Knight of the Silver Circle

CHAPTER 17

Acampsite had sprung up overnight next to Venne, and it looked very much like a royal regiment was being billeted there, though this camp lacked both a chain of command, and discipline. As confident as Gill was in what he had told Edine about bannerets, he was certain that plenty of other men—former enlisted soldiers, bandits, confidence men—bolstered the numbers. Of them, he had a far lower opinion. Without the threat of flogging or hanging, that camp would soon become a hive of vice.

Where large numbers of single men went, others followed. Hawkers, prostitutes, thieves—it was only a matter of time before they saw opportunity, and the quiet, picturesque little village of Venne turned into an open sewer. It was up to him to make sure there was no reason for them to stay long enough for any of that to happen. He wondered where the real danger lay—the three dragons, feeding indiscriminately on people and livestock, or this accumulation of armed men and all they brought with them.

He gave Beausoleil a list of tasks and sent the man to find the smith and carpenter, then headed for the mayor’s house. There was still a line of men outside, but it was shorter than it had been the previous evening. He cast an eye over them as he passed, trying to see if any of them looked the type he wanted in his little company of dragonslayers, but no one stood out. Edine was ensconced behind her desk, diligently writing down the answers to the questions she asked each banneret.

“I’ve looked over the attack sites,” Guillot said. “We’ve some preparations to make, but I expect we’ll be ready to go hunting in short order.”

One of the men in the line, sandy-haired with a ruddy complexion, gave Guillot an intense look.

“You’re Banneret of the White dal Villerauvais, aren’t you?”

His accent was unmistakably Humberlander, from a country Guillot had fought two wars against. He hesitated—it was difficult to tell, but the man looked just about young enough to be the son of someone Gill had killed in the first war. With no alternative, he gave a curt banneret’s salute—a click of the heels and a nod of the head.

The Humberlander responded in kind. “Banneret of the Red William Cabham, at your service.”

“A pleasure,” Guillot said, before turning to Edine. “I’m ready to leave for the manor whenever you are.” He gave her an apologetic smile as he ducked out the door.

A short while later, Edine found Gill hiding in a corner of the inn’s taproom, hoping he wasn’t going to have to deal with a mob of angry, fatherless sons. With Val tagging along behind, Edine led the way up to the seigneur’s manor house, which sat on the higher ground behind the village.

“Lord Venne doesn’t come down to the village much,” Edine said. “He’s never been interested in anything that isn’t hawking or hunting. When the duke sent me to the village, Lord Venne took it personally, and has almost nothing to do with the place now.”

“Sounds like a nice fellow,” Gill said. At least he had resided in his village, and not out at the manor. Not that it had done much good. “Does he have family?”

“A wife. Two sons away at the Academy. Some staff: steward, huntsman, cooks, butlers, maids, stablehands. He entertains quite a bit, holds hunts at least once a month. There’s good hunting around here. Belek too, if you go looking for them. There’s a constant stream of the well-to-do passing through the village. Brings in quite a bit of income.”

“He wasn’t interested in helping deal with the dragon?”

Edine let out a snort. “No, he prefers hunting smaller beasts. Particularly those who can’t hunt him back. He wasn’t even willing to go looking for help. Too busy, apparently.”

“I’ve encountered a few like him,” Guillot said with a sigh. Even at his lowest and most neglectful, he’d been willing to ride to Mirabay for help.

Gill felt a strange sensation pass over him. It was fleeting, and he wondered for a moment if he’d imagined it. The last time he had felt that way was when he’d ridden into the valley where he killed the first dragon. It was part of the Cup’s effect—a way of detecting dragons.

“Everybody stop,” he said, in barely more than a whisper. They did, and he tried to concentrate on the sensation. It was far weaker than it had been on the previous occasion, so weak he had barely noticed it. It was confirmation, though, that with the Cup he could indeed sense when dragons were near.

“What’s wrong?” Edine said.

“How far are we from the manor house?”

“It’s just over the next rise. A few minutes at most. Why?”

“It might be nothing. I’m not sure.” He concentrated for a moment longer, but the sensation had passed. “I think it’s safe to continue.”

“Can you tell when a dragon is close?”

He didn’t want to tell anyone about the Cup, so he said, “No, nothing like that. Just instinct.”

She nodded, and he smiled inwardly at having added to his warrior mystique. They continued on, slower now, as he kept every sense alert for a dragon. The mist that he had seen from afar earlier now swirled around them. It wasn’t thick enough to make him worry they might lose their way, but there was enough to allow something unpleasant to lurk in the gloom. As he had suspected, the fog was cold and damp, and the sooner they reached the house, the better.

It was always important to show due respect to the local lord. It would be rude not to, and it could cause problems farther down the road. Best to pay lip service to formality, and then get on with what needed to be done.

The manor house loomed out of the mist, and Gill could immediately tell that there was something wrong. As they grew closer, the damage became visible, and Gill realised that some of what he had taken to be mist was actually smoke.

“Gods alive,” Edine said.

Gill drew his sword, more out of habit than from fear of an immediate threat. The place had the still, dead atmosphere of a location where things had already occurred; the world had already moved on.

“Wait here,” he said. He urged his horse on toward the house. Scorch marks on the walls made it clear what had happened. Gill rode slowly around the building, watching the drifting clouds of mist and tendrils of smoke for anything they might be concealing. When he had completed his circuit, he sheathed his sword.

“I can’t see any signs of life,” he said. “You’re sure all those people were still here?”

“They’d have had to pass through the village to leave the area. No one saw them do that, so they must still be here. You think a dragon attacked the house?”

“It looks that way. I’ll go inside and take a look around,” Gill said. “Wait here and keep your eyes open. It might still be in the area.”

Gill dismounted and walked to the front door. It swung open to the touch, and his heart sank. The inside of the building had been smashed apart, as though the dragon had burned and broken through the roof, then forced its way down, tearing through the floors and any walls that weren’t built of solid stone. The remains of a person—a man, to judge by the clothing—lay on the hall floor, the legs and a significant portion of his torso missing. Gill stepped carefully around the remains and the slick of blood as he moved deeper into the manor.

Wood panelling had been torn from the walls and scattered about in chunks and splinters. There were scorch marks everywhere, but it was a raking claw mark in the plaster finish on one of the remaining walls that confirmed to Gill what had done this. The only light in the gloomy interior came from smouldering heaps of ash and glowing embers, or from rents in the exterior walls that let in the fading, misty daylight. He pushed past a door that was hanging from its hinges and was greeted by the smell of charred flesh. He could make out three bodies in this room, burned beyond any hope of recognition.

This was what had happened at Villerauvais. What had happened to his home, his people. The thought made him want to throw up. He covered his mouth and nose with his hand and backed out.

Edine and Val were waiting for him outside, concerned looks on their faces.

“Is anyone left alive?” Edine said.

“Not as far as I can tell. The house has been destroyed and everyone in it killed. We should get back to the village. The bodies can be collected and given a proper burial later.”

“Banneret dal Villerauvais, I was hoping I might have a word with you?”

The Humberlander. He had approached Gill the moment they’d gotten back to the village. Guillot stopped, turned, and forced a smile, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. It may have looked a casual pose to the uninformed observer, but the movement served to push the handle forward, making it quicker to reach.

“Certainly,” Guillot said, studying the face to see if it bore any similarity to one in his mental catalogue of men he had killed. It was a fruitless exercise—there were many that he’d faced in the heat of battle, or covered by armour, whom he hadn’t gotten a memorable look at.

The Humberlander approached at a half jog. “As I said, my name’s William Cabham. I think you knew my father.”

Guillot tensed.

“It was at the Battle of Carling Bridge.”

Gill killed so many that day that he had never been able to put a number on it. He spread his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “I’m sorry, but it was war.”

Cabham laughed. “Oh, it wasn’t that. You duelled my father outside the Humberland camp. Beat him, but spared his life. Banneret of the Red Alfred Cabham.”

Brow furrowed, Gill dug back into the murk. He remembered a single combat with a blond Humberlander officer, after they’d fought their way across the bridge. He’d been good, but not good enough to match Gill in his prime. He’d spared the man, because the battle had been won at that point. There was no need for any more killing.

“I think I recall,” Gill said. “I’m not sure if I ever knew his name, though.”

“He knew yours. Said you were the most honourable man he’d ever met. The bravest and the best too. He reckoned we’d have won Carling Bridge if it wasn’t for you.”

He wasn’t the only one, Gill thought, but kept it to himself, not sure whether to feel proud or uncomfortable. “How is your father?”

Cabham gave a wry smile and shook his head. “He was killed fighting the Ventish a few years back.”

Gill shrugged. “Soldiering. I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Soldiering,” Cabham said, nodding in agreement. “I suppose we’re both here for the same purpose, and I wanted to say that I’d consider it an honour if you let me ride with you.”

“I’m flattered,” Gill said, put on the back foot now that what he was looking for had come to him, “but you have to understand how sensitive a time it is to be partnering with unknown talent.”

“I’d never have thought the contrary,” Cabham said. “I’d be happy to give you a list of my experience. While I realise time is too pressing to allow for references to be checked, there are one or two fellows I’ve served with in the past here at the moment who can vouch for me.”

Gill shrugged. He supposed it didn’t hurt hearing the young man out. “Please, go ahead.”

“I served in the King’s Fourth Infantry Regiment in Humberland for three years after graduating from the Academy. After that, I spent a year as aide de camp to the prince regent, mainly taking care of his hunting requirements, so I have experience tracking and killing dangerous game, including belek. I wanted to see a little more of the world, so I signed on with the Red Company. With them I saw service in Estranza and Auracia. That brings me up to the present. I was in Tarbeaux, on my way home, when I heard about dragons. Hard to walk away from something like that!”

“You’ve a solid list of credentials,” Guillot said, meaning it sincerely. Cabham had certainly packed a lot into his time since leaving the Academy. He needed to take someone on, and here was a young man with a solid career and the right types of experience. “There’s no pay and a high risk. All that you’ll get out of it is a little fame.”

Cabham raised his eyebrows. “A little? This is the type of opportunity that makes a career. A few coins will last a matter of months. A solid reputation? That’ll feed you for a lifetime.”

Guillot smiled. “Well said. I’m happy to give it a try if you are.”

“More than happy,” Cabham said.

“Welcome to the Company of … Dragonslayers,” Guillot said, and saluted him. “It’s early days yet, so there’s not much to tell you. I’ve one other banneret with me, and a lad who fancies himself a squire, but he’s new to it and still finding his way. We’ll all be finding our way, to a degree. This is new for everyone, myself included.”

“I’ll help however I can,” Cabham said. “What’s first?”

“I’m having some lances made up. I want to ride out in the morning, even if it means the smiths working through the night. The sooner we get to business, the less this village loses.”

“I’m sure they’ll be glad to be rid of this crowd, too,” Cabham said.

Guillot gave him a knowing look. “They’re putting us up at the inn, two rooms between the three of us—four now, so find a comfortable spot and make it yours. The other two are Banneret Didier dal Beausoleil, and my squire of sorts is Val. They’re feeding us too, so we’ll eat together this evening, and talk through everything that needs to be done.”

Cabham nodded. “Until then.”

Guillot walked a little way out of the village to be alone with his thoughts. He reckoned he had enough men for the job, and if Cabham didn’t work out, he could be replaced easily enough. The same went for Beausoleil. With Val, he had a slightly higher duty of care, but squiring could be just as dangerous as being a banneret. Best he learned what he was getting himself in for early. Gill walked along a hedgerow, sheltered from above by the trees dotted along its length, enjoying the serenity of the countryside, thinking about the Cup.

There seemed to be many reasons to keep it to himself, but the idea made him feel like a gluttonous child hoarding sweets. He knew there was danger, however. No matter how well he had rehearsed the words with Solène, there was the very real possibility that he would make a mess of them. Who knew what damage that could cause? If he tried to carry out the ceremony on one of them, he could easily kill them. Or himself. Or both.

He knew he could minimise the risk by practising and being very careful. However, that left the question of how Cabham, Beausoleil, and Val would react to having magic used on them. That could just as easily result in someone’s death at the end of a blade.

Finally, there was the more nebulous problem. The Cup was ancient, and had powers far beyond his comprehension. It occurred to him that it was something that might be better kept a secret, particularly from men about whom he knew very little. Something about it made him nervous, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He had always believed his instincts to be good, and exercised caution any time they told him something was wrong. There being sense in his keeping the Cup to himself did nothing to alleviate his feeling of deceit. How could he ask men to ride into a battle such as this without giving them every advantage, without giving them the same chance of survival that he had? It was a callous, selfish thing to contemplate, and it shamed him. Was he simply being greedy, or might his concerns be valid?

He knew how he would feel if one of them died, if having the boon offered by the Cup might have allowed them to survive. A risky choice it might be, but it seemed like the only one he could make. His fears were based in speculation, while the chance they would be killed without it was a very real thing. He stopped for a moment to enjoy the feel of the cool, fresh country air in his lungs, free from thought or worry or stress, then turned back to the village, his decision made.

CHAPTER 18

Amaury was tempted to stop at his house and call an end to his long day rather than heading for the palace. He had spent far longer in the archive than he had intended, as he always did when he found something new and alluring. It was late, and he was tired. But there was still paperwork that needed to be completed for the following day. Not for the first time, he wondered if his position as first minister was worth all the hassle. Once the Order was out in the open and had taken its proper place in the affairs of state, perhaps he could hand off the ministry to an underling, and merely oversee matters as Master of the Order of the Golden Spur.

Despite his exhaustion, his mind still buzzed with possibilities. As always, his time in the archive had raised as many questions as it had answers. If the Cup could give such great power, what must enlightenment offer? Might the latter be the result of the former? Whatever it was, if this temple of enlightenment still existed, he needed to control it too.

As the carriage passed his townhouse, Amaury closed his eyes and tried to quiet his mind. He would make time for further investigation, but until he did, his mental resources were needed elsewhere. The carriage stopped, and he swept through the darkened palace, his robes flaring out around him as he walked. Although the main halls were quiet, he knew in some of the parlours and salons, activity would continue until the participants were too exhausted, too drunk, or had lost all of their money. In some rooms, his agents watched, looking for something the Prince Bishop could use as leverage, but until one of those juicy morsels cropped up, what went on behind the palace’s closed doors was of little interest to him.

His secretary had gone home for the day, leaving Amaury’s office suite subdued and peaceful. It seemed like a very different place absent the usual hustle and bustle of the day. Amaury closed his office door and briefly contemplated trying to light the office with magic, then let the idea go. He could create light, or work, but not both. Seating himself at his desk, he lit a magelamp with the touch of his fingers.

“I hear you’ve been looking for me.”

The voice came from an armchair in the corner, beyond the reach of the meagre desk lamp. Amaury was startled, but did his best not to show it. He’d recognised the voice instantly.

“I wasn’t aware you had come back to the city.”

Ysabeau dal Fleurat stood and walked from the shadows. Dark hair cascaded over her shoulders, framing a face of fair skin, luscious red lips, and smouldering eyes. She was wearing a dress that would turn heads in envy and admiration, even at a centre of fashion like the palace.

“Just arrived.”

“I expect so,” Amaury said. “I’d ask how you got in, but looking at you, I think I can tell.”

She shrugged, then sat in one of the chairs facing his desk. “I fit my clothes to the occasion.”

“It’s good of you to make the effort. You certainly look … prosperous.”

“The contacts your friend set me up with paid well.”

“What brings you back, then?” Amaury said.

“Homesick.”

He raised an eyebrow and she laughed.

“One job too many,” she said. “You know how it is. That’s why you made me leave in the first place.”

“It seemed like the sensible thing to do, although I’ll admit it was probably unnecessary.”

“So everyone thinks old Boudain really did choke on that fish bone?” She laughed. “It was nice to see a bit of the world. Most girls who grow up in the Marécage rarely get a glimpse outside the city walls.”

Amaury wasn’t sure if the mention of the Marécage was a slight against him. It was a downstream district that was mainly reclaimed swamp, mostly inhabited by cutpurses, whores, and the dregs of society. It was where she had spent the part of her life before he knew of her existence.

“How did you know I’d be here?” he said, changing the subject.

“You’ve always been one to burn the midnight oil. I’d no reason to believe you’d changed. Although I have to admit, I’ve been waiting awhile, and was beginning to wonder.”

“You know me too well,” Amaury said. “Are you … planning on staying in Mirabay for a while?”

She shrugged. “If there’s work. I hear that there might be.”

He was hurt that she had called on Luther before him, but refused to show it on his face. He wondered if he could still trust her, but had no reason to believe not.

“I’m confident I can find some tasks for you.” He leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers before his face. “In fact, I can think of something that needs attending to right now.”

“Excellent,” she said.

Her smile could melt the coldest of hearts. It could also lull a man into walking onto her dagger. It was the smile that had almost led her to being burned for witchcraft. That, and the fact that she was more than a little skilled in shaping the Fount.

“You’ll need a more suitable outfit,” he said.

“I’m sure I can rustle up something.”

When Ysabeau left, Amaury turned to his last remaining task for the day. Word had filtered back to the city that the dragon had been slain by Guillot dal Villerauvais. To most, the name meant nothing, but soon enough someone would connect it to a hero of Mirabaya, a former bodyguard to the king. It would be a name that belonged to a Chevalier of the Silver Circle, rather than a member of the Order of the Golden Spur. Amaury’s plan to own the news was simple—claim Guillot for the Order. Say he had been inducted, providing a continuity between the Silver Circle and the Golden Spur. Explain that he was able to do what he did because of the powers that joining the Order had given him.

The time had come to announce that magic was back. It was a moment he had been waiting for, one he had worked long and hard to bring about—but now that he was teetering on its edge, he found himself paralysed with fear. Taking this step meant going directly against the king. This was no act of omission. It was disobedience.

Pen in hand, Amaury stared at a blank piece of paper. He felt the way he had right before his first competitive duel—as if a kaleidoscope of butterflies were trying to beat their way out of his stomach. He could not write a single word.

Back then, all that had been at stake was pride. What he now sought to do could lead to him being burned at the stake. The thought was too terrifying to bear. Nonetheless, his entire life had brought him to this moment, and he knew he couldn’t back away now. To do so would be to admit that at the moment of reckoning, he had been found wanting. That he had failed. He dipped his pen in the ink and started to write.

When he was done, he pulled on the tasselled rope that snaked unseen through the palace to his secretary’s apartment, where it was connected to a large bell. He then turned the egg timer on his desk. His secretary had never once failed to arrive before the last grain of sand dropped. It was why he had lasted so long in the job. Not wanting to waste a moment, Amaury returned his attention to the rest of his correspondence.

He also wrote a note to dal Drezony. He had yet to induct his new appointments, so she remained the Order’s senior officer. It was only right that he notify her that in the morning, the Spurriers’ true purpose would be public knowledge.

By the time he finished crafting the announcement and making a clean copy for the printers, it was late, and he had not yet decided how to deal with the king. The king’s final command had been to do nothing without notifying him first. Getting permission was implied but had not been explicitly ordered. The young king had yet to learn how important precision was, when it came to matters of state. He sent off the paperwork that needed to go out, once his sleepy-looking secretary arrived, and then turned his mind back to the plan at hand.

Amaury quickly penned another clean copy for the king, and headed for the royal bedchamber, for surely Boudain had gone to bed hours earlier. The king’s steward resided in a small antechamber, seemingly always awake in the event that his master needed anything. The Prince Bishop knocked, and when the faithful lapdog opened the door, greeted him with a warm smile. “I wonder if His Majesty is still up?”

“I’m sorry, your Grace, he’s retired for the night.”

“Ah, that’s unfortunate, but can’t be helped, I suppose.”

“If it’s important, I can wake him, your Grace.”

It was nice to know he still warranted waking the king. “No, no, it’s nothing that can’t keep until morning. He simply asked me to notify him of something.” He handed the folded copy of his proclamation to the steward. “I wonder if you might see to it that this is included in His Majesty’s morning papers?”

The steward took the parchment and nodded. Amaury smiled to himself.

The king had been notified. The letter of his command had been followed.

CHAPTER 19

Guillot asked Gaufre, the innkeeper, to serve their supper in one of their bedrooms. He needed privacy to say what he needed to say, and that wasn’t to be found in the taproom, where Gaufre was making more money in a single night than he usually did in months. Turning away from Gaufre, Gill spotted Cabham leaning against the bar when he looked about the taproom, and gestured for him to follow.

The room Val and Beausoleil were sharing was small—and smaller still with a table and chairs added.

“Banneret Cabham, this is Banneret Didier—” Gill faltered and was surprised when Cabham continued smoothly.

“Dal Beausoleil, and young Val. Banneret William Cabham, at your service.” Smiling, Cabham gave them both a banneret’s salute, then turned to Gill, his smile turned apologetic. “I tend to remember anything I hear. Used to drive my parents crazy when I was a child. Not to mention my friends.…”

Gill returned the smile and gestured for them all to sit. They huddled around the small table with barely enough room to push their stools out before hitting the wall. Guillot was nervous. He had chosen the stool by the door, so if they reacted badly, escape wouldn’t be completely impossible.

He waited until they’d finished eating. He reckoned full bellies would make for a more receptive audience, and if worst came to worst, they would slow them down in the event of swordplay. Meanwhile, they made awkward conversation of the kind that always took place when professional swordsmen tried to gauge one another’s ability. Beausoleil and Cabham posed veiled questions as they tried to determine the pecking order. Having tenure, no matter how brief, Beausoleil clearly believed he was the senior, but they were both about the same age, with similar levels of experience. The true test would have to wait until they encountered a dragon.

Val had remained quiet throughout the meal, focussing his full attention on the food, as though it was his last meal. If they encountered a dragon the next day, it might very well be. Gill waited until Gaufre’s new hire—a young woman named Martina, who had been recruited to help deal with the extra business—finished clearing the table and left the room before turning to business.

“Tell me,” he asked Beausoleil, “did you have success with the carpenter and smith?”

“Yes, Captain,” the younger man replied. “They’ll have a half-dozen spears ready by morning, with Telastrian heads affixed. Additional replacement shafts will be finished by the time we’re home in the evening.”

Gill nodded and did his best to smile. He took a deep breath. “You all know of the Chevaliers of the Silver Circle?” he said.

Beausoleil and Val both nodded. Cabham only shrugged. With a sigh, Gill explained.

“The Silver Circle were founded to combat dragons in the dying days of the Empire,” Gill said. “Then their skills were forgotten as the need for them abated.” He drew the Cup from his purse, regarded it for a moment, then placed it on the table in front of him. “This cup is responsible for some of their success.” He paused, allowing the statement to sink in. It would take them a moment to make the connection, but he preferred it if they came to the notion of magic by themselves, so when he had to use the word it would come as less of a shock.

Val was the first to react. “Is it … magic?”

Beausoleil frowned, then gasped with indignation. The idea that the old swordsmen would have relied on magic was an insult to their modern descendants and his was an understandable reaction. Cabham, whatever he felt on the matter, revealed nothing.

“It is, and it helped give them an edge in a fight they would otherwise have perished in.” Val was hanging on every word, Cabham remained unreadable, but Beausoleil was having none of it. Guillot continued. “I’ve seen brave men and women, skilled and determined, die painful deaths fighting these things. I barely escaped my first encounter with my life. I would not have prevailed in the second without this cup’s help.”

“What does it do?” Cabham said.

“It seems to protect you from fire, and also give you a sense for where the beasts are. I think that can be developed to track them.”

“So you’ll be casting a spell on us?” Beausoleil said.

Gill couldn’t work out if his tone conveyed anger or fear. “Not in the way you might think. ‘Medicine’ might be a better way to put it. We take a drop of water from the Cup, say some words, and that’s it.”

“That’s it?” Beausoleil said.

“All I can tell you is this. I found it, discovered how to make it work, tested it, and found that it does. I won’t force any of you to take a drop from it, but I can guarantee you a much better chance of living through a fight with a dragon if you do. Although I’d like to get the process out of the way this evening, it doesn’t take long, so I can wait until morning for your answers.”

There was no immediate response, which Guillot had realised was too much to hope for. All in all, it had gone well. He waited a moment longer before speaking again. “I’ll give you your leave to consider it, gentlemen.”

Gill got up and left without a further word.

“Isn’t it cheating?” Val said, having followed him out.

“Pardon me?”

“Using magic. Isn’t it cheating?”

Gill shrugged. “When the game you’re playing requires one participant to die for the other to win, the only rule is do everything you can to make sure you survive. In any event, dragons are creatures of magic. Using magic to combat them levels the scales.”

Their conversation was interrupted by a scream from outside.

The taproom had emptied by the time Gill got there The crowd had spilled out into the square, where the darkness was illuminated by jets of flame and patches of fire. Cabham and Beausoleil were only a few steps behind him.

“Gods alive,” Cabham said, drawing his sword.

“What do we do?” Beausoleil said.

Gill had no idea. Perhaps with an arbalest or something similar, they could shoot one of the creatures from the sky, although they moved so fast he didn’t have any great hope of managing that even if they had one.

“Try not to get killed?” he said.

There were villagers running about the place: men, women, and children, all of whom he had been brought to Venne to protect. They were panicking and each bright jet of flame that illuminated the sky brought a fresh batch of screams. Even the bannerets and other swordsmen were rushing about without direction. Guillot had to do something, the only question was what. Without the Cup’s boon, he would be as vulnerable to the dragons’ flames as a rick of dry hay. Unless he could convince one to land so he could try to finish it with his sword, he didn’t see what he could do. He looked about frantically. All the houses were brick-and-timber-frame constructions with wooden shingles tiling their roofs. They were as susceptible to fire as any of the buildings in Villerauvais, and he could remember only too bitterly how that had turned out.

“The church,” he said to himself. He looked about for a local, and when he spotted a man without a sword at his hip, Gill grabbed him. Terrified, the man struggled to free himself from Gill’s grip.

“The church,” Gill said, “it’s roofed with slate, isn’t it?” He had given the building only the most cursory of glances when he had arrived at the town.

“It is. Let me go!”

Shouting, “Get to the church. It’s the safest place,” Gill released the villager, but he wasn’t sure if the man understood as he raced away.

Guillot turned to Val, Beausoleil, and Cabham. “Get as many people into the church as you can. The stone walls and slate roofs will give the best protection against the flames. Go!”

He began to follow his own orders, seeking out clumps of people. “The church,” he shouted. “Get to the church!”

Two dragons circled above the town square, illuminated from below by the fires they had created. For a moment Gill stood transfixed, watching them in all their magnificent, destructive brilliance. It was the type of sight a man experienced only once in his life, and as terrible as it was, it was captivating. The heat was intense, but now that the initial surprise of the attack had passed, he wasn’t afraid or confused. Only angry. This was what had happened to Villerauvais, only there hadn’t been anyone to stop it. He was here now, and he had to make a difference. But how?

The others were hurriedly urging everyone they could see to the church. That was all well and good, but unless he made some effort to stop the beasts, Gill knew he would be considered a fraud, assuming anyone survived the night.

He had nothing to knock them from the sky with, nor did he think he would be able to correctly recite the Cup’s words with all the havoc going on around him. The only thing that occurred to him was to try to lure the creatures away from the village.

Spotting Edine outside the mayor’s house, he shouted at her to make for the church, but she didn’t seem to hear him. A memory popped into his head, of Solène saying that dragons were attracted to gold. Then he recalled the pile of fused coins in the first dragon’s cave. He ran toward Edine.

“The town treasury—is there any gold in it?”

She frowned at him, clearly suspicious.

“Why?”

“Dragons are attracted to gold. I’ve a few coins in my purse, but I doubt it’s enough. Do you have any more?”

She looked confused, trying to process his request against the backdrop of fire and chaos. “It’s mostly silver, but there’s some gold.”

“Bag every bit you have and bring it to me as fast as you can.”

She nodded and went back inside. Gill spotted Val herding people toward the church. A burning wooden beam exploded in a shower of sparks across the square, sending them scattering.

“Val!”

The boy met Gill’s gaze.

“Saddle my horse and bring it around. Fast as you can.”

Val nodded and charged off. Gill looked around; the square was deserted and it seemed almost everyone was in the church. He prayed to the gods that it would keep them safe.

“Here it is!” Edine reappeared and handed him a plump leather bag, bulging with coins. It wasn’t as large as he’d hoped, but it would have to do. He took the bag just as Val returned with Gill’s spooked horse. Gill mounted quickly.

“Get into the church. Wait for me to give the all-clear.” With that, he galloped off, his horse’s hooves clattering on the cobbles above the sound of roaring flame. He nestled the coin bag between his legs and the saddle’s pommel, with the top open. He had no idea how sensitive the beasts were to gold—if they could smell it or if they needed to see it. He hoped it was the former, but took a handful of coins out, and when one of the dragons passed over him, he flung them in the air.

Once out of the village, he cast a glance back and saw a great dark shape in the air turning to follow him. He let out a laugh of satisfaction, which momentarily displaced the terror in his gut. There hadn’t been time for the Cup. A jet of flame sizzled past to his left, his only saving grace being that the young dragon’s aim wasn’t good. He hoped the second dragon was on the scent too, and wondered briefly where the third one reported was—hopefully not somewhere down the road waiting for him.

He swerved off the road and into a grassy pasture. Although the night was clear, it would be easy for him to miss a rabbit hole that could be the end of him and his horse. He felt the animal start to labour as a fireball erupted ahead. The horse needed barely any guidance from him to avoid it, but Gill knew he couldn’t push his mount much longer. He took the bag of coins and slung it as far into the night as he could, then wheeled the horse around and started back toward the village, where he could see flames burning bright.

“Just a little farther,” he said to the mare, hoping she could understand him. He had no idea if his plan would draw the beasts away from the village, or for how long. He could only hope that the gold would provide enough of a distraction to leave the town in peace for the rest of the night. In the morning, he could get started making sure it didn’t happen again.

CHAPTER 20

Amaury sometimes wondered if killing the last king had been a good idea. While the old man had grown increasingly belligerent and obstinate, aging had robbed him of some of the faculties that had made the earlier part of his reign such a success. The last several years, when Amaury encountered the king’s opposition, it would have been easier trying to knock down the city walls with his head than win an argument. So he had removed the obstacle, in the hope that the king’s young, bon-vivant son would continue in the ways of his youth and busy himself with the pleasures of his kingdom, rather than the running of it.

