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.
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