Knight of the Silver Circle

CHAPTER 43

Ysabeau had to admire the young woman’s resolve not to light a fire. It was a cold night, and was only going to get colder before dawn broke. Ysabeau had been on Solène’s trail for much of the afternoon and evening, riding hard and drawing on the Fount to keep her horse fresh, in the hope of catching up before Solène found anything.

Without a fire, Ysabeau had almost missed Solène’s campsite in the dark. It was only by chance that Ysabeau had been drawing on the Fount while she was passing by, giving both her horse and herself a little freshen-up. Solène’s magical energy gave her away, lighting her up as clearly as if it had been daylight. Wrapped in a warm blanket, Ysabeau was settling in for the night, having found a good vantage point from which to watch her quarry. The woman didn’t seem like anything special, but if her father was to be believed, she was the most powerful mage alive, albeit not yet fully able to tap into her powers. The Prince Bishop had once hoped Ysabeau would be that powerful, that useful to his plans. Sadly, her abilities were modest at best; she just had a little more flair than most at using them. She hated this woman, Solène, though they had never met. She threatened to give the Prince Bishop—Ysabeau’s father—what his daughter never could.

There was supposed to be a member of the Order with the woman, but there was no sign of him. Whatever Solène had done to him meant that he hadn’t given chase, which made Ysabeau curious. Had this one developed a taste for killing? Ysabeau knew she needed to be careful, whether her guess was right or not.

She did her best to make herself comfortable, hidden by a tree, but in a position that gave her a clear view of where Solène had made camp. As she created some magical heat to keep warm, she wondered if Solène had done the same. It was tricky magic to create heat without also generating light. If everything Ysabeau had been told about the all-powerful Solène was true, she certainly had the potential, but Ysabeau had always thought that the people with the most potential were the least attracted to hard work.

A lifetime of shaping strong magic with mediocre power allowed Ysabeau to do far more than many who had a greater affinity to the Fount and far more raw material to play with. This had always frustrated her, and was why her tenure at the Order had been so short. Dal Drezony had pushed her out and the Prince Bishop had done little to stop her. It seemed he had more interest in the skills his daughter had picked up living on the streets of Mirabay, rather than her potential as a mage. Over time, she had made her peace with that, but where she came from, you didn’t let a score go unsettled, and that’s what the blade in dal Drezony’s heart had done.

Still, Ysabeau’s satisfaction at having killed the seneschal was tempered by a less enjoyable feeling. Guilt? Doubt? Whatever it was, she put it from her mind.

It was curious to think that both she and her quarry had nearly suffered the same fate. Pulled from the flames by different saviours, both had ended up, for a time at least, as protégées of the Prince Bishop.

She reckoned everyone was born with a certain amount of luck. You could only rely on it for so long before it ran out. Her magic had carried her a little farther than most, but she was under no illusion that one day, in the not so distant future, she would take the job that ended her. Completing this one meant she wouldn’t need to take another.

Solène woke with a start. She was stiff as a board from the cold, but otherwise refreshed and feeling positive. Just as she had before falling asleep, she reached out for the Fount, and there it was, like the ripples on a pond after a stone had been thrown in. She could see her way to the centre of the disturbance as though it was signposted. She packed her things as quickly as she could, then mounted her horse, grimacing in discomfort. She had never done much riding, and it was telling on her now. She urged the animal on, wincing as the movement made itself known to her tender backside and thighs.

Her excitement at the prospect of finding what she was looking for made the discomfort somewhat easier to bear. She had to remind herself that she might not have found the temple, but if what she sensed was a node, and her theory that the temple would have been built on one was correct, then it was a possibility. Even if she came up short it meant she was now able to sense nodes, and therefore would be able to find others.

Her excitement at this prospect drowned out the quandary of what to do when she did. The waves grew stronger as the day progressed and she kept guiding her horse into their centre, knowing that was the way to the node. At times she felt dizzy, and had to hang on to the saddle’s pommel to keep herself on the horse. Even in the city she had never felt that much energy. It was terrifying and intoxicating at the same time.

Any magic she used now would be far more powerful than anything she had done before, and if the Fount continued to grow as she got closer to the node, then her potential would be virtually limitless. For the first time, she thought she understood how the Imperial mages had been able to do what they had done. If they had been able to tap into reservoirs as strong as this, the stories that she had heard of their feats were modest in the extreme.

Her excitement grew ever greater as she neared the centre of the ripple in the Fount. Her head swam in the raw energy, which felt as though it was trying to both pass through her and make her one with it. She was overcome with a terrifying sense of losing control. Part of her wanted to join with it and allow her mind to run free with virtually limitless power. Instinct told her to resist, that letting go of control would destroy her. Stopping her horse, she fought for control of her mind, to shut out the raging tempest of energy. This was what made magic so much more dangerous in the days before the mage wars drained the Fount to exhaustion. Mages would have had to be so much more careful to avoid killing someone or destroying everything around them. She could understand why it had taken Amatus and his time with the enlightened to bring people to the point where they could shape it safely.

Once her mind steadied, she continued riding, wondering why the Fount was drawn to this place—whether the nodes gave rise to the Fount or the Fount gave rise to the nodes. Considering what she knew, she decided it was likelier that the Fount was drawn to these places for some reason—one she was unlikely to ever understand.

When the intensity of the energy faded a little, and started to pulse again, Solène realised that she had passed through the node. She pulled her horse up and looked around. There was nothing out of the ordinary in the surrounding landscape, a plain grassland. A person with no affinity to the Fount could walk right through without ever knowing there was anything unusual about the place. There wasn’t even a variation in the colour of the grass to mark the place.

She had entertained romantic notions of an ancient tree, or a stone plinth left behind by the enlightened, to signify the power that dwelled here. This landscape was so innocuous that she questioned whether she was imagining things—it had been a very cold night and she hadn’t slept properly in some time. She shook her head. No, that was unlikely. She never got sick, something she realised now was likely one of the benefits of her natural affinity with the Fount.

She dismounted and led her horse back to the centre of the ripples. Now that she had disciplined her mind against the rush of energy, it didn’t feel nearly so overwhelming. It was like the difference between standing outside in a furious storm, or being tucked up safely inside while it raged against the walls. Her disappointment grew as she wandered around the edge of the node, looking inward for any sign of something unusual. Could this really be all there was to it? Was the temple here, or did she need to look elsewhere? She wondered how many nodes there might be. Surely such an intense concentration of magical energy had to be a rare thing.

Her horse let out a whicker of surprise and surged against the reins. She struggled to bring the animal under control, speaking to it in a soothing voice and trying to calm it. Thanks to her limited experience with horses, she had no idea what the correct approach was. It occurred to her to try using magic to soothe it—she didn’t want to be stuck out there with no horse—but thankfully, it settled quickly. When she looked for what had spooked it, she saw that one of its hooves had broken through the surface of the ground somehow. She walked over for a closer look.

Beneath a layer of grass and soil, Solène spotted what looked like wooden planking. It was old, blackened, and rotting, but she could see the hard edges that indicated that the wood had been worked at some point.

She got down on her knees, then started pulling away soil and grass until she’d cleared a panel of boards. Finding a gap, she tugged at one board until she was able to pull it free, snapping it in half as she did, the ages-old timber giving way. Panting from her efforts, Solène found herself staring down into a dark chamber. Just enough light got in to let her see the gloomy cut-stone edges of its walls. She had found it.

CHAPTER 44

Solène cast a globe of light into the centre of the room beneath her and watched in awe as illumination fell on surfaces that had been in darkness for countless years. She could barely believe she had found what she was looking for. Whilst there was probably some safe way to get down, she couldn’t see it, and realised it might be buried under several hours of digging. The drop to the floor didn’t look far enough to cause injury, but getting back up would be a problem. She wondered if she’d be able to magically float herself out, but since she’d never done it before, she wasn’t sure she could. Simply desiring a certain result didn’t guarantee it—at least not without the potential for unwanted side effects.

Aside from that, she was afraid to attempt using magic in the presence of so much energy. If she allowed it to channel through her body, it could burn her out in an instant. As it was, in normal circumstances she still struggled to draw only the amount of the Fount she needed for whatever it was she was attempting to do. With so much around her, to even consider trying something new was madness.

Her horse had thankfully remained close by. She went through the saddlebags the Order had packed for her, to see if there was anything useful. Fleetingly she wondered where Banneret Olivier might be. She hoped that his stomach troubles had settled and that the Prince Bishop didn’t punish him too harshly when Olivier finally owned up to having lost her.

At last she found a length of rope in one of the bags. It looked long enough to reach the floor. The thought of the task before her made her wish she’d been more diligent in attending physical training at the Priory; she wasn’t at all certain she’d be able to haul herself out. Maybe she could tie one end of the rope to the saddle and somehow encourage the horse to back away from the hole, pulling her out.

If she tried that, there would be risks: the horse might wander away, taking the rope with it; its weight might cause it to fall through the old wooden boards. It seemed like her only option, however. Hopefully there’d be something down there she could tie the line to until she was ready to use it.