That had proved to be a miscalculation. While the young king’s capacity for excess remained unchecked, he still somehow found his way to his desk well before noon each day and went through all his paperwork by the time he rose for supper. Then he spent most evenings entertaining himself before collapsing into bed, often with company.

That morning, by the time the monarch had finished his morning toilet, the citizens of Mirabay had been listening to the town criers for some time; those who were literate had learned more from reading the bills posted on walls and notice boards across the city. The king had saved them from the ravages of a dragon by training an order of warrior mages. Magic was back, a necessary evil in the face of the great dangers threatening the good people of Mirabaya. They had new heroes, new protectors, and they could sleep soundly at night, knowing that these brave men and women were defending them from things that came out only in the dark.

Amaury felt that it was one of his finer pieces of rhetoric, but he knew that wouldn’t make any difference when Boudain discovered what had been done in his name. The summons had come before lunch; Amaury made his way through the palace as slowly as he could, not wanting to make it appear the king could make him rush. He could hear shouting from the king’s office as soon as he entered the corridor that led to it. Whether the monarch’s anger was genuine or for effect, Amaury could not tell—and it might not make a difference. With the king’s name attached to the proclamation, he was as likely to feel the flames reserved for sorcerers as Amaury was.

The Prince Bishop had known he was risking all when he penned the announcement the previous night, but it seemed the gods had smiled on him, for he had received good news before dawn.

One of the king’s attendants waited outside the office door; he showed Amaury straight in. The king sat at his desk, with his steward standing at his shoulder. Opposite the king sat Chancellor Renaud, Commander Canet of the City Watch, and one of the king’s generals, whose name escaped Amaury—all stone-faced.

“What’s the meaning of this?” King Boudain demanded, holding up a copy of the proclamation.

From the look of the paper, it had been torn from a wall. Amaury briefly wondered what had happened to the handwritten copy he’d given to the steward the night before, then focussed on the tasks before him—soothing the king and protecting the Order.

“It’s the announcement proclaiming the Order of the Golden Spur as the new champion of the people. A politic way to place them, I thought,” Amaury said, as casually as he could. “We had discussed this, and I felt that with rumours spreading through the city, I needed to move quickly. The opportunity was there. It needed to be seized. I did send word…”

“You are the First Minister of Mirabaya,” the king said, his voice rising with anger. “You do not so much as sneeze without my permission.”

“If I sought out permission for every decision I make as first minister, very little would get done. Rubbish collectors would not get paid. The City Watch,” he said, gesturing to the commander of the City Watch, who sat silently, watching his ruler and the head of the church duelling with each other, “would not get paid. The army would not get paid. Management of a kingdom requires delegation, Highness, and I am here to see that you are not troubled by the minor things that need to be dealt with as they arise.”

“Announcing that the Crown has embraced the use of magic is not the same as signing off on the weekly payrolls,” Boudain said. His voice wavered and the vein in his temple pulsed with anger.

Amaury looked pointedly at the steward. “I called at the king’s apartments last evening, when the issue first became pressing, did I not?”

The steward hesitated for a moment, then nodded. Amaury turned back to the king.

“You requested I notify you. I did exactly that. The information was in your possession. The matter was time-sensitive, as I warned you it would become.”

“Do you think you fool me, your Grace, by paying lip service to my commands? Would it have been so difficult to wait an hour or two?” Boudain said, his voice full of fury.

“I believe it would, Majesty,” Amaury said. “You know how quickly people react to rumour in this city. By breakfast, the opportunity would have passed. Credit for your great victory would have passed to someone else, and the chance to announce your order of warrior mages might never come again.”

“It’s the wrong time, Highness,” the chancellor said.

Many of Amaury’s responsibilities had been usurped from the chancellor’s office during his predecessor’s term, and Renaud hated Amaury for it. Their relationship was a constant war of competing authority. To date, Amaury had won all the battles, but the chancellor was a tenacious and proud man. He might have to be dealt with once Amaury had the Cup.

“Pray tell, why?” Amaury said.

“The people are still reeling from the terror of a creature out of horror tales returning to ravage the land. No sooner has that threat been extinguished, than they are told an ever-present fear has raised its head, with the help of none other than their own king. You’ll see us all on the pyre, Amaury. This was an act of madness.”

The use of his given name sent a flash of anger through Amaury’s body. He took a moment to still himself. Anger would get him nowhere just now. He suddenly realised that he was still standing, while all the others were seated. Worse, he had not been invited to sit, and in the king’s presence, such permission was required. Alone with the king, Amaury might have chosen to ignore protocol, but with an audience, and given the tension in the room, he knew that would be a mistake.

This was a demonstration of power; he was the naughty schoolboy being judged by his masters. The realisation that they thought this little mind game might cow him made him want to burst into laughter, but he knew it was not the right moment for that. He focussed his thoughts, but was interrupted before he could launch an attack.

“He’s right, your Grace,” the king said, using Amaury’s ecclesiastical title rather than his royal appointment. “It was the wrong time. The people are too unsettled. This could push them over the edge. After a period of calm, we could have announced the Order as a new safeguard against any future threat. We were ably positioned to claim credit for dal Villerauvais, and to use him to highlight the need for a new body of warriors to deal with dangers such as this.”

Amaury bit the inside of his lip. Boudain was no fool and his point was well made. It was as valid a course as the one he had set them on—indeed, more valid, if one were to take into account only the king’s plans for a stable kingdom. Amaury realised he had perhaps been hasty, but the fact remained, there would be few chances to do what needed to be done. Amaury couldn’t imagine a better one coming along, timing be damned.

“I saw the opportunity, Highness. I took it, in the belief that it was the best thing for the kingdom. I stand firm in that belief.”

“I don’t doubt your earnestness, your Grace,” Boudain said. “But you’ve overreached.”

Amaury glanced at the chancellor, who was doing his best to contain a smile. Had he in fact pushed too far?

The king leaned back in his chair and drummed his fingers on the table. “I think the time has come for a change.”

There was a knock on the door; the steward moved to answer. The king paused, staying Amaury’s sentence for a moment longer. There were some muted whispers before the steward shut the door and hurried back to the king. He spoke quietly into the king’s ear; Boudain’s eyes widened and the colour left his face. After a moment of silence, he spoke.

“Word has reached the city that three more dragons have been sighted in the southeast. They’ve already attacked a village there.”

There were murmurs of disbelief and outrage from the men sitting, while Amaury did his best not to smile.

“It is moments like this,” King Boudain said, “that I thank the gods that I am blessed by a man with the foresight of His Grace, the First Minister of Mirabaya. A great terror has been delivered upon my people, but thanks to him, we already have the solution. It seems I was wrong, your Grace, and must be grateful for your steadfast duty to the state, irrespective of the personal cost it might exact.” He drew a breath.

“I wish to speak further with the Prince Bishop. The rest of you may leave.”

Amaury could feel tension fill the room as it emptied of bodies. The king was gripping the edge of his desk with white knuckles by the time the door closed behind his ministers.

“We’ll need to deal with the Intelligenciers,” the king said.

“We will, your Highness,” Amaury said firmly.

“You’ve forced my hand on this, and if you think I have a short memory, you’re sadly mistaken. Keep in mind, the Intelligenciers aren’t the only hunting dog in my pack, and now that I’ve got a taste for putting one down, I won’t hesitate to do so again if I’m disobeyed. Do I make myself clear?”

“Perfectly, your Highness.”

CHAPTER 21

Solène stared out through the window of the coffeehouse as dal Drezony spoke. Since before dawn, it had seemed to Solène that all dal Drezony wanted to do was talk. They had spent hours discussing magic, and thought processes, but most of the conversation had focussed on other things—Solène’s childhood, the years she had spent on the run, her thoughts about her future. She quickly grew impatient: she wanted to learn what she needed to learn and get on with her life, away from Mirabay. There was no doubt in her mind that the Prince Bishop had some grand plan in motion, and she had no desire to be caught up in it.

The two women had taken a long stroll through the city and spent hours in coffeehouses, discussing what seemed like irrelevant rubbish from the life Solène had left behind. She tried to have faith in the idea that dal Drezony was going somewhere with it all, but it was a struggle.

There was, however, one benefit to being back with the Order. Solène had never been wealthy enough to enjoy the finer things in life, like expensive coffee and the sweet cakes served with them. She had first eaten chocolate only the day before, and it was as though a whole new aspect of life had been laid before her. The rich coffee and cakes made the tedium of having to review her life in detail with dal Drezony easier to bear. At one coffeehouse, the chef had created a pastry that included chocolate, spice, and sour cherries, and now that she had tasted it, life would have less meaning if she could never have it again.

Despite all this, something had been bothering Solène all day—the nature of the conversation they were having. On the noisy, busy streets, discussing magic hadn’t seemed like a problem, but in a coffeehouse?

“Is this really the type of thing we should be talking about in public?” Solène said.

Dal Drezony laughed. “Worry not! What we say, and what those around us hear, are very different. It’s a bit of magic I learned a while ago. Surprisingly easy once you’ve done it a few times. No one will hear anything that will get us in trouble.

“Tell me,” dal Drezony continued, “have you given any thought to why I’m asking you all these questions?”

Solène shrugged, toying with her fork and eyeing the final piece of cake. “I must admit that I have, but I haven’t been able to come up with a reason yet.”

“What we do requires incredible control over our minds. In order to control our minds, we have to understand why we think the way we do. That’s shaped by the life we’ve led, the things we’ve experienced. Deep-rooted fears can shake our concentration. So can temptations, or feelings of duty, attachment, or obligation. You need to pull all those things out of the dark corners of your memory and understand them, so you can take control over them. Does this make sense?”

Solène applied that reasoning to her current situation. Part of her wanted to give due consideration to what dal Drezony had said, and part of her was absorbed by the last piece of cake on the plate. Did dal Drezony want it? Would it be rude if Solène took it? She snapped her mind back to her teacher’s question.

“Yes,” she said. “Now that I think about it, it makes perfect sense.”

Dal Drezony gave a satisfied smile and said, “Take it. I’ve had enough.”

Solène didn’t need to be told twice, and devoured the delicious morsel, pleasantly surprised to find it contained a large chunk of moist cherry. As she chewed, out of the corner of her eye she saw someone staring at them. It was not unusual for them to draw curious looks when out in the city. At first, she had thought it odd that they would wear their robes outside the Priory, but dal Drezony had pointed out that there were several monasteries and convents in and around the city. She had said that it was part of the Prince Bishop’s plan—if the people were familiar with the Order’s cream robes, then when their true nature came out, they would be comfortable with the sight of them. They would realise that in all the years they had seen the Spurriers around the city, the Order had posed no threat. Still, this man was giving them more attention than usual, and it was making her uncomfortable.

“I think we should get back to the Priory,” she said quietly.

Dal Drezony frowned. “Why?”

“A man over there’s been staring at us for a while now. I don’t like it.”

Though dal Drezony restrained herself from looking, Solène could see her grow tense. “We’re finished here, so there’s no reason to linger. Shall we?”

Solène nodded eagerly, but as she stood, so did the man who had been watching them. “He’s coming over,” she said as he stepped toward the two women.

Dal Drezony turned to face him. “Can I help you?” she said.

“You’re them, aren’t you?” he said.

“I’m not sure I know what you mean?” the seneschal said.

“Them. The king’s new order. Them that killed the dragon. I saw the sigil on your robes—a golden spur. That’s the king’s new order, isn’t it?”

Solène could tell that dal Drezony’s confusion was not feigned. The man pointed through the window. Across the small square, a town crier stood on a dais with a small crowd gathered around him.

“It’s all they’re talking about,” the man said. “Is it true? That you use magic?”

If dal Drezony was shocked by the question, she didn’t show it. Solène did her best to hide her surprise.

“I’m sure I don’t have the first idea what you’re talking about,” dal Drezony said, casting Solène a glance that said it was time to get going. “Good day to you, sir.”

They had gone some distance at a quick pace before either of them spoke.

“How did he know?” Solène said.

Dal Drezony pulled a letter out of her cloak, broke the seal, and opened it. She stopped to read, then sighed.

“This arrived during the night. I’d like to say I forgot about it, but the truth is I’ve been ignoring the Prince Bishop as best I can lately. Stupid, juvenile behaviour, but … He’s worrying me. More than I’d like.” Solène was surprised to see fear on dal Drezony’s face. “Don’t trust him, Solène. Never trust him, and always be careful dealing with him. He’s a dangerous man.”

She looked down at the paper again.

“Anyway, it seems he revealed the Order to the people this morning. Let’s go over there,” dal Drezony said, gesturing to a town crier farther down the street. “I want to hear what he’s saying.”

The tension on the streets was palpable. It reminded Solène of Trelain when news of the dragon had first spread and people tried to determine if they were in imminent danger. It was a perilous time, as emotions were high and precariously balanced, teetering in the direction of panic and violence. The women listened in silence, part of a transfixed crowd. The town crier sounded hoarse, no doubt from repeating the news over and over since it had reached him.

The report started well. The dragon had been slain. A great hero was named—Guillot dal Villerauvais, Chevalier of the Order of the Golden Spur. Knowing the situation, Solène was surprised to hear Gill being given credit. All became clear when it was said he was a member of the Order, thus allowing the Prince Bishop to claim the plaudits for himself. She wondered if Guillot was aware that he was now a Spurrier. She herself was not mentioned, to her relief.

With the details of the slaying dealt with, more unsettling news was delivered. The people had been saved by the Order of the Golden Spur. The king had deemed it necessary to permit them to use magic to carry out the difficult and dangerous missions he tasked them with. There were gasps from the crowd at mention of this, then silence as disbelief took hold. Solène looked about as surreptitiously as she could, wondering what would happen next, how the people would react.

The jeers started with one, unconfident voice that would have been drowned out were it not for the silence. Others joined it, until no individual could be distinguished any longer, and the volume was deafening. As if of a single mind, Solène and dal Drezony moved away. It looked as though it might be some time before she got to enjoy her new favourite chocolate cake again.

“That didn’t look good,” Solène said, as they hurried away.

“It wasn’t,” dal Drezony said. “And these things only get worse. What was he thinking?”

Solène presumed the question was rhetorical, so didn’t answer.

“We’re simply not ready for this. There could be an angry mob forming outside the Priory right now. We need to get back there and see what’s happening. Let the others know if they don’t already.”

They hurried through the streets, robes bundled up in their arms, not making eye contact with anyone. Though their clothes were unmarked, tunics and britches were unusual outfits for women, so they drew more inquiring glances than Solène liked. She was terrified. All it took was for one person to denounce them as sorcerers, and mob rule would prevail. She shuddered to think of the consequences if she was forced to defend herself. She still couldn’t control her magic. If she had to use it, she would prove people were correct to fear mages.

The sight of the Priory’s walls came as an overwhelming relief, so great that she almost burst into tears. Thankfully, there was no angry crowd gathered outside. Perhaps people hadn’t made the connection between the Priory and the Order. However, it wasn’t until they were safely past the gates, with them securely bolted, that Solène was able to properly relax.

“That was a very unpleasant ending to the day,” dal Drezony said. “I have to call in the officers and get everyone prepared for the possibility of an attack. We can talk later.”

Solène nodded, and was about to take her leave when the Prince Bishop appeared, accompanied by a number of men she hadn’t seen before.

“Seneschal dal Drezony, I’ve been looking for—” His eyes widened when he saw Solène. “Nice to see you. I’ve been wondering where the seneschal was hiding you.”

“We’ve been busy with my training,” Solène said with a glance at dal Drezony.

“Well, I hope you’ve been making good progress,” he said.

Her voice dripping with sarcasm, dal Drezony said, “Thank you for consulting with me before making the announcement.”

Without a pause, the Prince Bishop replied, “Things moved at a rather quicker pace than I was expecting. I had to react quickly.”

Dal Drezony let out an incredulous laugh. “Try telling that to an angry mob coming to burn you at the stake.” She frowned, and cocked her head, fixing her gaze on the men with the Prince Bishop. “Why are they wearing Order robes?” she said.

It was only then that Solène noticed that all the men wore the Order’s cream garb beneath their riding cloaks.

“With the losses we’ve sustained over the past few weeks, I thought it prudent to draft some additional manpower. They don’t have any talent, of course, but that’s not what they’re here for. Think of them as bodyguards, just as the old bannerets were to the Imperial mages.”

“They’re here to protect us from the citizens of Mirabay? From the mess you’ve made.”

“Tread carefully, Kayte,” the Prince Bishop said. “If you give me the chance to fully apprise you of the situation, you’ll understand.”

“I find that very hard to believe,” dal Drezony said.

“Dragons,” the Prince Bishop said. “We’ve just received word that three more have been sighted. The people need the Order now, more than ever. Once the news spreads, which you can be assured is happening as we speak, they will embrace the Order with all their hearts.”

Solène had to stifle a laugh. She’d known about the other dragons since before leaving Trelain. She’d thought a man as well informed as the Prince Bishop would have also. She liked the feeling of knowing something he did not. Moreover, it gave her hope that he wouldn’t find out what she had truly been up to. It seemed he didn’t have eyes in quite as many places as he’d like people to think.

“If the people are about to fall in love with us, why the hired muscle?” dal Drezony asked.

“We’re going dragon hunting, so we need the extra manpower. We’ve also lost most of our military command: Leverre, Gamet, Dreue. Soon the Order will ride out in full array, and I want a few men filling out the ranks who look the part. We need some battle-hardened veterans, which these men most certainly are. I’ve appointed Banneret Gassot here as acting chancellor, and Banneret Vachon as acting marshall.”

They each gave dal Drezony a nod. She responded with only a curt smile.

“I need you to make a list of the most competent mages we have left, and any others who might be useful in a support role,” the Prince Bishop said.

“I think we really need to sit down and talk, your Grace,” dal Drezony said.

“Indeed, but at the moment, there isn’t time. There’s an expedition to prepare. I expect that in a few days the dragons will move on from the area they’re in, so there’s no time to waste.”

“You do remember what happened the last time we sent people after a dragon? It’s the reason you’ve had to hire Bannerets Gassot and Vachon.”

“Unfortunate, but a valuable learning experience thanks to Leverre’s reports. This time will be different. We know far more now, and these dragons are smaller—juveniles, by the sounds of it. The perfect proving ground for the Order, and excellent experience, should dragons become a recurring problem. Anyway. Vachon is up to speed, so he can brief you on my instructions.” He turned his attention to Solène. “I need you to stay here,” he said. “I’ve an important job for you.”

Dal Drezony frowned.

“Don’t worry, Kayte,” the Prince Bishop said. “I simply need her to help me find something.”

CHAPTER 22

When Guillot went into the taproom early the next morning, Beausoleil, Cabham, and Val were waiting for him, swords sheathed and expectant looks on their faces. They were wearing armour—plate cuirasses, pauldrons, and vambraces, with articulated lamellar tassets that extended to the knee, allowing freedom of movement while supplying good protection to the upper leg. There wasn’t too much decoration, and their harnesses looked well maintained, things that gave Guillot confidence.

Val wore an old chain-mail hauberk that he must have picked up during his rushed preparations in Trelain. It was ancient, but looked like it had been reasonably well maintained, and was serviceable. The boy had the earnest look of one who was willing to do whatever was expected of him, while Beausoleil and Cabham both looked more serious. They knew the reality of what was to come. Gill gave them a nod, and gestured for them to follow him to his room. He grabbed a fresh pitcher of water and a fork from the bar as he passed, and waited for them to join him.

“What happens now?” Beausoleil said.

“I’ll administer it to myself first, so you can see what is involved, then to any of you who still want to go ahead with it.” Taking their silence as agreement, Guillot filled the Cup with water. Holding the Cup in one hand and a fork in the other, he reviewed the words in his mind, then started to speak. The others watched in silence and Gill did his best to ignore their presence. The words said, he dipped one of the fork’s tines into the water, then let a single droplet fall on his tongue. He swallowed and smiled to show that he was all right. He didn’t feel any different, but he couldn’t recall noticing anything in particular after the last time. So long as he didn’t die in magically induced agony, he was content.

“Who’s first?” he asked, keeping his voice steady.

“Me,” Beausoleil said.

Gill suppressed a smile as he saw the curl of frustration on Cabham’s mouth. Neither wanted to go first, but neither wanted the other to go ahead of them. Gill could see a look of trepidation on Beausoleil’s face as he approached. If the man was having second thoughts, now was not the time to express them—the loss of face would be too much for any self-respecting banneret to bear.

Beausoleil presented his tongue like a child about to be given a dose of bad-tasting medicine. Gill recited the words and placed a drop of water from the Cup on the younger man’s tongue. He shut his mouth, and Gill could tell he was holding his breath. He let it out a moment later, doing his best, but failing, to hide his relief.

“That was hardly anything,” he said.

“There’s not much to it,” Gill said. “The old Chevaliers had this administered to them every time they went out on a hunt. Now, who’s next?”

Gill repeated the process with Cabham, and finally Val.

“I don’t feel anything,” Cabham said, when it was done.

“I think that’s the point,” Gill said. “Particularly when you’re having fire breathed on you.”

“There’s not supposed to be any … sensation?” Beausoleil said.

“No. You’ll probably feel something when we get closer to the dragons. Almost like a tug, but that’s it. If you’re unlucky enough to get hit by flame, you should be impervious. That’s all there is to it, so unless you want some more breakfast, we should be on our way.”

They rode out of Venne minutes later, under the curious gazes of the soot-stained villagers. There were casualties. Gill’s insistence on getting people into the church had saved many lives, but until the village was rid of the dragons, he couldn’t waste any time congratulating himself.

The village was a hive of activity; the other adventurers were preparing to head out themselves, while the townspeople were making efforts to assess and repair the damage the dragons had caused. Buildings, or what remained of them, still smouldered, and Gill wondered how many concealed charred bodies. The fight against the flames had gone on much of the night, but Gill and the others had slipped away early, to get some rest for what they had to do.

His trick of the night before seemed to have worked. He struggled to contain a smile as he imagined the dragons scrabbling around in the dark trying to pick up the coins with their talons. He expected Edine would have a difficult time explaining the missing tax revenue to the duke’s steward, but considering everything that had happened, he reckoned the excuse would be acceptable.

Guillot had hired an extra horse to carry the spare lances, but he thought it best if they were ready to fight the moment they left the village. The lances seemed well turned and true and the Telastrian tips were securely fitted. Though he did his best not to look around as they rode out of Venne, it was impossible not to think of Villerauvais. He didn’t just want to slaughter the dragons. Before they died, he wanted them to know how foolish they had been to meddle with humanity.

He studied his companions. Val had gone the colour of milk and Gill suspected it was everything the lad could do to hold down his breakfast. Gill wondered if he still thought being a squire and working toward being a banneret was a good idea. Probably not. In that moment, shovelling horse dung didn’t seem like such a bad career choice, even to Gill. Beausoleil and Cabham both had the set jaws of men who were afraid, but had faced that fear before and survived it. They weren’t boasting that morning, which was something—Gill always appreciated the small mercies. He realised his concern for the others was nothing more than his own coping mechanism for the fear that was gnawing away at his gut. It frustrated him—he wanted his anger to outweigh his terror, but it had not.

No amount of anger could shake his deep-rooted horror at the prospect of riding out to once again face a creature out of nightmare. He couldn’t help but recall the heat and choking smoke of the cavern the first time they had encountered the dragon, of being unable to see the deaths of the men with him, but hearing it in excruciating detail. Of Sergeant Doyenne draining the life from herself to give her surviving comrades the chance to escape. The memories were seared into his mind.

They had not gone far before he noticed the first sensation. It was similar to the feeling he’d had the last time, but it seemed to be stronger now. Perhaps that was due to the repetition of the ritual?

He tried to focus on the sensation, but it felt as though it was pulling him in several directions at once. It took him a moment to conclude that the feeling indicated each dragon individually, but that concept was quickly scotched when he felt a fourth tug, coming from Venne. Might there be more than three dragons? If there were three, he supposed there could be four, perhaps more. If that was the case, it was time to ride back to Mirabay to tell the king to reestablish the Silver Circle, and fast.

They followed a herdsman’s trail into the foothills until mid-morning, with Gill trying to fine-tune his sense of where the beasts might be. The others were silent, perhaps concentrating on their own sensations, perhaps simply trying to appear unafraid. Either way, they were all lost in their thoughts. The directional sensations remained confused, although they seemed to be growing stronger.

He decided that if they hadn’t found something to go on—a carcass or tracks—by noon, he would find an animal to kill and use as bait. There was no more gold to be had in Venne, but the scent of blood should attract the beasts. He would feel a fool if some of the other adventurers beat them to the kill, but the goal was to save the village, not win more fame by adding to his tally of slain dragons.

Stopping his horse, Guillot took a moment to survey the countryside they had been riding through. It was a beautiful landscape; green and fertile, laced with rivers and dotted with forests. He imagined it burning, strewn with the half-devoured carcasses of people and animals. As he urged his horse on, Gill tried to push the thought from his head. A wave of nervous energy coursed through him, so strong that he thought he would vomit. If that wasn’t a warning, what was?

CHAPTER 23

“Get ready,” Gill shouted.

“For what?” Beausoleil said.

“It’s coming.”

The other three wheeled their horses around, searching the sky for their quarry, but there was nothing to be seen. Gill looked about frantically, his helmet narrowing his field of vision, even with the visor up. Nothing. Was the tugging feeling simply a side effect of the Cup? Had he gotten the ritual wrong? His question was answered by the sound of crunching from ahead of them. There was an escarpment a little farther up the trail. A head appeared from behind it, similar to the first dragon’s, though this one was smaller and a deep bottle green, rather than black. The creature fixed its gaze on the hunting party.

“Gods alive,” Beausoleil said. “It’s big.”

It was. Smaller than the first, for sure, but far bigger than Gill had hoped. He did his best to be positive. “It could be much bigger,” he said.

The creature continued to stare at them. It seemed to lack the chilling intelligence and expressiveness the other one had possessed.

“Spread out and be ready to charge it,” Gill said. “Wait for my word.”

Their position on the trail was far from ideal for a charge on horseback, but if they surrounded the beast, they could advance slowly, trap it against the escarpment, and slay it.

“What should I do?” Val said.

There was more grit in his voice than Gill had expected, and certainly more than he felt himself. “Stay behind me. Keep me between you and the dragon.”

The dragon remained still, flicking its gaze from one to the other as they moved to surround it. If it was in any way concerned, it didn’t show it. He tried to see if its scales were any less armour-like than its predecessor’s, but it was impossible to tell, and he had no great enthusiasm for the idea of trying to get a closer look.

“Steady now,” he said. “We want to corner it against the rock. Don’t do anything to spook it.”

One of the horses scuffed a rock with its hoof. The dragon’s head snapped to the sound and it let out a hiss. Gill winced in anticipation, but there was no flame. In another few seconds, they’d have it surrounded. Despite his helm, he could hear Val struggling to control his horse. He dared not look back to see what was happening. The horse let out a whinny and Gill could hear it rear and scrabble back. Val grunted and Gill cursed between gritted teeth. He hoped the lad had spent as much time riding horses as he had clearing up after them—he hadn’t thought to ask. He and the others all rode warhorses, trained to cope with noise and the chaos of battle. He hadn’t asked where Val had acquired—

The dragon moved before Gill had time to finish the thought. It burst into motion with speed that would shame a thousand-crown horse. Gill was unseated and lying on his back on the ground before his brain had fully registered the movement—it was even faster than the one Gill had killed. The wind had been knocked from his lungs, and he gasped, trying to breathe and stand up at the same time.

A tail swipe as soon as he got to his feet sent him flailing through the air long enough to feel victimised by the fact that out of three armoured targets, he was the only one to have been hit, and had been so twice. He hit the ground again with a crunch of armour, but was unhurt.

Gill looked back in the direction he’d come from. The dragon was approaching Val slowly, like a cat stalking its prey.

“To me, lad! To me!” Guillot shouted as he scrambled to his feet.

Val had managed to still his horse—either that or it was so terrified that it was unable to move. Everyone seemed frozen in place. Gill could see Beausoleil and Cabham staring with a mixture of horror and fascination as the beast approached Val. Looking around frantically, Gill spotted his horse, along with his lance, too far away to be of any help. He drew his sword and started to run, but as the dragon paced ever closer, he knew he would be too late.

Cabham was the only one close enough to Val to be of use.

“Cabham!” Gill shouted. “Protect Val!”

If Cabham could get between Val and the dragon, he could keep the beast engaged while Beausoleil charged it from the side and give Gill time to get into a useful position. Even if Beausoleil’s lance couldn’t get past the scales, Gill would be able to strike with his Telastrian sword and they could all go home healthy and better for the experience.

There could be no doubt that Cabham had heard Gill—their eyes met. Don’t freeze, Gill thought. But instead of charging into the dragon’s path, he backed his horse away, then turned and galloped in the other direction. Val was locked in place, his gaze fixed on the dragon, apparently mesmerised by the creature.

Gill ran toward them for all he was worth. He had never been the fastest, and despite his recent exertions, was still very much out of training. It felt as though the world was slowing as the dragon began its death strike. Gill roared, hoping to distract the dragon for just one more moment, but he might as well not have existed. It moved forward explosively, fore talons and fangs leading the way.

At the moment Gill expected the fatal blow to land, Beausoleil somehow occupied the rapidly shrinking space between Val and the dragon. He struck with his lance, letting out a great shout of raging defiance that was punctuated by a splintering crack as his lance gave way under the force of his thrust. The banneret drew his sword, but as he brought it to bear, the dragon reached him, its wicked talons puncturing his armour as though it was paper. Beausoleil let out another great shout, but not of defiance. The dragon tossed him from his saddle, swiped the horse out of its way as effortlessly as a person might shoo a kitten, and bared its razor teeth at Val, who had at last started to back away.

Holding his sword like a dagger in both hands, Gill raised the weapon above his head. He knew he would likely have only one opportunity. Damn Cabham for his cowardice. The dragon screeched and twisted, turning away from Val and Gill, who plunged his sword into the beast’s neck. The Telastrian steel cut the dragon’s flesh like a hot knife through butter. He wrenched the blade up as the dragon’s body continued to roll toward him, trying to cause as much damage as he could—to make that one blow a fatal one.

