by Jeff Wheeler
She shook her head. “I am not. The last true Wizr was imprisoned in a mound of boulders. I am not a Wizr. I am a Knight of the Fountain.”
“You are a knight?” he asked, perplexed. “Is it not forbidden for a woman to be a knight? Is it not written in the scriptures that only men are called to war?”
“Was not Diborra called to lead her people in ancient times?” the Maid answered sharply. “Was she not also a woman? I am called to deliver our people from their bondage to Ceredigion. Use the rite on me, Deconeus. I do not fear it. I am no water sprite. You will see.”
The deconeus nodded gravely. He whispered something to one of his underlings, who disappeared and quickly returned with a bowl of water from the fountain in the chapel. The lad handed the bowl to the deconeus and then melted back into the crowd. The girl knelt in front of the deconeus and bowed her head.
“If you are a water sprite, I abjure thee!” he said in a loud voice. He tipped the small bowl of water over her head and the water came splashing out, soaking her hair and her tunic and her clothes. None of the water reached the marble floor. A collective sigh came from the crowd.
The deconeus blinked with relief. “She is not waterborn,” he said to the prince, nodding with pleasure. “She is mortal, not a Siren—a water sprite—bent on leading us to destruction like in the tales from the past.”
Genette lifted her smiling face as the water streaked down her cheeks. A servant came with a towel and helped her mop up the damp.
The prince turned to Jianne and gestured for her to approach. When she and Alensson did, he said, “Take her and examine her, my dear. You are a princess of the blood. By your word, we will trust that this girl is truly the maid she claims to be.”
Jianne nodded obediently.
Genette turned to Alensson. “Make ready, Gentle Duke. You must teach me how to fight. The Fountain wishes you to train me.”
Alensson blinked with surprise and before he could stop himself, the words came gushing out of his mouth, put there by the Fountain. “But you do not have a sword,” he said, feeling awed and a little confused at the words which tumbled out.
The maid looked at him and then lifted her voice. “The Fountain commands you to fetch me my sword, Gentle Duke. On my journey here, I passed the sanctuary of St. Kathryn in Firebos. Kneel before the fountain there. Inside the water, you will find a heap of coins. Do not take the coins. Beneath them, you will find a sword. That is my blade. And that is my sign to all of you that the Fountain has indeed sent me. Take the sword, but nothing else.” She looked into Alensson’s eyes and lowered her voice. “Hasten! Before someone unworthy tries to steal it.”
As their eyes met, he felt something dark pass through his heart. What sort of blade was this? Did it possess powers imbued by the Fountain? The desire to keep it struck him forcefully—maybe he could still be the hero Occitania needed—but he wrestled the feelings down.
In a sharp voice, the prince suddenly commanded, “Doone, take your men and go with him. Under pain of death, no one must enter that sanctuary until the Duke of La Marche comes! Go at once!”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Firebos
The old duke’s expression changed to one of amusement as he regarded Ankarette, who had been sitting spellbound by his tale. “If you could only see your face, lass. I mentioned the blade and you leaned forward, keen to know more. Where is it now? Where is it hidden? That is the secret you want to know most.” He gave her a cunning look, and the poisoner realized the answer would not soon be forthcoming. “But what you should be asking is this. What sign did the Maid show the prince to convince him to trust her? That is what you should be asking.” She had to admit that his tale had completely reeled her in, that she was drawn to his words like a starving man craving a feast.
“And what was it?” Ankarette asked, hoping not to be distracted from her goal.
“She showed him a vision of something in the waters of the fountain. He refused to speak about it, even to me. I only know that he could not touch it. It is a great secret, I should think. But now to your purpose. You seek the sword. I already told you that the King of Occitania doesn’t have it,” Alensson said. “Nor do I. The sword is not part of the contest at the moment.”
Ankarette felt so close to her goal, but it was like trapping smoke. “You said you’d tell me about it. After you spoke of the Maid.”
“I did,” the duke said with a nod. He chafed his arms, and Ankarette suddenly became aware of the chill of the room. Her fascination with his tale had made her oblivious.
