The Maid's War

by Jeff Wheeler

  “Do you need to rest?” she asked him, coming close and putting her hand on his back.

  He shook his head and limped onward. “No. I am sturdy. We’re almost there.”

  “I’ve heard that Chatriyon’s court became rather . . . debauched,” Ankarette said knowingly.

  “Yes, you could say that. Remember how the Maid’s presence inspired a higher degree of morality? After her death, it was as if Chatriyon descended into a bleak frame of thinking. His turn was sudden, though, you have that right. It was not a gradual descent. The peace negotiations with Ceredigion lasted for years. Deford’s wife was poisoned and he remarried a pretty young lass. Your queen’s mother, as we discussed. They didn’t have any children, so the duchy was passed to the Kiskaddon family as a reward. They became loyal to Eredur when he won the throne, so he allowed them to keep it. They call it Westmarch, but in my mind it will always be La Marche. And it will always be mine. Do you think Eredur will . . . ? Well, it’s best not to hope.”

  Ankarette heard more snapping of wood and saw flashes of color from uniforms. The noose was beginning to tighten.

  “We’re not going to make it, are we?” Alensson asked in a low voice.

  Ankarette’s skin prickled with unease. “We may have to fight our way to freedom. But I will see you safely to Eredur.”

  “It’s me they’re after,” Alensson said. “Somehow, they always find me. I’ve enjoyed getting to know you, Ankarette. You are a wise soul. I’ve looked forward to meeting you for many years now. Genette saw you in her visions. That should make you feel special, I hope.”

  “It does indeed,” Ankarette said. “But don’t despair. I’m not out of tricks yet.”

  “La Marche!”

  The voice rang through the trees behind them.

  When they turned, they saw a knight advancing wearing black armor. He had a chest under one arm and a sword in his other hand. As soon as Ankarette saw him, she felt a shuddering sensation—as if a stone boulder were grinding against the ground. It made her dizzy, and her vision went blurry.

  “I’m sorry,” Alensson whispered to her. “You did your best. But you must survive this fight.”

  And then he shoved her into the ravine.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Secrets of the Grave

  Ankarette struck the bottom of the ravine, cushioned by mud and the sluggish, murky waters. She hadn’t anticipated Alensson’s action and had been mentally preparing to engage the black knight. As she began scrabbling back up the side of the scrub-choked hill, she heard a quick exchange of voices. Her soaked, muddy gown clung to her in ways that hampered her movements.

  “You’ve stolen away for the last time, La Marche,” said an angered, vengeful voice. “The king will not pardon your treachery this time. He bids me to kill thee, and I relish the command.”

  “You might try,” said the old duke. “I will not go back to Pree.”

  “Aye, but you will. In a barrow. It’s almost a pity to strike down one so old.”

  “At least I’m not a slave,” Alensson taunted.

  As Ankarette pulled herself up on her elbows at the edge of the ridge, tearing her sleeve on a jagged piece of root, the two men struck each other with swords. Both were skilled, but it was clear that the younger man was more fit, stronger, and had the stamina to endure the conflict. She noticed the black knight had set the chest down before making his approach. It struck her that this might be the very chest that the Maid had withdrawn from the waters of Ranz on the day of Chatriyon’s coronation. She was keenly interested in seizing it.

  The two combatants locked swords, their hilts trapped, and the taller, darker knight pressed his advantage, bending Alensson back. The old duke’s face twisted with pain and anger as he tried to resist but could not. Ankarette brought her leg up and around, then used the twisted roots to pull herself the rest of the way.

  Alensson let go of the sword and grappled with the knight, trying to wrest him away. The knight pummeled him viciously in the stomach, then brought his elbow around and smacked the duke’s face. Alensson whirled like a top and then collapsed on the ground.

  Ankarette saw the rest of the hunt closing in, at least a dozen soldiers. She drew a thin knife from the sheath in her boot. But just as she brought her arm back to throw the dagger, the black knight plunged his sword into the old duke’s heart.

