The Maid's War

by Jeff Wheeler

  “Genette!”

  Could she have heard him? He prayed to the Fountain that she had. He watched with sickening horror as the canoe accelerated, caught in the current that would bring her to an inexorable fate. Was the scabbard with her? Was her fate sealed?

  He watched the tiny canoe fade into the distance, following the river to the left bank of the island. It quickly veered out of sight, but he knew when the boat went over the edge. He knew because of the cheers that rose from thousands of throats overlooking the falls.

  When he heard the noise, he started to weep.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Secrets of Ice

  The fur blankets, thick boots, gloves, and thick wool cloak that he had purchased in the city of Dundrennan could not evict the chill that had settled into Alensson’s bones. Even his whiskers had a dusting of snow. He climbed the majestic peaks through rock and ice and fierce winds, following the thundering waterfall up to its origin, a snow-capped mountain wreathed in winter’s chill year-round. It was the source of the water that made the land fertile. It was impressive, cold, and mysterious, and although his toes felt like stones, he pressed on, huffing his way up trails better suited to goats than men.

  His exertions up the cliff face rewarded him with a view of the verdant valley below, including the gray citadel that was the fortress of North Cumbria, tucked between thickets of fir trees so dark they were nearly black. He could only hear the wind and the ruffling of his cloak. The community was too far below for its noises to filter to the upper heights of the mountains.

  The Maid had said she would meet him at the ice cave in three days. He’d done his best to close the distance, barely stopping to rest and eat. His strength had flagged, but his determination was prouder than the solemn boulders around him.

  The trail arrived at a small plateau where he found a great boulder fixed with iron chains. The thought of being chained there made him shudder. Something heavy pressed on his mind as he stared at it, and he felt an unmistakable premonition. Had he been to this lonesome perch before? It felt like it, yet he had never been so far north in his life. He walked up to the stone and rubbed it with his gloved hand. Snow cleared away, bone-dry like sand. The iron chains were heavy and fastened through stout rings.

  Unsure of what he was seeing, he pressed onward, following the crevice of the river as it wound through the upper gorges of the high mountains. He continued on his way, chafing his hands and hunkering inside his layers of fur and cloth. The ice caves were a mystery, and he wondered how he would find them.

  But he did.

  When he reached the end of the river, which had shrunk to a small trickling stream that was sluggish with chunks of ice, he saw the maw of the cave. A strange power emanated from it, and enough daylight remained to illuminate the interior. He marveled at the colors as he ventured cautiously into the cave. The inner walls were rich with shades of silver, blue, green, and turquoise. Ice; all ice. The rippled, supple edges and contours were all the effect of wind and weather.

  This was a hallowed place. He could sense it deep within his bones. There were ancient secrets contained here, mysteries related to the origins of the world. As he ventured into the cave, the stream solidified into a giant slippery sheet of ice strong enough to support his weight. He had to walk carefully, though, for the footing was treacherous.

  Wandering into the convoluted corridor, he gazed ahead, looking for any signs of life or magic. When he reached the far end of the cave, he found himself facing a wall of ice. The pommel of the sword began to glow, startling him. He sensed the blade’s magic responding to the proximity of the wall. Carefully and cautiously, he withdrew it from its sheath. The blade had a textured, warped pattern, much like the curious flowing shapes of the ice walls. The sword had been birthed in a cave like this, he intuited. It drew its powerful magic from the very depths of the Deep Fathoms.

  What was he supposed to do? Alensson approached the wall, holding the blade before him so that its light shone on the surface. A misty breath came out of his mouth as he exhaled, and he shuddered with cold. Was he supposed to yield the blade to the wall? How? He waited, listening, trying to make sense of his strange and mercurial feelings. Something wasn’t right. He was missing something.

  Only Genette would be able to invoke the magic, he realized. He needed her.

  Alensson spent that black, freezing night alone in the cave, with only the frail light from the sword to assist him. He waited throughout the next day, tromping around in the cave, climbing the rocks and peaks outside to build up his warmth again. He was freezing to death, he realized. The food supplies he had bought in Dundrennan were dwindling. Drinking water from the stream only made him colder, and it barely slaked his thirst. Where was she?

