“Hold on,” she said. “Let me sit and catch my breath. I’ve been riding hard all day.”
She slumped into the chair opposite him and he thought she was about to pass out. He waved to the barkeep, who brought over a carafe of water and a couple of glasses. Guillot filled one and pushed it over to Solène. She drained it, then nodded to the empty glass. He refilled it, wishing he could find that level of satisfaction in the tasteless liquid.
“Leverre was with me, but he’s dead,” she said between gulps. “The Prince Bishop sent men to kill you. We chased them down and stopped them, but they killed Leverre.”
Guillot arched an eyebrow and leaned back in his chair. “I know Amaury doesn’t like me—rest assured I’ve little love for him myself—but try to have me killed?”
She nodded. “It’s a long story. Complicated, too, but the gist of it is he was going to have you killed, blame it on the dragon, then use your failure to give the people a reason to welcome the Order and its mages with open arms.”
“All right, I can sort of see how that makes sense,” Guillot said, still trying to digest the news. “You stopped the assassins though?”
“We did,” she said, and let out a series of great, wracking sobs. “I killed three people. I used magic to do it.”
Guillot leaned forward and placed a hand on her shoulder. “If they were on their way to murder me, it was the right thing to do. We live in a world where sometimes people need killing. It’s never easy, and it never feels good—at least, it shouldn’t—but sometimes it needs to be done.”
“I know,” she said. “I … I just had no idea how it would happen. The way I did it, I mean. It was horrible. So horrible. You can’t imagine.”
He gave her a wry smile, thinking back to a day many years before, and a bridge filled with men. He didn’t have to imagine—he simply remembered.
She did her best to stifle her tears.
“The horror of it will fade with time,” Guillot said. “I promise you that.”
“I don’t care,” she said. “I never want to have to do anything like that again. I’ll never use magic to kill again. Never.”
“There are things worth killing for. You saved my life by doing what you did, and I’m grateful to you. If you’re lucky, perhaps you’ll never have to kill again, but now you know what it’s like, and that you can if you have to. Never say never.”
She shrugged. “Where’s Nicholas?”
“He’s up in his room, licking his wounds,” Guillot said. “He got knocked about pretty badly by the dragon.”
“Leverre said he broke some ribs?”
“Three at least, I’d say,” Guillot said. “Is there anything you can do for him? Have they taught you how to heal? His condition has worsened and I’m starting to worry about him.”
She shook her head. “People are complicated things. It’s easy to make a mess of it if you don’t know what you’re doing. I might be able to ease his pain a little, but I need some rest first. An hour should do.”
Gill nodded. “Might be best if you don’t mention what’s happened, or that the Prince Bishop wants me dead.”
“I’m in complete agreement with you on that,” she said.
Guillot nodded. “I’ll get a room readied for you.”
CHAPTER
42
Solène willed away the gentle knocking on her door, but as awareness returned, she remembered what needed to be done. It was dark outside, so he hadn’t let her sleep through until morning. She got up, put on her robe, which the inn’s staff had cleaned, and answered the door. Gill stood there, a sheepish look on his face.
“I gave you as long as I dared,” he said. “Dal Sason’s looking worse and having trouble breathing.” He led Solène into dal Sason’s room.
“I’ve brought you a visitor,” he said, flopping down onto a wicker-backed chair.
“Solène? What are you doing here?” he said, gasping the words out between laboured breaths.
“I’m here to help,” she said, casting Guillot a guilty look.
“You’d best take a look at my ribs then,” dal Sason said. “They hurt something awful.”
Moving to beside the bed, she pulled back his bandage. The right side of his chest was a variety of colours from black to yellow, and she could clearly see the location of each of the breaks. She had only seen a wound turn bad once—when a miller’s apprentice in Bastelle got a hand caught in the mill’s gear wheel—but the boy’s flesh looked exactly like dal Sason’s. The mill had taken his hand, then the rot had taken his arm to the shoulder. The visiting physician had cut it off, saying it was the only way to save the lad. It hadn’t worked.
There was no cutting off a chunk of dal Sason’s chest, however. She felt a chill run across her skin as it occurred to her that in saving Guillot, in killing the assassins and their party, she might have condemned dal Sason to death. One of them had to have been a healer, who would have been able to fix him with only a treatment or two. No regular physician would be able to do a thing for him if he had the rot. There were no more healers coming, and unless she did something, he was a dead man.
“How are you feeling?” she said, as she glanced at Guillot. She could see that he recognised the serious expression on her face.
“Rotten,” dal Sason said. “Worse today, if anything. The pain is unbelievable at times. It eased off for a while, but it’s so hot and tight down my right side now, that I can barely move. Or breathe.”
“I’m going to fetch some cold water. Ice, if they have any. Cooling it down will help, then I’ll see what I can do. Gill, will you give me a hand?”
He nodded, his own expression grave. As soon as they got outside, with the door closed behind them, she stopped.
“I’m no healer,” she said, “but even I can see the wounds inside him have turned bad. Without help, it’s going to get worse. Probably kill him. Who knows how much other damage was done to his insides.”
“What do we do, then?” Guillot said. “Shall I ask around for another physician?”
