She heard the twang of a crossbow, but before the curse could leave her mouth, the shaft embedded in the chest of one of the men chasing her. It had come from the woods behind her. Whirling, she saw soldiers wearing the tunic of the Sun and Rose, the royal insignia of Ceredigion. Hope bloomed in her chest.
Thirty knights from the king’s guard came charging onto the scene, swarming around her and engaging the soldiers of Occitania in a skirmish. Ankarette watched as the black knight scowled and fled, rushing away from the onslaught.
Her breath was hot and loud in her own ears, and her strength was flagging quickly. She hadn’t slept in two days and had been in constant peril since entering Occitania. Was it too late to save the duke? She knew the word of power that could bring him back from death . . .
“Ankarette!”
She whirled again and saw the Deconeus of Ely approaching through the woods, wearing a dark cloak to cover his vestments. She recognized his tall stride, his bulk, the hawkish nose and close-cropped hair. A feeling of relief went through her. He was someone she trusted, someone who had been her mentor and friend, and now she also knew him as the young boy who had smuggled the scabbard to Genette on the eve of her execution.
“Where is the duke?” Tunmore asked fervently. “Is he dead?”
“He’s over there,” Ankarette said, pointing. “Come with me.”
Together they rushed through the crowded glen as the soldiers of her king chased after the Occitanian defenders. They reached the spot where the duke lay, blood staining his shirt. His eyes were glazed over and vacant, but still—he smiled. Ankarette felt his neck and there was no thrum of a heartbeat. Her shoulders sagged in despair and sorrow.
Tunmore knelt down next to the body, his own face grim and sorrowful. He laid a hand on the duke’s shoulder, his brow crinkling.
“You knew him, didn’t you?” Ankarette’s voice was just a whisper. “He told me that he always regretted not thanking you.”
Tunmore stiffened with surprise, looking uncharacteristically moved by the sentiment. “I met him when I was a lad.” Then he looked up at Ankarette, his eyes full of emotion. “I didn’t know who he was at first. But then I learned what she called him. He was her Gentle Duke.” He frowned, his lips pursing with deep emotion.
Ankarette stared at him. “I never knew until he told me the Maid’s story.”
“He told you? I don’t doubt it.” He paused, staring into her eyes, then said, “What I’ve always wanted to know is how she really died. Up there on that mountain. It rocked my faith when I was a child. But I am a man now. I think I am ready to hear the story. If you’ll tell it to me, Ankarette.”
She nodded slowly and then let out a deep sigh, gazing down at the waxy skin of the man whose story had so moved her. She touched his stiff arm and stroked it. But she would let Alensson tell his own tale. He had taught her the word of power—nesh-ama. She began summoning her Fountain magic, preparing to invoke the word.
The rippling shudder of the magic began to quicken inside her. She bowed her head, drawing it into herself, filling her soul like a cup from a spring. Tunmore could sense her using the magic. A jolt seemed to run through him.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“I can bring him back,” she answered, not opening her eyes.
“Wait,” he said, putting a hand on her shoulder.
She opened her eyes and gazed up at Tunmore.
They were alone in the glen. The soldiers had ridden off to chase the black knight and his men. The deconeus gave her a solemn stare. “She told me not to.”
“What?” Ankarette asked, confused.
He glanced around once again, making sure they were truly alone. “The night I went to her cell, she told me things about my life, my future. She said that I had a role to play. She was the one who told me to wait for you both here with soldiers to help drive our enemies away. She also told me that you would try to revive the duke. That you had the power to do so.” He shook his head. “He’s gone to the Deep Fathoms. And she is waiting to take him there to join his wife and child. You cannot use the words of power against the Fountain’s will, Ankarette. If you do, the magic will destroy you.”
She caught her breath, staring down once again at Alensson’s face. He looked so tranquil. Only the shell of the man had been left behind. In the quietude of the grove, she felt the gentle murmur of the Fountain around her, adding conviction to the deconeus’s words. Yes, Alensson was ready for death. He had long considered his life a form of bondage. And now he was finally free.
A sliver of sunlight momentarily blinded her, and in that flash, she thought she saw a man and a woman walking away from the grove, hand in hand. There was a child as well, a little girl with dark curls, tugging at his other hand. Ankarette’s throat swelled with emotion. She’d learned so much in the last few days. She’d learned a secret that she would take to her grave. It was a secret about a young woman from Donremy and her trust in a paupered lord. It was a story of betrayal. It was a story of conviction. It was a story of duty. And it melted her heart.