  As he waited, his mind kept returning to the boulder and the chains he had passed on his way to the cave. It could not be coincidence. Would the Ceredigic bring her there when they discovered she’d survived the falls? Though she’d asked him to meet her here, she hadn’t told him how she would come. Should he go search for her? Or should he wait? Why wouldn’t the Fountain speak to him?

  Alensson gritted his teeth and marched in circles in the ice, fearing he was losing his wits. The thought of his wife’s cozy cottage nestled against the castle wall. How he longed to sit in front of the hearth with Jianne. The babe was coming within the month. He had to get back to his family. But what good could he do them if he did not return with Genette?

  As the sunlight began to slip away on the fourth day, he could abide the suspense no longer. He would march back toward the boulder and wait for Genette there. His calves were aching, his feet felt frozen and hard and painful. With a fierce scowl, he started back down the mountain, hoping to make it to the boulder. He regretted his decision the instant he left the cave. The wind was even colder outside. Although he hadn’t realized it, the protection of the walls had helped him stay warmer. The wind was a knife and it slashed at him viciously. He’d never felt so miserable and cold.

  But as he marched along the rock and ice, he saw a flicker of light ahead. Piercing light—man-made light. He blinked, wondering if his senses were now conjuring things that weren’t real. The night wind blew against his cloak, whipping it furiously. He squinted and clutched himself tighter, but the light didn’t change. Torches.

  As he got closer, the images resolved into a coherent scene. There was a fire, a brazier with three sturdy iron legs and three posts for torches. It was full of wood and delicious heat, and his soul hungered to join the soldiers huddled around it. But his mind was sharp enough to see that the soldiers wore the colors of the King of Ceredigion. There were six of them there, gathered around the fire, some squatting, some sitting, hands chafing to keep warm.

  And then he saw Genette.

  His heart raged with dismay when he recognized the half-frozen creature chained to the boulder. He had never heard of this form of execution before, and it horrified him. She was wearing only a shift, a thin night-dress that offered no protection whatsoever against the elements. Her hair was down around her face, her head bobbing up and down as if she was wrestling to stay awake. There were dark stains, likely blood, on her shackled wrists, and it had frozen to her skin.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to join us at the fire, lass?” one of the soldiers taunted. “I can think of a few ways to make you warm!”

  “It’s a long night for sure. People die in these mountains all the time,” another said. “We all know you’re not really a maid. You’re a strumpet. Come on, we’ll even pay you!”

  How long had they been torturing her? How long had she endured their foul words and shameful goading? It was unconscionable to him that a woman would be treated so. The cold he had been suffering was nothing compared to this torture. As he drew nearer, he saw her shift ruffling in the wind.

  “If you’re truly Fountain-blessed, save yourself!” one of them goaded. “Or doesn’t your power work on ice? You may have survived the falls, lass, but you won’t
survive this.”

  “I’ll bet you five florins she won’t last until dawn.”

  “I’ll bet you ten she dies before midnight.”

  “Ten? I’ll take that bet. She’s tough, this one. She’ll make it till dawn. Then she’ll die.”

  Liquid rage replaced the cold in Alensson’s bones. He continued to march up to the camp, not caring if they heard him. He drew the sword from the scabbard and gripped it tightly in his hand. There was no warning voice telling him to stop. The Fountain wouldn’t even speak to him directly now. So be it. He had made his decision.

  “What’s that sound?” someone asked. “Do you hear it?”

  “I hear the jingling of coins, man. Now give the money to Turner. He’ll hold it for us and pay each man his due. Eh, Turner?”

  “I hear it too.”

  “Shut it man, it’s just the wind!”

  “There are bears in these mountains. Grab a torch, I say. See what it is.”

  Alensson saw a few heads turn his way as he approached, his boots crunching in the ice.

  “It’s a man.”