Alensson knelt by the brazier, grunting as he lowered himself down. After adding fresh coals from the bucket, the duke stirred up the flames and rubbed his hands together over the fire, warming himself.
“What does the blade look like?” Ankarette asked, hoping to learn something beyond the meager scraps gleaned from the trial records.
“It’s a fair-sized blade,” Alensson said, staring down at the smoldering coals. He held his hands apart. “About this long. The blade is tempered, has a wood-grain texture, if you will. There are stars on the blade itself. It is an ancient sword, but it bears no stains.”
Ankarette frowned. “I heard there was rust on it when it was drawn from the fountain at St. Kathryn’s in Firebos.”
“That isn’t true,” Alensson said, shaking his head. “People said that, but I was there. The blade had been buried in water, but it remained pristine. The coins were rusty.” He gave her a smile and a wink. “Perhaps that is what they meant.” He chafed his hands vigorously a moment longer and then returned to her. “Five of us who rode from Shynom arrived at the sanctuary together. Some of the knights couldn’t keep up. It was just as the Maid had predicted. Doone thought it was some sort of Wizr magic. He didn’t trust the girl.” He shook his head firmly. “He was always doubtful. He actually suggested the girl had hidden the blade in the fountain before she came to Shynom. Bah! Such nonsense. She was a penniless peasant, almost as poor as me! The blade would have cost more than a peasant’s wages.” He snorted with disgust. “Still many wouldn’t believe. Even after the signs. But others did.”
Ankarette glanced out the window, grateful there was no sign of the approaching dawn yet. She was not tired in the least, but she did need to return to her king’s army the next day.
“It went against their pride,” Ankarette said in a coaxing tone. “You had no pride left, my lord. It had been taken from you coin by coin.”
He nodded approvingly. “You see the truth, lass. It’s not luck that calls down the Fountain’s blessings; the Fountain-blessed are chosen. Everyone who is Fountain-blessed has a certain power or set of powers, but those powers must be summoned through disciplined action.” He put his foot on the window seat. “What would you say the Maid’s skill was, Ankarette? Her way of replenishing her magic?”
Ankarette gave him a curious look. “It was said she was exceptional with the blade. Uncannily so for a girl.”
He grinned. “The source of her power came from needlework. Sewing.”
Ankarette was startled. “Truly?” It was especially curious since it was also her method for replenishing her Fountain magic. It made the Maid feel more real—less like a story, and more like a girl from the village of Donremy.
He nodded emphatically. “So few know anything about her at all.” He cocked his thumb and jabbed it into his chest. “She earned her skill with the blade from me. I taught her to fight. She was a natural, there can be no doubt of that. The Fountain had endowed her with multiple gifts, but she needed to sew to fuel them. Repairing shirts and clothes would work, but she loved to embroider the banner she carried into battle. She worked on it constantly, adding little embellishments. What? I’ve startled you again. I see it in your eyes. You weren’t just surprised it was sewing.”
“You read people too well, my lord,” Ankarette said. She had let down her defenses, something she rarely did. “I flinched because that is my . . . my favorite thing. I love to sit and think and do needl
ework. I always have. Whenever I have a thorny problem, I reach for my needles.”
Alensson smiled approvingly. “As did she. As did our little Genette.” He sighed, lost in a memory. “When we returned with her blade, it was further evidence the Fountain had chosen her as its champion. The prince commanded that a suit of armor be fashioned especially for her. A woman’s set of armor. The blacksmith was agog at the request! The steel was so well polished it was practically white, and the suit was measured and fitted for her. There was a design on the breastplate, a little embellishment like ivy and thorns. The blacksmith was inspired by her, I think. I was given a suit of armor myself. Lord Doone was to command the army to be sure nothing foolhardy was attempted, but I was given orders to train the Maid in the arts of war—to teach her to fight, to ride, to understand the supply wagons and such. It took time for the armor to be done and for the army to muster together.”
