After finishing his meal, he entered the bridge spanning the tumultuous river and ventured closer to the island that held the sanctuary. The percussive clop of hooves suddenly filled the air—someone was approaching from behind Alensson. The crowd began to make way and he did the same, pressing back out of respect when he realized he was seeing a nobleman arriving at the city. It wasn’t a duke, probably an earl or the like. Alensson saw many lowering their heads in respect, but he couldn’t do it. Rather than look down, he raised his steely gaze.
Alensson saw the badge before he saw the man. The tunics of the knights accompanying the nobleman were emblazoned with the symbol of a lion, paws raised, and muzzle open to a roar. An arrow pierced the maw in a grotesque way that made Alensson’s cheek twitch. This was one of the Northern families, he believed. He couldn’t remember the name.
As the knights passed, his gaze fell on the earl. To his surprise, there was a young boy riding behind the noble—it could only be his son—and the boy’s small arms clasped his father’s waist. Something about the boy stood out to him. Maybe it was his serious eyes or the half-frown on his face. But in that moment, it felt as if the grinding wheel of time had suddenly slowed. He saw the boy’s sand-colored hair, his stern expression. He noticed the way he clasped his father’s middle, his cheek pressed against the cloak. The boy’s eyes met his, for some reason, out of the crowd. The two looked at each other and Alensson felt a strange dizzy feeling, as if he were suddenly in two places at once. There was something about that boy, something that pressed against his thoughts in a strange way, giving him the uneasy feeling that he had witnessed this scene before.
And then it was over, the wheel surged forward again, and the noise of the earl’s men faded. Alensson stared after them, noticing the boy, still gripping his father, had turned in the saddle and was staring back at him. Alensson nodded to the boy, coaxed by some preternatural feeling, and then he was lost in the crowd that filled in the gap made by the horsemen.
He did not know what had summoned those strange feelings, and it unnerved him that such a young boy had taken notice of him amidst the crowd. Why had he not bowed his head to the earl’s son meekly like the others and let the entourage pass without giving him any attention? He cursed inside his mind—he’d let his imagination run rampant—and walked vigorously until he reached the sanctuary gates.
The Duke of La Marche was well-versed in the strange traditions of Ceredigion. He had heard that many unlawful men resided on the sanctuary grounds, where the king’s law could not pursue them. The privilege had been in existence since the beginning of time, it seemed, and no one had ever offered him a satisfactory explanation as to why grown men still heeded it. It was said that the protections of sanctuary would last until the river stopped flowing, which would never happen considering it was fed by mighty glaciers in the North that provided the unending supply of water to the river. There were many stories about knights who had rebelled against kings and sought—and found—protection at the many sanctuaries in the realm. For this reason, Alensson felt a middling portion of peace upon entering the gates.
As he had done at Beauvoir, he instantly began walking the grounds, seeking to understand the location. There were many fountains throughout the outer courtyard, and individuals and families were clustered around them. Many were tossing coins into the waters. As he drew closer, he noticed the heap of rusty coins on the bottom of each. It was another shared tradition, he knew, not to remove the coins. If someone was caught stealing them, a crowd of violent citizens could instantly rise up, seize the offender, and throw him or her into the river.
He also wandered the grounds behind the sanctuary and was surprised to find a small dock there. He thought that very strange considering the violent pull of the waters, but perhaps goods were sometimes sent from upstream. From this angle, he saw the profile of the palace up on the hill. The sight took his breath away and spread a sick feeling through his heart. He had never seen the like—there were many levels of walls and bulwarks built into the hillside to provide rings of protection to the castle atop. He sighed and shook his head, seeing the futility of attacking such a place. But with the thought, he imagined seeing Genette’s face and her confident look. If the Fountain had bidden her to do it, he had no doubt she would have attempted it—and he had no doubt she would have succeeded.
After walking the grounds, he went to the sanctuary itself and took a seat on a stone bench. The black and white tiles of the marble floor were arranged like the squares on a Wizr board. Despite the constant tide of traffic in and out, the floor was swept and clean. Judging by their clothes, the families who visited came from a vast array of backgrounds, but all were welcome on the grounds.