Servant of the Crown

CHAPTER 42

Gill spotted the mercenaries the next morning. It was as big a company as he’d ever seen. At a very rough estimate, there must have been ten thousand men, including the baggage train. He doubted it was a single company—more like an amalgam of several smaller ones. That meant there was going to be more than one leader, a command council of some sort, with absolute command awarded to an elected member only in times of action. It would make dealing with them more arduous, but delaying this force was almost as useful as getting them to turn around. Perhaps that should be the true focus of his offer?

A mercenary company on the march was always dangerous to approach. The reputations all such companies bore for looting, pillaging, and murder were well earned, even though some companies behaved far better than others.

He’d dealt with mercenaries a number of times during his career, fighting both with and against them. He had no strong opinions on them one way or the other. They were very much like any other segment of the world—there were some good ones, some bad ones, and plenty in between. He was pretty sure that in a force of this size, he’d find some of all. It didn’t matter if the commanders were good men or not. They only needed to prize the value of a coin, or the thousands of them the king was offering if they turned around.

Gill stopped by a stand of trees and cut down a slender branch, which he used, in conjunction with a piece of cloth torn from his sleeve, to fashion a flag of truce. He was less likely to be targeted by overeager scouts if he looked like he was on official business.

With his new banner flying haphazardly above him, Gill continued toward the mercenary column. They had some outriders, but Gill hadn’t encountered any advance scouts. Either they were very stealthy or the company’s commanders were confident that no one would challenge so large a force. This behaviour wasn’t unheard of, but it was arrogant and foolish—Gill knew of more than one force that had been attacked on the march. He wondered what was making them so confident, but answering that question could wait.

Once he was spotted, a group of riders broke away from the main column and galloped toward him.

“Who are you?” one of the men said, as soon as they were within earshot.

“Banneret of the White Guillot dal Villerauvais. An emissary of the king. I need to speak with your captain.”

The rider gave Gill a curt nod, indicating that he was also a banneret. “Banneret of the Starry Field Carlos dal Dorado. The king, you say?”

“Yes,” Gill said, returning the nod, acknowledging the Estranzan equivalent of his title. “The King of Mirabaya. This is a kingdom.”

“We were given to understand that he is dead and that there is a regent in place. A regent we’ve been hired by.”

“I’m afraid your information is incorrect,” Gill said. “If you’d be so good as to bring me to your captain, I’ll be happy to explain all.”

The rider cast a glance at one of his comrades, then looked back at Gill.

“Follow us,” he said. “And you can dump that ridiculous-looking flag.”

Gill discarded the branch and shirt cuff, then dropped in beside the riders.

“Quite a big force you’ve got here,” Gill said. “What company are you?”

“Black Spur, Red Lance, and a few smaller ones to make up numbers,” dal Dorado said.

“Who commands?”

Dal Dorado and one of his comrades laughed but made no reply. When they got closer to the column, dal Dorado held up his hand.

“Captains!” he said. “Messenger from the King of Mirabaya.”

“Thought he was dead,” one of the men at the front said.

Gill shrugged. It was becoming clear to him that the mercenaries had either been supplied with very out-of-date information or been completely lied to. It occurred to him that he needed to be careful not to give away too much. Should they choose to reject the king’s proposition, it was better that they remain as ignorant as possible.

“I bring an offer from Boudain the Tenth, King of Mirabaya,” Gill said. “To whom do I have the honour of speaking?”

“Captain Carenjo of the Black Spur,” said one.

“Teloza of the Red Lance,” said the other.

Gill took the sealed papers from his tunic and held them out, still not sure which of the two men he should give them to.

Eventually Teloza, a man with a thick salt-and-pepper moustache, dressed in fine crimson clothing, leaned forward in his saddle and snatched the papers from Gill. He gave the seal a cursory inspection, then broke it open with no ceremony. He took what felt like an age to read the contents, during which Gill did his best to appear the disinterested messenger. Eventually, the mercenary captain looked up from the pages.

“Promise of payment to go home?”

“I believe that is what the king is offering,” Gill said.

“If this is some sort of prank,” the captain said, “I’ll have you strung up from that tree over yonder.” He pointed at the stand of trees where Gill had made his flagpole.

“I assure you, on my word as a Banneret of the White, this is not a prank,” Gill said. “The king’s offer is in good faith.”

Teloza handed the papers to Carenjo, who clearly didn’t like having been made to wait. The body language between the men did not speak of a solid working relationship. In the ordinary course of their contract—marching their troops to Mirabay, where they would be dispersed about to bolster Amaury’s regular forces—it wouldn’t be a problem. If they were to march into battle, Gill didn’t fancy their chances of providing cohesive command. It was as sure a route to disaster as any he could think of, and any self-respecting captain would have avoided winding up in this position. Clearly whatever Amaury had offered was enough to make them throw caution to the wind. Gill had to wonder if the king’s offer could make them turn their backs on it.

“This is derisory,” Carenjo said. He crumpled the paper and dropped it to the ground.

Gill grimaced. “I take it that’s a no, then.”

“We’ve made a contract with the Lord Protector of—” Gill burst out laughing and Carenjo cast him a filthy look.

“I’m sorry,” Gill said. “I didn’t realise that’s what he’s calling himself these days.”

“The Lord Protector of Mirabaya,” Carenjo continued, “and we will hold true to it. What else does a company have, if not its reputation for keeping its word?”

Gill shrugged. He could think of a couple that had made a perfectly good living by changing sides whenever it suited them. Clearly the king’s offer hadn’t been tempting enough to make them change their colours. Gill wondered if there was anything he could do to convince them, but given that he wasn’t in a position to change the offer or to add to it, it seemed that his hands were tied. He really was nothing more than a messenger. Still, he couldn’t let it lie without doing something.

“Perhaps you might sleep on it, gentlemen,” Gill said. “An offer from a king is, after all, an offer from a king. I dare say the Lord Protector won’t be in that role for much longer.”

“Perhaps,” Teloza said. “Perhaps not. We’re losing the light, so should set camp for the night. We can discuss the matter further with the junior captains over supper, but I doubt our answer will be any different. You’re welcome to remain and sup with our officers,” Teloza continued. “Banneret dal Dorado will show you where.”

One thing armies the world over were good at doing with little encouragement was setting up camp. The faster it was done, the sooner they could get fed and into their bedrolls. Gill made idle chitchat with dal Dorado as the companies settled in. He noticed they paid only lip service to setting up pickets or posting sentries. Clearly they weren’t expecting trouble, and Gill supposed they were right. It was unlikely they would face an enemy until they met the king’s army, most likely below the walls of Mirabay. There were no other forces in the field that a company of this size would have to worry about.

Supper was good. That was always the case with mercenary companies, in Gill’s fleeting experience. When men were hired, rather than levied or conscripted, they had to be treated a little better if you wanted them to stick around and fight for you. The menu was fresh beef, potatoes, and a vegetable stew of some Estranzan recipe that was a little too spicy for Gill’s taste, but it was the best meal he’d been offered in quite some time, so he ate it all gladly.

It was late, with the sun having long fled the sky, when Teloza and Carenjo appeared from the command tent and strolled to where the officers had messed. The other officers had been eyeing up their tents for some time by then, but were obligated to entertain their guest until their commanders had agreed upon a response.

“Our answer remains the same,” Teloza said. “In consideration of the royal dignity, we’ve written a letter. Please inform His Majesty that we are sorry, but our word is our bond, and we have signed a contract with the Lord Protector.”

Gill took the letter. “I understand. I’m sure His Majesty will appreciate the respect you’ve shown.”

“You’re welcome to remain here for the night, if you’d prefer not to set off in darkness,” Carenjo said.

“Thank you for that kindness,” Gill said, “but I should return immediately.”

“I understand,” Carenjo said. “Your mount was fed and watered while you ate. I hope the gods see fit that we shall not meet on the battlefield.”

“I do also,” Gill said, with a grim smile, knowing now that it was likely. “With your leave?” Gill gave dal Dorado a traditional banneret’s salute—a click of the heels and nod of the head—then left to find his horse.

CHAPTER 43

Gill had always enjoyed riding on a clear night, beneath a star-filled sky. Setting aside the obvious dangers of his horse stumbling on an unseen obstacle and throwing him, he reckoned it was one of his favourite things. The fact that he didn’t have two fire-spewing dragons chasing him, as he had on his previous nighttime ride, was an added bonus.

There was a hunter’s moon—the usual spectral white and grey taking on a red hue. There was something foreboding about it, as though the moon were mirroring the wounds of the land beneath it. Gill tried to ignore the thought and focus on the fresh, bracing air … and the bad news he was bringing to his king. Boudain was a clever young man. He must have realised that this was the likely answer.