The dragon hissed and gave one last thrash before its roll stopped with it lying on its side. The tension spilled out of its muscles. Gill gave the body a kick. He looked at Val, who seemed to be fine, his expression of terror aside.

“My kill,” Cabham said.

Gill looked up. Cabham had returned. He was seated on his horse, sword in hand. There was a lance sticking out of the dragon’s flank, buried between two thick, bony scales that didn’t look as though they were yet fully developed. Gill said nothing, still labouring to draw breath.

“My strike was the first. It’s my kill,” Cabham said.

Beausoleil had not moved from where the dragon had tossed him. Without giving Cabham a word or another look, Guillot walked to the younger man’s prone form, knelt beside him, and rolled him over. Beausoleil’s eyes were glassy and his lips were splattered with blood. There were a half-dozen rents in his breastplate, gleaming with blood. Gill closed Beausoleil’s eyes and stood, the bitter taste of anger flooding his mouth.

“One down, two to go,” Cabham said, a broad smile on his face.

“I told you to move in front of it,” Gill said, from between gritted teeth.

“Then it would be me lying there.”

“You had time for a proper strike. It would have given the rest of us the time we needed. All Beausoleil could do was get in its way.”

Cabham shrugged. “It’s dead. I’m sorry Beausoleil is also, but dragon slaying is a dangerous business.”

“You’re an expert now?”

“To the best of my knowledge, there are only two men alive who’ve killed a dragon, and I’m one of them.”

“This isn’t your kill,” Guillot said. “It’s Beausoleil’s, you selfish, arrogant bastard.”

“No need to be like that,” Cabham said, his voice taking on an edge. “But this is my kill, and I’m going to claim my trophy.”

Gill realised his sword was still stuck in the dragon’s neck, while Cabham’s was in his hand. All Gill had was the dagger on his belt.

“Lay a hand on that beast,” Gill said, “and I’ll have your arm off at the shoulder.”

Gill could see Cabham weighing his options. Gill was defenceless, but right now Cabham could claim to have helped slay a dragon, with the unfortunate loss of one of their men. Cut down Guillot, and he would be a murderer. The only question was if he cared, or if he thought he could get away with it.

Cabham forced a smile and tipped his fingers to the open visor of his helmet in salute. “This marks the end of our association, sir. Good day.” He turned his horse back in the direction of Venne, guiding it as it stepped gingerly over the dragon’s neck, then rode away at a brisk trot.

Gill watched him go, angry at Cabham, angry at himself. Angry at the world. Beausoleil had been the man he was most concerned about, and he was shamed to have questioned the man’s honour. When his test had come, he had been found anything but wanting. His courage had gotten him killed, but Guillot was damned if it meant he was forgotten. Cabham could claim what he liked when he got back to Venne, but Gill was the one with the reputation. He realised that Val had dismounted and come up beside him.

“It’s my fault, isn’t it?” Val said.

Gill shook his head. “No. If it’s anyone’s, it’s mine. I didn’t prepare you all properly. No one really knows how to prepare, but I could have done more. Should have. We’ll see to that when we get back to Venne.” He tousled Val’s hair. “You’re as much a part of killing this thing as anyone. You’re a dragonslayer now.”

The boy smiled uncertainly.

“See about getting my horse, will you? I’ll get the spearheads and put Beausoleil up onto the pony so we can take him back to town.”

“What about that?” Val said, nodding at the dead dragon.

“Let it rot.”

It was early evening by the time they got back to Venne. Gill was starting to hurt from being knocked about by the dragon and his mood remained foul. The village was less crowded than it had been in the morning and people were busy, clearing the wreckage left from the previous night. Gill suspected many of the adventurers were still traipsing about the countryside, looking for a dragon. Gill could sense the beasts—three of those strange pulling sensations on him now—so assuming his theory about the feeling was correct, no one else had managed to kill one. The errant sensation seemed to be coming from the north. He was convinced now that there was a fourth dragon. Still, that was a problem for another day.

As Guillot and Val rode into the village, the people they passed stopped what they were doing to look at them, their eyes filled with the same question. Gill knew he had to let Edine know one of the beasts was dead. His gaze fell on the small church that had provided succour for the villagers during the attack. At least there was someone to look after Beausoleil and carry out the proper rites. Then he remembered his promise to Val. The living were more important than the dead.

“Go see the smith again,” he said. “Get him to make you a short sword, no longer than your forearm from elbow to fingertips. Sharp on both sides, with a pointed tip good for use against plate armour. It won’t be a rapier, but it’ll be better for learning on the job. Off you go.”

Val departed with surprising eagerness, leaving Gill alone to wonder if he should hire more men, or if that was simply inviting disaster, inviting another Cabham. One way or the other, he didn’t need to decide right away, so he slipped down from his horse, hitched it and the pony, and headed to the mayor’s house.

Just as he reached the door, Edine exited the building, closely followed by Cabham. She smiled broadly at Gill.

“An excellent start,” she said. “Well done.”

Guillot nodded, unsure he wanted to dampen her enthusiasm, but clueless as to how he could respond and not do so.

“We killed one of the dragons, which is a positive start, but it cost us a good man—Banneret Didier dal Beausoleil.” He stared at Cabham, but decided there was nothing to be gained by bringing up what had happened. When the Humberlander realised that Gill wasn’t going to say anything, he relaxed. Still, there was something in Cabham’s eyes that told Gill that he didn’t consider the matter dealt with, which was fine with Gill.

“I’d ask that your village chaplain carry out the necessaries for Beausoleil.”

“I’ll see to it,” Edine said.

Her eyes narrowed and Gill could tell that she detected something was up. Rather than explain, he doffed his hat and headed for the tavern.

CHAPTER 24

Auroré walked through the grassy field, holding a young boy’s hand. Gill knew the child was his, and knew that he was dreaming, but that didn’t make it feel any less real. His wife had died in childbirth and their son had taken only a handful of breaths before he had followed her to the afterlife. He hadn’t dreamed of them in a long time—the bottle had helped him escape that spectre. The dream was ever the perfect moment, which made it so much harder when the inevitable came, and he woke up to discover that it was not his life. He prayed for the dream to last, for the gods to give him a few more moments of the joy that could never truly be his. He remained deathly still, barely daring even to breathe as he watched his family walking in the warm summer sunshine. Happy.

He was so transfixed by the scene that he didn’t notice the shadow that glided across the field. A jet of flame roared through the air, shattering the serene silence that had been punctuated only by the laughter of mother and child. Guillot looked up and saw a great black dragon swooping down on them, the flame jetting from its nostrils leaving a great charred streak on the ground. As Gill tried to shout a warning, he realised he hadn’t been still and silent out of fear of waking from the dream, but because he could neither move nor make a sound. He had to stand where he was, his heart being ripped asunder, as he watched them laughing and talking, while flames tore toward them. Auroré looked back at him and smiled. His heart broke.

Guillot’s room at the back of Gaufre’s inn was pitch black when he woke with a jolt, Auroré’s smiling face burned into his mind. His sheets were soaked with sweat and his heart was racing. His lingering sense of personal failure wouldn’t go away, because it was warranted. He had lost a man and had trusted another whom he should not have. He tried to think of what more he could have done, or of any situation that required armed men where no casualties could be guaranteed. That was impossible, but he couldn’t shake the feeling.

Now, down two men, he still had to deal with two more dragons. What was he to do? Take on more men? Keep throwing them at the problem until it was dealt with? That would leave a pile of bodies on his conscience so big that he wouldn’t be able to recall any of their individual faces. He could try to slay them by himself—perhaps not depending on or looking out for anyone else was the safer option. If fate had chosen him to slay dragons, chosen that moment to bring them back, when he was the only remaining member of the Silver Circle, who was he to argue?

Then again, fate or the gods had taken Auroré and their son from him, so why should he do anything that fate mandated? Part of him wanted to turn his back on the whole thing, return to Villerauvais and sink into a bottle of wine. But there was no Villerauvais anymore, and there wouldn’t be a Venne either, unless he did something about it.

He rubbed his face roughly, as though the sensation would pull his mind out of the hole it was in. When he was younger, decisions had come so easily. Life had been a great adventure with everything to gain and nothing to lose, and consequences had been distant things he couldn’t imagine ever brushing against. Now, consequences were all there was.

Gill met Val in the square not long before dawn. After the Cup ritual, Gill checked over their saddles and equipment, wondering if, in his fatigue after a night of interrupted sleep, he had said the words properly.

“Do we have to do it every day?” Val said, as he tended to the packhorse carrying the extra lances.

Gill shrugged. “To be honest, I don’t know how long it lasts for, but I’d rather not find out the hard way.” Gill rummaged about in his head for an innocuous word, lest there be someone listening. “If we administer it every day, we know we’re covered.”

“Makes sense,” Val said, then after a moment, added, “It won’t harm us, will it?”

“No. I’ve no reason to think so. The old Chevaliers used this, and some of them are said to have lived into ripe old age. The ones the dragons didn’t kill, that is.”

Val laughed, just as the sound of clattering hooves filled the square—Cabham at the head of a group of five horsemen, all armoured and ready for a fight. Cabham touched his helmet’s visor as he rode past, puffed up and proud at the head of his little band. Gill had to admit they very much looked the part. For a moment he felt like a fraud, wearing the original Valdamar’s armour, but then he recalled that Cabham was even less entitled to his newfound status than Gill felt he was.

“Peacock,” Val muttered under his breath.

“Ignore him,” Guillot said. “We have our own work to be about. Speaking of which, let me take a look at that sword.”

Val drew it from its scabbard—a roughly shaped and stitched piece of leather that Gill reckoned Val had made himself. Judging by the expression on his face, the blade was his pride and joy. Gill wasn’t expecting to be impressed—so long as the weapon was sturdy and sharp, it would do. He was pleasantly surprised. The sword was of a style frequently used by infantry sergeants, halfway between a long dagger and a rapier, with a simple hilt and a broad blade. These weapons could be brutally effective, and their compact size meant they could be used in a crowd or by someone who did not have a great deal of skill. The balance wasn’t bad, the steel looked good, and the edges were keen. He suspected it wasn’t the first such sword the smith had made.

“A good blade,” he said, flipping it in an overly flashy manner before offering it back to Val, hilt first.

The lad beamed a smile and sheathed it.

“We can go through some cavalry cuts while we’re riding out,” Gill said. “If we’ve found nothing by lunchtime, I’ll show you the first five positions.”

Val furrowed his brow.

“The positions. They start off as fun, but once you’ve done them a thousand times, you’ll dread even mention of the word. They’re the basic guards and attacks of swordsmanship. You practise the movements over and over until they come more naturally than scratching your arse. If you get to the Academy, every day will start with an hour of work on the positions.”

Gill hauled himself into the saddle and centred his mind on the sensations that indicated dragons were near. He could feel the tug, could tell that the source wasn’t far off. It looked like they might not get to the positions that day, after all. “Let’s get going,” he said.

“What’s it like there?” Val asked as they rode out of town.

“Where?”

“The Academy.”

“It’s fine. Tough, and competitive, but fair. Anyone who works hard will be respected, regardless of their skill or position at birth. The talented tend to get away with a lot, but that’s the same everywhere. Most work hard there, but some think the most difficult part is getting in. They learn how wrong they are pretty fast. Any that don’t are gone by the end of the first term. I liked it there. You always had purpose, something to do. Life isn’t complicated there.”

“How hard is it to get in?”

“I won’t lie to you. It isn’t easy. Plenty who started training for it far younger than you don’t make the grade.” By the look on Val’s face, if he’d punched the boy in the stomach, he couldn’t have knocked the wind out of his sails so well. “That’s not to say you won’t succeed. And you’ll need a patron to pay for it, since you’re not wealthy. It’ll all be hard, have no doubt of that. But with a lot of work, and a little talent, it’s achievable.” Val stared dead ahead with the expression of one whose dreams had just been shattered.

“I’ll make sure you’re as well prepared as you can be,” Gill said. “I promise. There was a time when people considered me to be rather good.”

“I know how to work hard,” Val said. “And I know what’s waiting for me if I don’t. It’s not a mansion and a farm and a title.”

“We’ll get you there,” Gill said. “After all, how many applicants can write down on their admission form that they’ve slain a dragon?” That finally elicited a smile.

“That’s another thing you’ll have to show me,” Val said.

“What?”

“How to write.”

Guillot spent the greater part of the morning’s ride trying to come up with a name for the ability the Cup gave him to sense the presence of dragons. He had already come to think of the general benefits the ritual conferred to be the “boon,” but he felt that he needed another word for the power to tell when he was in proximity to dragons. It felt as though someone took hold of his insides and then pulled on them, as if his entire body was being urged in a specific direction. Unless, of course, he sensed more than one dragon, in which case the feeling was more of a confusing tussle. For want of anything better, the “pull” seemed to be the term he was settling on.

He could feel three distinct pulls that morning; one strong, the other two much weaker. The weaker ones were enough to muddy the water, so he had only the most superficial belief that he and Val were riding in the correct direction. He wondered if, with time, he would indeed be able to refine this ability into a useful tool, though he very much hoped that wouldn’t be necessary. Still, it occurred to him that two drops from the Cup, rather than one, might help. It also occurred to him that that was a slippery slope, and most likely the reason the Imperial mages had never trusted full possession of the Cup to the Silver Circle.

He pushed the thought from his head, and tried to concentrate on the strongest sensation. It was growing more forceful, bolstering his confidence that they were headed toward it. One of the other pulls was confusing, though. If he hadn’t known better, he would have said it was following them, but the sky was clear, and there was nothing to be seen—no dragon swooping down on them from behind. He focussed ahead, wishing the countryside they rode through was open pastureland, rather than a landscape pocked with intermittent forests and escarpments. It was the type of place that could hide an army of ten thousand men, lulling an enemy into thinking they were in peaceful, safe countryside.

A single dragon was a lot more easily concealed than an army, and Guillot couldn’t tell when he was growing close, only when he was about to trip over the thing. He realised in that moment he hated this job. He was tense and his heart was racing. He had been like that ever since leaving Venne, and it was a puzzle to him why anyone would have willingly signed up for this back in the early days. Even a real battle had been easier to deal with. War was terrifying, yes, but you were facing other men, something you’d trained for and were prepared to deal with. Now, the unknowns gnawed at his confidence like hungry rats, giving fright to the butterflies that were scrambling the insides of his stomach.

He had no idea how big or fast this dragon would be, how aggressive, what it looked like, if it would breathe fire. The one they had just killed had not.

That question seemed to answer itself. A mile or so up the valley, on the far side of a stand of trees that concealed what was actually happening, a dark tendril of smoke crawled skyward.

CHAPTER 25

“The use of magic in this land goes back far longer than the Empire’s control of it,” the Prince Bishop said.

Solène tried to stay calm and appear unworried, all the while fearing he was lulling her into a false sense of security before having her flung into the dungeons.

“I’ve found some tantalising clues as to where it might have all begun—where Amatus discovered the spark of magical enlightenment and brought it back for the benefit of all humankind. I believe it was somewhere in Mirabay. I need your help to find it.”

“Why me? Surely you’ve got enough people with the talent to seek out what you need?”

Amaury wasn’t going to tell her the real reason—that she was the only person he knew who didn’t need the power the temple might offer, who wouldn’t be tempted to take it for themselves. “The fewer people who know about it, the better. It’s a tense time. Something as potentially powerful as this will tempt some with more ambition than sense, and that’s a situation that’s easier to avoid than to clean up.”

“You trust me?” Solène said.

The Prince Bishop laughed. “Of course not, but you have the magical talent to do the work of dozens of Order initiates. You can bring me what I need quickly, with only one person knowing about it.”

She did her best not to swallow hard. The threat was unmistakable—if she turned on him, she would be easier to kill than an entire faction of the Order.

“What am I looking for?” she said.

“Once there was a temple or shrine, somewhere in Mirabaya, used by a people called ‘the enlightened.’ This was apparently where Amatus learned to use magic. I believe it’s where he found the Cup you mentioned to me a while back. I think it was key to his gaining so much skill and power. I want you to find out who these people—these ‘enlightened’—were, and where their temple was. Along with whatever you can find out about the Cup. What it is, how it’s used. I believe the Cup and the temple to be intrinsically linked.”

It was the first time he had said anything about the Cup to her, so she waited, hoping he would say more. He merely looked at her intently, and there was only so long she could bear the silence.

“You think the answer is in the archive?” she said.

“Perhaps. That’s where I found first mention of the enlightened, but perhaps not. I expect we’ll have to get out into the country and search for it. Still, your ability to comb through the material is far greater than mine, so I’m hopeful you’ll be able to turn up something where I could not. Sift it for whatever information you can find, and we’ll go from there.”

“I understand. I’ll do my best.”

“This needs to stay between us,” the Prince Bishop said. “If anyone asks what I have you doing, make something up. Tell them I have you coaching me in magic if you like. Anything but the truth. This stays between us.”

“What does he want you to do?” dal Drezony said, pushing her way into Solène’s apartment.

Solène hadn’t been back long, and was tired. When the Prince Bishop made a request, he expected it to be acted on immediately, and she had spent an unfruitful day in his secret archive as a result.

“Just to do some research for him,” she said. “He seems to think that only someone with my magical power will understand some old documents he turned up. I don’t think he’s right, but I can hardly say no.”

Dal Drezony scrutinised her. “That’s all?”

She considered telling dal Drezony everything, but for some reason wasn’t certain it was the right time. “Yes. Why?”

“He’s been making some pretty unreasonable demands of the Order recently. He was always overly ambitious and impatient, but I believed the core of what he was trying to achieve was good. Now I don’t know. The men he’s bringing into the Order—they represent the opposite of everything we stand for. I’m frightened, Solène.”

“I haven’t seen any trouble on the streets,” Solène said. “I’m sure we’ll be safe in the Priory. The new soldiers the Prince Bishop hired will be able to defend the walls, at least.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about. Promise that if he asks you to do something you’re not comfortable with, you’ll tell me.”

Solène nodded.

“Above all, don’t do anything that will put you in danger. He’s going to call on you to use your power, and sooner rather than later. We need to make sure that when he does, you’re ready. You can’t afford to spend all of your time doing whatever he tells you.”

“What option do I have?”

Dal Drezony sighed and thought for a moment. “Once you’ve found whatever it is you’re looking for, he’ll want you on the dragon-hunting expedition. I’ve tried to slow preparations down as much as I can—I won’t be complicit in the deaths of any more of my brothers and sisters because they were sent into danger under-prepared. Our new comrades are making that difficult. Say what you like about the Prince Bishop, one thing he’s good at is picking talent. Vachon and Gassot know what they’re doing, and if it were up to them, the expedition would be equipped and ready to go.” She let out a chuckle. “I’ve insisted that they interview pretty much everyone in the Order before selecting the hunting party. They wanted me to pick the best and most experienced, but I said they should make that decision for themselves. They didn’t like it, but deep down I think the idea of relying on anyone else’s selection was something they liked even less.”

The thought of dealing with another dragon sent a shiver down Solène’s spine, and for a moment she was tempted to tell dal Drezony about the Cup, the ritual, and how they had helped Gill. If there were more dragons, no one could expect Gill to deal with them all. Perhaps the Prince Bishop was right wanting to bring the Cup back to the Order, so they would have a proper chance of facing the beasts, and surviving. She didn’t like the Prince Bishop, didn’t trust him, but he was the man in power. There was the king, of course, but as best she could tell, his interest in running the kingdom was limited to delegating everything to men like the Prince Bishop.

Could she live with herself if she let the men and women of the Spurriers march against the dragons, and probably to their deaths, if she knew a way to give them a chance? She couldn’t. In addition, it would take the pressure off Gill. She knew that at some point the Prince Bishop would try again to kill Gill. If the Prince Bishop had the Cup, and whatever power this temple might bring him, he would certainly succeed.

She couldn’t stand by and allow that to happen. There had to be another way, one that wouldn’t give the Prince Bishop insurmountable power to do as he chose.

She decided against telling him what she knew about the Cup, at least for the time being.

“Solène? Solène, did you hear what I said?”

Solène smiled. “I’m sorry, Seneschal. I was lost in my thoughts.”

“I said, we’ll need to make use of every spare moment to squeeze in your training. You might not get much sleep over the next few days, but the Order’s physicians will be able to help you with that in the short term. We’ll do whatever it takes to make sure you can keep yourself safe. Increasing our ability to draw on the Fount is what takes most of the effort for us normal souls. Once you’re in control of your mind, you’re in control of your magic.

“Now that you know how to go about that, it’s simply a case of developing the confidence to be able to do it consistently. You could reach that point by tomorrow, or never. That’s a destination you will have to reach on your own.”

Solène nodded. Her frustration was growing as people tried to pull her in different directions. At least dal Drezony seemed well intentioned. Solène thought fondly of what it was like to be another invisible face in a city where no one cared enough to bother you, where her only worry was getting to the bakery in time to light the ovens. It felt as though the thing she had so long thought of as a curse, then so briefly thought of as a great gift that could change her life for the better, was very much a curse once again.

Dal Drezony smiled. “Don’t look so daunted. Nearly everyone manages it. I’m sure you can too.”

CHAPTER 26

Guillot spurred his horse to the gallop. There was nothing else out here that could cause a spontaneous fire, if the pull wasn’t already proof enough. The only question in his mind was what the dragon was burning. Val followed close behind. Gill untethered the lance he had kept on his horse and tried to calm his mind.

“Stay well back again, Val,” Gill shouted over the thunder of his horse’s hooves. “I’ll come back to you for another lance if I need one.”

They reached the stand of trees, and started to skirt its edge. Gill was pushing his horse hard, harder than he needed to, he realised. There was no one from Venne out this far. The dragon was most likely eating a stray farm animal or a chamois come down from the mountains, not a person. He was halfway around the trees when he heard someone shouting in the distance. Wrong again, Gill thought, urging more speed from the horse.

Both man and beast were breathing hard by the time they cleared the trees. Guillot’s gaze was immediately drawn to the black, hulking mass that was liberally spraying fire about itself. Gill was immediately taken back to the cave where he had first seen a dragon, a great, malevolent collection of sinew, fangs, and aggression. A shiver ran over his skin. This one was bigger than the last, much bigger, nearly the size of the first dragon he had killed.

Cabham, mounted, was circling the creature at a distance, the visor on his helmet up, lance in hand. He seemed to be trying to direct two armoured men who were not on horseback. It looked to Guillot very much like Cabham was trying to use them as bait. Piles of charred remains were, Gill assumed, all that remained of the other two men who had ridden out of Venne with Cabham that morning. It seemed that Cabham had learned that there was more to dragons than claws and fangs. Like all lessons relating to dragons, it was a hard one. Harder for his men than him, however.

Gill brought his horse to a stop and waited. He had no desire to get himself killed digging Cabham out of a hole. Val appeared at his side.

“It’s bigger,” he said.

The lad was perceptive, at least. That might benefit him when it came to swordplay, Gill supposed.

The men before him dashed left and right while Cabham tried to keep his horse calm. Gill assumed he was searching for a chink in the beast’s more developed scale plating. With the thing belching flame with every breath, Cabham would get only one chance, if that. Gill suspected the Humberlander was wondering if his fire protection from the previous day would still be effective. Gill wondered that too, and was glad he wasn’t the one testing it.

One of Cabham’s men changed direction a second too late. His scream would have been unlike anything Gill had ever heard were it not for the fact that he had been in that cave with the first dragon. The man was cooked in his armour like a chicken in a cook pot, roasting and boiling in his own fluids at the same time. It took a distressingly long time for the screaming to stop.

Cabham didn’t seem to be in any hurry to put himself in danger. Still, the beast needed to be killed, and if he wasn’t going to make the most of the poor unfortunate still dodging jets of flame on foot, Gill would. He spurred his horse to a gallop and levelled his lance. He glimpsed Cabham’s look of astonishment but gave it no further thought, focussing on his task.

The dragon turned its attention to Guillot and, with a screeching roar, unleashed a jet of flame. The air sizzled, but the blast felt like nothing more than a warm breeze to Gill. His horse reacted, shying away, but the fire had struck only Gill’s head and shoulders, passing over the horse. He had just decided to carry out the ritual on his horse in future when his lance tip connected with the dragon and his ears were filled with the sound of splintering wood.

The lance would have had more effect had he charged a castle wall. The shaft must have contained a knot, and had shattered, though the initial impact was still strong enough to drive Gill from the saddle. As he hit the ground, unseated for the second time in as many days, it occurred to him that perhaps going against a dragon on horseback wasn’t the best idea. He rolled to his feet, his well-fitting armour barely impeding his movement, and turned to face the dragon, sword drawn. It sprayed him with flame again, its eyes filled with fury. Gill braced against the barrage of hot air. When it stopped, the dragon had turned its attention to the last of Cabham’s men and finished him in the blink of an eye, perhaps assuming that Gill, like its other victims, was dead.

Guillot charged, leading with his broad-bladed Telastrian sword in an underhand grip that would allow him to drive it deep and true. He could almost feel its tip touch a scale when a talon swipe sent him to the ground again. He allowed the momentum to tumble him back to his feet but was struck again, on the back this time. Gill stumbled forward, doing his best to stay upright. The ancient Telastrian armour he wore absorbed most of the blow, but it still felt as though he had been hit by a battering ram. He wasn’t sure even a suit of Jauré’s finest tournament armour would have withstood the impact, and thanked the gods that he had measurements similar to the original owner, Valdamar.

He swiped behind himself with his sword, a blind strike born more of frustration than any hope of scoring a hit, but felt the blade connect and heard the beast screech. Turning, he was satisfied to see the dragon holding one of its talons against its body. He faced it and took his guard out of instinct, feeling foolish, knowing how little good it would do him in fending off an attack. The beast looked hesitant—it had clearly never before encountered anything that could hurt it. As satisfying as that was to Guillot, it was a lucky shot, and not one that would do any lasting damage. The killing stroke would be far more difficult to land. He thought of calling to Cabham for assistance, but a quick glance over his shoulder showed that this challenge was a little too rich for the Humberlander’s taste. He was gone.

Gill backed away slowly, his eyes locked on the dragon’s as they both tried to work out what to do next. It belched out another jet of flame, but it was a less determined attack. When the flame and smoke cleared, and Gill stood unharmed on a patch of baked soil, the dragon pounced. Gill dived to his left, doing his best to roll out of the way. He remembered to watch out for the beast’s tail the instant before it struck him—not soon enough to get out of the way.

One of the barbs found its way to the unprotected spot at his left armpit, and he roared as he felt it punch into him. He instinctively pulled away, then struggled to his feet and staggered backwards. There was no pain. At first he thought that a plate had blocked all but the blunt force of the impact. The blood flowing down his vambrace and cuirass dispossessed him of that idea, however.

He had been injured before, and not felt the pain right away. The shock of the moment, he reckoned, though that didn’t last long. When the shock faded, he would be in trouble. He needed to get his business finished, and fast.

The dragon turned, and knew it had done damage, for its eyes went straight to Gill’s wounded left shoulder. It moved around to Gill’s left, trying to position itself on his weak side.

He tracked it, keeping his sword out in front of him for the ever-diminishing sense of security it gave him. The dragon rasped out a threatening hiss, baring its fangs. Gill held his ground. He reckoned his best hope was to allow it to come at him, try to dodge, and strike, hoping he’d find a way through its hide to something vital. It held its place, seeming a little more circumspect now that it had realised he was able to hurt it and that its main weapon had no effect on him.

“Come on then!” Gill said. There was no reaction other than a low, throaty grumble. Although he still didn’t feel any pain, Gill was losing blood; he realised the dragon was waiting for him to weaken. Shouting, he threw himself forward. He sliced at the dragon’s face as soon as it was within range, but the beast moved it out of the way with time to spare.

His blade swished through the air. Off balance because of his injury, Gill staggered a few paces, and was then helped along by a swat of the dragon’s talon, which launched him into the air. He did his best not to land on his wounded shoulder, but the impact rattled him nonetheless. He expected a sharp pain, but instead felt a dull, nausea-inducing sensation that made him realise he’d been hurt badly.

He was slow and awkward in getting up, hanging on to his sword with his one good arm. A shadow stretched over him, and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. The air was filled with the smell of charred flesh.

A roar broke the moment, one that vacillated between the shout of a man and that of a boy. Gill looked up to see Val charging the dragon with one of the spare lances. The lance shattered, and Val was thrown through the air. Gill knew he was unlikely to get another opportunity as good as this. He scrambled along, ignoring the discomfort that seared through his chest from his shoulder, and hurled himself forward, sword first.

He drove with his feet, slipping to his knees, then trying again. He continued until the blade was buried deep, then wrenched at the hilt for all he was worth, pulling it in every direction, trying to cut up as much of the dragon’s innards as he could. The dragon’s thunderous roar pounded in Gill’s head, sounding angry and hurt. Gill pulled his sword free and scrabbled away on his hands and knees. Only when he was clear of the beast’s shadow did he turn to look.

The dragon was still on its feet, its head lolling gently from side to side. It let out a short puff of flame, then turned toward Gill and let out more fire, although the jet fell far short. A final act of defiance. With that, the dragon toppled over and didn’t move again.

This just does not get any easier, Gill thought. He prodded the beast with his sword, stabbed it a couple of times to make sure it was dead, then rushed to where Val was lying. His heart was in his throat when he rolled the lad onto his back. If it was anyone’s turn to die, it was Gill’s. Val was little more than a boy, with so much of life left to see.

“Did we get it?” Val said groggily.

Gill let out a laugh of relief. “We got it.”

Val tried to get up on his elbows, but Gill held him in place. “Rest easy a moment. We can wait for as long as you need.”

He slumped down beside Val and took a breath. A dead dragon lying nearby was becoming a familiar sight for Gill. That wasn’t something he thought he’d ever find himself thinking. He realised he had forgotten about his shoulder—the intense pain had yet to arrive. He unbuckled his left pauldron and gently removed it, then did his best to loosen his cuirass and pull it off. His quilted under-jacket was dark with blood, but the wave of pain that he had expected remained conspicuously absent. He took his dagger and cut the quilting, enlarging the hole left by the dragon’s tail barb, then used a piece of the cloth to wipe away some of the blood. That he was no longer bleeding heavily was a relief, but it didn’t change the fact that he had already lost quite a bit of blood and was utterly exhausted.

