Servant of the Crown

by Duncan M. Hamilton

  “How’s Solène?” Gill said.

  “Exhausted. Whatever it was she did, it took hours, and she collapsed at the end.”

  He felt a flash of panic. He knew what that might mean.

  “Pharadon is with her,” dal Ruisseau Noir said. “He says that she’s in no danger, but will take time to recover. The feats she’s accomplished in the last few days are really quite breathtaking. The strain they must have placed on her, I can only imagine.”

  Gill relaxed a little. Pharadon was the right person to be with her, he reckoned, and then wondered if Pharadon could be called a person. “What about the king?”

  Dal Ruisseau Noir shrugged. “No one can say for certain. He’s certainly better than he was before, and the periods of lucidity seem to be lasting longer between each relapse. We’re hopeful that he’ll be back to normal before too much longer. It seems Solène’s magic has done what we needed.”

  “How do you feel about that?” Gill said, unable to resist the question.

  Dal Ruisseau Noir took a deep breath. “As I said before, magic is back in the world. I’m not sure there’s any way of stopping it now. We’ve been watching developments around the Middle Sea for years, and in the past few, the reports have been the same everywhere. More and more individuals are turning up who can wield real, powerful magic. Far more than the ones we used to chase down, who could, at most, conjure up some sparks and bangs to entertain children, or who could convince adults to part with their money in exchange for some great, never-realised, magical boon. Making sure it’s used properly is going to be the challenge now. I’m convinced of that after what I witnessed last night.”

  Gill didn’t know whether or not to be frightened by what dal Ruisseau Noir said. There was a new age looming and he wasn’t sure he could adapt to a new world; he felt a pang of loss at no longer having a home to escape to.

  “When do you leave?” Gill said.

  “Immediately. Now that I’ve seen the king is well, I can rest easy, knowing I’ve done my duty to the Crown. Now I need to do my duty to my brother Intelligenciers and make my report.”

  “A safe journey to you,” Gill said, giving the banneret’s salute of clicked heels and a sharp nod. Dal Ruisseau Noir returned the gesture.

  “It’s been interesting knowing you. I hope I have the chance to raise a glass with you in more settled times.”

  With that, he left, walking swiftly. Moments later, Gill slipped out of the tavern and went to the seamstress’s house. She’d finished her task, and he studied the result, pleased but also bitterly sad: a small white flag, embroidered with a stylised dragon in dark green thread. It was a small gesture, but one that Gill felt compelled to make. A similar banner, each bearing a unique sigil, was given to every student at the Academy on the day they graduated. Val had not made it to the Academy, but in all respects, he exemplified the qualities that institution claimed to espouse.

  Gill held the banner tenderly in both hands as he walked to the church, wondering how Val would have reacted had he seen it while he was still alive. Crossing the square, Gill was surprised to see the king walk out of the tavern, closely followed by several concerned-looking barons, lords, and bannerets, who seemed to have become his court away from court. Gill wasn’t under any illusion that they were present because of a sense of undying loyalty. These men would likely never have gotten within twenty paces of the king, let alone close enough to have his ear, in the old days. If they managed to get the king back on his throne, they would advance more than they ever could have otherwise.

  “I’m glad to see you up and well, Highness,” Gill said.

  The king nodded and gave Gill a wave. “Still a little shakier than I’d like. A few little ongoing episodes, as Savin’s physician likes to call them, but I recover faster after each one, and am hopeful I’ve seen the last of them. What do you have there?” He pointed at the cloth Gill was clutching with a nod.

  “It’s for a friend,” Gill said. “A dead friend.”

  “The young man I’m told was killed during my rescue?”

  “Yes, Highness. Val—Valdamar was his name. My squire.”

  “A brave lad by all accounts,” Boudain said. “You’re burying him?”

  “I am, Highness.”

  “Now?”

  Gill nodded.

  “I’ll attend,” Boudain said.

