Knight of the Silver Circle

CHAPTER 1

Bernard pushed the wooden pin into place, securing the gate, and counted his herd again. He always counted twice, and had done ever since the hiding his father had given him when he was eleven, for coming home one short. After the beating, he had spent the whole night scouring the foothills looking for it, not returning home until dawn, when he had to break the news to his father that the wolves had gotten it. It had been a hard lesson, and not one he had forgotten. To leave one of the cattle out in the pastures at night was to condemn it to the wolves. Usually you could hear them start howling as soon as the sun went down, but they were silent tonight. Bernard didn’t know whether to be glad or to worry more. Wolves were wily beasts. At least when they were howling, he knew where they were.

Satisfied that every cow was accounted for, he gave the pin one last check and one final tug on the gate before heading for the farmhouse. He always worried his way through the summer. There was no getting around taking the cattle up to the high pastures every day if he wanted them at their best come market time in autumn. It was why he loved the winter—his herd were tucked up in the barn, safe from wolves, bears, and belek. He had never had much trouble from the latter two—perhaps the idiot noblemen of the county had hunted them to extinction—but the wolves were an ever-present threat.

There wasn’t much waiting for him at home—just a pot of broth heating on the fire, stale bread, and cheese. He had some wine, but he had to make that last until he went into town at the end of the month. Like as not, he wouldn’t see another soul until then. It was a lonely existence, and as he was rapidly approaching thirty, long past time he started trying to find himself a wife. He had no desire to end up like one of the crazy old herdsmen in the mountains, driven mad by the hardship and solitude.

He thought of Martina, who worked at the post office in Venne. She had danced with him at the spring fair, and he wondered if it was worth asking her to step out with him. He didn’t have much to offer her, although his house wasn’t bad—well built by his father and well cared for by his mother. He’d done his best to maintain the place since they’d both passed, and he didn’t think he’d done a bad job. It was pretty up the valley, and he thought Martina might like it here. Only one way to find out, he thought. He wondered if he should make his monthly trip to Venne a little earlier than usual. Tomorrow perhaps? He scratched the thick brown stubble on his chin, and realised he’d need to tidy himself up a bit before he went. A lot, if he had any hope of Martina stepping out with him.

Inside, Bernard took off his cloak, sat on his chair by the fire, and reached for the pot of broth. It had been a long day, and he was hungry. There was too much to be done around the farm for one person—a wife and family would certainly help with that. And with the loneliness.

Bernard woke with a start, and the half-eaten bowl of broth on his lap clattered to the floor, splattering its contents as it fell. He had no idea how long he had been asleep. There was no light coming through the cracks in his window shutters, so it could not have been overlong. The time would better have been spent in bed, however. He kneaded his stiff neck as he surveyed the mess made by the broth, and debated with himself over whether he should clean it now, or wait until the morning. Sleeping in the chair never did much to rejuvenate him, and he couldn’t think of anything he wanted more than his bed at that moment. However, dry broth would be harder to clean. It was only then he wondered at what had woken him.

He stood and stretched his back. As the confusion of sleep cleared from his head, he realised there was noise coming from outside—from the cattle pen. Wolves. He knew it. When his gut told him something was amiss, he was always right. Bernard went to the trunk by the door and opened it, pushing aside the various things that had accumulated atop the object he sought—his father’s old crossbow.

It had been a long time since the bow had been out of the trunk, but everything seemed in working order to Bernard’s inexpert eye. He wound the string and pulled the trigger to test it. Satisfied that it was firing properly, he grabbed a lantern and a handful of bolts from the quiver in the trunk, and set off to shoot some wolves.

As soon as he stepped outside, the magnitude of his task made itself known. It was a moonless night and he could barely see his nose in front of his face. How could he hope to shoot something he couldn’t see? He swore, stuffed the quarrels into his pocket, slung the bow over his shoulder, and worked his flint to light the lantern’s wick. Once its warm orange light began to grow, he lowered its glass cover and picked up the pitchfork he had left leaning against the wall by the door. It might come in handy if a wolf attacked him.

The commotion from the cattle pen was far louder now—the rough stone walls of his house did a very good job of keeping the noise out. It sounded as though the herd had clustered at the far end of the pen, but there was noise at the near end also—the sound of beasts feeding.

Bernard had raised each and every cow in the pen from the moment its mother had birthed it, often with his help. That one of them had been savagely killed and was being devoured enraged him. He let out an angry shout, knowing it was unlikely to scare off the wolves but needing to give voice to his frustration.

“Go on! Clear off, you filthy bastards!” He shook his pitchfork in as threatening a fashion as he could muster.

Though he neared the pen, he could still see nothing; the lantern’s light did not reach far into the gloom. But he could hear: the tearing of sinew, the cracking of bones, the grinding of teeth. Why hadn’t the beasts reacted to his challenge? He had expected a growl at least, if not more. Then it occurred to him that the feeding didn’t sound like wolves. It sounded like something larger. A bear? A wave of panic swept through him. A belek?

Bringing his pitchfork to guard, Bernard backed away a pace. If it was a belek, it was welcome to the cow. That didn’t make sense, though. Belek loved the cold, and it was summer. Even in the winter, it was rare that one of the enormous, cat-like creatures would come down into the valleys—only in the very coldest of years. Belek were said to love the hunt, too, and slaughtering captive livestock wouldn’t be of much interest to them. They were vicious beasts, as big as a bear, and he had heard it said one night in the tavern in Venne that they had the intelligence of a man. Now Bernard half smiled at the memory of the joke he had told, that beleks couldn’t be all that smart, going by most of the men he knew, but the memory couldn’t extinguish the fear the thought of the beast instilled in him.

The air was filled with the hideous, sickening noise of a carcass being torn apart—a sound that every living thing would instinctively flee from. Why was he fool enough to challenge it, to draw whatever lurked out there in the dark to him?

If he didn’t, who would look after his cows? Everything he knew spoke against it being a belek. If it was a bear, his best chance was to frighten it off.

“Go on!” he shouted. “Off with you!” He let out a roar, a brave challenge that went against everything he felt. Perhaps the lantern’s light would keep whatever it was away? He wanted to run back to the house, shut the door behind him, bar it, and hide there until daybreak.

“Off with you!” he shouted again. He shook his pitchfork once more.

The sound of feeding stopped. If anything, the silence was more terrifying than the noise. A small tendril of flame appeared in the darkness, casting a pool of light. Two great yellow orbs became visible, staring at him, their oval irises as black as the night. The ovals narrowed until they were barely more than slits. Slits that were locked on him. Bernard dropped his lantern, which spluttered out, leaving him in darkness. He clutched the pitchfork with both hands as though his life depended on it.

The beast’s eyes sat above and to the sides of a long snout containing the most wicked-looking set of teeth he had ever seen. The flame, almost hypnotising as it danced, cast a buttery sheen on the edges of the scales that covered all that he could see of the beast.

He knew what it was. He had heard rumours of one having appeared several villages over, but like everything that was said to have happened several villages over, he thought the stories were most likely to be untrue. He knew what it was, but he could not bring himself to say the name, even in the quiet of his own head. He felt warmth run down the inside of his legs, but ignored it. His eyes were fixed on those yellow orbs that seemed to study him so intently. He knew what it was. Something from legend, from a time when the tales of men merged with fantasy.

Dragon.

The flame disappeared and the night was plunged into darkness once more. He heard nothing. Had he frightened it off? He thought of Martina, probably tucked up in bed only a few miles away. If he looked to his right, he could probably see the village’s lights, but he couldn’t tear his gaze away from the inky black where the dragon had been moments before.

A thought came to him—if he couldn’t see it, perhaps it couldn’t see him. He took a step back, as quietly as he could, tensing every muscle to react if he stood on a twig or anything else that would reveal his location.

The flame at the end of the beast’s snout returned, larger now, casting a greater pool of light. The sight of two more creatures behind the first one filled Bernard with a sense of utter despair. They had killed a cow each—despite the danger he was in, he could only think of how he recognised the markings on one, and could remember the day he pulled her out of her mother by the hooves during a difficult birth.

The other beasts ignored him, but the first, the one with the gentle stream of flame coming from its nostrils, kept its eyes locked on him. Bernard thought of shouting again, of shaking his pitchfork at them, but something told him it would make no difference. Something told him nothing would make any difference. Tears streamed down his face; he wished that he’d asked Martina to step out with him at the spring dance. When the jet of flame hit him, he wondered who was going to look after his cows. He felt growing heat for a moment, then nothing.

CHAPTER 2

Covered in gore, sore in every place that had feeling, Guillot hadn’t felt much like conversation on the way back to Trelain. Solène seemed equally exhausted, so their moods complemented each other as they both spent the last of their energy to get back to a hot meal and a warm bed. Guillot’s horse trundled along at a pace barely faster than a man would walk, towing behind it a makeshift litter bearing a large burden covered with a blood-soaked blanket.

Guillot well remembered the stories of how valuable dragon ephemera had been in the old days. The scales had a variety of uses, from armour—extremely expensive armour—to potions and elixirs. The bones had less value, but the carcass would be a treat for the multitude of wild animals that lived in the valley.

If he’d been able to return with the entirety of the dragon’s remains, he would have become a wealthy man. However, he had given in to the pain in every limb and the exhaustion that made him wish for sleep above all else. He primarily needed a trophy, something to show everyone that the beast was indeed dead, that they no longer had to live in fear. The head was the only option, so that was what his tired horse now obediently dragged behind her.

Even in death, the dragon’s head—with its curved, needle-pointed horns, shiny scales, and wicked teeth—filled him with primordial fear. Being terrified of these creatures seemed like a sensible thing. The dragon had nearly killed him, despite his magical advantages.

He glanced at Solène, whose posture suggested she might be asleep, upright and on her horse. The last few days had been nearly impossibly difficult for them; it was no surprise that she was no longer able to fight off exhaustion. A few strands of her copper hair escaped the cover of her cloak’s hood, but he could see nothing of her face. It struck him as ironic that he had saved her from an execution pyre and she had then been instrumental in keeping him alive. Perhaps the gods had not forsaken him after all.

Another glance back confirmed his cargo was still secure on a litter of roughly tied branches. He had killed a dragon—and he was the only person alive who could make such a claim. Everyone had said winning the Competition was a lifetime achievement that could not be topped, but this? It was beyond consideration. He still had difficulty believing what had happened. He had done what the heroes of his childhood had done. It filled him with a burgeoning sense of pride that made him uneasy.

He had lost everything he had valued because of pride and arrogance. He’d believed that he was strong enough, skilled enough, smart enough to do as he chose without even thinking about consequences. He had drunk and caroused with the idiots he had once called brothers and friends, and not spent his time where it truly mattered. What would he give for one more moment with Auroré? Yet he would give up even that if it meant she and their child might live. There was a bitter taste in his mouth and he sneered at how wonderful hindsight was, how easy it was to be foolish in your youth. Why did self-awareness come only when it was too late?

He wondered if slaying a dragon redeemed him. Did he deserve to be redeemed? Was he being too hard on himself? He had not done anything intentionally wrong or particularly bad, he had simply been young, stupid, and drunk too often. He had been following the example of his brother Chevaliers. All the wonderful things he had thought he was achieving were working toward his undoing. At least Guillot’s father hadn’t lived to see his fall. Wife, unborn child, career, position at court; a lifetime’s work all gone in a matter of days. Then he’d squandered what little he had left, neglecting his estate and his people. Now they had been taken from him too.

All he had to show for it was the snarling, disembodied head tied to his litter. What a success he was.

When Trelain’s walls loomed up from the horizon, Guillot felt a flutter of nerves stir in his gut. He had not given much thought to their return to the city beyond his desire for food and sleep. When they had left, Trelain had been on the verge of panic at the prospect of a dragon attack. Those who had the means to leave were packing up and going, and Guillot had seen more than one or two characters who looked as though they were waiting for the right moment to start looting. There might not even be anyone still there. Would that be better than a city full of people, and their reaction to the news that their homes and families weren’t about to be burned and devoured by a dragon?

There was a time when Guillot had loved being the centre of attention. When you were as good with a sword as he had been, in a society where that skill could bring limitless advancement, you grew accustomed to fame at a young age—and quickly came to expect it. Now? The thought terrified him. He had spent the better part of half a decade wanting nothing more than to be left alone; to be forgotten. There was no chance of that happening now. He was the first person in nearly a thousand years to kill a dragon, to restore the countryside to safety. What chance did he have of being left alone now?

Even more worrying was the fact that part of him was excited by the prospect of adulation, as though some facet of his personality that had been pushed into a dark recess saw the opportunity to come forward. He didn’t know if he wanted to allow it out again. No, he knew he didn’t. His fingers tightened painfully on the reins.

Perhaps he should find a ditch and dump the head. Eventually someone would find the head or the body and proclaim the terror ended. Perhaps they would claim the kill as their own, letting Guillot off the hook entirely. Part of him was drawn to the notion, and part of him was horrified. He had been brought up with a sword in hand; it was his duty and purpose to do things like he had just done.

And yet … the fame and adulation that winning the Competition had brought him was false. He had revelled in it, but it was an illusion built on illusions. None of the accolades had any real meaning. This would be no different.

The wars he had fought in had been vehicles for rich and powerful men to protect or increase their wealth. Which side of a border they lived on made little difference to ordinary people. Watching their homes looted and burned did. Watching their fathers, sons, and husbands conscripted to fight battles that had nothing to do with them, never to return, did.

Killing the dragon was the first truly useful thing Guillot had done in his life, and he was frightened by the reaction it would create. All that was worthwhile was done, all that was to come was devoid of value. The trophy was needed to prove to people that they were safe. That was important. His discomfort was not, and he abandoned the idea of cutting the litter loose.

There was also Amaury—the Prince Bishop—to consider. Gill was less concerned about him. He fully expected that Amaury would try again to have him killed, but facing men with swords and bad intentions had never bothered Gill. For a time, he would be too great a hero for Amaury to touch, but Guillot knew better than most how quickly fame fades, and he was certain Amaury would be carefully watching for that moment. Assuming Guillot let him live that long. Amaury had already tried to have him killed, and there was still something in Gill that wouldn’t let him forget that.

Amaury had racked up enough transgressions against him to be called out on the duelling field were Amaury an ordinary man. His position as Prince Bishop meant he was not an ordinary man, however, and killing him would be far more complicated. Guillot wondered if it was even worth the effort. He was tired, and worried, and he just wanted to go home. His heart grew heavy as he was reminded he didn’t have a home anymore.

There was a single, nervous-looking guard on duty at the Trelain city gate. Usually there would be three or four—even more in a time of danger. He barely acknowledged Guillot and Solène; his gaze roamed the horizon and the sky, searching for danger from above. That the guard was there at all was testament to his bravery, sense of duty, or perhaps stupidity.

The streets were all but deserted. Gill could see some signs of looting—broken windows, boards ripped away from where they had been nailed across doors. It was amazing how much the character of a town could change in only a few days. Even when they passed someone, that person would pay them little attention, and Guillot felt his hopes rise that he could get to the Black Drake, get fed, and perhaps even steal a few hours of sleep before having to deal with the fuss the news he brought would cause.

“Streets are quiet,” Solène said, rousing from her doze or stupor at last.

“People were getting ready to leave when we rode out,” Guillot said. “Looks like they made good on that. Can’t say I blame them, all things considered.”

“Good for us,” Solène said. “There’ll be less attention. Means we might get some rest.” Her voice was heavy with fatigue.

Gill nodded, feeling much as she sounded, although there was something in her voice that wasn’t entirely fatigue. The tone reminded him of something, but he couldn’t be sure exactly what.

CHAPTER 3

Amaury, Prince Bishop of the United Church and First Minister of Mirabaya, looked out of his office window into the garden below. The king dallied there, in flagrante delicto with his latest flavour of the month, a young country noblewoman who still bore the innocence of a life spent far from court, an innocence that would wither and die after a few months in Mirabay. By then, King Boudain would have long finished with her. The king needed to marry soon, to create a political alliance that would increase his power, and provide him with an heir. It was time he set aside the frivolity of youth.

Amaury sighed. Not long ago, the king’s affairs had amused him no end. Now, levity was something he was finding increasingly difficult to come by. He had just received word that the people he had sent to Trelain to finish off dal Villerauvais and retrieve the Amatus Cup—some of the best members of his Order of the Golden Spur—had been found dead on the side of the road. Details were sketchy, and it sounded as though there had been little left of them by the time the remains were found. They should have been difficult to kill, so Amaury wondered who might be responsible for their deaths. It was worrying on a number of levels, and something he’d have to get to the bottom of, but later. For now it was simply another problem on a long, ever-growing list.

He had sent for Commander Leverre, but the man was conspicuously missing. Amaury had even sent a pigeon to Trelain, to see if Nicholas dal Sason could shed any light on the matter. He was in the dark on many things, and that was not a circumstance he appreciated.

He wondered if Guillot was dead, but suspected he was not. Dal Sason would have notified him if the job was done. If dal Sason had failed, it was likely he was dead. The Prince Bishop was beginning to feel quite careless in his application of manpower. In the past few weeks, the Order had suffered more casualties than in its previous entire existence. What was worse was that those killed had been the best available, meaning the talent he had so carefully gathered and nurtured was being diluted. If things continued like that, the Order would be wiped out before long, and with it, Amaury’s hope for the future. He would need to bolster its ranks with mercenaries, and make new officer appointments. Another set of problems for his list.

Amaury returned his attention to the king’s indiscreet behaviour in the garden below. Boudain was indolent, often idle, and were it not for his arrogance and stubbornness, the young king would have made an ideal figurehead, concealing someone more suited to ruling but happier in the shadows, where real power dwelled. As it was, he was proving trickier to manage than Amaury would have liked, at a time when his attention was needed elsewhere.

Perhaps he had been wrong to have the old king killed. Well, it was too late to regret that.