Despite being accustomed to gore, he steeled himself for what he was about to reveal before lifting the cloth away—seeing a bad wound on yourself was always far harder than looking at one on someone else. To his surprise, he found only an angry red welt, seeping fluid and blood—a superficial injury. It looked like the barb had grazed him rather than penetrated, but he distinctly remembered the sensation of it striking bone. He probed the area gently, but there was no sign of a deeper wound.

Had he thought it was worse in the heat of the moment? No, he knew what he had felt, and he remembered not being able to lift his arm. Now he could do so with no difficulty, except for a little tightness where the injury was. Had it been the Cup? Both the Order’s healers and Solène had been able to speed healing and remove fatigue—might that be another of the Cup’s offerings?

He allowed himself to relax for a moment, to let the chaos of the past few minutes wash away as the normal sounds of the countryside started to return. Then his heart raced in panic before his mind had time to catch up.

The pull, as strong as he had ever felt it. He grabbed his sword and jumped to his feet with as much energy as he could muster. The other dragon must have been nearby and come to see what was going on. He scanned the sky but saw nothing. Disbelieving, he looked again, but the sky remained clear. He spun on his heels, fearing that it might be lurking in the trees, but something that large would have trouble moving about in a forest, and would make a lot of noise. His eyes were tired—baked dry from the heat, and clogged with smoke. He blinked repeatedly to keep them clear and in focus, but he saw nothing close enough to—

Then he saw Cabham. Sitting on his horse a safe distance away, watching. No doubt he had waited to see if Gill managed to kill the dragon and now would ride back to Venne as fast as he could to claim it. Gill blinked again and focussed, and realised this man wasn’t wearing armour. It wasn’t Cabham. His hair was brown, his complexion darker, and he looked more Mirabayan than Humberlander. Gill couldn’t make out many details from that distance, but there was nothing about him that was familiar. What was he doing there? Why did he simply sit on his horse and watch?

Perhaps the man realised that Gill had seen him, for he gave a wave, and then, in no great hurry, rode away. Gill watched him for a moment. Val groaned behind him, reminding Guillot that he needed to get the horses and get himself and the boy back to Venne for some hot food and badly needed rest. Overall, the day could have gone far worse.

Pharadon was ambivalent at having witnessed the slaying of a dragon. There were many moments when he had been tempted to intervene, but he’d resisted.

The dragon had been a large, but not quite fully grown, blackscale. It was difficult to say how old it was—depending on how much food and Fount was available, a dragon could reach its full size in anything from a couple of weeks to several months. Both were more plentiful than Pharadon had ever known, so he guessed this dragon had hatched very recently.

That raised another issue—and an alarming one. This dragon had advanced to a level of maturity beyond which enlightenment was no longer possible. That was why he had allowed the human to slay it. If the man had not, Pharadon would have been forced to do it himself. Base dragons, never brought to enlightenment, were a scourge—violent, aggressive creatures driven by instinct. He had hoped to bring these young dragons to enlightenment, but both this one and the greenscale were too mature. He could sense only one more, and worried now that he was too late. Beyond this last creature, he detected no more of his kind.

All dragons were born base and would remain so if an enlightened dragon did not intervene and lift them from their wretched fate. That was a normal thing for a dragon hatched of enlightened parents. Within days of their breaking out of their eggs, their parents would ensure that the ceremony was carried out and they would join their enlightened brethren.

On a rare occasion, something went wrong and the offspring of an enlightened would not be raised in time. The window of opportunity was short—juvenile dragons grew fast even at the worst of times. When that happened, it was a tragic thing, the kind of devastating event that a parent rarely recovered from—to see their child descend into darkness.

All dragons had been base once. At some point, long before even Pharadon had drawn his first breath, the spark of enlightenment had taken hold in a goldscale and it had been able to share that spark with others. That had created the divide between enlightened and base. The first enlightenment seemed to have been a matter of luck, if the old stories were to be believed—simply a case of being in the right place at the right time.

Those who were not elevated had to suffer on as they were. There were those amongst the enlightened who tried to set that wrong to right; they had spent their lives seeking out base juveniles and enlightening them. It was a difficult, overwhelming task, and often dangerous—base dragons were hostile to everything they did not understand.

Those who were missed—those base beasts that grew to adulthood—caused problems for all the rest. They sought out territory and would fight to the death to possess it. The enlightened were eventually forced to keep them under control, and so, for a time, Pharadon had found himself killing troublesome base dragons.

The large blackscale the knight had killed had already marked out a wide-ranging territory and would soon have come into conflict with the greenscale, which had done likewise. Pharadon had found several places where their scents had overlapped. The valley was not large enough for both of them, and certainly not with a third in the area. They had probably been brood mates; that was something that Pharadon had never understood about the base. They shared blood, something of supreme importance to the enlightened, but to the base, it meant nothing. They would have killed one another without hesitation, just to protect their chosen scraps of territory, in a time when it seemed that the world was all but emptied of dragonkind. However, there was one more out there, and if he was lucky, it might not yet have matured beyond his reach.

Seeing the battle, Pharadon had learned something else of interest. Something as disturbing as having seen Alpheratz’s head on the table in that small human shop. The Silver Circle still existed. That would make his quest more difficult. A slayer couldn’t be ignored or run from—they were relentless. This one would have to be dealt with. Bringing a base dragon to enlightenment was a dangerous process. If one of the Silver Circle turned up during this time, the consequences would be disastrous for both Pharadon and the base dragon. He would check on the dragon first, and then, all being well, he would kill the knight.

CHAPTER 27

By the time Gill and Val got back to Venne, Gill’s left shoulder felt no different than the rest of him. On the way, he had done his best to surreptitiously rinse some of the blood from his armour with his water skin so he wouldn’t have to explain away the evidence of a wound he didn’t have. Val had not been too shaken by the results of his reckless act of bravery, and Gill was satisfied that things had gone as well as he could have hoped. There was only one dragon left, and he was beginning to believe they could successfully kill all three.

In the village, they headed straight for the tavern, eager for something to wash the tang of smoke and charred flesh from their throats, and for a hot meal to help them recover from the strains of the day. As they approached the building, Gill thought he felt the pull and quickly turned his attention to the sky, a flash of panic sweeping through him. There was nothing up there. He was exhausted; his body was sending him all sorts of unusual signals and sensations, none of them welcome.

“Is something wrong, my Lord?” Val said.

Gill scanned the sky a moment longer, but it was clear. Perhaps the feeling was a sign the Cup’s effects were wearing off. Perhaps he was just so tired he was imagining the sensation. In any event, he couldn’t really tell where it was coming from.

“Nothing,” Gill said. “Let’s get inside.” He was surprised to see that the taproom was empty save for one man sitting at the bar, hunched over a mug of ale.

“Where is everyone?” Gill asked when Gaufre appeared.

“A few were killed yesterday,” Gaufre said, his voice mournful. “A few more today.”

Gill couldn’t work out if the tavern keeper was lamenting the men’s untimely deaths or the fact that they could no longer patronise his tavern. Either way, it was bad luck they had met with the dragons before Gill had gotten there.

“Some have gone home,” Gaufre continued with a shrug. “Too dangerous for them. Others are still out in the field. I expect it will get busy later.”

“I expect it will,” Gill said, feeling his second question had been answered without his having to ask it. “We’ll take some hot food and water as fast as you can rustle it up.”

They took a table near the fire. Guillot had always preferred empty taverns, where there was less to distract him from his drinking and his self-loathing. As the warmth from the fire soaked into his stiff muscles, Gill tried to get his head around the idea that he had to go out first thing in the morning and do it all again. He wondered how many times he could go dragon hunting before his luck ran out.

He stretched out his shoulder, allowing the heat to do its work. As Gaufre brought the food, the door opened, and a man wrapped in a cloak, topped with a wide-brimmed hat, walked in. Judging by the firelight reflecting on the beads of water covering his cloak like tiny red jewels, it was drizzling outside. The man looked about the place, his gaze stopping on Gill.

“Captain?”

Gill frowned.

The man removed his hat and pushed back his cloak. He was thinner than Gill remembered, and a bit older, but there was no mistaking him.

“Barnot? Sergeant Barnot?”

“As I live and breathe. What brings you to this armpit of nowhere, Captain?”

Gaufre shot Barnot an unappreciative look. Gill had no doubt he was calculating how much money the new arrival might have, and if he could make up for the day’s loss of custom. If the coin was good enough, anything could be forgiven.

“The same thing I expect brought you here,” Gill said, his pleasure at encountering a friendly face filling his voice. “Come, sit with us. Gaufre! Bring another plate! A mug of ale too.”

Barnot sat with a nod of thanks.

“How long has it been, Barnot?” Gill said, delighted to see a man he knew he could rely on.

Barnot raised his hands. “Just before you left the city. The duel. I tried to get in touch after, but…”

“It took me some time,” Gill said. “To, you know. I wasn’t very good company. But tell me, what have you been doing? Still soldiering?”

“Not for a time now. I’d saved a bit, so I opened a tavern. Not much bigger than this. In a village called Nordonne.”

Gill frowned. “What happened? Couldn’t leave the life of adventure behind?”

“More like it wouldn’t leave me behind,” Barnot said. “Wasn’t suited to the tavern keeping business. Neither was Missus Barnot. She ran off with the baker, and the bailiffs took the tavern.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Gill said.

Barnot shrugged. “That’s the way of these things. I’ve much to be grateful for. I’ve already lived far longer than I deserve. I’ve enough left in me for one more adventure, at least.”

Gaufre arrived with another plate of food and a mug of ale.

Barnot lifted the mug. “Ale and good company. What more could an old soldier want?”

Gill lifted his cup of water, to Barnot’s mug of ale. The old soldier gave him a crooked look.

“You know it’s bad luck to toast with water, don’t you, Captain?”

Gill shrugged. “I try to stick to water these days.”

The door opened again before Barnot had a chance to comment. Gill looked up to see Cabham walk in with two men behind him. The Humberlander shut the door and bolted it behind him. That told Gill all he needed to know about what was to come. When Cabham spotted Gill, he started over, then hesitated at the sight of another man at Gill’s table. A moment later he stepped closer, his two new associates in tow.

“What can I help you with, William?” Gill said. There was no way he was going to afford Cabham any of the usual courtesies bannerets reserved for one another. Not after their short, shared history.

“I’m going to need that cup thing you have.”

Gill laughed out loud, although he had a sick feeling in his stomach. Revealing the Cup to Cabham and Beausoleil had been a bad decision. “That’s not going to happen,” he said.

“If it sounded like I was asking, that was just me being polite. I’m telling you to hand it over.”

Gill flicked his eyes to Barnot, who raised an eyebrow.

“I see you’ve made some new friends,” Gill said. “Have you told them what happened to your old ones?”

“Hunting dragons is a dangerous business,” Cabham said. “People get killed.”

“You certainly know more about that than I do.”

“I didn’t come here for a chat. Either hand over the cup or there’ll be trouble.”

“Trouble?” Gill said. “Go home before your luck runs out, Cabham.”

“There’s three of us. Only two of you.”

Gill looked over to Val. “Three of us. Or can we add counting to the list of things you’re not very good at?”

“Leave the lad out of it,” Cabham said. “You’ll only end up getting him killed like you did Beausoleil.”

“Beausoleil was killed because you were more interested in personal glory than getting the job done properly.”

“Enough,” Cabham said. “Hand it over and we’ll be on our way.”

Gill shrugged. “Even if you have the Cup, you need the words. I seem to have forgotten them.”

Cabham smiled and started to recite them, perfectly. Gill’s heart sank.

“I heard them four times. I’m pretty sure I had them all after the second time. Like I said before, I tend to remember things.”

“I’m not giving you the Cup,” Gill said. “So either you draw steel or you piss off.”

Blades were out before he’d even finished the sentence. Gill jumped up from his chair and drew. Barnot didn’t need an invitation; he stood at Gill’s side, sword at the ready.

“Don’t know you, friend,” Cabham said to Barnot, “but feel free to leave.”

Barnot’s response was a lunge at the man to Cabham’s left. Cabham went straight for Gill, thrusting across the table, but Gill was able to parry with ease. He cast a concerned glance at Val, hoping the boy had the sense to stay out of the way. Like as not they’d kill him anyway if they got past Gill and Barnot, but he’d be committing suicide if he tried to take on a banneret. Gill kicked the table to one side—it was heavier than he had expected, and the blow hurt his foot, but he ignored the pain and feinted at Cabham. He’d never seen the Humberlander’s swordplay, but there was no reason to believe he wasn’t a decent swordsman. He might have had many flaws, but he might still have been useful with a blade.

Not taking the bait, Cabham waited to see what Gill meant to do. Gill feinted again, then changed the line of his attack and tried an opportunistic cut at one of Cabham’s companions. The man jumped out of the way and Gill moved to close the space between them. He could see Barnot and Cabham’s other man having at one another.

The man Gill had cut at came at him, with Cabham alongside, pressing Gill. For a moment he found himself enjoying it. There had been a time when he had thrived on such challenges, and as he slipped into a flowing rhythm of parrying and riposting between the two, he could almost see himself back in those days. Almost.

The taproom was filled with the sound of clashing steel, shouts, and the stamping of feet. Gill’s shoulder started to ache and he had to grit his teeth and force it to keep moving. He was tired. Too tired. As wonderful as the Cup was, it seemed there was a personal cost to using it. Cabham sensed that Gill was slowing and pressed his attack. His comrade did the same, and Gill knew that he was fighting against time. He started looking for a way to make his life easier.

Switching from speed to force, he knocked Cabham’s sword off to the side in the hope of opening some space. As he tried to bring his blade back to defend himself against Cabham’s comrade, he realised that he had underestimated the other man’s speed. The banneret’s blade caught Gill in the same shoulder that had been injured earlier that day. As pain seared through him, he wondered how much of the Cup’s healing effect was still in operation. Judging by the pain—so intense it made him struggle for breath—it was definitely running out.

Cabham pounced. Gill pulled himself off the blade in his shoulder and parried. Suddenly the heat from the fire, which moments before had been welcoming, felt oppressive. Sweat beaded on his brow, but he managed to parry Cabham’s attack with the fatalistic satisfaction of one who knew he wouldn’t be able to pull that move off again. The second man’s attack was thrown off when he was struck on the side of the head by a barstool. Cabham’s head twitched in distraction. Not one to pass up an opportunity, even without time to reset and execute a tidy thrust, Gill cut to the right with all the force he could muster. He felt the blade make contact. Cabham let out a grunt, but Gill didn’t have time to rest on his laurels.

He pulled his blade clear, then thrust it into the second man’s throat. A vicious flick of his wrist was enough to ensure that the man wouldn’t trouble Gill again, leaving him free to make sure that he had finished the job with Cabham.

Cabham was sitting on the tavern’s floor, doing his best to hold his guts in his belly. He was dead, but his dying would be long and painful yet. Gill dispatched him with a precise thrust to the heart. Barnot was finishing with his foe, leaving Guillot time to catch his breath and press a finger against his new wound. He looked about the taproom to find the source of the stool—and received a nod from the man who had been sitting at the bar when he and Val came in.

Barnot let out a shout as he executed the killing cut, then a laugh as he sucked in lungfuls of air.

“Just like the old days, Captain!” Barnot said.

“It felt easier in the old days,” Gill said. He looked around and saw Val standing in the corner, his sword clutched in a white-knuckled grip. “You need to hold it softly, lad, like something fragile. You can put it away for now, though.”

The stranger was now leaning against the bar, his stool lying on the floor next to a corpse. Gill returned his nod and walked over.

“I owe you my thanks,” he said. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“It didn’t look like a fair fight,” the man said.

“I’m in your debt. Guillot dal Villerauvais is my name.”

“I’m Phar … ançois.”

Barnot made his way over, followed by Val.

“Honoured to make your acquaintance, François. This is Sergeant Barnot, and my squire, Valdamar.”

Gill saw François’s eyes narrow at Val’s name, and laughed. “A little ostentatious I’ll grant you, but he’s a good lad. Gaufre!”

It took some time for Gaufre to appear from a back room. He grimaced at the sight of the mess, and Gill felt a pang of guilt at the damage they’d done. Still, it wasn’t their fault.

“A bottle of brandy,” Gill said.

“That’s more like it,” Barnot said.

“Don’t get too excited. It’s for my shoulder,” Gill said.

Gaufre brought a bottle and four glasses.

“A cloth too,” Gill said.

Gaufre nodded, still not having uttered a sound since leaving his hiding place. He set a rag on the bar in front of Gill. It didn’t look too dirty, so Gill took it, doused it liberally in brandy, and pressed it to his wound.

Barnot studied the bottle and gave an approving grunt. “Can’t let a decent bottle like this go to waste,” he said, then filled a glass and slid it over to François. “The least we can do is stand you a drink, friend.” He filled another and gave it to Val. “It’ll put hairs on your chest. Take your time with it, mind.” He then filled one more glass and gave Gill an inquiring look. “Sure I can’t tempt you? A man needs something a bit stronger than water after a fight like that.”

Gill looked at the glass. His shoulder burned like the fires of hell. If nothing else, the brandy would ease the pain a little. One drink couldn’t hurt. He’d killed two dragons and as many men in the last two days. He’d stop after the first. He took a deep breath and let it whistle out between his teeth. Then he nodded. Barnot smiled and slid the glass over to him, then filled the final one for himself.

“Old friends, and new,” Barnot said. “And bad fights well won.”

They all took a drink, with Val spluttering most of his across the bar. Gill felt the welcome heat of the brandy flood down his throat into his gut, then spread through his body. He closed his eyes and revelled in the feeling. It was like welcoming home an old friend that he had not seen in far too long. It was odd—for a moment he thought he could feel the pull, but the brandy drowned it, and all the other aches, out.

“Tell me, François,” Barnot said, as Gaufre started to clean up the mess in the taproom. “Where are you from?”

The newcomer shrugged. “Here and there. Came to see a dragon with my own eyes.”

“Not to kill one and make a name for yourself?” Gill said.

François laughed. “No. Seeing one in the flesh’s enough for me.”

Gill looked down and saw that Barnot had topped up his glass. His shoulder still ached. He’d finish what was there, then refuse any more.

CHAPTER 28

“The entire village was gone,” Gill said, with the determined precision of a man who was trying to prove he could speak without slurring. “Everything. Everyone. Ash. Nothing more.”

François nodded gravely. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Gaufre had cleared the bodies and done his best to mop up the blood, in the hope of putting the place to rights before other customers arrived. A few people had poked their heads in after Gaufre unbolted the door, but, greeted with chaos and carnage, had elected to spend their evening elsewhere. The news must have spread, for no one came near the place for the remainder of the night. Eventually Gaufre damned them all to hell and went to bed.

Barnot did his drunken best to show the equally inebriated Val some basic cuts and guards, using some long pieces of kindling he’d taken from the log bucket by the fire. He wasn’t doing a very good job, but Val was enjoying himself, and the lad deserved a bit of fun.

Gill filled his glass again. They’d finished the brandy. He was drinking wine. It wasn’t very good wine, but he was long past caring. He knocked it back and filled the glass again. The thought of Villerauvais and all the people who had died there created a pain within him that felt worse than the wound to his shoulder. He drank again. It seemed no amount of booze would ease the hurt of the memory of Villerauvais.

“I’m sorry too,” Gill said, not trying to hide the slurring anymore. “I should have done more. If I’d gotten to that bastard beast a day or two sooner. They’d all still live.

“Men, women, children. People just trying to scratch a living out of the soil. All dead. For no good reason.”

“Is there ever a good reason?” François said.

Gill shrugged. Maybe. There were people out there who deserved to die. Evil bastards who wanted to shape the world in line with their own twisted ideas. Amaury, for instance. His eyelids were heavy. Too heavy. He let them rest for a moment. His head lolled forward and sleep took him.

Barnot had been drinking water for hours. The young lad had passed out early enough, but the captain seemed to have hollow legs. He pretended to be asleep on the bar as Gill grew drunker, and his words lazier, until at last his head had thudded onto the table. Their new friend, François, had chuckled, moved Gill into a more comfortable position, then left the tavern.

Barnot had waited a while longer, until he was sure he was the only man awake. He stepped over Val, who was lying on the floor, then tiptoed over to Gill, although he reckoned a bull could have stampeded through the taproom and not woken someone who had put away as much as Gill had. He had hesitated then. It had felt good to be back with the captain, fighting at his side. It reminded him of who he used to be. Before he had turned to the seed to drown out all the screams. Seeing that much killing robbed a man of his soul. You had to fill the emptiness with something. Dream-seed smoke had seemed like the thing—just the odd time at first, when the screams in the night were bad.

He didn’t know when “the odd time” became every day. Then the tavern was gone. His wife was gone. His life was gone. For a moment this evening, he’d had it all back, and it had felt better than the freshest seed. Now what was he to do? The king had called on him, given him a chance at living again. The Prince Bishop’s healer had taken all the rot out of his body—but the captain was his friend, had saved his life half a hundred times, as he had done for Gill. Betray his friend and do his duty, or betray his king? The answer was simple for an old soldier. It was the same one he had given with blood, sweat, and tears, every time it had been asked of him.

Barnot patted Gill down and quickly found the object the king needed, an odd-looking little cup. He studied it in his hand a moment, and wondered how so small a thing could be so important to such powerful men. Barnot knew there was bad blood between Gill and the king, even though it had been the king’s father who’d done Gill the wrong. Still, Gill lived by the same rules as Barnot, and you never turned your back when the king called on you. As bad as he felt doing what he was doing, Barnot could take some solace in the fact that Gill had made the wrong choice.

He put his cloak on, gave his sleeping friend a salute, and went outside. He had been told that there would be a courier waiting to take the Cup back to Mirabay, but did not know who that would be.

No sooner had he stepped outside of the tavern than a voice whispered from the shadows.

“Do you have it?”

The voice was harsh and strange-sounding. A woman’s? That he had not noticed anyone watching him was alarming to a man who had spent much of his life in the lands of men who wanted to kill him.

Barnot felt like an idiot for what he was about to say, but sometimes such things were necessary. “The swallows flew south early this year.”

“A sure sign of autumn snow,” the voice replied.

“Yes,” Barnot said. “I have it.”

It saddened him that the stories of Gill’s alcoholism were true. He had been as fine a captain as a soldier could ask for. Competent, and never careless with his men’s lives. Although Barnot told himself he had reason for what he was doing—the good of the nation, the will of the king, always a good soldier’s priority—he wasn’t able to shake the filthy feeling it left him with. He had betrayed one of the few men still alive he could count on, and for what? A purse of gold, the king’s favour, and freedom from the seed?

His bargain was struck, and there was no turning back now.

A figure emerged from the shadows. A woman, as he’d thought.

“The Prince Bishop sent you?”

“No more talk,” she said. “Give me the item and I’ll be on my way.”

Barnot nodded and took the odd little cup out of his tunic. He had never held Telastrian steel before. It was pretty to look at and pleasant to the touch, and he knew it was worth a fortune, but it seemed like a lot of fuss over something so small. Still, it was never a soldier’s place to ask questions, and he supposed this was as close as he had come to being a soldier for a very long time.

The woman took the little bowl and dropped it into a leather bag, which she then tucked into her cloak.

“I was instructed to convey our employer’s gratitude for your assistance,” she said.

By the gods, he thought, she’s fast. The blade was in and out of his chest before he had even realised she had one in her hand. She was good too. A killing strike so swiftly executed, and in the dark. What kind of king had a loyal, faithful servant killed for carrying out his orders? He should never have betrayed Gill. The gods were punishing him for his lack of fidelity to a friend. No soldier should let his mates down. It was a bitter thought to die with.

CHAPTER 29

Solène felt trepidatious going into the archive once again. She had spent the previous night working with dal Drezony, disciplining her thoughts by applying all she had learned about herself. With her fears and insecurities drawn into the open and their origins understood, it was much easier to stop them from intruding when she was trying to maintain focus. Whether that would still be the case when she was under extreme stress, she didn’t know. Nonetheless, it felt like she had passed over a threshold and taken hold of a set of controls that she hadn’t even known had existed before. There was still much she needed to learn and practise, but thanks to her new awareness, she was no longer so afraid of the power that resided within her.

Her biggest trouble that morning was staying awake. She’d been using modest amounts of magic all night and had not slept. A quick refresh from one of the Order’s physicians had helped for a time, but it had worn off. Doing something that required physical activity would have been easier—using magic just whittled away at what little energy she had left.

While her previous search of the archive had been aided by magic, it had been a simple matter of discovery, with little expected of her. This one was not. She needed to refine her search methods, and quickly. If nothing else, this would be a useful test of her new approach to magic, safe in the confines of the subterranean archive with its limited Fount and no one trying to kill her.

The Prince Bishop had left some notes for her, but there was little that he had not already told her—an ancient temple hidden somewhere in Mirabaya, visited by Amatus around the time he gained the magical power that would change the world. The Cup came from there. The temple might guide them in its use; it might unlock secrets they could not even imagine. It seemed to Solène that the Prince Bishop was grasping at whatever new magical trinket came across his path. She realised how much pressure he must be under, and how appealing anything that could relieve that might be. That didn’t change the fact that she didn’t trust him.

Despite its best efforts, the Empire had never discovered this temple. Why the Prince Bishop thought that she could manage it, with her limited magical talent and resources, was beyond her. Nonetheless, it was in her best interest to be seen to be doing everything she could, so that was what she would do.

She leaned back in her chair, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. Dal Drezony had told her she was free of the shackles life had placed on her mind. Her thoughts were hers, and hers alone, to control. Nothing outside existed. And there it was. Clarity. Focus. It was such a pure moment, she felt giddy.

As quickly as it had come, as perfectly controlled as it had felt, it disappeared. Her excitement at having achieved it had destroyed it. That didn’t worry her, however. The novelty would wear off quickly. Eventually she might even be able to do it when surrounded by distraction.

She tried again, and this time held that single focussed thought: the enlightened. She waited, the concept hovering in her mind’s eye like a hummingbird. But nothing happened. Realising she had been holding her breath, she let it out with a sigh, losing the pure thought. It was the most precise piece of magic she had ever shaped, but nothing had come of it. She wished dal Drezony had been there to see it.

Solène couldn’t help but feel that her lack of results meant there was nothing to find. The first time, she had located what she was looking for with far clumsier magic. Perhaps her shaping had not been as precise as she had thought? No, it couldn’t have been that—she could tell she’d achieved everything she had been trying to do. Yet no book had fallen from the shelf. No sensation was drawing her toward a section of the archive. Either she had failed, or there was nothing to be found.

She tried again, holding the thought, and allowing her body to continue breathing. She applied more of herself, desiring the enlightened with the force of someone dying of thirst and yearning for one last drink of water. Still nothing. Exasperated, she let out another sharp breath.

A wave of dizziness swept over her. Once it had subsided, Solène considered other searches, such as material on Amatus. That seemed unhelpful: in an Imperial archive as large as this one, there would likely be countless mentions of him. How to refine the search? The only thing she could think of was holding two ideas together, something she hadn’t even come close to trying yet. Perhaps if she could blend them somehow?

Her first effort lasted less than the blink of an eye. Her second was not much better. She tried again and again, until she was finally able to hold a merged thought in her mind long enough to shape magic with it.

At last she stopped, exhausted. There was no way to tell what time it was in the archive, deep below Mirabay’s cathedral, but she knew she’d been down there for hours. Her tiredness was nothing that a good night of sleep wouldn’t fix—she knew what it felt like when she was on the verge of burning out, and this wasn’t it.

She stood and took a look around, wandering up and down the rows of shelves, listening to her footfalls on the stone flags echo and hoping that she might have moved something without noticing. However, she was disappointed. Nothing appeared to be out of place; all the dust remained undisturbed. It was time to call it a day.

Banneret-Commander Yves Dorant moved through the city like a spectre. People got out of his way. They all knew what his black robes meant—Intelligencier. Most had nothing to fear from him, for the number of people who fell afoul of him and his was small, yet it was enough to perpetuate their legend.

There was an air of tension in Mirabay unlike anything Dorant had felt in all his years in the city. First dragons, now sorcerers. Benevolent mages, if the Prince Bishop was to be believed. Dorant had never come across benevolent magic, not once in his career as a mage hunter. The concept that the Prince Bishop was peddling was preposterous. The man had always been arrogant and ambitious, but this time he had seriously overreached himself. Nonetheless, Dorant was genuinely worried. If the Prince Bishop had the king’s support on this, there could be very big problems ahead. How could any civilised monarch consider such a thing?

As soon as he had caught wind of the Prince Bishop’s announcement, he had sent word across the country, calling back all his men. His senior officers were in the city, so he had ordered them to the commandery for a meeting. This was the greatest threat he had ever faced, the crisis that would likely define his career. It might also become a battle for survival, and try as he might, Dorant struggled to find any enthusiasm for that prospect.

The Intelligenciers were not a democratic organisation. They were a rigid hierarchy with a dual leadership—the ruler of the land in which they were based, and the Grand Commander, elected from one of the national commanders. In Mirabaya, the king commanded in all things of national concern, while in matters relating to magic, the Grand Commander—currently a Ventishman living in Voorn, far to the north—held sway. There was rarely a conflict between the two, as magic was ordinarily a minor headache that the Intelligenciers policed in addition to the clandestine duties they carried out for their state. It was a strange dichotomy, left over from the time of their founding, before the Imperial provinces broke into independent states. On the rare occasion when there was a conflict, the national commander was to be guided by his conscience in determining how to best carry out his duty. That was what Dorant was trying to do.

They gathered in the great hall of the commandery building, an austere structure tucked away in an unremarkable street behind Mirabay’s cathedral. The room was illuminated by the coloured light coming through the stained-glass windows that lined the space. Dorant’s senior officers were dressed in their uniform black, punctuated with the silver sigil that struck fear into the hearts of all who saw it—the staff, skull, and sword. They all knew why they were here. They had all seen or heard the Prince Bishop’s proclamation. They all knew that for the first time in a millennium, the threat for which they had been established had come to pass.

“Gentlemen,” Dorant said, when they were all seated. It was unusual for them to all be in the same room at the same time, but none seemed inclined to take the opportunity to renew professional friendships or make pointless conversation, so they came to order quickly. “I realise some of our brethren haven’t yet been able to get here, but all things considered, I feel we must move ahead. In light of recent events, I am invoking our founding oath, that our duty lies first and foremost in preventing the scourge of sorcery from rearing its head once more. It appears our king is in league with sorcerers, and this has absolved us of our oath to him. We must do whatever it takes to ensure his plans for magic proceed no farther.”