  “Highness, you really should rest awhile,” the Count of Savin said. “You might feel well, but that doesn’t mean you’re completely recovered.”

  “Nonsense. I feel perfectly well, and it’s the least I can do. We’ll only be over there.” He pointed to the church, then looked to Gill for confirmation.

  Gill nodded.

  They set off, Val’s cortège of one dramatically expanded by the king he had died saving, and by a number of men who wouldn’t have spared the lad a second glance, so caught up were they in their own self-importance. The walked in silence, Gill and the king leading the way.

  The deacon had done his job well; at least, it appeared so to Gill’s inexpert eye. The last time he’d attended a funeral, it had been for his wife and child. The body was laid out with coins on the eyes, and Val’s hands were folded neatly on his body. In a gesture that was either somewhat touching, or motivated out of their desire to make sure they got paid, the grave-digging soldiers were lined up solemnly on the far side of the grave. Gill stepped forward and tucked the banner under Val’s dead hands.

  The king gave him an odd look, so Gill explained, saying, “Lad wanted nothing more than to be a banneret.”

  “Then he’ll be one,” Boudain said. “Posthumously, at least.” He held out his hand and fixed one of his new attendants with his gaze. “Your sword.”

  The man looked nonplussed, but did as his king commanded and handed over his sword, hilt first. The king took it and strode forward. With little grace, he took the banner from beneath Val’s hands and looked at it.

  “A fine sigil,” Boudain said before tucking it back into place. He did his best to lever the stiff fingers around the sword’s grip. “For service to your liege, I invoke my rights as sovereign of Mirabaya, and with this sword and this banner, I name you, Valdamar, Banneret, with all honours, rights, and dignities so entailed.”

  The man who had handed over his sword looked shocked. Gill hoped the blade wasn’t a treasured family heirloom, as its former owner wasn’t likely to see it again. Judging by the gemstones encrusting the hilt—an affectation that wasn’t to Gill’s taste—it was, at the very least, expensive. Still, all being well, the man’s advancement in the king’s service would more than make up for the loss of the costly weapon.

  It was a touching act, even if it was no more substantive than Gill’s having the banner made. Still, he would make the king sign a letter giving effect to what he had just said, and send it to the Hall of Bannerets in Mirabay, to ensure that Val’s name was added to the register.

  Gill did his best to listen to the deacon’s short sermon as the gravediggers placed Val in the ground, but his mind was filled with a turmoil of emotion that he struggled to keep at bay. Grief, guilt, loss, thoughts of others he had cared for, who had all ended up in the ground, while he still stumbled from day to day. As the ceremony came to an end, Gill realised there were still some matters outstanding.

  Gill cleared his throat and wondered which of the hangers-on would have to reach for his purse. “I hate to trouble you with this, Majesty, but there remains the issue of the bill.…”

  * * *

  After the funeral, Gill paid the gravediggers and parted company with the king, who wished to look over his army, before returning to the inn. He was eager to check on Solène, to see if she was recovering from the strain of her efforts. Before he got there, he spotted a lonely figure walking away from the building. A familiar one. Gill jogged through the village to catch up to him.

  “Pharadon!” he called.

  The dragon in human form turned to look back at him. He appeared tired to Gill, but Guillot wa
s never sure what was a reflection of the dragon’s true feelings and what was a mask.

  “You’re leaving?” Gill said.

  “I’m returning to the temple. It’s time I get back to the goldscale. I’ll do what I can for her, then we’ll get to the mountains, away from all this. I fear hard times are coming to the lands of humankind.”

  “I think you’re right.” It occurred to Gill that having a dragon on their side would give them a huge advantage. “I can’t convince you to stay? Help us finish this?”

  Pharadon shook his head. “People are already terrified of dragons. They only know us in our base and savage form. How do you think seeing a dragon slaughtering swaths of soldiers would appear to them? Enough damage has been done. Best that my kind aren’t seen by people again for a very long time.”