The Cup remained a tantalising solution to Amaury’s problems. That Gill appeared to have it was frustrating. Amaury had been right to counsel the old king to punish Gill harshly. He had it coming. Guillot’s supposedly careless sword stroke during the Competition had robbed Amaury of his dreams when they were little more than boys. He didn’t believe for a second that the blow had been an accident. Amaury had often considered settling the score once and for all, but he was always so busy. Then he’d had the king strike him down, and ever since, the Prince Bishop had comforted himself with the knowledge that Gill was rotting in obscurity.

It seemed, however, that the man was destined to be a thorn in Amaury’s side. It was long past time to pull it and destroy it. He was determined now that Gill would not see out the year.

Amaury knew it was foolish to view the Cup as the answer to all of his problems, but if it did what it was said to, it might very well be just that. He neither understood how the Cup worked, nor cared. All that mattered was that every scrap of information he had found about it unanimously agreed: it conferred on the person who drank from it a level of magical ability similar to that which they could have hoped for if they had trained from youth.

To think that the old Chevaliers of the Silver Circle had managed to lose the thing when transporting their treasury to a new headquarters somewhere in the southwest of the country was sobering. Dragons attacked and carried the gold away, along with the Cup, and it was all downhill for the Chevaliers after that.

From what Leverre had said, Guillot had stumbled on the Cup during an attempt to kill the dragon. Gill’s dumb luck again—why couldn’t Leverre or dal Sason have picked it up?

Amaury quelled his frustration. Perhaps dal Sason had killed Gill and the Cup was on its way to Mirabay at that very moment. He doubted it, somehow. He swore and turned from the window, tired of watching the king groping his new paramour like a sex-starved rabbit. Returning to his desk, the Prince Bishop considered practising shaping magic, but knew he was far too preoccupied to find the necessary clarity of thought.

He picked up a book he had taken from the secret archive on his last visit, in hope of finding distraction. Like everything else in the archive, the volume was extremely old; the thrill of discovering something long forgotten in its pages made Amaury’s skin tingle. He had first learned of the Cup in a similar book. This book dealt with dragons, which he had hitherto paid little attention to; now that they had encountered one, it had become a necessity. The presence of the creature made his need for the Cup all the more pressing, both for the power it could give him, and the fact that he could use it to create his own cabal of dragonslayers within the Order. If more of the beasts crawled out of the mountains, he would be ready to deal with them, and the Order would reap a huge amount of glory and adulation.

Amaury started to read, allowing the fascination of ancient secrets to embrace him and push his problems into the shade.

Gustav Vachon had never been one of those soldiers who hungered after fame for fame’s sake. Quite the opposite. Fame brought other fame-hungry bastards out of the woodwork, looking to kill you. Better off with a solid, reliable reputation, which brought plenty of work, without too many eyes watching. When you didn’t have a big public persona, you inevitably ended up doing the jobs the fellows with a big reputation couldn’t, but Vachon didn’t mind. They paid well, and he didn’t have much of a conscience to trouble him when he was trying to sleep.

The people of Grenaux did not share his sentiments when it came to fame. It was unusual for a village of peasants to have a reputation, but these had. The beef cattle of Grenaux and its surrounding farms had been called the “finest in Mirabay” at some point in the past by whoever had been king at that time. He had refused to eat any other. That meant the aristocracy did likewise. As demand increased, so too did price, which meant Grenaux had become a wealthy little commune that some bright spark had seen the sense in taking measures to protect. They dictated what could and could not be sold as Grenaux beef. They dictated the price, and until recently, had always offered up a dozen head of cattle each year to the king. An annual thank-you for the good fortune his ancestor had bestowed upon them. Therein lay the problem, and reason for Vachon’s current employment.

Vachon surveyed the village, wondering what the beef tasted like. He’d never been able to afford any. It was said there was a secret method to the raising of a Grenaux cow. Some said they were fed beer. Others said it was chestnuts, while others still whispered that it was magic. Vachon suspected it was simply the fact that the region around the village bore the lushest green grass he had seen in over two decades of campaigning around the world, and the cows were allowed to wander about, feeding as they saw fit. Whatever it was, a single Grenaux cow could fetch ten times the price of a beast only one valley over.

This year, someone in Grenaux had decided that the king ought to pay for his twelve head of Grenaux beef. That didn’t go down well at court. What fool ever expected a king to pay his way? Vachon had met that type before—he was the response to such folly. He admired the village’s fine stone buildings, testimony to the great wealth the cattle had brought them. The town’s grandeur was disturbed now by shouts and crashes and commotion.

His men were rounding up the villagers. Vachon hadn’t decided what to do with them yet—his instructions had been somewhat vague, as they often were. He knew what his lord and master wanted, and that he would never explicitly state it. Funny how the men ordering killing were often the most squeamish about discussing it.

He rode into the village’s centre. His job was primarily to collect the king’s tribute and to deliver a message. There was a delicate balance to the latter. The good people of Grenaux needed to learn that withholding the king’s tribute was no different than stealing from him. The lesson needed to hurt, so that they would remember it, and fear being taught it a second time. However, it had to be done without impacting the supply of beef, for that would inconvenience both the king’s dining table and his tax revenues.

His men had herded the villagers into a tight group, allowing Vachon enough space to ride around them at a slow pace, giving them plenty of time to consider the error of their ways. Once he had completed his loop, he stopped and spoke.

“By order of His Highness King Boudain the Tenth, I am commanded to collect the tribute owing to him, twelve head of finest Grenaux cattle. I am also instructed to impose fines for the withholding of said tribute.” He studied the people staring back at him, seeing a mix of fear and defiance on their faces. “The fine is money or goods equal in value to the tribute owing. Who is the mayor of this village?”

No one stepped forward. Vachon nodded to one of his men, who pulled a townsman at random from the crowd and punched him hard in the stomach. The man crumpled to his knees.

“The mayor of this village. To encourage him to step forward, the next one gets a blade, not a fist.”

A man pushed his way through the press of bodies.

“I’m the mayor.”

“No longer.”

Another of Vachon’s men seized him.

“Let this be a lesson,” Vachon said. “Disobeying the king is treason.” He pointed to a building that overlooked the square, separated a bit from the buildings on either side. One of his men got to work with a torch and tinder. The flame lit, he went inside. He emerged a moment later, followed by thick black smoke. Destroying the village was counterproductive. The king wanted his beef and his taxes. Razing Grenaux to the ground would get him neither. One building, though? A disobedient mayor?

Vachon nodded to the soldier who held the former mayor, who then bundled the man into the burning house. Two others closed the door and set to nailing it shut. A few of the defiant ones in the crowd surged forward, but some rough handling from his men ensured they quickly learned the error of their ways. Screams started from the building a moment later. Vachon’s men were alert and ready. This was the tipping point. If the villagers were going to turn on them, it would happen when they thought their mayor could still be saved. He sat atop his horse, hand on the hilt of his sword, and watched them with cold, remorseless eyes until the screaming stopped.

“We will wait outside the village for you to bring the cattle. Do not delay and force us to return.”

CHAPTER 4

Gill and Solène left their horses with the puzzled stable boy at the Black Drake, giving the lad no explanation of what lurked beneath the tarpaulin on the litter. Gill had thought about telling the boy not to peek under the tarpaulin, but realised that doing so would guarantee the boy would look. The last time he’d been in that stable yard, Guillot had fought dal Sason to the death. He felt neither grief nor triumph—dying by the sword was the risk they had both accepted on becoming bannerets.

The innkeeper’s face lit up when he saw Guillot. He had stayed at the inn enough times to be recognised as a good customer, the duel to the death in the stable yard notwithstanding. Such things were commonplace when dealing with the nobility, so the innkeeper was probably used to it.

“Your usual room is available, my Lord,” the innkeeper said. “You can go straight up. I’ll have any luggage sent up directly.”

“We’ll need two rooms,” Gill said, quickly correcting the innkeeper’s assumption.

“Of course, my Lord.” He rang a bell on his desk and a porter appeared. “The porter will show you to your rooms.”

Gill and Solène parted company at doors on opposite sides of the hallway. Guillot had many battle-acquired injuries to deal with, but happily none that some rest, good food, and time wouldn’t cure. He considered pulling off his boots once he closed the door, then thought better of it and flopped forward onto the bed. No sooner had he settled into the soft comfort than he heard a scream from outside. He groaned and pushed himself up.

Glad that he’d left his boots on, he went downstairs. By the time he got down, several staff had gathered at the door to see what was going on, although Guillot had a fairly good idea of what had caused the commotion. Sure enough, the stable boy was pressing himself against the wall on the far side of the yard, and the tarpaulin on the litter was partially pulled back, revealing shiny black scales and enough razor-sharp teeth to make even the hardiest flinch. One of the inn’s staff let out a gasp.

“Is that…?”

“The terror of the land?” Guillot said, as nonchalantly as his rumbling stomach would allow him. “It is. Dead.”

“You killed it?” the other man said, his tone switching from fear to awe.

“I did.” Guillot made no attempt at modesty. How could one hope to be modest after slaying a dragon?

“How?”

“I won’t lie to you. It wasn’t easy. It’s no danger now, however. You’re all perfectly safe. All the same, I’d appreciate it if you keep it covered up.” Gill took a penny from his purse and tossed it to the stable boy—the lad snatched it from the air with more dexterity than Gill would have given him credit for.

“Perhaps you’d keep an eye on it for me. Keep the souvenir hunters away.” Gill gave the gathering a nod and went back inside.

“I’ll see to it, my Lord,” the lad called after him.

Gill went to the lounge instead of returning to his room, feeling the continued rumbles of hunger in his belly. He considered asking Solène to join him, but thought she needed the rest more, so ordered food only for himself. When his meal arrived, he ate ravenously, even though the food wasn’t quite as good as it had been during his last stay. The bread was at least a day old and the vegetables were not as fresh as he would have expected from the Black Drake. He supposed it was a sign of the times. Food shortages always followed a panic. Then the violence started. In Guillot’s experience, the aftermath of a panic was far worse than whatever had caused the panic to begin with. That was the threat the kingdom was facing now. He wondered what the Prince Bishop had in mind to deal with it.

Gill wondered if Amaury had finally overstepped. Announcing the dragon’s existence was a calculated risk, and Gill wasn’t sure the Prince Bishop would be able to spread news of the slaying in time to stop the worst of the public reaction that was sure to come. One way or the other, it wasn’t his problem. He ate until he could eat no more, then clumped up the stairs to his room. When he lay down again, sleep came quickly.

Guillot woke with a jolt. It took him a moment to remember where he was and why he was there. He looked out the window—the sun was shining high in the sky, and filled the room with light when he pulled back the curtain. Noise from below drew his attention to the courtyard.

A number of people had gathered there. Frowning, Gill left his room, feeling a sense of obligation to check on his trophy. The innkeeper was standing at his desk in the otherwise empty inn. Usually the place would be abuzz with staff and guests, but it seemed that everyone was elsewhere.

“I’ll take breakfast shortly,” Guillot said.

“Very good, my Lord.”

“Those people in the stable yard?”

“Ah, yes,” the concierge said. “I think word has gotten out about what you brought back with you.”

Guillot grunted with displeasure. The last thing he wanted was people helping themselves to bits of his dragon. He went outside to clear them away and discovered that the reason they were congregated in a huddle was because the stable boy was keeping them away from the tarpaulin-covered trophy with a pitchfork. The lad couldn’t have been much more than fifteen, and was as much dirt as boy, but clearly he had more mettle than many who would consider themselves his better.

“What do you want?” Guillot said to the group in as imperious a tone as he could muster. He already knew the answer, but wanted to get their attention. He rested his hand on the pommel of his sword the way bannerets often did when trying to affect a casual air.

“Came to see the beast’s head, Lord,” one of the townspeople said. “To see if it’s really dead.”

The bunch had a rough look about them, and Guillot had to admire the boy’s courage in standing up to them. There was nothing to be gained in trying to shoo them off—they’d only come back as soon as Gill left.

“Pay the lad a penny each and you can have a look. If anyone tries to touch it, I’ll make sure their head lies next to the dragon’s.”

The men reached for their coin purses with far more enthusiasm than Guillot had expected. Then again, seeing a dragon’s head was a story they’d be telling for the rest of their lives. The fact that it had tried to kill him twice meant the novelty had lost most of its lustre for Gill. Until that moment, it hadn’t occurred to him that there was income to be made from it.

“The money’s all yours,” Gill said to the stable boy before going inside for breakfast.

With the inn all but empty, Guillot had his pick of tables in the lounge. He was curious to see how people reacted to the grotesque sight beneath the tarpaulin, so chose one by a window with an oblique view of the stable yard, including the large pile of manure therein. Even had the dining room been full, he suspected this table would have been vacant because of that. The view was a little more interesting today, however.

Over the course of his meal, more and more people arrived at the yard; apparently word was spreading among those who remained in Trelain. He reckoned that the stable boy would earn enough to retire on by the end of the week if things continued like that. Unfortunately, the dragon’s head, though recently slaughtered, was unlikely to cooperate for much longer without the assistance of a taxidermist. While Guillot had long since put his pretensions of glory behind him, a dragon’s head was too impressive a trophy to allow to rot into oblivion. Hopefully there was a taxidermist still in town, or the proof of Gill’s deed would be little more than a bleached skull in a few weeks.

He wiped his mouth on the napkin, and with one more amused glance at the stable boy’s efforts to adapt to his new role as curator, tour guide, and guardian, Guillot headed for Solène’s room. He had no idea how long it was possible for someone to sleep, but he couldn’t leave her there forever.

He knocked, and she bade him enter. She was sitting up and had opened the curtains, but didn’t look as though the rest had refreshed her much.

“I was beginning to think you’d never wake up,” Guillot said.

She smiled, but it looked forced.

“How late is it?”

“Nearly midday.”

“What’s all the commotion outside?”

“Word’s gotten out about the dragon,” Guillot said. “Everyone wants to take a look.”

“You should charge them,” she said.

Guillot blushed and shrugged. “Is there anything I can get you?”

“If you could send up something to eat? I’m starving. I don’t really feel up to going to the dining room.”

“I’ll send down to the kitchen. Anything in particular?”

“Hot and lots of it.”

Guillot laughed.

“Have you heard anything from Mirabay?”

“No. Word of what we did will get there soon enough. It always does.”

“What do you think he’s going to do?”

There was only one person she could be talking about. “Who knows? Maybe he’ll try to kill me again. I knew he hated me, but I didn’t realise he’d kept that flame burning for so long. Maybe he’ll forget about me again when something more interesting comes along.”

“What is there between you two?”

Gill rubbed his face with a mixture of jadedness and frustration. “It’s ancient history. He blames me for ending his career as a swordsman. It was his own fault, though. He got injured while trying to do something he shouldn’t have. All things considered, I’d have been within my rights to cut him down for it. I was willing to let it lie. He should have, too. Once word of the dragon’s death gets out, I don’t think he’ll be able to touch me. Not for a while, at least, and that’ll be long enough to disappear.”

“Are you going to go after him for trying to kill you?”

Gill shrugged. “I thought I would, but now? I don’t see much point in it. I’ll likely only get myself killed in the process, and for what?”

“You don’t think what he’s trying to do with magic is dangerous?”

Gill let out a sigh. “Yes and no. If the people keeping an eye on things are like you, I’m a lot less worried. It seems like magic is coming back one way or the other. The tyrant of Ostia was said to be using it. I’ve heard rumours that it’s being used in the south. It’s best that the power is controlled and that the right people do that.”

“You think the Prince Bishop is the right person?”

“Maybe. Maybe not,” he said with a shrug. “Who am I to say? In any event, it’s not my fight. I dealt with the dragon. I’ve done my part. Other fights are for other people. I’m tired.”

They sat in silence for a moment, and Gill was about to get up and fetch her some food when she spoke again.

“Tell me how it felt. The fire.”

Gill thought for a moment. “Like nothing more than a blast of warm air. It was the strangest thing. Magic.” He shrugged again. “I have to admit I thought I was done for. I think the dragon did too. There was more to it, though I might just be imagining some of it.

“One I’m pretty sure of—when we rode into the valley, I could feel the dragon. It was like something was tugging on me, on the very fibre of my being, showing me what direction to go in to find it.”

“That makes sense,” she said. “Maybe that’s how the old Chevaliers tracked the dragons down.”

“That’s what I thought too,” Gill said. “Anyhow, I know you’re hungry. I’ll go and get you something to eat.”

Music floated through the salons and lounges of the opulent townhouse in an upmarket part of Lanham, the capital of Humberland. Katherine dal Drenham navigated from room to room, making polite small talk with the good and great of society who had been lucky enough to warrant an invite. Hers had come because of the never explicitly stated, but very much implied, untruth that she was the new mistress of the Prince of Humberland. It was a convenient falsehood. One of many, such as her name, and everything else about her.

Katherine’s employer, the Duke of Bowingdon, had started the rumours, and a young, newly arrived nobody had suddenly become someone important enough to earn an invite to the autumn ball of Grand Burgess Whitly. When she stopped to chat, she carefully gave only hints as to who she was and where she came from. She was beautiful enough to be forgiven her obliqueness, and obviously intelligent enough to create an aura of mystery. For those harder to influence, she had other talents, ones that could see her burned at the stake, and on one occasion very nearly did.

In Mirabaya, the burgesses—some of them wealthy beyond belief, even richer than some of the aristocracy—knew their place. They were commoners—rich commoners perhaps, but commoners nonetheless. In Humberland, it was very different, and it was something Katherine—or Ysabeau dal Fleurat, as she was more properly called—struggled to come to terms with. To see a grand burgess play host to people whose ancestors had been ennobled by an emperor, to treat them as his equals, was jarring. For a duke to need her services to get an edge on a commoner was astonishing. Nonetheless, that was the way they did things in Humberland, and it meant she was able to make a good living while in her self-imposed exile.

The ball was a lavish affair. Grand Burgess Whitly was doing his best to impress, and to make it seem effortless and perfectly normal. If he was as wealthy as rumoured, perhaps it was. He held the monopoly on the trade in tea with Jahar. It wasn’t a drink Ysabeau had managed to acquire a taste for, but the Humberlanders couldn’t get enough of it and the monopoly was worth a fortune. Unfortunately for Whitly, her employer had set his heart on controlling the tea trade, and in Humberland, as in Mirabaya, it was rare for a nobleman of Bowingdon’s influence not to get his way. He was also not one to negotiate a deal on the matter—he took the things he wanted.