It took a little while for Gill to realise that the night was unusually quiet. Deathly so. The racket he was making as his horse ambled along would have been enough to frighten off anything but the most determined of predators, but even still, it felt unnatural to hear nothing. When he rode over the next rise, he realised what had kept all the nocturnal life quiet.

Glimmering red under the hunter’s moon was a host of heavy cavalry. He brought his horse to a stop and tried to make sense of it. Should he flee before he was spotted? A gentle whistle told him it was too late for that.

“Banneret dal Villerauvais.” The voice came from behind him.

Gill grimaced when he realised he’d been followed. Probably ever since leaving the mercenary camp.

“I’m to bring you straight to the king,” the man said. “This way, if you please.” A horseman loomed out of the darkness in a way that gave Gill pause. Was Amaury the only person training up people skilled in the magical arts?

As Gill rode along beside the whisperer, he thought about asking how long the man had been following, but realised he didn’t actually want to know. The bigger question was how the king had managed to put together such a large body of horsemen in such a short time. True, men had been coming into the village steadily, and the king had retained most of the cavalry his cousins had brought, who had not played a role in that first battle. Even so, it was impressive. In the darkness it was impossible to make anything approaching an accurate estimate, but it was formidable. That they were in full battle array was telling.

The king was dismounted but fully armoured, and in discussion with several of the men Gill recognised as having become his general staff.

“Gill, they said no?” Boudain said.

“They did, your Highness.”

“To be expected. Still, it was worth a try.”

“Where did all these men come from?”

Boudain smiled, his teeth flashing in the moonlight. “Impressive, isn’t it? Every horseman we could cobble together. Less than half the royal heavy host, but all things considered, I’m delighted. Some were donated by my cousins, but a remarkable number have been deserting their regiments. The rest are the feudal hosts who answered my call to raise their banners. I’m sure we left many behind by setting off ahead of the infantry when we did, but I’m hopeful this will be enough to do what needs to be done. Tell me, how many are they?”

“Nigh on ten thousand. I’d say at least seven of that fighting men, perhaps as many as eight. Looked to be about two thousand horse. Two large companies and several smaller ones. The two main captains don’t seem to get along, particularly when it comes to who’s giving the orders.” Gill smiled. He’d been wondering why the king had sent him on what was nothing more than a message run, but now he knew. Boudain had wanted an experienced, trusted eye to appraise the enemy force. Why he hadn’t just said that to begin with was beyond Gill. Still, he knew only too well that it was never worth the effort, trying to understand why kings behaved as they did.

“If we catch them by surprise, Highness,” one of the officers said, “I think we’ll have the measure of them. There’s not a mercenary company in the world that will stand before a charge of Mirabayan heavy horse.”

Gill did his best not to let out an incredulous laugh. Not only was that statement a load of nonsense, Gill had seen the proof that it was with his own eyes. More than once. Still, if the mercenaries were caught unawares and before they broke camp, it wouldn’t go well for them.

“We will proceed with the attack as planned,” the king said. “Villerauvais, we brought your armour. A destrier and a lance too, if you wish to join us.”

With all the reputation he had for swordsmanship, Gill had never been a cavalryman, although he had trained in fighting from horseback extensively while at the Academy—everyone did. Charging with the lance wasn’t his preferred method of fighting, but a well-executed charge could be devastating and was their best chance to get rid of the mercenaries with minimal losses to their own forces.

Gill had to admit that Boudain was impressing him. He had known of the king’s reputation when he was still a prince, and there had been general concern about him in court circles. The swordplay Boudain had enjoyed most was not the type taught at the Academy, but he seemed to have been able to navigate the web of potential scandals he had created without being caught.

A squire appeared, leading a horse, with what looked like Gill’s armour bundled up on the saddle.

“When you’re ready,” the king said, “we’ll advance.”

The squire went about fitting Gill into Valdamar’s armour. The lad was clearly expert in what he was doing, and made far faster work of it than Gill would have on his own. After a moment of trying to help, he realised things would go quicker if he simply stood there and let the squire do his job. This was the job poor Val would have done with his eternal enthusiasm, and Gill felt a pang of regret that the lad hadn’t achieved his dream of becoming a banneret. So many dead who didn’t deserve it, yet Gill remained. He wondered if his continued life was some bizarre divine punishment, if he was damned to watch those he cared about die before their time, or if that was simply the way of the world, as the wheel of fate turned and thinned out the herd.

“You’re set to go, my Lord,” the squire said. “Does everything feel as it should?”

“Yes. You’ve done an excellent job. Thank you.”

Gill eschewed the lad’s offer of help to mount. He was in the best shape he’d been in years and intended to take full advantage of it.

“I’m at your convenience, your Highness,” Gill said, once firmly established in the saddle.

Boudain nodded, looking every part the warrior king in his finely polished armour. Gill wondered where he’d gotten it and what unfortunate nobleman was now wearing whatever he had cobbled together from the scraps in the village. It would be a shame to own so lovely a suit, yet be killed while wearing rusty, mismatched plate. Gill was thankful Pharadon had retrieved Valdamar’s suit. Not only would it have been a terrible shame to lose it, Gill had come to place quite a bit of stock in the protection it offered. It had proved itself where a suit of Jauré’s—as fine a suit of armour as money could buy—had failed. Compared to all the smooth, shining plate around him, his suit was dated-looking, but he had long since realised that substance was much more important than style.

“The regiment will advance at the trot!” the king said.

Boudain’s force lacked the cohesive unity of motion Gill was accustomed to, but considering this regiment had been cobbled together over the past couple of days, their advance wasn’t too bad. If they had been planning on charging a prepared line of infantry, Gill wouldn’t have been happy, but an unexpecting mercenary camp was an entirely different proposition.

The noise they made was jarring in the otherwise peaceful night, but by the time the enemy heard them, it would be too late. Gill reckoned it would take them an hour to reach the mercenaries. By then, men would be in deep sleep, and sentries would be getting bored.

There was little talk as they rode. Some of the horsemen, Gill knew, were riding to their first battle. A number of them would have witnessed the slaughter during the battle at Castandres, where the king’s cousins had held their cavalry in reserve. Gill wondered if having seen battle but not participated was worse than being completely new to it. Those men knew the horrors of war but didn’t realise that it was possible to survive, if you fought as hard as you could. And were lucky.

The moon had dropped and lost its red hue by the time the mercenary camp drew into sight. There would be plenty of red on display by the time the sun rose. It saddened Gill that Carenjo and Teloza hadn’t taken the opportunity to turn around. They had made their choice and would have to live with it. That was the lot of soldiers, and Gill wasn’t going to lose any sleep over what had to be done. He had learned the hard way that honour counted for little when you were in a fight for your life.

When the king raised his hand and swiped it forward quickly, Gill didn’t think twice. He urged his horse forward, as did the men to his left and right and those in the three ranks behind him. They increased speed to a canter that took them across the open farmland.

The first cry of alarm sounded, and in response, there was a call from the king’s side.

“Chaarrrrge!”

Blood pounded through Gill’s ears, syncopating to the beat of his horse’s hooves. He pulled the visor down on his helmet, allowed his horse to surge forward, and lowered his lance.

The line had grown ragged—to be expected in an undrilled body of horsemen—but it wouldn’t matter. The charging wall of man and horse mowed down the few sentries, and the first screams rose. Gill could see some movement amongst the fires in the camp. This was not a sight any man wanted to wake to.

The weight and momentum of the horses was as much a weapon as any sword or lance. They smashed through tents and men like living battering rams. Gill’s lance caught a man stepping out of his tent square in the chest and punched straight through him, pulling the shaft from Gill’s hand. Gill drew his sword as he rode on, trampling and cutting through row after row of tents.

It felt like it took forever before he was through the camp and galloping into the darkness on the other side. He had lost count of the number of men he had ridden over or cut down by the time he got clear. If the others had performed half so lethally, then the mercenaries would not be able to recover from that first shock assault. Nonetheless, the fight was not simply about winning—they needed to do it with as little loss on their side as possible.

The attackers’ line was well and truly broken now. Some had, like Gill, charged through and out the other side, while others, in the heat of the moment, had forgotten the purpose of a cavalry charge and had stopped to cut down whatever came within reach. Gill looked about, trying to spot the king, but there was no sign of him.

Gill hoped the man was well-protected. If Boudain were to be killed that night, everything they had done would be for naught. Still, there were times when a king had to stand with his men and show he could get his hands dirty, if he hoped to earn their loyalty and respect. This was definitely one of those times—the only tricky part was surviving it.

Seeing that the other horsemen who had come through the camp with him were idling around, he shouted, “Form up!”