She tied the line to the saddle, then backed up to the edge of the hole. The horse took a step forward as she lowered herself into the cavern. She dropped several feet before the line went taut and arrested her descent. Swinging in the darkness, clinging to the rope for dear life, she questioned the sense in her idea, before remembering that the drop to the floor wasn’t the issue, it was the getting back out. She shimmied down the short distance and planted her feet firmly on the old flagstone floor. Her magical light was still burning away faithfully, showing no signs of dimming. She could still easily recall when maintaining the focus to create a light had been challenging. Now she could do it with barely a thought. It gave her hope that all of the other things that seemed to pose so great a challenge to her truly gaining control over her magical ability might also one day seem so easy.

When she looked around, her initial impression was one of disappointment. Once, generations ago, the space might have been something impressive, but now it was just a damp room of cut stone. She placed her hand on one of the walls; the stone was smooth, cold, and completely unmarked. There was no ornamentation visible anywhere, which struck her as odd for a temple—even for the remains of one. Where was the decoration? The inscription?

Before exploring any farther, Solène secured her line to an old root that dangled from the ceiling. Then she walked slowly along each wall, running her hand along it and trying to sense what might lie beyond—stone, soil, or perhaps other chambers, as had been the case when she and Guillot had explored the remains of the stronghold of the Chevaliers of the Silver Circle, under Gill’s old home.

She wondered what this chamber looked like when it was still being used, and what might have gone on there. The stone flags beneath her had been worn smooth by the passage of countless feet. She could tell it was an ancient place, but perhaps not the one she was looking for. What if the Prince Bishop had other people searching for the temple? What if they found it before she did? In such a case, all that she could hope for was that there was nothing to find, or at least nothing he could understand.

She continued to walk and run her hand along the wall but stopped when she felt a draft at her fingertips. She could feel the air moving but couldn’t see where it was coming from. Closing her eyes, Solène reached out for the Fount, but the energy was so strong that she couldn’t see any distinct forms—it was like a brilliant, blinding light coming from all directions. Using her regular vision, she inspected the wall, but could see no obvious sign of a doorway. Nonetheless, air was coming from the other side of the wall. Surely there had to be a way through.

Finally, her fingers landed on a groove cut into the stone—perhaps the outline of a door. She shifted position to allow the magical light to fall on that section of wall, but still had to squint to make out a faint etching that must have been exposed to the elements for a long time before the room was covered over. When she looked closely, she could make out fully formed shapes that seemed to represent letters. This dashed her hope that she might have found the edges of a door, but it was the only marking she had found, so perhaps it was significant.

This time Solène opened her mind to the Fount carefully, focussing on the idea of opening a window only a crack to let in some fresh air. In her mind’s eye, she could see the Fount raging on the other side of the window, a great, swirling tempest that would flatten all before it. The pressure on her was enormous, but she fought against it, allowing only a tiny amount to touch her. She could feel her skin tingle as it energised her, as she sought meaning in the words carved into the stone. They remained unintelligible.

She wanted to try again, but she was worried. It had taken a huge amount of strength to keep the Fount from smashing through her meagre resistance and flooding her body. Dal Drezony had thought such a torrent was likely to be fatal, and Solène wasn’t sure of how many more times she could dip into the mass of energy without being overcome. She took a deep breath and visualised the window opening a little farther, then turned her thoughts to the meaning of the writing. The Fount raged and beat against her, but she stood firm. Having to split her mind between keeping it out and achieving the goal she had set strained her to the point of physical pain. When it became clear she was not going to succeed, she stopped, shutting the window and blocking out the surging power beyond. She wanted to scream with frustration.

Already the power she had used was far beyond what she had needed to decipher the texts in the Prince Bishop’s archive. She considered trying again, but knew it was a waste of time. Whatever the writing was, it was old—too old to share enough common ground with her own language to enable her to effect a translation.

Perhaps she was worrying over nothing. This looked more like a hermit’s cave than an important temple … but why would anyone bother putting up—and later, concealing—an unimportant building on such an important site?

She flopped back against the wall and allowed herself to slide down into a sitting position. A wave of fatigue swept over her. Trying to control the Fount had left her exhausted; all she wanted was to close her eyes. There was nothing to stop her doing exactly that. Olivier had no idea where she had gone, and an hour or two of rest wasn’t going to hand the temple over to the Prince Bishop.

Her heavy eyelids slid shut and her mind drifted toward sleep. Her thoughts were manic, as they had been the previous night—jumbled and incessant. It was as though they had a will of their own. She supposed it was because she was so close to such an immensely powerful concentration of the Fount. Still, she drifted toward sleep.

Until a whispering voice jolted her awake.

“In this place, we are one,” it said.

A chill raced over her skin. She looked about the small room, still illuminated by her magical light. There was no one else present. She pressed her ear against the wall through which the draft was coming, but heard nothing but the gentle movement of air.

Back in her home village of Bastelle, on the late-winter evenings, there were always ghost tales told. Even as a child, Solène had never believed them, but now? The thought of the voice sent a chill over her skin. There was nothing human about it.

She got to her feet and went to the rope. Just touching it—her escape route from that dark, damp, and seemingly haunted place—was comforting. She freed the line and took a firm grip of it. As she was about to whistle for the horse to move, she heard the whisper again.

“In this place, we are one.”

“Who are you?” Solène said, turning around in the hope of seeing the speaker.

Silence. She was alone down there. Solène swore, tugged on the rope, and whistled for the horse. Nothing. Whatever her horse was doing was clearly more interesting to it than pulling her out of the hole. She started trying to pull herself up it, hoping that it would resist her and start moving away from the hole.

“In this place, we are one.”

“Shut up!” Solène said. “Come on, stupid horse.” She pulled at the rope again, but it wouldn’t move. “Go back!” she shouted. No response. She felt the clench of fear on her gut, the like of which she had not experienced since she was nearly burned alive in Trelain. She had no idea where the voice had come from, nor what had uttered it. She inched up the rope, straining for all she was worth.

She had covered half the distance to the surface by the time her arms started to burn. She clung to the rope; she simply didn’t have the strength to pull herself up any farther. She was tempted to try magic again, but knew she was too tired, both physically and mentally, to block the surge of energy or hone an untested and dangerous piece of self-directed magic. As though intentionally seeking to compound her problems, her unseen horse walked forward, dropping her back to the chamber’s floor. Perhaps using the horse like that wasn’t such a good idea after all, she thought.

“In this place, we are one.”

Solène pressed her hands to her temples, realising that she hadn’t heard the voice with her ears. It was inside, in her head. The pressure of the Fount all around her was doing something to her, feeding her crazy thoughts and images, and now she was hearing things too.

What in hells did it mean, anyway? In this place we are one. It was cryptic nonsense. Who or what was she one with?

Her hands were shaking. She was stuck down in a hole, terrified to try magic, and something very creepy was happening. That or she was going mad, a thought that was no more comforting. Try as she might, she couldn’t see a solution to her problem. The only positive she could draw from it was that if she couldn’t find anything down there, then the Prince Bishop wouldn’t either.

There was only one way to get out, and that was with magic. She chastised herself for being foolish enough to go down there without a better plan in the first place. She looked up at the opening. It seemed so close, yet it was too far away. She considered giving the rope another try, but knew that would do nothing more than sap away some of the energy she still had.

She took a deep breath and started to focus her mind.

“In this place, we are one.”

“Shut up!” she screamed, halting the process of opening her mind to the Fount before the distraction of the voice caused her to lose control of herself. She settled herself. If the voice was in her mind, then she simply needed to maintain a little more mental discipline. She started the process again, following the slow steps that dal Drezony had taught her to ensure she was relaxed, focussed, and immune to wayward thoughts or distractions. She started to open the mental window and imagined herself rising from the floor, toward the opening above her.

As though hit by a great gale, her mental window slammed open. Solène let out a cry of shock as the Fount rushed in. She tried to close her mind to it, but it was too late—the energy flooded over her. Into her. Through her. She struggled to breathe as the invisible force threatened to drown her. Her head was filled with thoughts and images that passed so quickly she couldn’t make sense of them. Her skin tingled, then burned. Even with her eyes closed, she was blinded by the intense blue light that seemed greater even than the sun. The sound was deafening, roaring like waves thundering against a cliff. The whisper repeated over and over, growing in volume until it was a scream. She screamed herself, trying to block out the alien sound. She felt like her head was going to split asunder. Then everything went dark.

CHAPTER 45

It was dark beyond the hole in the roof when Solène woke. It was dark where she was too, her magical light having faded to oblivion. She sat up, feeling hungover. Her body was tired, her mouth was dry, and her head throbbed, but she was alive, which was more than she was expecting. She didn’t know much about Fount burnout, as it had been called at the Priory, beyond her own glancing brush with it during her early days there. She knew people had been killed by pulling too much of the Fount through them; the passage of so much energy not only drained their own internal reservoirs but consumed every fibre of their body as though they had been burned by an invisible flame. As punishing as what she had experienced was, it had clearly fallen short of that.

She might have lain there for hours or days. It was only the lack of a rumbling in her belly that made her think the former was more likely. The echo of what had happened still reverberated in her head. Remembering the ghostly whisper sent a shiver over her skin. She wiped her red hair, matted with sweat, from her brow. She stood hesitantly, wobbling on her feet. There was nothing near to hold on to to steady herself, and the lack of any focal point made it even worse.

