by Jeff Wheeler
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?”
The cost to stay was likely dependent on the newcomer’s ability to pay. The deconeus had sized him up, and now he was asking for a price higher than an inn but for worse accommodations. Alensson had a sense that the price would be raised the longer he needed to stay.
“Most fair, my lord,” Alensson said, bowing meekly. The deconeus held out his hand, and Alensson turned and counted out the florins from his coin pouch. He’d deliberately concealed additional funds elsewhere. He tried to look distressed at the loss of the money as he handed it to the deconeus.
“There we are. All is settled.” He turned away from Alensson. “Tunmore, take this man to his cell.”
“Yes, Deconeus,” piped up a small voice, startling Alensson. He hadn’t noticed anyone else in the room, but he realized the giant of a man had been blocking his view.
A young boy with short-cropped dark hair circled around the deconeus. As soon as Alensson laid eyes on him, he felt the whisper of the Fountain.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The Deconeus of Ely
The carriage wheels struck an overlarge stone, giving the cart a ferocious shake that nearly sent Ankarette and Alensson crashing into each other. The poisoner stared at the duke in surprise and wonderment.
“The lad’s name was Tunmore? John Tunmore?” she asked, her insides seething wi
th the new information.
The duke gave her a wizened smile. “I take it that you know the august Deconeus of Ely?”
Ankarette’s mind was whirling. “He is my . . . my mentor,” she said, shaking her head. “He is scrupulously strict about keeping his secret. Only the king and queen know he is Fountain-blessed. And myself,” she added wryly. “He is the one who taught me to use the Fountain magic. You say he was just a boy at the time?” She laughed to herself. “I cannot even imagine him so young.”
“And surely I am as old as the mountains!” Alensson said with a gruff laugh, folding his arms. The carriage had settled back to its normal pattern again. “Yes, the lad was Fountain-blessed. The corruption of court taints everyone it touches, so I do not know how he is today, but he was a serious boy. A sober child. He supported King Eredur’s rival originally, did he not?”
“Yes, he did,” Ankarette said. “During the story you have been telling me, Deford was named protector of the child-king of Ceredigion. He was the lad’s uncle—”
“Uncles and nephews,” the duke murmured. When Ankarette gave him a quizzical look, he motioned for her to continue.
“The boy was already the King of Ceredigion. Deford was planning to bring him to Occitania to see him crowned king of this country as well. But Chatriyon, as you said, was crowned at Ranz instead. Deford had his nephew crowned at Pree, defying tradition. But this was several months after Genette’s death, and it caused a lot of political upheaval in my kingdom. The Maid’s impact on Ceredigion did not end with her capture. Tunmore was young back then. I hadn’t even thought to consider that he was alive, let alone a participant!”
Alensson nodded his head and wagged his eyebrows. “Of course you didn’t. No one did. He was the one who smuggled the scabbard into the palace.” He sighed. “It’s still there, for all I know.”
Ankarette leaned forward, her eyes riveted on his face. “Still?”
He stretched out his long legs. “I don’t want to get ahead of myself, but the story is coming to an end. Genette’s story, that is.” A mask of pain and sadness wrinkled his brow and his eyes. “This boy was being trained as a novice at Our Lady. His life had been dedicated to the faith at a young age, but rather than resent it, he embraced it—both because of the opportunities and because he could actually hear the Fountain’s whispers. Imagine what it was like for him, being so young and attached to the grandest sanctuary in his realm. All the while the Fountain whispered to him that the Maid of Donremy, whom everyone hated, was actually a true messenger of the Fountain. He did not tell anyone what he knew.” He shook his head and laughed softly. “Think of that! I’ve always regretted that I never thanked him for his help. He’s come to Pree on occasion in a diplomatic role, but I was never permitted to see him. He’s very good at keeping secrets.”
“He is,” Ankarette said in awe, amazed that her mentor had never told her any of this.
Tunmore had recognized her gifts when she was dabbling with the magic as a young lady-in-waiting to the Duke of Warrewik’s eldest daughter. He had sensed her using it to discern the intentions of one of the duke’s royal visitors, for the Fountain-blessed could always sense the magic another Fountain-blessed was using if they paid attention. Some who possessed the power were never schooled in its use and didn’t learn how it was depleted and replenished. Tunmore had given her lessons in the use of her power, and it was he who had recommended that she be sent to Pisan for training as a poisoner.
She noticed that Alensson was studying her face, keenly interested, and she felt a little flush creep into her cheeks. “I’m sorry. Go on with your story.”
“We’re both exhausted, Ankarette. It’s been a long night, a long journey. Perhaps we could rest for a while?”