There was a risk in charging through the camp for a second time, since so many of their comrades had stopped midway and were now obstacles. But leaving their force disorganised increased the possibility that they might be picked off piecemeal and routed.

Seeming eager to have some direction, the men gathered around him. The inexperience of both the king and his advisors was showing. It didn’t look like Boudain had appointed any lower-level officers, so as soon as men were out of contact with the king’s party, they were beyond his command.

That might be fine for now—the devastation they had caused on their first pass through the camp virtually guaranteed their victory—but facing the well-drilled army that Amaury would bring to the field, they’d be annihilated.

The men looked expectantly at Gill. He surveyed the mercenary camp, and realised there was no need for another charge. The mercenaries had been caught utterly wrong-footed; Gill wondered how many men lay dead beneath the shrouds of their collapsed tents. Small groups of horsemen wheeled back and forth, armour and swords flashing red in the light of the campfires. The air was filled with screams and cries of anger. For a moment, it occurred to Gill that the three hells must look similar to what was going on before him. There was no fighting anymore, only slaughter. That was something Gill would have nothing to do with.

CHAPTER 44

By the time dawn greeted them, the king’s retinue had restored one of the larger tents for his use. While the rest of the force breakfasted and picked over the spoils, Boudain entertained his senior officers at a liberated mercenary campaign table. A preliminary count indicated they had lost no more than a couple of dozen men—an extraordinary result considering how many people must have died during the hours of darkness.

There was not a trace of a living mercenary. Gill wondered how many had gotten away under cover of darkness, and he was glad that the king hadn’t ordered a pursuit. There was nothing to be gained by cutting them down, and it showed that Boudain hadn’t let bloodlust overwhelm him.

Once they’d broken their fast, and completed the task of disposing of the corpses either by mass burial or burning—the better choice was an unappetising topic of breakfast conversation—the plan was to move to a campsite that didn’t reek of death. There, they would get some well-earned rest before continuing on to join the main army, which was marching toward the city.

Gill sat quietly and ate ravenously. Even though his involvement in the fight had been limited to a single charge, he was starving, and thankful for his second meal from the mercenaries’ larder. There were going to be more hard days ahead. The king was still untested against an experienced and seasoned foe, and after the chaos of the previous night, it was clear none of his retinue had much more command experience than Boudain himself.

“As soon as we’ve finished breakfast,” the king said, “I want a fast inventory to be made of what is salvageable from this camp. My army is perilously under-resourced, so we will take as much as we can. Food, tents, weapons, armour. I believe the baggage train is largely intact from last night, so we shall make full use of it.”

Gill nodded. It was a sensible idea and showed forethought, another hopeful sign. If some of Boudain’s new officers showed similar aptitude, Gill might be able to go home all the sooner. Wherever that might be, now.

The pile of reports on Amaury’s desk all said the same thing—there was no more trouble on the city streets. The problem was, there was nobody out on the city streets. Indoors, they could be up to anything—plotting, hiding, obeying. He had no idea. The voice of worry in the back of his mind said it wasn’t the latter.

Curious to see for himself, he climbed to the top of one of the palace’s turrets and looked out across the city. It was deserted. Not a single person could be seen moving about the place. He was sure there were some, somewhere, but it was remarkably disconcerting to see the streets so empty. When he came down from the tower, he noticed that the palace was also far quieter than usual. While there seemed to be fewer servants about, more pronounced was the virtual absence of any of the court parasites and hangers-on who cluttered the place up most of the time. Those who were present gave him a wide berth—Amaury had even seen one servant stop in their tracks, turn, and head in the opposite direction upon seeing him.

He knew the reason, of course, and it was a bitter pill to swallow. If only the people had listened to him, listened to reason, nothing bad would have happened. As it was, he fully expected he would have to give another, similar lesson in the days to come. It was unpleasant, but nobody had ever said ruling was supposed to be enjoyable. It was a duty, placing the best interests of the state ahead of what one might desire personally, but that was his burden, and he was stuck with it now.

His secretary popped his head around the door after a cursory knock, with an expression on his face that said Amaury wasn’t going to like what he was about to hear.

“Lord Protector, I’m afraid it appears that the dragon has disappeared.”

“Pardon me?” Amaury said, genuinely nonplussed.

“The cage. It’s empty. There’s no sign of the creature.”

It took Amaury a moment to process the news. There was only one conclusion he could come to. That little bitch, he thought. Betrayed by his own daughter, simply because she hadn’t the stomach to see through the things that needed to be done. He should have left her to rot, all those years ago. He had been too sentimental by far, taking her in and trusting her as he had.

“Mobilise the City Watch. Every last man of them. I want the city gates closed and locked until we have the dragon back where it belongs. Tell the Watch to keep an eye out for my dau—Ysabeau dal Fleurat. She has some explaining to do.” He was about to add that the Intelligenciers should start investigating, but of course they were no more.

“That’s the other thing, Lord Protector,” his secretary said, the fear in his voice palpable.

Amaury noted that the young man was still standing behind the door with only his head visible.

“The Watch appear to have deserted their posts,” the secretary said.

“All of them?”

The secretary nodded.

Amaury closed his eyes and stifled a swear. “The Royal Guard then. Assign the Watch duties to them.”

“Very good, Lord Protector.”

As soon as the door closed behind his secretary, Amaury let out the curse he’d been holding back. The sooner he could get his mercenaries onto the streets, the better. He got up and paced around his office. What in hells has Ysabeau done with the dragon? It’s not as though it’s easy to sneak about and hide.…

Solène didn’t like to admit—even to herself—how relieved she was when they got out of Mirabay. The feeling increased with every step away they took, and they kept going until the moon was high in the night sky. Only then, under cover of darkness, could Solène finally accept that they were free and clear, could she honestly tell herself that she had carried out her promise to Pharadon.

She hadn’t thought beyond this point, however, and had no idea where to go or what to do next. She looked at the dragon, still moving somewhat awkwardly in its human guise. The beautiful, dark-haired woman regarded her surroundings with wide-eyed wonder. Only an hour earlier, this woman had been a golden dragon, not yet over the threshold of true self-awareness. It must have been an incredibly jarring experience for the young dragon, and Solène felt remiss for not making more of an effort to comfort her through it.

“Are you … all right?” Solène said.

“Perfectly, thank you,” Ashanya said. “I’m listening to the song of my kind, and learning from it.”

“The song of your kind? Other dragons are talking to you?” Solène could barely remember hearing something she’d have described as a song when she became enlightened, although she couldn’t understand any of it. The memory felt so distant now that she had to search it out.

Ashanya shook her head, an odd, jerky movement with none of the natural rhythm of a real person. “No, not directly to me; their song is carried on the Fount. I can hear it now.”

“What does it say?” Solène said, genuinely intrigued.

“All sorts of things. Stories of my kind, lessons they learned. It is a comfort.”

She looked at Solène, who noticed that despite her human form, Ashanya’s eyes had returned to a piercing crystal blue.

“It worries me that I might always be alone,” Ashanya said.

Solène gave her a sad smile. What could she say? There were no assurances she could make; there was no comfort she could give. She had no idea if there were any more slumbering dragons or hidden clutches of eggs, waiting for the right moment to hatch. Part of her hoped there were.

“The song says there might be others, but not when they will come into the world. If they emerge, will you help me? The song says it takes a Cup, or two of the enlightened, to bring another dragon into the light. There are no more Cups, just you and I. Will you help?”

“Of course,” Solène said. “I promise that I will always answer your call, if I can.” It felt odd that she had made more promises to dragons than she ever had to other humans. “What will you do now? Where will you go?”

Ashanya looked toward the mountains. “Back there. Home. I will call you if I find others.”

“I’ve heard the song too,” Solène said. “Will I ever come to understand it?”

Ashanya shook her head. “Not that of dragonkind. Are many of yours enlightened?” She shook her head again, and forced an expression that looked like sympathy. “No,” she said, answering her own question. “The song says only one other. Not enough to be able to hear their voice on the Fount.”

Solène realised Ashanya must be talking about Amatus. It was incredible to imagine that one day she might be able to hear his thoughts and experiences, to learn from them.

They walked in silence away from the road until there was no chance of being seen, even at that late hour. Ashanya had started to revert back to her normal form before Solène noticed. She had to step back a few paces to get away from the dragon’s rapidly increasing size. Solène wondered how Ashanya was able to change twice in such a short period of time, but reckoned that the Cup must have imbued the young dragon with a massive amount of energy, which was clearly not yet depleted.

Ashanya gave Solène a nod and stretched her wings. With a rush of air and dust, she was in the air. Solène shielded her eyes for a moment, then watched as Ashanya flew higher and higher, until she was no more than a speck, glinting in the moonlight like a dream.

