While the deconeus refastened the lid of the vial, one of the nobles approached holding a satchel. The man reached inside and his hand emerged with the royal crown. It was an ancient, tarnished-looking thing. As Alensson saw it come out of the bag, he felt his heart flare with a pulse of sudden hatred and envy. He doesn’t deserve it. He tried to master himself, tried to vanquish the evil thoughts, but they were nearly strangling as he watched the man give the crown to the deconeus.
Then his gaze found Genette, who was looking at him with a disapproving frown. Seeing her quiet rebuke shamed him instantly and squelched the ill feelings that had been sprouting in his soul. A trickle of sweat went down the side of his head. He could breathe again, and he quickly took in some air and forced his mind to surrender to the goodness inside of him. His heart began to slow and he felt peaceful once again.
A little smile quirked on Genette’s mouth and she gave an approving nod, even though her eyes had already returned to the king.
They both watched in silence as the deconeus hefted the tarnished crown and then gently set it down amidst the unruly locks of Chatriyon’s dark hair. There was a strange feeling in the room, like the grinding of a stone door closing. It shook Alensson to his heels.
The air was suddenly filled with shouts of Natalis! which signified the birth of a new king. Trumpets began to blare in the open hall, gripped by courtiers who had come to witness the occasion, and soon the stone walls were ringing with so much noise and confusion, Alensson’s ears were nearly split from it. He wondered if the great glass window would shatter. He winced, his ears aching, his eyes searching the hall for signs of a threat.
Then he saw Genette come down from the steps and kneel before King Chatriyon, her banner pole fixed next to her, its curtain hanging limply. The noise continued to pierce his ears and he stepped closer, trying to listen to them.
“Noble king,” he heard Genette say, her voice quavering, “the Fountain’s will is done.” And then she started to weep. The tears rained down her cheeks as she looked up at the king with something like gratitude. It looked as if a burden had been lifted from her shoulders.
“Now I have the right?” Chatriyon asked her. “The right to move the pieces?”
What could he mean? Alensson came nearer, trying to understand. The Earl of Doone was nearby, distracted by a conversation with one of his lieutenants.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Genette said. “Yes, it is true!”
“Show it to me,” he said.
Genette looked around furtively. She and the king were the center of all eyes. “Not here, my lord,” she said, glancing at Alensson. “Not in front of everyone.”
“But only a Fountain-blessed can draw it out,” he told her. “You said that yourself. Draw it out of the water. You said it would be here!”
The deconeus’s face turned the color of chalk, and his eyes widened with surprise. Once again, Alensson felt he was skating on the edge of something he did not understand. “What mean you to do, my lord?”
Chatriyon gave him a cold look. “I didn’t just come here for the crown, Deconeus,” he said amidst the cacophony. The crowd outside the sanctuary had taken up the cheering.
“What did you come for then?” the deconeus asked worriedly.
Chatriyon gave him a measured, icy stare. “What’s been hidden here since my father went mad. Fetch it, Genette. I command you.”
The Maid bowed her head sadly and then turned and marched back up the steps, the king watching her shrewdly as she made her way to the bubbling fountain. She circled around behind it so that she would not be seen by the others. Alensson felt a gnawing sensation inside him. He broke away from the throng and went to the steps, but the sextons stopped him before he could reach the top.
“No farther, my lord,” they warned him.
“My lord duke?” the king demanded in an icy tone.
“She is vulnerable,” he said in a protective tone, edging closer to the sextons.
The king frowned, then nodded in agreement, gesturing for him to follow.
Alensson pushed past them. He saw her then, kneeling by the edge of the waters, her head bowed as if in prayer. She was listening to her voices. He watched her lift her head, a frown on her mouth, and then reach into the waters. The splashing of the fountain concealed her from everyone else but him. Alensson had taken part in a miracle himself when he had pulled her sword from the fountain of Firebos.
Genette did not pull a blade from the waters.
She pulled out a square brown chest with a handle on the top.
Alensson saw her grave expression as she hefted the box. The sextons stared at her, their eyes bulging with disbelief and worry. It put him in mind of the deconeus’s pallor.