Ankarette saw the faraway look in his eyes. “Did your wife return to the cottage with Alix?” she asked delicately.
Alensson looked chagrined. “I sent her away too quickly. She feared being a woman in a soldiers’ camp, as I mentioned.” He put his foot down and then went for his goblet. After taking a healthy sip, he started to laugh. “She shouldn’t have worried about that.”
The poisoner gave him a puzzled look. “And why not? Armies do tend to be rowdy and vulgar. I speak from experience, my lord,” she added.
“As do I, of course,” the duke said with a meaningful look. “I’ve never fought in an army that wasn’t. Except for one. Hers. Genette was different. She was . . . how can I put this? She demanded us to be better. She was intolerant of vice and as outspoken as a deconeus. She never tried to persuade or influence, mind you.” He chopped the edge of his hand against his palm. “She was Fountain-blessed and that was authority enough. So she demanded the army to behave. Yes, there were camp followers there at first, but the Maid ordered them out.” He grinned at her. “At the point of her own sword too!”
Ankarette stifled a laugh. “I wish I had seen that.”
He nodded appreciatively. “It was a sight to behold! Imagine it: a girl of seventeen railing on brazen women of twenty and five, some even older! I remember the night she drove them away from the camp. That was before we marched to Lionn.” His eyes took on that deep feeling again, as if he were reliving memories that were sacred to him. “Who can forget the siege of Lionn? What feats we accomplished.” His lips were quivering with emotion. Then he straightened. “You recall, Ankarette, that Lionn had been under siege for years. The city and duchy belonged to my father-in-law, who was a prisoner in Kingfountain. The city held for him, but they were losing hope.”
“How did the city hold out so long?” she asked him.
He nodded, pursing his lips. “A good question. People rarely ask good questions anymore. But you do. I like that about you.” He set the goblet down on the table. “I’ll tell you about Lionn and how Genette finally broke the siege. But first, let me help you understand who the Maid was. She led us to victory through the force of her personality. She was so certain the Fountain was with her. And it was.”
CHAPTER NINE
Resurgence
Spectators flocked to the training fields in Shynom to watch the impoverished duke of La Marche teach an unskilled peasant girl how to fight. Bawdy jokes were only half hidden behind hands. Bets were passed from purse to palm. There was the perception that it would take more than a few weeks to train such a peasant, Fountain-blessed or not, in the arts of war.
Then, on the third day, stunned silence fell on the onlookers as Genette disarmed him. Twice.
It was the sword, they said. The blade that had been drawn from the fountain at Firebos was enchanted. In defiance of such talk, Genette exchanged weapons with Alensson and repeated the maneuver that had disarmed him. Within moments, she sent Firebos flinging out of his hand and thudding onto the packed earth.
Alensson stopped wondering how she did it. And he began teaching her in earnest. Soon he was also defending himself in earnest.
He’d learned some tricks from the soldiers of Ceredigion during his long confinement in Callait. Alensson deflected a blow that made his elbow ring with pain, then stepped in and hooked his foot around Genette’s ankle. He was taller and more muscular, and he levered her backward as their sword guards locked, trying to trip her. Her hand reached up to grab his belt as the momentum between them shifted. Alensson realized he’d fall right on top of her; he hesitated. Anger flashed through her eyes, and she twirled away and rounded on him.
“Gentle duke, you are too gentle!” she scolded. Her dark cropped hair stuck to her face and she was breathing heavily, nearly as heavily as he was.
He paused to catch his breath. “Are you chiding me?”
“I am,” she replied, shaking her head. “You should have let me fall!”
“I didn’t want to crush you,” he countered.
Her eyes flashed with anger again. “What do you think I am made of? Glass? When we fight against Ceredigion, do you think our foes will treat me with delicacy?”
He stared at her curiously. “You are planning to fight at Lionn?”
“Do you think the men will fight as hard if I’m not fighting with them? Of course I will fight. Which is why you must train me!” She shoved him hard and then lowered into a battle stance, her eyes narrowing.
