The Maid's War(22)

“The Fountain sent me to free our people,” she said calmly. “Our enemies will not give up unless we force them.”

“Have you ever seen a battlefield, Genette?” He frowned at his own memories of a field of corpses filled with crimson puddles.

She looked at him. “Yes.”

He was surprised. “Where? Was there a skirmish fought near Donremy?”

She shook her head. “There was a small one nearby, but I didn’t see it.”

“Then which one did you see?”

“I shouldn’t tell you.” Her expression had turned wary.

He put his hands on his hips. “Why not?”

A small smile quirked on her mouth. “You are already half frightened of me. I don’t wish to make it any worse.”

“I’m not scared of you,” he said with a chuckle, but her accusation had some truth to it. He had always wished to be an instrument of the Fountain, yet it was daunting to see the girl imbued with its power so dramatically. “Tell me.”

She yanked off her gauntlets, then hung them from her belt and soothed her battered knuckles. “I’ve seen battles we will yet fight.”

His eyes widened.

She nodded, keeping her voice low. “The Fountain shows me things. I’ve seen Lionn, even though I’ve never been there. There’s a river and a bridge. And two sets of towers.”

“That is true,” Alensson answered in amazement. “The Fountain has sent you, Genette. I believed it when I first met you in the tavern.”

Her smile was gratifying. “I know you did, Alen. That is why I tell you these things. Because you believed in me before anyone else did. We will fight against Ceredigion at Lionn. They will not give up easily, but if we are persistent, if we fight, then we will win and drive them out of the smaller towers.” She gave him a steady look. “You must not fear for me. I will be wounded in the battle. Right here.” She pointed to her collarbone above her left breast. “I am not afraid of pain. I know it will be all right.”

Her words sent a shudder through him. It was as if the wind were speaking with her voice. He wanted to ask her a dozen questions. If the lass could see the future, what did it mean? What else had she seen?

“You want to ask me something, but you dare not,” she said with a small laugh. “I told you that I frighten you.” She reached out and put her hand on his arm. “Hold your questions for now. Just believe in me, Alen. Follow my commands. Then I will explain the rest.”

There was power in her touch, in her voice. He sensed it like a vast, rippling lake full of boats and wriggling trout and summer breezes. And yet there was also a sense of peace radiating from her.

“Who are you?” he asked in a whisper. If he hadn’t witnessed the deconeus performing the rite, he would have suspected she was a water sprite in mortal form.

“I am a maid,” she answered him simply, letting go of his arm. “The Fountain can work wonders from the lowliest of creatures. I have power because I believe in it. Maybe you will too someday.” She smiled at him, but her words cut him to his core. For years he had fostered doubts in the Fountain because he had never felt its power himself, despite his many efforts. Perhaps those tiny seeds of doubt had always stood in his way.

It had grown late and they walked side by side back to the army encamped outside the fortress of Shynom. Soldiers had built small cookfires and were starting to prepare skewers of meat. A few were already drunk, their boisterous voices filling the air with commotion. Genette scowled as they passed, her eyes brooding and dark with anger. Inside the camp, all the grass had been crushed by dirty boots and filth. The air was filled with the buzzing of flies, the stamping of horses, and the braying of mules. There were tents everywhere—some small, some larger—their size representing the relative importance of their inhabitants. Chatriyon had summoned an army at last, but it was a rowdy group numbering only a few thousand. Some of the soldiers had been drawn to the miracles they had heard about. Some had only come because of the pay.

“This is no army,” Genette muttered under her breath. “Tomorrow I will start them cleaning. We cannot live like this.”

“It gets worse, you know,” he told her. “Wait until it rains. The smell . . .” He shook his head.

Genette looked at him askance. “You are one of the leaders, yet you permit this disorder?”

“This is the nature of men and war,” he answered with a shrug. “I may as well frown at a mountain and expect it to change.”

“Men are not like stone,” she answered, staring into his eyes. “They are more like clay. There is a potter in my village. I loved watching him coax his clay into shapes. You are a potter of men, Alen. Do not let things shape you.”