She cast a fresh globe of light. Dizziness gone, she turned slowly, mouth agape. The walls, which had been bare stone on her last inspection, were now anything but. Richly decorated, with carved reliefs and intricate writing in a script that was entirely alien to her, this place was every bit what she had thought an ancient temple might look like, and far, far more. She wandered along the walls again, entranced by the carvings, which looked as fresh as though they had been done only days ago.

The first thing that struck her was how important dragons were to the enlightened. Almost every relief bore the carving of one of the great creatures. The thing that surprised her the most was that they seemed to be existing peacefully with humans.

Everywhere she looked, there was text. Knowledge that had been forgotten for centuries. As exciting a prospect as the Prince Bishop’s archive had been, this was an entirely different proposition. These inscriptions had been carved by the first people to learn how to use magic properly. She wondered what their circumstances had been. People with a natural connection to the Fount, like her? It amazed her to think that she might share an experience with the ones who started it all. She wondered what their lives had been like—the trials, the tribulations, the dangers—when they discovered they were different.

The next surprise came only a moment later. Where she had felt the draft coming through the wall, there was now a massive opening, a gaping maw that ten people could have walked through shoulder-to-shoulder with plenty of room to spare. The opening—an archway—was surrounded by ornate carvings, mainly of dragons, but with some people and lettering also. The style was exotic and intriguing and unlike anything she had ever seen before.

A stone-flagged ramp led down to another level. Solène had to stop herself from rushing forward to investigate further. She was already stuck down here and, change of circumstances notwithstanding, she had yet to figure out a solution.

Still, with no easy way up, she decided she might as well continue on and see if there was another way out. She proceeded slowly, trying to take in the magnificence of the carvings while also considering what might have brought about the change. One moment she had been in a dark, dank room, little different from an old cellar, and the next she was in the ornately carved antechamber of what she presumed to be the Temple of the Enlightened. Were it not for the fact that the hole she had created was still there, she would have thought she had been transported to a different time or place. Something about her overwhelming interaction with the Fount must have done it, and she was both curious and afraid to find out what exactly had happened.

She peered through the arch, looking for any obvious danger. She was feeling fresher than she had before the Fount had bombarded her, and the hangover-like symptoms she had woken with were fading. Very slowly, and very carefully, she opened her mind to the Fount to see if she could spot anything untoward.

She braced herself for the expected flood of power, but what she felt couldn’t have been more different from a storm, more like a perfect summer’s day. Where before, the Fount had been like a raging torrent of primal energy, now it flowed around her evenly, with no terrifying confusion. It was peaceful. Calming, even. It felt as though her mind belonged there. She recalled the whispered words—in this place, we are one. Was this what it meant?

Her understanding of what an affinity with the Fount meant was too limited for her to be able to take any conjecture far. She had been born with it, as had some others she had met at the Priory, like dal Drezony. In Imperial times, children were trained to develop an affinity with the Fount, making them as potent as—if not more potent than—anyone born with one by the time they were adults. As the Prince Bishop had discovered to his chagrin, it was something that had to be cultivated from a young age—the older you got, the less bountiful an affinity you could develop. It was the reason he had wanted the Cup, and the reason he now wanted the temple.

The passage leading down was wide, and the roof was far higher than she expected. Large enough for a dragon, she thought. Everywhere she looked, dragons featured in the reliefs. She modified her light so that it would follow her, and started down. The reliefs along the passage were painted bright, vibrant hues. There were many different colours of dragon represented, and various shades of each. Their eyes were rendered with gemstones. To her inexpert eye, it looked as though there were rubies, sapphires, and emeralds, and there were others of various colours, the names of which she did not know. There was an unimaginable fortune on the walls. If she used her dagger to pry them from their sockets, she would have enough money to start a new life of luxury anywhere she chose. She didn’t feel the least compulsion to do so, however. She would rather start again with nothing than destroy the beautiful, incredible works of art lining the walls.

Finally she reached the bottom of the ramp, where there was another great archway, just as ornate as the first. The illumination of her light didn’t reach far beyond the arch, but even as she walked toward it, she realised that everything she had seen so far paled by comparison to what lay ahead.

Ysabeau stroked the horse’s muzzle with no affection. She had taken control of the animal as soon as she had realised what Solène was up to. She had considered hauling Solène up, but reckoned being stuck down there would motivate her to explore properly and find what Ysabeau’s father needed. Instead, it seemed the woman had decided to take a nap, leaving Ysabeau with a long, cold wait. Once Solène woke up and disappeared deeper into whatever lay beneath the ground, Ysabeau decided it was time for her to follow. She had a rope in her packs, but Solène’s was as good as any. She untied it from the horse’s saddle and secured it to a spike she had placed in the ground. She would have no problems hauling herself out of the hole. The redhead might surpass Ysabeau in magical ability, but in terms of physical ability, Ysabeau was confident she held the upper hand.

She checked that the line was secure, then slid down it with practised ease. She dropped to the floor without making a sound, then looked around. She would have whistled through her teeth in appreciation for her surroundings were the need for silence not absolute. They were magnificent, and quite unlike anything she’d ever seen before—and she’d seen quite a bit, from the seraglios of the Shandahari Khagans and the court of the Sultan of Darvaros to the palaces of the Moguls of Jahar.

She drew her rapier—a Telastrian blade she had liberated from the Count of Somerham, moments after she had cut the Humberlander’s throat. While she was aware of the value of blades like that, and how sought-after they were, her interest in it was entirely practical. Telastrian steel had an interesting relationship with magic. It was what had made these weapons so sought-after in Imperial times. The metal acted like a sponge, soaking up magical energy, rendering it, if not entirely harmless, then far less potent than it would have been otherwise. She hadn’t had much call to use that power, but she had kept the rapier, thinking it might come in handy in future. She reckoned that day had come, although it would be better for everyone if she was able to avoid an encounter with Solène completely. She didn’t see how that would work, but she was an eternal optimist.

She followed Solène’s light, being careful to stay far enough back to remain hidden in the darkness.

CHAPTER 46

Amaury’s hands were shaking as he approached the king’s private offices. The Priory had done some experimentation on pacifying people—making a rioting protestor see reason—in an effort to find a humane way of dealing with the civil strife Mirabay was known for. He hoped it would work for his predicament. There wasn’t time to test it now—he had no option but to trust that he had it down, and try it for the first time in anger.

Heart racing, he knocked on the door and waited for the king’s private secretary to open the door. With a forced smile on his face, Amaury said, “I had hoped to give the king an update on matters we discussed earlier.”

“Show him in,” the king commanded from behind the secretary, who then ushered the Prince Bishop into the office.

“What progress, First Minister?”

“Might I sit, Highness?” Amaury said.

“Of course.” The king gestured to a chair.

Amaury sat, took a moment to gather his thoughts, then sought to exercise the magical gifts he had tried to draw from the Cup, even as he spoke to the king.

“I’ve come to implore you to reconsider your command to disband the Order.”

The king sat back in his chair. “I’d rather hoped that you were here to tell me that that was well under way.”

“We’ve come too far, worked too hard, and achieved too much to turn back now, Highness. Every other ruler around the Middle Sea is, at this very moment, considering how to employ magic to strengthen their states. We are ahead of them all.” His head throbbed as he tried to direct his mental energy to force the king to agree with him.

“You’ve seen the mobs outside?” the king said, his tone still even and calm. “You’ve heard the speakers inciting the people to stand up against what they are calling ‘the abomination of magic’?”

“Of course,” Amaury said.

“How long do you think it will be before mobs smash down the palace doors to claim the head of the man—the men—responsible?”

Amaury shrugged.

The king continued, “Chancellor Renaud says it might only be a matter of days. My grandfather was deposed, you know.”

Amaury nodded. Of course I bloody well know.

“I’m told the sentiment in the city was not nearly so vitriolic then as it is now. This is a very serious crisis, Prince Bishop.”

“I understand how serious it is,” Amaury said, his anger and frustration growing at the lack of effect of his magical efforts. “Which is why we must appear strong. Resolute.” He directed every ounce of thought he could at the king. Give in to me. Give in. The king showed no sign of weakening.

Perhaps he needed to drink more from the Cup to achieve his goal. He took the Cup and a flask from his robes.

“I apologise, Highness. I’m developing something of a sore throat. The physician told me to drink of this draught whenever I feel the ache coming on. Would you indulge me a moment?”

The king nodded and gave a flick of his hand to signal his consent. Amaury filled the Cup and raised it to his lips. His hand was shaking again, now out of anger. Who did this pup think he was? Amaury might have steered him down this path, but the boy had agreed to everything. He’d seen the potential in all that Amaury was working toward, had hungered for the benefits it would bring him—and now he was willing to cast all that to the wind, and Amaury with it. Amaury would crush him. Destroy him.

He had swallowed the last drop of water before he realised he had not actually focussed his mind on what he wanted to do, nor had he fully considered just what it was he wanted to do. He took a breath and wondered if the king would permit him a second drink.

Amaury focussed his gaze on the king’s face. Boudain stared at him blankly. The left side of the young man’s face looked as though it had drooped somehow, and Amaury could see dribble slide out of the left-hand corner of his mouth.

“Highness?” Amaury said.

The king let out a strained sound, as though he was trying to say something, but wasn’t able to get the words out.