He waited a moment to see how they reacted to his invoking the oath, but none showed any sign of surprise. They must all have known it was coming.

“It will take time for word to reach the Grand Commander and for his orders to reach us,” Dorant said. “That is time I fear we don’t have. If we don’t act now, we may be too late. As this is an unprecedented act, I ask for your agreement in invoking the oath, and your support in the orders I shall have to give until we hear from the Grand Commander.”

Murmurs of assent rose from all. He expected that would be the case, but it had to be properly done all the same. It was not just a question of duty—there was also an element of fear. Intelligenciers had persecuted would-be sorcerers for a thousand years. If those with magical abilities were given free rein, it would not be long before they came looking to settle the score. Every man in that room knew they would be marked for death if that came to pass.

“Suggestions, gentlemen,” Dorant said. “How should we go about stopping this madness?”

One of his lieutenants cleared his throat. “Civil unrest, Commander.”

Dorant smiled for the first time since reading the proclamation. It was a solid start. When there were no more suggestions, he frowned.

“Take the rest of the day to give the matter some thought. We’ll reconvene after supper to discuss our options and choose our plan. Consider this matter secret. Word cannot get out. This is the greatest challenge any of us are ever likely to face and it cannot be treated lightly. As soon as they are secure, the Prince Bishop’s new Order will come for us. They might not even wait that long. We must not be caught unprepared.”

He looked around the gathering, making eye contact with each of them, attempting to drive home how serious things were. That done, he pushed back his chair and stood.

“Until this evening, then.”

CHAPTER 30

So this is what I missed out on when my military career was taken from me, Amaury thought, as he watched the hive of activity that filled the Priory’s courtyard. A line of wagons were being filled with victuals, weapons, and anything else that might be useful on a dragon-hunting expedition. It was exciting to see people moving about, filled with a sense of purpose and adventure. The thought of the life he might have had reminded him of his injury, and of the dull ache that was starting to return. The treatments didn’t seem to last as long as they once had, although that might be due to the fact that the Order’s best healers had died in recent weeks. Soon enough he would have others who were far better, but he didn’t expect he’d need them by then.

Vachon was striding across the square toward Amaury, barking orders to his men as he came. Though his role was still new to him, it looked like he had things well in hand. Dal Drezony was nowhere to be seen, likely off sulking somewhere at the changed character of the Order since the arrival of Amaury’s new hires. Too bad, but the days of quiet academic study were over. If they were to take their place in the world and carry out the role Amaury had in mind for them, they needed people with steel in them, who were willing to dirty their hands to get things done.

“How are preparations going?” Amaury said as Vachon neared.

“Well,” the burly man said, moderating his tone only slightly now that he was speaking to his commander. “We’re all but ready to depart. All I need is your order.”

“There are some matters yet to resolve,” Amaury said. “I’m not sending you out until I have all the information we need to slay this beast.” In truth, the Cup was the only thing he was waiting on, and a pigeon had informed him that morning that it was on its way. He tried not to dwell on that for too long—he had been disappointed before. Better to wait until it was in his hands.

“Remain in a state of readiness. This expedition is as much an exercise in winning the hearts of the people as it is in slaying a dragon. For that, timing plays a bigger part.”

“Can’t put the entire city to the sword, I suppose,” Vachon said.

Amaury let out a chuckle, but wasn’t at all sure Vachon had been joking.

“When I give the order,” Amaury said, “you’ll need to be able to march within the hour. Will you be able to do that?”

“We’ll be ready. We’ll march out of the city looking every bit the glorious heroes you need us to be.”

Guillot’s face was stuck to the table when he woke. His eyes were dry, and the lids protested as he tried to draw them open. The light seared through his head, setting off a bell clapper inside his skull. His mouth was as dry as his eyes, and it took a moment to separate his tongue from the inside of his cheek. He sat in a half stupor for a moment, then vomited. He managed to turn his head so that the liquid contents of his stomach splattered onto the bloodstained floor. He spat sour bile, then sat up and tried to take stock.

The first thing to work out was where he was. He pushed through the cloud shrouding his memory until he could recall Cabham coming into the tavern. The tavern in Venne. He remembered what happened next, which explained the blood. His heart sank when he remembered what happened after that, which explained the vomit. And the empty bottles covering the table. And the thundering headache. Gill took a deep breath and let it out with a sigh. What had he been thinking? As his anger with himself increased, so too did the violence with which the clapper in his head bounced off the sides of his skull.

He looked around, turning his head slowly so as to avoid the worst of the clapper’s wrath. There was no one else around. He vaguely recalled Val and Barnot fencing with sticks, up and down the length of the bar, but wasn’t sure if he had imagined it. If his present state wasn’t reason enough to give up drinking for good, he didn’t know what was. There were many good reasons to stop. They were the reasons he had stopped. Why had he allowed himself to start again? He felt like crying in frustration.

He stood up as gently as he could and walked to the bar to see if there was any water to be had. His hand brushed against his hip, and something felt odd. His head was so muddled that he had to concentrate on the feeling—the sense that he had forgotten something, or that something was missing. He concentrated on it as best he could, feeling like his thought channels were clogged with wool and that there was something trying to smash its way out of his head.

He closed his eyes and did his best not to panic when he realised that the Cup was gone. He found a pitcher of water and took a long drink, then vomited most of it back up. He was going to have to give Gaufre quite a bit of coin to make up for the mess they’d caused. Assuming he still had his purse. He checked, and it was there, the momentary relief quashed by the knowledge that he would have far preferred for it to be gone, rather than the Cup. He sipped more water and struggled to remember. There had been someone else with them. A strange fellow. Oddly wise, like a professor at the Academy, but built like one of the masters of swords. François. There was no sign of him, nor of Barnot or Val, for that matter. They might have been sleeping it off somewhere, but he needed to find them. He was clinging to the thin hope that one of them might have the Cup.

Val was snoring contentedly on his straw mattress in the room that he had once shared with Beausoleil and Cabham, but that was now all his. A trail of dribble extended from the corner of his mouth, and Gill suspected that Val would feel even worse than he did when he woke.

Walking back down the stairs, Guillot made for the front door. The dim light in the taproom had hurt his head. The full light of day made him want to crawl into a dark corner and die. He stood in the doorway for what seemed like an age, waiting for his eyes to adjust. The village was quiet. He thought it probably looked much like it must have before the dragons drew in all the hopeful swordsmen from the surrounding regions.

When he felt as though his head could take it, he ventured out. He took a few steps, walked a little, trying to find some refreshment in the cool morning air. There was a horse trough filled with water next to the inn, and Gill strongly considered dunking his head, but prioritised his search for Barnot. He only had to reach the side alley to find him. The old soldier lay in the small lane to the side of the inn, a maroon stain of dried blood spread about him. Gill’s heart twisted with grief. He knelt next to his old friend and checked him over out of a forlorn hope, but the man’s body was cold. He had been dead for hours. There was a hole in his chest where, from the look of it, someone had twisted a dagger. This was not an opportunistic wound. It was one intended to kill. There was no sign of the Cup.

The helpful stranger. François. It could only have been he who had taken the Cup. How had he known what it was? It didn’t look valuable, and Gill was certain he hadn’t talked about it. But Cabham had. If he was willing to die in the attempt to get it, François must have thought it was worth having. Gill swore. If the man had taken it and killed Barnot, he was likely hours away by now.

It took a moment for the full ramifications of that to hit Gill. There was still a dragon out there, and to have any chance of killing it, he needed the Cup. He hadn’t just let himself down when he’d accepted that first drink. He had let down every single person who would lose their life to the beast. He vomited more water, then dry-retched until he thought his insides were going to come out. It was Villerauvais all over again. Could he not even learn his lessons the hard way?

He went back to the horse trough, plunged his head in, and held it there, his head upside down, bubbles coming out of his nose and tickling his chin. He contemplated staying there until he had rid the world of his failings, but knew that wasn’t the answer. He allowed himself to topple backwards until he was sitting on his behind, water running from his face and hair and soaking his clothes.

“Refreshing?”

He looked up and saw Edine standing in the sunlight.

“Someone murdered my friend last night,” he said.

Her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open.

“I think I know who it was,” Gill said, “but he’ll be long gone by now.”

“I’m sorry. No one’s ever been murdered here before. I don’t know what to say.”

Gill shrugged. “It was a bad night for the village, then. Three men came at us in the tavern last night. We killed them.”

“I heard. Gaufre isn’t pleased.”

“I’ll pay for the damage and clean-up.”

“Do you think that had anything to do with your friend?”

“No. That was Cabham. We took care of him and the men he had with him. The murderer was someone else. He helped us against Cabham. He’s long gone by now.”

“I’ll talk to the vicar and have your friend taken care of.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

She hesitated before speaking again. “I can understand the need to let loose a little when you’re doing such dangerous work. All the more so when your success has come at a heavy price. The people are frightened. All their hope rests on you. It won’t do them any good to see you like this.”

“I’m sorry,” Gill said. “I’ll get inside and clean myself up.”

CHAPTER 31

Solène rose early to head for the archive. She had spent only a little time with dal Drezony, feeling that they were repeating the same exercises over and over. She was glad to be getting away from the Priory—the character of the place had changed so quickly. Gone was the fraternal atmosphere of morning exercise and afternoon study. It felt more like a military camp in preparation for war. Dal Drezony didn’t seem to like it either, but Solène couldn’t see what might be done to stop it.

In her work in the archive, she was doing little more than paying lip service to the Prince Bishop’s orders; she was sure that if there was something relating to the enlightened and their temple in the archive, she would have found it by now. Being there was simply a good excuse to get some time alone, and away from the braying, spittle-spraying Vachon, as he laid down his authority on everyone within shouting range.

A loud crack split the air, jolting her from her thoughts. There was a second crack, which was almost as much of a surprise as the first one. So uncharacteristic a noise bore further investigation.

She walked through the main garden courtyard, past the refectory building, and into a smaller, cobbled square that was surrounded by the stables. A group of people were gathered around an unladen cart. She could just make out the back of a shirtless male figure, tied with his arms outstretched, to one of the wagon’s huge wheels. The Order’s new commander, Vachon, was standing, arms akimbo, to one side. There was another ear-piercing crack as she drew close enough to see three angry red lines on the man’s back. Her eyes widened with horror. One of the gathered men held a long, wicked-looking black whip. There was a fourth crack, and then a loud cry—the first one the unfortunate tied to the wheel had uttered.

“What in hells is going on here?” Dal Drezony strode into the square, her expression a picture of fury.

Vachon turned to face her. “Matters of military discipline, Seneschal. Nothing to bother yourself with.”

“Damn your eyes,” dal Drezony said. “We don’t flog people here.”

“This is a military order, is it not?” Vachon said.

Dal Drezony’s face twisted with indignation. “After a fashion,” she admitted.

“Military discipline for a military order,” Vachon said, turning back to the flogging. “Continue.”

There was another loud snap and another cry of pain.

“Stop this now!” dal Drezony said, her face grey with anger.

“I don’t give you orders in matters of sorcery,” Vachon said, still not deigning to turn and face dal Drezony. “I’d thank you to show me the same respect in matters military.”

Solène’s skin prickled at the use of the word “sorcery.” It was laden with all the connotations that caused people to fear magic so much.

“We don’t practise sorcery here, and we certainly don’t flog people. I strongly recommend you stop right now.” Dal Drezony’s voice came out like a growl.

Vachon finally turned to look at her again. He met her volcanic glare and gave her a thin smile. “We’re done here anyway.” He turned back to his men. “Untie him and take him to the infirmary. I’m sure the healers will have him back on his feet in no time. Magic does have some uses, I suppose.”

“I do not want to see this happening here ever again,” dal Drezony said.

“I suggest you shut your eyes when you hear the whip’s report,” Vachon said.

“I’ll be taking this up with the Prince Bishop at the earliest opportunity.”

“Please, do,” Vachon said with another thin smile.

Dal Drezony walked away, glancing at Solène. It wasn’t anger on her face that Solène saw, but fear.

Solène paced up and down the archive’s aisles, her mind clouded by what she had witnessed at the Priory that morning. She still couldn’t quite believe it had happened. If this was the new direction the Prince Bishop intended for the Order, she wanted nothing to do with it. Perhaps he would take dal Drezony’s complaint seriously. Living in fear of a flogging was no way to develop a controlled and focussed mind and increase one’s magical skill. That thought brought her back to what she was supposed to be doing.

She had been trying to think of different words she might use to draw out the information she was looking for. She had tested dozens now, but had turned nothing up. She had begun to wonder how much value this temple could have after being lost and forgotten for so long. The Imperial mages had not been able to find a trace of it, but that didn’t hinder them in developing enormous magical power that allowed the Empire to conquer half the world. Between her, the Cup, and the Priory’s resources, surely the Prince Bishop and the Order would have all they needed.

It occurred to her that to use the Cup for a specific purpose, she had needed instructions. To do other specific magics with it might require similar, and the temple might provide guidance on how to shape an unimaginable amount of different magics. Recently the Prince Bishop had seemed to Solène like a puppy running on a frozen pond—its legs a furious blur of motion though it was getting nowhere. Her conclusion reminded her how clever and dangerous he was. Perhaps he knew more than he was letting on and his aims were far more focussed than she had recently assumed.

It was amazing how quickly contempt could creep in when you didn’t like someone. She resolved to consider him more carefully in future, as she initially had. She could see his plan now. It had taken the Imperial mages centuries to perfect their art, learning new magics through trial and error, slowly advancing their skill and power over generations, while expanding their numbers to the force that became feared throughout the Empire. The Prince Bishop didn’t have the patience for that. He wanted all that power within his lifetime. The Cup alone hadn’t done that for the Imperial mages, and it wouldn’t do that for him, either. He would have power, and with time, he might have control, but he would not have a particularly large knowledge base of magic to draw on. That was what he was searching for—what he had Solène searching for.

It was a dangerous appetite to have. Solène had learned the danger of too much power the hard way, very nearly with fatal consequences. It took a long time to learn to properly control magic, she was discovering. Even now, Solène very much feared she’d never be able to acquire the mental discipline required to completely handle the raw power she could wield. She feared that she was a danger not only to herself, but to others. What would similar power mean for the Prince Bishop? It was a concerning thought, particularly if her efforts brought him closer to realising his goal.

Perhaps it would be better to not find anything about this temple. She knew failure would draw the Prince Bishop’s ire, but better that than burning down half the city by trying to shape magics he had no business meddling with. Then again, perhaps locating the temple would give all mages the key to controlling their magic, her included. If they were going to be delving into the long-forgotten magical arts, the secrets contained in this temple might save a great deal of heartache. If she found anything, she could choose whether or not to share it with the Prince Bishop. What would the consequences be?

A dark thought occurred to her. She had the power, and possibly even the control, to stop the Prince Bishop right now. Feeling sick, Solène pushed the idea from her head. She had resolved that once all the tumult was behind her, she would learn to become a magical healer and devote herself to becoming the best. She could not begin that by killing. Or, rather, by killing again.

That brought her back to her initial problem. How could she find the temple if the Imperial mages couldn’t? The information in the archive was merely a small part of their knowledge. Perhaps it had been nothing more than a legend even then, not worth searching for, and the Prince Bishop had become convinced of its existence from a fanciful mention. Perhaps by the time they were large and powerful enough to look for it, they no longer needed what it contained?

As she paced the aisles, she let her mind work its way back to where all of this started, with the Fount, the great magical energy of life that filled and surrounded all things. If she were to build a magical temple, where would she place it? Surely somewhere the Fount was particularly strong.

The Fount was a strange force, and the Order’s understanding of it was limited to say the least. Beyond it existing, powering magic, and being both created and required by life, they knew little. They didn’t know why it behaved the way it did—for instance, solid stone and water prevented its flow, which was why it was so weak in the archive, which was deep under stone, and why she always tapped more heavily into her internal reservoir when she used magic down there.

Living things created it within them and used only a little of it, so it was found in stronger concentrations where there was a large amount of healthy life. There were deeper pools of it in cities—the larger the population, the stronger the Fount was. Vellin-Ilora, the long-deserted Imperial capital, had been the most populous city ever known. The Fount produced there had fuelled the College of Mages and allowed them to create incredible magics. It had also allowed them to unleash enormous destructive force when the wars tore the Empire apart.

Knowing this was all well and good, but in a time of sparse population, when Mirabaya was inhabited only by barbarian tribes—and, it seemed, these enlightened, whoever they were—where would the Fount have accumulated? Solène shut her eyes and reached mentally for documents dominated by discussion of the Fount. She had refined her skill a little and no longer pulled ancient books and scrolls from their resting places, dumping them on the floor. Now she simply drew them far enough out of position that she would be able to see them when she walked past. She held the thought a moment longer, then took the small wheeled book trolley the Prince Bishop had appropriated from the university’s library, and went to gather her haul.

The archive was large, and it took a little while to check every aisle, but she eventually turned up a half-dozen old, leather-bound tomes that would keep her busy for the next day or two. She didn’t know if this progress would make the Prince Bishop happy, and she didn’t care all that much. So long as she was seen to be making a genuine effort, he couldn’t be too critical.

As she prepared to dig into the first book, she realised that even if her theory that the temple was located where there was a strong accumulation of the Fount was correct, the Imperial mages would almost certainly have come up with the same idea. Either she was wrong or it hadn’t helped them find the temple—if it even actually existed. She thought it over, and decided that her logic was sound.

Perhaps the Prince Bishop was incorrect in stating that the Empire never found this temple. Just because there was nothing to say so in the archive didn’t mean it hadn’t happened. Likewise, a single text saying that the temple hadn’t been located couldn’t necessarily be relied upon either. The writer might have been working on misinformation, or might simply not have known.

Leaning forward, she let her forehead bang lightly on the table. The impact didn’t do much to ease her frustration. It felt as though she was stumbling around in the dark, looking for something that might not actually be there. When did you give in to good sense and stop? She supposed that was the Prince Bishop’s decision to make, but until then she had little more than rumour, theory, and second-guessing to guide her.

Pride took hold—she couldn’t bear the idea of not doing a good job. With that in mind, she sat up, took a deep breath, and opened the first book.

It was a treatise on the Fount, much as she had expected. She looked for any indication of when it was written, reckoning something written later in the Empire would represent a more developed understanding of the subject. This book was from the thirteenth emperor’s reign. Writers of the time conveniently seemed to always dedicate their work to the emperor of the day, making dating one of the few easy aspects of her research. She checked a few other books, found one written in the days of the penultimate emperor, and started there.

The early pages dealt with the basic things that she already knew, and she turned them quickly. When she got to a chapter on the theories of the origin of the Fount, she started to pay more attention. The Imperial mages had viewed magic as a science to be studied and tamed. In many respects, they had been right. However, it didn’t take long for Solène to realise that they didn’t know a whole lot more about the Fount than she did. Everything she read was theory and speculation. Considering the Fount was a magical power that gave effect to the user’s focussed desire, it was a very tricky thing to study—under experimentation, it would give you whatever results you desired, making empirical evaluation impossible. It made Solène laugh, thinking of those old mages, trying to work out a way to focus their mind on an experiment with no thought as to the result. She thought she was frustrated, but that must have driven them to insanity.

She read and read, scanning page after page as quickly as her mind could translate the old writing, and finally stopped at the sight of two words. Fount Stones. That caught her interest. Before the Empire, magic had been used by humans in a limited, almost religious way. Druids had been priests, healers, and mages. Their power was derived from these Fount Stones. It seemed the Empire had discovered a number of them during its expansion, and, showing great respect for cultures other than their own, destroyed every single one. The Imperial mages didn’t need the stones, being able to draw on the Fount wherever it was. The druids, on the other hand, seemed to need access to these stones—or nodes as the writer called them—to carry out greater works of magic. Without the nodes, the druids posed no threat and the Imperial armies were able to advance unimpeded.

What if the enlightened had been a group of druids? It seemed likely. If they needed access to these nodes, then they would certainly have built their temple next to one. Solène sat back for a moment and rested her eyes, satisfied that she was getting somewhere. She certainly had something to report to the Prince Bishop, which was the important thing.

If the Empire had destroyed all the nodes they found, wouldn’t they have done that when they had come to Mirabensis? If so, might they have destroyed this ancient temple without realising it? She had heard stories of how victorious soldiers behaved when given free rein in villages—picking them clean of anything of value, including whatever they found in churches. She doubted they were ever much different, and couldn’t see an Imperial army treating an enemy temple with any great reverence. It had probably been stripped bare and burned to the ground.

Then it occurred to her—perhaps destroying it to keep it from the Prince Bishop was not the worst idea.…

CHAPTER 32

Pharadon wondered, as he watched the young golden dragon from a distance, if not killing the slayer had been a bad idea. When the time had come, Pharadon hadn’t been able to bring himself to commit murder, for that was what it would have been. The man carried great pain, and was trying to extinguish it by protecting innocents from the actions of base dragons. Pharadon could not condemn him for that.

Pharadon was careful to remain downwind of the goldscale, not wanting it to catch his scent. To say he was surprised to see a goldscale was an understatement, as was his relief that it seemed far smaller, and less mature, than the others. A female, she must have hatched after the males, or fed less voraciously.

A brood always produced dragons of different colours, with no two of the same shade in a single clutch. Black, green, red, yellow, brown, and blue were the most common. Silver was unusual, bronze slightly less so, but goldscales? They were rare. Special. So rare and special that Pharadon, despite his long life, had never seen one before. His great old heart beat faster than normal at the sight.

That she was still of modest size meant he had a little more time than he had feared. Even so, Pharadon knew he needed to be as careful as possible. A great shock could be enough to cause her to mature, and then all would be lost. It was said that under the right conditions, a goldscale could reach enlightenment all by themselves. That was something Pharadon couldn’t take the chance on, though. In another time, this juvenile would have become a queen amongst dragons. In this time, she might not even know the joy of enlightenment.

His trip to the village had apprised him of another danger—adventurers seeking to slay dragons. As individuals, none represented the threat the slayer did, but combined they were a problem he would have to stay alert to. There was also still the slayer. Pharadon hoped he would be able to avoid another encounter, but if they met again, it would be in honourable battle. Pharadon hoped there would be no need for killing, but he would not allow anything to stand in his way—the goldscale was too important. She had to be enlightened.

Alone, he would not be able to complete the task. Traditionally, enlightenment would be marked by a gathering, where the combined magical power of several dragons would provide the spark to complete the juvenile’s journey to enlightenment. He believed it could be accomplished by two dragons, but it might as well have been a million—it seemed he was the last of his kind. All was not lost, however. There was another way. Dragonkind’s priesthood had created vessels of intense magical power and stored them at their temple. He could use one of these.

He hovered in the air a while longer, watching, and debating the best way to go about it. He considered going to retrieve one of the vessels, but realised there was too great a danger leaving the goldscale here alone. Her siblings had been killed and he had no doubt she would be too. He would have to convince her to follow him, and start her on the path to enlightenment on their way to the temple.

He was fascinated by the young dragon’s perfect golden scales, each one gleaming like the most perfect coin in a hoard. There was an innocence and naivety that was endearing about the juvenile, and Pharadon wondered for a moment if she was not better off as she was. A beast of instinct, she would feed, sleep, and exist in the most natural of ways, not questioning any of the things she did. No complications of life would weigh on her mind, and it seemed likely to Pharadon that she enjoyed far more peaceful sleep than he did. Part of Pharadon yearned for a similar simplicity of existence, and it occurred to him that perhaps enlightenment was as much a curse as a gift. It gave a great deal, but so too it took, and there was tragedy in that which made his heart heavy.

There was danger, too. Even a juvenile dragon could pose a threat to an elder, like Pharadon. All the more so a goldscale, whose affinity with the Fount was already likely as strong as his own. Tackling enlightenment alone was a danger, one that could see him killed if the goldscale reacted violently at the wrong moment. Still, it was a risk he was willing to take. What choice did he have?

Decision made, he headed for the temple, but had given only two beats of his great wings when he spotted a group of horsemen riding quickly in the juvenile’s direction. There were a lot of them—at least twenty at a quick count. The adventurers. Pharadon grimaced in disappointment. It seemed they had her scent, and so there would be more killing after all.

Pharadon circled in a wide arc to bring himself behind the horsemen. He wondered if the slayer was with them, but could detect no magic. He was both disappointed and relieved. His flame would have no effect on the slayer, something Pharadon had learned the hard way, centuries earlier. These men, however, appeared to have no such protection.

He allowed himself to fall into a silent downward glide and started to prime his flame glands. This wasn’t to be an honourable battle—he sought only to eliminate the threat to the goldscale. The first they knew of his presence was the heat of his flame. Those at the front of the group had the time to hear the screams of their comrades at the back, and some even had time to cast a backwards glance at the source of their impending death.

It was all over in the blink of an eye. The horsemen were nothing more than charred flesh and burned steel. Pharadon took no pleasure in it, and didn’t dwell on his victory; he simply continued his flight in the direction of the temple.

Dorant sat in the corner of a tavern overlooking Place Royale Square on the Isle. The tavern had been long known as “the Little Palace,” although that was not its original name. It was a play on its proximity to the old palace, in the shadow of which it sat—and also acknowledged that as much political change had been effected within its walls as in its larger, regal neighbour.

He glanced out the window and across at the cathedral, which dominated the far side of the square, at the courts of justice on the northern side, to his left. Coffeehouses, inns, and shops stood to his right. The Little Palace was often the focal point for citizen protests, which were common in Mirabay—taxes too high, food too expensive, the Watch being too heavy-handed. The people of Mirabay might fear dragons, and magic, but they were not afraid of protesting in the face of perceived infringement of their liberties. Things had been unusually quiet since the new king had taken the throne, but Dorant had known that wouldn’t last forever. Dorant had long thought protest a necessary evil in such a large city. It was like a sealed pot on the fire—every so often one had to lift the lid to release some of the steam.

The citizenry’s propensity for protest was what Dorant was now relying on. He was dressed in civilian clothes, and appeared to all intents and purposes no different from any other tavern patron. Two of his men were at the bar, likewise dressed in civilian attire. There were others in selected taverns across the city, but this was the most important one, where hotheads, students, intelligentsia, and agitators came to find receptive ears. He had frequented the place himself when he was a youth at the Academy. He had known early on that he wanted his career to have meaning; he didn’t want to just slog through mud on the battlefield or act as hired muscle for a man of wealth and means. Joining the Intelligenciers allowed him to sate his desire to affect the sphere of politics.

His men were discussing the Prince Bishop’s announcement. In a place like the Little Palace, they had to be very careful with their words, so Dorant had chosen his two best men and had decided to oversee them himself. The tavern’s patrons were seasoned commentators and agitators. They would be quick to sniff out a plant, but Dorant hoped that even if they did, all his men were doing was starting a conversation that was on everyone’s mind. The city was like a pile of dry tinder—it would likely ignite all by itself, but Dorant wasn’t willing to wait. The abominable course the country was being steered on had to be changed immediately.

The operatives’ conversation had been carefully crafted, but the key was that it had to be overheard and others had to join in. Dorant had to capitalise on the simmering discontent he could feel on the streets as he walked through them.

His men were experts at this clandestine type of work. Over the years, and always dressed as civilians, they had called in to the tavern every now and then, sometimes engaging in what was being discussed, sometimes not. That way, they had become known to the Little Palace’s regulars, who did not know they were Intelligenciers. Disseminating and gathering information was best done by familiar, but not overly familiar, faces.

Neither of them had been involved in anything that had led to an agitator disappearing—the Intelligenciers’ preferred method of dealing with those who had rattled the cage one too many times. Dorant was confident his men had good cover and were practised enough to know when the momentum had built enough for their participation to no longer be required. However, it was always a nervous time. Intellectual argument could turn to violence quickly in places like that—a quality that Dorant was relying upon—and he would rather the discontent was not vented at him and his men.

Gradually his men drew others into their conversation; Dorant didn’t hear a single voice of dissent. People were nervous, feeling betrayed. The king who was supposed to protect them had unleashed something very dangerous. The dragons remained a distant threat, so remote that they were only one step up the ladder from the myth they had been just a few weeks earlier. When dealing with a large population, it was all about managing the hierarchy of fear. Last week it was the dragon, now it was magic. Would the latter be felt acceptable to banish the former? For Dorant, the answer was a definitive no. That didn’t mean to say the public would agree with him, though.

The Prince Bishop had handled it skilfully, chosen his moment and his reasoning perfectly, making Dorant feel a little less ashamed of having missed the development of a cabal of mages under his nose. He wondered how it had gotten past him, and the only conclusion he could come to, disappointingly, was that the Prince Bishop was a smarter man than he. That didn’t mean the Prince Bishop would win, however. It wasn’t just about being smarter; what mattered was what you did with your smarts. The Prince Bishop was venturing into dangerous territory, most likely led by a healthy dose of hubris. That was not a weakness Dorant was prone to, and that was his advantage. He might have had the wool pulled over his eyes for too long, but he would not allow the aberration of sorcery to continue, not for so long as he drew breath.

The evening crowd was starting to build, and the conversation Dorant had seeded had grown to fill the tavern. He finished his ale and left, the cue to his men that their task was complete and that it was time to extract themselves. The air was crisp outside, carrying none of summer’s unpleasant odours. At that time of year, with the leaves turning, he couldn’t imagine a better place than Mirabay to live. He looked at the cathedral—a work of art—and at the slate-capped, limestone buildings that filled the Isle, buoyed by the sense that he was facing the great test of his career and not faltering. The hilt hit his ribs before he realised he had been stabbed. He turned his head, trying to see who had done it, only glimpsing a cloaked figure disappearing into an alleyway.

He tried to reach the wound, but couldn’t. He could tell by the odd sensation on his back where the blade had gone in, and from that, what had been punctured. Perhaps he was guilty of hubris after all. There could be no question of the perpetrator, nor of the fact that he was indeed smarter than Dorant. Faster too. He could hear the debate in the Little Palace reach a crescendo as he crumpled to the ground. His last hope was that he was hearing the resistance forming, that his actions had been enough to start the tale of the Prince Bishop’s end. And the end of sorcery. He watched the blood pool beneath him until he saw no more.