  “I suppose that might be for the best,” Gill said. “We owe you for what you’ve done. Getting the king out of the city. Staying on to show Solène how to heal him.”

  “Faced with the alternative of the man who had the vessel of enlightenment stolen, helping the king seemed like the right thing to do.”

  “Hopefully the kingdom will last long enough to thank you. Repay you in some way, perhaps.”

  Pharadon nodded but said nothing.

  “Safe journey,” Gill said.

  With that, Pharadon turned and continued his lonely journey.

  * * *

  “I believe we should treat with him, Highness,” the Count of Savin said. “No one wants civil war.”

  Gill observed the council of war from the back of the inn’s taproom, which had been converted from infirmary to command centre. The Count of Savin’s attitude had changed significantly since the king had regained his faculties. Everyone’s had. Boudain was a king without a throne, a man who had many enemies. If his side won the coming war—a war that Gill was convinced would take place—those enemies would be dispossessed; many lands and titles would be up for grabs.

  “We’ll send word to your cousins to announce your recovery, but I wanted your guidance on how to open negotiations with the Prince Bishop,” Savin said. “What should we send him?”

  “The Usurper?” the king said. “We’ll send him nothing. There will be no negotiating with him. I want his neck on the headsman’s block. He tried to kill me, and it’s only luck, or the fact that he lacked sufficient magical power at that time, that saved me. By all accounts he now has more power than he knows what to do with. He needs to be put down like the rabid dog that he is.”

  That silenced the gathering for a moment. Gill could see that the king was struggling to contain his anger and worried that too much stress might cause a relapse.

  “When can we expect to hear back from my cousins?” Boudain said.

  “Two days, Sire,” someone said. “They’re both camped within a day of Mirabay.”

  “If it takes longer, that means they’re thinking about their response,” Boudain said. “They shouldn’t need to. I am still the king, the Prince Bishop’s actions notwithstanding. Any man who stands against me will be guilty of treason, and treated accordingly. Make sure my cousins are aware of that.”

  “Yes, Sire.”

  A man rushed into the tavern. “Soldiers approaching!”

  “Friends or foes?” Savin said.

  The man shrugged.

  “I suppose we best take a look for ourselves,” Boudain said.

  * * *

  Gill and a number of the hangers-on followed the king’s party out to the picket, where the guards silently observed the approaching army, which looked to number five, perhaps six thousand men. They outnumbered the king’s men by about two to one. If they weren’t friendly, things could go very badly, very quickly.

  Someone produced a field telescope and handed it to the king, who scanned the approaching force.

  “I can just make out some banners,” he said, squinting down the eyepiece. “Ah, there’s Aubin.” He continued to squint. “And Chabris … Odd to see my cousins marching together. Here of all places.”

  “Our scouting network isn’t as extensive as I might like,” Savin said.

  “Apparently not,” Boudain said. “The only question that remains is if they are here to join us?”

  “I’ve not had any contact with them,” Savin said.

  “Best to assume that isn’t their intention, then. Get me a horse and form an honour guard. Have everyone else prepare for an attack.”

  “Highness, are you sure—”

  Boudain glared at him. “Now would be a good time for everyone to stop asking if ‘I’m sure,’ and start doing what I command. Understood?”

  “Of course, Highness,” Savin said.

  The king surveyed the crowd. “Villerauvais, you’re with me.”

  Gill nodded and stepped forward.

  “I’ll need a horse, too,” Gill said, as Savin passed him. “And a sword.”

  Savin had a face like thunder. “Would mine do?”

  Gill shrugged. In truth, the count’s weapon was a little fancy for his taste, but with his own swords having been left at the Wounded Lion in Mirabay, it was better than nothing.

  “I didn’t mean it literally,” Savin said, resuming his determined march. “I’ll see what I can do. Coudray!”

  The junior officer pushed through the crowd and fell in beside his master; they set off to get things organised. Gill realised the king was standing beside him.

  “Are they coming here to kill me, do you reckon?” Boudain said.