“Highness?”

The king let out the same strained sound and tried to move, without success. It seemed that more than just his face was paralysed.

Frozen, Amaury wondered, had he done this to the king? Had the anger and frustration he’d felt been visited upon the king by magical force? He had to stop himself from smiling. This could work out far better than I had hoped, he thought.

He stood, put the flask and Cup back into his robe, and went over to the king. He slapped the king’s face gently. “Highness? Highness? Can you hear me?” Though it seemed Boudain could not move, he was glaring angrily at the Prince Bishop. He knew that Amaury had done something to him. He seemed more certain of it than Amaury himself was.

What to do now?

The Prince Bishop opened a drawer in the king’s desk—a special drawer that contained only the document Amaury had insisted the king make out the day he was crowned. The document appointed Amaury, as First Minister of Mirabaya, regent until a new king or queen could be crowned, or chosen by the council of nobles, if there was no direct heir. If the king’s condition continued as it was, and Amaury was most hopeful that it would, then no successor was needed. The king still lived, and long may he live. He did, however, need a regent while he was incapacitated.

The document was there. Amaury breathed a sigh of relief. From the fire to the cauldron. It was unfair of him to be disappointed in the Cup. Perhaps it would be enough after all, even if they never found the temple.

“A wise chancellor would have told you to tear this up the moment you decided to turn on me,” Amaury said, “but I’ve always thought Renaud to be something of a fool. So hard to get good help these days. You should consider yourself fortunate that you have me.”

The king did his best to glare at Amaury. His chin glistened with drool, which was starting to drop onto his expensive doublet.

“Help!” Amaury shouted. “Help! The king’s taken ill! Help!”

There was a commotion outside, then the door burst open. The king’s secretary flew into the room, followed closely by the guards, two of the finest bannerets money could buy—Amaury knew that for a fact; they were both his men.

Amaury looked at the secretary with as much strain on his face as he could muster. “Send for the king’s physician! Quickly!”

He made a show of loosening the king’s collar and mopping his brow and chin with a handkerchief while the guards looked on. The royal physician was never far away—and capable of much less than one of the Order’s more mediocre healers, but the king didn’t have the confidence in them that Amaury did. That thought reminded the Prince Bishop that he should get some treatment for his hip—it had felt a little stiff on his way to the king’s office. The sooner he could get someone capable of performing a lasting treatment, the better.

As Amaury continued his show of caring for the wounded King—whose eyes remained tight little balls of fury—the physician arrived.

“What’s happened,” asked the man, a self-important professor from the university’s School of Medical Arts.

“I’m not sure,” Amaury said. “We were discussing matters of state one moment, and the next, he began slurring his words, then slumped a little in his chair and seemed to lose the power of speech.”

The physician pushed Amaury to one side and began inspecting the king. Every so often he would let out a “hmmm.” He continued this for what struck Amaury as an unnecessarily long time. It seemed obvious that the king had suffered a malady of the brain. Such things were not entirely unusual in people under a great deal of stress, though on this occasion, the origin had been quite different.

Eventually the physician stood.

“It would appear His Highness has suffered an attack of apoplexy. How severe it is, I cannot say at this point. He’s a young and healthy man, which makes apoplexy a little unusual, but all things considered, I expect he’s under a great deal of stress. Once the initial trauma has subsided, I suspect he will recover almost completely, but until then, he must rest and be given around-the-clock care. My staff and his usual servants will be able to take care of that.”

“Thank you for your prompt diagnosis, Royal Physician,” Amaury said. “Please put into motion whatever measures you feel are necessary to speed His Highness to a complete recovery.”

The royal physician nodded with a mix of magnanimity and benevolence, as though his influence would fix all. Such men were easy to manipulate, so Amaury loved dealing with them. A little flattery, the display of more respect than was warranted, and Amaury was confident he could get the man to dance a jig.

“Before any of you leave, I need to have your word that you will speak to no one about this,” Amaury said. “The kingdom is in a state of high anxiety, and the news that the king has fallen ill will only exacerbate that. Royal Physician, consult and employ only your most trusted colleagues and tell them no more than they need to know. I will need them all to remain here until we’ve weathered this storm.”

“You have my word,” the physician said, nodding again, clearly impressed at being involved in such important matters.

Amaury turned to the king’s secretary. “I need you to fetch my secretary immediately. After that, bring the chancellor, Commander Canet of the Watch, and General…” Forgetting the man’s name, he snapped his fingers in an effort to bring it to mind.

“Marchant?” the secretary supplied.

“Yes, General Marchant. That should do for now.” The man departed and Amaury turned to the guards. “No one is to come in here without my say-so. Understand?”

They both nodded.

“Good,” Amaury said. “Back to duty.” Once they were gone, he returned his attention to the physician. He’d forgotten this man’s name as well, not that that was important when he seemed to prefer the use of his official title.

“Is His Highness’s condition likely to deteriorate further?”

“I shouldn’t think so,” the physician said. “It’s usually the initial attack of apoplexy that causes the injury. After that, it’s simply a matter of care and rest to ensure the best recovery. I wouldn’t expect another attack.”

“That’s encouraging news. I can keep watch over him while you ready your team. Once again, I must emphasise how important secrecy is.”

“I completely understand. I’ll get to work. Try to keep him calm and comfortable while I’m gone. I’ll return as quickly as possible.”

“Your dedication to His Highness is admirable,” Amaury said.

The physician nodded and left Amaury alone with the king. Amaury looked at him, arms akimbo.

“Well, Boudain, I’ll wager this isn’t how you saw your evening going. I’m afraid I don’t hold out the same hopes for your recovery that the royal physician does.” He tipped Boudain out of his chair. The king thudded to the floor with a grunt. Amaury dragged him out from behind the desk, where he would be easily seen by the advisors when they arrived. As an afterthought, he placed a cushion under the king’s head, and arranged his limbs in a way that made it look as though he had taken some care with the man. That done, Amaury seated himself in the king’s chair. He placed the regency decree on the table before him and leaned back to wait for his secretary, who was no doubt at that moment making haste toward him.

Amaury had not intended any of what had happened over the last hour, but if he played his cards right, it could all work out very well for him. The gods, it seemed, continued to smile on him.

CHAPTER 47

So much gold, Solène thought as she surveyed the main chamber. It was everywhere. All the reliefs were covered in gold leaf. The jewels were abundant, and anything not jewelled or covered in gold was painted in bright, vibrant colours.

Most art Solène had seen depicted violence of some sort—bannerets in field armour, battles, depictions of legendary fights against mythical beasts. There was none of that here. Dragons featured prominently on every wall, and she was coming to believe that the enlightened had worshipped them. She supposed that so powerful a creature might have seemed godlike to people long ago. She shuddered when she thought of the reality of them, all fangs and claws and flame.

She was standing in a vast space with a vaulted ceiling, the craftsmanship of which easily rivalled that of the cathedral in Mirabay. It was all the more impressive considering how old it was. In the centre of the room, the stone-flagged floor gave way to a circular opening that revealed the soil below. In the middle of this stood an oddly shaped chunk of rock. It was about Solène’s height, rough and jagged, and very definitely the focal point of all the energy swirling about in the temple. This was the node. She walked closer, wondering if the rock was an ancient marker for a natural phenomenon, or if the boulder was, in itself, the node. Perhaps something about the stone caused the energy to accumulate here. Swirls of something in the rock reminded Solène of Telastrian steel. She knew the steel possessed magical properties, so perhaps that had something to do with it. She was tempted to touch the stone, but considering how much energy revolved around it, decided it was better not to. She reckoned she had used up her allowance of luck for one day.

She walked around, taking it all in. There was a huge amount of inscription mixed into the reliefs, but she could not understand it. The temptation to try to read the meaningless scrawl was growing, but she was still intimidated by the raw energy surrounding her. She had never been in a place before where the Fount was so strong she could feel it without having to open her mind to it. She stared at the reliefs, trying to imagine their meaning, and remembered the haunting whisper. She thought of the torrent of energy that had overwhelmed her, how it had felt as though it was consuming her. But it hadn’t. She still lived, and now, a short time after waking up, she felt none the worse for the experience.

Quite the opposite, in fact. She felt light on her feet. Rested, well-fed, and ready for anything. What had happened to her? And what, for that matter, had happened to this place? The drab stone walls of the antechamber had been magically transformed while she slept. Her interaction with the Fount seemed to have caused it somehow, and it was both frightening and exciting to wonder if any similar change had taken place in her.

There were two more ramps leading down into this chamber, one on each side of the room, but the far wall was solid, and completely covered in decoration. Sitting just before it was what Solène took to be an altar. She did a double take when she saw what was on it. The Cup.

She knew it couldn’t be the same one, but it looked identical in every respect. She walked over to it, and studied it closely, but didn’t dare pick it up. In every respect, it seemed the same, but some instinctive sense within her said there was a subtle difference. She walked around the altar so as to view it from every angle. Small and pot-shaped, made from Telastrian steel—but steel that was dull, not shined up to the usual mirror sheen of the blades that were more usually made from it. Why was this one different from the Cup that Gill, and now the Prince Bishop, had? There was far more power in it than in the one Solène had used on Gill and the Order’s dragon hunters. That wasn’t to say Gill’s didn’t have power. It did. Plenty, but it wasn’t on a scale to match this one.

