Every so often a priest on the fringes of church control would get it in their head that they had some great insight the church had overlooked in its two-thousand-year existence, and set up shop as a mystic. It rarely took the Intelligenciers long to rid the church of the problem they presented, and useful as that was, Amaury realised there was something of an irony that his interests would make him a target. At least he had the brains to keep quiet about his plans.
Sadly, the Intelligenciers were not the only problem. Most people feared and loathed magic—and that represented the greatest obstacle to his plans for the Spurriers. He would overcome it, as he had every other roadblock he’d encountered, but how to do so wasn’t clear to him yet. If he were a religious man, he would pray. The thought made him smile.
Seated in a comfortable chair, away from his desk, Amaury took a deep breath, forcing himself to relax as much as possible for a man of his responsibilities. He closed his eyes and did his best to push all of the matters vying for his attention to the back of his mind. When he opened his eyes, he fought to ensure there was only one thought in his head—the image of a glowing mote of light that gave off no heat. His brow furrowed as he tried to maintain the mental discipline needed to keep the question is it working? from popping into his head.
A glowing ember formed in the air in the centre of his office, no brighter than the wick of a dying candle. His breathing quickened but he forced himself to remain calm and focussed. The glow started to grow stronger, though it was still less bright than a candle flame. Sweat beaded on his brow and the veins in his forehead pulsed. He concentrated on the image in his mind’s eye rather than what he saw forming before him.
Leaning forward, he strained to put more of himself into the light. His muscles tensed. As suddenly as it had appeared, the glow vanished. Slumping back in his chair, Amaury sighed. It was ever the same, and he was reluctantly coming to accept this as the limit of his magical ability. He wondered: if he had found his way into the archive as a child, would he be capable of more? If only he could find someone with real power. He knew they existed; he had even thought, on a couple of occasions, that he had found one, but though they were able to do more than others, they were not strong enough for his needs.
He knew he was really talking about a weapon: a natural-born mage who would be capable of defending the Order until the children they were training came of age. More than one would be better, but even one would do. Natural mages were a curious thing. Even the old texts didn’t explain how they came to be or how to find them. He had thought of liaising with the Intelligenciers, who had a wealth of experience in such matters, but that would draw too much attention to things he did not want noticed.
It all came down to the Fount, and how attuned one was to it. It was a mysterious, fascinating thing; it was everywhere, but to benefit from it, to use it, one had to be aware of it, to accept it, to develop an affinity with it. Some had to be taught, while some crawled from the womb able to draw on it almost before they could draw breath. From that moment—whether they realised it or not—they used magic in everything. With his knowledge, he could train such a person to so great a degree of potency that the Intelligenciers would be a mere trifle.
As attractive as that was, it raised another problem. How could he hope to remain master of an order if he was its weakest member? At least he had a prospective solution to that worry: the Cup. From his hours poring over the Imperial papers in the archive, he had learned it could give a person of any age a strong connection to the Fount. The wasted years would be washed away when he drank from it, and he would become as powerful as any mage and secure in the leadership of the order he had created.
It was hard to fathom how such an important object could be lost, but he realised those had been difficult times. The Empire had been coming apart at its seams—the Imperial family had been overthrown and murdered, the College of Mages had stretched themselves to the breaking point, trying to maintain control. Their long-faithful servants, the bannerets, had found the extent to which their masters would go to hold onto power too horrific to allow.
Against that tumult, the Chevaliers of the Silver Circle, who chose to remain true to their duty of protecting mankind from dragons rather than take sides in the civil war, decided to take the Cup—their most sacred relic—to a place where they thought it would be safe. It never got there.
They had been transporting it and their treasury to their new headquarters, somewhere in the southeast of the country. Dragons had attacked their convoy and carried off the treasure, along with the Cup. Dragons were said to hoard gold in their dens, so it seemed to Amaury that the treasury, and the Cup, would have ended up in one.
At first it had seemed like looking for a needle in a haystack, but he had discovered that an object of such great magical potency left a footprint on the Fount. Seeking that footprint was the way to find the object. Fortunately, that could be done by even the weakest of mages—even me, he thought.
According to Leverre’s report, the commander was certain he had found the Cup’s location. It was damned bad luck that the cavern where it lay also held a dormant dragon. Worse still that they had managed to wake it up. It seemed each solution to his problems created more problems. To get the Cup, he needed to kill the dragon. To kill the dragon, his only solution so far was to use a disgraced drunk, and Guillot was sure to bring problems with him.
Amaury was distracted from his thoughts by a knock on his door. It creaked open and his secretary peered in.
“I told you I wasn’t to be disturbed,” Amaury said, tired and not interested in having to deal with anyone, or anything.
“I’m sorry, your Grace. You said you wanted to be informed immediately when Banneret of the White dal Sason arrived back in the city. He’s sent this note.”
Amaury sighed. “Fine,” he said. “Leave it on the desk. Thank you.”