CHAPTER 33

It was a fine thing to stand on a balcony beside the king and watch the Order of the Golden Spur march out of the city in full battle array. They looked magnificent—the brilliant cream of their robes, the fluttering of colourful battle standards to which honours would be attached by the time they returned home. The Chevaliers’ armour glittered, the mages’ embroidered battle robes gleamed in the sunlight. At the head, the royal standard flew in pride of place. As in everything he did, Amaury made sure that the king got the credit. There was nothing worthwhile to be gained in taking any of it for himself.

Above all, if his efforts failed, he could be a long way away before the finger of blame was pointed at him. Not that it would be. He was almost certain of success now. Too many obstacles had been pushed aside. Anything that raised its head had been decapitated before it became a problem. Something that the commander of the Intelligenciers, and a number of his men, had discovered to their detriment.

Amaury had never expected that the dragon-slaying expedition would be greeted with cheers and garlands of flowers, and that proved to be the case—they were observed with ambivalent silence. Simply being accepted was more than enough for now; the important message was that these brave men and women were going out to risk their lives to protect the citizens of Mirabaya. Soon, he would set up medical clinics about the city to further highlight the benefits the Order could bring. Food would be preserved magically, ensuring there was no risk of people going hungry, water purified to make sure no one got ill. One step at a time, he would win the people’s hearts and minds over to the Order. They might not be cheering now, but Amaury was confident that they would one day.

It was difficult not to become elated at the prospect that his long-laid plans were finally coming to fruition. Even had sight of the Order taking on the role he had always envisaged for them not been enough to bolster his spirits, the knowledge that the Cup was only a few hours from his grasp would have made this a great day even if the Spurriers were marching out under a barrage of abuse and rotten fruit. The former addict had pulled it off, which meant Luther was due a bonus for coming up with the scheme. A man like him was far too useful to neglect. Indeed, there might be a higher office in store for him.

However, the timing was far tighter than he would have liked. It had been his intention to first use the Cup on himself, and then, in the lesser way of the Silver Circle, on key members of the expedition. Commander Dorant had forced his hand by trying to stir up trouble, and Amaury’s quick reaction hadn’t come soon enough to stop the city’s tension from tipping over the edge.

Trouble had flared up in a couple of the usual hotspots. Nothing that couldn’t be contained for now.

The public needed to see action, to see the Order they feared marching off to defend them. The plan was for Vachon to find somewhere secluded to camp a day or so south, and wait for Amaury to bring him further information on the dragons’ location. In truth, he would meet them to administer the Cup’s bounty. When they returned, bearing the dragons’ heads as trophies, then, perhaps, the city would greet them with joy and flower garlands.

Amaury smiled broadly as the expedition disappeared from sight, passing over the bridge from the Isle to the right bank, toward the gate that would take them out of the city to the south. Beside him stood the king, whose smile was so obviously forced, he might as well have been scowling. Every so often he would wave stiffly to the crowd. He might not have been happy with the way Amaury had brought the Order out into the open, but when he saw how well things turned out, he would be grateful. He would realise the great service that the Prince Bishop had done for the kingdom. One by one, the pieces were falling from the board into Amaury’s pocket, proof indeed that hard work and perseverance eventually bore fruit.

Within an hour of the discovery of Commander Dorant’s body, the Intelligenciers of Mirabay had ceased to exist. Black robes and accoutrements adorned with the staff, skull, and sword insignia were cast aside in favour of the aprons of grocers, the jackets of bakers, the smart tunics of merchants pretending to be more successful than they actually were. Dorant’s remaining men—for more than he had met their ends that night—did what they were trained to do, melting into the population.

Their mission remained the same, emergency protocols having long since been created in the event of a successful, concerted attack on their command structure. No one would have known that the man leaning on a wall next to a grocer’s stall in one of the small market squares on the left bank of the river had worn Intelligencier black up until that morning. He chatted and joked like other men who had nothing better to do with their days. Every so often, he would pass comment on their new magical saviours, the tone of his voice conveying far more than mere words alone ever could. The people of Mirabay were well attuned to such rhetoric, priding themselves on sharp minds and even sharper tongues.

Traders and customers laughed and joked with him, voicing their concerns along with his. By late morning a crowd had gathered and the discussion had grown more serious. Two cream-robed individuals walked through the square shortly after the cathedral’s bells had rung the midday chimes. The square was bisected by a street that linked the Order’s headquarters to the Isle. The Intelligencier had chosen his spot with care: it was only a matter of time before members of the Order passed through.

It was unclear who threw the first rotting vegetable, or what type of vegetable that was. That first object was followed by a deluge, including a chunk of something more solid—a piece of a packaging crate or a market stall. When it struck its target, the mob cheered and surged forward. There was pushing and shoving, and someone let out a raucous cheer before holding a swath of torn cream cloth high overhead, the first trophy.

The Intelligencier didn’t see steel being drawn, but he did hear the scream that followed. The second scream tore the mob apart in panic, revealing two bodies on the ground. Standing in the gap were a cream-robed man and woman, with drawn blades and fearful looks on their faces. It was disappointing that they hadn’t used magic, but the Intelligencier was given to understand that not everyone in the Order was able to, at least not in any worthwhile way. Not yet.

His work done, he melted away with the fleeing crowd. The Order had murdered two citizens on the streets of Mirabay, in front of dozens of witnesses. Before the cathedral’s bells rang again that day, the news would have reached every corner of the city. Commander Dorant’s fire had been lit.

Amaury’s skin tingled as soon as Ysabeau walked into his office. Without a word, she offered him a leather pouch. He stood, reached across his desk, and took it reverently. Opening the pouch, he took out the Cup and cradled it in both hands, studying the swirling blue-and-grey patterns in the steel.

“Well done,” he said.

“There wasn’t much to it,” Ysabeau said. “Just a hard ride with a special touch to speed it along. The other fellow did the hard work.”

“You dealt with him?”

She nodded.

“Excellent,” Amaury said, transfixed by the Cup. “Where did you find him?”

“Venne,” she said. “Where the dragons are. Was hoping I might see one, but no luck.”

“Venne…” Amaury said. So that’s where Gill has gotten to. He wondered if he should have tasked Ysabeau with killing him also, but now that he had his main objective clutched firmly in his hands, it was easy to regret the opportunities not taken. Ysabeau might have ended up dead, and the Cup would still be in Gill’s pocket. “You must be exhausted. I’ve had your room readied. Gaston will see that you have everything you need. Rest awhile. We can talk again later.”

She moved to the door, and Amaury had the sensation that he had forgotten something.

“Ysabeau,” he said. “Thank you. I couldn’t have done this without you.”

She turned and smiled. “You’re welcome. Dad.”

“All this effort will be worth it, I promise.”

She shut the door behind her, leaving him with the object of his dreams. He set the Cup on his desk and sat, content for a moment to study its plain beauty. He had desired it for so long. For much of that time he had thought it might be nothing more than a myth, but here it was. To think that Amatus himself had held this little bowl in his hands, had drunk from it, received his great powers from it … the idea was intoxicating. It was such a simple little thing; it was difficult to fathom how much power it contained.

He had sent for a pitcher of water as soon as he was notified that Ysabeau had arrived at the city gates. As he reached for it, he realised his hands were shaking. He had to take five long, slow breaths to steady them. He poured in only enough to cover the bottom—perhaps one mouthful—and set the pitcher to one side. He was tempted to put in more, but he knew how dangerous this might be. Better to err on the side of caution. He could always drink more if needed.

He waited a moment longer, trying to fully appreciate what a monumental thing he was about to do. The world was about to change. He picked up the Cup in both hands, and after a brief hesitation, brought it to his lips.

The water was cool and fresh. Considering what other benefits it brought, he thought he would never again taste so wonderful a draught. He set the Cup down on his desk with as much reverence as he could, and waited. He had no idea how long it would take—he had found so little information on the Cup. He supposed that so monumental a change might take hours, or even days.

His initial impulse was to cure his hip, once and for all, but he knew that wasn’t how it worked—that needed not just potent magic, but a knowledge of anatomy. That would have to wait until he had time to make sure he could do it right.

He felt no different. How could he tell if it had worked? A test. That was what was needed. Just because he didn’t feel any different didn’t mean that it hadn’t worked. He focussed on creating a floating flame, a particularly good test of a mage’s ability. Strength was obvious both in the flame’s brightness, and in how long the light could be maintained. The room flashed with bright light. It faded quickly as Amaury’s concentration dissolved into giddy laughter. The flash had been larger and brighter than he had ever managed before by so many degrees of magnitude, the two results were barely comparable.

He tried again, to make sure it wasn’t just a fluke. Once more the room was filled with intense light. He held it for a little longer this time, but it was impossible to concentrate with the levels of elation he was feeling. The light faded and disappeared along with his focus.

Amaury slumped back in his chair, still chuckling. Usually his pathetic efforts exhausted him, but after this far more powerful demonstration, he felt no fatigue at all. There was another knock on his door. He considered telling whoever it was to go away, but he had requested regular updates on the sentiment in the city, which he could not afford to ignore.

“Come!” he said.

His secretary entered, bearing the expression he always did when the news was bad. “There’s been trouble in the city,” he said. “A mob attacked some of the Order on the street. Two people were killed.”

Amaury felt his light mood drain away. He cleared his throat. “Brethren or citizens.”

“Citizens, your Grace.”

Amaury nodded. “How has the news been greeted?”

“It’s still spreading, your Grace, but there are already some angry protests.”

“The brethren. Did they use magic?”

“No, your Grace. Steel.”

He nodded again. “Very well. Leave me be a moment. I’ll have instructions for you shortly.”

Amaury waited until his secretary was gone before letting out a sigh. Could he not have one day where everything went his way? He took a breath and tried to focus his mind, wanting to see his light show again. A kernel of light formed in the air in the centre of his office, but it grew no larger. He frowned and tried harder to focus, but nothing happened. He felt a flash of panic. What had gone wrong? He furrowed his brow and willed the tiny mote of light to get larger and brighter. Nothing happened. He slumped in his chair, exhausted now.

Grasping the flagon of water, he refilled the Cup, a little deeper this time. He poured it down his throat, ignoring the voice of concern that said he was being foolhardy. After a moment, he tried again, with all the concentrated determination he could muster. The room filled with a light so bright he had to shield his eyes. He let it go out, then allowed himself to relax. It still worked—it was simply that the effect hadn’t lasted very long. That didn’t tally with what the books had said. Amatus drank from the Cup, then had lifelong powers. Amaury had read nothing about him having to drink from it constantly. He must be using it wrong. But how? He had used the purest water, had drunk deeply. What more was needed?

He remembered the bad news his secretary had brought and chewed his lip for a moment. There was opportunity in everything, he thought. If there were attacks on members of the Order in the city, it might prove the perfect chance to rid himself of an increasingly nagging headache.

CHAPTER 34

Gill had spent the remainder of the previous day in bed. His encounter with Edine had shamed him, and he couldn’t bear it if anyone else were to see him in that state. He awoke that morning feeling better, but still burdened by what had happened. Had the remaining dragon wreaked more havoc while he was asleep? Still, what use would he have been? Hungover. No Cup. He wouldn’t have been able to stop an angry dormouse.

He sat on the corner of his pallet bed, wondering what to do. The Cup was gone, and with it any hope of being able to kill the last dragon. His old friend had been murdered. There was no rambling house in Villerauvais for him to hide in now, nor any fields of vines to keep him supplied with wine and brandy. A gutter in Mirabay was the best he could hope for if he turned his back on Venne, and it was more than he deserved. No, he thought, he had to continue.

Might there be enough of a leftover effect from his last dose from the Cup to get him through the last slaying? He had used it a number of times in a short period of time—perhaps the effect was cumulative? It wasn’t a risk he could take with Val, however. Telling the boy to leave wasn’t the solution. Thus far the lad had been painstakingly loyal and attentive, and there was no way Gill wanted to meet his end knowing he had dragged Val to the same fate.

Then he had it. Use Val’s loyalty to save him. Gill rustled up a pen and some parchment from his travelling bags, and started to write a note. The master at the Academy in Mirabay was an old friend of Gill’s. At least, they had been friends in the past, before Gill had been cast from society in disgrace. He still owed Gill a favour or two, and Gill hoped that, being an honourable man, he would honour them.

As a Banneret of the White, the highest level of graduate the Academy produced, Gill had the right to nominate a person for Academy admission each year. Getting Val in was the easy part, however. Meeting the standards required to stay was far harder. Val would need a year of good instruction and hard training before he would stand a chance. Most who went to the Academy had been training for years. Val was nearly too old to enjoy that luxury. If he wasn’t ready for admission in a year, perhaps a year and a half, his opportunity would pass.

Gill reckoned there was enough left in his family accounts at Laucelin’s bank in Mirabay to pay for a year’s upkeep, training, and other necessaries, as well as cover the boy’s fees for the duration of his time at the Academy. His letter outlined what he wanted for the lad, and how he thought it was best handled. He added a line of thanks, then folded, sealed, and addressed the note before going in search of Val.

Guillot watched Val ride away until he disappeared into the distance. He had told the lad he was giving him an important message to be delivered back to Mirabay, and that he was to follow whatever instructions the recipient of the letter gave him. As was ever his character, Val took on the task with enthusiasm, and was on his way a short while later. Gill felt bad for lying to him, but being killed by a dragon when he was still in his teens would be a waste.

He began his own preparations a short while later. There seemed to still be a slight trace of the Cup’s effect in him, as he could feel a gentle tug coming from the west and reckoned that it indicated the presence of a dragon.

Assuming he survived the encounter with the dragon—a big if, even with what remained of the Cup’s boon—there were other things he wanted to do. Catching up with the fellow who had murdered Barnot was top of the list. Then there was the mastermind of the whole mess, Amaury. He would still very much like to run a blade through Amaury’s chest.

Some men got it all wrong, then carried a grudge with them for life. Amaury had stepped into Gill’s blade that fateful day in Mirabay’s arena. What he had been trying to do at the time wasn’t at all the type of thing friends did to one another, but Gill had always known that their friendship had only been one of convenience.

Kicking dust into your opponent’s face might be acceptable on the battlefield or in a fight to the death, but it wasn’t done by gentlemen bannerets in the arena. The gods had shown Amaury the error of that effort—his leg had swung into the dulled tip of Gill’s rapier, and the combined force of the kick and the thrust had driven the blade far into his hip. He had brought the injury on himself, but he’d never forgiven Gill nonetheless. If Gill lived past his dragon-slaying career, Amaury would surely send more men to try to kill him. He wouldn’t allow Gill to redeem himself with the fame of slaying the dragons. That was an insult too far.

He thought of Auroré as he tightened the strap on his saddle, checking it once and then again, to ensure it would hold him when the time came. She would have been disappointed with what he had allowed himself to become, and he could only hope that if she watched from wherever the gods lived, she might understand that he was trying his hardest to be the best man he could be.

The pull was strong enough to guide Gill out of Venne and to the west. Just as a forest came into view, he felt a sharp, abrupt tug on his being. A great golden dragon emerged from the tree line. It was still some distance away, but even from afar, it was magnificent.

It stretched its wings lazily, looking at Guillot. There was nothing threatening in the act, and, if anything, Gill thought it looked carefree and not at all interested in him. Nothing about this creature seemed fierce or aggressive, qualities that had been all too obvious in the others he had encountered. The most likely reason for its behaviour was that it had recently fed, and hadn’t previously encountered any humans who could pose a threat to it.

In all the time that Gill had known about dragons being back in the world, he hadn’t had much time to observe them going about their day. Every one he had met was either trying to kill him or someone else. That dragons were magnificent creatures was beyond question, but this one was special even compared to the others he had seen. Its scales had the colour and lustre of pure gold, while the look in its blue eyes spoke of a curious intelligence that Gill had never seen in an animal. It was fascinating to watch the creature and feel that he was in relative safety. He would be the one bringing violence to that moment.

As peaceful as it seemed, Gill could not let it live. He watched it a while longer, enjoying the experience, much as he had the ride until now. The world was full of simple pleasures and you didn’t need a bottle, a card table, or the adulation of your peers to find happiness. He only wished someone had told him that when he was younger. There was nothing to be gained by tarrying any longer, so he checked over his armour, and readied his lance. If the beast continued to behave in such a docile way, then Gill’s job might not be so difficult after all. He might not have to pay for losing the Cup quite as heavily as he expected.

The dragon was ambling along by the tree line, minding its own business. Something felt wrong about what he was going to do, but he knew that like any wild creature, just because it seemed peaceful one moment didn’t mean it wasn’t capable of killing, of creating devastation. He urged his horse forward at a trot. It wasn’t keen to approach another dragon, and it took some encouragement, but eventually it relented and they started to advance toward their quarry.

CHAPTER 35

Closing the visor on his helm and lowering his lance, Gill urged his horse to a gallop. His world closed down to the narrow field of vision allowed by the slits in the visor. He leaned forward, bracing the lance, trying to keep its bobbing tip aimed at the spot where the dragon’s neck joined its body. A good strike there would leave it ripe for a killing stroke with his sword. He watched the dragon fill what little space he could see, its beautiful golden scales becoming individually distinguishable.

Gill’s vision was abruptly filled with red. His lance hit, bent, and shattered with a great crack, the impact launching him from his saddle. He could hear his horse whicker in terror as he sailed through the air; he landed with an all too familiar crunch of metal. He struggled to his feet as he tried to catch his breath. He flipped up his visor, then drew his sword. It had all happened so quickly, he didn’t know what was going on. The only signal his brain could process was “danger.”

He lifted his visor and looked around. A hulking mass of red flesh and scales occupied the space between Gill and the golden dragon. The beast was as big as the first one he had killed, and its face bore none of the docility of the golden one Gill had come to slay. He hadn’t felt any trace of this dragon, and as surprises went, this was one he would rather have done without. He had already lost the initiative, but he wasn’t willing to stand around waiting for death. As soon as he was steady on his feet again, he charged. There was no one to help him, no one to distract it. The big red swatted at him with one of its talons, but Gill managed to duck out of the way in time. As he made for the briefly visible clear path to the beast’s underbelly, the dragon caught him with its snout and knocked him to the side again. Gill rolled away, coming to his feet with his sword at the ready; his head was spinning inside his helmet and he couldn’t focus on what was in front of him.

A jet of flame arced toward him and he braced himself for the rush of hot air. He roared in pain as he felt the plates of his armour heat and start to broil his flesh through the quilted jacket he wore underneath. The Cup’s boon wasn’t working anymore. He dived out of the way, into another roll. This time he wasn’t able to get back to his feet. He was still on his hands and knees when the clawed talons slammed onto his back and pressed him down, into the dirt.

The structure of his armour bore most of the weight, but he could feel the shaped plates of his cuirass start to flex, putting intolerable pressure on his chest. He fought to draw breath and tried to struggle free, but the weight on his back only increased. He flailed behind him with his sword, hoping to connect with dragon flesh, but found nothing but air. He was slowly getting pressed into the ground; soon the only give left would be from his squishy body. He roared at the increasing pain, feeling his eyeballs start to bulge. It wouldn’t be long before his head popped like an overripe berry. He kept slashing back behind him as best he could, to no avail. He could feel the sinews in his shoulder strain to the breaking point as he cut and cut and cut at the awkward angle. Then the dragon withdrew its paw.

Every instinct in Gill screamed for him to take advantage of the momentary reprieve, but he was so embedded in the ground that he was stuck. He had to use nearly all of what little energy he had left to push himself out of the man print the dragon had created. When the ground finally released him, Gill scrambled away, then turned to face his foe. The big red beast stood looking at him intently. For an insane moment, Gill thought it looked familiar. He narrowed his eyes as he searched for recognition, but it was too bizarre a notion, no matter how uncanny it seemed. He got to his feet and readied himself for the next exchange.

“Put down your blade, Guillot.”

It took everything that Gill had to not drop his sword in shock. His brains felt scrambled from all the tumbling about—had he imagined the voice?

“Put it down.”

No, he hadn’t. He held the sword out before him, and shook his head resolutely. He couldn’t believe he was considering answering this creature.

“Enough of your kind have died,” the dragon said. “Enough of mine too. Put down your sword and we can settle this without violence.”

Gill’s immediate reaction was indignation. This creature was no different than the one that had destroyed Villerauvais. No different than the one that had killed Beausoleil. Or was it? He remembered how peaceful the golden dragon had looked when he’d first spotted it, knew this one could have killed him with ease had it chosen to. Instead, it had released him. Why? He wanted to find out. He lowered his sword.

“On the ground,” the dragon said. “Over there.”

The Cup’s effects had worn off. This beast could kill him easily, sword in hand or not. Gill shrugged and tossed it to the side.

“Good,” the dragon said. “A moment, if you would?”

Gill nodded, and the dragon started getting smaller. At first Gill thought he might have been right about the head injury. Then he realised it was not just getting smaller—it was changing shape. Soon it started to resemble a human. A human that Gill recognised.

“François?” he said. He felt a flash of anger. This man had killed Barnot and stolen the Cup. Gill’s eyes flicked to his sword and he wondered if he could get to it, and then to the beast, before it was able to revert to its dragon form. If it had wanted him to drop his sword, that meant it was vulnerable in this state.

“I apologise for my deception,” the dragon said. “My name is Pharadon.”

“You murdered my friend, Pharadon,” Gill said.

Pharadon’s brow furrowed. Gill found it hard to believe that only moments before he had been an enormous red dragon.

“I did no harm to anyone,” Pharadon said. “Which of your friends was killed?”

“Barnot. The bald one.” It occurred to Gill that Pharadon was naked. He did his best to avert his gaze.

Pharadon shook his head. “Both of your friends were still in the tavern when I departed. Both alive.”

“You expect me to believe you?”

“Yes. You still live, do you not? Do you think it would be difficult for me to end you if I so chose?”

It was reasonable logic, but Gill was confused. Pharadon might have killed Barnot in self-defence after he was caught stealing the Cup.

“The Cup,” Gill said. “Why did you take it?”

Pharadon shook his head. “It seems you have suffered some misfortunes recently, but you are very much mistaken in attributing them to me. I met with you because I wanted to understand you before I decided what to do. I chose not to kill you.”

“That’s very generous of you,” Gill said. “But those of your kind that I’ve met haven’t fared so well.”

Pharadon laughed. “Dragonkind are not so different to humans. You can meet all sorts. Some better than others. Things were not looking so good for you only moments ago. That should inform you on where I lie on that scale.”

“What’s this all about?” Gill said.

“You’re a dragonslayer. What your people call a ‘Chevalier.’ As best I can tell you’re the only one, and thus the only one who poses a real threat to my kind. I want you to stop.”

“Why not just kill me?”

“I had intended to, until we spoke, and I learned of your loss and your motivation. More killing won’t make things better for either of us.”

“Your kind have been doing most of the killing,” Gill said.

“Indeed. As with your race, there are good and bad amongst mine. This goldscale has the potential to be good. I like to think that I do also. Leave us be, and we will do the same for you.”

“If I disagree?”

“I’ll kill you where you stand. I can smell that you have lost your magic. I suspect you know what that means as well as I do. If you choose to fight me, you will die.”

As a younger man, Gill would have laughed in Pharadon’s face, a display of defiance and bravado that would show how unimpressed he was. However, there was neither boast nor threat in what Pharadon had said. It was merely a statement of what would come to pass.

“What now, then?” Gill said.

“I’ll take this goldscale deep into the mountains and we will never be seen again.”

“What if there are more dragons?”

“A possibility,” Pharadon said. “I will make it my duty to shepherd them into the mountains, far from where any humans dwell. There are many places on this world that are unknown to your kind. There is space for all and no need for conflict.”

“And if you miss one?”

Pharadon shrugged. The gesture looked awkward—a movement copied from observation, not generated by emotion. “I don’t have all the answers. If there are more dragons, some conflict might occur, but on this day, that is not necessary.”

Gill felt there was more he should be saying. He had never been party to the negotiations that had ended any of the wars he had fought in; he now wondered if this was what it had felt like for the people on the weaker side of the table. Should he ask for something in return for agreeing? He couldn’t think of anything.

“How is it that you can speak?” he said. None of the other dragons he had fought had shown any sign of being able to. He found it incredibly unsettling. A terrifying beast was bad enough. One that could speak and think was so much worse.

Pharadon laughed. “How is it that you can speak? Dragonkind were already old when your kind had their first reasoned thought. There were creatures and races before us capable of the same, and I’m sure there will be more after we have all passed from the world. None of us are unique, it is only our experience of life that is special, and that is what I wish to preserve.”

A point of view like that was hard to argue against. What more was there for Gill to say?

“You won’t be seen again?”

The dragon shook his head. Again, the movement looked somehow unnatural, unnerving. Gill wondered if it would look more normal in dragon form. “Any travel we need to undertake in the realm of humans, we will do at night. We won’t be seen, and soon enough, we’ll be far from here.”

“Then I … I agree to your terms.”

Pharadon smiled and nodded. The gesture was short, led by his chin, and seemed as artificial as all the others.

“I wish you well,” Pharadon said.

“I’ll be on my way then,” Gill said.

Pharadon nodded again, still smiling. It was an awkward moment. Gill hadn’t had the chance to look around for his horse, but chasing after it like an idiot while an ancient dragon disguised as a naked man watched was not an activity he could muster any enthusiasm for. He looked about and whistled. The horse owed him no great loyalty, and with the golden dragon still ambling about near the trees, Gill didn’t expect it to respond. It did, however. Feeling relieved, Gill collected his sword and mounted. With no idea of what more to say, he gave Pharadon a salute and rode for Venne.

CHAPTER 36

“Did you have any trouble getting here?” the Prince Bishop asked.

“I came in disguise. Took back streets. Things are tense. There’s trouble in places, but so long as you’re clever, it can be avoided.”

“You bring good news, I presume, since you chose to run that gauntlet?”

“I think so, yes.”

“Interesting,” the Prince Bishop said. He walked to his office window and stood in silence, looking down into the garden.

Solène did her best not to let the awkwardness of the moment get to her. She had seen him do this a number of times now, and had come to realise it was a ploy he used to assert himself. He was free to move about, he had the power to take time to think, he could leave his visitors squirming in silence for as long as he chose.

“So, tell me what you’ve been able to find?” he said, without looking at her.

She had searched late into the night, finally falling asleep at her desk. Her first act on waking was to call on him to make her report. “I’ve searched with all my ability, and I can’t find anything about the temple. I did find mention of nodes, though, where magical energy gathered naturally. The nodes are the only thing I have to go on. There weren’t many of them, and it stands to reason that the temple would have been built on one.”

“A reasonable theory,” Amaury said, turning back to face her. “And you think these nodes will lead us to the temple?”

Lead me, she thought. She had decided she would use his help to find the place, then make sure he could never use it. “It’s a guess, but it’s the best I have to go on.”

“And you can find these nodes?”

“In theory, yes,” Solène said. “There are a lot of variables, not least the fact that no one’s seen or interacted with one in a very long time. If they still exist, I should be able to trace them. That still leaves the problem of finding which one marked the location of the temple, and if there’s anything left of it.”

“A place of such powerful magic couldn’t be completely destroyed,” he said.

The certainty in his voice gave Solène pause for thought. She needed to help him enough to stop the dragons, but not enough to grant him all the power he sought. He was a clever foe, and dangerous. Either he knew more than he was letting on, or the pressure was starting to get to him. She wasn’t sure which worried her more.

“That may well be the case,” she said. “But it will take time to find them.”

“Are you ready to move forward with this plan?”

“Yes,” Solène said.

“I need you for one task before you start. After that, you’ll have every asset you need in your search for this temple, including one of the new bannerets I’ve recruited to do any heavy lifting for you. He won’t have any magic, but he’ll be good with a blade. I don’t want anything happening to you, and even you need to sleep sometimes. It’s just like the old days—a mage with bannermen as bodyguards. I’m coming around to realising that it wasn’t so bad an arrangement after all.”

She opened her mouth to object, then closed it, realising that she didn’t have any say in the matter. She was a Sister of the Order and he was her commander. That was how it worked. She could only hope that she had learned enough to keep her power under control.

“I’ll need a little time to prepare. The rest of the day at least.”

“Fine,” he said. “Be ready to depart in the morning.”

Ysabeau greeted Amaury with a smile when he walked into the salon of his townhouse.

“Has Gaston seen to everything you need?” Amaury said.

“Everything,” Ysabeau said. “I hear there’s trouble in the city?”

“It was to be expected. It will pass as soon as the Order do what I’ve ordered them to.”

“You’re sure this was the right moment?”

“I doubt there’ll be a better one. Which brings me to why I’ve come home early. The trouble has brought us an opportunity. There’s something I need you to do.”

Her smile faded a little, and he wondered why, but was too busy to worry about it.

“Seneschal dal Drezony has become a thorn in my side. She’s become an obstacle to the Order’s future. Now is a good time to remove her. We can do it under the cover of the growing trouble on the streets.”

“That stuck-up bitch?” Ysabeau said, her smile widening. “It’s about time she had a fall.”

“I remember your difficulties with her when you were still in the Order. I thought you might enjoy this job.” He paused. “I have other people who can handle it, if you prefer?”

“No,” Ysabeau said. “This is one I want for myself.”

“Excellent. I need to visit the Priory. I’ll send her on an errand, which should give you ample opportunity to deal with her. Make it look like a random attack, like mob justice.”

“That won’t be a problem.”

“Come back here as soon as you’re done. There’s something else I need you to do, someone I’d like you to keep an eye on.”

Amaury sent word for both Solène and dal Drezony the moment he arrived at the Priory, then went straight to the office that was reserved for his use. He had set out his things by the time dal Drezony arrived. She wore the sullen expression that she seemed to keep at the ready for him these days, and said nothing as she waited to hear what he wanted. He placed his purple leather document case on the desk in front of her.

“The king would like some updates on the Order’s status from you, in person.”

“No longer trusts your word?” she said.

“Quite the contrary. I’m simply busy with other things. I’ve put together some reports that I’ve received from Vachon and others, that you might not have seen yet. Have a read through them before meeting with the king, and please make sure to return them to me at the palace after your meeting. I haven’t had time to have copies made yet.”

“Perish the thought that your records would not be up to date,” dal Drezony said.

Amaury gave her a thin smile. “Indeed.” He hoped Ysabeau made it hurt.

“The king requires your presence at three bells, sharp.”

