There was a door at the top of the stairs, and a faint light emanated from beneath it. Many people slept with a candle lit, but Ankarette assumed nothing and took nothing for granted. She tried the handle and found that it opened to the touch. Prodding it with the toe of her shoe, she pushed it ajar and smelled the wax of burning candles, the leftover gravy of a partially eaten meal, and the smell of an aging man.
The Duke of La Marche was awake.
From the thin crack in the door, she saw him sitting at the window. There were only a few streaks of buttery color left in his mostly white hair. Although there was a book in his hands, he was staring out the window at the night sky, lost in thought.
Ankarette had spent many a long evening in such a pose—sitting by a window, reading books of tales from the past. This was a man who had been convicted of treason twice, only for the sentence to be commuted—both times—because he was a prince of the blood. He had lived history, and she was a bit in awe of him.
After taking a moment to gather her courage, Ankarette pushed open the door gently and then shut it behind her.
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.”