  For a moment, she looked on in disbelief as the blade skewered the old man. There was an almost exultant grin on his face. Then he lay back against the ground, perfectly still, the smile still on his face.

  A hot flood of rage filled Ankarette’s heart. “You murdered an excellent man,” she said in a low, dangerous voice.

  The black knight was heavily armored. All she needed was a patch of skin for one of her poisons to destroy him, but he wore gloves, thick boots, and a hauberk under his black tunic. Shoulder guards protected him along with bracers. His most open feature was his face. The man looked to be in his thirties, and he had a swarthy look and a pointed beard.

  “I would argue with you about his excellent qualities, Poisoner,” the knight said snidely. “He was a traitor to his king.”

  “His king is the traitor,” Ankarette said. “But you already know the measure of the Spider King. Spiders are my specialty.”

  “Oh, I have no doubt, lass. No doubt at all. You defeated Marrat, who was sent to kill him. We still haven’t found the body.”

  “Look in the moat under the privy hole,” Ankarette suggested.

  The knight smirked. He kept his blade at the ready, preparing to try to deflect her dagger if she sent it at him. He paced in a semicircle, then switched directions. It was harder to kill a moving target.

  “Come on lads,” the knight shouted to the soldiers. “We have a poisoner to kill.”

  Ankarette was outnumbered. She eyed the chest. Should she snatch it and try to run? Alensson’s chest was struggling up at down as he lay dying. He gave her a subtle nod, the only way he could communicate in such a moment.

  Then the black knight rushed her, swishing his sword around him in wide circles. Without armor, she was completely vulnerable. As he rushed, she dived to the side, doing a front roll that closed the distance between her and the chest. She grabbed the handle.

  “Get her!” the knight roared.

  Ankarette hefted the burden, much heavier than she’d expected it to be, and then started toward the nearest trees. Two soldiers rushed at her. She flung her dagger at the first, catching him in the shoulder. The blade was poisoned, so she knew he’d die in seconds. The older soldier tried to stab her with his sword, but she spun around and swung the chest, clubbing him on the chin with it. The man flew backward from the force of the blow, his eyes rolling in his head.

  Having broken free of the ring, Ankarette started to run, every branch snagging at her wet clothes, ripping and tearing and clawing at her skin. Another man came at her from the side, trying to cut her off. She heaved the chest at him, and he instinctively dropped his sword to catch it. Ankarette snatched up his fallen blade, stabbed him with it, and then grabbed the handle of the chest as he fell. There were too many, and the chest was slowing her enormously.

  She heard the twang of a crossbow, but before the curse could leave her mouth, the shaft embedded in the chest of one of the men chasing her. It had come from the woods behind her. Whirling, she saw soldiers wearing the tunic of the Sun and Rose, the royal insignia of Ceredigion. Hope bloomed in her chest.

  Thirty knights from the king’s guard came charging onto the scene, swarming around her and engaging the soldiers of Occitania in a skirmish. Ankarette watched as the black knight scowled and fled, rushing away from the onslaught.

  Her breath was hot and loud in her own ears, and her strength was flagging quickly. She hadn’t slept in two days and had been in constant peril since entering Occitania. Was it too late to save the duke? She knew the word of power that could bring him back from death . . .

  “Ankarette!”

  She
whirled again and saw the Deconeus of Ely approaching through the woods, wearing a dark cloak to cover his vestments. She recognized his tall stride, his bulk, the hawkish nose and close-cropped hair. A feeling of relief went through her. He was someone she trusted, someone who had been her mentor and friend, and now she also knew him as the young boy who had smuggled the scabbard to Genette on the eve of her execution.

  “Where is the duke?” Tunmore asked fervently. “Is he dead?”

  “He’s over there,” Ankarette said, pointing. “Come with me.”

  Together they rushed through the crowded glen as the soldiers of her king chased after the Occitanian defenders. They reached the spot where the duke lay, blood staining his shirt. His eyes were glazed over and vacant, but still—he smiled. Ankarette felt his neck and there was no thrum of a heartbeat. Her shoulders sagged in despair and sorrow.

