The Maid's War (Kingfountain 0.5)

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?”