by Jeff Wheeler
Alensson folded his arms. “The orders have been given. Lord Hext is leading the attack. The mayor is watching the dock to make sure no one tries to flee. But it may be too difficult to spot them under cover of darkness.”
She shook her head as her squire fixed the shoulder blades onto her armor. “It will fall today.”
He didn’t bother asking how she knew that. After spending so much time with her, he’d come to learn that the Fountain spoke to her daily. She was unlike any Fountain-blessed in their records. She didn’t demonstrate just one or two powers, but several—and they seemed to sprout whenever she needed them. Her knowledge of warfare and sieges was that of a seasoned battle commander.
A herald stormed in to the tent, then caught himself when he realized he had entered a woman’s tent without announcing himself. He stammered an apology, but Genette had lived among men for several months now and did not require one.
“What news, Herald?” she demanded.
“I bring word from the lord mayor,” he said. He bowed to Alensson. “The city’s carpenters have joined the battle. Remember the bridge connecting the rest of Lionn to the Turrels? The stone is still standing, but all the planks were removed when the siege began. The carpenters are repairing it—and quickly. Soldiers are out there with shields, providing them cover from the archers. The lord mayor will commence attacking the Turrels by the bridgehead within the next few hours. They’ll have to defend both sides at once!” The herald beamed.
It was welcome news. “That is impressive!” Alensson said, relieved. He smiled encouragingly at Genette.
“The people were inspired by the Maid,” the herald said, giving Genette a respectful nod. “Everyone is helping. I’ve never seen Lionn so hopeful before. This is the first time we’ve had any hope since . . . since Azinkeep.”
“Then go, Herald,” Genette said calmly. “Tell the mayor that I thank him. We will meet in the tower. Tell him to bring a yellow flower. A lily, if he can find one.”
The herald looked at her in surprise and so did Alensson. That flower was his wife Jianne’s favorite. The Maid gave him a secretive smile as she finished dressing for battle. The scabbard and sword were still belted to her waist, and Alensson’s eyes found the raven’s head badge.
“That symbol is from Brythonica,” he said, finally placing it.
“It is indeed,” she replied, brushing her hands together. She turned to her squire. “Bring me my banner. We will make short work of our foes.”
From the heights of the Turrels, the soldiers were pelted with stones, crossbow bolts, buckets, and dozens of other makeshift weapons. The men were weary with exhaustion, but they continued to shove a battering ram against the tower doors with concerted grunts and pure brute strength. The freckled Aspen Hext led the charge, roaring his oaths as he gripped the front end of the ram with another man. Soldiers kept falling away wounded behind him, but he did not falter.
“Onward! We have almost won! Courage now! Stand fast!” Genette’s voice could be heard over the cacophony of violence. The sound lent steel to the soldiers, who rushed forward to fill the gaps when men fell. Her cheeks were smudged with smoke, her voice was raw from screaming, but her eyes blazed with valor. Her expression wilted just slightly when a soldier standing nearby succumbed to blows, but she gritted her teeth and waved the banner even more vigorously.
Alensson ordered men to fire arrows up at the defenders, keeping up the pressure to make it more difficult for them to hobble the efforts below. Sweat stung his eyes, but he clenched his jaw and muscled through the fatigue and discomfort. Genette’s courage made him all the more determined to win the day.
A splintering sound filled the air and then the pulverized door blew apart. A battered portcullis waited beyond, full of teeming soldiers armed with spears and lances. But even at this distance, Alensson could see the fear in their eyes. They already knew defeat lay ahead.
“Open the gate! Open the gate!” Alensson screamed. Soldiers flooded forward, and the men in the first row, Hext included, pulled at the heavy portcullis while soldiers tried to stab them through the slats. Many fell, their cries piercing the air. But others quickly replaced them, and they stacked pieces of timber under the gate to keep it up. Aspen Hext drove the defenders back from the gate with his two-handed broadsword. There was a flutter of white, and Alensson watched as Genette joined the fray, one hand on her banner, the other on the sword taken from the fountain at Firebos. She seemed oblivious to the death screams raging around her. Her eyes were fierce, her mouth fixed with courage. Arrows fell all around her like hailstones. The enemies were targeting her, but none of the archers found his target.