  Tunmore knelt down next to the body, his own face grim and sorrowful. He laid a hand on the duke’s shoulder, his brow crinkling.

  “You knew him, didn’t you?” Ankarette’s voice was just a whisper. “He told me that he always regretted not thanking you.”

  Tunmore stiffened with surprise, looking uncharacteristically moved by the sentiment. “I met him when I was a lad.” Then he looked up at Ankarette, his eyes full of emotion. “I didn’t know who he was at first. But then I learned what she called him. He was her Gentle Duke.” He frowned, his lips pursing with deep emotion.

  Ankarette stared at him. “I never knew until he told me the Maid’s story.”

  “He told you? I don’t doubt it.” He paused, staring into her eyes, then said, “What I’ve always wanted to know is how she really died. Up there on that mountain. It rocked my faith when I was a child. But I am a man now. I think I am ready to hear the story. If you’ll tell it to me, Ankarette.”

  She nodded slowly and then let out a deep sigh, gazing down at the waxy skin of the man whose story had so moved her. She touched his stiff arm and stroked it. But she would let Alensson tell his own tale. He had taught her the word of power—nesh-ama. She began summoning her Fountain magic, preparing to invoke the word.

  The rippling shudder of the magic began to quicken inside her. She bowed her head, drawing it into herself, filling her soul like a cup from a spring. Tunmore could sense her using the magic. A jolt seemed to run through him.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “I can bring him back,” she answered, not opening her eyes.

  “Wait,” he said, putting a hand on her shoulder.

  She opened her eyes and gazed up at Tunmore.

  They were alone in the glen. The soldiers had ridden off to chase the black knight and his men. The deconeus gave her a solemn stare. “She told me not to.”

  “What?” Ankarette asked, confused.

  He glanced around once again, making sure they were truly alone. “The night I went to her cell, she told me things about my life, my future. She said that I had a role to play. She was the one who told me to wait for you both here with soldiers to help drive our enemies away. She also told me that you would try to revive the duke. That you had the power to do so.” He shook his head. “He’s gone to the Deep Fathoms. And she is waiting to take him there to join his wife and child. You cannot use the words of power against the Fountain’s will, Ankarette. If you do, the magic will destroy you.”

  She caught her breath, staring down once again at Alensson’s face. He looked so tranquil. Only the shell of the man had been left behind. In the quietude of the grove, she felt the gentle murmur of the Fountain around her, adding conviction to the deconeus’s words. Yes, Alensson was ready for death. He had long considered his life a form of bondage. And now he was finally free.

  A sliver of sunlight momentarily blinded her, and in that flash, she thought she saw a man and a woman walking away from the grove, hand in hand. There was a child as well, a little girl with dark curls, tugging at his other hand. Ankarette’s throat swelled with emotion. She’d learned so much in the last few days. She’d learned a secret that she would take to her grave. It was a secret about a young woman from Donremy and her trust in a paupered lord. It was a story of betrayal. It was a story of conviction. It was a story of duty. And it melted her heart.

  “Farewell, Gentle Duke,” she whispered.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  The Shameful Treaty

  The royal pavilion of Ceredigion was spacious and full of all the comforts of court. There were padded camp chairs, silken curtains, multiple changing screens, and a carpet that was long enough, unrolled, to fill the entire interior. Ankarette was concealed behind one of those changing screens. It had been two days since her return to Eredur’s camp with the Deconeus of Ely. She had finally been able to rest, tend to her small injuries, and relate much of the sad tale of the Gentle Duke’s life to the king. But there was a good deal she kept to herself.

  Eredur was growing heavier than he had been during his prime. The rich meals and endless carousing were taking a toll on his health. Ankarette occasionally concocted potions that alleviated some of his symptoms, but no drug or tonic could counteract the effects of his poor choices.