“You must tell me what you know,” she said, shaking her head. “We’ll leave this wagon at Ranz and then take horses toward Westmarch.” She saw him flinch. “I mean, La Marche. Now that I know so much about your history, I have ill feelings toward Lord Kiskaddon, who is the Duke of Westmarch now. You never won your duchy back. That must have grieved you.”
He let out a deep breath. “I won’t lie to you, lass. I can’t hear the name of Kiskaddon without grinding my teeth. No offense against the man, though. I have wasted enough years stewing in my regrets. Well, what’s done is past. The Fountain’s will is inexorable. Fighting against it only leads to suffering.” He sighed. “When it whispered to Genette to leap from a window to save my life, it only did so to ensure she would suffer an even greater fall.”
Ankarette shuddered at the thought. “The falls at Kingfountain?” she said.
Alensson nodded. “So imagine this,” he said, spreading his hands. “I’ve arrived at the sanctuary as Genette bade me do. She told me to look for a boy and I discovered him quickly. He escorted me to my cell, asking nothing, saying nothing. But I felt myself seething inside, like a kettle in the kitchen under too many coals. I started to speak to him in low tones, asking if he believed in the Fountain. He nodded, saying nothing. Then I asked him . . . I asked him if he believed in the Maid of Donremy. He jumped so fast and high, you’d have thought I had stuck him with a needle. He stared at me, frightened.”
“Did he know who you were?” Ankarette probed.
Alensson shook his head. “No, I never told him. I took him aside and put my hands on his shoulders. I knelt down and looked him in the eye, face-to-face. You can tell a lot about someone if you look closely. I asked him again if he believed in the Maid. Tears came to his eyes, lass. He was shaking with fear and I knew why. The girl was a hero in his mind. Everyone around him said all sorts of horrible things about her. But he knew the truth and felt as if he was the only one who did.”
She stared at him keenly. “Did he tell you?”
The duke smiled. “He did. He was shaking like a leaf, but he started gushing words after that. He told me the Fountain had whispered to him that a man was coming with a sword. He had seen the sword and the raven scabbard in a vision. He was afraid of me, because I was a stranger to him, but he knew from the Fountain he could trust me. I told him that the Fountain had sent me to help the Maid. That she had told me about him, had even described him to me. You should have seen his face, Ankarette. The Maid knew about him. He would have done anything to help her. And he did. I asked if he could get me into the palace, but he said no. I asked if he could get into the palace, and he said he often ran messages from the deconeus to the king’s men. He knew the palace very well. He even knew some of the secret places within its walls.” Alensson closed his eyes and massaged his forehead. “I told him that he needed to bring the scabbard into the palace and give it to the Maid when she arrived. No one ever thinks a young boy is a threat. He could pass unnoticed through the halls. He was scared to death of being caught, but he was also courageous and determined. And so the boy Tunmore promised to fetch me another scabbard to trade for the one I held. He showed me to my cell and said he would come for me later.” He paused, parting the curtain of the wagon to look outside.
Ankarette heard it shortly after. The sound of riders coming up from behind the wagon.
“I think we may shortly have some visitors,” he said warily, glancing back. “They’re wearing the Spider King’s badge.”
The poisoner frowned with displeasure. Getting Alensson back into the secret compartment of the double chests would be difficult and noisy. She glanced out the window on her side of the carriage and spied eight riders, their stallions lathered and obviously trying to keep a punishing pace. She had to decide quickly.
“What shall we do, lass?” he asked her with his wry smile.
“Fight them,” she answered confidently. “There are only eight, and then we won’t need to get horses at Ranz.”
His smile turned into a grin. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Trial of Innocence
The news of the Maid’s arrival at Kingfountain days later spread through the sanctuary like wildfire. A crowd w
as already starting to gather by the time Alensson rushed to the gates. Within the hour, the courtyard within the gate and the street without it had swollen into a crushing river of human bodies, all jostling with one another for a better position. Some of the city urchins had even climbed atop the gates and dangled their legs from above. Every window from every shop was open, and the streets were jammed with those eager to catch a glimpse of Deford’s prisoner. Alensson was uncomfortable in the crushing throng, but he simply kept one hand on his sword hilt and the other gripping the bar of the gate. The commotion of talking and gossip nearly overwhelmed the noise of the falls rushing past on both sides of the sanctuary island. The prodding of strangers and jostling of the crowd disturbed him, while the sickly reek of unwashed bodies choked his senses.
After an interminable wait, a cry arose from down the bridgehead, and suddenly the street was a writhing mass of onlookers, each craning to get a view. A phalanx of soldiers bearing royal tunics and banners rode on horseback and cleared an opening so that the cart bearing the Maid could lumber past. Alensson’s pulse raced and he squeezed up to the pocked iron bar, smelling its rusty scent as he pressed his face slightly through the gap.
