He couldn’t even bring himself to think of Val. Why hadn’t he refused to allow the lad to come along? He knew the answer—he’d been in battles as a squire himself. Friends of his had been killed in those battles. It was normal for men who desired a life by the sword. It didn’t make the loss any easier to bear, though.
By night, Castandres resembled an army encampment, with numerous flickering campfires spread across its fields. Gill hoped dal Ruisseau Noir and his Intelligencier comrade had reached it, as planned. They had not seen dal Ruisseau Noir or his comrade since they’d leapt into the river, as the Vosges’s fickle currents had sent the two pairs down opposite sides of the Isle.
Gill could see pickets when they drew near. He and Solène looked like a pair of vagrants, but the soldiers were on edge enough to see everything as a threat, particularly at night. That was probably a good idea, Gill thought. Now that Amaury had used the Cup, he was unlikely to tolerate rebellion for long. He was unlikely to tolerate Gill for much longer either, so a rebellious army struck him as a good place to see out his days. It might even give him the chance to cause Amaury a few problems before he met his end. If that was all he could hope for, it would have to be enough.
“Who goes there!” came a challenge from one of the pickets.
“Friends,” Gill shouted back. “We’ve come to meet with someone here.”
“Who?”
Gill wasn’t sure if dal Ruisseau Noir would appreciate having his name shouted about, but equally, Gill didn’t appreciate the thought of being stuck with a crossbow bolt by a trigger-happy guard.
“Hugo dal Ruisseau Noir.”
“Wait there.”
The pickets consisted of whatever this army could get their hands on at short notice. There were stacked-up sacks of meal, overturned carts, crates, and hastily built palisades. It wouldn’t stand up to a determined assault, but it probably gave the men inside a little more confidence, which made it worthwhile for that alone.
They were left waiting awhile. Gill suspected they’d sent someone into the village, to find out if anyone knew who Hugo dal Ruisseau Noir was. Eventually someone who looked like an officer appeared.
“I’m here to bring you through. Banneret dal Ruisseau Noir arrived this morning.”
The soldiers wrestled with a section of the picket to move it out of the way. The design was so hasty it seemed no one had given any thought to making ingress and egress possible. Everyone was in a hurry these days. The officer, a young banneret who looked full of the excitement of his first campaign, greeted them.
“Banneret Guillaume dal Coudray, at your service.” He couldn’t hide the look of disgust on his face when he caught smell of them.
“Banneret of the White Guillot dal Villerauvais. I’m afraid we had to take a swim in the Vosges. A change of clothes would be very much appreciated.”
“I’m sure we can rustle something up,” dal Coudray said.
“Whose army is this?” Gill said.
“His Lordship, the Count of Savin, cousin of the king.”
Gill nodded. He’d never heard of the man.
The tent camp around the village held all the sights, smells, and sounds of an army—soldiers lounging by their campfires, smoke and cooking, ribald chat and laughter. Gill scanned what he could see and reckoned there were two, perhaps three thousand men mustered there. Whoever was in charge would need quite a few more before facing Amaury’s forces, but it was a solid start.
Spotting dal Ruisseau Noir walking toward them, Gill raised a hand in greeting.
“I’m glad you made it out of the city,” the former fencing master said, coming up to them. “I lost sight of you once we got to the Isle.”
“We ended up going down the other side,” Gill said. “Not the nicest spot for a swim. Has Pharadon brought the king?”
“Not yet. I was hoping he’d have arrived by now. I’m starting to get worried. The king needs care that Pharadon can’t give him. You definitely trust him?”
Gill nodded, with genuine sentiment. “I dare say Pharadon is a little hesitant to come anywhere near a village packed with soldiers.”
“True,” dal Ruisseau Noir said. “I wasn’t expecting there to be so many.”
“Can’t say I was either.”
“The last I heard, Savin was the only one of the king’s cousins who hadn’t raised in rebellion, he was only gathering forces to maintain order in his lands. This village is in his county, and it’s why I chose it. I thought it would be quiet and safe.”
“Well, not anymore. You say all the king’s cousins have rebelled?”
“It seems so, but only Aubin and Chabris were serious before. I’m going to ride out to see if I can find Pharadon if you’re interested in coming. I can delay a few moments longer if you want to get a quick bite to eat and a change of clothes first.”
“At night?” Gill said.
“The king’s condition is dire.”
It was the last thing Gill wanted. He’d been dreaming about clean clothes and a hot meal for more hours than he could count with his fingers. Still, he could hardly say no.
“Give me a few minutes,” Gill said.
“Coudray will sort you out,” dal Ruisseau Noir said.
* * *
A quick wash with a damp cloth, a change of clothes, and a few scraps of food had Gill on the way to feeling like a new man, but he knew it would take at least ten hours of sleep and a proper hot meal before he got there. He and Solène rode with dal Ruisseau Noir on horses borrowed from the count’s troops. The count himself hadn’t arrived yet—the army was being mustered up by a few of his senior noblemen—and in his absence, dal Ruisseau Noir seemed to be able to exert quite a bit of influence. Everyone was scared of Intelligenciers, even now when most of the Mirabayan ones were dead.
