“You think that’ll work?”
“Probably not. Gamet’s sharp as a tack and suspicious as a cuckold. He’ll expect sealed, written orders. I would too.”
“What’s the second option?”
“We make sure they don’t reach Trelain.”
“You mean kill them?”
“Did you think we were coming here to convince them of the error of their ways? This was always going to come down to violence, either here and now, or later, in Trelain.”
Solène nodded. Another reality she had put off considering. Now she lived in a world where men were willing to kill one another to get what they wanted. It struck her as odd how life at the top of the ladder so closely resembled life at the bottom.
“Could we not drop out of sight and follow them? Wait until we reach Gill, to boost our numbers?”
Leverre shook his head. “If we’ve seen them, they’ve seen us. They’ll have seen our robes too. In hindsight, we should have worn something different, but it’s too late to do anything about that now. They’ll think it odd if brothers and sisters of the Order don’t ride up to meet them. You can see that they’ve already slowed. They’re expecting us to join them.”
“Let’s do that, then. Join them, and ride with them to Trelain.”
“Gamet’s the Order’s chancellor. We’re equal in rank, so I have no authority over him. He’ll expect to see our orders. If we don’t have any, he’ll want to know why.”
“So we make something up.”
“He’s not the type to fall for something like that. Gamet’s a vicious thug, but he knows what the Order’s done for him, and what it can do for him, so he follows the rules like he wrote them himself.”
She stared at the group long enough to confirm that the distance between them was closing.
“What do I need to do?” she said.
“You haven’t had enough training with a sword to be any use in that regard,” Leverre said. “But if what I hear about you is true, that would be putting you to waste.”
Solène’s stomach twisted with nerves. She’d used magic to defend herself before, but this felt different. Now she would be the attacker, using it as a weapon, not a shield.
“I’m not sure I can,” she said.
“You passed your tests, didn’t you?”
She nodded.
“Then you can. Instinct will guide you to what you need in a situation like this.”
She nodded again, gaze locked on the riders ahead of them.
“We’ll ride up to them all friendly,” Leverre said. “We need to get close, and I’d rather do that without crossbow bolts flying through the air. I don’t think any of them are strong enough to do serious damage with magic, but in the heat of the moment, you never know, so keep your wits about you and be prepared to hit anyone who looks like they might be trying to rustle something up.”
Solène’s hands felt cold, and she realised they were shaking.
“Are you all right?” Leverre said.
She nodded, but the action didn’t come as easily as she would have liked.
“You can do this,” he said. “We can do this. If we want to stop them from killing Gill, it’s what needs to be done.” He paused for a moment. “Are you ready?”
“I am,” she said, with far more resolve in her voice than she’d thought she could muster.
“Good. We ride up nice and relaxed. On my signal, let fly with everything you have.”
“Everything I have,” Solène repeated.
“Let’s go.”
“Wait, what’s your signal?”
Leverre was already riding ahead. “I haven’t decided yet, but you’ll know it when you see it!”
She urged her horse on and caught up with him, trying to appear nonchalant to the group ahead. Her skin crawled as she imagined their eyes on her, and she tried to think about anything other than what she had to do. She feared that if she thought about it too much, when it came time, she would freeze.
As they got closer, Leverre held up a hand. At first she felt a flash of panic that it was his signal and it was time to act, but she realised it was merely a salutation.
“Brother-Chancellor Gamet! Is that you?” Leverre shouted.
The Spurriers had stopped and turned to welcome people they thought were their brother and sister in arms. Something about their ruse felt underhanded to Solène, but when stakes were as high as they were, she supposed nothing was out of the question.
“Leverre! What are you doing out here?” one of them shouted.
As they neared, Solène began to make out faces. There was a woman about her own age, whom Solène had seen eating in the refectory. At the time, she had thought she looked friendly. Realising the woman was looking at her, she swallowed hard and broke eye contact. They would never be friends now. If everything went well, Solène would never even know her name.
Another was a young man she had seen training in the fencing hall. He was quick and had looked impressive, and she had hoped to one day match him in skill. He was dangerous. Somewhere in her, she decided he would be the first to go. That she had just chosen someone to kill made her want to vomit. The grim knowledge that either everyone in front of her would be dead in the next few minutes, or she would, was of little consolation.
She tried to return her attention to Leverre, who was chatting with Gamet as though they were old friends. She supposed that in a way, they were. Despite her effort, all she could think about was the tempest of emotion twisting inside her. She wondered if this was how everyone felt before going into battle. If so, how could anyone choose to make a career of it? How could anyone, after even a single taste, want anything to do with it ever again?
When the fight at last started, it happened so fast she nearly missed it, despite having been waiting for it. Leverre drew his sword and cut Gamet down in one flashing sweep that sprayed blood across Solène’s face and her pristine cream clothes. In a panic, she searched the group for the man she decided would be first. He was already moving, reacting far faster than Solène. With a roar born from the desire to survive that frightened even her, she drew on the Fount, careful to avoid tapping her own reservoir, and directed it all at him.