When she could see no more trace of the young dragon, Solène began to wonder where she should go, what she should do next. If she went back to the king, he would expect her to fight for him, and even now, she couldn’t bring herself to do that. She couldn’t use her magic to kill. Once that dam was broken, there was no going back, and she knew the only thing easier than doing it the second time would be the third, then the fourth. There would always be a good reason to kill someone. The only way to resist was to say never and refuse to budge.

Her new power would enable her to be a healer the like of which the world had not seen since Imperial times—an idea she felt strongly drawn to. Surely the king would be satisfied with that? Still, if she was patching men up so they could rush straight back into the carnage, how different was that from doing the killing herself?

Was she powerful enough to prevent the coming war altogether? Could she force the king and the Prince Bishop to come to terms, or use magic to prevent them from fighting at all? That, though, was the first step to tyranny; it was no different from what the Prince Bishop was doing. She swore. Enlightenment was supposed to be a gift, but it felt more like a curse. She was rapidly coming to understand why Amatus had supposedly removed himself entirely from Imperial politics. She felt like removing herself from society completely. Where would she draw the lines? How would she recognise when she was about to cross one?

Perhaps a little time would help her find a role. Maybe a small bakery somewhere quiet and out of the way was an idea she could make herself excited about again. It was a good, honest life, and she smiled at the thought that her bread and cakes would be unrivalled. Still, there was something about it that rang of defeat, of giving up, of wasting the potential enlightenment brought. Was she being unreasonable? Too hard on herself? She started to walk again, still with no idea of where she was going to go.

CHAPTER 45

There was little time for reflection once the task of stripping the mercenary camp was complete. Gill oversaw the acquisition of the baggage train, which was, happily, a far easier task than he had expected. As they were still on the march, the mercenaries had left all but what they had needed for the night on the wagons that followed the company. Luckier still, most of the draft oxen had survived the attack—certainly enough for them to get what they needed moving.

Gill had never been a logistician or a member of a quartermaster’s corps, so other than gathering up everything that looked good and getting it moving in the right direction, he really didn’t know what was expected of him. The goods probably needed to be catalogued, but he had no intention of doing that himself, nor did he intend to be responsible for issuing it all to the troops. His talents lay elsewhere, and if the king didn’t know how to use them properly, what point was there in sticking around?

He was concerned about the attitude he saw amongst the cavalry. Morale was high, which was good, but to hear the men talk, one would have thought they had won a great victory, not slaughtered men by the hundreds before they were able to get out of their tents. As a strategic victory, it was a great one, but for any man to consider himself a blooded warrior after that was dangerous. They still had not been truly tested in battle.

As they rode, Gill realised he had turned into that wary old warrior who saw doom around every corner, the man who had escaped death many times whilst seeing friends and comrades drop like flies. To him, the inevitability of death seemed certain. Someone had to be the voice of caution, but Gill didn’t want the job.

The infantry force that had marched directly to Mirabay from Castandres was already camped within view of the city’s walls by the time Gill and the cavalry got there. Unlike the mercenary commanders, whoever the king had put in charge of his infantry had done a proper job of setting up and securing the camp. Of course, there was a good chance they’d be spending quite a bit of time here—not just one night.

A ditch and embankment had been created, and men were working on constructing a palisade along the top. Gill was impressed—whoever it was had clearly paid attention during the relevant classes at the Academy, unlike Gill during Logistics.

As they grew closer, Gill saw something that came as quite a surprise. Not only were there far more men around the camp than he had expected, many of them wore the various liveries of the permanent regiments, all of whom Gill had expected to be facing on the battlefield.

There was a serious problem in the city if that many troops had sneaked out. The thought brought a smile to his face. Anything that vexed Amaury was all right in Gill’s book, and this could be the thing that tipped the balance in their favour.

Once his ox wagons passed within the camp’s perimeter, Gill headed for the central axis, where he expected the command tent to be, given the organised, textbook placement of everything else. Sure enough, it was there, and the king was poring over maps on a campaign table, surrounded by his staff.

Several personal banners fluttered from spears driven into the ground by the tent, but Gill didn’t recognise any of the sigils. That meant that none of these men were from the major noble families, so they all had a great deal to win by fighting on the king’s side.

He thought of having his flown with the others, but realised he didn’t care. For so many years, seeing his banner flown, bearing his family’s sigil, had been a great source of pride. Now it seemed like another one of the pointless diversions people clung to so as to separate themselves from those farther down the ladder. A banner didn’t do you any good when you were facedown in the mud, bleeding to death. All it was good for then was a souvenir for your mother, wife, or children. Or perhaps a trophy for the man who’d killed you.

Gill’s arrival attracted one or two glances, but went largely unnoticed. Walking closer, he saw that the maps being reviewed were plans of the city. The king and his staff were discussing potential weak points in the walls and considering ways past them, such as using the river, or the sewers, to enter the city. All these things had been considered before, however, not least by those who had designed the defences. In the best of times, Mirabay was a near-impossible nut to crack. It would take months of siege, or an assault by many times more men than they had.

Now that Amaury had used the Cup, the situation had changed. Gill had no idea how the Prince Bishop’s magic might be used to draw out the siege. If he could conjure up food and clean water, the city might be able to hold out forever. He wondered how long it would take for the collection of boys-playing-soldiers gathered around the table to realise that.

The thought of magic made him wonder how Solène had fared. He reckoned the disappearance of the dragon would have been pretty big news in the city—from which so many of the soldiers in camp had come. He decided to walk around the camp and see if he could learn anything. It would be some time before the younglings at the table looked for advice from more experienced heads, and Gill suspected that was why the king’s cousin, Savin, was not present.

As Gill walked along the lanes, between tents and livestock pens, it struck him that he was preparing to lay siege to Mirabay. He’d never imagined doing anything like that—the closest he’d ever gotten was a dream of tearing the city down, brick by brick, after his arrest.

A standard military camp was laid out in a pattern of small “town squares”; each square was formed by a specific unit’s tents and centred around their cook fire. Several squares constituted each regiment’s section of the camp. Gill stopped at one fire where the men wore the blue tunics of the Royal Guard.

“Have you lads just come from the city?” he asked.

Though all looked up, only one spoke. “We have. What of it?”

“Just wondering how things are there, is all,” Gill said. “I hear the Prince Bishop caught a dragon.”

“All the dragons in the world couldn’t make me raise a sword for him,” the man said, a sour expression on his face.

“Things are bad?”

“They are. Hopefully not for much longer, if we can get our hands on the great Lord Protector. After what he’s done, I’d like some time with him myself.”

“What did he do?”

“Magic.” The man spat the word out. “Killed thousands in Balcony Square. One word, and thousands dead. Even more hurt. After that, me and the lads cleared out. We weren’t the only ones, as you can see.” He waved a hand, gesturing at the whole camp.

Gill grimaced. He didn’t think much of Amaury, but it was hard to believe he’d killed thousands of people in cold blood. Was it a sign that the man wasn’t able to control his magic? Considering how worried Solène had always been about that, it seemed a likely explanation. Still, thousands of people? There was no way back from that. No matter what happened in the coming battle, Amaury would never be accepted as ruler of Mirabay. It might take a year, it might take ten, but one day, he’d get a dagger in the back. Until then, neither the city nor the country would be at peace.

“And the dragon? Did you see it?”

“Nah, a few of the lads did, though. They were on duty guarding it. Said it just lay there asleep the whole time. Then it went missing. I mean, how in three hells does a dragon in a cage go missing?”

Gill smiled and nodded. “Yeah, strange, that. Good talking to you.”

He walked away, smiling. The dragon’s disappearance meant Solène had most likely succeeded—and gotten away without trouble. He wondered where she was now, and what she was doing. He’d have felt a lot happier going into what lay ahead with her power at their side, but he could understand why she might stay away. There was no way she could get through the battle without blood on her hands. The only way to avoid that was to stay away. That was the right choice for her.

His mood had been greatly improved by the news that things weren’t going well for Amaury, even though the thought that he was letting his magic off the leash and killing people was worrisome. Guillot wondered if that news had reached the king.

Boudain could not afford a lengthy siege if Amaury was slaughtering his citizens. Then again, a long siege was never really a good prospect—it was always worst on the innocent inhabitants on the inside, and Boudain would not be welcomed back into the city if he had spent months starving it.

As Gill headed back toward the command tent, it occurred to him that someone should tally the soldiers who had come to the camp from the standing regiments. Every one of them was one man fewer for Amaury. If enough had defected, that might make those still with him think twice when it came time to fight. Even so, Amaury had been buying mercenaries for months, and destroying the big company didn’t mean he would be short of troops.