“The streets aren’t exactly safe for us right now,” she said.

“You have other clothes? Things that aren’t in the Order’s colours?”

She nodded. “I should be able to find something.”

“Then I suggest you wear them. Things will settle down in a few days, but until then, I agree that staying within the Priory’s walls is the best course for the most part, and going out in normal attire is advisable when trips outside the walls like this are necessary. I’ve assigned two platoons of the King’s Guard to bolster the Priory’s defences. They should be here and manning the walls before nightfall.”

“I appreciate your concern.”

“You’re welcome,” Amaury said. “You may go, but before you do, one more word of advice. I’d adopt a more respectful tone when talking to the king, if I were you.”

She took the document case and left. He basked in the knowledge that yet another thorn in his side was about to be removed. He was full of excited energy.

For the first time in so many years, it felt as though anything was possible. His plans were coming to fruition, his dreams were about to be realised, and although he knew there would be more obstacles to overcome, he would be doing so with near limitless power—as soon as he worked out how to make the Cup’s effect permanent. The people would come to accept what he had brought them as the great gift that it was, and would share in Mirabaya’s glory when she took her place as the greatest power in the world.

“You wished to see me, your Grace?” Solène said, joining him a few minutes later.

“You recall the Cup we spoke about before?”

He watched her carefully, knowing that he was becoming a little paranoid. When had he come to think that everyone might be lying to him?

“I, yes, I remember it. The ceremony involved drinking from something they called the Amatus Cup.”

“Precisely,” Amaury said. He paused for a moment, wondering how best to proceed. How much did he want to tell her? How much could he trust her with? It could take him a lifetime to unlock the Cup’s secrets. It might take her only an afternoon.

“My agents have located the Cup and delivered it to me,” he said.

Solène looked shocked. The colour in her face drained away, and she seemed to wobble on her feet.

“Are you all right, Solène?” he said.

“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” she said. “I’m just stunned that you were able to find something that’s been missing for so long.”

Amaury beamed with pride, then frowned. “How did you know it was lost?”

“Well, it must have been, or you wouldn’t have had to send agents out to find it. The only mention of it that I found is from centuries ago.”

He relaxed a little. He was becoming too suspicious. “True,” he said. “Before I send you off to look for the temple, I need you to help me with the Cup. I believe it can confer advantages to our fighting men and women. With the arrival of these new dragons, we have to assume there are more still to come, that they are a new terror that we have to deal with on an ongoing basis. To successfully do that, we need to work out how to use the Cup to create a new generation of men and women who can deal with these creatures.”

“I, I’ll have to focus my study on that,” she said.

Amaury studied her for a moment, then decided to change his approach. He needed her to help willingly, not under protest like dal Drezony. He would never get the best out of her otherwise, and would end up having to deal with her when she finally refused one of his commands.

“It’s very important,” Amaury said. “We now have the tool to defend ourselves, but not the knowledge to use it. Enough brothers and sisters of the Order have died trying to slay these beasts. I owe it to each and every one of you I send out to give you the best possible chance.” He pursed his lips and collected his thoughts. “When I created the Order, it was with the betterment of all the people of Mirabaya in mind. Think of all the things that magic can do to make people’s lives easier. Think of the safe haven it provides for young people like you, who would likely face the pyre if others learn they are mages.

“This is the most dangerous moment in the Order’s existence. It could founder at any moment. Or it can become strong, vibrant, and integral to Mirabayan society. If we can slay these dragons, we can show the people that we are their saviours and they’ll love us. Right now, a thousand years of that hatred and fear is threatening to boil over. Not only do we need this victory, we need it quickly.”

She nodded slowly, as though digesting what he had said.

“I know I’ve been asking a lot of you, but with a little luck, that will all pay off soon, and you’ll be able to take a well-deserved rest. Spend the evening searching for anything you can find. Learn whatever you can about the Cup. We have to leave in the morning, to do the best we can for our brothers and sisters.”

“I’ll do my best to find something.”

“That’s all I ask.”

CHAPTER 37

Solène trudged back to the Priory that night, no closer to finding an answer to her predicament. The city was still busy even at that hour, with animated groups moving about the place with menacing countenances. They had lit fires on street corners to stay warm. It was obvious that some people were looking for trouble, and she could only hope that they wouldn’t choose her to find it. She had long since adapted to living under threat, so her fear now almost felt like slipping back into a comfortable old pair of shoes—bearing a secret that could get her killed, but going about her life as she needed to regardless.

When she got back to the Priory, the place was abuzz. She had no idea what was causing the flurry of activity, but she didn’t really care. There was too much on her mind. The people around her seemed full of fearful energy. She barely recognised anyone. Most of those who had been there when she had first arrived, weeks earlier, had been sent on the dragon-hunting expedition, leaving only those too junior and the new hires who’d been left behind to protect the Priory. Some of the younger ones, who had been brought into the Order shortly after their talent for magic had manifested itself, had never known what it was like to live with the terror that she and the other older members had known. She couldn’t help but feel a measure of contempt for them, wondering how they would have coped with her life if this was the effect of a day or two of danger.

Then she heard dal Drezony’s name and stopped dead in her tracks. Spotting a young woman she recognised from the refectory, Solène approached her and said, “I heard people talking about Seneschal dal Drezony. Is something wrong?”

The young woman, a novice mage, gave a grim smile. “She was identified while out in the city. They murdered her.”

Without a word, Solène stumbled away in utter shock, retreating to her room without conscious thought. She sat on the edge of her bed and burst into tears. Dal Drezony was the best the Order had to offer. She was its voice of conscience, its moral compass. Without her, the Order would be dominated by men like Vachon. These were not the type of men who staffed hospitals or cared for the poor. They conquered and destroyed. Who was left to guide the Order in the right direction?

Only Solène. She had something the Prince Bishop wanted and she possessed enough power that he had to take her seriously. She might not agree with the Prince Bishop, might not like the direction the Order was being taken in, but that didn’t mean she had to stand by while it all fell apart. If he wanted her continued cooperation, the Prince Bishop would have to listen to her opinions. If he wanted her help, then she was going to need something in return. Her tears stopped and her resolve strengthened. She would see that the Order became what dal Drezony had intended—a force for good, something loved by the people rather than feared or hated. If not, the Prince Bishop could spend the rest of his days scrabbling in the dirt looking for his temple and trying to make the Cup work.

Decision made, Solène slipped out of the Priory and walked quickly toward the palace, determination outweighing fear. Within a few streets of the Priory, she relaxed a little, knowing that she could blend into the crowd. No one would realise where she had come from. That didn’t change the fact that she would have preferred to be pretty much anywhere else, doing pretty much anything else. The tension on the streets was so great now that it was not just the members of the Order who had to worry. She had heard that the City Watch had come under attack, as had some royal officials. Soon enough, she feared, disagreements between ordinary citizens would turn to violence.

Knowing there would be people gathered at the central square in front of the cathedral on the Isle, she took the longer route, around the back of the cathedral to the right bank at the eastern end of the city. She would have to walk the length of Mirabay to reach the palace on the western hill, but she reckoned she would have a safer journey through the less-populated southern section.

She was not surprised to see far more soldiers on duty at the palace than during her previous visits. They were far more alert, as well, and she was subjected to a barrage of questions before they sent for someone from the Prince Bishop’s office to confirm her identity.

When she finally got to his office, she was shown straight in. The Prince Bishop looked at her with tired but hopeful eyes.

“Have you got anything for me?”

“I believe I do.”

The goldscale had wandered off into the foothills toward the end of Pharadon’s encounter with the slayer—with Gill. Pharadon had needed to rest for hours after changing form—it still wasn’t coming easily to him—and in that time, he had seen the goldscale following her curiosity, exhibiting all the encouraging signs of being perfectly suited for enlightenment. It was always thrilling to bring a mind from the darkness into light, no matter how many times Pharadon had done it. In this instance, it was both terrifying and exciting.

Pharadon could tell that the power this young dragon would enjoy after only a few years of maturity would make his own pale by comparison. It was an incredible thing to consider. Intimidating. Tragic that the goldscale would never have the chance to reside at the highest levels of dragon society.

Only hours remained before the goldscale would be too mature to be brought to enlightenment, so he knew he had to act soon if he hoped to get her to the temple in time. Once he had her subdued—in a kind of magical half sleep—he would have more time to prepare and carry out the ceremony, which he would do at the temple. So long as he was careful, he could keep the goldscale in half sleep for as long as a couple of weeks, though not much longer. While this semi-hibernation would prevent the juvenile from doing anything that would hasten maturity, such as excessive eating, it would not halt the slower, longer natural maturation process. So he would have time to prepare the temple and remind himself how the alternative process of enlightenment was carried out, but he would need to be mindful of the goldscale’s development so that he did not miss his opportunity.

The human had asked him if he had taken his cup—what was he talking about? Pieces moved around inside Pharadon’s mind until a connection was made. Might Gill’s “cup” be a vessel of enlightenment? He had not encountered any human mages since waking, which struck him as odd. When he had exiled himself into the mountains, there had been many of them, with some capable of shaping magics as powerful as any dragon. The Chevalier had no detectable affinity to the Fount, yet he had the remnants of magical protections, which could have been bestowed only by a mage. Or by a vessel of enlightenment. Such vessels were imbued with the power to bring a single creature to enlightenment; afterward, they contained enough residual magic to confer abilities of respectable strength, albeit fleeting in terms of longevity. The Godsteel they were forged from had innate magical qualities, including an affinity to the Fount that allowed it to draw power to itself and store it.

He focussed on the goldscale again. The first goldscale had come to enlightenment all by itself. Watching the juvenile, Pharadon wondered if this had been the way: curiosity and exploration stressing its mind until it opened up and began to understand the things around it.

Back in dragon form now, he hovered over the goldscale, downwind and high enough that she would not be able to detect him with her normal senses. He added a little magic to mask his presence and set to drawing enough of the Fount to himself to shape the magic he needed to use. As tendrils of the Fount swirled up toward him and enveloped him, he purged his mind of all but the desire he wished to fulfill, refining the thought into a concept so precise that it seemed like it could exist on its own.

The goldscale started with surprise and looked about herself for a threat. She couldn’t sense him, and she certainly couldn’t smell him, so unless she looked directly at him, she would be unlikely to detect Pharadon. She moved about in agitation—she did not need to be enlightened to know that something was going on. Pharadon maintained his focus, forcing as much of the Fount’s energy as he could toward his desired outcome. Gradually, the goldscale’s movements began to slow, although they became more agitated. She looked as though she was struggling against invisible bonds, which was exactly what she was doing. At the same time, Pharadon’s magic was trying to soothe her mind, which was proving far more challenging.

Eventually he could sense the quieting take effect, the fear and resistance born of the goldscale’s instinct for survival giving way to the weight of the magic Pharadon pressed upon her. Eventually, she sat and grew still. Now for the hard part, Pharadon thought. No creature could be brought to enlightenment unwillingly. Even in its base state, a dragon’s mind contained a kernel of wisdom and insight. The savage parts of its being prevailed most of the time, but base dragons could, in moments, be capable of behaviour as refined and insightful as any of their enlightened brethren.

Enlightenment allowed wisdom and insight to take charge, but even afterward, the savage part remained, lurking deep within, waiting for any opportunity to reassert itself. Having heard Gill’s story in the small village tavern, Pharadon knew the tragedy in Alpheratz’s life had caused the balance to shift, allowing his more savage instincts to control him. That sort of tragic descent was feared by all enlightened; thankfully, few ever had to contend with it.

When he was certain the goldscale was not going to attack him, Pharadon landed and approached in as unthreatening a way as he could. Memories of his long-ago enlightenment let him recall how powerless he had felt at the time. Though still young, he had seen dragons fight and kill one another, and had been afraid he was about to meet his end. However, the old dragon who was going to enlighten him had sat next to him and started to tell a tale. At the start of their path to enlightenment, each dragon was told a similar tale, one that had taken on features added by each teller. Whole clans and even individual generations could be identified by how their story differed from others’.

“Araxion was the first of our kind to call himself enlightened,” Pharadon said now. The juvenile goldscale looked up at him with wild eyes in which he could see a glimmer of awareness. “Like you, he was a goldscale, as rare a thing then when the sky over these mountains was filled with our kind as it is now. You are fortunate to be blessed so, and I hope that you can come to understand that.

“Araxion’s time was a savage one, a time without reason, but Araxion was different. Araxion asked questions of the world around him, as I have seen you do. He wanted to know, to understand, but his mind was still in the dark and could not make sense of what he experienced, nor give voice to the questions he was trying to ask. He struggled with this for days. For weeks. For months. Then, one day, he understood the question he had fought to find within himself. It was the first question of all things: Why?

“Why does the sun shine? Why does the wind blow? Why do the tides ebb and flow? Why am I?

“The question showed Araxion that a path existed, a path that he had yet to venture down. Ask yourself, of all the wonder you have witnessed during your short life, who are you, and where do you fit in it all?”

The goldscale’s eyes narrowed for a moment. Pharadon felt encouraged.

“Once he understood that there were questions, he was compelled to seek out answers. He flew long and wide, visiting places where no dragon had ever been. The world was young then, but the lands were filled with beasts, and the seas with fish. Araxion was the first to give voice to the question, and he realised there was no one but himself to answer it. Araxion had grown old by the time he understood.

“The answers were to be found in only one place. The place where it had all started, where the question had fought its way from the darkness to be expressed. His mind.

“He looked within himself once more, struggling to find that answer in much the same way he struggled to find the question. He could tell it was there, somewhere, like a scent on a summer breeze, but he could not grasp it. He raged within himself, and at moments was tempted to abandon his quest. His lifespan might be great, but he had sacrificed much of it to the question, while his kin revelled in simplicity. They fed, they flew, they fought, they revelled, they mated … but Araxion could not allow himself to let go of the glimmer of light that led him along this seemingly endless path.

“Then he did something that no dragon before him had done. He opened his eyes and he saw, truly saw. The world was bathed in a dancing blue light, coruscating across every surface, making it look like a great sapphire that had caught a flame. He saw the Fount, the energy of life, of the world, and of all things in it. He saw the sun rise above the horizon, and he understood. He saw the rain fall from the clouds, and he understood. He saw himself reflected on the surface of a still lake, and he understood. He asked himself who he was, what he would be, why he was, and he understood. And he rejoiced.”

The goldscale’s eyes narrowed again. The glimmer of awareness was still there, and Pharadon had hope.

“I ask you the questions he asked of himself, that were asked of me and of all the others of our kind who know the joy of enlightenment.” He raised his voice to a crescendo until it boomed like thunder. “Who are you?”

The goldscale stared at him blankly, but Pharadon could see the light within her burning steadily. No dragon ever responded to the first demand.

“What will you be?” he continued.

The goldscale’s eyes narrowed again. Its brow furrowed.

“Why are you?”

The goldscale’s eyes flashed bright and then settled to a faint blue glow. Pharadon felt a shiver of relief and joy run through him as he realised that he was not to be alone, that he was not to be the last of his kind. The young dragon’s mind had opened itself to enlightenment. In that moment, to Pharadon’s eyes, the world was bathed in the glory of the Fount, that beautiful blue light, and he knew the joy of wonderment as freshly as he had first experienced it during his own ascent to enlightenment.

Pharadon could tell that the goldscale had seen the Fount too from the way she looked about herself. The hard part had been successfully completed. The parts of the goldscale’s mind that had lain dormant up to that moment were now filled with energy, creating the impossible from nothing more than thought. But unless the goldscale drank from a vessel of enlightenment, that energy would ebb away like a dying light, leaving only darkness in its wake. Pharadon had won more time for his task, but it was not limitless.

“Come with me, if you desire it,” Pharadon said, “and I will show you where the answers lie.”

It was not unknown for a dragon to refuse such an invitation. Pharadon could remember how terrifying that was—to be on the verge of understanding something so enormous that it threatened to cleave your mind in two. Some dragons were too afraid. Some were too close to their descent and could not be pulled from the precipice. Some were too haughty to think they could be any better than they already were. Such refusals were sad for all involved—any dragon that would not accept enlightenment would be put to death.

The goldscale nodded her head; she was uncertain at first, but as she looked about herself, realising the great power that made the world work, the nodding became ever more vigorous.

CHAPTER 38

Since Gill’s encounter with the dragons had ended in the mid-afternoon, he knew it would be after dark by the time he got back to Venne. That in itself was no great problem, but he couldn’t face going back there, so took the excuse to camp out for the night and give himself some time to think. He hadn’t come up with any answers to his worries by morning, however, and was still confused when he rode back to Venne. It seemed he had laid the threat of dragons to rest, but he hadn’t slain them. How did he explain that to the villagers? He doubted very much if any of them would believe the conversation he had had with Pharadon. He doubted any of them would believe that dragons could talk, much less take on human form. He wasn’t sure he believed it himself, though he had seen and heard it.

Could he trust Pharadon? Although the dragon’s behaviour suggested he was being earnest, it was unsettling to know the two dragons were still out there. They could have killed Gill easily if they had chosen, yet they had not. Having witnessed the beasts cause so much death and destruction, Guillot found it difficult to think of them as intelligent and reasoning. Yet he recalled the expressive face of the first dragon he had killed, remembered wondering what it was thinking.

There was no way he could tell the villagers what had actually happened, which meant he needed to come up with something else, and come up with it quickly. The previous day, everyone had known that he was riding out to go after the last of the dragons, and when he returned, they would want to know what had happened. He believed he had two options. Either he said he couldn’t find it, that it seemed to have moved on, or he said he had killed it.

If he told them he had killed the gold one, and someone then saw it in flight, would the whole cycle of panic and terror begin again? That wasn’t the answer. Perhaps a truth that omitted some of the facts, allowing the villagers to come to their own conclusion? It felt a little devious, but it seemed like the best solution that was available to him.

What to say? That the dragon was gone? That was too nebulous, and invited further questioning. He needed something better. Only when he was within sight of the village did something better occur to him—and just in time. As soon as he was spotted, a small crowd gathered near the remains of the tent village that had been set up by the adventurers.

“Did you kill it?” someone shouted, once Gill was within earshot.

He did his best to give them a broad smile. “It won’t be bothering you again.”

There was a cheer, and he felt like a fraud, but only for a moment. After all, he had killed the other two, not to mention the big one that started it all. So long as Pharadon kept to his word and stayed out of sight while he took the gold one deep into the mountains, no one ever needed to know the truth. Gill did his best to wave and respond to the adulation, as uncomfortable as it made him. He couldn’t get back to the tavern quickly enough, though even there, there were eager villagers to help him down and take his horse away for grooming and feeding. Celebrity did have its perks.

Inside the inn, at the sight of Gill, Gaufre reached for a bottle of the wine he kept on his top shelf. Gill’s stomach turned at the thought and he shook his head.

“Just some water.” He sat near the bar, knowing he wasn’t going to get any peace for a few hours yet, until the news that the danger was ended had reached everyone, and they had all come to see their conquering hero. The dread he felt at this thought was something of a comfort to him—he would have been far less impressed with himself had he been looking forward to the adulation, as would once have been the case.

Edine entered the taproom and walked over as soon as she spotted him.

“It’s over?” she said.

He nodded. A question he reckoned he could answer honestly. “It is.”

It looked as though a weight had been lifted off her.

“I’d say ‘thank the gods,’ but I suppose it wasn’t them who did it,” Edine said. “I can’t begin to tell you how grateful I am. How grateful we all are.”

Gill nodded and smiled. What was there to say?

“What next?” she said.

“Some sleep would be a good place to start. After that?” He shrugged. “The first dragon destroyed my seigneury, so there’s no reason to go back there. I’m sure I’ll come up with something.”

“There’s plenty to be done here over the next few months,” she said. “We could always use a hand, particularly since we don’t have a seigneur anymore.”

“I appreciate the offer,” Gill said, “but I’m not sure I’m ready to take on such responsibility again so soon.”

“Well, give it some thought,” she said, before leaving him.

Gill sat by the tavern’s bar the next morning, nursing a mug of poor coffee, having kept to his room for as much of the previous day as possible, anxious that at any moment he’d be discovered as a fraud. He claimed to need rest, an excuse that was readily accepted. He would have left Venne already, were it not for the fact that he had nowhere to go. His incipient career as a dragonslayer seemed to have come to an end, although he couldn’t say he was sorry about that.

He wondered what Solène was doing. He hoped things in the city were working out for her the way she wanted. He hoped Val was safely on his way to Mirabay. He thought of Beausoleil, whom he had underestimated, and Cabham, whom he had overestimated, and of Barnot and the loss of the Cup. Tracking down the killer and the thief might be a worthwhile way to spend his days, but without the threat of dragons, there didn’t seem to be any need for the Cup. For the killer, he had no idea of where to start.

Even at his lowest ebb, Villerauvais had always been in the background, like a safety net. No more. A return to his former life of soldiering didn’t appeal. He’d seen enough destruction for one life. Slaying the dragons, and preventing them from harming anyone else, was, on reflection, the only positive use he had ever put his sword to.

Finished with his coffee, Gill walked outside. The destruction the dragons had left behind was evident. The air was damp and still held the smell of smoke. The village had lost a number of inhabitants that night. It would take the survivors some time to rebuild, and without a seigneur to oversee matters, Edine would have to shoulder much of the burden of the work. He’d never been good with his hands, unless one of them had a sword in it, so he couldn’t even help rebuild.

He started to explore the village, walking the few narrow streets that led away from the square. He could make out what some of the buildings had been before the attack—a bakery, a smithy, a mill—while others were so completely destroyed, it was impossible to tell. The villagers had started clearing, but they had a long journey ahead to erase the devastation of what had been only a few moments of destruction. It would take money to rebuild, but with two dragon carcasses to plunder, Venne would have plenty of that soon enough. He wondered what had become of his own trophy, left with the taxidermist in Trelain. He didn’t feel quite so enthusiastic about it anymore.

A worry lurked within him. What else could he have done? He would have been burned to a crisp if he had tried to fight, and it hadn’t seemed that fighting was necessary. Had he made the right choice? Would the people care that it was the right one, if they found out?

CHAPTER 39

Solène and the Prince Bishop travelled out of the city in an unmarked carriage before dawn. The driver had been given clear instructions to waste no time, and as the carriage bounced about on the muddy city streets, she hoped that the whole journey was not going to be as uncomfortable as its beginning.

The Prince Bishop watched the streets nervously through a crack in the cabin’s window blind until the city walls were well behind him. Only then did he sit back and force a smile. A plain wooden box with a brass lock plate sat on his lap.

“How did you find it?” he said.

She shrugged. “I pieced information together from a number of documents.”

His face darkened. “You’re sure it will work?”

“Absolutely certain.”

“What does it do?”

“I’m not sure of everything, but it seems to protect the beneficiary from fire. It might bring some other benefits, but that’s the main one, as best I could find out.”

“I can see how that would help. Coupled with their military skill, Vachon’s people should be able to manage killing the dragon.”

“Where are we going?” Solène said.

“The Order’s expedition is waiting for us at Gardonne. We’ll administer the Cup’s … What are they called?”

She shrugged. “Its gifts.”

“That fits. We’ll administer its gifts and the Spurriers will continue their journey to the region that’s currently afflicted. I only hope they have time to deal with the matter and return to the city before the next incident occurs.”

“You think there’ll be more?” Solène said.

“We have to be prepared for the eventuality. That’s why it was so important to learn how to make more fighters like the old Chevaliers of the Silver Circle.”

“What then? Do you think that will be enough to make the people accept the Order?”

“No, but it will be a step in the right direction. This will show them that the Order will protect them. Next, we’ll show that we can also help them. Restore and maintain order. Heal. That sort of thing.”

She wondered how he intended to maintain order, and felt the sickness of worry return to her stomach.

“With Seneschal dal Drezony gone,” Solène said, “I’d like to take a more active role in the Order.”

The Prince Bishop smiled indulgently. “That’s exactly what I intended for you. As soon as we find this temple, and learn what more the Cup can do.”

“You think the Cup is capable of more?” she said.

“Of course,” Amaury said, then paused. Solène could see from his expression he thought he had said too much. “Perhaps, perhaps not, but it’s best to know one way or the other, don’t you think? It would be a great crime to have the key to unlock so much potential and not explore it fully.”

“I suppose so,” Solène said. She would have preferred that he not suspect, but he was too intelligent to not have come up with the question. “Sometimes I worry, though.”

He frowned, leaned forward, and raised a questioning eyebrow. “Really? Why?”

She shrugged. “It took the Imperial mages generations to learn how to exploit and control magic. Might we be foolhardy, rushing in and looking for shortcuts?”

“But you already have their level of power, Solène. And if you do, I’m sure others do as well. I’m seeking a way to help you. The sooner we learn to tame this great power of yours, the sooner you and others like you will be safe to explore your potential to its fullest.”

She had to admit he had great skill in identifying what someone wanted to hear and saying it in a way the person might actually believe.

He leaned back and grimaced at the uncomfortable ride. “I wish we could have taken my personal carriage,” he said. “But all things considered, I thought an unmarked one was a better choice.

“I think the temple is the key to everything. The archive has too many holes to be fully relied upon. The Cup and the temple are connected, and it is there that we will learn what the vessel is fully capable of.”

Solène forced a smile and nodded. She had no difficulty giving the Prince Bishop the means to defend the realm from dragons. Handing him unlimited power was an entirely different problem.

“I’m going to sleep awhile if I can,” he said. “I haven’t had much opportunity for it over the past few days. Wake me when we arrive.”

He shut his eyes and was snoring gently a few moments later. Solène watched him, wondering if he was really asleep or using a ruse to put her off guard. She wondered if a man with as many schemes as he ever truly slept.

It was the middle of the night when they arrived at the camp, though Solène suspected dawn could not be very far away. Everything about the place said military, from the orderly grid layout to the presence of a large command tent at the centre. Lit with campfires and flickering torches at regular intervals, it was exactly what she imagined an army camp to look like, though she assumed this was much smaller than one of those. Something about it made her feel ill at ease when she thought of the Order and its aims, and there was no longer the comforting knowledge that dal Drezony was working behind the scenes.

The Prince Bishop woke as soon as the carriage lurched to a halt, adding support to her suspicion that he had not been asleep at all. When he and Solène got out, they were greeted by Vachon, who looked as though he had only just hauled himself out of his camp bed.

“Your Grace,” he said. “Good news, I hope?”

“Indeed,” the Prince Bishop said. “Sister Solène here will administer a magical rite that will aid you in your fight against the dragons.”

“About that,” Vachon said. “Word passed through the local village that one of the dragons has already been killed.”

This was a surprise to Solène, but if the Prince Bishop wasn’t expecting the news, then he certainly didn’t show it.

“Was there anything else?”

Vachon shook his head. “No. Only that every unemployed banneret and his dog has turned up at the closest village, Venne, looking to kill a dragon. Sounds like one of them managed to pull it off.”

“All the more reason to move quickly, then,” the Prince Bishop said.

“We’ll be ready to ride hard once you’ve done what you have to do. I’ll take a flying column with me and leave some people to break camp and follow us. The village is less than a day from here. With a bit of effort and some help from your sorcerers, we can be there in time for supper.”

“Very good. Have your people ready themselves. This won’t take long.”

Vachon barked out commands, and a dozen men and women in the Order’s cream robes grudgingly emerged from their tents and assembled in front of them. The Prince Bishop presented the box to Solène, who opened it. Inside, the Cup sat nestled in wine-coloured velvet like a religious artefact. Trying to give the impression that she had never seen the thing before, she took the Cup from the box, showing as much reverence as she could. The Prince Bishop smiled genially, with the arrogance of one who thinks he has the solution to everyone’s problems.

“We’ll need water,” she said. “Not much. Just a drop for everyone here.”

Vachon issued another command in his usual abrasive tone, and a full water skin was presented. Solène filled the Cup halfway, then took the slender dagger from her belt and dipped the tip into the water.

“Who’s first?” she said.

She expected Vachon to volunteer, but he hesitated. Even one so blustery as him feared magic, it seemed. Eventually his will overcame his misgivings and he stepped forward. “It’s safe?” he said.

“Perfectly,” the Prince Bishop said.

“Open wide,” she said, enjoying the experience of being able to command Vachon to do something he was clearly afraid of. Her mind flashed back to the impassive way he had watched the man being flogged at the Priory; she wondered if there was any way she could add a dose of vomiting and diarrhoea to the Cup’s gifts, but reckoned this wasn’t the time to start improvising. She lifted the dagger from the water and began reciting the charm in old Imperial—she wanted to make it as difficult as she could for anyone to replace her—as she waited for a droplet to form at the tip of the blade. She lifted the dagger, allowing the drop to fall from a height into Vachon’s mouth, trying to give the Prince Bishop and everyone else a bit of a show.

Vachon winced as the cold liquid hit his tongue, then smacked his lips and looked at Solène. “Is that it?”

She ignored him and finished the recitation, only then looking him in the eye. “Yes. Next.”

“I don’t feel any different.”

“You won’t until it matters. Next.”

She repeated the process for all the members of the Order. The Prince Bishop watched in silence. When she finished and stepped back from the row of people, he asked, “You’re certain that’s all that’s required?”

“As certain as I can be.”

“How long will it last?”

“I don’t know for sure,” she said.

“You heard her, Commander. We don’t know how long the effects will last, so you best get it done quickly.”

“Can’t we bring her and the Cup with us?”

“Not possible,” the Prince Bishop said smoothly, “though I wish it were.”

Vachon furrowed his brow in thought. “I need some idea of the duration.”

Solène furrowed her brow also, trying to recall how long after the ceremony Gill had killed the first dragon. She had a rough sense of the rate at which her own magic decayed. In theory, the Cup’s power should be stronger than hers, and the old Chevaliers were not allowed to take the vessel with them, so it stood to reason the effect would last long enough to get the job done. She took a guess. “After two days, you should expect the effects to have dissipated below a worthwhile level. The magic might last longer, but it would be a serious risk to try to find out.”

“That’ll be long enough,” Vachon said, as firmly as though he had hunted enough dragons to know exactly how long it would take.

“Prepare your people for the march, Commander Vachon,” the Prince Bishop said, and added, “A word in private with you before you go.”

“There’s a man I believe to be at large in the region you’ll be travelling to, Commander,” Amaury said once he and Vachon were a distance from Solène.

“At large?” the Order’s new commander asked.