This one was all raw energy. An incorrectly delivered spell that drew on this Cup would be catastrophic, and not just for the person on the receiving end. The uncontrolled energy could devastate a wide area around it, likely leaving only the Cup itself intact, sitting in the crater its use had created.

The altar was carved with depictions of Cups in use, much like the sculpture in the chamber beneath the ruins of Gill’s house, although judging by how many dragons were depicted in the reliefs, she doubted these rituals were intended to facilitate dragon slaying. There were noticeable differences to the method Solène herself had used. Instead of taking a droplet from the Cup, the participants in this ceremony seemed to be drinking fully from it, draining it.

She circled the altar again, this time focussing on the carvings, and stopped in shock when she saw one depicting a human figure administering a draught from a Cup to a dragon. She stood, dumbfounded, staring at it. Had they been able to exert some kind of control over the dragons? If their magic was so strong, it seemed like a reasonable theory. If dragons were to continue being a problem, the frieze offered an exciting prospect for a more effective way to deal with them—one that wouldn’t put lives at risk.

Darkness meant they could continue their journey. Even now, Pharadon could sense the pathways in the young goldscale’s mind opening up. It had taken longer than Pharadon had hoped to reach the temple—the goldscale was easily distracted, wanting to investigate every new sight, sound, and smell. Frustrating though it was, Pharadon had to indulge her as much as possible, guiding the goldscale gently rather than trying to force her. Amenable though she might be, Pharadon knew she could turn on him in an instant, and then all would be lost—perhaps even his life.

He circled the site when they reached it. His fear that its power had dissipated over the years was unfounded. If anything, there was more power coursing around the ancient standing stone than he had experienced before. More surprising was the fact that the temporary cover they had erected to hide the cavernous structure below—and then magically encouraged grass to grow over—was still intact. It looked as though one small portion had collapsed, but the area seemed to be deserted, so he wasn’t too worried. There were, however, two horses nearby, and some other signs of disturbance, which meant humans. That was far from ideal, but at this stage, he would kill without hesitation, to make sure the goldscale’s enlightenment proceeded.

He looked at the young dragon, whose joy was evident. It was the greatest concentration of the world’s energy that the young dragon had ever experienced, and it was invigorating, even to an ancient like Pharadon. With only one way to get in, he swooped down, trying to remember where the edges of the covering were—if he landed on it, his great bulk would smash the barrier, and he was hoping for a tidier solution.

The covering was fitted with a handle that was intended to allow it to be lifted off and discarded. Pharadon searched through his memory for its location. There were no surface landmarks to gauge it by—trees had germinated, grown, died, and disappeared to be replaced by others in the time since he was last there. Instead, he used the focal point of the Fount, around which the temple was built, as his reference, and after some careful clawing around, he found the handle. Gripping it with his talons, he gave a great beat of his wings to pull the “lid” free of the ground. He’d raised it only a small way before it disintegrated into a mass of rotten wood, grass, and soil that crashed down, littering the antechamber below. If Pharadon had been able to shrug in dragon form, he would have. He’d have to create some new form of concealment before he and the goldscale left the area.

To his relief, the temple’s magical protections seemed to be intact, and the familiar sight of the entryway stirred memories in the dustiest recesses of his mind. It was a pity he’d made such a mess, opening it up. Fights to the death had started for far less than fouling the Temple of the Enlightened and he remembered at least one or two dragons who would have taken offense at his inadvertent act. The goldscale, who didn’t know any better, had watched the whole process with curiosity.

The way below was clear, but he saw light coming from within. Pharadon hoped the humans would not pose too much trouble.

Ysabeau had always had a healthy sense of when danger was coming and when she needed to make herself scarce. She felt it came of having been born with a magical gift in a world where such people got burned at the stake. On this occasion, it was easy to tell that trouble was coming. It seemed like the world had crashed in behind her. She had been pelted with flying debris and didn’t intend to hang around in the open long enough to find out what had caused it.

The temple’s abundant decorations offered plenty of opportunities for concealment. She’d tucked herself behind one of the ornately carved pillars that held the roof up before the dust settled, and decided to use a little magic to make sure she went unseen. She opened her mind to the Fount—and shut it again almost as quickly. The energy had hit her like a hammer, knocking the wind from her. There was no safe way for her to use magic in that place. She could only risk using it if she absolutely had to.

The increase in light coming from behind her told Ysabeau that the antechamber had somehow been opened to the sky. When two large shadows blotted out the moonlight and starlight, Ysabeau suddenly felt very afraid. It was a primal, instinctive emotion that she could neither explain nor control. It angered her. She was not one to frighten easily, but all she wanted to do in that moment was find the deepest, darkest corner and squeeze herself into it. The shadows moved toward her, and Ysabeau had to stifle a gasp when she saw them: two dragons, one large, one small.

As curious and awestruck as she was, she had to be careful to remain unseen by these dangerous creatures of myth. She had no desire to be burned to death or eaten by one of the beasts. She held her breath as they passed, seemingly oblivious of her presence. Only when they had disappeared from view into the next chamber did she breathe a sigh of relief.

CHAPTER 48

“It wears off, you know,” Gill said. The Spurrier ignored him, but he was too bored to stay silent. “The magical protection. It wears off. By now you might be completely vulnerable to the dragon. We both know how things went for the last Spurriers that tried to kill one unprepared.”

“We’re close!” Vachon shouted from the head of their small column, pointing to an area of grassland lit with ghostly pale moonlight.

Even so many days after having last used the Cup himself, Gill could feel a gentle pulling sensation in that direction and wondered if he was benefitting from a cumulative effect, having drunk from the Cup a number of times. He knew that the protections had faded long ago, but that might have had something to do with the skill of his application. A proper mage might have been able to make it last longer. Either way, he was glad the Spurriers were the ones who were going to bluster in and find out the hard way if the Cup’s boon was still active.

They had barely paused since leaving Venne, so Gill was confident his teasing had had some effect on Vachon. He hadn’t wasted a moment in getting to the dragons, and now that they were close, the tension in the group had ratcheted up noticeably. None of these men or women had ever seen a dragon before and now they were preparing to fight one. He didn’t envy them, but could at least appreciate that they were going about it in a professional way. There hadn’t been much chatter among them to begin with, but now there was complete silence. They were riding fast—a particularly uncomfortable thing for Gill since his hands were bound, but he managed to hang on.

Vachon held up his hand, a great slab of a thing, gnarled like an old tree trunk, bearing the scars and swellings of a lifetime of fighting, and his followers stopped immediately. Gill had to strain around the Spurrier guarding him to see what had caused their abrupt halt. Before Vachon was a huge, almost perfectly square, hole in the ground. Clearly it wasn’t a natural feature; it seemed Pharadon had made a stop before heading deep into the mountains as agreed.

Orders were given by hand gesture in silence. The Spurriers dismounted and started to attend to their kit. Gill’s guard unceremoniously pulled him to the ground and left him in a heap. Despite his bound hands, he managed to manoeuvre himself into a cross-legged sitting position and watched as the Spurriers donned their armour and checked their weapons. He cast a wishful eye at his own, still secured to the back of a packhorse. Gill wondered if they were going to leave him aboveground. He doubted Vachon would want to face the dragon a person down, but Gill could cause merry havoc if left unattended. It would be a long walk home without horses, if any of them survived.

As Gill watched, he realised the Spurriers were quality. Although one or two had paled considerably when faced with what they had to do, they went about their preparations silently, precisely, and without hesitation. Vachon, now fully armoured and looking every part the warlord, approached Gill.

“Anything you want to tell me before we go down there?” he said. “One old soldier to another.”

Gill finally realised why he found the man’s face familiar. “We’ve met before, haven’t we?”

“Aye, we have,” Vachon said.

“Rencarneau? Was it?”

Vachon nodded. “Your memory’s better than I gave you credit for. I was with Endraville’s Heavy Foot.”

“Ah,” Gill said. He recalled Endraville’s Heavy Foot leading the advance on the left flank, where he’d also been stationed, with the Royal Guard. Vachon’s fellows had been massacred by lunchtime, with no more than a dozen survivors. “A bad day.”

Vachon shrugged. “It wasn’t the only one in that campaign. The Royal Guard gave a good account of themselves that day. Until Rencarneau, I always thought your lot were a bunch of ponces. Feathered hats, fine swords, jelly for spines.”

Gill laughed. “You aren’t the only one.”

“As few of us as made it off the field that day, there’d have been none if the Guard hadn’t advanced when they did.”

“What else could we have done?” Gill said, feeling a pang of sadness that they were enemies now.

“I’m asking you for the same today. Anything that’ll help me bring all these folk home, still breathing.”

“The Cup’s already given you more than I can. The rest is a combination of luck and effort.”

Looking unconvinced, Vachon nodded slowly. “We’ll be taking you down there with us.”

“With my hands tied and no armour?” Vachon shrugged. Guillot continued, “That’s mighty generous of you.”

“It’s in your interest to make sure we can do what we came to do, or you’re as dead as the rest of us.”

“Well,” Gill said. “When you put it like that. This one’s a boy dragon, and he particularly likes it when you tickle his—”

Vachon’s fist smashed into Gill’s face. Guillot flopped back on the ground, head ringing. He checked over his teeth, which were all present, and was surprised by how resilient they were proving to be. He struggled back up to a sitting position.