Sensing the danger to her—the Ceredigions all recognized Genette’s importance by now, and they would all surely charge her—he pushed his way into the press of men crowded at the gate. But the Maid was surrounded by enemies before he could get to her. He howled in frustration, then watched in surprise as she defended herself using the principles he had taught her. She swung the flat of her blade around and hit a man in the side, but it was as if she were a reaper of wheat: Her one blow scattered four men instead of one. Her opponents exploded away from her, and then no other man dared face her, this maiden holding the sword of a long-dead king.
Alensson’s eyes darted to the weapon, lingering on the rippled pattern in the metal, the five stars engraved on the blade inside the fuller. A part of him awakened at the sight of it—his ambition—and it howled like a wolf. If he could get his hands on that weapon, if he could use it instead of her, then he could become the next king of Occitania.
It was an ambition it had never before occurred to him to have.
In the sludge-like mire of his thoughts, amidst the shouts and screams of mortal combat, even in the act of slicing one of his enemies who confronted him, Alensson felt a desire for that sword that overswept even the love he had for his wife. He had seen Genette use it before and it had not roused such feelings in him. But those feelings were so strong now, they threatened to change him from the inside.
Half-formed thoughts, grievances, and fears swirled around inside him. Who was Chatriyon Vertus but a sniveling coward? Did he deserve to be king? Did he deserve the loyalty that had been shown him by those who had risked everything?
Someone brought a battle axe down on Alensson, and he spun around and gutted the man with a savage stroke. He kicked him next, and then he was fighting beside Genette, in awe of her power, in awe of the sword she held, and for the briefest flicker of a moment, he was tempted to shove her down in the confusion and yank the blade out of her hand.
But no. No.
He shook his head as if to rouse himself from an intense, lurid dream. After all he had given up. After all he had sacrificed, after all the years he had spent in Ceredigic confinement, he would not sell his honor so cheaply. His integrity was the only possession he truly owned; he could not bear to lose it.
Alensson took up a position behind her, defending her back as the battle raged inside the tower. There were so many people that Alensson found himself fighting friend as well as foe in the confusion. He kept glancing back at Genette, making sure she was still within sight amidst the flood of men-at-arms.
“Stay near me, Gentle Duke,” he heard her say. “It is almost over.”
But the fighting grew more savage and desperate before it ended. These were the last defenders, a brave and mighty foe who would neither yield nor ransom themselves. They expected no mercy after all they had boasted, all the ills they had done while ravaging Occitania. Alensson was jostled by one man just as another lunged toward the Maid with a spear—he elbowed the one in the face and then chopped down at the spearhead, knocking it aside before it reached her.
There was a groan of wood, followed by the rending sound of metal. The other gate of the Turrels was being breached by the city soldiers. Another wall of soldiers came flooding into the courtyard. Everything seemed to slow down, and Alensson turned to watch the newcomers join the fray. They devast
ated the remaining defenders, many of whom finally flung down their weapons in despair and sank to their knees in humiliation and defeat. They had the hollowed, anguished look of men who didn’t know if they would live or die—and who didn’t seem to care. He recognized it because he had felt that way before.
In the viscous haze of battle, he saw a hummingbird flit through the melee, an incongruous sight. He could almost hear the frantic buzz of its wings. Genette was standing still, her banner arm drooping as she stood, eyes closed, as if listening to a voice no one else could hear. The storm of chaos meant nothing to her. There was a peaceful air about her, and when she finally opened her eyes and looked at him, they were filled with joy.
“We have won the battle, Alen,” she said with triumph, speaking above the noise. “But the war is not over.”
