Alensson was upset without quite understanding why. He scowled at the doctor as he left. Then he turned to the squire. “Go fetch some food and wine,” he commanded.
The young man made a furtive glance at the changing screen, then bowed meekly to the duke and forsook the tent, leaving the two of them alone.
“Why did you send my squire away?” Genette asked, coming around the changing screen in a plain undershirt with leather ties at the front.
“Because I need to talk to you and I don’t think he should hear what I have to say,” he answered in a low voice.
Her countenance changed to one of wariness. “What would you speak of, Gentle Duke?” she asked him, her tone very low and private.
“How is it that you are uninjured?” he demanded.
She had barely managed to hobble to her tent and now she was starting to pace, all signs of suffering and agony gone.
“Why do you wish to know?” she asked him.
“Because you take great risks in our battles. The arrow that struck your breast should have killed you. It was meant to kill you. Yet you barely bled when you pulled it out. Your bones were broken. I knew it myself without the doctor saying so. And yet here you stand. How is it possible?”
She let out a pent-up breath. “Is that all? Why does it matter how the Fountain chooses to heal me?”
He took a step toward her. “It matters because you suffer!” he hissed at her. “Your magic doesn’t prevent you from injury. It doesn’t protect you from pain. I don’t like seeing you . . .” He stopped, unwilling to say the words until he had mastered himself again. In a low, deliberate voice, he continued, “I don’t like seeing you in pain.”
She was looking at him now, the flush in her cheeks was gone. She seemed to be drinking in his words. Her eyes were fixed on his face and he thought he saw a tremble in her hands. “Are you worried about me?” she asked him with just the hint of a laugh.
“I am,” he answered truthfully. “And not because you’re the Maid. Because you are Genette. You’re from an obscure village and now you’re here fighting a man’s war better than any of the men.” The words were tumbling out of his mouth all at once. He couldn’t stop himself. “I admire your courage and your pluck. I admire your confidence. I wish I had it. But you said something during the battle. You said I would survive this war. And you would not.” He shook his head. “I don’t understand it. How can that be if you cannot be killed?”
Taking a deep breath, she turned away from him and paced in a small square on the floor, her hands clasped together in front of her, her index fingers steepled and pressed against her mouth. “I should not have told you that,” she answered. “Now you will worry about me needlessly.”
“Then tell me what you refuse to,” he said, fixing her with his eyes.
She was debating with herself. He could see the conflict tumbling around in her mind. Maybe she was communing with her inner voices, asking for permission to tell. He waited patiently, absorbed by this small slip of a girl who had already fought and won several battles. She was only seventeen years old, by the Fountain!
Then she paused and turned to face him. “Will you keep my secrets, Gentle Duke? If I tell you?”
“You know I will,” he vowed.
His answer seemed to satisfy her, but rather than speak, she brought her arms down and began unbuckling her scabbard belt. He was confused by this, wondering what she meant to do. Then she approached him with the scabbard in her hands. It was made of leather and had a belt woven into the design so that it was all one thing. The raven, which he’d noticed before, was a more ancient version of the sigil of Brythonica.
“This is the source of my healing,” she whispered to him, holding out the scabbard so he could inspect it.
“The blade?” he asked, his eyes on the hilt and the pommel, which did not bear the scars of war despite all the battles it had weathered.
She shook her head. “The sword is powerful, Gentle Duke. With it, I am filled with the wisdom of battles from centuries past. Holding it, I have seen visions from the days of King Andrew. I have seen the king’s court and the principles of Virtus that governed it. Those principles are lost now.” She gave him a reproachful look. “Our prince is but a shadow. His name is Vertus, but he has forgotten its meaning. You must remember this, when I am gone.”
He closed his hand on the middle of the scabbard. “When you are gone?”
“Yes, Gentle Duke. The sword is powerful, but the scabbard is even more so. Whoever wears it cannot be slain.” She raised her finger and gently caressed the raven symbol. “It comes from the drowned kingdom of Leoneyis, and its magic is of the Deep Fathoms. When it is healing me, the symbol of the raven begins to glow. Only I can see it. Yes, my body was broken by the fall. But as you can see, I am unharmed now. If others knew the source of my protection, this scabbard would be stolen from me and I would lose both magics.” She put her hand on top of his. “Now heed me, Gentle Duke. Those who look at this weapon cannot help but covet it. Even you, though you are too noble to admit it. It is the sword of kings. It is the sword of King Andrew.”