Where there had been a young man dressed head to toe in the Order’s cream cloth, there was now nothing but an empty saddle. She squinted, wondering what had happened. What she had done?
She realised the saddle and the horse’s back were drenched in a thick layer of sticky blood and viscera, and it was all she could do not to be sick.
One of the others stared, mouth agape, at where their comrade had just been. To her surprise, they were dressed in red now—it took her a moment to work out why. Then she pushed the thought from her head as quickly as it had entered.
A flashing sword cut through the air, so close to her face that she could feel the breeze of its passage. Some deep-rooted instinct for survival had caused her to flinch, but her attacker closed the distance and she knew she would not be able to dodge a second time. Without thinking, she extended her hand and roared again, a hoarse, bestial sound that was alien to her. Her attacker momentarily became a smudge of cream and red in the air, then he too was gone, coating everything around him in a misting of blood.
She felt a violent tug on her, but there was no one touching her. It felt as though something had grabbed her soul and was trying to pull it from her body. Looking around frantically, she saw the woman, hand outstretched, her face a picture of concentration. Solène felt the tug again, then more distress than she had ever known. She lashed out again, not in hate or rage, but in anguish. It was a terrible thing she was doing, but she felt compelled to continue. She fed the pain of her soul into her focus and in an instant the young woman was nothing more than a red stain.
Feeling cold and dizzy, Solène realised she hadn’t been able to separate herself from the Fount during the third attack. Though she was reeling, only she and Leverre remained in the saddle. Three bodies lay in the road; there was nothing l
eft of the others but blood. There was a look of grim satisfaction on his face but she felt awful.
How could there not have been a better way? How could she have been capable of what she did? Had it always lurked within her, waiting for a chance to come out? What if she couldn’t stop it the next time she felt danger? She had not chosen to turn Arnoul into a pig, she had done it instinctively. Might this be what she did the next time she acted on instinct? She retched, bringing up nothing but bitter bile. She looked up, shamed by both what she had done, and for being sick. Leverre nodded to her with a thin smile.
“Well done.”
She burst into tears.
“It’s always like this the first time,” Leverre said. “Just let it out. You’ll feel better after.”
She did her best to smile and hold it in despite his advice. She had never been one to show weakness to others, but the confused rage of emotion inside of her threatened to overcome her well-trained resolve. Her body shuddered with every contained sob. Cold spread through her body and every limb felt heavy.
“We should get moving,” he said. “There’s nothing to be gained by staying here any longer. It’d be just my luck for the king’s Highway Rangers to show up now.”
She wanted to ask what to do about the bodies, but it was all she could do to nod and follow him. The air stank of the metallic tang of blood, and she had to admit she would be glad to be as far from the place as possible.
* * *
They reached a small river crossed by a bridge that was barely large enough to warrant the name. It was not far from where they had fought, but Solène could go no farther without some rest. She knew if she hadn’t managed to separate herself from the Fount that one time, she wouldn’t even have made it this far.
“I have to stop,” she said.
“We can rest a short while,” Leverre said. “We should clean up too. We can’t go into Trelain looking as we do.”
She looked down at her robes, now a dark rusty red for the most part, crusted with the dried blood of those she killed. Wearing them made her skin crawl and she suddenly couldn’t wait to be rid of them. Sliding off her horse, Solène went to the water’s edge and started scrubbing the blood from her still-shaking hands. She thought she might fall into the water from sheer exhaustion, and wondered what Leverre would say if she asked to rest for a while. Her head swam with fatigue now that the excitement of the fight had faded. She knew the magic she had used had taken a heavy toll on her. It was only right that it did. Killing should never come easily, she thought. Looking for him, she saw that Leverre had yet to dismount.
“What’s wrong?” she said.
“Nothing.” He swung his leg over the horse’s back and grimaced in pain. He let out a loud groan as he lowered himself to the ground. His hand went to his side as he walked to the water.
“Were you wounded?”
“A cut, nothing more,” he said. “I’ve had far wor—” He tumbled to the shingle riverbank with a rattle of loose stones.
Solène rushed to his side and used a wet corner of her robe to wipe the dried blood from his face. His skin was pale—almost deathly so. “Felix,” she said, sprinkling a handful of water on his cheek.
His eyelids flickered, then lifted slowly.
“Thank the gods,” she said. “Let me take a look at your cut.”
She took the dagger from his belt to cut his bloody tunic, exposing that part of his belly. She saw a dark, narrow slit, a handspan long, oozing dark blood at a prodigious rate.
“Did this just start now?” she said. “When you got down from the horse?”
He shook his head grimly.
“I haven’t taken any healing instruction. What do I do?”
He spluttered out a laugh. “Neither have I. The Prince Bishop didn’t recruit me for my bedside manner.”
“I have to stop this bleeding. I have to fix this or you’re going to die.”
“I think it was too late for that the minute the blade came out. There’s only so much magic can do.”
“I can do more magic than most,” she said.