The fight ended like a spilled cask, all the energy draining out of one side as the other began to whoop and cheer. The pride of victory swelled within them, stronger because of how long they had been oppressed. The soldiers mingled with their brothers who had come across the bridge. Aspen Hext pushed through the crowd. His armor was stained with blood and grime, but tears of joy trickled down his ruddy cheeks and mingled with the grit sticking in his beard. Then he started laughing—big bellowing laughs like a bear—and he went and hugged Genette, pulling her off her feet and kissing her cheek. She smiled with embarrassment, unable to do anything with her arms pinned to her sides. The soldiers were jumbling to crowd around her, chanting over and over, “The Maid! The Maid! The Maid!”
Alensson felt a surge of pride in Genette as he watched Hext set her down. She patted the lord’s arm in an awkward gesture, her smile making her look very young and inexperienced. Sometimes it was easy to forget that both were true. Hext then led a cheer that could be heard all the way across the river. Alensson joined in until his throat was raw. The Maid looked discomfited, but she patted Hext’s arm again, trying to signal for him to stop even though she could not be heard. He was proud of her and ashamed at himself for the feelings that had momentarily insinuated themselves in him. He was a prince of the blood. But he was not the heir to the crown of Occitania. His duty as the Duke of La Marche was to fight for the man who was—not to decide if he deserved it. And he would play the role he’d been assigned, just as Genette had played her role as the redeemer of Lionn.
The surviving soldiers from Ceredigion were herded away and brought to the dungeons below the towers they had once claimed. Alensson felt sympathy for them, but he was grateful it was no longer his turn to play the captive. Lionn had been liberated in days, a feat that no one in Shynom would have imagined possible a fortnight ago. What miracle would happen next?
He saw Genette approach, the mayor of Lionn at her side. He saw the yellow lily in her gloved hand. The mayor was weeping with joy.
“This is for Jianne,” the Maid said, offering him the flower. “She will be arriving soon. I have seen her coming. Her father may still be imprisoned in Kingfountain, but this is his city, after all.”
“Thank you,” he said, taking the delicate flower from her. Like the hummingbird he’d seen, it was incongruous in this bloody place, yet all the more beautiful for it.
“Thank you,” Genette whispered, her voice falling low. “For not betraying me.”
And in that moment of candor, in that moment of forgiveness, he realized she had seen inside his soul and knew he had been tempted.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Poisoner
Ankarette watched Alensson’s face as he seated himself in silence at the window seat. The blush of dawn on the horizon was a reminder that their time together was growing short. The kitchen staff would be rising soon to pound loaves of bread with their fists. There would be chamberlains and squires to coax life back into the spent brazier coals.
But while the poisoner was starting to feel anxious—she had perhaps stayed too long—she did not rush him. It was clear he’d experienced the siege of Lionn anew in the telling of his story, and she could feel the residue of shame that still lingered in his soul.
“You didn’t have to tell me the part about how the sword tempted you,” she said in a comforting voice. “Perhaps you were too honest.”
A little twitch on his lip almost blossomed into a smile. He stroked his mouth, his shoulders hunched, his elbows close to his sides.
“There is a certain power that comes from confession,” he whispered gravely. “Speaking to you tonight has helped, in a small way, unlock some chains that I’d bound myself with over the years. Yes, I was tempted by the sword. It is the nature of magic, I think, to invoke such feelings. It is the nature of men to be ambitious.” He cocked his head. “Your own king is proof of that.”
Ankarette smiled knowingly. “He shares that quality, to be sure. But he’s had his own portion of troubles. He’s lost his kingdom twice. Won it thrice. It’s almost as if it were a game.”
He gave her a look that was wise and cunning and full of secrets. She hungered to learn everything he knew—not only because it would help her king, but also because she derived pleasure from knowing secrets.
“War is a game,” he said after a lengthy pause. “We won that round at Lionn.”
“What about the other soldiers from Ceredigion, the ones who were besieging the larger part of the city? You took the Turrels, but what happened to the rest of the army?”