Ysabeau watched the guests doing what guests at such parties always did—trying to be seen, to appear wealthier and more sophisticated than they were, to make connections with those more influential than themselves. There was hardly anyone present who didn’t have an agenda, and Ysabeau was no different. She built a mental map of the house as she moved about under the guise of social grace, identifying where she could get out should things go wrong, and trying to locate the grand burgess’s study.

Somewhere within the house—most likely in the study, she reckoned—there was a ledger book that outlined the dealings between Grand Burgess Whitly and a Mirabayan merchant of note. It was more than a simple ledger, however. It was the history—in numbers and lists of items—of how Grand Burgess Whitly became one of the wealthiest men in the kingdom. In a mercantile nation like Humberland, enterprise such as Whitly’s was lauded. But not when someone’s chief trading partner was a land with which the kingdom was at war. That was very different. That was why the ledger book was kept at the house, rather than in Whitly’s offices, overlooking the quays from which his merchant ships departed. During this evening’s festivities, Ysabeau had to discover where the book was kept, obtain it, and bring it to the duke, who would use it to pick over Whitly’s empire, seizing the juiciest portions for himself.

Ysabeau smiled sweetly at a uniformed gallant, then returned the jealous, frosty stares of several young women who viewed her as competition, though they knew they could never gain the attention of the heir to the throne. She didn’t care. In a couple of days, Katherine dal Drenham would cease to exist. Her hair, currently the colour of spun gold, would be black once more, and dal Drenham’s magnificent powder-blue skirts would be replaced by Ysabeau’s riding britches—so much more practical in her line of work. The accent was the thing she most looked forward to being rid of. Her magical gifts allowed her to ape the Humberland twang perfectly, but the tones of Mirabay were the ones she longed to hear. It was rapidly approaching a year since she had fled Mirabaya, but already it felt like a lifetime. She had seen half a dozen countries, and crossed the Middle Sea more times than she cared for. She wanted to go home.

Before she could, she had a job to finish.

CHAPTER 5

Amaury sat in his carriage, the message he had received by pigeon shortly before leaving the palace crumpled in his hand. He was torn between a great, sweeping wave of relief, and one of fury. In the morning he would be able to tell the king that the great threat to the kingdom had been destroyed. However, he would not be able to claim the credit for his Spurriers. According to the message, a man had brought a dragon’s head to Trelain. Guillot dal Villerauvais, Banneret of the White, Chevalier of the Silver Circle. The message had come from one of the spies Amaury employed in the town. Of dal Sason, there was still no word, and Amaury was coming to accept the idea that he was dead.

It was hard to view the Order’s performance as anything other than a failure—the brothers and sisters he had sent with Gill to kill the dragon were dead. Perhaps he had been expecting too much of them? Perhaps they had simply been unlucky? Perhaps he had underestimated Guillot—that option created a bitter taste in his mouth. How could half a decade of idleness and drinking not have dulled the man’s edge to the point of uselessness?

Tapping a knuckle against his forehead, he wondered how events might be spun to his favour. The dragon had only ever been a bump on the road to his true goal, and while it had represented an attractive short-term opportunity, it was irrelevant in the greater scheme of things. He took solace in that, and in reminding himself what he was truly after. The Cup, which would grant him nearly unlimited power. All he had to do was get it from Guillot.

He took a deep breath to still himself. The Cup, then, was his immediate priority. His homegrown talent, both those with magical ability and those without, had been unable to deal with Guillot. As disappointing as that was, Amaury had to accept that Guillot’s skill remained finely honed. To best him meant bringing in outside help. He had some contacts who would undoubtedly be able to point him in the right direction, but his first choice—Ysabeau—might prove impossible to find. And, as much as he wanted to settle things with Gill once and for all, the Cup had to come first. Everything else could wait, no matter how frustrating that was—killing two birds with one stone had simply not worked. His course decided upon, there was no point in delaying. He leaned forward and hit the roof of the carriage three times.

“Three Trees Tavern,” he shouted.

After a muffled response from the driver, the Prince Bishop relaxed back into his cushioned seat. It was unseemly, going to a well-known mercenary hangout, but he knew his mind wouldn’t rest until he had set something in motion. The Three Trees was his best chance of finding what he needed; it was where the best fixer in the city—Luther—spent his days. If Luther couldn’t find the person Amaury needed, they weren’t to be found.

The carriage jolted to a halt. Amaury stepped out before the driver had the chance to open the door for him. He drew his cloak tightly around him, pulling the collar close, glad he had chosen to wear something a little less ostentatious than his pale blue robes of office. It was always better to be unrecognised in such places, save by those with whom you were dealing.

He had visited the tavern on a few occasions over the years, most memorably when he was still training to be a banneret and was curious to see what type of life might await on the other side. Back then, he had thought there was something compelling about the life of men who earned their living with their swords—freedom, excitement, mystery. Now he knew most of them had barely two coins to scrape together. If you were seriously wounded, as he had been, your career was over and you were out on the street. It wasn’t the career for a man with sense, or any other choice.

The Three Trees was much as he remembered it. Its patrons weren’t men who cared much about the upkeep of their drinking establishment. So long as the ale was fresh and reasonably priced, Amaury reckoned the walls could be daubed with cow dung, and no one would care. He kept his head down as he headed toward the snug in the back where Luther held court. He was hailed before he was halfway there.

“Monsieur Grachon, what brings you to the Three Trees?”

Amaury turned, recognising the false name he had used the last time he had hired men there—to disappear the man he suspected of sleeping with his mistress.

“Luther, just the man I was looking for,” Amaury said, relieved that it was Luther, and not someone else, who had recognised him.

“The lovely lady straying again?”

Amaury smiled to conceal a flash of anger. He hated it when people were overly familiar with him. “No, I cut her loose some time ago. I’ve something different in mind.”

“Always a pleasure. The snug is empty, if you’d like to talk with a little more privacy.”

“That would be perfect,” Amaury said, his smile genuine this time. Luther might be overly familiar, but he knew his business, and how to ensure his clients returned every time they had a problem. Luther led him back into a small seating area surrounded by well-worn, decorated mahogany partitions set with panels of frosted glass. A small door gave access to the side of the bar, making the placing and delivery of orders more convenient.

They sat, and Luther wasted no time in getting to business. “What do you need, my Lord? There are a few fine blades looking for work at the moment, so I’m sure we can find someone who fits your needs.”

“I’m not in need of a blade this time,” Amaury said. “There’s an item I would like to obtain, and the owner is proving rather … truculent in handing it over.”

“Smash and grab? Cut and run?”

“I was thinking ‘light fingers,’” Amaury said.

Luther sat back and stroked his chin. After a moment, he nodded. “I can think of a man who might fit the bill. But, truculent, you say?”

“Truculent.”

“Is he handy? Alert?”

“I think it safe to answer in the affirmative to both.”

Luther resumed stroking his chin. “And he’s keeping a close eye on this object?”

“I expect so, although he’s prone to certain lapses of self-control,” Amaury said, nodding toward the bar.

“That could certainly make life easier, but I’ll be honest with you, if he’s handy and keen to keep hold of whatever it is you want, I’m thinking it’s two men you want, not one. Someone to do the lift, and muscle to back him up if things go wrong.”

Amaury frowned, thinking. As with all matters, the fewer people who knew what he was about, the better. He had no doubts regarding Luther’s ability to keep his mouth shut—men in his line of business who couldn’t never had long careers, and Luther had been in the game since Amaury had first wandered into the Three Trees in his youth. Luther knew damn well who “Monsieur Grachon” really was, but never showed even a hint of amusement at the subterfuge. Reflecting that trust, Amaury couldn’t resist asking the question that had been in the back of his mind since he had decided to visit this tavern.

“Have you had any word from … her?”

Luther shook his head. “Not since I gave her safe passage out of the city. I gave her contacts in four cities. She could be in any one of them. Or, by now, somewhere else entirely. She might even be dead. Hers is not the safest of careers.”

Amaury felt disappointed, then concerned. He assured himself that she was a master of her trade, making it unlikely she’d be killed doing it. Sending her out of the country after she’d killed the old king had made the assassination a more costly venture than expected—and personally disappointing as well. He missed her. Not an emotion he was familiar with. Could he have protected her if she had stayed and the job had gone wrong? Probably not. Making her leave was the right choice. The only one. Thankfully, there had never been any suspicion that the old king died of anything other than natural causes. She had done her job perfectly, and could safely return to the city whenever she wished, if only he could get word to her. That was a problem for another time, however.

“Two, then,” Amaury said. “The thief needs to be discreet and competent. The muscle needs to be as good a blade as you can find.”

Amaury had thought of requesting one of the big-name bravos, a man with a reputation that turned bowels to water, who had a list of kills longer than the six-volume Decline and Fall of the Saludorian Empire. However, that might draw attention. The big names were best used when you wanted to make a statement, and that was surplus to requirement. He just needed the Cup. For now.

“Just how handy is this fella?” Luther said.

“Very, but all a bravo needs to do is give the light fingers time to lift the object and get away.”

Luther grimaced. “There’ll be a premium if there’s a chance of serious injury.”

Amaury cast him a sharp look. “I wasn’t aware you were in the habit of engaging delicate flowers these days, Luther.”

Luther shrugged. “It’s a different world we live in now. Lots of wars, lots of work. Lads can pick and choose.”

“Fine, but if they make a mess of it, no premium will cover what I will do to them.”

“I’ll need to know who you want to rob—eh, relieve of the item.”

Amaury supposed he was going to have to reveal it eventually, so why not now. He was committed to this plan. “Guillot dal Villerauvais.”

Luther stared into the distance and chewed his lip.

“You’ve heard of him, then,” Amaury said.

“You were right in saying he’s handy. Just wondering what the best approach is.”

“It’s something of a pressing matter.”

“I’ll have something for you tomorrow.”

Amaury stood. “I’ll call on you here at eleven bells.”

“Eleven bells,” Luther said.

Pharadon’s eyes blinked open with the urgency of a great shock. His huge heart gave a thump, then another, and another, the time between beats shortening until it achieved a regular rhythm. He took a long breath and let it out. His body was cold and stiff, and he knew he had slept for a long time. He had always been prone to long slumbers, but this one was different. The air sizzled with magic, and it had been an age since he had last felt that. It would have taken many years—centuries even—for the power to have returned to such strength. The thought of having slept for so long didn’t bother him—enlightened dragons often hibernated to speed their passage through the years, heading toward whatever it was that awaited all living things at the end of days.

He stood up, his legs shaky at first. His body was covered with dirt and grime. Bats had taken up residence in his cave at some point since he’d fallen asleep; the smell of them was all too evident. Still, it was nothing that couldn’t be solved by a quick dunk in a lake and a jet or two of purifying flame. He walked to his cave’s entrance and looked out. The inner lid of his eye snapped shut to protect him from the bright sunlight, the muscles protesting at abrupt action after long disuse. The beauty before him was a feast for his eyes: snowcapped mountains, lush forested valleys, rivers, lakes, evidence of abundant game. Then he remembered the wars and his mood soured.

Pharadon had come to this remote peak to distance himself from the conflict. He had found a mountain that no man could reach, and left his foolish brethren and the upstart bipeds to their squabbles. He had lived among mankind for a time, and it saddened him that war had come. There was decency in them, and it disappointed him that his kind couldn’t find common ground with them. Humans had some problem individuals, just as his own kind did. Such was the way of free will. Perhaps if dragonkind had made more of an effort to control the unenlightened, rather than leaving them to their chaotic ways, conflict could have been avoided. Humankind were quick to blame all for the actions of the few, a precarious thing to do considering the actions of members of their own race.

Still, regret was a waste of time. Nothing could be done about the mistakes of the past. There was more than enough world for all living things, and to his mind, there was no patch of ground worth killing for. It was an irony that he had always thought that way, given that he had been considered one of the finest fighters of his kind. Perhaps that was the reason. When you genuinely knew there were few, if any, who could best you, the need to constantly prove it seemed inane. As he looked out across a world he had not laid eyes upon in centuries, he hoped all of that was long forgotten. Hope and joy rose in him at the thought of exploring it all once more.

He looked about for a lake that would be large enough to bathe in, then tested his wings with a stretch. The first flight after a hibernation was always a dangerous thing, a mix of the joy of soaring through the air and terror at the possibility of plunging to the ground and a very messy death. It would be a ridiculous way for an enlightened to die, although he had seen it happen to one or two of his base brethren. There was only one way to find out if everything still worked—a leap of faith. He took a deep breath, allowed himself an ironic smile, and plunged from the side of the mountain.

CHAPTER 6

As the evening wore on and the wine continued to flow, it wasn’t difficult for Ysabeau to slip away unnoticed. The main staircase to the house’s upper levels was impossible to ascend without being spotted, but she managed to find a servants’ stairwell hidden behind a panel door. She watched the progress of servants in and out, making regular trips back to the kitchens and cellars, and timed her move perfectly, disappearing from the crowded lounge under a blur of magic, heading up the stairs while the servants were all elsewhere.

She reached the first floor and opened the door a crack. It was likewise concealed in the panel walls—good servants were ever-present but rarely noticed—and checked to make sure there was no one about. The hall she looked out onto was deserted, quiet and dark, though she could dimly see and hear the light and noise drifting up the main stairway from the party below. The dark suited Ysabeau. In it, she could be almost invisible, while her magic would allow her to see perfectly. She shut her eyes and focussed her thoughts, and when she lifted her lids, the corridor was bathed in pale blue light that flickered over every surface.

She moved from door to door, first listening, then opening them to see what was inside, all the while keeping an eye out for any patrolling guards. The final door before she reached the top of the main staircase was locked. She furrowed her brow as she focussed on crafting a more complicated, powerful piece of magic. She struggled to ignore her sense of satisfaction and maintain her concentration when she heard the lock’s tumblers turn and click into place. Opening the door, Ysabeau smiled—this was the room she was looking for. Lined with bookshelves, with an ornate wooden desk dominating the room’s centre, it looked every inch the grand burgess’s office. She stepped in and closed the door behind her. As she moved deeper into the room, several expensive magelamps illuminated, filling the space with warm light.

When she was tasked with the job, her initial thought was that the grand burgess had probably destroyed the ledger, but the duke’s informants had indicated there were still monies outstanding from the deal the book documented. The grand burgess needed to keep the ledger to ensure he was paid what he was owed, so greed would prove to be his making and his undoing.

She made a quick circuit of the office, careful not to disturb anything or make any noise. There was nothing obvious to lead her to her goal, but then again, there never was. Ysabeau expected that a document as important, and potentially damning, as the ledger would be in a safe, or perhaps a hidden compartment.

A touch of magic showed her what she could not see with her eyes—the Fount lined the surfaces of the room’s interior spaces, revealing one large enough to contain a safe. She opened the darkly stained oak panel to expose a thick-walled, metal safe concealed within. She took a deep breath and relaxed. She was already feeling the side effects of opening the door lock, and this would be more complicated and more draining. The more energy she used now, the less she would be able to draw on for emergencies during her escape.

Completing the process, she turned the safe’s handle and opened the door. The hinges were well greased, moving without a sound. Inside were the things she expected to find: small ingots of gold; leather purses containing coin; some items of jewellery, which she pocketed; and a stack of papers and notebooks. She pulled them out, and started to go through them. While she was being paid only for the ledger, Ysabeau wasn’t averse to making a little extra coin, so she kept her eyes open for anything else that might have value.

Ysabeau worked as quickly as she could; she wasn’t fool enough to think Whitly would allow his house to fill with strangers while leaving his belongings—especially such dangerous ones—unprotected. They might have been invisible amongst the partygoers, many of whom were bannerets and military men, but she knew the burgess’s men were also present, watching. She was confident she had gotten this far unseen, but that didn’t mean trouble wasn’t nearby.

She flipped through the notebooks, scanning them for what she was looking for—anything that mentioned trade with Mirabaya. If she couldn’t find exact mention of the trades in question, she would take everything relevant and allow the duke to determine what was of most use. She made a pile of documents that seemed to have value, along with the ledgers that mentioned Mirabaya, then stuffed the rest back into the safe. It didn’t matter if Whitly soon discovered the theft—the duke would be contacting him with his blackmail offer as soon as the incriminating evidence was in his hands.

Recalling the dates in question, Ysabeau decided she wasn’t satisfied she had the right ledgers. Of course, any thief was always going to go straight for the safe. Where would a wily merchant like Whitly hide information that could ruin him? She reached out for the Fount, willing herself to see it again, studying how it covered the surfaces. She held it longer, juggling the need for concentration with surveying the shelves and cupboards for a void that might be a secret compartment.

There—a row of books that seemed to have an empty space behind them. If anything in here was likely to be booby-trapped, it was a secret compartment, so she inspected it further for any sign of danger, but could see nothing untoward. It seemed to be safe. She released the Fount, and found that the perfectly normal-looking spines of six leather-and-gilt books covered the open space. They were the six volumes of The Decline and Fall of the Saludorian Empire, a popular collection for those who wished to appear more clever and cultured than they actually were, but she thought it oddly fitting.

A little pressure on the spines, which were one solid façade, and, with a click, the panel swung open from one end. Inside was a single ledger, bound in black card and red cloth. She lifted it and leafed through, quickly confirming it was what she sought, then slipped it into the pouch that had been specially installed into her gown for this purpose.

“Don’t think you’re supposed to be in here, miss,” a man’s voice said.

Ysabeau froze on the spot. She hadn’t heard anyone come in. He was as quiet as she was.

“Haven’t you ever wanted to explore somewhere you shouldn’t be?” she said, turning to face him.

“Sure,” he said, in the strong accent of a northern Humberlander. “But I’ve always resisted the temptation to thieve.”

Tall and well-muscled, though slender, the guard—for such he had to be—leaned against the doorframe, one hand resting on the pommel of his sword. It was a pose that was equally dashing and threatening. Ysabeau wondered if he knew the importance of what was in that room, or if he thought her to be little more than an opportunistic burglar.