* * *
Amaury forced himself not to run with excitement as he walked the polished marble floors of the palace toward the king’s private offices. Dal Sason’s note reported that not only had he succeeded in bringing Guillot back to Mirabay, but they had rescued a very interesting young woman from a mob in Trelain. Amaury couldn’t recall the last time he had felt so giddy. Possibly he never had, but he certainly did at that moment. Opportunity and disaster, hand in hand. The world was a place of great irony. Given the choice, he would already be on his way to meet with dal Sason and the new arrivals, but even Amaury had to pay lip service to the king and report to him first.
So far, the king had been fastidious in attending his duties, keeping court every day and working at his desk long into the night. Should he develop too high an opinion of his own ability, it might become a problem, but thus far he had shown himself to be receptive to Amaury’s suggestions. He might even prove to be the perfect puppet that Amaury desired, but it was too early to determine that.
He reached the king’s office, irritated by the need to knock and wait under the scrutiny of the guards standing there. When the king’s secretary finally opened the door, he remained in the doorway, blocking entry.
“I have business with the king,” Amaury said.
“His Majesty is very busy and has asked not to be disturbed.”
“It’s urgent,” Amaury said.
“Then perhaps you’d like to wait, and I’ll inform the king. I’m sure he’ll see you the moment he is free.” The secretary smiled, and gestured to a plush velvet couch in the guarded antechamber to the king’s private office.
Amaury had no option but to wait. Once the king knew he was there, Amaury couldn’t leave until given permission. He forced a smile, nodded, and sat.
* * *
Amaury had counted three peals of the cathedral’s bells before the king’s secretary opened the door and gestured for Amaury to enter Boudain’s private office. When he went in, he found the king sitting at his desk with his face buried in a document.
“The first piece of my plan is almost in place, you
r Majesty.”
“Good,” the king said, looking up from his work. “Please do enlighten me.”
“You might recall an incident five years ago with one of the Chevaliers of the Silver Circle.”
“The assassination attempt on my father?”
“Indeed. The Chevalier who was prosecuted for dereliction of duty and treason has, on my instruction, returned to the city.”
“Dal Villerauvais. I remember him. How could I not? At times I thought father preferred him to me. Father was so proud when he won the Competition—a son of Mirabaya! Prouder still to have him here at the palace and in the Silver Circle. It went hard on him when dal Villerauvais let him down. Why would you bring him back?”
“With a dragon loose in the mountains, is it not natural to turn to the only member of an order of dragonslayers still living?”
“The last time the Silver Circle slew a dragon, there were people still alive who had been born Imperial citizens,” the king said. “If I recall my history correctly, the last dragons were slain during the reign of my forebear, Boudain the Second. Guillot dal Villerauvais did a great many things, but I don’t recall slaying a dragon being one of them.”
“Yes, but it’s not just a matter of expertise or experience,” Amaury said. “It’s always struck me as a tragedy that none of my forebears paid more attention to the ancient papers in the cathedral’s library. I spend every spare moment there, seeking things that might aid your reign. Our current project, for instance, can trace its birth to one of my late-night reading sessions.
“I’ve learned things about the Chevaliers. They were imbued at their initiation with a number of abilities that made them more effective when fighting dragons. Indeed, the Chevaliers were something closer to what we are trying to create with the Order—both warrior and mage, not one or the other.”
“That was a magical ceremony, and a practise that was stopped a thousand years ago. I don’t need to read your ancient papers to know that. However the most recent Chevaliers were initiated, I expect it did little more than test their capacity for wine.”
“Indeed, your Highness, but there might still be something to it, and I think it would be remiss to ignore the possibility. The Chevaliers had a secret initiation ritual. From what I’ve read, it may be that the ritual, possibly unbeknownst to the participants, retained a magical quality even long after the days of magic had ended. I have hope that the ceremony by itself will have given him an advantage in the fight against this dragon.”
“Why is that?” the king said impatiently.
The Prince Bishop calmed himself. If it hadn’t been for him, the king’s father would have been pulled from his throne years before, and the best Boudain the Tenth could have hoped for would have been exile, or a quick death. As it was, he sat on a throne secured for him by other men. He would need to learn that, and learn it quickly.
“One thing we have discovered from our experiments and training in the Order is that words focus the mind, and focussing the mind shapes magic. If the user has an affinity with the Fount, whether natural or trained, in the correct circumstances, nothing more is needed. It’s possible some of the Chevaliers were crafting magic during this ceremony without realising it.”
“It sounds rather tenuous,” the king said.
“I admit that it is, but I still think it’s worth a try. If nothing else, it allows us to take action immediately, while we consider other alternatives. It might even work. There’s only one way to find out.”
The king steepled his fingers and leaned back in his chair. “You plan on having dal Villerauvais kill this beast for us.”
“Yes. Yes, I do,” Amaury said.
“You think he’s up to it? I heard he’s been rotting away at the end of a bottle since the trial.”
“I’m not sure.”
“What about the Order of the Golden Spur?”