“I don’t think that will help. He’s already seen one, hasn’t he?” Guillot nodded. “And yet he’s worse now.”
“I see what you mean,” Guillot said. “Are you willing to help him?”
“I could end up doing more harm than good,” she said. Her stomach twisted with fear as she remembered the pain Leverre had felt during his final moments. “I understand the principle of what I’m supposed to do, but that’s as far as it goes.”
“Well, if he’s going to die without help, it might be that anything you do that speeds him to that end would be a mercy. But there’s a chance you’ll be able to help him. Perhaps even save him. I’m willing to take it.”
“Do you think he would be?” she said, torn between the desire to help and the fear of making it worse.
“We can ask, but it might make him suspicious. Why would the Prince Bishop send an untested healer?”
Solène thought for a moment. If she could kill, surely she could heal? Leverre had been willing to let her try, though sadly, that hadn’t gone well. Still, dal Sason’s injuries weren’t as severe, and hopefully would require less powerful intervention. She could start off by trying to cleanse him of the infection, and all being well, go from there. She couldn’t do much harm if she adopted that approach, and though harsh, there was sense in what Gill said.
“I’ll try,” she said. “I need to rest more first, though. And eat a good meal. The journey took a lot out of me. Without more rest I can’t guarantee I won’t make him worse. A few more hours aren’t likely to significantly change his situation.”
“Agreed,” Gill said. “Eat, then rest. We can start in the morning. I’ll fetch ice and water to help with the fever and take care of him until then.”
She nodded, and could already feel her mouth start to water at the thought of a good dinner.
* * *
Solène awoke late the next morning. The combination of an overly large meal, followed by a fu
ll night’s sleep in a warm bed, had left her feeling almost normal. At moments, she could almost forget the events of the past few days, and her role in them.
Gill was asleep on the wooden chair when she went into dal Sason’s room, snoring gently and completely oblivious to her arrival. She thought about waking him, but there was nothing he could do to help. Magical healing didn’t require any other intervention. If done right, it was soothing, pain free, and completely restorative. If done wrong?
She walked quietly to dal Sason’s bedside and sat. He was asleep, but there was nothing peaceful about it. He twitched and moaned, and she could see from his colour and sweat-matted hair that fever had set in. She took a deep breath and held her hand out, above his chest. She closed her eyes and reached for the Fount. It was waiting for her, easily within reach now. It always seemed to be so much stronger in towns and cities. She noticed a clump of energy in Gill’s purse—just like Leverre had described. That must be the Cup. They would need to talk about that later—
She shuddered, realising that her mind had wandered, and returned her focus to what needed to be done. Distraction was disastrous in magic, all the more so when healing—she could end up hastening the infection’s spread, or worse. She knew she was still a long way from having the mental discipline she needed, but she was ready to try. She focussed on a desire to heal. She thought of a fever fading, of dal Sason’s skin cooling. She thought of rotting flesh returning to a healthy state.
Releasing her hold on the Fount, Solène opened her eyes, fearful of what she might see. Dal Sason’s face was not nearly as flushed as it had been when she had first sat down beside him. His expression was of a man more at ease. She closed her eyes again and repeated the process, extending her thoughts to bones knitting and becoming strong, of normal, healthy blood flow restored to damaged tissues. Her mind flashed back to the moment she had turned a woman from person to a spray of blood and bits of flesh. Dal Sason let out a pained groan and Solène jumped in fright, her heart racing, remembering the moment before Leverre had died.
She took a deep breath to steady herself and looked dal Sason over, but it appeared that whatever had caused his distress had been momentary. She let out a sigh of relief and sat, cursing herself for allowing horrific memories to intrude on her thoughts. This was why healing was considered such an expert magical art. The slightest distraction, the slightest drop in focus, and the patient could suffer immeasurably. The precision needed to target specific internal injuries required an encyclopaedic knowledge of anatomy as well as incredible skill. It was why she was only willing to risk treatment in the most general way.
Calmer, she steadied her thoughts, pushing anything that was not in the here and now far to the back of her mind. She felt the Fount start to flow into her as she willed her magic to grow stronger. She furrowed her brow and squeezed her eyes shut, holding on to that single thought. The danger was that desiring to maintain only one, pure thought often led to thinking about the act of thinking, which in itself was a distraction. She gave it one last effort, then stopped. She wished healing could be as simple as killing. If it were, surely the world would be a much better place.
She opened her eyes to take in her work. Dal Sason’s colour was back to normal and he slept peacefully, with an expression of great comfort on his face.
“I didn’t want to disturb you,” Guillot said.
She jumped in fright but managed not to shriek. “You startled me,” she said. “I thought you were asleep.”
“I was, until near the end. You looked so focussed on the task I didn’t want to cause you to make a mistake.” He chuckled. “I was almost afraid to breathe. He looks well, though. Better than he has since before the cave. To my eye it seems as though it worked.”
“I think it has,” Solène said. “I hope. His body’s been through a lot of trauma though, so he’ll still need rest. I daren’t do any more for fear of undoing what I’ve managed. I’m too new to all this to chance my luck.”
