The Maid's War (Kingfountain 0.5)

The movement caught his sharp instincts, and he was out of the window seat in a moment—book down, dagger in hand. He had the stance of a soldier. Even though he was older, he’d not let his body go to waste. So much for the old and feeble man the waif had implied she’d find.

Then his posture changed. He stared at her, his blue eyes narrowing with scrutiny. “Oh, it’s you,” he said with a gravelly voice.

That took Ankarette off her guard. “Were you expecting someone?” she asked, standing by the door, preparing to flee. She did not want to fight this man. She did not want to hurt him. Her heart had the deepest reverence for people who fought with conviction and honor.

“Of course I was!” he said with a bark and a laugh. “She told me years ago you’d come. ‘Gentle duke,’ she said.” A tingle ran down Ankarette’s spine. The Maid. His voice suddenly caught with emotion. “ ‘One night, when you are very old and a prisoner in the palace, you will meet a woman who is a poisoner. She will not come to kill you. She will come to listen to your story. You must tell her your story, gentle duke. And you must teach her about me.’ ” He stared down at the knife in his hand, turning it over once before he set it down on the window seat.

Ankarette felt a throb in her heart, followed by a sudden dizziness, and then she heard it. The gentle murmuring of the Fountain. It was so subtle that even the Fountain-blessed sometimes didn’t notice its influence. But Ankarette had trained herself to listen for it, to be guided by it. And she realized it had guided her to this very tower, this very night.

Her magic told her that she could trust this man. He was a traitor to his king, but only because he served a higher cause. He served the Fountain.

All of her thoughts and plans and schemes melted away. She walked up to the grizzled duke and dropped down onto one knee in reverent respect. She looked up at him. “You are Alensson, Duke of La Marche? Your father was duke before you, and his father duke before him. Your mother is Marie of Brythonica?”

The duke looked down at her. “Get up, get up! None of that, girl. I’m the duke of nothing.” He chuckled sardonically, his expression darkening. “La Marche has been in the hands of Ceredigion since the Battle of Azinkeep. They call it . . . they call it Westmarch! Ugh. I do not like that tongue. You speak ours well enough, girl. I’m impressed. Come on, I said get up!”

Ankarette rose, almost too amazed to speak. “The Maid . . . she told you I was coming?” Her heart skipped faster at the thought.

The duke nodded sagely, folding his arms. Then he stepped back and seated himself on the window seat once again. “She did, lass. That was nearly forty years ago. Before she was captured. Before she was killed.” His eyes turned hard as flint as he spoke the words. Even after so many years, the wound pained him. She could see it in his flesh, his cheeks.

“And I know why you’re here,” the duke said softly. “You’re looking for her sword. The one drawn from the fountain at St. Kathryn of Firebos.”

Ankarette’s heart quickened at the revelation. “Yes. I was sent by my king to find it. Or to stop Lewis from using it against him.”

The duke laughed—a brittle, gritty laugh. “Lewis doesn’t have it,” he said contemptuously. “And neither did his father. The one who betrayed her.” Anger smoldered in his eyes. “Neither do I.”

Ankarette was disappointed, but she had come too far to quit so easily. “Do you know where it is? The legends say it is King Andrew’s sword. Whoever wields it will rule all the kingdoms.”

The duke’s eyes narrowed. “And that is what your king desires? Even more power?” He shook his head disdainfully. “That is all men ever want. There is no slaking the thirst of ambition. Don’t I know. Don’t I know.” He hung his head sorrowfully. Then he clapped his hands on his knees. “What is your name, lass?”

“Ankarette Tryneowy,” the poisoner answered without hesitation.

“Before we speak of the sword, Ankarette, we must first speak of her. Everyone calls her the Maid. But she had a name. She was a girl, like you. A peasant child from the village Donremy. She told me you would come, aye, and she commanded me in the name of the Fountain to tell you her story before I died.” He leaned forward, resting his chin on his fist. “Sit down, Ankarette Tryneowy. Make yourself comfortable. It is a long story. But we have all night.” He leaned forward. “To understand her, you must understand why the Fountain chose her. You see, the Fountain stopped protecting Occitania because we were unfaithful to it. When I was a young cub, my father died during the Battle of Azinkeep. You know of it, of course. My father sent a knight, Boquette, to safeguard me and my mother away from La Marche. Boquette trained me in war. He taught me about honor and Virtus, and all the things a father should. He believed the Fountain would choose me to save our people. And so I came to believe it too.”





CHAPTER TWO

Vernay





Wars were not decided by battlefield tactics and the valor of half-drunken terrified soldiers. They were decided by trickery and deceit. It was an audacious plan. And Alensson was convinced it would work.

“There’s the city,” Boquette said under his breath, his voice husky with nerves. There was a slick feeling of fear in the air, but it was tempered by the thrill of the bet, the toss of the dice, the feeling of fortune hanging in the balance. “Have you been to Vernay, lad?”

Alensson bristled at the disparagement of his youth. He was fifteen years old, newly married to his best friend, a peer of the realm who was his own age, and he was wearing armor and riding a warhorse into battle. His mother and his wife’s uncle had persuaded the prince to sanction his match to the heiress of the duchy of Lionn after Alensson’s wardship to her uncle had proved more than amicable. Surely he wasn’t a lad any longer, yet his father’s old bodyguard still treated him like one.

“Aye, when I was a boy,” he answered brusquely, letting the defensiveness show in his tone.

“You’ve never been bloodied in battle,” Boquette said with a grunt. “You’re a whelp.”

“I’ve done nothing but train in war since my father died at Azinkeep,” Alensson said between his teeth. “You’ve seen to that. There’s not a man within a hundred leagues who can beat me with a sword—yourself included, Boquette.”

Boquette chuckled to himself before replying, “A training yard is one thing, son. A very different thing.”

“I will take back my duchy, town by town, castle by castle,” Alensson said passionately. “We start in Vernay. Then we conquer Averanche. Then drive Deford out of Tatton Hall and send him back to Kingfountain with his tail cut off!”

“I like your energy, lad. But don’t count coins until they’re in your purse. Deford is lord protector. You’re not just facing another duke, a man of your own rank. You’re facing a man who can bring the might of the army of Ceredigion down on us.”