He didn’t want to take it from her. What if he used the sword to fight the guards and the hounds? Would there be time to escape?
Her fingers dug into his hand, snapping his attention away from the violent thoughts. “Please, Alensson! You must hide in the thorn bush. Please! Or all is ruined!”
From the corner of his eye, he saw the light of torches coming their way. The guards were sweeping the entire length of the moat. In moments, the light would expose them both. He wrestled with indecision, wanting to obey her—he believed in her—but not wanting her to be taken away, not when he was so close to rescuing her. She had literally fallen from the sky to him.
“Please, Gentle Duke,” she whispered, squeezing his hand.
He bowed his head, kissed her hand, and then snatched the scabbard from her back. He slid the sword into it and dashed over to the thick foliage-wreathed thorn bush growing from the base of the moat like a nest. The hounds barked at his movement, and the guards released their leashes to let them bolt. He heard their snarls and growls and the padding noise of their paws as they charged ahead of the guards. Alensson held his breath and plunged into the thorn bush, feeling the sticks and thorns jab and poke him as he wrestled himself farther into it. He winced with pain as he was pricked and pierced all over his arms, side, and legs. The bush was too short to conceal him, so he was forced to crouch. Stings and cuts covered his body—an exquisite agony—but he was certain it was nothing compared to what Genette had suffered from her fall.
The hounds reached her still body and began barking fiercely as they sniffed her from head to toe. She lay there still, her back rising and falling as she breathed.
Alensson watched as the guardsmen arrived next, their lanterns showering light on the area. While he hadn’t noticed before, she was still dressed in men’s clothes, a bloodstained tunic and pants that she’d worn previously into battle.
“Bless me, it’s her! It’s the Occitanian strumpet!” Alensson could only grit his teeth as the guards discovered the body.
One of them gazed up and pointed. “She jumped from the tower!”
“How could she . . . ? She’s dead? The count will be furious if he doesn’t get his money.”
Another chuckled with disbelief. “She’s afraid of Kingfountain. I knew she was a coward.”
“She’s breathing.”
“No!”
“I swear it, look! She’s breathing!”
“She survived? She must have broken every bone. Go get the castle physician. Let’s make a pallet and roll her onto it. No one will believe this!”
Genette let out a soft moan and tried to move, her action frightening the guards.
One of the hounds came up to the thorn bush, sniffling and snuffling. Alensson could smell its horrid breath as it gazed at him through the leaves, branches, and berries. A low growl sounded.
He remained still, but his heart was racing.
“Chut! Come over here, dog. The girl’s right here! Get over here.”
Alensson was grateful all the guards were trampling the area with their boots, hiding the evidence that he had been there. The dog poked its snout at the bush, snuffling and growling. Alensson held perfectly still, his body sliced and stabbed in dozens of places. He could see a thorn impaling the skin of his forearm. He felt it ache and throb, but no blood oozed from the wound. The magic of the scabbard kept him from bleeding.
But he wished Genette had been able to keep it instead.
He watched as she was laid on a makeshift stretcher and carried away from him down the length of the dry moat. His throat was thick with gratitude and despair. Despite her fear of heights, she had jumped from a tower window to save him from getting captured again.
Huddling in the thorn bush, he silently wept.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Kingfountain
As a boy, Alensson had always imagined visiting the fabled city of Kingfountain. Kingfountain was as ancient at Pree, the two capitals existing in defiance of one another for centuries beyond counting. He was no scholar, no student of lore, so he did not know what had driven these kingdoms to be perpetual enemies. He only knew there was an implacable enmity between them—one he felt in his heart as he approached the docks in a trading vessel and saw the stunning waterfall exploding off the rugged ridges and hills. There was a constant wrestle between feeling impressed and feeling spiteful.
The palace rose up on the eastern side of the river, impregnable and secure. No army could attack that bastion without great labor and difficulty. Hulking in the middle of the river was the enormous sanctuary of Our Lady, his destination. The ivy-covered walls surrounding it and gated parks were inviting and peaceful. There was something genuinely comforting about the shared forms of worship between Ceredigion and Occitania.
He climbed the steps from the Genevese docks to the lower city on the west side of the river and joined the throng. He’d spoken only Brugian while on board the vessel, for Occitanians were not welcome here. Though it was almost certainly in his mind, he felt a menace, a brooding sensation that every citizen, every merchant could sense he did not belong. The noise of the waterfall was omnipresent, growing louder as he came closer to the bridge. The streets were full of carts and merchants, selling muffins, pies, sausages, skewered fruit, joints of pig, and other aromatic delights that made his stomach growl. He dispensed a few coins into a merchant’s grimy hand in exchange for a skewered piece of pork, which he ate as he sauntered down the street, watching the urchins zigzag around in games of tag and theft. The streets bore pennants from the house
of Argentine, fluttering in the lazy breeze that wafted in from the river. Alensson tried to look like a man with business, not the overwhelmed novice he was in this place. The raven’s-head scabbard was strapped to his waist, and the pommel of the sword swung lightly as he walked. Had the citizens known that he carried the blade of their ancient king Andrew, they would have torn him limb from limb and striven after it in a frenzy.
The sights and smells of Kingfountain enveloped him. The fashion of his tunic, heavy leather belt, and sturdy boots helped him blend in with those around him. The wounds from the thorns had closed and healed quickly, removing the pox-like scars. How many of the Maid’s injuries remained? He thought of her and then he thought of his pregnant wife . . . Would the babe truly be cursed if he did not succeed in bringing Genette home with him? Her instructions had been very specific. Find a lad who was Fountain-blessed at the sanctuary of Our Lady. A nine-year-old lad with dark hair. And yet . . . he’d already seen dozens of dark-haired lads just walking the streets. How was he to know upon sight if the lad was Fountain-blessed?
After finishing his meal, he entered the bridge spanning the tumultuous river and ventured closer to the island that held the sanctuary. The percussive clop of hooves suddenly filled the air—someone was approaching from behind Alensson. The crowd began to make way and he did the same, pressing back out of respect when he realized he was seeing a nobleman arriving at the city. It wasn’t a duke, probably an earl or the like. Alensson saw many lowering their heads in respect, but he couldn’t do it. Rather than look down, he raised his steely gaze.
Alensson saw the badge before he saw the man. The tunics of the knights accompanying the nobleman were emblazoned with the symbol of a lion, paws raised, and muzzle open to a roar. An arrow pierced the maw in a grotesque way that made Alensson’s cheek twitch. This was one of the Northern families, he believed. He couldn’t remember the name.
As the knights passed, his gaze fell on the earl. To his surprise, there was a young boy riding behind the noble—it could only be his son—and the boy’s small arms clasped his father’s waist. Something about the boy stood out to him. Maybe it was his serious eyes or the half-frown on his face. But in that moment, it felt as if the grinding wheel of time had suddenly slowed. He saw the boy’s sand-colored hair, his stern expression. He noticed the way he clasped his father’s middle, his cheek pressed against the cloak. The boy’s eyes met his, for some reason, out of the crowd. The two looked at each other and Alensson felt a strange dizzy feeling, as if he were suddenly in two places at once. There was something about that boy, something that pressed against his thoughts in a strange way, giving him the uneasy feeling that he had witnessed this scene before.