Amaury blushed. The dragon already represented the greatest blot on the Spurriers’ short record. “I think it safe to say that the brothers and sisters of the Order aren’t yet ready for something like this.”
“Even the more experienced members?”
“This project is still too short-lived to yield results, Highness. The day when they can is close, but not yet here.”
“What about the Chevaliers’ ritual? Why can’t the Spurriers conduct that? The old bannerets weren’t mages, simply enhanced warriors. Might we not be able to do the same for ours?”
Amaury raised his hands. “While many sources mention the ritual, I’ve yet to come across anything that actually describes it.”
“Dal Villerauvais, then. Surely he can tell you what you need to know?”
If he was sober enough to remember any of it, Amaury thought. “That’s a possibility, Highness, but I’d rather not reveal the true nature of the Order to someone with as checkered a reputation as he for as long as possible. I plan to interview him before I send him out. If I think he might be able to help us in that way, rest assured I will pursue it.”
“It’s a shame the Order isn’t able to aid us in our time of greatest need. That’s what they’re for, aren’t they?”
“Indeed, Highness,” Amaury said.
“Are we wasting time and resources on them?”
“Far from it,” Amaury said, “but to send the Spurriers out now would be to waste their potential. My next order of business is to work out a targeted training plan, so they can deal with this threat in the event that dal Villerauvais isn’t up to the task. In a few weeks, I expect they’ll be better able to tackle the dragon, if it hasn’t already been dealt with.”
The king steepled his fingers beneath his nose again, as he had a habit of doing when he wished to appear wiser than his years, or his ability. The gesture was quickly coming to irritate Amaury.
“I want our people to have whatever it is he has. Before we send him off. If words were said that might have effect, I want to know what they are. They might even carry more weight when said by one of the Order’s mages, even if they made no difference for dal Villerauvais and his lot. Still, I’m not convinced the initiation to the Silver Circle was anything more than a drunken debauch.”
“Be that as it may, it’s prudent to investigate all avenu—”
“Yes, I agree,” the king said. “Now, I’ve a great deal of work to do. Please see to what we’ve discussed as expeditiously as possible.”
Amaury bit his lip, bowed his head, and left. He glanced out a window as he exited the antechamber under the gaze of the ever-vigilant guards. It was dark out, and he was tired. It was late to arrange a meeting with the new arrivals, though ordinarily that would not have bothered him. However, he wanted to be at his best when he encountered Gill again, and he needed a good night’s sleep for that.
CHAPTER
14
Dal Sason was waiting for Gill when he went down to the dining room for breakfast the next morning.
“The Prince Bishop is ready to see us at our earliest convenience,” dal Sason said, making no effort at a greeting.
“I thought it was the king I came all this way to see?” Guillot said, sniping at dal Sason to exorcise the bad mood he seemed to wake up in each morning since going sober.
“It is, but the Prince Bishop would like to speak with you first.”
“I wouldn’t want to keep him waiting.” Gill waved to a waiter. “I’ll start with fruit and yoghurt, followed by a full cooked breakfast with toast and preserves. Orange juice to wash it down. Then, I think pastries. Just bring me a selection. And coffee of course—strong, with hot milk.” That should take a while to get through, he thought. Then, remembering the Prince Bishop was footing the bill, he added, “And the same for my friends.”
Dal Sason settled into his chair with a resigned look on his face. Gill was disappointed—his tactic had probably been expected. Realising you were predictable always came as a letdown. He also felt a little guilty—dal Sason was, after all, only a servant of the Crown, following orders, much as Guill
ot had once been. The fact that the Prince Bishop had stuck his beak into the mix wasn’t the young banneret’s fault. Gill’s conscience threatened to get the better of him, and he was on the verge of cancelling the pastry course until he saw a plate of them being brought to a nearby table; gluttony beat conscience back into the hole where it belonged.
Solène joined them as the fruit arrived, showing all the benefits of a good night’s sleep—and many miles distance from the angry mob that had wanted to burn her alive.
“I expect you’ll have a busy day ahead,” Guillot said as she sat. “I think I’ll be needing some new duds myself, so be sure to ask the seamstress if she can recommend a good tailor.”
“That will have to wait,” dal Sason said. “His Grace wishes to meet Solène too.”
Her eyes widened. “Why?”
Her quavering voice betrayed the fear her blank expression was doing its best to conceal. Guillot’s mood darkened further.
“What did you tell him?” he asked, anger in his voice. He was damned if he had saved her from the pyre only to deliver her to the Prince Bishop’s warped sense of justice.
Dal Sason raised his hands defensively. “It’s nothing like that. I’m given to understand he takes a keen interest in her … unique talents. He merely wishes to speak with her.”
Guillot narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean by that?”
“I really can’t say any more. He will explain when you see him.”
“Does she have your word as a banneret and a gentleman that she will not be harmed, and will be free to leave of her own accord whenever she wishes?”
“I can give you my word on that.” He faced Solène. “You have my word, as a Banneret of the White, and as a gentleman and seigneur of Mirabaya.”
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