“Where are we heading?” Gill said. He’d seen nothing of Pharadon since he flew out of Mirabay with Val and the king. There was no reason to think there was a problem, though. He would have been away from the city far faster than they were—it was only a matter of reuniting with him.
“Back in the direction of the city,” dal Ruisseau Noir said. “No one in the village has reported seeing anything out of the ordinary, so I don’t think he flew this far. I don’t expect it’ll take us long to find them.”
The countryside was open pastures and farmland. There were pockets of forest, but most of the land in the region had been cleared for generations. The thick oak forests that Mirabaya was famed for were all but gone, this close to the city. As nice a night as it was for a ride, Gill could think of a great many places he would rather be, beginning with being tucked up in the Wounded Lion with all of this nothing more than a bad dream.
“I’m told the Order’s healers can accomplish all manner of things that are far beyond the skills of an ordinary physician,” dal Ruisseau Noir said after they had gone a short distance.
“I, yes, they can,” Solène said. “I didn’t have the chance to get any training in healing, though.”
Gill could tell where dal Ruisseau Noir was going with this, an odd thing considering he was an Intelligencier, but they blended devotion to their original purpose with patriotism in a way that Gill had often found difficult to get his head around.
“But you have the ability to heal?” dal Ruisseau Noir said.
“The ability, yes. I suppose I do. But I really don’t have the skills needed. I can heal a cut, ease the pain of a bruise. I can even take a chance at mending some broken bones, but nothing more complex than that. It’s very easy to do more damage than was there to begin with, if you don’t know what you’re doing. Which I don’t.”
Gill raised an eyebrow, wishing he could see dal Ruisseau Noir’s reaction. Gill reckoned Solène was treading on dangerous ground, making jokes about magic with an Intelligencier. Nonetheless, it was clear he was building up to ask a very big favour of her, so she could probably get away with it.
He already knew what the favour was, and he was sure Solène did as w
ell. He could tell she was getting uncomfortable. She’d tried to heal people only on two prior occasions. Her first patient, Felix Leverre, had died. In great pain, if her description had been anything to go by. The second time, she’d healed Nicholas dal Sason—indeed, she’d made him a bit too healthy for Gill’s liking, considering they’d fought a duel to the death a short time after. Dal Sason’s injuries had been limited to a fever and some broken ribs. Nothing compared to whatever was wrong with the king.
“We have to find him first,” Gill said, hoping to move the conversation on. It seemed to have the desired effect, as they all fell silent. They spent another hour on horseback before a lone figure, leading a mule, emerged from the darkness.
As they grew closer, Gill realised that it was Pharadon, back in human form, and that there were two bodies draped over the mule’s back. Gill’s heart dropped into his stomach as he wondered where he should bury Val. The lad had never spoken of any family, had given every indication that he was an orphan. The speed with which he departed Trelain suggested he didn’t have any great love for the city. Gill decided he’d find a nice churchyard somewhere, perhaps even this village, and make sure he had a plot and headstone to himself.
“I’m glad to see you all alive,” Pharadon said.
“Likewise,” Gill said.
“I apologise for my delay. It takes some time to recuperate enough from one transformation to carry out another, and I felt I would be safer travelling the countryside in your form.”
“It’s lucky we happened upon you,” Gill said.
Pharadon gave him a curious look. “No, it wasn’t. I knew exactly where you were.”
Magic, again, Gill thought. He was starting to feel a little inadequate, having to rely on the traditional ways of doing things.
“The king?” dal Ruisseau Noir said. “Is he well?”
“As well as he was when I took him from the city,” Pharadon said, “which is to say, not well at all, but he lives. I brought Val, also.” He gave Gill a sad look as he handed the mule’s reins to dal Ruisseau Noir.
“Where did you get the mule?” Solène said.
Pharadon shrugged. It seemed that was all the answer they were going to get. He returned his attention to Gill. “It’s been an interesting experience, Guillot, but I bid you farewell.”
“Where will you go?” Gill said.
“Back to the temple and the goldscale. Dragons reached enlightenment before we began using the Cups as a tool to ensure the process was successful. Perhaps I can find a way, some method of the ancients.”
“Thank you for helping us,” Gill said.
“Likewise,” Pharadon said. “I’m only sorry that our respective quests have led us to so much sorrow and disappointment.”
There was something tragic about the matter-of-fact way Pharadon delivered this line, as though in his ancient wisdom, he had come to accept such things without question. For someone so short-lived as Gill, such resignation was difficult.
“Wait,” dal Ruisseau Noir said. “You might not be able to cast spells on a person, but you do know much about magic?”
Gill had to think for a moment to digest the abrupt change in the conversation’s direction.
“Spells aren’t cast,” Pharadon said. “Magic—actually the energy that allows it, the Fount—is shaped. That shaping of that energy is what affects the physical world. And yes, dragons are creatures of the Fount, and I know as much about it as I suppose anything living at this moment. Even your Prince Bishop.”
“So you could instruct Solène on how to heal the king?”
Pharadon hadn’t been back in human form for very long, so Gill wasn’t sure if his stiff expression stemmed from that, or if he was truly dumbfounded.
