The Maid's War(79)

A feeling of heaviness slammed into him—an exhaustion so profound he could not fight it. He collapsed into a puddle of melting snow.





CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

The Maid's Grave





As Alensson slept, he dreamed. He knew it was a dream, for only in dreams were the colors so vibrant. He was walking in a garden, listening to the babbling of fountain waters. The sky was such a clear blue, he imagined he could reach up and stir it like a pond. Butterflies flittered with exquisite wings, light and free, and the birds had heartbreakingly bright plumage—red, orange, purple, yellow. The ground was spongy, a woven mass of grass so thick and soft it was like walking on a cloud. It was strange how slowly the awareness stole over him before he noticed the young woman walking at his side.

It was Genette, he realized, and she was smiling at him peacefully.

“Where are we?” he asked, amazed at the butterfly that landed on her outstretched hand.

“It’s an in-between place, Gentle Duke,” she said. “In between dreams and awake. In between life and death. It’s one of the gardens of the Fountain.”

“Am I dreaming?” he asked, amazed at the fresh, sweet smell of the grass. It felt as if his entire being was keenly attuned to the sensations around him.

“Of course you are,” she answered. “It is the stuff of dreams.”

Memories stirred sluggishly in his mind. Memories of a cold mountaintop, frigid snow, leaden feet. But it was all fuzzy and far away. There was something wrong in his heart, some hidden grief that he could not quite remember. It lay buried beneath an overwhelming sense of peace.

“Am I dying?” he asked her.

Then he noticed she wasn’t wearing the soldier’s tunic he’d so often seen on her. No, she was dressed in the simple frock of a peasant girl from Donremy. Her hair was long and dark, but there were little hints of gold in it. Had it always been so, or were his powers of observation different here? The bruises and smudges on her skin were gone. She looked comfortable and calm as she strode barefoot in the grass beside him. She was the picture of innocence, and a protective, gentle feeling swelled in his heart.

“No, Gentle Duke. I asked a gift of the Fountain before I died. I wanted to bring you here.”

He was confused. “Before you died?”

She nodded, her hair bouncing slightly. “When I was young and first began hearing the water sounds of the Fountain, I would close my eyes and imagine what it was like. In my visions, I was always brought here, to this garden. This is where I learned to hear the whispers. This in-between place was just as much my home as Donremy. I tried to share it with others, but none believed me. None trusted me enough to let me take them here. I was the only one who could see it. Sometimes, when I was younger, I wondered if I was sick for seeing these visions that no one else could.” She gave him a delighted smile. “Before I died, I asked the Fountain to let me show you.”

He felt a rush of gratitude and intense emotions swell inside him. “When I awaken . . . you’ll be gone.”

She nodded cheerfully. “It is difficult being so different. To be the only one who hears or sees. Thank you for believing in me. It meant so much to me to have someone else believe in me.”

He smiled at her, but felt on the verge of tears. “I won’t see you again.”

She shook her head. “Not until your time in the mortal coil is over. That filthy world with all its greed, anguish, and sorrow. So much of it brought upon itself because people don’t understand what truly gives meaning to life. I have done what the Fountain sent me to do. I am ready to be in a different place.”

A stab of bitterness welled in his stomach. “You crowned a false king. He betrayed you, Genette!”

She patted his arm with her hand. “I know, Gentle Duke. I hoped his better nature might persevere, but I knew what he would do. My mission was not to help Chatriyon, but to save our countrymen. To preserve their lives from a devastating flood. That threat has been averted now. You have to know the rules of the game. Chatriyon has been taught. It is his choice how he plays the game. If he’d chosen to be a good king, he would have earned much wealth and prosperity. Sadly, he will be a dark one. But it is his choice.”

Alensson sighed heavily. “I’m not yet ready to go back to that world,” he said gravely, feeling the grief bubble up inside him. “My child will be stillborn. My wife may perish as well. I’ve lost the scabbard and cannot heal them. It will be painful to go through all of that. It feels so . . . different here.”

A tender smile softened her face. “I know, Alen.” She slowly shook her head, her eyes serious. “But your turn is not yet finished. You will bear those griefs as I have born mine. Knowing the future does not make it any easier to endure. But you still have a role to play. The Fountain needs you. It always has.”