  “Who are you, man? Lost?” His voice quavered a bit, betraying his alarm. “This is the king’s business. You can’t stay here,” another said.

  Alensson continued to advance on them without speaking, fury roaring inside him like the brazier the men were cowering around.

  He struck down the first man, sending a spray of hot blood across the snow. Alensson felt the power of the sword singing up his arm. Then it was five against one, an unfair match under any circumstances, but the soldiers had not been expecting an enemy. They’d been paid to stay with a victim until she was dead. Well, Alensson was determined they would be the ones to meet an unpleasant end. He moved like water, running through the second man while the others scrabbled to their feet, reaching for their swords and shouting in terror.

  The remaining four men were not ready for him, but they were not unskilled. He crossed blades twice with another man before dispatching him, then was forced to defend himself as the final three charged him at once. Despite the cold, despite the agonizing circumstances, his mind felt clear and supple. This blade had seen countless battles. Images of ancient kings, jousts, tournaments, and wars flashed through his mind. He saw the hall of a great palace, but instead of a throne, he saw a table unlike any other. It was a circle of wood, a slice from a giant tree trunk more massive than any he had ever seen. On instinct he deflected a thrust, then spun around and smashed his elbow into the soldier’s nose. Stomping on another man’s boot, he whipped his blade around to thrust it into the flesh of the man with the broken nose.

  Pain struck his arm as one of the remaining two managed to stab him, but the pain was nothing compared to his fury. He howled at the man like a wolf and went after him, bashing away his defenses before ending his life abruptly. That left only one, one man who was running and slipping in the snow and ice to escape. Alensson turned the blade upside-down, closed his fingers around the hilt, and then lifted it and hurled the sword at the fleeing man like a spear.

  He had never done that in a battle before. The blade’s magic had planted the thought in him, and it had worked—he watched as the blade pierced the man from behind and sent him into a snowdrift.

  Alensson rushed over to where Genette was.

  Kneeling in the snow beside her, he hurriedly removed his cloak and wrapped it around her shoulders.

  “Genette! Genette!” he called urgently, shaking her shoulders.

  “Gentle duke,” she murmured, swayed, and collapsed against him. He hugged her close, but her half-frozen body was rigid against him.

  “I’m going to get you off this mountain,” he said. “I’ll carry you the whole way if I must.”

  “The key. The one with . . . the badge. Has the key.”

  Alensson hurried to the corpses and found the one with the badge. After a quick search, he discovered the key ring and hurried over. His hands were shaking, his fingers clumsy as he tried to force the key into the lock. It was difficult to twist the cold metal, but he finally managed to free the bar that locked the cuffs together. His eyes fell to the frozen blood on her wrists.

  “It’s not painful,” she said, shaking her head. She looked like a child who was half-awake, groggy at the first rise. Alensson put his arm around her and then lifted her up and carried her to the brazier. The tongues of flames were lashing violently in the wind. He set her down in front of it and then unfastened one of the soldier’s cloaks to wrap it around himself.

  The sound of her teeth chattering reminded him they were still in danger. “I was waiting for you at the cave,” he said. “I should have waited here. I . . . I had a feeling.”

  “No,” she responded. “I asked you to wait for me there. You did the right thing.”

  “If I’d come sooner—”

  “Shhhh,” she soothed. “If you’d come sooner, you would have been killed, Alensson. I didn’t want that.”

  He stared at her in wonderment. “What do you mean?”

  She sighed. “I must fulfill the mission the Fountain gave me. I chose this, Gentle Duke. I knew I would die here . . . tonight . . . on this lonely mountain.”

  “You are not going to die!” he snarled furiously.

  “And I knew you would be here with me. Holding vigil until the last. I knew that when I first saw you. When we first met.” A shy smile came over her mouth. “I have done what the Fountain bade me to do. You have always been there for me, Alensson. Giving me strength. Having you near me has made the burden easier.”

  “Why are you talking like this?” Alensson said in frustration. “I’ve rescued you. I’m going to take you down from this mountain. I will get you back to Occitania. You must come with me, Genette, or my child will die!”