“I’d save your strength,” he said. “You’re going to need it.” He flashed Vachon a toothy smile, realising it might be the last one he ever gave. His teeth could hold out for only so long.

Vachon turned back to his people and started giving more orders, in a whisper. Gill suddenly got the sickening feeling that he might be used as bait. He wondered if he’d be able to talk the dragon out of eating him a second time. His guard returned, fully armoured now like the rest of his fellows, and hauled Gill to his feet. Making no effort to assist, Guillot forced the man to haul his dead weight up. Once he was standing, the Spurrier shoved him toward the hole.

As Gill got closer, he could see an array of fine carvings below. Even from above, the big space was impressive. Amazing to think it had lain here, entirely unknown, for who only knew how long, like the hidden, long-forgotten chamber underneath his old family home. He wondered how long ago this place had been covered up, and by whom.

The Spurriers had moved out around the hole and were doing their best to get an idea of what awaited them down there. Satisfied that there was no immediate danger, Vachon ordered that lines be thrown down, and one after another, they started to drop into the hole. Gill was shoved forward and handed a rope. Although he went to great pains to show how awkward it would be to climb down with his hands bound, when he started, he found it wasn’t all that difficult, and he was soon at the bottom. The stone flags below his feet were covered with a mixture of soil, grass, and old splinters of wood—the remains of whatever had covered it, Gill reckoned.

Once they had all assembled on the stone floor, the Spurriers drew their swords and looked around. Gill had already spotted the large opening leading down and the hint of light at the far end. He wondered how long it would be before Vachon saw it. Like everyone else, the Spurriers’ leader seemed transfixed by the intricate carvings covering the walls.

Solène jumped at the thunderous commotion from the antechamber. She took cover behind the altar, and peered out to see what was going on. It couldn’t be Olivier, could it? Her ability to conceal herself was negated by the fact that she had created the large globe of light that hovered in the centre of the room. She thought about trying to dismiss it, but reckoned it was already too late for that. If someone was coming after her, they already knew she was here.

She didn’t know what to do. There were two other exits from the chamber, but she had no idea where either led or if the passages were clear or had become filled in over the years. She was tempted to run but remembered her responsibilities, that there might be secrets in that place which the Prince Bishop could use to further his aims. She couldn’t stand by and allow that to happen, but was this the right time and place to fight that battle?

Solène froze at the sight of an enormous red dragon lumbering down the ramp she had used, followed by a golden one. Her shock subsided quickly, but before she could move, she saw its great orbs of eyes fix on her. It halted, crouched, and snarled at her. Solène wasn’t sure what to do. She dropped into the low, balanced position the fencing master at the Priory had taught her, but felt ridiculous—she wasn’t holding a sword.

Though the idea of doing it still frightened her, she opened her mind to the Fount anyway—better to be killed by it, than eaten by a dragon, she thought.

The dragon blinked. It was an alarmingly human gesture; Solène paused before trying to unleash every bit of magical power she could in the dragon’s direction.

“What brings you to the temple?” it said.

Solène’s jaw dropped. It took her a moment to gather her thoughts enough to respond. “You can talk?” She frowned, realising she should have spent a little longer gathering.

“That would appear self-evident,” the dragon said. “What are you doing here?”

“I … I’m looking for something.”

The dragon nodded and seemed to relax a little as it looked around the temple. The golden one shuffled out from behind it but remained silent.

“Have you found it?” the red one said.

“I don’t know.”

“Be at ease,” the dragon said. “I can see no reason for us to fight, unless that is what you wish.”

“No,” Solène said, standing straight. “I’d prefer not to.”

“Excellent,” the dragon said. “Then I suggest you leave.” Before she could move, its pupils narrowed to slits. It cocked its head and gave a long sniff.

“Wait,” it said. It edged toward her and gave another long sniff. “Well, you are different, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Most of your kind have to be led to magic, but some are born to it. You are one of those, aren’t you?”

“I…”

“There’s no need to dissemble. I can smell it on you, and I know that is why you are here. Fortuitous timing, I think, as you would not have found what you seek were I not here to show you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Some of your kind have become enlightened. You wouldn’t be the first. Even without the ritual, you are close to enlightenment. Somewhat like this goldscale here,” it added, tilting its head to indicate the smaller dragon.

“I don’t understand.”

“In this place, we are one,” the dragon said.

Solène’s eyes widened. The dragon appeared to smile.

“Ah, so you have heard the Fount call to you.” It moved a little farther into the chamber, the smaller gold dragon shuffling behind it like a duckling following its parent. “So, what to do?”

Did it see her as a threat that needed to be destroyed?

“I apologise. I am Pharadon, Drake of the Crooked Mountain. You are?”

“I … I’m Solène.” She was still struggling to absorb the fact that she was having a conversation with a dragon. That they existed at all was something she was only beginning to be accustomed to; this was almost too much for her.

“I have encountered two others of your kind who were like you. They came here for enlightenment. Is that what brought you?”

“In a manner of speaking. Well, perhaps. I don’t know what ‘enlightenment’ is.”

“It’s the higher state. It’s being a creature of reason, a creature at one with the Fount, where shaping it is as easy as drawing a breath of air. For your kind, it is more.” Pharadon paused, and adopted a thoughtful expression. “I apologise if this startles you, but please bear with me a moment.”

Solène’s eyes nearly popped out of her head as the dragon began to shrink and take on the shape of a human man. A naked human man. Solène turned her gaze away; when the dragon cleared his throat, she looked back and saw that he was fully clothed in tunic and britches of contemporary style. She could have walked past him on a street and not suspected there was anything unusual about him. He stretched his neck and walked toward the altar.

“I’m not as accustomed to human form as I once was,” Pharadon said. “It takes a little practice. The clothing in particular, but I’m getting the hang of it again. I’ve brought this goldscale here to be enlightened. All dragonkind are capable of it, but most require the ceremony to reach that state.”

“Are you a dragon or a person?” Solène said.

Pharadon smiled, an awkward-looking expression at first, which softened a little as he looked at her. “Does it matter? I am what I choose to be, when I choose to be it. That is one of enlightenment’s great gifts. The physical body is secondary to the mind. Its servant, if you will. We find the greatest comfort in the form we are born to, however, and are restricted in what we are capable of when in a different one. The Fount brings great power to an individual, as I’m sure you have realised, but it is limited by what our minds and bodies are capable of channelling. Enlightenment extends that limit, and it is a life well lived to search out and explore the boundaries of what we can achieve.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Solène said.

“Because you are one short step away from enlightenment. When I look, I can see your presence in the Fount. It’s the responsibility of all enlightened to offer the opportunity to others capable of it.”

“Not all are capable?” Solène said, grasping onto the hope that no matter what he did, the Prince Bishop would never be able to acquire the magical power he sought for himself.

Pharadon shook his head. “All beings of higher thought may be enlightened. That is not to say they are capable of being enlightened. There is a distinction. Having the power enlightenment brings, and being enlightened are not necessarily the same thing. The former can be taken by anyone, while only a few have the potential for the latter.”

“Why do you think I do?”

Pharadon shrugged. “I just do.”

Solène felt her heart sink. Should she take this step purely so she could prevent the Prince Bishop?

“All you need to do is open your mind to the idea and drink from an untouched vessel of enlightenment.” He gestured to the altar and the cup that sat on it. “The Cup can give magical blessings to many, but can only enlighten one. This one is yours if you wish it.”

Solène hesitated. “Don’t you need one for your … friend?”

“There are others here.”

“What will … happen … to me?”

“Nothing. You will simply become one of the enlightened. A being in harmony with the Fount. One of us.”

Solène frowned, not sure if she had taken the correct meaning. “One of you? Do you mean a dragon?”

Pharadon began to answer, but was drowned out by shouts. Vachon and a dozen Spurriers entered the chamber. Behind them, with his hands bound, was Gill.

CHAPTER 49

“Gods alive,” Vachon said.

There was only one dragon—the gold one—in the chamber when Gill and the Spurriers got there. To Guillot’s complete surprise, Solène was there, standing next to something that looked like an altar. He had blinked and looked again, but still couldn’t believe it was her. Pharadon, in human form, was standing next to her. Confusion swirled through his mind.

“Gill?” Solène said.

He shrugged, lifting his hands high enough that she could see they were tied.

Pharadon had broken their agreement, and dislike Vachon though Guillot did, perhaps the beasts did indeed need to be eradicated. Seeing Solène in proximity to the deceitful creature worried him, and he was tempted to take up a sword and help the Spurriers in whatever way he could.

Vachon was in front of his fighters, sword drawn, but clearly had no idea what to do next. Who did, the first time they encountered a dragon? Vachon’s gaze was locked on the gold dragon, which didn’t seem particularly interested in anything that was going on. It was looking curiously at the reliefs as though struggling to understand them.

Finally Vachon acted. He moved quickly, attacking the gold dragon. His blade snapped on impact against the armour-like scales, which was exactly what Gill expected would happen. The goldscale let out a hiss. Out of the corner of his eye, Guillot saw Pharadon move. In the next instant, Vachon flew through the air and was pinned against the wall, held in place by some great unseen force that was causing him visible discomfort.

