Her words throbbed in his skull and in his heart. She was not deluded. She was not some drunk babbler or pretender. He could see that in her eyes. And he felt as deep as his marrow that she was telling the truth.
He realized, with growing awareness and respect, that the girl sitting across from him was indeed Fountain-blessed.
“When did you—” he paused, nearly choking on the words. His words proceeded as a whisper. “When did you first hear it speaking to you?”
She blinked at him, looking at him boldly. “When I was but a child.”
As he listened, a spear of jealousy stabbed inside him.
CHAPTER SIX
The Vertus Prince
The kings of Occitania had always ruled from the royal palace in Pree, a thronging city full of the splendors of trade and the majesty of a realm that was ancient in its customs and rites. But Pree was held by Ceredigion, and its peoples cheered for the Duke of Westmarch now. How much of the adulation was genuine, feigned, or driven by fear was inconsequential. So the Occitanian court had moved west, beyond the rivers, woods, and ravines that protected the hinterlands, to the ancient fortress of Shynom. It was a piece of irony that it had been the stronghold of the first Argentine king centuries before.
Alensson found the troubled prince there. Chatriyon was the lawful heir of Occitania, but he’d been driven into exile following the defeat of Azinkeep. At Shynom, he was protected by huge walls of thick stone, and his courtiers only granted a royal audience to people who shared their beliefs and allegiances. Thus it was no easy task to see the prince. Bribes helped pave the way, but while Alensson had no money, he was a prince of the blood himself, a cousin of the nobility, and a young man with a reputation for courage that preceded him. No one else had dared stand up to Deford so boldly after Alensson’s defeat. He might have lost Vernay and brought trouble to the prince, but at least he had tried to do something. He was allowed inside the ballroom filled with lords and ladies dressed in bright silks and velvets. The ladies’ hair was coiffed with intricate headdresses, a fashion that was copied by their Atabyrion allies. The odor of strong wine hung in the air, and the clamor of loud laughter and debate battled against the musicians for dominance. The polished floor was made of white and black marble like a Wizr board.
The young duke worked his way through the throng, accosted every few steps by a butler offering him a goblet, which he refused, as he searched for his sworn lord.
Chatriyon was found in halfhearted conversation with two lords and a deconeus. He had dark hair that was combed forward, barely seen under a puffy, wide-brimmed velvet hat. He wore a red tunic with a fur collar that billowed out at the shoulders in a V shape, giving the illusion that he was a muscular man. His gaze darted to and fro above his pear-shaped nose as he listened to his companions. It was obvious he longed for an escape. His eyes widened with sudden interest when he noticed Alensson’s approach.
“And here’s the man himself, my noble cousin!” Chatriyon said good-naturedly, a genuine smile spreading across his face.
One of the lords, an older man with an earring dangling from his lobe, turned a dark look on Alensson. “He’s the one who brought her inside the castle!”
The deconeus pawed at the prince’s sleeve. “You must not speak to her, my lord!”
“A moment, a moment,” the prince said, batting away the man’s hand. “Cousin!” He reached out and took Alensson by the shoulders, gazing at him fondly. The prince was only half a dozen years his elder, but he had the haggard, harried look of a man nearly forty. “The Fountain delivered you! I heard about your release and had hoped you’d come to Shynom straightaway. Is Jianne with you?” He craned his neck, his eyes searching the hall.
“No, my prince,” Alensson said, grateful for the warm welcome. “She’s anxious to greet you again, but she is waiting outside with someone who has not been permitted to enter.”
The scowling lord stepped forward. “My lord prince, if you admit a peasant into your court, you will be a laughingstock! Send the girl home!”
Alensson flashed a glare at the older man. He recognized him as the Earl of Doone, though the man had aged quite a bit since he’d seen him last.
“You’ve seen her?” Chatriyon asked eagerly, looking at Alensson. “What is she like? They say she is dressed like a page boy. Isn’t that rather peculiar?”
Alensson shook his head. “Not at all, my lord. She did it for protection. The road from Donremy brought her past hostile forces. She was escorted here by two soldiers from a garrison along the way.”
The deconeus, an older man with a limp and a sneer, butted in. “She’s probably just a camp follower, my prince,” he said contemptuously. “Seeking to increase her fortunes among those of more noble blood. Like the Earl of Doone, I suggest you send her away.”