  “I expect so, Sire.” Gill had never been one to dress things up to suit the audience.

  Boudain laughed. “And my cousin, Savin? What do you think of him? And all the men who are suddenly so eager to serve me?”

  “I’ve always felt the best people to rely on in a time of crisis are the ones who were most reluctant to get involved,” Gill said. “It’s the ones who are too eager to please that you need to look out for. Still, they’ve much to gain if you reclaim the throne. So long as they believe that, they’ll fight for you.”

  “When I regain my throne,” Boudain said. “I appreciate your candour, though. While you may not trust men who seem too eager to please, I don’t trust those who tell me what they think I want to hear. It’s men like you I want around me now.”

  “There are men better able than I—”

  “I won’t hear any more of that, Villerauvais,” Boudain said. “You were long considered the best, and in recent weeks you’ve proved that you still are. That you’re no friend to the Prince Bishop is just about your best-known quality, which puts us in the same boat, so to speak. If he wins, we’re both dead.”

  Gill nodded. There was no arguing that point.

  “I know my father did wrong by you,” Boudain said, “but I assure you, I’m not my father. You’ve already done this kingdom great service in slaying the dragons, and I’d like to be able to grant you lands and titles, and tell you to go and enjoy your rewards, but I can’t. I have need of you yet. The Prince Bishop must be stopped, and Mirabaya will need the best of her sons and daughters to steer her back to safety. Can I count on you?”

  “You already know you can,” Gill said. He was determined to see Amaury dead and couldn’t ask for a more powerful ally than the king. Underneath it all, he knew none of that mattered. The king had asked. He didn’t have it in him to say no.

  A group of riders led by Savin approached them with two spare horses. Dal Coudray threw Gill a belt and scabbard containing a sword. Gill gave a nod of thanks and drew it enough to take a look at the blade. It wouldn’t win any prizes for craftsmanship, but the hilt was tight and the steel looked good. It would do until he could find something better. He strapped it on and felt fully clothed for the first time in days.

  Boudain and Gill mounted. Escorted by Savin’s honour guard, they rode through a small gap in the picket. A group carrying a number of banners broke away from the front of the waiting army and started toward them. Gill couldn’t make out any of the banners, and was unlikely t
o recognise any of the sigils even if he could. There was a time when he might have, but that had long since passed—being able to identify his peers didn’t seem like a necessary skill anymore.

  Gill couldn’t guess what was coming next, and he reckoned none of the others could either. He was impressed by the king, though. This was a high-pressure moment and came soon after his body and mind had been subjected to tremendous abuse. None of this showed on his face—he looked as carefree as a man riding out for a picnic.

  Curious to see if the young king would be able to maintain his sangfroid as the confrontation developed, Gill kept his horse close beside Boudain’s. He held his reins in a casual fashion, with his right hand conveniently close to the pommel of his sword. There was just enough tension in the air to make him think he’d soon be getting another look at its munitions-grade blade.

  The king didn’t wave or greet the approaching riders; he simply drew his horse to a halt when they were within earshot. An awkward silence descended, until eventually, one of the opposing noblemen, all of whom were bedecked in three-quarter armour, spoke. For Gill, the fact that they were already in their armour said more than anything that would come out of this man’s mouth.

  “I’m glad to see you well, your Highness.”

  “I’m glad to be well, Cousin Aubin.”

  There was no warmth in either voice.

  “No greeting for me, Cousin Chabris?” the king said, a slight, ironic smile on his lips.

  The man next to Aubin, the younger of the two, and about the same age as the king, blushed and doffed his hat, but said nothing.

  The king shrugged. “What brings you both here?”

  Aubin glanced at Chabris. “We sought to parlay with Lord Savin.”

  “What good fortune that you find your king here, then. You may camp your men in that pasture,” Boudain said, gesturing to an open area south of the village. “I’ll need a complete manifest of your troop numbers and supplies, by sundown.”