  A look of sadness passed over her. “I know, Alensson. I know he will.” She let out a trembling sigh. “He will be stillborn. Do you remember what I told you?”

  “You said you knew the word. You said there was a word of power that could revive him.”

  She nodded. “Not your son, Gentle Duke. The heir. Your time as Duke of La Marche is over.” She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice was very gentle. “You will have no children. You never will. There is another the Fountain will put in your place. It has always been so. A future duke. A babe stillborn. He is the one I saw in my vision. The babe will come when you are about to die. You must know this, Gentle Duke. Your pain, our suffering”—she reached out and squeezed his hand—“has saved the lives of countless of our countrymen. They will never know what we did for them. They will never say thank you. They will, eventually, forget your name. But I will not forget you. You were the one who gave me courage to carry my burden. Remember this, Gentle Duke. Remember this when you are trapped in the king’s palace in Pree.” She reached up and touched his face. “One night, a poisoner will come to you. She will not come to kill you. You will tell her our story so that she can save the heir’s life. Our story will give her courage to do what must be done.” She squeezed his hand and then leaned over to kiss him on the cheek.

  He was startled by all she had said and found it impossible to react to the news with words. Grief, sadness, resentment, despair all buffeted inside him. He wanted to shake his fist at the sky; he wanted to lament the cruelty of his life. Then he felt her lips brush against the edge of his eyebrow. “Tardemaw,” she whispered. It was a word of power.

  A feeling of heaviness slammed into him—an exhaustion so profound he could not fight it. He collapsed into a puddle of melting snow.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  The Maid's Grave

  As Alensson slept, he dreamed. He knew it was a dream, for only in dreams were the colors so vibrant. He was walking in a garden, listening to the babbling of fountain waters. The sky was such a clear blue, he imagined he could reach up and stir it like a pond. Butterflies flittered with exquisite wings, light and free, and the birds had heartbreakingly bright plumage—red, orange, purple, yellow. The ground wa
s spongy, a woven mass of grass so thick and soft it was like walking on a cloud. It was strange how slowly the awareness stole over him before he noticed the young woman walking at his side.

  It was Genette, he realized, and she was smiling at him peacefully.

  “Where are we?” he asked, amazed at the butterfly that landed on her outstretched hand.

  “It’s an in-between place, Gentle Duke,” she said. “In between dreams and awake. In between life and death. It’s one of the gardens of the Fountain.”

  “Am I dreaming?” he asked, amazed at the fresh, sweet smell of the grass. It felt as if his entire being was keenly attuned to the sensations around him.

  “Of course you are,” she answered. “It is the stuff of dreams.”

  Memories stirred sluggishly in his mind. Memories of a cold mountaintop, frigid snow, leaden feet. But it was all fuzzy and far away. There was something wrong in his heart, some hidden grief that he could not quite remember. It lay buried beneath an overwhelming sense of peace.

  “Am I dying?” he asked her.

  Then he noticed she wasn’t wearing the soldier’s tunic he’d so often seen on her. No, she was dressed in the simple frock of a peasant girl from Donremy. Her hair was long and dark, but there were little hints of gold in it. Had it always been so, or were his powers of observation different here? The bruises and smudges on her skin were gone. She looked comfortable and calm as she strode barefoot in the grass beside him. She was the picture of innocence, and a protective, gentle feeling swelled in his heart.

  “No, Gentle Duke. I asked a gift of the Fountain before I died. I wanted to bring you here.”

  He was confused. “Before you died?”

  She nodded, her hair bouncing slightly. “When I was young and first began hearing the water sounds of the Fountain, I would close my eyes and imagine what it was like. In my visions, I was always brought here, to this garden. This is where I learned to hear the whispers. This in-between place was just as much my home as Donremy. I tried to share it with others, but none believed me. None trusted me enough to let me take them here. I was the only one who could see it. Sometimes, when I was younger, I wondered if I was sick for seeing these visions that no one else could.” She gave him a delighted smile. “Before I died, I asked the Fountain to let me show you.”