“I’m going to need you to come with me, miss,” he said. “Don’t make a scene. I’m not above thrashing you if I have to.”

She smiled sweetly as she pulled a dagger from her skirts and launched it at him in one smooth move. Spying and thieving weren’t her only talents, and the dagger struck true, embedding itself up to the hilt in his throat. His eyes widened with shock and his hands reached for the offending weapon as he struggled to breathe. Ysabeau moved quickly, grabbing the dagger’s handle and pulling it across his throat and free. Blood splattered, but a sidestep kept her free of an incriminating splash.

She spun the dying man about, grabbed him under the armpits, and dragged him into the office. Gasping and spluttering, he clutched at his neck in hope of keeping the blood in. His weight increased as the fight went out of him. Once he was clear of the door, she dropped him to the floor and finished him with a stab to the heart.

After wiping her dagger clean on his britches, Ysabeau returned it to its hidden sheath, then made sure the ledger was still in the pouch. She eased the office door open and looked left and right—the hallway was empty. Ysabeau slipped out of the room, closing the door quietly behind her. The man she had killed was unlikely to be the only guard on duty, so she knew she couldn’t get complacent. She needed to get out of the house, and fast.

She had scouted several options, but using the front door like any ordinary guest was her preference—the longer she could maintain the illusion of normality, the better. She returned to the servants’ stairs, opened the door, and listened. Behind her, she could hear people coming up the main staircase, but the servants’ passages were quiet. She went in, but no sooner had she started down than she heard movement below her. It could be a servant, whom she could bluster past, or it could be another guard, who might have her at a disadvantage. Either way, it would raise the alarm.

Cursing at her lack of options, she went up. This was the only eventuality she had not planned for, and she had no idea where the stairwell would take her. Every moment she spent in the house brought her closer to the discovery of the dead man and the burglary, at which point life would become far more difficult.

She continued up the stairs, trying to remember how many floors the house had. At the fifth, the stairway ended, and she found herself in an undecorated, shabby passageway—the servants’ quarters. She hurried along the corridor, trying to determine where to go next. At the end of the hall was a window with a rough curtain pulled partly across it. Ysabeau looked out. It gave a fine view of the city at night, magelamps glittering in its older parts, but she had no time to admire it. Almost as she reached it, the first shout of alarm reached her ears. She saw a narrow walkway running along the roof, between the balustrade and the slate-covered slope.

Ysabeau unlatched the window, hopped out, and looked over the balustrade. There was nothing but a long drop to the street below, and the buildings on the other side were too far away to reach.

Glancing back, Ysabeau saw two men advancing down the corridor, swords drawn. They had reacted far faster than she would have liked, but she supposed Whitly had hired the best men money could buy. She bunched up her skirts, freeing her legs and revealing the flat shoes she wore, rather than ones with a fashionable heel. She ran along the walkway, angry shouts following her as she did.

The far end of the building offered greater hope—there was a gap of only a metre or two between her and the next house. She looked back to see someone clambering out of the window. She didn’t have much time to find another opportunity, and might not be able to get back to this one. She climbed up onto the balustrade and looked about for anything she might grab on the way down if she didn’t make it to the next roof. There were some decorative features that would provide a handhold, assuming they were solidly attached. Where she would go from there was a problem she would deal with if it arose.

Another backwards glance had Ysabeau dismissing the notion of fighting her way out. She was great with a dagger and good with a sword, but Whitly’s men would be better, and even with magic to aid her, there was no way she’d get past all of them.

She took a deep breath and jumped. The world seemed to slow as she flew through the air. She realised her survival instincts were drawing on the Fount to see her through. This was something she had done all her life, since long before she even knew what magic was. When it was added to what she had already used, there would be a price to pay, however.

She reached for the opposite balustrade, stretching for all she was worth. It seemed so far away that she wondered how she could have thought it was possible to reach it. Her hands slapped onto the balustrade and her fingers found purchase. Her body slammed into the wall, jarring one hand free. She dangled for a terrifying moment—long enough to get a good look at how far below the ground was. She contorted hard and managed to get her free hand back on the balustrade, then scrambled up and over, to safety. Only then did she allow herself a sigh of relief.

Still catching her breath, she looked back at Whitly’s house. A moustached bravo stood on the roof, staring at her, sword in hand. His expression said there was no way he was following her. It wouldn’t take him long to figure out his next step—to race downstairs and catch her leaving this building. She gave him a cheeky smile and a mock banneret’s salute, then bolted, heading for the street.

CHAPTER 7

Guillot sat in the Black Drake’s lounge, turning an empty coffee cup on the table. Solène was sleeping again. The past days had taken their toll on her, but Gill wasn’t convinced it was exhaustion keeping her to her room. He had seen it before: sometimes, when someone killed for the first time, a spark in them was extinguished. Solène had taken killing as hard as any he had seen, and he was worried. He had no idea how to help her. On campaign, people either got over it or it broke them and they went home, in shame, usually accused of cowardice.

What could he say that would help? That after she’d killed a dozen times, she wouldn’t be able to remember the individual faces anymore? He shook his head; that was unkind. An unknown voice distracted him.

“My Lord dal Villerauvais?”

It occurred to Guillot that he might need to change his name now that Villerauvais was nothing but a pile of ash, rubble, and charred bones.

“The same,” he said.

“I wanted to offer my congratulations at your great feat in slaying the beast,” the man said.

“You’re too kind,” Guillot said. He couldn’t deny that he was flattered, that he delighted in the recognition, and it shamed him. He had been a prancing show pony in his youth, and it had brought him nothing but ruin and regret. That he was still drawn to it brought bile to his throat. “I’m afraid you have the advantage of me.”

“My apologies. I’m Edouard Renart, mayor of Trelain.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Guillot said. “I hope life in town returns to normal now that the threat has passed.”

“I do also,” Renart said. “Word has been sent out. I understand the bells in Mirabay rang all day to celebrate the news. I’d have seen to it that the same happened here, but sadly the Bishop and his entourage are … out of the town at the moment.”

Guillot smiled. “Like a great many others, unlike your good self.”

Renart blushed. “I’ve received word from His Grace, the Duke. He’s rushing here and is very much looking forward to meeting you.”

“My celebrity seems to grow by the hour,” Guillot said, wondering if he should go out to the stables, saddle a horse, and ride until no one had heard of him or dragons.

“Not at all surprising considering what you’ve achieved. I’m sure you’ll be on your way to Mirabay for an audience with the king before long. We’ll have to make the best of you while we have you.”

Guillot felt his stomach twist. “Perhaps a parade,” Guillot said. “We could rig up a cart and I could stand on the dragon’s head, waving to people as we pass.”

Renart nodded eagerly, missing the irony in Gill’s voice. “Not a bad idea at all. It will take a little organising, but leave it with me.”

Dismayed by the man’s reaction, Guillot quickly said, “I was joking. To be quite frank, Mayor, I’d appreciate as much privacy as I can get. I understand that will be difficult, but nonetheless.”

“Oh, of course. I’ll do my best, but all things considered, I don’t know what will happen. You’re a hero. You’ve delivered people from their worst nightmare, and that’s not going to go unremarked.”

Escape on horseback seemed like a better and better idea. He wondered how long it would be before Solène was ready to go.

The mayor picked up on Guillot’s intentional silence. “Well, I’ll do my best, out of gratitude for you saving the town, but I’m afraid my counsel counts for little with the duke.”

“I appreciate your efforts, Mayor,” Guillot said. “I’ll deal with His Grace when the time comes.”

“Until then, I wonder if you’d considered organising viewings for the beast’s h—”

“Good day, Mayor,” Gill said.

Renart nodded apologetically. “I wish you good day, then, and my most heartfelt thanks.”

Guillot felt churlish, and touched his fingers to his forehead in salute, but knew he was in danger of being dragged down a road he had no desire to walk again. No sooner had Renart left than Gill’s attention was drawn to a scruffy group of people who had arrived at the door.

Staff had started trickling back to the inn over the course of the day, coming out of whatever cellar they had been hiding in. The innkeeper approached the new arrivals with the demeanour of a man who didn’t even want to breathe the same air as them. A quiet but heated discussion ensued, with several nods in Guillot’s direction. He knew that he would be surrounded by powerful nobles whom he could not say no to soon enough. These people, however, he could choose to see.

“Let them in, if they wish to speak to me,” Guillot said.

The innkeeper cast a look back, then gave Gill a forced smile and nod before stepping aside.

The lead member of the party approached Guillot, while her comrades remained by the door, taking in the luxury of their surroundings with open mouths.

“My Lord,” the woman said. “My name is Edine. I’m the mayor of a village called Venne.”

It seemed he was popular with mayors this morning. Guillot searched his memory, and vaguely recalled a village by that name a few valleys over from Villerauvais.

“Guillot dal Villerauvais at your service. What brings you to Trelain, Mayor?”

She looked about nervously. “Dragons, my Lord.”

“I can assure you, it’s dead,” Guillot said, turning to gesture to the stable yard where the head resided.

“No, my Lord. Dragons.”

The polite smile on Guillot’s face fell away as her words sank in. He took a long inhale, composing himself, before speaking.

“Dragons, you say? As in, more than one?”

She nodded. “Yes, my Lord. I’ve seen three of them at the same time. They’ve attacked every night for a week. Cattle, sheep. People.”

Guillot’s stomach turned over. He knew why she was bringing this news to him, and the memory of how one dragon very nearly killed him was still fresh in his mind.

“I don’t suppose there’s any chance they’re small dragons?”

She nodded, and Gill felt a wave of relief.

“They were small at first, my Lord, no bigger than a horse. But they’ve been growing fast. They’re bigger every time they’re seen. They attack, they feed, they get bigger. Much bigger.”

The relief washed away as quickly as it had come. He waved for the waiter.

“I’m sure you and your people have had a long journey,” Guillot said to Edine. “You must be thirsty? Hungry?”

“I wouldn’t say no to something, my Lord. My friends the same.”

“Bring these people something to eat and drink,” Guillot said, turning to the waiter. “Whatever they want.”

The waiter hesitated for a moment.

“It’s all on the Prince Bishop’s account,” Guillot said. “You can bring me a glass of Lower Loiron.”

“Right away, my Lord.”

Gill grimaced. A little stressful news, and his instinct was to reach for the bottle. He took a deep breath. “Actually, forget the wine.”

He wanted to tell this woman that the dragons were not his problem, that the king, the Prince Bishop, the duke, would protect them, but he knew they would not. If he sent Edine to any of those men, all it would do was delay the matter. They would end up knocking on his door, wherever that turned out to be. He wondered if this was his lot now, to be a dragonslayer. It did not fill him with enthusiasm.

When he looked across the small table at Edine, he could see Jeanne’s earnest eyes looking back at him. The tavern keeper in Villerauvais was now no more than dust, a fate he had not been able to stop. If there was even a chance he could prevent the same from happening to Edine and her people, there was no question of refusing to help her. Shame had followed him long enough.

He leaned back in his chair and steepled his hands. “It’s my help you want?”

She nodded.

“It must have taken you a day or two to get here. How did you find out about my slaying the other dragon so soon?”

“We came seeking the duke’s help. We heard what you’d done when we got here, and reckoned you were the man to see.”

He thought it over for a moment. He knew how to use the Cup now, knew the benefits it brought him. He also had the experience of dealing with a dragon behind him. Men had made their living as dragonslayers in the past—he could see no reason why he might not do the same. A few more months of regular practice and some active living and he’d be able to call himself in good shape.

Also, it wasn’t as if he was going into this alone. For one, he’d need Solène’s help, both in conducting the Cup ritual and in fixing his broken bits after the fact. Surely others would happily accept the risks and add their swords to his.

Who, though? His mind flicked back to dal Sason’s deceit, and Gill found himself wishing for some of his men from the old days—Mauvin, Barnot, Vincin, among others. Some of them had tried to contact him over the years, but he was too shamed by his disgrace to respond. He never thought he’d come to regret that, but he had no idea where any of them were now, or if they even still lived. Finding new men, competent men, and learning to trust them would be a challenge.

Guillot realised that Edine was staring at him intently.

“I should add,” she said, “that there are no villages between Venne and Trelain. When they are done with us, they’ll come here.”

Three of them unleashed on Trelain was a terrifying prospect. Stopping them then would be impossible without causing death and destruction on a major scale. There was no way he could refuse her request, so he nodded.

“I can’t promise you anything, other than that I’ll do my best. If that’s good enough for you, then I’ll help.”

She broke into a relieved smile. “Thank you, my Lord. Thank you. We’ll be in your debt.”

She stood, but he gestured for her to sit again. “Please, wait for your food. It will take me a little time to get my affairs in order.” He wondered how long Solène would need. “I should be ready to leave the day after tomorrow. Do you and your people have somewhere to stay for the night?”

“I’m sure we can find somewhere,” she said. “A stable, or barn, or some such.”

Guillot smiled. “I don’t think there’ll be any need for that.” He knew for a fact there were only one or two other guests at the inn, and he had few pleasures in life more enjoyable than running up a bill at the Prince Bishop’s expense. Though he tried to make the most of the contented feeling that brought, his good humour soured. He wondered how Solène would take the news.

CHAPTER 8

Luther was at the bar in the Three Trees when Amaury returned, watching, as always, for clients old and new, and anyone worth putting on his roster of sell-swords. He nodded as Amaury approached, and without a word, both men headed into the snug, where they could talk without fear of being overheard.

“I have to admit I was a little worried when you first gave me the name,” Luther said. “I made a few inquiries though—”

Amaury’s face darkened, and Luther held up a hand.

“All discreet. Nothing that can be traced back. You don’t get to where I am by making mistakes.”

Amaury nodded.

“Anyhow, it gave me enough to put a plan together,” Luther said. “He’s spent years at the bottom of a bottle—”

“You’d be a fool to underestimate him.”

Luther held up his hands again. “I don’t underestimate anyone, but I know men like him. He’s been surviving on the memory of better times, and we can use that.

“I’ve found a fellow who will be able to get close enough to dal Villerauvais to get the job done.” Luther waved to a man at the bar—one of his heavies. A moment later, the man returned, ushering another into the snug.

Amaury gave the newcomer a second look, and frowned. Something about him was familiar. “I know you,” he said.

The man nodded. “Sergeant Barnot, as was,” he said.

Of course, Amaury thought. Thinner, a bit older, and clearly not enjoying a prosperous retirement from military service, but it was indeed Barnot, Guillot’s former sergeant and one of his right-hand men. Amaury gave Luther a crooked look.

“You know who I am?”

“I do, your Grace,” Barnot said.

“There’s nothing to worry about. Sergeant Barnot’s fallen on hard times, and I said we could help him out, if he was willing to help us.”

Barnot looked up at Amaury with the eagerness of a puppy hoping for affirmation from its master. Amaury noticed the pallor of his skin, the drooping bags under his eyes, and a few other signs of long-term dream-seed addiction. It was common in old soldiers—that and the bottle. Once, Barnot had been Guillot’s fiercely loyal retainer. Now? Now Amaury had leverage.

“I’ve told Sergeant Barnot that we need something he’s in the unique position to obtain for us,” Luther said as Barnot sat down.

“Have you told him from whom?”

Luther shook his head. Amaury glowered at him. He’d expected all his dirty work to be done, given what he was paying Luther. He let out a breath. “Guillot dal Villerauvais has something that the king needs. I suspect Luther has contacted you because he reckons you’re the only man who’ll be able to get close enough to dal Villerauvais to get it. I think he’s probably correct.”

He studied Barnot, whose once-solid face now looked wilted, for a reaction. The more time he had to consider it, the more Amaury realised that Luther had happened upon a plan that might very well succeed. Guillot had always been a trusting fool, and Barnot had been one of his most loyal men. He wouldn’t be able to imagine Barnot betraying him. Whether they could get Barnot to do that was an entirely different matter.

“You will be well paid for your time and effort,” Amaury said. “Doing the king this service will put you in his favour, and I can speak from personal experience in saying that is a transformative thing. There won’t be many opportunities for you to pull yourself out of the rut you’re in,” he said, an edge to his voice. “This could likely be the last chance you get to turn things around. The item in question is inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. The details are unimportant. Suffice to say, Guillot will barely notice it’s missing. Keeping hold of it is a matter of stubborn pride for him. In reality, it’s doing nothing but hurting himself, the king, and Mirabaya.”

Amaury didn’t want to lay it on too thick, but men who had spent their lives soldiering under the king’s banner had deeply ingrained notions of honour and duty. Even one fallen so low as Barnot. Barnot might not be willing to act to help himself, but the thought of having value, of being able to serve his king again, might stir him to action.

“What do you want taken from him?” Barnot said. “You have to tell me that much, at least.”

Amaury pretended to think for a moment. He had constructed the lie while giving Barnot time to consider things.

“It’s a small cup made of Telastrian steel. Other than the value of the metal itself, its worth is entirely sentimental. It was stolen from an individual at court—not by Guillot, I hasten to add. I’m not sure how it came to be in Guillot’s possession.”

Barnot smiled.

“In any event, Guillot has it, the king needs it, and we think you are the man best positioned to get it for us. Will you help us? Will you answer your king’s call one more time?” Amaury glanced at Luther, wondering if he had overdone it, but Luther showed no reaction.

“I just need to take this cup from him? Nothing else?”

“Absolutely nothing else,” Amaury said. “We’ll even have a courier waiting for you to hand it over to.”

Barnot nodded slowly. “I can do that. I’ll do it.”

Amaury smiled, and looked over at Luther, who leaned back in his chair with the confident expression of a man who had once again delivered a suitable candidate for a tricky job. There was something else playing on Amaury’s mind, however. What provided leverage could easily become a major problem. Relying on a dream-seed addict to deliver for you was foolish. The healers in the Order could deal with that. He cleared his throat as he tried to choose the right words.

“I can’t help but notice your … problem. I think I can be of help with that.”