“You’ve learned firsthand what a dangerous threat to the world the Prince Bishop is now that he has all this magical power,” dal Ruisseau Noir said. “Do you think he’ll rest easily knowing there are dragons in existence, that you might be strong enough to tear down all he’s built up? He sees your kind as vermin, and once he is secure, he will have you all hunted until he is certain you are no more.”
“His task might be easier than you think,” Pharadon said, “considering I am likely the last of my kind. Seeing as this is something he has already tried, I’m inclined to agree with your assessment, however.”
Gill felt guilty that his behaviour had contributed to losing the Cup, and more so at prevailing upon the dragon’s charity when the only other dragon they knew to be alive was inching ever closer to a descent into savagery. How could they ask him for anything more?
“The temple’s intense magical power means the slumber I put the goldscale into should keep her frozen until I release the magic,” Pharadon said. “As the situation is so dire, I’m willing to chance a little more time with you if it means your Prince Bishop might meet with justice. I will try to guide you, Solène, if you are willing to attempt a healing. There is only so much I can do, however. I can teach you how to guide the tool with precision, but not necessarily which bolt to turn. That is a matter for those with knowledge of the human body to instruct you on.”
They all gave him an odd look at the use of the idiom.
“We can find a physician to give you guidance in that regard,” dal Ruisseau Noir said. His voice was full of energy again, now that he saw a solution to his problem. “Let’s return to the village.”
Gill cleared his throat and gave dal Ruisseau Noir a look.
“Of course,” the Intelligencier said. “Thank you, Pharadon. For your continued help. The kingdom will owe you a great debt.”
CHAPTER
18
Daylight, the next morning, gave Gill his first proper look at Castandres. It was a little larger than Venne, but built along similar lines—a rectangular market square surrounded by two-story buildings. The church stood proudly at one end, its belfry towering above all else. There were some stone buildings, and a stretch of arcade across the square at the end opposite the church, but most structures were rendered timber construction, with old, bleached oak beams crisscrossing their façades and lending the place a charming character.
Guillot, Solène, and Pharadon had been put up at the village inn, which was larger than a village this size would have otherwise possessed, were it not on a major road to the west. Gill felt refreshed by a night in a decent bed and a generous breakfast, but his body didn’t shake off abuse quite the way it once had, and he couldn’t think of anything nicer than a prolonged period of idleness. His gut twisted with unease when his train of thought added “and a few bottles of a fine vintage,” thereby ending that dream. That was a road he didn’t want to walk down again. Perhaps constant activity was the best thing for him after all.
Every large building in the village had been commandeered for billeting by the army; smaller structures were being used to accommodate officers whose dignity couldn’t stretch to sleeping in a tent if there was an alternative. Gill didn’t see many villagers moving about, but that was only to be expected. An army of strangers, ostensibly friendly or not, was never something you wanted to see camping next to your home. Everyone had heard horror stories of the actions of unruly armies, and no village wanted to become the source for the next one.
The night before, when Gill and his companions returned to Castandres, they had brought the king to the tavern and gently laid him on a worn, stained oak table at one side of the taproom. The army’s physician had assumed responsibility for his care. Despite their conversation about healing, neither dal Ruisseau Noir nor Gill suggested Solène attempt it right away; they could see how exhausted she was.
This morning, however, it could be put off no longer. Gill turned away from the village scene, the cathartic distraction it provided short-lived, and went back into the inn. He’d met Boudain only once before, when the young king had requested Gill’s participation in the first dragon hunt; the contrast between then and now made for grim viewing. To Gill’s eye, there didn’t appear to be anything wrong wi
th him—no wounds, no obvious injuries. But his eyes rolled in their sockets and there was a sheen of drool on his chin. Gill had seen men like this before. Their conditions had been caused by a heavy blow to the head, and none of them had ever recovered. He couldn’t claim to understand much about magic, but fixing a man’s head seemed like a big ask.
There was quite a gathering that morning, to witness the spectacle of the king being brought back to health by means not used for a millennium. If magic really could achieve such wonders, why had it been outlawed and oppressed for so long? How many lives might have been saved or improved by it? Then again, human beings seemed particularly ill-suited for great power, and there was always someone who would seek to exploit such a gift for personal gain. A fine example of that sat on the throne in Mirabay at that moment. Contrast that to Pharadon, who had enjoyed that power and more for centuries, yet lived contented in a mountaintop cave.
Gill cast Solène a glance; he could tell from her expression that she was thinking more about the gathered crowd than the task before her. She had slept for a time, but much of her night and morning had been spent in discussion with Pharadon, for magical guidance, and the physician, for instruction on the human mind. The physician was the Count of Savin’s personal doctor—considering the count’s wealth and close relation to the king, Gill hoped he’d attracted a good one.
Still, how much did anyone know about a person’s brain? It’s not like it beat, like a heart—it just sat there, thinking. Gill reckoned that thanks to battle, he’d seen as many brains as any physician, and he didn’t have the first clue how they worked: he only knew that when you drove a blade into one, or bashed it hard enough, it stopped.
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