“A sound view,” Guillot said. “Why don’t we leave him to it and get some breakfast. I’m starving, and I dare say you are too.”
* * *
They ate in silence until Guillot felt the rumble in his belly start to give way to a feeling of contentment. The food in the Black Drake was good, and he realised he was tending to overeat. A few more days at the Black Drake, and he would need to let his belt out a notch or two.
“I was hoping that there might be more help coming from the city to deal with the dragon,” he said, finally breaking the silence. “I assume that won’t be coming now?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“I’ll have to make do then.”
“You’re going to go after it again?” she said.
“What choice do I have? I’m sure Nicholas will help when he’s better. We know what to expect now. It might go better for us this time.”
“The Cup,” she said. “With everything that’s happened, I’d almost forgotten. Leverre said you found a cup in the dragon’s cave.”
“Yyyeeessss…” Guillot said. First Leverre’s interest in it, now hers. His suspicion was reaching its boiling point.
“Do you still have it?”
“I do,” Guillot said reluctantly. Having found the statues in the chambers beneath his ruined manor, he was doubly suspicious of the Order’s interest in the cup. “Why are you all so interested in a little Telastrian steel pot?”
“It’s much more than that,” she said. “At least I think it is. If it’s what I’ve read about.”
He studied her for a moment, then decided he could trust her as much as anyone. She had killed people on his behalf, after all. He took the cup out of his purse and set it on the table, next to the salt and pepper shakers, where it looked much like a sugar bowl.
A look of intense concentration spread across Solène’s face before she let out a gasp. “That’s it,” she said. “Just as Leverre described—like a knot of threads in a sheet of silk.”
“I would very much like to know why Leverre was so interested in it, and why you know about it at all,” Guillot said.
“It’s a very ancient artefact. The histories say it’s what gave mankind true magical power. It’s called the Amatus Cup, after—”
“Yes, I know who Amatus was. You’re saying this was his?”
“No. The histories say he was the one to discover it, that it’s how he got his power and ushered in the golden age of magic.”
“And it got to a dragon’s cave how, exactly?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. What I do know is that it was used in the Silver Circle’s initiation ritual. I found a book of letters between an Imperial official and the Imperial court, requesting that it be made available to help them fight dragons. In the ritual, a mage placed a drop of water on the tongue of the initiate, did something to focus the Fount in a particular way, and created a magically enhanced, dragon-slaying Chevalier of the Silver Circle.”
“I know,” Guillot said.
Solène frowned. “How?”
“Well, I suspected as much.” He described the rooms he had found under his old manor house, the paintings, the statues, watching closely to see what she made of it all. He watched her chew her lip, then realised he had left something out entirely. “There was old writing. I expect I’ll need to find a schol—”
“I can read it,” she said. “From what you’ve said, that might be where the ceremony happened. The inscription might tell me how the ceremony was conducted—what was said. That’s the key. The drop from the Cup will give you power, but I don’t know what kind. It could be anything. Improved speed, strength, intelligence, the ability to pat your head and rub your tummy at the same time.
“In the ritual, the mages channelled it toward something specific, and that’s the key. They knew what was needed to fight a dragon—they’d been trying and failing for some time. There’s no reason why I can’t shape the power in the same way.”
“For me?”
“Of course you,” she said. “Who else? I can’t cast it on myself. At least, I don’t think I can, and I barely know one end of a sword from the other.”
“Maybe it was magic that did it, not a sword.”
“Surely then it would have been Magisters of the Silver Circle, not Chevaliers?”
“Good point.”
“We need to go there. I need to see the inscriptions.”
“Should we wait for dal Sason?” Guillot said, hoping she would say no.
“I suppose we should.”
He groaned inwardly. “When he’s awake then.”
CHAPTER
43
Nicholas lay in bed, thinking. He had overheard some of what Solène and Guillot had whispered to one another while they thought him asleep. In reality, he had gone from a tormented half sleep of feverish nightmares to feeling perfectly well in the blink of an eye. He had too much experience of how the world worked to reveal to anyone that he was healthy again, until he was ready.
Leverre had returned to the city and was now dead. Neither he nor the dragon had killed Guillot, which meant the task fell to him. It was disappointing that Leverre hadn’t managed it; Nicholas had hoped that he wouldn’t be called on to do it, for the simple reason that he liked Gill. Assassination wasn’t a good way for a man like Guillot to go, but Nicholas knew that his job might not always tally with what he found tasteful. Still, there were many things in life he found distasteful that he could do nothing about, and if he didn’t look out for himself, no one else would. He had said he would do it, had taken the money, and desperately wanted what that money would bring—the return of his family’s estates and status. That meant he would do it.
Moral quandaries dealt with, he returned to trying to make sense of what was going on and how best to proceed with his task. Nicholas had expected two things to happen after they returned to Trelain. First, Leverre would kill Guillot, leaving the way open for the Prince Bishop to announce the Order as the saviours of Mirabaya. Then he had expected a combat-strength detachment of Spurriers to arrive, to heal him so he could lead them to the dragon. They would kill it and fulfill the Prince Bishop’s promise to the people.
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