“Try, then,” he said. “After that fight we just had, I’d be surprised if you could set light to dry grass.”
She had no idea where to start. She was so tired she could barely hold a thought. How could she hope to shape the Fount? Crafting magic on someone needed so much focus, plus an absolute certainty of what you wanted to achieve. It was why healing was the most specialised school of magic at the Priory. It was easy to cast a forceful blow, or, as she had just discovered, do far more than that when the intent was destruction. Healing was all finesse, and Solène had no idea how to wield her talent as anything other than a club.
“You must know something. Tell me. Anything.”
He murmured something, but she couldn’t quite make it out.
“What?”
“A letter,” he said, the words coming between laboured breaths. “I left a letter at the Priory saying I had to stop them from killing Gill. Said it was a matter of personal honour, that he’d saved my life. You don’t need to take any blame for it.”
Tears streamed down her face. She pressed her fingers down on either side of the wound and reached out for the Fount. It seemed distant, and the farther she stretched, the more it receded, always staying in view, but just beyond her grasp. Trying made her dizziness worse. She squeezed her eyes tight, concentrating for all she was worth. She went through all the exercises dal Drezony had taught her, but none had any effect. She looked within, to her own reservoir. It was depleted—dangerously so—but she had to try.
Drawing on it, Solène focussed her thoughts again, willing Leverre’s body to heal itself. He groaned in pain and she flinched. Was she making it worse? Panic welled up in her gut. She closed her eyes and concentrated with every fibre of her being as she tried again. She could feel Leverre’s body tense, then relax. When she opened her eyes, Leverre’s eyes were empty, staring up at a sky they could not see, just like those of the men and women they had left to the crows on the road.
She rolled onto her back and let her mind drift. She hadn’t saved him. She might have made his last moments worse. She tried to cry, but had no more tears, no more strength. She struggled to breathe, as though her lungs were too exhausted to continue working. When her eyelids slid shut, she didn’t have the strength to open them again.
CHAPTER
41
Solène woke with a start. Confused, she had to fight through the muddle of her mind to recall where she was. The river. The bridge. Leverre’s body, next to her. She took some small comfort in the knowledge that the threat to Guillot had been stopped. The sun was dipping below the horizon, and she still felt exhausted, so she concluded she had not slept for long. The horses were eating grass close by, so she hauled herself up and into the saddle.
She cast a glance back at Leverre’s body, knowing she didn’t have the strength to bury him and still reach Trelain. She could send someone for him when she got there. She clung to the saddle with all her strength, and urged the horse on.
* * *
Guillot sat by the fire in the Black Drake, alone with his thoughts. He had not shared more than a few words with dal Sason since getting back from Villerauvais. The wait for Leverre to return was becoming unbearable. Guillot had even begun to consider loading himself up on brandy and riding back to the dragon’s cave for another try.
He supposed he was being a little unfair on dal Sason for keeping to his room. He had broken a few ribs himself, years before, and remembered only too well how painful it was. Even taking a breath was something you came to dread. The sooner the Order’s healers arrived, the better it would be. Too much time spent thinking about what he had still to do wasn’t good for his sanity or his courage. A fast horse could get him to Humberland in no more than a week, and the dragon could be someone else’s problem.
Thinking further, he supposed the entire western seaboard could fall within the dragon’s range—fleeing would only delay the in
evitable. The best option was to ride for the coast and take a ship for anywhere in the east. There were legends of dragons in the northern mountains on the far side of the Middle Sea, though. He hadn’t heard the same said for the south, so that might work. He couldn’t abide Ostians, so it would have to be farther south. Auracia might work, but the independent city-states spent most of their time fighting one another, and when not doing that, teaming up to find someone else to fight. The chances of getting drawn into their squabbles were too great, so he crossed Auracia off his mental list.
That left Shandahar, famed for its seraglios … although someone had told him they frowned on alcohol, so that meant Shandahar was out also. The Spice Isles had pirates, but also a tasty sugar spirit called rhon, and clement weather for most of the year. He could learn to sail a brig, and make his life trading and adventuring between the isles. Still, pirates, and as romantic as it sounded, it was a dangerous part of the world. He crossed the Spice Isles off the list. Humberland in the north saw rain for two-thirds of the year, so he didn’t consider it for more than a moment. That left the far east, countries forgotten since the days of the Empire. He wouldn’t be able to speak the language, and was too old to learn new things, so that was off the list too.
That left Jahar or Darvaros. Jahar was filled with hot jungles, and Darvaros, arid plains. Neither particularly took his fancy. No, he was destined to be in Mirabaya, and if he wished to enjoy a long and content life here, he would have to deal with the dragon. He had just turned his mind back to that problem when the door opened, sending a blast of cool, fresh air through the taproom.
“Guillot?”
He turned, startled by the use of his name. Solène walked toward him, looking exhausted and wearing cream clothes liberally splattered with blood.
“Solène? What are you doing here? Are you all right? Did the Prince Bishop send you? Where’s Leverre?”
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