Another smile quirked his mouth. “Another good question, Ankarette. The balance had shifted. They knew they were falling, yet our foes were courageous. The Ceredigions knew Deford would come with a larger army, and he was not a forgiving man. If they had fled without a fight, he would have punished them severely.”
“It’s also not wise to turn your back on an army seeking revenge,” she added thoughtfully.
“Precisely. No, the surviving enemy forces had gathered into an army outside of Lionn, along the road leading back to Pree. They thought we were going to attack them, you see, which”—he tapped his chin and then wagged his finger at her—“was precisely what any reasonable battle commander would have suggested. But the Maid was no ordinary battle commander. The army was hers, by this time, surely you realize that. Doone and I may have held rank. Lord Hext may have been taller and stronger. But everyone looked to the Maid for direction, including those I just mentioned.”
Ankarette waited a moment, watching his eyes narrow slightly. “What did her voices tell her to do? What was the Fountain’s will?”
He gazed at her. “It was the feast day of St. Kathryn. I don’t think any of us remembered it. But the Maid did. She said we would not fight a battle on a feast day.”
She looked at him with startled surprise. “But surely the Ceredigic army—”
He waved her quiet. “We arrayed our troops across from theirs. Most of their archers had been killed at the towers, so they had few left. There was perhaps a stone’s throw between our camps, and both were bristling with spears and swords, waiting for the order to attack. Genette said that if they attacked us, we could destroy them. But she would not order an attack on a feast day. Instead, she summoned the deconeus from the sanctuary inside Lionn, and he heard confessions and accepted prayers. He walked down the line of soldiers, going from man to man, including Genette herself. All the while, our enemies looked on in surprise. They saw that we weren’t going to attack them, so they were poised to attack us. If one dirk had been hurled, it would have been a bloodbath. There were no taunts this time. Both sides were edgy, unsettled, keening for a fight. Genette was there with her sword and banner, waiting for them to make the first move. Preposterous! No one starts a battle that way! It was one of the most amazing sights I’d ever seen. And then . . . poof!”
Ankarette blinked. “What?”
“They left,” he said with a laugh. “Their army crumpled. They lowered their swords and spears and began to retreat. The back ranks first, then the middle, and then finally the front. They turned and departed.”
“And then you chased them?” she asked wit
h a quizzical look.
“Then we chased them,” he answered. “Nothing serious. Mostly to stop their siege engines from being used elsewhere. We raided their baggage, took their treasure.” His eyes glittered at the word.
“And you got a share of it?”
He nodded. “Finally. You must understand, Ankarette. All of Prince Chatriyon’s support came from rich nobles who wanted to keep him on a short leash. He said he couldn’t afford to reward me, but I think . . . I think that in time he grew to hate being on a leash himself, so he liked to strand others who were in that situation. I used part of the treasure I earned at Lionn to repay some of the debts my wife had incurred to achieve my release. It wasn’t enough . . . not hardly! But it helped me take my first few breaths of freedom. The Maid had conquered Lionn in four days and not a single Ceredigion soldier was left. In fact, we wreaked havoc on them all the way back to Pree.”
He paused again, listening intently.
She heard it too. The sound of steps coming up the stairwell outside the tower. Ankarette’s heart began to pound and she cursed herself. She was so absorbed by his story that she’d allowed herself to forget that she was a poisoner inside an enemy castle in the heart of the enemy court, while her king’s army was a league away, getting ready to continue the war the Maid had ended decades before.
“The bed,” Alensson said, pointing to it, but she was already on her way there. If she hid behind the tall mattress, she could slip under it if she needed to and give herself more time to hide. The footfalls in the stairwell were too soft to be from a man’s boots. It was probably a servant.
She reached the hiding place just as a knock sounded at the door.
“Enter!” Alensson said gruffly.
A maid entered the room with a tray of bread and cheese. Ankarette knelt by the bed, positioning a pillow in front of her face. It concealed her, but she had left a gap so she could watch. The girl’s hair was a little disheveled, and the lacings at the front of her servant’s gown had been hastily tied. Her hands were shaking, making the tray rattle slightly.