“Put down your weapons,” Pharadon said. “There is no need for violence.”

Gill could see that the Spurriers were twitchy and unclear what to do. Their instinct was to attack, but it didn’t seem like there was a clear enough chain of command for someone to take over from Vachon. Gill glanced at Solène, who didn’t seem to be in any way threatened by Pharadon. Noticing Gill’s look, she shook her head subtly.

What’s that supposed to mean? he wondered. She indicated Vachon with her eyes, telling Guillot that the Spurriers—her comrades, he assumed—were the ones she was worried about.

“I’d do what he says,” Gill said to the fighters. “He can turn your boss into raspberry jam if he chooses. Nothing to lose in hearing what he has to say.” Despite his words, he wasn’t confident that was the case, and wasn’t altogether against the idea of Vachon meeting an untimely end.

The Spurriers relaxed a little, but there was still enough tension in the chamber that Gill could feel its weight bearing down on him. Pharadon didn’t release Vachon, who seemed to have been robbed of the power of speech.

“What are you doing here, Pharadon?” Guillot said, taking advantage of the momentary equilibrium in the room.

When Pharadon looked at Gill, his concentration must have slipped, for Vachon gave a strangled shout of “Shut him up!”

One of the Spurriers made to strike Gill with his free hand; Gill dodged to the side and kicked. The Spurrier turned as he dodged, swinging his sword arm toward Gill. With a quick move of his still-bound hands, Gill disarmed the Spurrier and made the sword his own. Backing away quickly, he allowed himself a smile at the move he had just pulled—he hadn’t managed anything that fluid in quite some time.

He shifted position to trap the hilt of the sword between his thighs and sliced his bonds off. The sword was in his hand in an instant—a regular steel blade that he knew would be of use only against the Spurriers. He still wasn’t entirely sure who he was going to be fighting.

“Solène, would you mind coming over here and telling me what’s going on?”

“Sister, what are you doing?” one of the Spurriers asked as she gave Pharadon a parting look and stepped toward Guillot.

“Trying to make sure no one dies,” she said as she crossed the chamber.

“What are you doing here?” he whispered once she was in earshot.

“Looking for this temple. The Prince Bishop thinks it’s important, and he’s right. It could give him all the magical power he’s been after.”

“And you’re not in favour of that?”

“No, of course not.”

“But the Order. These are your comrades, aren’t they?”

“Not anymore. The Order has changed. I don’t want to see them hurt, though.”

“So they’re the bad guys?” Gill said, trying to pull sense out of it all.

“Not all of them. Maybe none of them. They’re just following orders.”

“I’ve heard that before,” Gill said. He raised his voice slightly. “Pharadon, what are you doing here? You said you were headed for the mountains.”

“I am,” Pharadon said. “As soon as I’ve done what I came here to do.”

One of the Spurriers finally took some initiative. A dagger whistled through the air and struck Pharadon in the shoulder. Letting out a grunt that sounded half animal and half human, he stumbled backwards. Vachon dropped to the floor from his position halfway up the wall and quickly got to his feet. He and some of his comrades went after the goldscale, who was finally starting to pay serious attention to the humans.

Gill swore. Who was he supposed to side with—a thug like Vachon, who was at least human, or a pair of dragons? The gold dragon belched out a jet of flame—not nearly so great as some of the ones Gill had experienced, but in a confined space, it was more than enough. Or it would have been, if the Spurriers hadn’t been given the Cup’s boon, which was obviously still working, as none of them were even singed. The dragon seemed surprised that its weapon had no effect, but was quick to lash out with fangs and claws.

Two Spurriers came for Gill, who made his mind up as to what side he was on, at least for the moment. “Sorry, Solène,” he said. The Spurriers slashed at him from each side, one high, one low. Gill parried the first and carried the momentum from the strike down to divert the second. He fired in a quick thrust that cut only cloth, but smiled at how loose his body seemed to be. Joints that had complained with every movement for years were smooth and pain free. His muscles were responding faster than he could recall, and he had thrust twice more before he had even finished the thought.

The second thrust caught the targeted Spurrier below the collar bone. He cried out in pain and his sword arm went limp. Gill stamped forward, cutting low, then kicking the wounded man to the floor as he straightened. Another Spurrier joined the melee. Behind them, Gill could see the others, led by Vachon, herding the gold dragon into a corner. Solène had gone to Pharadon’s side. He didn’t have time to consider her choice to avoid the conflict, or curse her for not helping.

Guillot parried a thrust that was headed straight for his heart, then stepped forward and to the side, skewering his attacker through the midsection. He pulled the blade free and slashed at the final Spurrier confronting him, to buy a little time to catch his balance. With his weight back where he needed it to be, he launched into a rapid sequence of thrusts. The Spurrier batted them away, steel clashing and echoing about the chamber, his face a picture of concentration. He was good, had a fast blade.

The dragon roared. Gill’s enemy’s concentration faltered. His blade was a fraction too slow. A tidy thrust through the chest to finish him, and Gill was able to take a breath.

The gold dragon was cornered but the Spurriers seemed reluctant to get too close. They goaded it with their swords but none seemed brave enough to step within range of teeth or claws. Gill could see the expression of terror on the dragon’s face. It was bizarre to see the creature of so many people’s nightmares fighting for its life, afraid.

“Leave it alone,” Gill shouted, then winced—was he really telling humans to stop trying to kill a dragon?

Stepping out of the group, Vachon turned to face him. “You’d betray your own kind to protect this monster?”

Gill shrugged. “I’m not sure we are the same kind.”

Vachon smiled, the type of smile a bastard makes when he’s about to kick a puppy. Gill took his guard, and Vachon did the same. Vachon came at him like a bull, blade cutting like a butcher’s cleaver. Gill countered his blows, but his hand stung from the force of each deflected strike. A competent banneret who had spent years soldiering, Vachon clearly knew a sword wasn’t the only thing you used when you were trying to kill someone. Gill continued to parry, finding a smooth, flowing rhythm that reminded him of his youth, but he didn’t have the speed to get out of the way of a shoulder charge. Vachon knocked him to the ground and left him breathless. Guillot had grown used to dealing with that in recent days, so with barely a pause, he rolled to his feet as he fought to draw air into his lungs.

His opponent slashed at Gill with wicked cuts in rapid succession. Gill danced back on the balls of his feet, revelling in the sensation of ease, one he hadn’t enjoyed in years. It was this feeling that had made him want to become a swordsman. There was joy in it. Gill thrust; Vachon parried and riposted. Gill met the blade with his, but the strike was too wide. His body might be back in form, but the speed of his thoughts had yet to catch up.

Vachon barrelled into him, slamming him into the wall. Gill smashed down with the pommel of his sword, missing Vachon’s head and catching him on the shoulder instead. Wincing, Vachon stepped back and grabbed Gill by the front of his shirt. Vachon’s other fist followed, the guard of his sword threatening to rearrange Gill’s face.

Guillot managed to twist enough to dodge the worst of the blow, but it caught his left cheek and rattled his brain. Strong as an ox, Vachon pinned Gill to the wall with one arm, and pressed his fist into Gill’s throat. Choking, Guillot kicked at Vachon, who seemed oblivious. His eyes burned with rage; it was easy to see that he took joy in killing.

Gill tried to bring his blade to bear, but the best he could do was slide the edge along Vachon’s thigh. The sword’s previous owner had kept a keen edge on it, and Gill could see a flicker of pain on Vachon’s face. Gill kept sawing until Vachon roared and leaped back, hurling Gill to the side. Fighting to breathe, Guillot massaged his throat as he stumbled to his feet. He turned just in time to see Vachon coming for him again. Was there no stopping this beast of a man?

Limping now, Vachon was not nearly so fast as he had been. Gill lunged with everything he had and felt his blade connect. Then Vachon was on him, pummelling him with fists the size of small hams, batting Gill’s head from side to side. His vision narrowed and his mind grew distant. Instinct told him to twist the blade, which he did, before everything went dark.

Gill woke with a start to see Solène’s face hovering over him. His last memory was getting a face full of Vachon’s spittle as the man vented all his fury on Gill’s head. Sitting up, Guillot looked at the half-dozen bloodied and charred corpses scattered around the goldscale, which looked remarkably placid, considering what it had done. Revulsion swept over him—they had utterly failed to prevent any killing, as Solène had wished.

“What happened?”

“You killed Vachon,” Solène said. “He managed to knock you out before he dropped. The goldscale…” She shook her head. “Well, you can see for yourself. Pharadon was able to subdue it once I’d taken the dagger out of his shoulder. It was Telastrian steel. They all had one.”

Gill grimaced. “I’m sorry for the loss of your comrades. I know only too well what that’s like.”

“I barely knew them, to be honest. Most are—were—mercenaries the Prince Bishop hired recently. So much death, though…”

He let her help him to his feet. Considering the fight he’d been in and the beating he’d taken, he didn’t feel all that bad. He suspected he had Solène to thank for that.

The Spurriers might have been dealt with, but there was still the question of the dragons, however benevolent Pharadon might seem. Gill was under no illusion that he would be able to slay the two beasts, but he at least wanted some answers.

“I want to know what you’re doing here,” Gill said to Pharadon, staring at the man who was also a dragon.