“He’s a fugitive from the king’s justice. He did some work for the Crown in the recent past, but has been actively obstructing us at every opportunity since.”

“Want me to kill him?”

“I’d prefer not. I’d like him arrested and brought to me in Mirabay. He’s a tricky character, but if the Cup has given you the abilities to deal with dragons, then I expect you and your people will be able to deal with him too, so long as you exercise due caution and skill.”

Vachon nodded. “Who is it?”

“Guillot dal Villerauvais.”

Vachon laughed broadly, then stopped when he saw that Amaury was serious. “Villerauvais? Didn’t he kill the first dragon? People talk about him like the sun shines out of his arse. Seem to remember them saying something similar a few years back.”

“Do you know him?”

“Met him once, years back. We were both in the Royal Army then, fighting in the north.”

“Well, he slew the dragon with the help of your comrades-in-arms, who were sadly killed in the process. Since then—”

“I don’t need a reason or an explanation, your Grace,” Vachon said. “In fact, I prefer not to have them. Just give the order, and I’ll carry it out. Life’s simpler that way.”

Amaury smiled. This was exactly the type of man he liked working with.

“He was last seen in Venne. Chasing these new dragons, I expect.”

Vachon nodded. “What am I arresting him for?”

“Murder. Treason. Does it matter?”

Vachon smirked. “What if I can’t take him alive?”

“Kill him if you have to, but only if you have to. I don’t care if you have to knock him about a bit first. In fact, I’m happy for you to put some manners on him. It’ll be a taste of what’s to come.”

Vachon sighed. “Sad to see one of the greats fall like that. Some people just can’t seem to stay ahead, can they.”

Amaury raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t take you for the sympathetic type, Commander.”

“Not sympathy,” Vachon said. “Just a little theory of mine about fame, and those who’re hungry for it. Nothing good ever comes from it. Mark my words.”

Amaury smiled. “Indeed. That brings me to the other thing. I need to borrow one of your people. Someone handy with a blade who can work as a bodyguard.”

Vachon thought for a moment. “I have someone well suited to such work.”

“Marvellous,” Amaury said. “I wish you well and look forward to hearing of your success.”

He left Vachon, returning to Solène, who was waiting for him at the carriage.

“Do you have everything you need to start searching for these nodes you spoke of?”

Solène nodded. “I think so.”

“Good. Vachon has delegated one of his men to accompany you.” He took a purse from his belt. “This should cover whatever expenses you might incur. I think it best if you start your search now, rather than return to the city with me. Things might get difficult there in coming days, so it’s best if you are away and working, rather than cooped up at the Priory.”

CHAPTER 40

“Banneret Olivier, at your service.”

Solène looked him over. He was every bit the type of man who had come into the Order in the past few weeks—a military figure rather than one of the more eclectic types that had previously filled the ranks.

“You’ll do what I say, when I say it,” she said. “We’ll go where I say. Understand?”

“Those were my orders, Sister. I intend to follow them.”

“Good,” Solène said, somewhat surprised at his attitude.

“Might I ask where we’re going?”

Solène shrugged. “I’m not entirely sure yet. I know the direction and have an idea of what I’m looking for, but I’m not sure how far we’ll need to go and I’m not sure if we’ll ever find it.” She was lying, but felt no need to be honest.

“We certainly won’t find whatever it is by just standing here.”

“Very true,” Solène said. “Are you ready to leave?”

“I’ll get my horse.”

Solène watched him go and wondered where his loyalties lay, then wondered why she was even asking the question. She lived in a nest of vipers now, and assuming everyone was about to bite her would rarely see her wrong.

Being far from others would be the perfect opportunity to experiment with more powerful magic. So long as she didn’t overdo it and endanger herself, there would be no one else to harm. Other than Olivier, of course. She had to get rid of him. The question was, how?

A horse had been brought for her; she considered jumping onto it and galloping for the horizon, but couldn’t see that working out well. There were too many people around who were sure to stop her. She’d just given them a range of protections that she couldn’t claim to fully understand. It was possible that she had given them defences against all forms of magic, not just the dragon variety.

Olivier returned, a chivalrous smile on his face. “I’m ready, Sister,” he said.

“Perfect.” Without another word she mounted and urged her horse into a canter. They rode south, because that was the direction the animal was already facing. The nodes were said to be in remote places, so why not start with the mountain regions? When she reached the foothills, she would skirt along them until she detected something, or until it became clear they were wasting their time.

“A fine day, don’t you think?” Olivier said, after they had ridden a short distance, and the sun had broken the horizon. “I always love this time of ye—”

“I need to concentrate,” Solène said. Days of magically provided rest rather than proper sleep had her feeling strained and irritable. “Spells, and whatnot. Wouldn’t want them going wrong.”

He blanched at the mention of magic, then shut his mouth and kept it shut, much to Solène’s satisfaction. She wasn’t being entirely churlish and untruthful, either—she needed to work out how she was going to find the temple and what she was going to do when she did. She was growing ever more uncomfortable with the extent of the Prince Bishop’s ambition. This was her chance to get to the temple first and make sure the Prince Bishop never got his hands on the knowledge it might contain.

It occurred to her, as they rode, that perhaps the old Imperial mages hadn’t really needed any of what the temple offered. They already had all the power anyone could have wanted. Perhaps the temple was nothing more than a historical curiosity to them and they hadn’t been all that committed to finding it.

For her and others at this time, circumstances were rather different. If the temple held the key to instant power or to unlocking more from the Cup, as the Prince Bishop seemed to suspect, she definitely wanted to get there first. For some time now she had lived with the fact that she could easily kill not only a great many other people, but also herself. That had taught her both fear and respect. The Prince Bishop had learned neither of those lessons, and she suspected he didn’t have any difficulty with the idea of blowing up a number of unfortunate bystanders as he played with his new power.

The alternate scenario, in which he learned how to control that power and bend it to his will, was even more terrifying. If she got there first, she could ensure that neither eventuality came to pass.

She was all for people learning to use magic again, and felt the Order was as good a vehicle for that as any, provided the magics were used in an altruistic way. However, she felt magic should be learned slowly, with lots of trial and error at low levels of power that wouldn’t lead to catastrophic results.

Amatus had had the enlightened to guide his way. He was able to pass his learning on to others. Despite what Solène assumed were good intentions at the start, eventually power had completely corrupted the Imperial mages. Magic had ended up limited to an elite body of people, to the exclusion of all others. It was easy to see how that had led to the horrors of sorcery that were still whispered about to this day. Might the Order be able to avoid that same fate? It was a question she couldn’t answer. Regardless, magic was in the world, and past mistakes couldn’t change that, nor stop its return.

She turned her attention back to her task, revelling in how much clearer her senses felt now that she had greater mastery of her mind. She recalled how Leverre had described the Cup to her, and how it had felt the first time she had sensed it, like a knot of threads in a sheet of cloth. By all accounts, the nodes were possessed of energy on an entirely different scale. If they still existed, surely they would be easy to find. She took advantage of Olivier’s silence, and let her mind drift out, not actively seeking the Fount, but accepting that it was there, like the ground beneath her feet. She could feel it with her mind’s eye, sensing its ripples and creases, the places where it pooled like drifting snow in winter and the barren patches that the wind stripped bare.

In moments like that, she could empathise with the Prince Bishop’s desire to know it all, and know it now. The uncertainty of not knowing was the most frustrating thing she had ever encountered. To think that answers to all her questions might exist, might be waiting to be found, was tantalising.

She felt nothing out of the ordinary, but in reality, she didn’t know what she was looking for. She glanced over at Olivier, who smiled earnestly, but maintained an obedient silence. She wondered if he had figured out that she had no idea where they were going.

“How long have you been in the Order?” she said.

“Only a few days,” Olivier said. “A number of us were recruited out of the Academy. It’s an exciting proposition that was hard to say no to.”

She could agree with that, at least. “What attracted you?”

“It seems like the place to be. The new Chevaliers of the Silver Circle. With a man like the Prince Bishop backing it, the invitation to join seemed like the opportunity of a lifetime.”

“The magic doesn’t bother you?”

“It did a little, at first. But I heard they’ve already been using it over in Ostia. We can bury our heads and ignore it, or we can get on with it, no matter how distasteful we find it. I don’t fancy the idea of being ruled by an emperor in Ostenheim. Do you?”

Solène shook her head.

He seemed earnest enough. She didn’t know how much the Prince Bishop trusted her, but she had no reason to suspect Olivier wasn’t there purely to keep an eye on her. The Academy created hard men to do the dangerous jobs the king needed done—she had seen that at first hand with Nicholas dal Sason. Olivier might wear a veneer of chivalry, but that didn’t mean he was naive or full of youthful enthusiasm. If he was, all the better for her, but she would keep an eye on him and ditch him at the first opportunity.

They travelled along a major road for much of the morning; to Solène’s surprise, there was no traffic on it for as far as the eye could see, and she and Olivier hadn’t passed anyone since leaving the Order’s camp, either. Solène assumed that word of the new dragons had spread and that people were finally seeking safety indoors. It made her wonder what had become of Gill—if he had finally run out of luck, either at the claws of a dragon or at the hands of whoever the Prince Bishop had sent to take the Cup from him. It seemed unlikely he had survived if the Prince Bishop had the Cup. Good men and women didn’t seem to last long these days. Leverre, dal Drezony, and now, it seemed, Gill also.

She allowed her mind to drift, hoping she would detect something unusual in the pattern of the Fount that would lead her to what they sought. She tried to imagine where the Fount would gather out in the countryside. Her only experience of it was in towns and cities; their dense concentration of people and animals generated an enormous amount of energy. In the past, when there were far fewer people, that wouldn’t have been the case. Accumulations that occurred at that time had to be entirely natural. What might have caused them?

Solène began to concentrate on identifying anything unusual. It felt like casting a fishing line out into a great, never-ending lake, without knowing if there were actually any fish in it. She found it difficult to maintain the focus needed to hold on to that single thought as she tried to keep control of her horse and remain in the saddle. The beginning of a plan to rid herself of Banneret Olivier was also lurking in the back of her mind and intruding on her thoughts.

When her brain felt as though it was straining against the confines of her skull and needed a rest, she got the first sense of something odd. There was only one way to investigate the sensation, and she didn’t want the Prince Bishop’s spy there when she did. It was time for her and Banneret Olivier to part ways.

“I’m starving,” she said. “Why don’t we set down by that stand of trees and have something to eat?”

“Sounds good to me. Any luck on working out where we’re headed?”

“Perhaps,” she said. “I’m getting a bit of a sense for it. Some food and rest will help with that.”

At the copse of trees, they dismounted. “No point unsaddling,” she said. “We won’t stay long. Why don’t you make a fire? I could do with some hot coffee. I’ll take care of the horses and get the provisions.”

Olivier nodded, and set about gathering wood. She led the horses to a tree and tethered them on a long rein so they could get at the grass. When Olivier had his back to her, Solène undid the buckles on his saddle. He had a small fire going by the time she returned with bread, cheese, some cold meat, and the all-important coffee paraphernalia.

They set about making filled rolls, then started to eat. After a few bites, Solène began to focus on what she wanted to achieve, doing her best to exclude all other thoughts.

“You’re not eating,” Olivier said a moment later.

“Small appetite,” she said, doing her best not to be distracted. In another moment, his face twisted in discomfort and he placed a hand on his stomach.

“I think that meat may have been off,” he said, grimacing. “Better you don’t eat any more.”

Solène released her focus. “It certainly didn’t taste quite right.”

“Beginning to regret not having a small appetite myself,” Olivier said in a strained voice.

His stomach gurgled loudly enough for Solène to hear it.

“Pardon me,” he said.

She couldn’t tell if his cheeks were flushed from embarrassment or from the chaos that was beginning to unfold in his guts.

“If you wouldn’t mind excusing me a moment?” Olivier asked urgently.

“Of course not,” she said.

He stood and hurried into the trees in a fashion that could only be called comical. Solène did her best not to laugh, knowing it was she who was responsible, not the food. Considering the colour of the Order’s robes, she wondered if perhaps a bash on the head would have been kinder, but the die was cast now. Hopefully he would be fine in an hour or two; not having used that magic before, she couldn’t be sure how long the discomfort would last, but she figured she hadn’t invested enough energy in it to discommode him for more than the remainder of the evening. More than long enough for her to have put a decent distance between them.

Solène gathered up her provisions, pulled Olivier’s saddle to the ground, untethered his horse and gave it enough of a slap on the rump to send it cantering off, then mounted her own, and galloped away in the intentionally wrong direction.

Solène rode hard until darkness made it dangerous to continue. She had turned onto her proper course after a couple of hours, but the sensation she was tracking remained vague and indistinct. She was no longer confident it was guiding her to what she sought, or even guiding her anywhere at all. It was time to stop and rest; she chose a camping spot far from the road.

She had seen no sign of Olivier following her, not that she expected it. He would be pretty exhausted after his stomach trouble and it would take time before he was ready to jump in the saddle again. Even so, she didn’t feel she could risk lighting a fire. She settled in for what she knew would be a cold night under a cloudless sky.

Exhausted, she lay back and felt her mind start to drift into the half place between being awake and asleep. Random thoughts flitted about, covered in the Fount’s blue glow. She was too tired to force sense or order upon the jumble. Just as she made the final slide into sleep, the swirling objects, ideas, and scenes coalesced into a solid stream flowing clearly in the direction of the vague sensation, and ending in a tight ball of intense blue light that pulsed like a beating heart. Waves of energy washed over her. Her final thought before sleep took her was that she knew the location of a node.

CHAPTER 41

When Amaury arrived at the palace, he saw even more protestors gathered than there had been when he left the city, and their mood was anything but improved. They pelted Amaury’s unmarked carriage with rotting castoffs from the local market. Adding to the Prince Bishop’s displeasure was the fact that he had been summoned by the king—a message had been waiting for him when he returned to his house from the Order’s former campsite. He was tired and cranky, and dealing with the king was the last thing he wanted to do, but he had no choice.

Before heeding his master’s call, Amaury had sent word to Luther, asking to find him some mercenaries who could be suborned into the Order, at least on a temporary basis. Amaury was no longer willing to rely on royal troops—he needed his own people at the Priory.

He swept through the corridors of the palace to his office, ostensibly to collect some documents before attending on the king but actually to gather his thoughts. He realised he was nervous. He tried to excuse it as a symptom of fatigue, but the truth was that he had been stretched perilously thin since the first dragon had appeared. He knew he couldn’t continue like that for much longer. The Cup might help, he thought.

Until news of Vachon’s victory over the dragons arrived, he had no arguments to make in the Order’s favour. He would just have to improvise. The sooner Solène found the temple—and the answers he sought—the better.

All the usual suspects were gathered in the king’s private audience chamber, as Amaury had suspected they would be. Not one of them would miss the opportunity to take advantage of Amaury’s difficulties.

“Highness,” Amaury said with a curt bow when he entered.

“You’ve seen the crowds gathered outside the palace gates?” the king said.

So much for small talk, Amaury thought.

“I have, Highness. A little larger than I had expected, but this isn’t really anything to be surprised about. As we speak, the Order is on its way to kill the dragons sighted near the seigneury of Venne.”

“The moment has passed for a success to pull this back from the brink,” Boudain said. “There have been flare-ups of violence throughout the city, directed not just against members of the Order, but also against the City Watch, royal officials, and other citizens.” The king looked directly at Amaury. “There’s an easy way to stop it all.”

“Which is?” the Prince Bishop said, already knowing the answer.

“We disband the Order.”

“Highness, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“You mistake me, Prince Bishop. I’m not asking for your counsel. I’m giving you a command. The Order is to be disbanded immediately. I’ve had the relevant decrees drawn up, signed, and sealed.” He slid some pages across the table.

Amaury blanched. “I … That’s just not possible, Highness. Things have developed too far. You can’t just shut it down now.”

“I can, and I have,” the king said.

Amaury scanned the faces of the others in the room, every one of them puffed up with self-importance and self-righteousness. He knew exactly what was going to happen. The Order would be destroyed and he’d be made a scapegoat. They’d throw him to the flames, and walk away blameless. He felt his temper flare.

“You can’t,” he said, more hotly than he intended. “You knew what you were getting into, and agreed to it. Wholeheartedly.”

“I admit I agreed to your plans, but that was in the early days of my rule, when I was naive and overly reliant on my counsellors. I can’t be blamed for failing to see bad advice at that point in my reign. I can only be blamed if I continue to act on it.”

The king’s words all but confirmed Amaury’s fears. He had to be clever now, make it appear as though he remained a diligent, loyal servant of the Crown even as he moved to protect himself. Forcing a smile, he took the papers from the king’s desk and placed them carefully into his purple leather folder.

“It is my privilege to serve, Highness. I will see to it your decrees are carried out.”

“Excellent. There may be a time for your Order, Amaury, but that is clearly not now. I need the people’s support more than I need sorcerers to help fight my wars. You can’t defend a throne if you no longer sit on it.”

“A wise outlook, Highness.”

“If you feel the Order’s members are likely to cause problems, I can have the City Watch ready to move and arrest them,” Commander Canet said.

He was always one to try and stick his beak in for attention. Amaury didn’t do him the dignity of addressing him directly.

“I don’t think that will be necessary, Highness. As the matter is pressing, if I might be dismissed?”

The king waved his hand. Amaury refused to meet the gazes of his rivals as he left.

In the hall, with the door to the king’s office closed firmly behind him, he took a moment to settle his thoughts. That he hadn’t been arrested yet was a positive. It gave him time and freedom to do what he needed to do. The king probably thought it best to allow him to start the process of shutting down the Order, lulling him into a false sense of security before throwing him to the wolves. Amaury had already orchestrated the death of one king. Doing so again, particularly in an unsettled time like this, would be no trouble at all.

Hurrying to his office, he prepared several letters. Once he’d given them to his secretary to hand-deliver, he would retire to the Priory, where he could hole up until what needed to be done was done. The first message was to Luther—he needed those mercenaries, and more, as quickly as possible. They should be sent straight to the Priory, where they could be inducted and armed.

For the second letter he used a special ink that would be revealed only if heated carefully. He kept a supply of everyday missives written in ordinary ink—letters detailing the mundane, day-to-day matters of state. Selecting one, he wrote his message in invisible ink between the existing lines. There was likely some magical approach that would work better, but there hadn’t been the time or resources to devote to such specific matters.

His hand shook—he was more nervous than he liked to admit, even to himself. In times of crisis, he had always been able to lurk in the shadows and take advantage of the fact that eyes were always directed elsewhere. Now, he was in danger of being dragged into the spotlight. He had no idea how to operate under such circumstances, and that frightened him.

There was no direct heir to place on the throne for a tidy replacement as there had been with the previous king. Boudain had half a dozen cousins with more or less equal claims, and that would mean civil war. He could choose the winner by putting the backing of the Order behind them. Once the people knew the Order had saved them from dragons, their opinions would change quickly. He and the Order could easily deliver the throne to the strongest contender—but what sense was there in starting over with an unknown royal? Was not he, himself, the best candidate?

He had previously dismissed the idea, but he had been down this road once already, and removing a king was too stressful an act to be repeated every few years. He already wielded much of the authority of state; he had his own private military force that was paid for out of the king’s coffers. All he needed to do was remove the other advisors, which would be easy enough. The quick promotion of some senior nobles would make them happy without causing him to cede any real power. Several nobles were already in his pocket; he could count on their support if he pulled the coup off successfully.

He stopped and set down his pen. A coup. How had he come to such a momentous decision so quickly, and without thinking it over? He was panicking, and that was not good. Amaury stood and went to the window. The garden below was empty, and he allowed his gaze to drift as he considered what he was planning to do.

His people in the palace would be able to give access to his men and keep the king’s guard at bay. He would need a visible presence on the street also. The fact that the people feared the Order would play in his favour for the time being. Or perhaps it was time to have the healers still at the Priory set up clinics—show the people what a help they could be.

The stick or the carrot? Which should he choose? He kneaded his temples with his knuckles and wanted to scream.

It had been a long time since he had contemplated thoughts that would get him beheaded. He had gotten away with it the last time, against a more experienced and stronger king. Why not again? Of course, the last time, he had not been planning on taking the throne for himself, merely replacing its occupant with someone he had thought would be easier to deal with.

This was a far different proposition, and he needed to consider the consequences in more detail. Not only did he have to get rid of Boudain the Tenth, he would have to seize and hold power for himself. That was a far more difficult thing to do. That would make him the target. He didn’t like that idea.

What alternative did he have? The king was going to paint him as the villain who was dragging magic back to the fore. He could imagine the proclamation, portraying the young king as appalled by the practices of a powerful and established minister who had been deposed once his treachery became known.

Still, a coup?

This solution did not sit well with him. It was the act of a panicked man. Something similar had happened in Ostia, across the Middle Sea, only a decade or so before, and that man, Amero dal Moreno, was still known as the Usurper of Ostia, though he had been dead for many years. That was what Amaury would come to be known as. Usurper. Tyrant. Despot. Regicidal Megalomaniac. That was not how he wanted to be known. After all, he had the best interests of the kingdom at heart.

The King of Estranza was finally getting control of his realm, and the Humberlanders had just won a war against their northern neighbours, the Ventish. It was only a matter of time before their attention turned to Mirabay, or her trading posts on the Spice Isles.

A tyrant having recently seized the throne was more than enough reason for any self-respecting monarch to invade their neighbour. No, Amaury thought, I can’t take power for myself. As the thought took hold, he realised that not only could he not safely take it, he didn’t want it. He had everything he wanted where he was, and would soon have even more if the king’s attempt to assert his authority didn’t get in the way.

Who, then, could he place on the throne? Things would be a lot easier if Boudain had managed to squire an heir, Amaury thought. An infant or child on the throne was the ideal puppet through whom he could rule. Given the absence of an heir, Amaury had been named regent when Boudain took the throne, in case the king became incapacitated. None of the cousins presented themselves as particularly attractive, and they all shared the same burden: he would have to get one safely onto the throne and deal with the civil war the rest of them were certain to stir up. Civil war would leave them equally open to invasion.

When a solution finally occurred to him, a broad smile spread across his face.

He didn’t need to overthrow the king. He also didn’t need to find the leverage to make sure he was able to influence the king. What he needed to do was to make the king more malleable. A way to turn everything on him that he was planning to dump on Amaury. He could use the Cup to pacify the young king’s mind, but what then? That only saved the Order from being disbanded. The Prince Bishop was inextricably linked to the Order, so there was no way he could pass the blame for it on to someone else. But then again, he would not need to. As soon as word got back to the city that they had killed the new dragons, that they were ready and willing to continue keeping the people safe from future attacks, they would be embraced. Then he would be able to guide the king in the way that made the most sense for the kingdom, while the Order would be able to continue developing its potential thanks to the Cup and the temple, once Solène found it.

He crumpled up the letters and held them over a candle flame until they took light. A coup was not the way forward. He threw the burning papers into the bronze bucket he used for this purpose, and watched until there was nothing left but ashes. That done, he turned his gaze to the Cup, sitting on his desk. Was there a way to use it that would give him the control over the king that he needed? It had given the Order the ability to fight dragons. It had allowed him to create a powerful light far beyond anything he had been capable of before. It seemed reasonable to presume there was a way to use it to bring the king around to his way of thinking.

He supposed there was only one way to find out.

CHAPTER 42

Gill lifted a fresh beam into place over the doorway into the bakery. It was hard work, and even in the cool autumn evening air, he was sweating. There was still much clearing and heavy lifting to be done in the village, the only labour to which Gill was suited. The masons and carpenters were already working on reconstruction, with some of the burned-out buildings starting to take new shape.

Despite the fact that his arms ached worse than after his first day at the Academy, Guillot felt good about himself for the first time he could remember. He had helped people before, but that had always meant killing or destroying something. This was the first time he was helping to build something that would be of use. He might only be carting away waste and hauling lumber, but the work was deeply satisfying, and it made him wonder why soldiers were lauded while builders largely went unnoticed.

As buoyant as the day’s labour had made him feel, it also dragged him down. This was how things should have been in Villerauvais. How he should have been in Villerauvais. The realisation that it wouldn’t have made any difference was equally saddening. At least the years leading up to that event would have been better. The church bell rang, signalling that the day was done and supper was ready.

With so many homes destroyed, meals were prepared and consumed communally. Rough tables were set up in the square, and the villagers ate and relaxed together after the day’s efforts. They laughed, joked, and teased each other with the same camaraderie Gill had experienced at the Academy and in his old regiment. Their shared day of work for a common cause had created a bond between them the like of which few other things could. The contentment Gill felt made him anxious. He had taken happiness for granted before, and it had been taken from him.

Despite all that had happened to them, the people of Venne were putting a brave face on things; they were rebuilding. Tragedy or mistakes didn’t mean your life was over. You picked yourself up, you rebuilt, you moved on.

A number of horsemen clattered into the square, breaking the contented hum of conversation and laughter. At first Gill thought the newcomers were one of the groups of bannerets returning after an unsuccessful dragon hunt, but a quick glance told him this was not the case. The riders were all wearing the Order’s cream robes. Gill strained to see if Solène was with them, but didn’t recognise anyone.

Edine stood from her seat at the top of the head table.

“Welcome to Venne,” she said. “Is there something we can help you with?”

“We’re here on behalf of the king to slay the dragons in this region,” the lead rider replied.

He had a worn face with a twisted nose that had seen plenty of bad weather out-of-doors, and hair cropped so tightly it was impossible to tell what colour it was. Something about him seemed familiar, but Gill couldn’t quite place him.

“We’re grateful for your journey, but the problem’s been dealt with. The dragons are dead.”

The man nodded. “You’re the head of this village?”

“I am,” she said.

“Perhaps we could speak in private?”

She shrugged, then gestured to the mayor’s house. “This way.”

The man dismounted, casting a glance over the gathered crowd as he did. Gill couldn’t be certain, but it seemed as though his eyes stopped on him for a moment. He followed Edine into the mayor’s house and shut the door behind them.

“Bit late,” someone said.

“King’s always late,” someone responded. “Unless it’s for a party.”

There was some laughter, and then everyone got back to their dinner. Gill wanted to do the same, but couldn’t help feeling concerned. These were the Prince Bishop’s people, and in his experience, their appearance was rarely a good thing.

He had barely swallowed his first mouthful of food when Edine appeared in the doorway and called to him.

“Gill, would you mind joining us a moment?”

He nodded and got to his feet. Once he was inside the house, Edine turned to face him.

“Commander Vachon here says the dragons aren’t all dead.”

Gill looked at Vachon.

“How would he know?”

“We can tell when there are dragons near,” Vachon said. “And I can tell there’s one near.”

Guillot looked at him carefully, trying to gauge whether he was telling the truth or not. If Vachon could detect the dragons, then he had undergone the ritual with the Cup. That meant that the Prince Bishop had the Cup, that he was the one responsible for the theft and for Barnot’s murder. Gill cursed himself for not thinking of it sooner. Every time something in his life went wrong, Amaury was connected in some way.

“I said the dragon won’t bother you again,” Gill said, trying to explain the situation without revealing anything important. “And that’s the truth.”

“You mean you didn’t kill the last one?” Edine said.

He hesitated for a moment, then shook his head. “I didn’t need to. It fled into the mountains.”

“What’s to stop it coming back?”

“It won’t. You have my word on that.”

“We’re supposed to believe that?” Vachon said. “It’s a good thing the king isn’t as cavalier when it comes to the safety of his subjects.”

“I’ve killed three and chased a fourth off,” Gill said. “Where were you while that was happening?”

“We were dispatched as soon as we were ready to properly deal with the threat,” Vachon said.

As soon as the Prince Bishop got his hands on the Cup, Gill thought.

“There will be no more trouble with dragons here, or anywhere else,” Gill said. “You can take my word for that or not. I really don’t care. I’ve done more to protect this region than the king, the Prince Bishop, and all their men. You can come here and question my honour all you like. What I’ve done here will speak for itself.”

The door opened and two more Spurriers walked in. Vachon gave them a nod, then turned back to Gill.

“I want more than to question your honour,” Vachon said. “In the name of Boudain the Tenth, I arrest you for murder and high treason.”

Gill did a double take. “Pardon me?”

“You heard,” Vachon said. “Take him.”

The other two Spurriers moved to seize Gill. His hand automatically dropped to his waist to draw his sword, but he wasn’t wearing one—no need for a sword to cart timber. His sword was leaning against the end of the bed in his room at the inn. Each man grabbed him by one arm, leaving him little option but to go with them. Trying to get away now would earn him nothing but a beating. He’d have to bide his time and hope an opportunity presented itself.

“You needn’t worry, ma’am,” Vachon said, as Gill was bundled toward the door. “We’ll take care of the dragon for you. And this rotten cur.”

The last thing Gill saw as he was shoved out of the building was the disappointment in Edine’s eyes.

“Where are we headed?” Gill asked. He was mounted on his own horse, with his hands bound and tied to the saddle’s pommel. They had gathered his things from the inn, and loaded them onto the horse in front of Gill. He stared longingly at the hilt of one of his swords, sticking out tantalisingly, but so out of reach it might as well have been a world away.

“Shut your mouth,” Vachon said.

“I’ve a bit of experience in this line of work. I might be able to help.”

“If you don’t shut your mouth, I’ll shut it for you.”

“Don’t know where you’re going, then?” Gill said, forcing a condescending chuckle.

Vachon backhanded him in the face. It was a respectable blow; Gill ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth to make sure all of his teeth were still where they were supposed to be.

“Don’t blame yourself,” Gill said. “Dragon hunting is a tricky business. I wouldn’t worry too much, though. Getting killed by one is pretty easy, so you won’t have to go home a failure.”

Vachon hit Gill again.

“Bring him down the back,” Vachon said to one of his men. “Keep a careful eye on him.”

Gill feigned hurt. “Was it something I said? We were getting along so well.”

The man came alongside Gill and took hold of his horse’s reins, then took him to the back of the group.

“Your boss doesn’t have a clue where we’re going, you know,” Gill said.

“Yes, he does. We all know. We can sense the creature.”

Gill looked over his shoulder at the mountains, which were dropping away slowly into the distance. He reckoned they were heading east, which on the face of it didn’t make much sense. If Pharadon was heading deeper into the mountains, then they should be chasing him west, or south. He wondered if Vachon had used the Cup correctly.