“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.”