Once again, Gill was glad he wasn’t the one making the decisions.

CHAPTER 46

Amaury glanced over the anatomical diagram one last time. He was so familiar with it by this point that he reckoned he could draw it himself. There was no one in the Order with the power to do what he sought to do, and no one he trusted enough to anyway.

He had already run his final few queries past both a surgeon and a professor of anatomy at the university. There was nothing to be gained by delaying any longer. Amaury focussed his thought and directed the Fount to his hip and the injury that Gill had left him with, all those years before. The injury that set him on course to his current predicament.

Power flowed through him. His skin tingled as though touched by a cooling breeze; he felt a sense of incredible wellness, such as he’d never felt before. Amaury held his focus for a moment, then was overcome by a sense of panic. He was flooded by memories of what had happened on the balcony, how he had created magic that he had not intended. Shutting his mind to the Fount, he scrabbled at his clothes as he jumped to his feet.

He pulled his britches down far enough to expose the scar. There was nothing there. Not even a blemish. His mind caught up and he realised that he should have already known it had worked—there had been no pain or tightness when he’d leaped out of his seat. The discomfort was such an old companion that most of the time he barely noticed it, but now it was entirely absent. Unable to contain himself, Amaury pulled his britches back up and jogged across the room. His hip felt loose and strong—as good as it had when he was a young man. Laughing, he jogged the short distance back to his desk.

There was a knock, and the office door creaked open. His secretary peered in and gave Amaury a quizzical look.

“Lord Protector?”

“I, uh, I was just testing something,” Amaury said. “What is it?”

His secretary took a deep breath. That expression of doom, again, Amaury thought. He sat down and braced himself.

“An army has been sighted a short distance from the city,” his secretary said.

Amaury shrugged. “That was to be expected. Now that they’re here, we can get on with things.” Not so bad, after all, Amaury thought.

“That’s not all, Lord Protector. The mercenary company on the way to the city was attacked and dispersed. They won’t be coming.”

At that, Amaury’s heart sank. All the joy of finally healing his hip was sucked from his body. “Get out,” he said.

When the door closed behind his secretary, Amaury cradled his head in his hands. He wanted to scream. After he managed to get his anger under control, he began to think of next steps. He needed to scout the enemy force, find out how many he had to deal with and the composition of the king’s army.

Where is Solène? he wondered. Was she another weapon that would be brought to bear against him? It was a concern, but he reckoned he had the measure of her—after all, he had drunk from the Cup and she had not. He could deal with her.

He reached forward and rang the bell on his desk. It was time to get to work.

Solène had walked through the night and into the next day. She’d noticed that since she’d become enlightened, her need for food had diminished, as though the Fount itself was providing her with sustenance.

She was still in open countryside, having avoided one or two villages along the way. She had no desire for human company. Her sense of being a pariah was as strong as it had ever been. She had magical power that almost no other person had ever had. Even before she’d become enlightened, she’d been running away from her magic, hoping that one day she would wake up and it would be gone. Instead, her choices had somehow led her to a point where it was stronger than she had ever imagined.

How could she hope for a normal life now? How could she be satisfied by being the best baker she could be when all she had to do was close her eyes and think to create hundreds of perfect loaves? Cakes, pastries, whatever fancies and delicacies she chose, no matter how complicated. There would never again be the reward that came from honest toil and effort—she could have whatever she wanted with only a thought.

Yet she couldn’t think of a single thing she wanted, other than to be rid of this curse once and for all.

Could she do that? Solène shut her eyes and focussed. Rid me of this power. Of this curse. She repeated the thought over and over. She felt the Fount swirl around her, in her, through her. After a moment, she opened her eyes and looked around. She felt no different. She focussed her mind again—a random thought, the first to enter her mind—and a bolt of lightning shot from her fingertips into the sky. It hadn’t worked.

She let out a sigh and wondered what to do next. She knew there was much good she could do, but that didn’t change what an enormous burden she now carried. All she could do was follow Pharadon’s advice—to believe in herself. To use her power in the best ways she could.

Her friend—the only person in the world she could call that—was riding off to attempt to rid the world of a tyrant, a man who had become far too powerful for Gill to have much hope of defeating. Gill understood that, yet Solène knew he would do his best to succeed, without hesitation or complaint. Helping Gill meant facing every fear she had, and Solène didn’t know how she would remain true to herself. She turned back to face the direction she had come from. She would have to find a way. She knew where she needed to be. What she had to do.

As the river barge drifted downstream, needing only the gentlest of guidance from the ferryman, Ysabeau watched the spires, walls, and towers of Mirabay shrink into the distance. She knew in her heart this was the last she would ever see of the city, but to her surprise, the thought didn’t bother her in the least. During her year away, she had thought she missed the city, but she realised that she had missed the idea of it, not the reality.

It had been a relief when she had returned to the dragon cage and found it empty. She had intended to release the magnificent creature, regardless of her father’s desires. Those great, blue, mournful eyes would be with her forever, would make her question much of what she thought she knew about the world. Her father had to know by now. She wondered how he’d reacted.

Putting her back to the city, she looked downstream. The barge would take her to the Port of Mirabay, and from there?

She had spent enough of her life living by the blade. Perhaps it was time for a change. She reckoned that, between her magic and the sharpness of her mind, she could turn her hand to whatever she chose. Not just what she thought might impress her father.

Ah, her father. Ysabeau knew the people had long since abandoned him. She only regretted that it had taken something as terrible as the massacre for her to do the same. He’d manipulated her, just as he had everyone else. Just as he had her mother, taking what he wanted before abandoning her, never caring what the consequences might be.

The Prince Bishop had always claimed he had not known of Ysabeau’s existence until after the Intelligenciers had arrested her. Her mother had called on him as a last resort. The thought left a bitter taste in Ysabeau’s mouth. He could have checked in on her mother at any time over the years, had he a shred of decency in him, but he hadn’t. She wondered if he’d have shown any interest in her if the City Watch had arrested her, if she’d been taken into custody for theft rather than on charges of witchcraft. Probably not.

She’d been useful to him. A disposable tool. Nothing more.

There would be no more backwards glances, Ysabeau determined. No more regrets. No more need for acceptance. Only what lay before her, whatever that was.

CHAPTER 47

An army on the morning of a battle was a magnificent thing to behold. Armour and weapons were polished, banners and flags freshly cleaned. By the end of the day, they’d be covered in mud and blood, and half the men now laughing and joking, doing their best to show how unafraid they were, would be food for crows. Gill couldn’t help but think that if Amaury was one of those men, then it would all be worth it. Sometimes all that carnage, all that suffering, really was the only way to address a problem.

The king’s new army was cobbled together from his traitorous cousins, nobles who had come out of the woodwork only when the king looked likely to win, young bannerets and aristocrats with nothing to lose but everything to gain, and now, it seemed, hundreds and hundreds of men who had deserted the city. It looked like well over half the Royal Guard had come over, and there were a couple of other regiments that were showing good strength. No one had a clue how many men Amaury would bring to the party, nor what type of magical malfeasance, but Gill reckoned things at that point could have looked quite a bit worse. By the end of the day, no doubt they would.

They were arranged regiment by regiment, in as much order as the newly appointed and inexperienced commanders who led most of them were capable of imposing. A quick glance could tell which were the standing regiments with seasoned sergeants, and which were not, even without the guide of banners and tunic colours.

The cavalry skulked in the background, ready, but useless unless Amaury chose to bring his army out onto the open field. It remained the great uncertainty, how the tyrant would respond to the army at his door. Gill didn’t know what he would do if their situations were reversed—remain behind the safety of his walls, or deal with his enemy head-on. As it was, the king had asked Gill to remain with his staff, on hand to offer whatever advice Boudain felt he needed.

Gill still wasn’t comfortable with this—he found it hard to believe he was now one of the men influencing the big decisions. By comparison, standing on the front line with a sword in hand was almost an attractive proposition, facing all the danger that entailed. Of course, that was nonsense, but it was the role Gill knew and understood. With each day, he continued to struggle to make sense of the world. He’d always thought that was something that would get easier. It seemed that was another thing he was wrong about.

The army advanced a little closer to the walls, but halted out of range of bowshot. So much of what was happening was second nature to Gill, the sound of the march, of the movement of men and horses and armour, drums and pipes and shouted orders, that for brief moments he lost sight of the fact that they were advancing on Mirabay—their own city. He wondered if everyone felt the same way, or if each man viewed the day through his own lens.

As the moment they all waited for grew inexorably close, the tension in the air thickened. They had not been stopped for long when the gates opened, much as Gill had expected they would. No man who wants to hold on to a city will stand by while it is destroyed, and Amaury, for all his flaws, did seem to want the city to stand.

