In the viscous haze of battle, he saw a hummingbird flit through the melee, an incongruous sight. He could almost hear the frantic buzz of its wings. Genette was standing still, her banner arm drooping as she stood, eyes closed, as if listening to a voice no one else could hear. The storm of chaos meant nothing to her. There was a peaceful air about her, and when she finally opened her eyes and looked at him, they were filled with joy.
“We have won the battle, Alen,” she said with triumph, speaking above the noise. “But the war is not over.”
The fight ended like a spilled cask, all the energy draining out of one side as the other began to whoop and cheer. The pride of victory swelled within them, stronger because of how long they had been oppressed. The soldiers mingled with their brothers who had come across the bridge. Aspen Hext pushed through the crowd. His armor was stained with blood and grime, but tears of joy trickled down his ruddy cheeks and mingled with the grit sticking in his beard. Then he started laughing—big bellowing laughs like a bear—and he went and hugged Genette, pulling her off her feet and kissing her cheek. She smiled with embarrassment, unable to do anything with her arms pinned to her sides. The soldiers were jumbling to crowd around her, chanting over and over, “The Maid! The Maid! The Maid!”
Alensson felt a surge of pride in Genette as he watched Hext set her down. She patted the lord’s arm in an awkward gesture, her smile making her look very young and inexperienced. Sometimes it was easy to forget that both were true. Hext then led a cheer that could be heard all the way across the river. Alensson joined in until his throat was raw. The Maid looked discomfited, but she patted Hext’s arm again, trying to signal for him to stop even though she could not be heard. He was proud of her and ashamed at himself for the feelings that had momentarily insinuated themselves in him. He was a prince of the blood. But he was not the heir to the crown of Occitania. His duty as the Duke of La Marche was to fight for the man who was—not to decide if he deserved it. And he would play the role he’d been assigned, just as Genette had played her role as the redeemer of Lionn.
The surviving soldiers from Ceredigion were herded away and brought to the dungeons below the towers they had once claimed. Alensson felt sympathy for them, but he was grateful it was no longer his turn to play the captive. Lionn had been liberated in days, a feat that no one in Shynom would have imagined possible a fortnight ago. What miracle would happen next?
He saw Genette approach, the mayor of Lionn at her side. He saw the yellow lily in her gloved hand. The mayor was weeping with joy.
“This is for Jianne,” the Maid said, offering him the flower. “She will be arriving soon. I have seen her coming. Her father may still be imprisoned in Kingfountain, but this is his city, after all.”
“Thank you,” he said, taking the delicate flower from her. Like the hummingbird he’d seen, it was incongruous in this bloody place, yet all the more beautiful for it.
“Thank you,” Genette whispered, her voice falling low. “For not betraying me.”
And in that moment of candor, in that moment of forgiveness, he realized she had seen inside his soul and knew he had been tempted.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Poisoner
Ankarette watched Alensson’s face as he seated himself in silence at the window seat. The blush of dawn on the horizon was a reminder that their time together was growing short. The kitchen staff would be rising soon to pound loaves of bread with their fists. There would be chamberlains and squires to coax life back into the spent brazier coals.
But while the poisoner was starting to feel anxious—she had perhaps stayed too long—she did not rush him. It was clear he’d experienced the siege of Lionn anew in the telling of his story, and she could feel the residue of shame that still lingered in his soul.
“You didn’t have to tell me the part about how the sword tempted you,” she said in a comforting voice. “Perhaps you were too honest.”
A little twitch on his lip almost blossomed into a smile. He stroked his mouth, his shoulders hunched, his elbows close to his sides.
“There is a certain power that comes from confession,” he whispered gravely. “Speaking to you tonight has helped, in a small way, unlock some chains that I’d bound myself with over the years. Yes, I was tempted by the sword. It is the nature of magic, I think, to invoke such feelings. It is the nature of men to be ambitious.” He cocked his head. “Your own king is proof of that.”
Ankarette smiled knowingly. “He shares that quality, to be sure. But he’s had his own portion of troubles. He’s lost his kingdom twice. Won it thrice. It’s almost as if it were a game.”