CHAPTER 9

Guillot dined alone, not wanting to have to make small talk with the villagers, and ruminated over how he was going to break the news of his decision to help the villagers to Solène. His meal finished, he trudged up the stairs to her room, still with no clue as to how to broach the matter. After talking with Edine, Gill had written an advert that would be put in Trelain’s morning news sheet, seeking candidates to join his nascent dragon-slaying company, and thus committing himself to this course of action. He hoped a few suitable candidates would present themselves over the course of the following day. As he thought it over, it was difficult not to start having second thoughts. The first dragon had nearly killed him, and that had been only one. How he could hope to face three?

“You’re looking better,” he said as he entered her room, mustering as much cheer as he could. He still had no idea how receptive she would be to the plans he had made for her, without her consultation. Anything seemed better than trying to console her. He hoped she would help him. The focus on something else might help her push her feelings over killing out of her mind. If not, perhaps doing some good might help her come to terms with it. If they turned their backs on this request, others would suffer. Burden though it might be, there was never a choice but to do what needed to be done, or to at least try. Not if you wanted to be able to live with yourself afterward, that was.

“I’m feeling much better,” she said. “I need to get up and about.”

“Speaking of that,” Gill said, sitting on the chair by the door. “Something’s come up.”

She narrowed her eyes.

“Word of what we did has gotten out, and it seems the dragon we killed isn’t the only one.”

The newly returned colour drained from her face. “What do you mean?”

He took a deep breath. “There’s a village called Venne. It’s being attacked by dragons.”

“Dragons?” Her eyes widened.

“Three,” Guillot said, matter-of-factly. “From the sounds of it, they aren’t fully grown. Although that seems to be changing pretty fast. Some of the townsfolk are here and have asked me to help. I said I would.”

“You really want to do all of that again? Three more times?”

He shrugged. “No, but what choice do I have? I’m the only man alive who’s killed a dragon. I’ll need your help, though.”

“What can I do?” she said. “You killed the last one, all by yourself.”

“That ceremony with the Cup—it needs to be carried out every time, doesn’t it?”

She nodded. “I think so. But I can’t help you, Guillot. I wish I could, but really, I can’t. There are things I have to do. Things that can’t be put off. That’s clear to me now. It’s why I’m feeling a bit better.”

This wasn’t the response Gill had been expecting. He knew it was unlikely she’d take it well, but what was this?

“I can think of a lot of things I’d rather do,” he said, “but if I don’t help, a lot of people will die. Just like at Villerauvais.”

She gave him a sad smile. “If I go, I’ll probably die.”

“It’ll be dangerous, for sure,” Gill said, “but nothing we can’t handle. I’ve been thinking we could recruit—”

“No, you don’t understand,” she said. “It’s not the danger of the dragons. It’s the danger I am to myself. And to others.”

Gill frowned. “What do you mean?”

“My time with the Order has made my magic stronger, but I haven’t learned to control it. That’s why I’ve been so tired. It’s magical burnout, and if I allowed it to go much farther, it would kill me. I can’t tell when I’m using too much and I can’t control how much I’m using. I have to learn, and I have to do that now. I’ve pushed my luck too far already. If I try to take on these dragons with you, I’m going to end up killing myself. If I knew more, I’d have been able to disable those people temporarily. Not…” She let out a sob.

He did his best to hide his disappointment, knowing he had to put his feelings to one side. He crossed the room and sat on the edge of her bed. After a moment’s awkward hesitation, he laid what he hoped was a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

“You can’t beat yourself up about this. If you hadn’t done what you did, they’d have killed you.” He grimaced at his lack of success as she continued to sob. She stopped a moment later and took a deep breath.

“I know, but there was a better way. I don’t want that to happen again. I won’t let it. I have to learn more, and I can’t do that on my own.”

“I understand,” he said. “But where can you go?”

“Back to the Priory.”

“The Priory? Amaury will have you thrown in the dungeons the moment you set foot back in the city.”

“I don’t think he knows I was involved in any of it. Leverre said he left a note explaining what he intended to do, and putting all the blame on him. I can come up with a reason for my absence easily enough. There’s someone there I know will help me. I don’t think there’s anywhere else I can learn what I need to learn.”

“Are you sure?”

“There’s only one way to find out.” She smiled wryly. “I don’t have many options. There’s the Priory. There’s a library in the city—an old, secret one, a bit like the vault you found under your house. Even if the people at the Order can’t help me, I’m sure there’s something in there that will.

“If I try to work it out completely on my own, I’m likely to kill myself. Controlling the use of magic is the one thing the Order has a good grasp of. With their limited power, they’ve had to learn.”

“You’re right, of course,” Gill said, wondering if there was anything else in his vault he might find useful. Did he have the time to make the diversion on the chance there was? How many lives might that cost?

“You have to put your well-being first,” he said. “If you learn to control your magic, who knows the good you’ll be able to do with it.”

“I’m glad you understand,” she said. “I think there’s a way you can keep using the Cup, though.”

Gill perked up at this. He knew he had no chance of surviving three dragons, no matter how young they were, without the Cup.

“All the magic used in the ceremony comes from the Cup. You don’t need any extra power. The words spoken simply channel it. I think the reason there were mages in the old ceremony the statues showed was because they wanted to keep control of the magic. There’s no reason I can’t teach you how to carry out the ceremony on yourself, or on someone else.”

He nodded slowly. “That could work. If I can use the Cup, that should be enough to see me through. Particularly if I can recruit some help, which I’m hoping to do. There’s bound to be a few decent blades kicking around, looking for work.”

“When will you go?” she said.

He shrugged. “There’s not much time to waste. The dragons have been attacking for a week now. Coming closer to the village every time, and getting bigger. I’ll put the word out, see what comes of it, and try to set off tomorrow if I can. The day after at the latest. You?”

“The same. There’s nothing to be gained by my staying here any longer. The sooner I get going, the sooner I can take control of my life. Who knows, I might even be done in time to come and help you.”

He laughed. “If it takes that long, I suspect I’ll be beyond help.” He paused, feeling he should say something more, but couldn’t work out what. He took a deep breath and returned to practical matters. “So, about the Cup?”

“May I see it?” she said.

Guillot took the little vessel from the pouch on his belt and handed it to Solène. There was something comforting in touching its smooth steel sides, akin to the primal sense of ease that he felt sitting next to a crackling fire on a dark night.

“First things first,” Solène said. “I doubt the quality of the water used is really going to have any impact. The magic in the Cup is too strong for that to matter. As long as it’s not going to poison you, I expect it’ll be fine.” She turned the rimmed bowl over in her hands. “The amount administered might be a different matter, so I’d stick to what the carvings said—one droplet and no more. It’s all about transferring magical energy and focussing that energy to a particular end. Transferring too much could have all sorts of unintended consequences, and those aren’t things to play around with. The old mages decided one drop was enough to achieve the desired result, and we—you—should stick to that.”

Gill nodded intently. Magic terrified him, as it did most people, and being turned inside out or incinerated by magical flame—the first unintended consequences that popped into his mind—was not how he wanted to meet his end. He’d have preferred having nothing to do with magic at all, but he could speak firsthand to the Cup’s benefits, from healing to flame resistance.

“I can write the words down for you. The original is in old Imperial, but it’s not the words themselves that shape the magic. I’ll translate them as accurately as I can for you, which should work perfectly well.”

Gill forced a smile. He wasn’t sure, but she seemed confident, and she was the expert.

“It’s important to concentrate on the words and their meaning when you’re saying them. Their power is in focussing thought, and it’s the focussed thought that shapes the magical energy. It doesn’t matter if there are slight differences between the original and the translation as long as the meaning is the same. If you’re thinking about … I don’t know, a field of ponies when you’re saying the words, they won’t work. It might even turn you into a pony.”

“Definitely not what I want,” Gill said, worried now that he wouldn’t be able to think of anything but a field of ponies when he was saying whatever Solène wrote down for him. He tried to gauge if she was joking, but her face gave nothing away.

“That’s one of the hardest parts of shaping magic—holding that focus and concentrating on a single, pure thought. You won’t have to worry about any of the other stuff—the Cup will take care of the magical energy.”

“How long will the effects last?” Gill said, trying to determine if he felt any different from the way he had after Solène had first carried out the ceremony on him. He couldn’t tell and had no intention of sticking his hand into the fire in the lounge downstairs to find out.

“You’ll have to work that out for yourself. It could be hours, days, or even weeks. I really can’t tell. I’m not even sure how much magical energy is being used for the spell. The old Chevaliers seemed to go through the ceremony every time they went out to face a dragon, so I reckon it’s best to do the same.

“I wouldn’t do it any more frequently than that, though. Unintended consequences … If you figure out its duration, go with that. Otherwise, only use it when you need to.”

He nodded, wondering if he should start taking notes. She got out of bed stiffly, and walked toward the writing desk by the window. He stood to offer help, but she held up her hand to stop him. She wobbled a little on the first step, but quickly found her balance and made the brief journey unscathed. Once secure in the chair, she took a piece of paper, dipped the pen in the inkpot, and started to write. Done, she scanned the page and smiled.

“That’s it,” she said. “I can still see the carvings as if they were in front of me now.” She handed the page to Gill and leaned back in her chair. “Repeat after me…”

CHAPTER 10

The cathedral bells started to ring when Amaury’s carriage was about halfway to the palace. Moments later, the bells of other churches rang out as well and the Prince Bishop knew something was up—and suspected what that something was.

He had his driver stop the carriage.

“What’s all the fuss about?” he asked of a passer-by.

The man shrugged, then, when he realised who he was talking to, said, “Don’t know, your Grace. Sorry.”

The next person he asked gave the same response.

Then someone shouted, “The dragon’s been slain!”

So word had reached the city. Amaury’s first reaction was anger—at himself. Information was valuable only when you were the sole person to possess it. He hadn’t moved quickly enough, and now that word was out, what Amaury knew was all but worthless. He sat back in the carriage and thumped the roof for the journey to continue. The news being out meant he was running out of time to execute his plan to bring the Order out into the open. He was behind the curve already, which meant he had to work quickly and precisely.

When Amaury reached the palace, he asked his aide for the specifics of the news. The only thing anyone knew was that the dragon was dead. There was no word about who had killed it, which gave the Prince Bishop the space he needed. He sent people out into the city to gather up every bit of information being bandied about and cultivated the hope that there was still time to shape the story to his advantage.

He stared into the empty garden below his office window, stroking his chin, thinking furiously. All was not lost—if he could find a way to twist things to his benefit. The dragon had been slain by a great hero of Mirabay, but that didn’t mean Amaury could not claim the credit. After all, he had tasked Gill with the mission. The Order had been equally involved. If he acted fast, he could shape the story to his liking. Even if doubt was cast on it later, who would they believe? Surely no one would question the word of the Prince Bishop of Mirabay, Arch Prelate of the Unified Church, First Minister to the King.

Turning to his desk, Amaury quickly jotted down an announcement. He sprinkled the still-damp ink with pounce to dry it, blew the powder clear, and surveyed his words. His skill in rhetoric had improved over the years, but he would never go down in history as a man who could win hearts and sway minds with words. In this instance, he didn’t need to. He scratched out a few words here and there, added a sentence, removed one, then wrote the altered statement on a fresh sheet. Once it was blotted, he called for his secretary.

“Distribute copies of this statement to the news sheets, the city criers, and the bill posters. Make it clear that further details will be made known in due course. Also, send for Seneschal dal Drezony to attend on me at once.”

Dal Drezony wasn’t one to play power games, so Amaury knew she would be there as soon as was possible. Waiting had never been his strong suit, however. Up until recently, he had filled those spare moments with quick exercises to improve his magical skills, but considering all that he had learned about the Cup, that was now a waste of time. In a few days, the Cup would be in his possession, and he would wield a magical power the like of which had not been seen in a millennium.

Instead, he ruminated on the other plan he had set in motion that night. Guillot had trusted Barnot without question for years, and there was no reason for that to change now. Amaury, on the other hand, found trusting Barnot a far more difficult proposition. Asking a man to go against notions of honour and brotherhood born of battle was like asking him to cut off one of his hands, even if he was a ruined old dream-seed addict. When the moment came, Amaury needed to be certain that Barnot would do what was expected of him.

Conveniently, Barnot came with his own leash, and Amaury was in the singular position of being able to exploit it even more effectively than a dream-seed dealer. However, to do that, he needed dal Drezony’s help, and he suspected the seneschal would have objections. People with strong principles had their uses, but they had no understanding of the compromises necessary to run a kingdom and keep it safe.

Every time he needed her to do something she thought was morally questionable, such as rapidly advancing Solène’s training, they had an argument. It had been the same with his daughter. Amaury usually won, but arguing was tedious, the concessions he had to make were not completely satisfying, and now the time for keeping his underlings happy had passed. This was a crucial moment, when things needed to be done quickly and effectively, without consideration of anyone’s interests but his. He knew what was best for the kingdom.

After knocking, his secretary showed dal Drezony in; she looked resplendent in the Order’s cream-and-gold robes. When he had first encountered the woman, Amaury had developed a brief romantic interest in her, but attractive though she was, he had quickly realised that their personalities and outlooks diverged in too many fundamental ways. Had she not been such a brilliant fit for her role in the Order, he would never have considered working with her in the long term.

“Good evening, Kayte,” he said. “Thank you for coming at such short notice.” She nodded respectfully and he flicked his gaze to his secretary. “Coffee, I think.”

His aide nodded and disappeared silently, leaving Amaury and dal Drezony alone. He gestured for her to sit in one of the comfortable armchairs by the coffee table, then took the seat opposite.

“There’s something I need you to do. It relates to extremely important state business that has fallen to me to address.” He could see he had her full attention, so continued. “There’s a man we need to undertake a mission. He’s uniquely suited to carrying it out, but is possessed of a minor problem. He’s a dream-seed addict. I want you to cure him.”

Dal Drezony visibly relaxed. “I’d be delighted to. Dealing with addiction in the population is one of the roles I see the Order taking on once we come fully out into the open. I have to admit, I thought you were going to ask for something far worse.” She smiled and leaned back in her chair.

“Unfortunately, I suspect I am. We need to keep control of this man. I don’t want you to cure him completely, just enough that he’s clearheaded and able-bodied. Competent to do what he needs to do. I need the addiction itself to remain, so that he’ll do what he’s told.”

The colour drained from her face and all levity in her expression was extinguished. “You want me to maintain his addiction, but free him from the symptoms?”

“Precisely,” Amaury said.

“I … Even if I would agree to do something like that, I wouldn’t have the first idea of how to go about it.”

“I suggest you work it out,” Amaury said.

“I said if I agreed to. There’s no way I can agree to do something like that. It’s wrong on every level.”

Amaury gave a wry smile, angry with himself. Because of his past compromises, dal Drezony felt she was entitled to make autonomous decisions.

“You misunderstand me,” he said. “I’m not asking for your opinion. I’m giving you an order. People with a greater appreciation of what needs to be done have made the determination that this needs to be done. You, as an agent of the Crown, will do as you are instructed.”

Dal Drezony let out an incredulous laugh. “I’m not going to do this. Your Grace.”

The confidence in her voice bordered on arrogance. Amaury felt his temper flare.

“If you are unable to continue in your position as Seneschal of the Order of the Golden Spur, I will, with regret, accept your resignation,” he said sharply. “Before I do, I would point out that in the eyes of many—indeed, most—you are a witch. Within the Order, you are protected from the consequences that status would bring in open society. Outside it, you will be exposed to those consequences.

“Let me assure you of one other thing. Your father does not have the influence to protect you from the Intelligenciers.” He paused. “I wonder, when was the last time you saw a sorcerer burned at the stake?”

She glared at him, hatred in her eyes. In that moment, he knew he would have to start looking for her replacement, but for the time being, she was the only member of the Order with the magical finesse to do what was needed without killing Barnot. Solène might have the power—were she not missing—but from what he had seen thus far, she was all power, no control. He couldn’t risk using her on something like this, nor did he wish to turn her against him as he just had Kayte dal Drezony. Dal Drezony would never have the power to be a real threat to him, but Solène most certainly did. He needed to treat her with more care.

“Well?” he said. “When?”

“Not for years,” she said, from gritted teeth.

“And why do you think that is?”

“The Order.”

“Precisely. For many years now, I’ve gotten to promising young mages before the Intelligenciers, and hidden them behind the protective walls of the Priory. I’m sure I’ve missed a few here and there out in the provinces, but there hasn’t been a single burning in Mirabay in five years. It would break my heart for you to be the one to end that streak.”

She fell silent, frowning, and Amaury revelled in her discomfort. He had won. Like as not she would try to draw some small illusion of victory from the defeat, but so long as that didn’t stand in the way of what he wanted, he would give it gladly.

“On one condition,” she said. “Once this person has finished whatever it is he’s doing for you, I can cure him completely.”

“I have no problem with that,” Amaury said.

“Fine,” she said. “I’ll do what you command.”

“Excellent,” Amaury said. “He’s waiting in the next room. You can attend to it immediately.”

The hatred with which she had looked at him was a clear message. If he didn’t get rid of her, she would become a problem.

“All right,” she said, a smile spreading across her face, “but before I do, you should read this.” She threw a letter onto the table between them. “It’s from Leverre. It was found in his rooms at the Priory. I don’t think you’ll like what it says. Now, where is this man I need to treat?”

Betrayal.

Amaury crumpled the note and let it drop from his fingers. Betrayal was a new experience for him—at least, being on the receiving end was. Leverre had always had a troubling stubborn streak and a warped sense of honour. If he hadn’t been so good at his job, Amaury would have cut him loose a long time ago.

When Amaury had selected the first recruits to the Order, ability and a sympathetic attitude to what he was trying to create had been his only criteria. The difficulties that arose from conflicts of personality had been the least of his concerns at the time. Now that had come to bite him in the backside.

With Leverre gone, the matter of replacements was pressing, and needed to be prioritised. He briefly considered asking Luther for recommendations, but hated the idea of making rushed appointments. Then he realised he didn’t need to look so far afield—there were perfectly suitable men closer to home, already on the royal payroll. They might not have magical talent, but for now, muscle would do. He could replenish the ranks of magisters at a later time.