Troops started to rush out of Mirabay, many wearing colours that Gill didn’t recognise—most likely some of the smaller mercenary companies that Amaury had collected over the previous weeks. After them came the cream and gold of the Order. No one was sure what they were capable of, but word of what had happened at Balcony Square had spread quickly, fuelling anger and bolstering the men’s resolve to fight. There would be little quarter given to any who fought for Amaury that day, and less for his mages.

Gill could see some of the younger commanders glancing back toward the king’s banner, and all his gallopers, who remained stock-still with no orders to deliver. The eager young officers might wonder why Amaury was being allowed bring his army out and form them up, but to advance into the killing zone beneath the walls and into range of all of its artillery would spell disaster for the king’s army—they would be devastated by ballista bolt, catapult shot, and arrow.

By the time the so-called Lord Protector’s forces had finished mustering below the walls, there were more men gathered there than Gill had hoped for. Far more. In fact, to the casual observer it looked like the Royal Guard was present in full strength. Gill supposed Amaury could have dressed mercenaries or conscripts in spare uniforms, but from a distance, it was hard to tell.

A group of horsemen formed up at the front of the enemy army; squinting, Gill reckoned he could make out Amaury amongst them. A white flag was raised and the horsemen started forward.

The king looked about, assessing his staff. “Savin, Coudray, with me. You too, Villerauvais.”

The small group started forward, and Gill felt a pang of regret that his banner was not flying. Suddenly it felt as though something had been left undone.

Gill didn’t recognise any of the men with Amaury, when the two parties met. They were all hard-looking types who’d obviously seen a few fights in their time.

“I was pleased to get news of your recovery, your Highness,” Amaury said.

“I’m sure you were,” Boudain said. “I thank you for parading my army before the city walls. I presume you’ve done so to hand them back into my charge?”

Amaury laughed and shook his head. “No, your Highness, I’m afraid not. It’s common knowledge that you’ve been bewitched by a powerful sorceress. It would be a disservice to all the right-thinking people of the kingdom to allow you back on the throne.”

Boudain nodded slowly. “Bewitched? Is that the best you could come up with?”

“The truth is rarely as fancy as we might like it to be, but truth it is, and it would be a crime to allow a bewitched man to rule a kingdom,” Amaury said.

Gill shook his head in disgust. He wondered if Amaury had told so many untruths over the years that he was starting to believe them himself.

“We both love this city,” the Prince Bishop continued, “and this kingdom. If there is any shred of your true self left in there, I beseech you: order your men to put down their arms and return home. Those of the standing regiments will be welcomed back to their barracks with no questions asked. A man who loves Mirabaya will not tear her apart to possess her.”

“You’ve always been full of shit, Amaury,” Gill said, unable to hold his tongue any longer. “But you’re really surpassing yourself today.”

“General Villerauvais, please,” Boudain said.

Amaury turned his attention to Gill and raised an eyebrow. “General? My congratulations on your advancement. I’m glad to see you here today, Guillot. Very glad.”

“Want to even out that limp?” Gill said, placing his hand on the pommel of his sword.

“Gill!” Boudain said, then turned his attention back to Amaury. “I will allow you an hour to collect your belongings, Richeau, and depart the city, and the country. Never to return.”

Gill noted the use of Amaury’s surname, rather than any of his titles, but was surprised at the amount of restraint the king was showing, in marked contrast to Gill’s own outburst. Despite his efforts to appear calm and in control, Gill knew Amaury too well to be deceived. The strain showed on his face.

“I don’t think so, your Highness,” Amaury said. “Now that we’ve dealt with the formalities, perhaps we can get down to it?”

“Gladly,” Boudain said sharply, the contempt with which he was being treated finally seeming to have overcome his reserve. “You will not live out this day.”

Amaury turned his horse to leave, then cast a quick glance back. “We shall see!” With that, he galloped back toward his troops, his retinue in tow.

Boudain watched him go a moment, then looked at Gill. “One way or the other, that bastard does not see the sunset.”

“You have my word on that,” Gill said.

As he rode toward his own lines, Amaury decided he was satisfied with his illusion. Even he couldn’t tell who was real and who was not among his troops. The products of his imagination had passed muster so far, however, and it wasn’t as though they were going to be doing any actual fighting. He turned to face the king’s army once again. The king, and that smug bastard Gill, were at the centre, nicely contained and marked out with a number of fluttering banners.

It was a beautiful sight, really. So many men and horses in glittering armour. Beautiful, colourful flags flapping lazily on the gentle morning breeze. In a moment, all would be carnage. A scene from the three hells made real in the world. The feeling of power was intoxicating. A king had brought a full army against him, and there was nothing they could do to stop him. In a few moments, most of them would be dead. Those who weren’t would be running away as fast as they could.

When word of what he had done spread, no one would dare challenge him ever again. No one. Mirabaya would reign supreme, with Amaury benevolently guiding it in the right direction.

He took a deep breath and reached out to the Fount. He held out his arms, ready to revel in the joyous sensation of its embrace. But it was not there. He opened his eyes and looked about in consternation. His men—the real ones—were giving him odd looks. He must have looked a fool, his arms outstretched, an expression of rapture on his face. The expression changed to one of confusion and dismay. Where was the Fount? Why was it not there for him to call on?

He stilled his panic and tried again. Nothing. What had happened? With all of the people in Mirabay, it was usually so powerful. He could hardly have drained it creating his fake army, could he? No, that was nonsense. It must be nerves, the distraction of a stressful day. He ignored the eyes that were burrowing into the back of his head, and tried to rid it of any distraction. Another deep breath. He opened his mind to the Fount.

“Where in hells is it!”

“Lord Protector?”

“Nothing, never mind,” Amaury said. He looked around, but his illusion remained. There was no reason for it not to; he had cast it with an enormous amount of energy. But what was going on now?

This wasn’t supposed to be how it worked—he had drunk from the Cup. The power was his. The power of Amatus. Perhaps the problem was temporary. But with an army facing him from across the field, there wasn’t time to wait for circumstances to change. Time. He needed to buy more. But how? Then it hit him, and the idea was good enough to actually make him smile.

“They’ve raised the flag of truce again, your Highness.”

“So they have,” Boudain said, shielding his eyes with a hand as he squinted toward Amaury’s position. “What in hells does he want now? Hasn’t he antagonised us enough?”

“Amaury’s capacity for that is … substantial,” Gill said, focussing on the rider who was coming toward them. “It’s only a messenger. Not Amaury himself this time.”

“Well, I’ll be damned if I’m riding out to meet him,” Boudain said. “He can come to us. Anyone got any booze? My armour feels like it was stored in an icehouse and I could use my knackers to chill a whisky. I could do with something to warm me up.”

There was a chuckle of laughter from the others. Even Gill broke into a smile. A man who could kill the tension at a moment like that was a man whom others followed. The young king continued to impress Gill. It was a strange thing, how a man—a king—could give you hope. Even a young one, like Boudain.

Someone passed the king a small silver flask. Boudain nodded his thanks and took a swig, then offered the flask to Gill. Guillot thought of refusing, but today was not the day to be seen doing that. He covered the opening with his finger as he tipped it up to his mouth. He caught a whiff of the contents, but no more—Ruripathian whisky by the smell of it. A good one, too, and happily not chilled by the king’s knackers. He handed the flask back to Boudain, who passed it on to Savin.

The armoured messenger drew his horse up a short distance away.

“His Grace, the Lord Protector of Mirabay, wishes you to hear his offer,” he said in a clear voice. “In consideration of the devastation a battle would wreak upon the people of Mirabay, he suggests an alternate solution: to settle this matter with a single combat, the result of which he will abide by, on his bond and word as Banneret of the White and as a loyal son of Mirabaya.”

“Pah,” Boudain said. “He’s a treacherous maggot. But I’ll listen. Who does he suggest do the fighting?”

“Banneret of the White, former champion to the king, Guillot dal Villerauvais.”

Gill raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“And his champion?” Boudain said.

“His Grace, the Lord Protector, intends to represent himself.”

Now the king raised his eyebrows. “Well, that is … unexpected. A moment, if you would.”

The messenger nodded and rode off a short way.

“Villerauvais, what do you make of it?” Boudain said, turning and speaking quietly to Gill.

“I honestly do not know,” Gill said. He couldn’t work out what Amaury was playing at—it looked as though he had superior numbers. Why would he take a risk like this? Surely his desire to get at Gill couldn’t be so great as to overwhelm his sense. And patience—if he won the battle, like as not, Gill would be dead by sundown.

“He’ll use magic, won’t he?” the king said.

“Of course he will,” Gill said. “He’s a cheating bastard. Always was.”