Alensson followed suit, preparing again to wage war on this peasant girl who had somehow already learned to beat him. She had a sense about her that was eerily akin to magic. It was as if she could sense his weaknesses, sense where he was going to attack and when. But perhaps these too were gifts from the Fountain.
He did a feinting thrust and then whirled around. She deflected the blow, whirled around as he had, and then suddenly her blade was at his throat, pausing just before his quivering skin. He stared at it in shock, realizing that she could have taken off his head.
“I won’t fool with you, Gentle Duke,” she said. “Harder! Fight harder!”
They went at it again, and then again. Most duels between knights lasted for a brief time, but it took Alensson nearly twice the normal time to subdue her. He still came out ahead five times out of seven, but each day that ratio leaned more in her favor.
“Rest, Gentle Duke,” she finally said, mopping her forehead with her arm. She was breathing heavy and fast as well.
He let slip an oath of amazement and saw her wince.
“Do not swear against the Fountain,” she chided, but this time she looked more injured than infuriated. “It is my friend.”
The words had slipped out of his mouth unintentionally. “Forgive me.”
She nodded to him in response. They went to the water bucket, and he let her fetch the ladle first. She was thirsty and sweating and looked like a soldier in her men’s clothes. But there was a feminine quality to her face, to the arch of her brows. He felt for the girl as a brother does for a cherished sister, protective and caring. There was something too sacred about her for baser feelings. None of the men in the camp had dared harass her.
She handed him the ladle and he scooped up some of the fresh water, drinking it heartily before he scooped some more and dumped it on his head to soothe his burning scalp. He was battered by their training, but teaching such a prodigy had also made him better.
“You’re really going to fight?” he asked her, feeling a certain protectiveness well up inside him.
“The Fountain sent me to free our people,” she said calmly. “Our enemies will not give up unless we force them.”
“Have you ever seen a battlefield, Genette?” He frowned at his own memories of a field of corpses filled with crimson puddles.
She looked at him. “Yes.”
He was surprised. “Where? Was there a skirmish fought near Donremy?”
She shook her head. “There was a small one nearby, but I didn’t see it.”
“Then which one did you see?”
“I shouldn’t tell you.” Her exp
ression had turned wary.
He put his hands on his hips. “Why not?”
A small smile quirked on her mouth. “You are already half frightened of me. I don’t wish to make it any worse.”
“I’m not scared of you,” he said with a chuckle, but her accusation had some truth to it. He had always wished to be an instrument of the Fountain, yet it was daunting to see the girl imbued with its power so dramatically. “Tell me.”
She yanked off her gauntlets, then hung them from her belt and soothed her battered knuckles. “I’ve seen battles we will yet fight.”
His eyes widened.
She nodded, keeping her voice low. “The Fountain shows me things. I’ve seen Lionn, even though I’ve never been there. There’s a river and a bridge. And two sets of towers.”
“That is true,” Alensson answered in amazement. “The Fountain has sent you, Genette. I believed it when I first met you in the tavern.”
Her smile was gratifying. “I know you did, Alen. That is why I tell you these things. Because you believed in me before anyone else did. We will fight against Ceredigion at Lionn. They will not give up easily, but if we are persistent, if we fight, then we will win and drive them out of the smaller towers.” She gave him a steady look. “You must not fear for me. I will be wounded in the battle. Right here.” She pointed to her collarbone above her left breast. “I am not afraid of pain. I know it will be all right.”
Her words sent a shudder through him. It was as if the wind were speaking with her voice. He wanted to ask her a dozen questions. If the lass could see the future, what did it mean? What else had she seen?
“You want to ask me something, but you dare not,” she said with a small laugh. “I told you that I frighten you.” She reached out and put her hand on his arm. “Hold your questions for now. Just believe in me, Alen. Follow my commands. Then I will explain the rest.”
There was power in her touch, in her voice. He sensed it like a vast, rippling lake full of boats and wriggling trout and summer breezes. And yet there was also a sense of peace radiating from her.