Amaury knew of a royal requisition official with a creative flair in sourcing what he needed. He’d first come to the Prince Bishop’s attention when Amaury was trying to clear out the rot in the Crown’s administration service. His initial impulse had been to have the man—Gassot, Amaury thought his name was—beheaded, but something else had come up, and fate had earned the man a reprieve. Now, it seemed, fate would bring him a substantial promotion, if he had the sense to play along. That would be the chancellor taken care of.

For the blood-and-guts work, one name sprang to mind. Amaury knew of at least one village Vachon had put to the sword in order to make a point, and that was the kind of mettle that Amaury reckoned the Order would need in its marshall. He rang the small bell on his desk, summoning his secretary.

“Send for the Clerk of Requisitions, Gassot I think he’s called. Also Captain Gustav Vachon. I believe he’s in the city at present. I want them both to attend on me as soon as possible.”

The secretary nodded and disappeared. Amaury looked to the crumpled ball of paper on his floor and grimaced. If Leverre—whom he had thought of as little more than one of his faithful hunting hounds—could betray him, whom could he trust?

CHAPTER 11

Bravos tended to flock to where the action was, and Gill knew that from the moment word of the initial dragon attacks spread, men of arms would head for the region. As a result, he hoped there would be more fighters in Trelain than might ordinarily be found there. Guillot wanted to head for Venne as soon as possible, so he could not afford to be choosy, but all he really needed was one or two good swordsmen. The rest could be cut loose when better options were available.

The first interested party turned up not long after breakfast, and his initial appearance was enough to get Gill’s hopes up from near desperation to the thought that his plan might not be a complete disaster.

He was the type of man that could be instantly identifiable as a jobbing banneret—athletic, confident, hungry. In such a man, the first thing Gill always checked was his sword. The leather scabbard was scuffed and worn, but looked like it had been oiled recently, and the hilt of his sword, though elegant in the swirling shape of the complex guard, was of plain, unadorned steel, with a wire grip. It was the weapon of a man interested mainly in function, and such men were always the ones Gill thought most likely to be of value.

The man stopped in the foyer and looked about. Gill raised an expectant hand, ready to hear the bravo’s pitch. The man nodded and made his way over.

“My Lord,” he said.

“Sit, please,” Guillot said.

“I’d prefer not to, if it’s all the same. I’d rather wait by the door until you’re ready to leave.”

Gill frowned, and the man looked puzzled.

“Lord Relau?”

“Ah,” Guillot said. “I think you’ve got the wrong man.”

“My apologies. Good day to you, sir.”

“And you,” Guillot said. “I don’t suppose you’ve any interest in dragon slaying?” he added as an afterthought.

The man let out a laugh, but cut it short when he realised that Guillot was being serious. “Gods, no,” he said. “There’s plenty of well-paid work to be had that doesn’t come with the choice of being well-done or extra crispy.” He frowned when he saw Guillot’s reaction. “I apologise again—you’re that fellow, aren’t you? Villerauvais? Congratulations.” He clicked his heels and gave a curt nod, the traditional salute bannerets gave to acknowledge a colleague’s success. “I can’t say I envy you the job, but you seem to have come through it in good trim. I’m afraid I must be going; I’ve a client to find.”

He gave Guillot another nod, and wandered deeper into the inn, leaving Guillot feeling foolish and wondering how much attention killing the dragon was actually going to bring. Had he overestimated? Might the thirst for fame that young swordsmen had once possessed diminished?

Then another man walked into the inn, and Gill let out an audible groan. The newcomer looked equally the type—athletic, tanned skin, confidence bordering on arrogance. He was well dressed, his black hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and he had a finely waxed black moustache. He stood with his thumbs hooked in his sword belt, adopting the casual slouch of a man so confident that he’s relaxed to the point of passing out. Guillot’s eyes drifted to his sword. The scabbard looked like it was fresh from the tanner’s shop, the hilt was filigreed with gold wire, and the pommel contained a large jewel. “Peacock” was the word most often reserved for a man like that. Guillot wondered, if he kept his head down, might the man leave without bothering him?

The fellow looked around, spotted Gill, gave him a nod, and strode over.

“Banneret Didier dal Beausoleil, at your service,” he said. “Very pleased to make the acquaintance of the only living dragonslayer.”

Guillot forced a smile and gestured to the chair opposite him. Beausoleil smiled and sat.

“What brings you to my table, Banneret Beausoleil?” Gill said.

“I read in the news sheet that you’re looking for men to help you deal with some more dragons. Is that correct?”

Gill considered lying for a moment, but couldn’t see anything to gain by doing so. “It is. And you’re interested in the job?”

“I very much am,” Beausoleil said.

Guillot nodded. “Why don’t you give me an idea of your background and experience?”

“I’m twelve years out of the Academy. I spent the first three of those on the duelling circuit.”

Guillot did his best to look interested. The duelling career went some way to explaining the sword. Professional duellists were all about the image and the show. That didn’t mean there weren’t some superb swordsmen on the circuit—some of the world’s very best made their livings duelling in the arena. It was a place with defined rules, however, and in Guillot’s experience, duellists tended to be less prepared to deal with the unexpected, to improvise when things went to crap in the blink of an eye, as was so often the case on the battlefield.

“After that, I spent a few years in private service—first in the retinues of a couple of burgesses in Mirabay and Tarbeaux, then with the Company of the Silver Arrow until it disbanded a few months back. Since then, I’ve been odd-jobbing here and there. Body-guarding mainly.”

He had more varied experience than Guillot had expected. “I’ve not heard of the Silver Arrow. Who was the principal?”

“Banneret-Captain Garonne de la Maison Noir.”

Guillot did his best to stifle a laugh at the ridiculously ostentatious name. It didn’t bode well, however. Men who hid behind a fancy, self-appointed name tended to have only that name to trade on, rather than a respected reputation.

“See any action with them?”

“The usual,” Beausoleil said.

Guillot remained silent and smiled with expectation.

“Oh, you know, we’d get hired, be seen about the place by the enemy, then terms would be agreed. We’d get paid and move on to the next job. The usual.”

Guillot wanted to tell him to take his fancy peacock sword and piss off, but the line of eager volunteers he had expected to form by the door was conspicuously absent. Perhaps adding a few names to his roster would get some momentum going. If nothing else, Beausoleil could distract the beasts while Guillot got down to the real work of killing them.

“Well,” Guillot said reluctantly, “I can’t offer anything in the way of payment, but the reputation and fame you’ll get from this will be priceless.”

“That works for me,” Beausoleil said.

I reckoned it would, Guillot thought. “It will be dangerous, and no amount of potential glamour or fame can take away from the fact that there are three dragons that need to be dealt with. The last one killed several people who were as well prepared to face it as could be. I know a little more of what to expect now, but the danger will never be diminished.”

Beausoleil shrugged with the sangfroid of a man genuinely unafraid—or very good at appearing so. “To tell the truth, I’ve felt my blade was a little underutilised the past few years.”

It was as good an answer as could be hoped for. “That brings up another problem. Your blade. A regular steel rapier blade won’t be of much use against a dragon. Telastrian steel is effective, but I wouldn’t expect anyone to have a Telastrian blade.”

Beausoleil held up his hands and shook his head.

“A heavy field blade might serve, but I think lances and spears are a better bet. You’re comfortable with those?”

“Of course. Four years at the Academy teaches a lot more than just the sword.”

The banneret raised his eyebrows in a suggestive way that made Guillot think they might not be referring to the same type of lance. He tried to think of any other questions. He knew everything worth asking about. The things that really mattered could be learned only out on the field.

“Do you have any questions?”

“Of course,” Beausoleil said. “How did you do it? The first man in a thousand years to kill a dragon! That really is something.”

“Luck, mainly.”

Beausoleil laughed. “I’m sure there was far more to it than that.”

“There always is, but that’s the big part.”

“So you’ll have me, then?” Beausoleil said.

The man wasn’t what he was looking for, but Guillot couldn’t think of a single valid reason to refuse.

“Why not? I’ve no contracts of engagement to be signed. Truth be told, this approach is a new idea. For the time being, a banneret’s oath will have to be enough.”

“It’s always been enough for me in the past.”

“Well then,” Guillot said. “I hope the gods smile on our ventures together.”

Guillot followed Solène out to the stable yard. He didn’t like letting her ride off to Mirabay on her own when she was still so upset, all the more so when she had no idea what awaited her there. She seemed confident that her absence could be easily explained away and that there was nothing to connect her to the fight she and Leverre had with the other Spurriers on the road to Trelain. He did his best to take solace in that, but he knew Amaury—the man had eyes and ears everywhere, and as Gill knew only too well, he never forgave when someone crossed him.

Her horse was saddled and waiting for her, and she accepted a boost into the saddle without complaint.

“You’re sure you’ll be all right?” Guillot said.

Solène chuckled. “You’re starting to sound like an old woman.”

He blushed. “It’s just that … Well, I’ve lost too many people who were important to me. I don’t want to lose another.”

She blushed now. “I’ll be fine. I promise. At the first hint of trouble, I’ll run.”

“And come and find me.”

She chuckled again. “And I’ll come and find you.”

“You never know, it might be me needing your help. I’m still not convinced I can do that spell properly.”

“We spent half the night going over it. You know the words. You know the intended meaning. It will all work as it’s supposed to.”

“When I’m done with the dragons, I’ll come to Mirabay and find you. If that’s all right.”

She smiled. “I’d be hurt if you did anything else. You look after yourself, Guillot dal Villerauvais. You’re too good a man to die.”

There was a moment of silence, then she urged her horse on, and was gone.

He stared after her, and his gaze unfocussed. There was more he should have done. Should have said. They both knew the chances of seeing one another again. Within a few days, it was likely either one or both of them would be dead. It was one of those moments where the welcoming embrace of the bottle called to him like the song of angels. If ever there was a time, surely he could justify it at that moment?

“She’s a fine-looking woman. You’re together?”

Guillot looked over as Beausoleil walked out of the inn and into the stable yard. “No,” he said. “Friends.”

Beausoleil nodded. “Never much liked Trelain,” he said. “Very much looking forward to getting on our way.”

“I suspect most able-bodied swordsmen with a death wish will bypass Trelain and head straight for Venne, now that word of the attacks is out,” Guillot said. “If we need to, I’m sure we can find more men on the road.”

“Whatever you think, Captain.”

Gill fixed him with an ironic stare. It had been a long time since anyone had called him captain, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about it. He couldn’t help but feel something of a fraud, considering how few volunteers he’d managed to attract. He looked up at the sun; the day had gotten away from him, and there seemed little point in setting off now—they’d make most of the journey in darkness. Leaving in the morning would change nothing.

“Let’s aim to set off before dawn. If we press hard, we should make Venne by nightfall.”

“I’ll be ready.”

Beausoleil headed back into the inn, leaving Gill standing alone, considering the magnitude of what lay ahead.

“The taxidermist collected it.”

Shaking the funk from his head, Guillot turned to see the stable boy standing next to a pile of hay, pitchfork in his hands. “Pardon me?”

“The head. The taxidermist collected it. I sent for him as you asked.”

Gill looked at where the head had been, only now noticing its absence. “Of course. Thank you.” He reached to his purse for a coin.

“I’d rather a favour than a coin,” the lad said.

Guillot raised an eyebrow and shrugged. He must have made a fortune, charging a penny per person for a look at the dragon’s head. “Name it.”

“You’re going with those peasants to kill their dragons?”

“It would seem so.”

“Take me with you.”

Guillot barked out a laugh. “Come again?”

“Take me with you. As your squire.”

“You’ve lost your wits, lad,” Guillot said. “You saw the beast’s head. You know what we’re up against. It’s not all Andalon, Valdamar, shining armour, and heroic deeds. I can think of a lot of things I’d rather do.”

The boy nodded to a pile of manure in the corner of the yard. “You can shovel that lot, if you like. Soon as I’m done with the hay, I have to. And tomorrow, after I wake up, I’ll shovel more hay, then more manure. Then one day, I won’t wake up. Just like my da. I’d rather see a real live dragon, and take my chances. If I can live through that, maybe the Academy will take me on.”

“You’re better off here, lad. I promise you.”

“You’ve not got the first clue what it’s like here. I can decide for myself where I’m better off. That’s anywhere but here.”

Gill studied the boy’s face, his resolute look of determination and hope. He thought about how the lad had kept the crowds away from the dragon’s head.

“I’ve enough coin saved from work and showing people the head to buy travelling provisions and a pony. I won’t be a burden on your purse. All I ask is you show me a few things, and if we get through it all, you write me a letter for the Academy.”

In the darkest recess of his mind, Guillot could still hear the bottle calling to him. He shut it out. “We leave before dawn. If you’re not here and ready, we go without you.”

The boy was out of the yard before his pitchfork had hit the ground.

CHAPTER 12

Solène had been alone for much of the last ten years, but when she rode out of the Black Drake’s stable yard, she felt painfully lonely. Since being forced to flee her home and her family, she hadn’t relied on anyone, nor cared about anyone. It was obvious to her that this had changed without her awareness. The thought that she was abandoning Gill to his death sent such a chill through her that she considered turning her horse around.

The truth of it was that she knew that facing three dragons would push her body too far, and kill her. That worry was secondary to her fear of killing someone else, however. It seemed the choices in her life were always tough. Run away from everything she knew and loved, or face the execution pyre as a witch. Abandon the first decent person she had met since leaving home, or risk killing herself and others around her. She knew Guillot could take care of himself, and in teaching him how to use the Cup, she had given him most of the tools she would have brought with her. Still, she could not shake the feeling that she had let him down.

She urged the horse to a brisk pace. The roads of Mirabaya were not safe for a single rider more than a few hours beyond the larger towns, and all the more so for a woman travelling alone. There would be a terrible irony in burning herself out—unintentionally draining her entire internal reservoir of magical energy—fighting off highwaymen on the way to learning how to rein in her power.

She was certain there were magical ways she could speed her journey, or shroud her passing, but since she didn’t know how to create either of those effects, the danger of creating something far less desirable was ever-present.

Assuming they hadn’t connected her disappearance to Leverre’s, she would have to explain her absence from Mirabay. Hopefully he’d done as he’d promised and left a note behind, explaining his actions and taking all responsibility on himself.

Solène concentrated on creating a story to excuse her actions. Returning home because of a family bereavement seemed like the easiest excuse, but she wasn’t sure it was plausible. How would she have heard the news? By design, no one from Bastelle knew where she was. Considering why she had left, it didn’t seem likely that going back, no matter what the reason, would ever be a good idea. No, that wouldn’t pass scrutiny. Both the Prince Bishop and the officers at the Priory knew too much about her background to believe such a tale.

Still, try as she might, she couldn’t come up with anything better. There was simply no reason for her to leave the city. She had no friends, no family, no responsibilities. Bastelle was her only connection to the outside world. Solène chewed the idea over as she rode. There was little in the way of interesting scenery to distract her. The countryside was mainly forest, grassland, or farms. The road was good for the most part, as the weather had been dry, so the horse was able to take care of the navigation with only the most minor involvement on her part.

It occurred to her that she might not need a good reason to go back to Bastelle. A childhood home—and a family—that she’d run away from for fear of being burned at the stake was always going to provoke illogical, emotional responses. Bastelle was only a day or two east from where the dragon Guillot had killed had been attacking. She could claim she needed to see the place, the people, to confirm to herself that they were alive and well. Of course, there was the possibility that the town had been destroyed during the dragon’s rampage. That seemed unlikely—word of it would surely have gotten as far as Trelain—but the possibility couldn’t be dismissed. She supposed she could claim the destruction had happened after her visit, and call on her dramatic skills in a showy display of grief to hide her lie, and potentially save her life.

How much simpler it would all have been if Arnoul had left her alone, and she had been able to stay at the bakery in Trelain. There was a time, back in Bastelle, when she had fed her imagination with the books from the village’s church library. Back then, the idea of a simple life—the only life that everyone around her seemed to be able to comprehend—had filled her with dread. The books had told tales of cities filled with great lords and ladies, universities and libraries larger than the village, places where people from all over the world met, mixed, and exchanged news and ideas from places she had never even heard of. She had been to those cities and libraries now, but wished for that naive enthusiasm again, when she had thought of the world as a place of wonder and excitement.

A visit back to her hometown it was, then. While the story had flaws, most of them could be explained away. She continued to mull it over as she rode, growing comfortable with the tale, making it part of herself, almost coming to believe it.

“I’d say it could eat you whole,” Beausoleil said.

“Leave him alone,” Guillot said. They trotted along the road in silence for a moment before he felt the urge to justify himself. “I tried to talk him out of it. He wanted to come anyway. Takes more guts than most have.”

“Or a measure less common sense,” Beausoleil said. “What’s his name, anyway?”

Guillot realised he didn’t know. “Lad” had served well enough up to that point. He looked at the youth, who, true to his word, had bought a pony and travelling kit, and managed to wash off some of the dirt and smell of the stable, which was a welcome change.

“Val,” the youngster said.

“Like Valentin?” Beausoleil said.

“No,” the boy said sullenly.

Beausoleil had been teasing Guillot’s new “squire” since they’d left Trelain, and it was starting to get on Gill’s nerves. It was the type of banter and ribaldry that Academy students typically indulged in, particularly those who felt they had something to prove. Some never quite grew out of the behaviour, and it seemed Beausoleil was one of those. For someone unaccustomed to it, like the stable boy, Gill could see how the treatment might feel grating.

“What, then?” Guillot said, curious now himself.

“Valdamar.”

Beausoleil let out a guffaw, and Guillot cringed.

“Valdamar?” Beausoleil said. “Big shoes to fill, those.”

“Not so big as you might think,” Guillot said. The boot plates from Valdamar’s armour were in his saddlebags, and they fit him almost perfectly.

Beausoleil gave him a curious look.

“Never mind,” Guillot said.

“It strikes me that we’re travelling a little light,” Beausoleil said, switching his attention from the former stable boy to the leader of their little expedition.

“We’ll have lances and spears made in Venne. Any carpenter or pole turner will be able to make up what we need. No point in carrying them all the way there. I have Telastrian spearpoints to fit on them so they’ll be effective against the dragons.”

“Telastrian spearpoints?” Beausoleil said.