“Still though, do you think you can beat him?”

“I … I don’t know. Without magic, yes. With it? I don’t know.”

“I suppose we can still fight it out if you lose. No offense intended.”

“None taken, your Highness,” Gill said. If Amaury brought magic to bear in this fight, there was no way Gill could win, but how could he say no to a proposition like this? Every man standing around him would think he was a coward. “If he beats me, it will be because he’s used magic,” Gill said. “I’ll agree to fight on your word that if I lose, you charge across the field and kill every last one of those bastards.”

“You have it,” Boudain said.

“Then you have your champion, your Highness.”

Boudain gave Gill a grim smile, then looked at the messenger and called out, “Our answer is yes!”

CHAPTER 48

It simply wasn’t the done thing to wear armour to a duel, and one of this importance needed to be conducted entirely within the expectations society placed on them, so Gill set about stripping off his suit. The air felt cool without it on, but he wasn’t sure if he was just imagining that, a phantom of how exposed he felt being on a battlefield with no plate steel between him and his enemies.

Gill had never thought he’d fight another duel again, nor that he’d ever again have use for the blade he’d been awarded for winning the Competition. The blade would have been Amaury’s, had Gill not beaten him that day. It seemed like the perfect choice for this fight. His two other swords had been brought along with the infantry’s baggage train, which was safe back at the siege fort. Gill sent a galloper to fetch the duelling blade, and did his best to appear nonchalant as he waited, feeling like every eye in two armies fixed on him.

The duel was going to be a spectacle, the like of which had not been seen in some time. Considering the size of the two armies present, Gill reckoned the audience would rival the one for the Competition’s final. It had been some time since he’d fought with so many eyes on him, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about so much attention. He didn’t want to be the big name anymore. He just wanted to go home—but home was a place that no longer existed. There was a time when all he’d wanted was to get away from Villerauvais, to be the swordsman everyone talked about. How times changed a man.

“How are you feeling?” the king said.

“As well as can be expected,” Gill said. “I’ve beaten him before. I can do it again.”

Boudain nodded intently.

“All I can ask is that you give your best,” Boudain said. “I know you will, whether I ask or not—you’ve done that time and time and time again. Mirabaya owes you a debt I fear she will never be able to properly repay.”

Not unless she can bring back my wife and child, Gill thought. My village and its people. “To serve is payment enough,” he said, knowing he could say nothing else.

“Spoken like a true hero,” Boudain said. “May the gods smile on you. They certainly won’t on that bastard. Prince Bishop my arse.”

Gill laughed and looked across the field to where Amaury was likewise preparing. Their seconds had already picked out a suitable patch of ground and were marking out the standard competitive dimensions. That wasn’t usually done in a duel of honour, which this most closely resembled, but Gill supposed the stakes were rather higher. No pressure, he thought.

He wondered what was going through Amaury’s mind. He always wondered that about his opponents before a duel—whether they feared him, respected him, held him in contempt. In this situation he was fairly confident it was the last, but Amaury was a fool if he thought a little magic would change things between them. He had never beaten Gill in a duel, fairly or otherwise, and Gill was determined that that would not change. With a limp, and swordplay skills that must be as rusty as Gill’s had been when Nicholas dal Sason had called on him all those weeks earlier, Gill felt confident. Magic was the great unknown. There was nothing Gill could do about that, so he simply tried not to think about it.

Of course, it really didn’t matter. He was going to fight Amaury, and that was all there was to it. Win or lose, he simply had to get on with it. Nothing to be gained by waiting, he thought. Better put on a good show.

He swished his sword left and right, then stretched his neck, trying to look as confident and purposeful as he could. Every man in the king’s army who could see him was watching intently. His second had returned from inspecting the ground and now stood next to him, waiting.

“I’m ready,” Gill said.

His second, a young officer who was standing too close when the need had arisen, nodded and headed across the field to convey the message. Gill started to walk toward the marked-off area, certain old habits and mannerisms finding their way back to him after a long absence. His heart pounded and his skin tingled, reminding him why he had lived for this once. The sensation was like nothing else.

He had reached the duelling area before Amaury started to move. The Prince Bishop had stripped down to shirt and britches, and walked easily, with no trace of a limp. That came as a bit of a surprise, but Gill realised he should have expected it. With so much magic, there was no way Amaury was going to carry that old injury any longer than he had to. It made no difference to Gill. If he needed to rely on his opponent’s weaknesses, he had bigger problems in store.

Gill watched Amaury approach, taking his time, no doubt thinking that it would antagonise Gill, make him angry, careless. Ever the gamesmanship with Amaury. What he didn’t know was that Gill enjoyed the pause. His second hovered silently a few paces away, but had the sense or experience of such matters to know there was a time to leave your principal in peace. Gill stood in a bubble of his own creation, feeling his heart slow and his senses waken. His mind was shutting down the parts used for day-to-day life, leaving only what mattered for this life-or-death struggle.

“I bet you never thought we’d find ourselves in this situation again,” Amaury said, as he reached Gill.

Gill shrugged. He’d thought of Amaury far more over the years than he cared to admit, but indeed, this wasn’t one of the situations he’d envisaged.

“When you’re ready,” Gill said.

“Both parties have been apprised of the code of conduct for this duel,” Gill’s second said. “All combat must remain within the marked area. This duel is to the death. Do both parties understand the rules as explained?”

“Perfectly,” Amaury said.

Gill nodded.

“You may begin.”

Amaury came at him straightaway, a thrust leading into a vertical cut that would have given Gill a cleft in his chin had he not been able to bounce backwards on the balls of his feet. Amaury was moving like a man half his age, and Gill regretted that Solène hadn’t been around to give him a shot of rejuvenating energy before the fight. He backed away and circled to his left, watching Amaury’s movement, trying to get the measure of him. He certainly wasn’t rusty. Is he better than before?

The Prince Bishop came at him again. Gill parried, the chime of the two Telastrian blades ringing out like a musical note. Amaury had not had a Telastrian blade the last time they had fought, and Gill wondered briefly where he had gotten it—who he had stolen it from. Two more cuts that Gill parried, their clashing blades creating a song over the silent farmland.

Gill danced back and took his guard. He’s fast, and I’m slower than I was. He’s not better than before, just hasn’t slowed down much. I can live with that. There wasn’t enough difference in Amaury’s speed and skill to put it down to magical enhancement, which was confusing. Amaury had never been one to play by the book before. Why would he start now, with so much at stake? It was time to find out. If Amaury intended to play by the rules, that would be the biggest surprise of all.

Guillot thrust, then followed seamlessly with flèche. Amaury dived out of the way; Gill passed by, then spun on his heels and took guard again. From the look on Amaury’s face, Gill was faster than the Prince Bishop had expected.

“Still with the old tricks, Gill?”

“You didn’t have an answer for them the last time,” Gill said. He had never been one for verbal fencing, but if it made Amaury angry, he was happy to play along. He followed the barb with a testing thrust, but there was no real intent behind it. Amaury swatted it to the side—a cooler head would have ignored it.

Gill backed away a little more, keeping his guard up and his eyes firmly locked on Amaury. His old friend was tense. He had been rattled far too quickly. Was the pressure getting to him?

“How do you think history will remember you, Amaury? Tyrant? Murderer?”

“At least I’ll be remembered,” Amaury said, launching into a chain of thrusts, stamping his front foot with each attack.

Gill parried, revelling in the delicious sound the blades made when they connected. He moved back smoothly, allowing Amaury’s attack to expend its energy, then riposted and drove the “Lord Protector” back across the duelling area with a series of cuts and thrusts that flowed into one another. A cheer erupted from the king’s army and spread until the air was filled with roars of support.

Amaury slipped to the side, moving away from Gill. The intense look on his face gave Gill pause for thought. If he hadn’t known better, he’d have thought Amaury was constipated. That can’t be it? Can it?

The expression faded after a moment, replaced with one of frustration. Amaury came at Gill again, wilder this time. His blade work was loose, and Gill slapped the weapon off its attacking line each time, with the contempt with which a fencing master treated a weak pupil.

He backed off once more, more casual about it this time, letting his guard down a little, relaxing his stance. It was a signal of disrespect that Amaury could not miss.

“No magic to help you out?” Gill said. He knew he was playing with fire, but he couldn’t help himself. If Amaury had power, and was going to use it, now was the time. But there was nothing.

Amaury roared and came at Gill again. He was fast, strong, and angry, but these were all things that could be countered by a cooler head and greater skill. Gill danced back, moving with a rhythm that syncopated with the chime of the clashing blade. There was a joy in this, the like of which could not be found anywhere else. This was the thing Gill had been made for; his body was responding out of instinct rather than conscious thought. It was a moment he had experienced only a handful of times before, but the promise of it made one seek it out relentlessly. It was harmony. It was perfection. Gill parried again, the sound of the blades meeting ringing out like a crescendo, then riposted and launched himself forward.