  The deconeus was also inside the tent, holding an unlit thurible by the chain in his hands. The metal orb swung from side to side as he watched the scene unfolding before him. Standing by the deconeus was the king’s brother Dunsdworth, looking unusually satisfied with himself. There were others as well—Eredur’s chancellor, Lord Hastings; as well as Lord Horwath of Dundrennan; Lord Rivers, the king’s brother-in-law; and Lord Bryant, the king’s stepson. But the argument unfolding in the pavilion was between the king and his youngest brother, Severn.

  “I cannot believe you are heeding such reckless counsel, Brother!” the younger man spat out with a defiant and angry tone. “We came here to humble the Spider King. It is you who will be humbled.”

  Dunsdworth was always quick to stoke the flames of resentment with a barbed comment. “We are going to bleed dry Lewis’s treasury, little Sev. That is hardly being humbled by him.”

  “If I wanted more of your ill-informed opinions,” Severn whipped back, “I would have sought you out at an alehouse. You’re more coherent when you’re drunk.”

  There was a subtle ripple of Fountain magic as the insult was slung at Dunsdworth. Ankarette peered through the tiny gap of the changing screen, glancing from one person to the next. Who had caused the magic to react like that? The sensation ebbed like a retreating echo.

  “Your words are as sharp as your daggers,” Dunsdworth complained. “We’re on the same side, lad!”

  “Are we?” Severn challenged, turning his gaze back to the king. “If I heard Hastings correctly, you intend to offer a truce to the Spider King. Is that how we handle spiders, my lord? I thought we crushed them under our boots. Do you think Lewis will hold true to his oaths? He may promise you treasures from the Deep Fathoms, but you won’t be able to reap your reward until you are in the Deep Fathoms. After all, the man intends to murder you on that bridge.”

  “Does that surprise you? What you are proposing,” Hastings said with a testy voice, “is a protracted conflict in enemy territory and a small chance of success. Brugia has stranded us here with only Brythonica as an ally.” He snorted with laughter. “And what can they really do but grow berries?”

  Despite the fact that his opinion defied the consensus, Severn stood his ground. Ankarette did not like his acerbic wit and sarcasm, but she respected his personal courage. She knew Eredur treasured his advice more than all the others because it was always derived from logic and spoken in earnest. The two brothers were as different as the noonday sky and midnight, but their loyalty to each other had been tested and found to be true.

  “No, Brythonica is not a help,” Severn said dismissively. “We cannot count on them for strong support. Yes, it would have been easier to defeat Occitania with Brugia on our side. But we can still do this, Brother! It is not too late to call off the truce.” He stepped forward, jerking h
is dagger loose in its scabbard and then slamming it down. His passionate and angry gaze did not waver from his brother’s. “They have assembled on the bridge in that bizarre contraption of fences and gates because they fear you. They fear you as they feared defeat after Azinkeep. This is your chance to win back the crown of Occitania. Lewis is no soldier, and neither was his father. If you promise to marry Elyse to his son Chatriyon, if you end this conflict peacefully, you will be giving him an excuse to rise up against you later. It is cowardly, Brother. I thought it beneath you.”

  There were stifled gasps of outrage. Ankarette tilted her head to catch the king’s expression. Severn’s words had visibly struck him; there was molten anger in his eyes. Anyone would have been humiliated to receive such a public rebuke from a younger brother, and Eredur was a proud man.

  “How dare you!” Hastings seethed. “You have gone too far, my lord duke of Glosstyr! The king will not—”

  “Shut it, Will,” the king said angrily, rising from his stuffed chair. A tall man, he towered over his brothers and everyone else in the room, except for Tunmore. “If anyone needs a rebuke, it’s the rest of you. You all encouraged this peace because of the wealth it will bring you individually. The difference it will make to not just the royal coffers, but your own. At least Severn has the courage to speak the truth. Even if I don’t care to hear it,” he added with a surly tone.

  The king scratched behind his ear, where Ankarette saw tufts of gray creeping through his dark hair like vines. He paced a moment, his lips pursed, his expression grim. “You have always been loyal to me, Brother. More loyal than some,” he added with a glare at Dunsdworth. He was referring to a previous treachery that Ankarette had helped resolve.