Gill shrugged. He had taken them from the chamber under his ruined manor before killing the first dragon, but there was no reason to reveal that. “The Chevaliers had some old dragon-hunting equipment left. I took what I thought might be useful.”

Beausoleil nodded, looking impressed. “I’ve always wanted a Telastrian blade. To think someone wasted the steel on spearheads.”

“Necessity, I imagine,” Gill said. “They proved handy last time. It wouldn’t hurt to have some more hands to put them in, though.”

“You think we’ll be able to find more men there?”

“I think so,” Guillot said. They had seen a number of riders on the road who were making all speed in the direction of Venne. Only one type of man rode toward danger, so Gill reckoned there would be at least a few bannerets there interested in joining him.

“I’d be happier if we had some backup people,” Beausoleil said. “There are only so many lances young Valdamar here will be able to carry.” He gave a mischievous smile. “I’m sure the name is burden enough already. But enough of that. I’ve been wondering, how does one actually go about killing a dragon? Charge in, lance leading the way, close your eyes and pray it strikes true?”

Guillot shrugged. “Didn’t get to try that, as far as I can recall. Admittedly, the memory is a bit hazy. Got my bell rung a couple of times that day. Telastrian steel will get through its hide. Can’t say the same for regular steel. Might work, but I didn’t have any luck. Anyway, if we’re there to protect the town, the least they can do is lend us a hand with the details. To answer your question: bait them out, then kill them as fast as we can, however we can.”

He thought it judicious to keep the fact that he might be able to track them by unconventional means to himself for the time being. “My Telastrian blade and the spearheads are the best assets we have, but against a younger dragon, regular steel might work too. There’s only one way we’ll find that out.” Gill chewed his lip as he wondered how much to reveal. As if it knew his thoughts, he became aware of the weight of the Cup in the purse on his hip.

Beausoleil nodded thoughtfully, as though he had enough information on the matter to properly consider it.

“There’re other things, too,” Guillot said, “but we can discuss them later. We need to push on. I want to get to Venne before dark.”

CHAPTER 13

The sun had dipped below the horizon by the time they reached Venne, but there was still enough dusky light to take the village in. It looked much like any other village in the rural provinces of Mirabaya—a small number of buildings clustered around a church steeple. It was larger than Villerauvais had been, but was still a long way from being called a town. The countryside surrounding it was lush green pasture, with hills rolling gently toward the mountains that dominated the horizon to the south.

As he stared at the countless peaks where dragons came from, Guillot wondered if this was the new normal, if the time of dragons had returned, if life in these parts would always be lived in the shadow of the beasts. Was this how he was to spend the rest of his life? Hunting and killing them, until one day—perhaps sooner than he might like—when he was a little too careless, or a little too slow, one of them killed him?

“Not much to look at, is it?” Beausoleil said.

“What were you expecting?” Guillot said.

Beausoleil shook his head. “Never been in this part of the country before. Wasn’t sure. It’s very green here. Beausoleil’s not a whole lot farther south. Doesn’t look anything like this, though.”

“Fields of sun-drenched vines and lavender stretching down to an azure sea?”

“Pretty much.”

“It rains a lot here. Something to do with the mountains, I expect. Good land for cattle, though. And game.”

“Plenty of food for a hungry dragon. Makes you wonder why they bother with people.”

“Maybe they like the taste?” Val said.

Gill cast him a look and shivered. He preferred to think of the dragons doing what they did because they were mindless beasts that acted on instinct. That they might actively seek out human flesh was a chilling thought.

“Perhaps they don’t see us any differently to cattle,” Gill said, realising he didn’t like that idea any more than Val’s.

“I suppose it doesn’t matter,” Beausoleil said. “It’s simply a bigger and more dangerous type of beast that needs killing. And we’re the men to do it, eh?” He reached out and gave Val a slap on the back, eliciting an uncomfortable smile from the lad.

“Let’s get into town and see about some supper,” Guillot said. “My backside’s killing me and if I get any hungrier, it’ll be me eating the dragons.”

Towns like Venne tended to be sleepy places. Most of the villagers would spend the day working in the fields; the markets and taverns came alive only later, when the toil on the land was finished. Visitors were infrequent, and tended to be welcomed with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. This far from centres of power, bandits were common, and a new arrival was as likely a man intent on theft as an honest traveller with news from other parts.

It came as a surprise, then, to find that Venne was a bustling hive of activity. The men they had seen on the road were only the tip of the blade. Every swordsman in the south of Mirabaya must have been there. Before she left Trelain, Edine, the village’s mayor, had given Gill the name and location of the tavern where their arrival would be expected. Seeing how busy the village was, he hoped that there would still be rooms held for them. Otherwise they’d be relying on campaign tents and bedrolls—not so great an inconvenience so long as the weather held, but they were moving into the autumn now. Guillot and the others dismounted and led their horses along the narrow lanes into the town, at times having to push past groups of men who gave them the inquiring looks of those measuring their competition.

The tavern was easy to find, occupying one side of the small village square. There was no attached stable yard, nor anyone to take their horses. With no alternative, and feeling somewhat guilty, he shrugged and handed his reins to Val. Beausoleil followed suit.

“Watch the horses until we find out what’s what,” Guillot said.

The lad took the reins with eagerness. Gill had expected to be greeted with sullen disappointment at being left out of things, but the boy’s desire to please, to act as Guillot’s squire, made Gill feel doubly guilty.

“Shall we?” he said to Beausoleil.

Beausoleil nodded. He seemed to have regained some of the swagger he had displayed earlier, before the sight of Venne and the significance of the gathering of fighting men had silenced him for a time. Inside, they were greeted by even more curious looks. The taproom was small, but filled to capacity. If even one of the men there was a local, Gill would have been surprised. He wondered how the villagers were responding to the glut of arrivals, and how long it would be before saviours came to be regarded as an unwelcome inconvenience.

They forced their way through to the bar, where a delighted-looking keeper was filling an ale mug from a tapped barrel with one hand, while pouring a cup of wine with the other. Gill cleared his throat to gain attention, then realised that even he hadn’t been able to hear it over the noise of boisterous conversation. The room was filled with men trying to convince one another of how brave they were, and that was never done in hushed tones.

“Barkeep!” Gill said. He had to repeat himself before getting a response. As soon as two more cups and one more mug were filled, delivered, and paid for, the barkeeper made his way over.

“The food is finished, but we’ve ale and wine enough to keep you happy,” he said.

“When did all this lot get here?” Guillot said.

“Started arriving before dawn. Been coming in all day. Word is out. We’ve dragons here, as I’m sure you know. Everyone wants to claim one, just like Guillot the Dragonslayer.”

Guillot’s stomach turned over at the moniker, but he supposed it was only to be expected. At least it rolled off the tongue a little easier than Lord Villerauvais the Dragonslayer.

“Where have you come from?” the barkeeper said.

“I’m looking for Edine,” Guillot said, choosing to ignore the question. “Do you know where I can find her?”

“Across the square, in the mayor’s house. She’s a mite busy, mind. Trying to organise all this lot. Find out who everyone is, what they can do. What they’ll want in return. She’s told me to direct you all to her, but last time I checked the queue, you’d be as well off staying here awhile.” He waved a wine bottle before Guillot. “What can I get you?”

“A room,” Guillot said, finding the noise and the crowd increasingly oppressive.

The barkeeper barked out a laugh, but Guillot cut him short.

“I think Edine asked you to hold rooms for us,” he said. “I’m Gill … the, um, well, she asked me to come to help with the dragon.”

The barkeeper’s eyes widened. “You should let her know you’re here right away. I have two rooms for you. They’re not much, my Lord. They’re usually storerooms, but that’s all that’s left.”

“I’m sure they’ll serve admirably,” Guillot said, trying his best to put the man at ease, and get out of the taproom as quickly as possible.

It was already too late. One or two of the swordsmen closest to Gill had obviously been eavesdropping. A wave of silence, followed by murmuring, spread through the gathering as everyone strained to get a view of the heroic dragonslayer. Beausoleil lapped up the attention. Every jobbing banneret wonders, at some point, what it would be like to be a famed warrior. Pretty much every swordsman who steps into the duelling arena dreams of it. Even for Gill, the appeal of recognition from one’s peers, particularly after so long in the doldrums, was hard to deny.

“I’ve left my squire outside with the horses and baggage,” Guillot said. “Perhaps you could help him have them all squared away, and I’ll pay a call on Edine. Right across the square, you say?”

The barkeeper was still staring at him wide-eyed. “Straight out the door and keep going. Can’t miss it.”

Guillot gave him a nod of thanks. Assuming that Beausoleil had been paying attention, Gill made for the door, shouldering his way through the crowd until he was back out in the evening air. He took a deep breath and let out a sigh. True to the barkeep’s word, there was a queue of men outside the building opposite, leaning casually on the pommels of the swords at their waists in the almost weightless fashion that all Academy students manage to perfect no later than their second term. Guillot tipped the brim of his hat as he passed; the stares he earned held more outrage than curiosity. Some had clearly been waiting far longer than they thought their reputations deserved, and he wondered if he would make it into the mayor’s house without being challenged for queue jumping.

Happily, it seemed that no one wanted to blot their reputation before even catching sight of a dragon, and all swords remained sheathed. The queue continued inside, stopping at an old wooden table, behind which Edine—who, along with her party, had left Trelain well before Gill had—sat, marking a ledger with a wooden-handled copper-nib pen. He suspected he wasn’t the only potential dragonslayer she had called on when in Trelain, and he couldn’t deny that that bruised his ego.

This time, clearing his throat had the desired effect. Edine looked up and smiled.

“Bannerets,” she said, “if you wouldn’t mind waiting on me a moment in the square outside, I’ve some urgent business to deal with.”

He waited until the small, whitewashed room cleared before speaking. “I wasn’t expecting to see so many people.”

“Neither was I,” she said, “but it seems everyone wants to slay a dragon. You’re still the only man to prove he can actually do it, though.”

She seemed different here. While in Trelain she had come seeking aid, now she seemed calm and in control, mistress of her domain.

“Any idea of how many there are?”

“Forty-seven so far, and that’s just today.”

“How will you feed them all?”

“Hopefully they won’t need to be here too long. Hopefully they keep paying while they are. I’ve heard stories of how soldiers behave when they’re broke and hungry. We’ve never had to deal with anything like that here, and I have to admit I’m worried. Gaufre at the tavern thinks it’s wonderful, as does everyone else who can make a few pennies from it, but so many armed men? How would we stop them taking what they want? It might not be dragons I need you to protect us from after all.”

“Are they looking for payment?”

“No, the promise of glory seems to be enough for them, but if they’re to be given food and drink while they’re here, I’ve made it clear they all have to sign the ledger. If there’s trouble, I can see the duke’s steward gets the names. I’m not sure if it will mean anything, but it’s all I can do.”

“I’d try not to worry about it,” Guillot said. “Most of these men are bannerets. We’re not pure as the driven snow—far from it—but most of us hold our personal honour high and won’t do anything to jeopardise it. They’ll keep the ones who don’t in line.”

“I hope so. Them being here might make your job a little easier, though.”

Or harder, Guillot thought. “Perhaps. If I see one or two that look useful, I might ask if they want to sign on with me. A few more blades couldn’t hurt. Have they given you any idea of what they have planned?”

“I think just getting here was as much thought as any of them have given it.”

They’re not the only ones, Guillot thought. “I suppose it’s new to us all. Have there been any more attacks since we last spoke?”

She nodded. “One more, shortly after we left for Trelain. Only cattle, but the farmer got the fright of his life.”

Gill nodded. Seeing her keeping notes had made him curious, so he asked, “Is there a school here?”

“No,” Edine said, shaking her head. “I’m not from Venne originally. The duke sends administrators to all his towns and villages to make sure things run smoothly. It takes the pressure off him and allows him to spend his time in Mirabay. The lords and seigneurs aren’t always happy about it, but they learn to live with it. Everyone does better when things are run properly.”

“That’s enlightened of him. I didn’t think he had much interest in anything outside the ballrooms and cardrooms of Mirabay.”

She smiled. “A well-run duchy means more tax revenue for the duke. Which means he can stay in Mirabay, and spend it.”

“Ah, yes, that makes sense,” Guillot said. “It’s too late for there to be any use in riding out for a look around this evening, but I wonder if someone could show us where the attacks happened, first thing in the morning?”

“Of course. I’ll have someone meet you at the tavern at dawn. Once you’re done with that, I was hoping you’d pay a visit to the seigneur at his manor house. It’s not far. He isn’t much involved in what goes on in the village, and hasn’t shown any sign of doing anything about our problem, but it’s best to let him know what’s happening.”

“After I get a look at the area,” Guillot said firmly. If he was going to hunt dragons, he wanted to have a good sense of the lay of the land.

“We’ve been caught behind the news once already, your Highness,” Amaury said. “I think I managed to get on top of it, but we can’t expect to get that lucky every time. We need to announce the Order now, before any more news arrives, and we lose the ability to turn events to our benefit, and keep public opinion on our side.”

The king looked pensive and scratched his beard in that faux-thoughtful fashion that was coming to irritate Amaury so much he had to fight the temptation to walk across the office and slap the king across the face.

“No,” Boudain finally said. “The time’s not right. We’ve yet to adequately deal with the Intelligenciers.”

“I’ve been clipping their wings for months now,” Amaury said, his irritation piqued once more. “They are not an issue. Their ranks are depleted and they’re under-resourced. Even with the losses the Order has suffered, the Intelligenciers no longer pose any real threat.”

“You forget the international nature of the Intelligenciers, your Grace,” the king said. “They can call on their brethren the world over, and under the threat of magic, I believe national rivalry will be set aside, and they will answer.”

How dare you try to school me, you arrogant little shit. Amaury smiled. “Ostia, Estranza, my spies tell me the King of Humberland has people experimenting with magic in secret. The Intelligenciers the world over have their own problems to deal with. By the time they turn their attention here, in the unlikely event they ever do, there won’t be anything they can do to stop us. In any event, I have something in place to deal with them when the time co—”

“The Intelligenciers are reliable servants of the Crown, even if they claim to answer to a higher calling. I won’t have them killed in the streets.”

“A rabid dog might once have been your most faithful hunting hound. That doesn’t mean it’s not necessary to put it down.”

The king frowned. “You have my answer. There are bigger concerns than just public opinion in Mirabay. A crusade against Mirabay is the last thing we need.”

“That’s a fantastical notion, your—”

“You. Have. My. Answer.” The king’s expression softened. “In principle I agree with you, but one must be cautious in overturning a thousand years of law and tradition. The time is near, but not quite at hand. You went ahead without notifying me this time. Do not do so again. I want to know before you do anything. Using the privy is the only decision you are to make without notifying me in advance. Understood?”

Amaury smiled, quelling the urge to do murder.

CHAPTER 14

Guillot could remember being brought out to the site of a recent battle in the entourage of a general when he was still a fresh adjutant. The man had surveyed the field, ravaged in the way only violence can, and littered with bodies. The general had maintained an expression of distant interest, taking in all that he was being told, and all that he could see. At the time, nothing had struck Guillot as unusual about the scene. The man was simply another general who held the lives of his men cheaply.

Later that night, while enjoying a few bottles of wine in the camp with some of the other junior officers, Guillot learned that the reason the general had asked to see the field—the site of a battle he had not commanded—was because three of his sons had been in one of the infantry regiments that had been cut to pieces. All three of them had been lying dead on the ground that afternoon as the general surveyed the devastation, no doubt flicking his gaze from body to body, both hoping to see, and terrified of seeing, a familiar face.

The other officer had continued, saying that the general had returned to his tent and wept as he wrote a letter to the boys’ mother, telling her that he would not be bringing any of their sons home with him. It was grit, and knowing the full story, Gill had remained moved by it for the rest of his life.

As one of the farmhands led Guillot, Beausoleil, and Val from site to site, clearly terrified to be visiting the locations of the recent dragon attacks, Gill did his best to maintain the general’s sangfroid. From time to time, he would jump down from his horse and inspect the scorch marks on the ground, or kneel next to a talon print and prod it with a twig as though it was revealing something important to him. It was all for show, but he knew that giving people confidence was as much a part of his job as killing the dragons. Even if the people were killed, there was nothing worse than living out your last days in terror. At least if he did his best, he could give them hope.

There were titbits to be gleaned from what was left behind. The prints on the ground definitely indicated that these beasts were smaller than the one he had already dealt with, but not by much. They grew fast. At the location of the most recent attack, they found some remains of the dragons’ last meal. They were so mangled, and there was so little left, Gill couldn’t tell if they were human or animal. Either way, he didn’t think anyone would be eager to come out and collect them for burial.

“Whose farm is this?” Gill asked their guide.

“Louis’s. He came down to the village when the attacks started. That isn’t him.”

“That’s something, at least,” Gill said. He didn’t know what fate awaited Louis now that his entire herd had been slaughtered. For a peasant farmer, loss of their herd might be as bad an injury as death.

“What do you think?” Beausoleil said, speaking for the first time that morning.

Gill gave him a solemn look. “I think there was a dragon here a while ago.”

Val let out a laugh, and Beausoleil cast him a filthy look.

“What I think,” Gill said, “is that whichever dragon left this print is smaller than the last one I fought, and that’s a good thing. That there are two more of about the same size, and that they seem to enjoy each other’s company, is a very bad thing.”

“You think we’ll be able to manage?” Beausoleil asked.

Gill shrugged. “I don’t see why not. Particularly if we’re able to pick up another blade or two from the assemblage in the village. If we can separate the beasts, I’d rate our chances as pretty good. I think we should head back and set the village carpenter and smith to work. I have to ride out with Edine to speak with the local seigneur, so I’ll leave that to you.”

He had taken the precaution of using the Cup that morning, before leaving his room at the tavern. He wasn’t ready to reveal it yet, and eased a guilty conscience that he was protecting himself and not them with the thought that if they were attacked, he could hold the beast off while they retreated back to the village. He hadn’t had any sense that there was a dragon close by, but he knew that didn’t necessarily mean there wasn’t one—he still wasn’t fully sure of everything the Cup did, what was real, and what he’d imagined. He looked toward the mountains, seeing mist starting to descend from them. Such fogs had been common in Villerauvais at the same time of year. Anyone who got caught in it would be wet, cold, and miserable in a few minutes.