His blade moved faster than his eyes could follow. Amaury answered, his face a mask of furious concentration as he parried again and again. Soon he would falter—Gill knew it. They always did. He wondered again why Amaury had not brought magic to bear. If he would. When he would.

But he wouldn’t, for it was over.

Gill drew breath deeply, his chest heaving. His form was perfect—knees bent, arms extended, back straight. His blade was buried in Amaury’s chest to the hilt. There was a moment between them, where their eyes met, and both men realised what had happened. Amaury dropped his blade and opened his mouth to speak, but only blood bubbled out. Gill remained motionless, not sure of what to do next, unable to believe that it was finished, that he had done it. All those years of enmity, and for what? This moment? To watch his enemy—his onetime friend—bleed out under the shadow of Mirabay’s walls.

Amaury’s eyes showed fear and his face was a mask of pain. Gill wanted to say something, but didn’t know what. He was angry, yet his heart was filled with sorrow. The life left Amaury’s eyes and his weight collapsed on Gill’s blade. He pulled the weapon free and allowed the body to fall to the ground. Gill studied the corpse for a moment, as though to convince himself that Amaury was truly dead.

Gill looked up. It seemed as though most of Amaury’s army had already run, for they were nowhere to be seen. What little remained would not put up a fight. The day was won. He turned back to the king’s army and raised his sword. The roar was deafening.

CHAPTER 49

“We found her by a tree not far from camp,” the man said. He laid Solène’s body down on the table in front of the king’s command tent. The king and his staff looked on in silence. They’d yet to organise themselves for the march into the city, although a preliminary group had been sent to deliver the news of the king’s victory to the citizens. The “Lord Protector’s” army had proved much smaller than it had initially appeared, and now was dispersed or captured.

Gill had frozen the moment he had seen the soldier appearing with the limp form in his arms. He had recognised her right away, and all the joy and elation of victory had evaporated. He knew now why Amaury hadn’t used magic. He didn’t know how she had done it, but he knew that the day’s victory was not his, but hers.

He fought down the wave of anguish and tears that threatened to overwhelm him. Unable to hold himself back, he went to the table and reached for her. Still warm. Still breathing. She was alive.

“Oh, thank the gods,” Gill said, his voice laden with emotion. She was so pale, though. How much magic had she used? How could he help her? He looked around. There was a squad of Royal Guardsmen nearby.

“You,” Gill shouted. “Go to the prisoners. Bring every man and woman in a cream-and-gold robe back here. Now!”

They shot furtive glances at the king.

“What are you doing, Villerauvais?” Boudain said.

“At least one of them must be a healer. They can help her. We have to help her.”

Boudain nodded. “Get to it!” he said. “Find out if any of them are healers while you’re at it.”

“Get her somewhere comfortable to lie,” Gill said. She deserved better than to be draped unceremoniously on the map table.

The king gave one of his aides a nod and the man headed off.

“She did this,” Gill said. “She stopped Amaury from using magic to beat me. I’m certain of it.”

“You have my word that we’ll do everything we can for her,” Boudain said. “I won’t forget what she’s done for the kingdom.” He gave a grim smile. “What she’s done for me.”

It felt like an age before a man and a woman in the Order’s robes were pushed before the king.

“You’re healers?” the king said.

They both nodded, obviously terrified. They were no longer under Amaury’s protection, and everyone knew what happened to sorcerers.

“You save this woman or you’ll never see daylight again,” Boudain said. “Understand?”

They both nodded again, and got to work. Solène had been transplanted to a cot bed in the king’s tent. Gill hovered behind the Spurriers as they assessed her and got to work. He watched intently, trying to remember the occasions healing magic had been used on him, wondering if they were doing it right.

Gill did his best to hold his tongue while they worked. It seemed to be taking a long time. He wondered if they were any good—most of Amaury’s best people seemed to have been killed during the past few months, but surely he had kept one or two decent ones back?

Solène stirred, then let out a short groan. Gill knelt by her side just as she opened her eyes. It took her a moment to focus, then she gave a weak smile.

“Did you win?” she said.

Gill burst out laughing. “I won. We won.”

Bauchard’s seemed the obvious place to spend a few days recuperating. Short of the palace, there was nowhere else such luxury or comfort could be had, and Gill felt that he and Solène deserved no less.

It was no great surprise when a call to the palace came a few days later. As the carriage sent to fetch them rattled up the hill, Gill and Solène were able to look out over the city, which was slowly recovering from the turmoil of the past weeks. The Order of the Golden Spur had been disbanded, its remaining members arrested. They’d been placed under house arrest at the Priory until the king decided what to do with them, now that magic seemed to be out of its bottle, and likely impossible to put back in.

Gill could not help but ask something he’d been wondering about ever since his fight with Amaury, but hadn’t found the right moment to bring up.

“What did you do, that day? To stop him using his magic?”

Solène smiled sheepishly. “I’m still not exactly sure. I think I funnelled the Fount away from the city, or at least from the area around him, so when he went to draw on it, there was nothing for him to use.”

“Is that … hard to do?”

She laughed. “It nearly killed me. It seems being enlightened isn’t quite the limitless power I thought it was. That’s definitely not something I’ll be trying again!”

“Hopefully there won’t be any need to. I’m not aware of any other potential tyrants lurking around the place. I think now that Boudain is back in control, there’s hope for the future.”

“You like him?”

Gill nodded. “He’s got all the makings of a good king. He wouldn’t be the first who fell short of the mark, but I’m hopeful.” There was more he wanted to ask her, such as why she’d come back, but it didn’t seem appropriate. All that mattered was she had. She’d been there when it really counted, had put herself on the line for him.

A servant was waiting for them when they arrived at the gates. He led them to the throne room, where Boudain was once again installed, and very much in command. The room was full of petitioners and hangers-on—nobles and commoners both—part of the normal day-to-day business of court. When the king spotted them, he urged them both forward.

“Solène,” Boudain said. “I’m delighted to see you looking well. You gave us all quite a scare.”

“Bauchard’s is an excellent place to recuperate,” Solène said.

Boudain laughed. “Yes, I’m sure it is! But now, to business.” He held out his hand and one of his officials gave him two folds of sealed papers. “For you, Villerauvais. I give you this charter for one hundred settlers to reestablish the village known as Villerauvais, to populate and improve its lands and create a vibrant and lasting community. In this, I add fifteen thousand acres to your demesne, and elevate you from Seigneur to Marquess of Villerauvais, Warden of the South.”

Gill stepped forward and took the charters with a bow. He didn’t know whether to be grateful or terrified. Marquess and Warden were not usually titles awarded in times of peace.

“Solène, I create you Baroness Bleaufontaine, with all rights, lands, and duties there attached.” The king held out the second sheaf of sealed papers, which Solène bowed and took before stepping back beside Gill.

“Congratulations, Baroness Bleaufontaine,” Gill said. “Solène dal Bleaufontaine has a nice ring to it.”

“Thank you,” Solène said, then whispered: “Where’s Bleaufontaine?”

“Haven’t a clue. You should probably find out before we leave, though.”

“Probably,” Solène muttered in agreement.

“And now to the next matter,” Boudain said.

Gill’s smile vanished. He knew it. There was always a catch.

“We have all seen the danger magic can pose if it is not properly controlled. I would prefer that we never hear word or see evidence of it again, but that is an unrealistic dream. Magic is out in the world, and we must take measures to ensure a despot the likes of Amaury dal Richeau can never become so powerful again. With that in mind, a diligent sovereign must make preparations to safeguard his people.

“In light of this, and concerning reports I have received, I have come to a decision. By deed under my seal, I hereby reconstitute the Order of the Chevaliers of the Silver Circle. As Master of the Silver Circle, I do so appoint Guillot, Marquess of Villerauvais, Marshall of the Silver Circle, and Solène, Baroness of Bleaufontaine, Seneschal of the Silver Circle. I command you to go forth, and with all resources and support the Crown can provide, reestablish this body of fighting men and women trained in both the martial and magical arts. They will protect the kingdom from those who seek to pervert the use of magic for their own gains, from our foes from other lands, and will defend us and our people against the creatures known as ‘Venori,’ which have recently been seen abroad in the kingdom.”

The Venori. Perfect, Gill thought. He cast Solène a look, and she shrugged, with an expression on her face that said, “If not us, then whom?”

“What say you both?” Boudain asked.

Gill did his best to smile. “I am ever a servant of the Crown, your Highness.”