“I have to bring this goldscale to enlightenment before we can leave the area. Once I have, we will leave the lands of humankind forever.” Pharadon paused. “I saw no reason to tell you this before. You would not have understood.”

“The Cup!” Solène said. “It’s gone!”

Pharadon turned. “It must be here somewhere.”

A badly wounded Spurrier had propped himself up against the wall. Now he let out a raspy chuckle.

“You didn’t even notice her,” he said. “She walked right in, took it, and walked out again.”

“Who?” Solène said, walking over to him.

“Heal me and I’ll tell you.”

Looking furious, Solène clenched her fist, then took a breath and relaxed. Gill wondered if she was still thinking of the day she had told him about, when she had needed to kill to save her life. He had thought she would get over it and realise that sometimes you have to do things you don’t like, but it seemed she hadn’t.

Gill had no similar compunctions. He picked up a dagger from the floor and strode over to the Spurrier who had spoken. Pressing the tip against the soft part under the man’s chin, he applied a little pressure.

“Talk fast. She does nothing until you tell us all you know,” he said.

For a man who had just seen Gill kill three of his comrades, including his commander, and probably still expected to be eaten by a dragon, the Spurrier held out for a remarkably long time. There was blood trickling down the dagger’s blade and pooling on Gill’s hand when he finally made to speak.

“I don’t know who she was. Dark cloak with a hood. I barely noticed her myself. Moved like a cat. Knew what she was here for. No hesitation. Took the cup from the altar and was gone.”

Gill looked at Solène, who shrugged. He reckoned from the man’s expression that he had said all he knew. Tossing the dagger to one side, Gill stood and moved away. Solène knelt beside the wounded man. From the look on her face, it didn’t seem that she’d had time to increase her knowledge of healing.

Her eyes were squeezed shut and her face was a picture of concentration, but Gill had seen enough wounds to know it would take a miracle, rather than magic, to save this man. Indeed, between one breath and the next, he expired.

“He’s gone,” Gill said. “I’m sorry, Solène, but no amount of magic could have saved him.”

She nodded grimly, and looked at him with such pain in her eyes that he felt ashamed at what he had done. Still, he had found out what they needed to know, and he was certain the man had been on borrowed time.

“We have to catch her, Gill,” Solène said. “We can’t let the Prince Bishop get that Cup.”

“No, it can’t be,” Pharadon said.

Gill turned to see that a cylindrical stone plinth lined with shelves had risen from the floor. More magic, he supposed, since it had moved silently and without vibration.

“There should be more cups here,” Pharadon said. He looked at the goldscale with an expression of panic on his human face. “Unless one of my brethren took them into the mountains to hide them from your kind…” He stared into the distance for a moment before speaking again. “They could be anywhere. It could take years to find them. It will be too late.”

“Too late?” Gill said.

“She can only be brought to enlightenment while she’s a juvenile. She’s not far from maturity now.”

“What can we do to help?” Solène said.

He furrowed his brow in thought. “I can quiet her—put her into a sleep that will slow the process a little. I might gain a few more days, perhaps. But I still need that cup. It’s the only way I can be sure of enlightening her.”

His face, which had been pale and drawn with worry, sharpened.

“Gold,” Pharadon said. “Do you have any?”

“Pardon me?” Gill said.

“I need some gold. A coin or two will do, but the more the better.”

Gill reached for his purse and tipped out a few coins. Only one was a gold crown. He tossed it to Pharadon, who caught it without having to look. He placed it on the ground in front of the young dragon, and started to speak in a hushed tone. The dragon lay down and placed its head on the coin. Its blinks grew slower as Pharadon continued to speak, until its eyelids remained shut. When Pharadon saw their curious stares, he shrugged.

“Dragons like gold,” he said. “Now, we’re ready to leave.”

“We?” Gill said.

“You have to stop the vessel of enlightenment falling into the wrong hands, and I need to use it. I’m going to help you.”

CHAPTER 50

Ysabeau rode as hard as she could, away from that strange, ancient place. She could feel the Cup she had taken pressing against her hip. It was uncomfortable, but she liked to know it was there. She could feel the power in it; far more than was in the Prince Bishop’s. Recalling what the dragon had said about a Cup being able to enlighten only one person, she wondered if her father’s had already been used. If so, the one she was bringing him would more than make up for the fact that she had found out little on how to use it.

Her horse was starting to tire, even with magical help, but so long as it got her to the next town, she didn’t care. She could find a new mount there, and send word that her mission was a success. She had found the temple and what her father needed—a Cup that still had all its power.

She continued to use her magical veil to conceal herself, though now that she was drawing away from the ancient temple, it was becoming more taxing to maintain. Nonetheless, she persisted. She had stolen something she was certain was a relic of some ancient dragon culture, and done so in front of two dragons. That they could transform themselves into humans left her with a lingering sense of terror, but her greatest fear at that moment was to look over her shoulder and see one sweeping down behind her, a great jet of flame erupting from its mouth.

She couldn’t wait to see the look on her father’s face when she brought him the Cup.

Amaury sat at the king’s desk as the three royal advisors were shown into the room. When they had heard the news, they had all demanded to be allowed to call on the king, who was now in his bedchamber, attended by the royal physician and his staff. Amaury had been content to allow the visit. Seeing the king as he was would soften their resolve, and Amaury wasn’t in the mood for a hard fight.

Filing into the king’s office, they all looked less full of bluster than usual, as they took their seats without waiting for Amaury’s permission. That didn’t bother him. No amount of disrespect would lessen the enjoyment of what he was about to do.

A dozen armed members of the Order were waiting in concealment. He could have used the Royal Guard for the job, but reckoned it was time that everyone realised there would be a new way of doing things in the Kingdom of Mirabaya.

“I’m glad you could join me, gentlemen, at this most distressing time.”

“What did you do to him?” General Marchant said. The soldier, rather than the politicians, was always the one to give him the most direct trouble, and Amaury was prepared.

“I ensured he got immediate medical attention. Were it not for my haste in acting, he might have died. As it is, hope remains that he will recover. I have here a document, signed and sealed by the king, appointing me as his regent in the event of his incapacity or demise before his legitimate successor has reached majority.”

“I’ll never agree to that,” Chancellor Renaud said.

Amaury laughed. “You don’t need to. Everything required by law for me to take up the regency is contained in this document. I didn’t bring you gentlemen here to approve of these arrangements. I brought you here—” He reached forward and rang the king’s desk bell. “I brought you here to have you all arrested for treason.”

On cue, the two doors into the room opened and several Spurriers stepped in. They were new appointments all, found for Amaury by Luther; some of them looked as though they had spent the previous day hopping from bar brawl to bar brawl on the docks.

“You can’t do this,” Canet of the City Watch said.

“Can and have. Your counsel to the king of late has clearly been contrary to the best interests of the kingdom. The appropriate paperwork has been completed and signed by the Lord Chief Justice”—a man long under Amaury’s thumb.

“All that remains is for you to take up your new accommodations downstairs. Take them out.”

There was a volley of protests that had reached begging on the part of Renaud by the time he was being muscled out the door. Amaury considered having them fed poison—an untraceable one created at the Priory. Men and women sent down to the dungeons were rarely seen again, so it was unlikely questions would be asked. If anything, the poison was more than was necessary, but Amaury knew there was no hurry to decide. The last thing he needed were figureheads around which opposition could be mounted.

When peace and quiet reigned in the office once more, he sat back to think. Three letters lay on the desk, notifying the new appointees of their roles as counsellors to the king. They were all senior noblemen of rank, befitting the honour.

The first was an inveterate gambler whose notes Amaury held, making him bought and paid for. The second was fond of dream seed, so as soon as the Prince Bishop trained someone in the Order to do what dal Drezony had done with Barnot, the man would be little more than a puppet on a string. The third, well, despite himself, Amaury had always gotten on with him, and it would be useful to have one advisor who didn’t tell him only what he wanted to hear.

The king was still the king, but Amaury was now very much in control. There would be no more obstacles to his plans; he could bring about his intended future. All the same, there was a sickening twist of fear in his gut. Everyone would know he was the one making the decisions now. He was the one whom the assassins or the angry mobs would come for. If he didn’t find a way to make the Cup work the way he believed it could, everything he had worked for might all still come tumbling down around him.

Pharadon landed at the edge of the opening to the temple, where Gill and Solène were waiting for him. Gill shielded his eyes from the cloud of dust and grit raised by the dragon’s flight, then looked hopefully to see if the dragon had returned with the stolen Cup.

“I couldn’t find her,” he said. “There is no one for miles around, and I covered far more ground than she could have.”

“She can’t simply have disappeared,” Gill said.

“Yes she can,” Solène said. “If she can use a little magic, she could make herself all but invisible. Particularly at night. No one saw her in the temple save for that one Spurrier, and he said she was hard to see, even when he was looking right at her. If she’s one of the Prince Bishop’s agents, there’s a good chance she can use magic. If she was given a task this important, she’s probably pretty good.”

“Did you meet anyone of her description in the Order?” Gill said, hoping that they might at least know what she looked like.

Solène shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

Gill let out a sigh, and looked out toward the moonlit horizon. “We have to go after her. At least we know where she’s headed.…”