The fire in the tavern’s taproom was a very welcoming prospect by comparison, and he needed some time to consider the task they had ahead of them. He turned to their farmhand guide. “I think we’ve seen enough. We can return now.”

The city looked much as it had when she left. Though a lot had changed for her, a great city was almost timeless in the way it slowly evolved, oblivious of the toils of those who lived within its walls. Centred on an island in the middle of the River Vosges, it spilled over the isle’s confines and spread out over both the north and south banks. Mirabay was a splendour of white limestone and slate roofs, all observed silently by the palace with its cone-topped towers and streaming banners, on the high ground of the south bank.

Solène nervously approached the gate, wondering if the guards would be looking for her. A stream of people were passing in and out, as they had been the first time she came to the city. There was no sign of the panic Guillot had feared would spread with word of the dragon.

She urged her horse on. As she grew closer, Solène wondered if she’d overestimated her importance, and if all her concerns were nothing more than narcissistic paranoia. The guards made no attempt to stop her—they barely even gave her a second glance.

The next test would be at the Priory. If they knew she had been with Leverre and taken part in the killing of other members of the Order, they would hardly expect her to return. They would recognise her on sight, though, and things could go badly wrong if they tried to arrest her. Did she have it in her to defend herself if she had to? She couldn’t answer that. She thought about hiding somewhere and sending word to Seneschal dal Drezony, who she felt certain would help her.

She shook her head. She had no reason to doubt that Leverre had left a letter behind. The story of her journey home was plausible enough, especially if dressed up in sentiment and irrational emotion.

The Priory was in the city’s northern ward, which meant having to pass the whole way through, crossing the bridges that linked the isle with the two banks. There were few other points at which to get over to the north bank, one of the reasons Mirabay was situated where it was. Solène took her time, trying to behave as just another citizen going about the day’s business. A bill posted on a wall caught her attention when she neared one of the bridges to the island. In bold lettering were the words DRAGON SLAIN.

She went over and scanned the short notice, which stated that the beast had been killed by a team sent on the king’s behalf. It assured the people that the land was safe and that there would be a more detailed announcement from the palace in due course. There were no details, no mention of anything that was actually of interest to Solène. She wondered how much the king and Prince Bishop actually knew.

With nothing further to be gleaned from the notice, she continued on her way, more relaxed now that she’d spent some time in the city without any problems. It didn’t take her long to pass through the heart of the city to the north bank. From there, the building density decreased until she reached the walled compound occupied by the Order. Once she went inside, there was no turning back. She took a deep breath and rang the bell to notify the gatehouse.

It took a moment for the door to open, revealing a young novice. Solène drew back her travelling cloak to reveal her initiate’s robe, and he stepped back to let her in. She headed straight for dal Drezony’s office. Despite her misgivings as to what the Prince Bishop really intended for the Order, Solène liked the Priory. In bustling, hectic Mirabay, it was a serene place where calm and contemplation ruled, barring the occasional explosion when magical experimentation went too far.

Committed to her path, she knocked on dal Drezony’s door.

The seneschal opened it a moment later, not looking at all well. Solène frowned. “Is everything all right?”

“Solène?” dal Drezony said, ignoring her question. “I was worried. Where have you been?”

Solène shrugged. “It’s a long story. I went back to Bastelle. It’s near the dragon attacks. I had to see for myself if everyone was all right.”

Dal Drezony frowned for a moment, then relaxed. “Come in, come in. You know how dangerous that was, don’t you?”

“Yes. No one saw me. I didn’t go close enough. Just to a nearby hill where I could get a good look. I don’t know why. I felt like I needed to, is all.”

“It’s normal to still feel a tie to the place. Maybe one day, you’ll be able to go back in safety. Attitudes might be different in the future.”

Solène let out a sad laugh that she did not have to feign. “In a place like Bastelle? It takes centuries for them to change their outlooks.”

“I suppose so.”

“I wanted to come and apologise for not letting you know I was going. It was a last-minute thing. I was already on the road before I realised what I was doing.”

“I would have appreciated it,” dal Drezony said. “But that can’t be helped now. All sorts of things have happened while you were gone. I was beginning to think you might have been caught up in them.”

Solène gave her as curious a look as she could muster. “Really? What?”

Dal Drezony studied her for a moment. “It seems Commander Leverre had something of a crisis of conscience and refused the Prince Bishop’s orders. There was a fight between him and some other members of the Order. He didn’t survive.”

Solène let her mouth drop open. “I’m sorry to hear that. I didn’t know him well, but he seemed like a principled man.”

“He was. Rough around the edges, but he knew right from wrong. The Order will feel his loss badly. His replacement is far from ideal.” She let out a long, tired sigh. “As I said, things have been … difficult here over the past few days. If there’s nothing else?”

“Actually, there is,” Solène said. “I had to use some magic on the road. A highwayman. It nearly killed me.”

Dal Drezony nodded slowly.

Fearing she had raised dal Drezony’s suspicions, Solène continued quickly, drawing on her experiences when travelling with Gill and dal Sason. “His name was Captain Fernand. Have you heard of him?”

Dal Drezony frowned. “Should I have?”

Solène let out a nervous laugh. “He seemed to think he was famous. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is I still can’t control my magic. I didn’t mean to kill him. It was horrible. I feel like I have access to so much raw power, but no way to restrict its flow. Whenever I use it, it’s like opening a flood barrier. All or nothing.”

“That’s what always worried me, but the Prince Bishop wasn’t interested in my concerns. Your affinity to the Fount is so strong, the levels of control you need are far beyond anything we’ve had to develop here. The things we can teach you simply aren’t strong enough.”

“What am I going to do?”

“We’ll work together on it. Until we have this problem solved, I’m not going to allow the Prince Bishop to use you for anything else.”

“About the Prince Bishop. Is he going to be angry with me for disappearing like that?”

“He’s been so busy, I suspect he’s barely noticed. But your story is a good one,” dal Drezony said with a knowing look. “If we stick to that, everything should be all right.”

Solène squirmed in her seat, but dal Drezony went on.

“I’m sure you must be tired from your journey. Eat, rest, and we’ll start first thing in the morning.”

CHAPTER 15

The archive beneath the cathedral had become something of a sanctuary for Amaury. There was a time when he had been able to find peace staring out of his office window into the tranquil garden beneath, but that had quickly become a tool to spy on aristocratic misbehaviour. Now the ancient library was his preferred place to find peace. The king’s behaviour had so incensed him that Amaury had decided to give himself some extra time in the archive, as both a treat and an opportunity to clear his head and consider his plans.

His long disappearances undoubtedly added to his ephemeral mystery, and by corollary, to the fear he could elicit. If people didn’t know where he was or what he was doing, that might mean he was watching them, that he knew what they were doing.

It was only down in that cool, dry cavern of a room that he felt at ease. Truly alone, with no one watching him. Not only was he away from prying, plotting eyes, he was surrounded by a wealth of knowledge. Gleaning that knowledge could be tedious, however. His comprehension of old Imperial was ever-improving, but to complicate matters, the old mages often wrote in codes. His basic magical skill helped a little there, but it was no more than a droplet of oil on a rusty gear. One book could take him days, sometimes weeks, to decipher.

He had hoped Solène would be able to speed things up in that regard, but she seemed to have disappeared. He knew dal Drezony was deliberately keeping her away from him, and probably all the more so after what he had forced dal Drezony to do to Barnot. There could be no doubt in dal Drezony’s mind now that everybody was a means to an end for the Prince Bishop.

With the Cup so close to being in his grasp, Amaury was determined to find out anything he could about how best to use it. Dal Drezony was trying to protect Solène for a reason—magic could be incredibly dangerous for the user. After all his efforts to get the Cup, the last thing he wanted was to kill himself the first time he tried using it.

He had discovered the Cup through reading about the first mage, Amatus, so that was where he now turned his attention once more.

He had long thought of himself as similar to Amatus. They both sought to bring refined, controlled magic into a world that knew little of it. There were lessons to be learned from a man who had achieved so much; and irony in the fact that if Amaury was successful, both men would have created their legacy by using the same ancient little object.

It was rare to find a book devoted to Amatus. He disappeared from the historical record late in the reign of the first emperor, before the College of Mages had grown large enough to devote armies of scribes to coding and recording everything of importance. Even the book Amaury held had likely been created decades or centuries after the first mage had disappeared, and likely was only a slightly less polished version of the myth than those which followed it.

Every story of Amatus spent a great deal of time talking about his humble origins and how his natural intelligence set him apart from others, but Amaury wasn’t interested in any of that. At some point in his youth, Amatus set off to learn more of the world. When he returned, he could wield incredible magical power. He used his abilities to help build an empire that consisted of all the nations around the Middle Sea. Despite that, he had never taken power for himself. At first Amaury had struggled to understand that, but now realised that Amatus, like Amaury himself, must have chosen to exercise his power from the shadows.

Amatus’s travels were what interested Amaury—the period during which he had encountered the Cup. Where had Amatus found it? How had he learned to use it? That was the knowledge Amaury hungered for. He’d never found more than tantalising hints.

He skimmed through the pages, pausing every so often to decipher a few lines to gauge where he was in the story. He started to grow frustrated. It seemed the writer was interested only in the years Amatus spent scratching in the dirt in the fishing village that would later become half of the great Imperial capital of Vellin-Ilora. He flipped pages with increasing speed and diminishing patience until a word caught his eye.

Mira.

He went back a few lines and started to read more carefully. The text said that Amatus travelled west across the sea to the land of Mira, where he spent time studying with a group called the “enlightened” at their ancient temple. Amaury’s skin tingled with excitement. Mirabaya had been known as “Mirabensis” when it was an Imperial province. Might it have been known as “Mira” before that? There was nowhere else he knew of with so similar a name, and it lay in the right direction from Vellin-Ilora. This was purely speculation on his part, but it was hard not to get excited by the thought that magic had started in this very land, perhaps not far from where he now sat. What if it was exactly where he now sat, and that was why the College of Mages chose that site for their library in Mirabensis?

He was fit to burst when he read the next few lines:

“Sadly, no trace of the Temple of the Enlightened was found when the Empire laid claim to this ancient land and named it the Province of Mirabensis.”

His mind raced with possibility. The irony of the Cup being found here, taken across the sea, then brought “home” only to be lost struck him hard. That the discovery of magic had been here in Mirabay sent his head into such a spin that it took him several moments to compose himself.

He knew he had too little to go on, so he took a deep breath and continued to read. There wasn’t much left in the book, and Amaury feared that this hint about the “enlightened” would be all he got. Did they still exist? Might he be able to learn from them? Or would they be a threat?

His heart sank as he read. The writer clearly didn’t know much of what went on, other than that Amatus gained his power at the temple and became a powerful mage, possessing a cup that allowed him to guide others to the same level of magical potency. On the final page, almost as a postscript, there was one more morsel that served only to whet Amaury’s appetite, rather than satiate it.

“Later in his life, Amatus returned to the temple in the land of Mira to take his place among the enlightened. He was never seen again, but his legacy endures.”

He had something new to search for—the Temple of the Enlightened. It might lead him to other fragments of knowledge, that would allow him to put the entire picture back together. He sighed. How would he find it? Where would he start?

CHAPTER 16

The world represented a great dichotomy, Pharadon thought, as he allowed warm updrafts to lift him in a long, lazy glide. In one respect, it was timeless—mountains, oceans, forests, and lakes. Changing, but remaining the same. In another, it had altered beyond all recognition. None of the marks of man nor dragon that he had expected to see were present. Everything was different. Even to his old soul, witness to so much, this was unsettling.

He could smell all sorts of things on the air, and knew that among his kind, he was not alone. The scents were unfamiliar, fresh and youthful, and he was certain they represented dragons he did not know. While that was something he would investigate soon, there was a stronger smell that he could not ignore—a familiar one that filled his heart with a mixture of joy and concern. It was the scent of his old rival, and older friend. Alpheratz.

He followed his nose, the route as clear to him as a forest game trail. The direction in which it led surprised him—toward humankind. Alpheratz had never been humanity’s greatest fan. He had always refused to take on human form, and Pharadon thought it unlikely he’d have changed his mind about that—an old dragon tends to be quite set in its ways. He took another great breath and wondered what had drawn him to a place filled with creatures he held in utter contempt.

Pharadon could not smell any other dragons he knew, nor had he seen a trace of any of them in the short time he had been awake. While the wars had distressed him to the point of self-imposed exile, he had enjoyed the company of many humans over the years, and had travelled extensively through their realm. Music, art, literature, architecture—they excelled at all, and had they confined themselves to these things, how much better a place the world might be. They had been a young race, however, and like dragonkind in its own youth, they were ruled by their baser instincts—avarice, jealousy, violence. By the absence of compassion. He couldn’t be too critical, though. The unenlightened amongst dragonkind were no different.

He’d fed on a small herd of deer, sating the hunger he had woken with. He could smell clusters of humans beneath him, and occasionally see the lights and fires they lit at night. There were far more of them than when Pharadon had gone to sleep, and they had spread. Even in the dark he could see the way they had changed the land around them. Forests were gone and rivers diverted; roads etched their way across the land like old battle scars. Places he remembered as being occupied by humans were larger, and they lived in more towns than before. They had thrived, while dragonkind apparently had not.

When he located the source of Alpheratz’s scent, Pharadon stopped and hovered awhile, deep in thought. The smell came from the centre of a large town. Could Alpheratz actually have chosen to live amongst them in human form? It seemed hard to believe. Had humans won the wars with dragonkind and enslaved them? Or had a way been found to live together in harmony? He liked that idea, but there was only one way to find out.

He fell into a long, spiralling descent that ended when his talons bit into the ground. Then Pharadon did something he had not done in a very long time. He reached deep within his soul, to the dense concentration of the Fount located at its core, and bade it change him. He felt his muscles heat and tingle. It was not painful—more like a deep, uncomfortable ache in every fibre of his being, one he willed to soon be over. When it was done, he remembered that in human terms, he was naked. It had been so long since he had taken on human form that some of the details had escaped him. It would have been far easier to obtain clothes from one of the hanging lines humans used while he could still fly. The benefits of hindsight.

The only thing he had to cover his nakedness was the darkness, and there was not much of that left. It would be hours before he had absorbed enough of the Fount to replenish what he had used and be able to create clothes—he was still very out of practice. It would be longer still before he had enough to transform back to his natural state. The switch between human and dragon form was one of those strange magics that was entirely reliant on one’s internal reservoir of magical energy, making it dangerous to the caster but incredibly potent. The transformation required the expanded capacity enjoyed by the enlightened, and even then could be performed only after much practice. Their base brethren could not do it.

He wondered what to do next. His nakedness would mark him out among other humans, and that was never a good thing, even had he genuinely been one of them. Also, he couldn’t ignore the possibility that his transformation was not perfect, that he had not left a telltale patch of scale on his back, or some such. His first priority had to be to find something to cover himself with, so he struck off into the darkness to accomplish just that.

The garments were dirty, and smelled as though someone might have used them to wipe their backside. There were holes and tears, and they didn’t fit properly. All that could be said for them was that they covered Pharadon from neck to ankle, and for his purposes, that was good enough. It was with some trepidation that he approached the town’s gates, which had opened shortly after dawn. There was a steady trickle of people in and out, including one or two who looked just as dishevelled as Pharadon.

In his experience, humans treated the indigent in one of two ways: either they ignored them completely, or they behaved as if they were vermin. Pharadon hoped for the former; his unpleasant smell might convince others to give him a wide berth. You could never tell with humans, however, and he wondered if he should smear some horse dung on the cloth to make his odour more potent. Realising he was in view of the guards, he decided it would look odd and would guarantee unwanted attention, so elected not to.

He shambled along, mimicking the air of defeat and lack of purpose exuded by others of a similar appearance, locking his gaze on the ground before him. Being accosted by the guards would not be an enjoyable experience. While in human guise, he was unremarkable in all respects. He could fight well enough, and his body was strong, fit, and healthy, but none of that could stop several guards from beating him senseless. He’d experienced that once, and had no desire to do so again.

These guards didn’t prove to be a problem; they let him pass without interruption. Pharadon maintained his defeated gait until he had put some distance between himself and the gate, then eased into a more comfortable stride. It didn’t take him long to get to the source of the smell, a small building with letters painted along the lintel. Many years ago, Pharadon had made an unenthusiastic attempt to learn to read the human language, but he’d never mastered it. He squinted at the letters, and despite a strenuous effort at recollection, he couldn’t make out the words. He considered applying some magic to the problem, but was still tired from his transformation and didn’t care all that much what they said. A window of small glass lozenges held together by lead cames afforded a distorted view of what was inside, but Pharadon could not work out if the figure moving about inside might be Alpheratz in human form.

The building looked like a business of some kind, so Pharadon let himself in. The man inside was facing away, working at a large object on a bench that was covered with a sheet of linen cloth. Pharadon cleared his throat. The man turned, and frowned.

“No vagrants here,” he said. “Be gone, or I’ll call the Watch.”

That was the type of trouble that Pharadon was trying to avoid, but perhaps Alpheratz had sunk so far into his new form that he behaved like the humans too. The scent was certainly coming from in front of him.

“Alpheratz?” Pharadon said, hesitantly.

There was no sign of recognition in the man’s eyes. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. Please leave. Now.”

He took a step forward, revealing what had hitherto been obscured by his body. Pharadon’s eyes widened in horror. He couldn’t see much, but it was enough. Alpheratz. Still very much in dragon form, with a great glass ball staring at him from where Alpheratz’s eye should have been. It took Pharadon a moment to realise that the man was still talking. He made out the word “Watch” again, so he nodded and stumbled backwards, out onto the street. The shopkeeper followed and slammed the door in his face, leaving Pharadon to absorb the shock of seeing the head of his equal parts friend and enemy of countless years, disembodied in a human workshop. What had happened to him? How had it come to this? He had to find out. Dumbfounded, Pharadon walked straight out of the town.