The Maid's War(44)

Watching Chatriyon’s back, Alensson felt another pang of resentment toward the prince. Had any of this man’s blood been shed in their battles? Had he suffered so much as a bruise? He wore ceremonial armor, but it was just that—ceremony. It was an empty pretense. Hunger rose up in him again, and he found his gaze lowering to the scabbard belted to Genette’s waist.

No, no, no, you mustn’t. To distract himself, he pictured the small cottage where he had been reunited with his wife. That cottage was full of pleasant memories to dwell on. Jianne’s long, wavy hair, the bright cinnamon of her eyes, the way they’d been cocooned by verdant greenery.

The spell of madness passed, and before Alensson knew it, they were riding under the arches of Ranz. He craned his neck and watched as flower petals, small and fragrant, were rained down on them like snow. They passed through the tranquil blizzard, and then they were on the main street heading to the sanctuary, which rose like a mountain before them.

The sanctuary was ancient, as defensible as the strongest of castles. The entrance had a triple archway facade—the center one was rounded and the two flanking it were more pointed. All three arches were inset into the thick stone walls. There was a huge stained-glass window above the center arch that was easily wider than the cottage in Izzt. It was circular with leaflike shapes extending from the center spoke—as if it were a bubbling fountain seen directly from above. Twin towers rose up on either side of the window, thick and impressive and full of small arches and windows. Alensson had not been to Ranz since he was a child and he still felt dwarfed by the sheer size and shape.

The company rode their horses up the main steps to the massive wooden doors, which had been opened to greet them. As the prince and the Maid ascended, Alensson lowered his hand to his hilt, scanning the crowd for any signs of trouble. The captains kept a portion of the soldiers in the city square and greenyard, taking a defensive position, and soldiers also patrolled the grounds of the sanctuary looking for trouble. The crowds from the road had followed them in and quickly filled the courtyard, but the troops kept a path clear for the king to use after the ceremony, using spears and pikes to hold the masses back. There was a lot of noise as people talked amongst themselves in hushed tones.

Once Alensson was confident there would be no disturbance, he rode his horse into the massive sanctuary. The floor was made of black and white tiles, set in octagonal patterns that formed a giant labyrinth on the floor. There was an enormous bubbling fountain at the head of the huge hall, raised from the rest of the room. The deconeus waited there with his multitude of sextons. Impressively sculpted statues stood as pillars on the eaves, holding up the massive vaulted roof. Light from the stained-glass window spread colored patterns on the floor. The subtle scent of incense hung in the air.

After dismounting, Alensson handed the reins to a squire and then followed the others on foot. As a prince of the blood himself, he had a prominent position to occupy near the prince. Genette was standing on the platform by the sextons, her face beaming with happiness. After all of their struggles, she was about to witness the fulfillment of her visions.

“Well met, my lord!” the deconeus greeted Chatriyon. He looked nervous and a little flustered. He was probably wondering what would happen to him when or if Deford arrived with the next army.

“Are you ready to do your office?” the Earl of Doone asked pointedly. He was never far from Chatriyon, and had ridden into the sanctuary before Alensson.

“I am . . . I am,” the deconeus said, stumbling a bit over his words. “We have the consecration oil. Did you bring the crown?”

There was something in his voice as he said it. Something that bespoke significance.

“We have it,” Doone said with a knowing look.

“Then it is the Fountain’s will,” the deconeus said. He strode forward, wearing his ceremonial vestments, and stood at the top of the steps. Then, slowly, he made his way down each one. A hush fell over the precincts. Even the horses were silent.

“Since the days of King Andrew, the nobles of each realm have been crowned king according to their right and according to the rites of the Fountain. As a child, you were given the water rite to purge your stain, cleansing your fallen nature. Now you will be anointed with oil that has been consecrated to bestow the right to rule, to preside, to lead this people of Occitania. In the ancient tongue I speak it! Nominus. Clarinus. Debemus!”

A ripple of amen came from those assembled.

The deconeus pulled out a jeweled vial and then uncorked it. He covered the open end with his littlest finger and quickly jerked the vial back to dab its contents on his flesh. Then he used that finger to anoint Chatriyon on his forehead, both shoulders, and finally on his breast.