Servant of the Crown Page 14

  As much as he would have liked to devote every moment to exploring the power this new Cup seemed to have permanently granted him, he still had a kingdom to run and a population to calm. There were reports coming in of a dragon sighting over the city, but they were so few that he wrote them off as hysteria. With so much talk of dragons these days, every misshapen cloud would appear to be the subject of their nightmares for some.

  What was more irritating was that Gill and his friends had escaped with the king. Amaury couldn’t be sure how big a problem that might be, couldn’t determine if it would actually work in his favour. That the king had taken seriously ill would be obvious to everyone who saw him. There could be no accusations that Amaury had deposed and imprisoned a healthy man. It was evidence, if he needed it, that his regency was entirely legal.

  It also opened the door to another interesting possibility. He’d long since accepted the fact that, at an opportune moment, King Boudain the Tenth would have to be killed. No matter how effectively he contrived the death to look like a consequence of the man’s illness, there would always be those who would accuse him of regicide. Now that the king had been taken from his protective custody, away from the finest physicians in the land? The responsibility for the king’s health and safety resided with the misguided fools who had taken him from the palace. If the king were to die now …

  Amaury smiled at the thought. Ever able to pull opportunity from defeat—save for that time in the Competition. That was the only true defeat he had suffered in life. It was something that he couldn’t let go of, no matter how much wealth and how much power he had. Even now, granted all the boons the Cup from the ancients could grant, he was sitting in his office thinking about Gill and getting angry.

  Still, his hip was an unpleasant memory he could now erase. A physician would be calling that afternoon, to start instructing him on the anatomy of the hip, which seemed to be a remarkably complex system of joint, muscles, and all the various things that went with them. He knew from the Order’s healers that healing was not just about having the magical ability to make the repairs needed, it was about knowing how every element in the body was supposed to be, and returning it to that state.

  Amaury didn’t have that knowledge and wasn’t willing to start experimenting on himself. Until he was confident he could properly execute the healing, his hip would have to wait. He might be impatient, but he wasn’t a fool—he had no desire to make the problem worse. Still, now that he knew the fix was at hand, it felt like far less pressing an issue. The man who had caused it, however …

  He stood and swore, looking at the cracked wooden panelling and damaged plaster, signs of Gill’s impact with the wall. The memory of the look of surprise on the clown’s face brought a fleeting smile to Amaury’s. He should have drunk from the Cup earlier. Then he would have been ready for Gill when the man had had the audacity to come to the office with his cronies. He’d have been able to settle that score once and for all. As it was, all he’d been able to do was leave Gill with some bumps and bruises. The fellow had still managed to get away from the palace and disappear. He continued to be the thorn in Amaury’s side. Still, like the Prince Bishop’s hip, that was a matter that would not be long in the settling.

  Amaury did his best not to dwell on his frustration. To do so caused rage that clouded his mind, a problem since he had many things he needed to focus on. At least he had taken the Cup from Gill. From everyone. They would fear him now, but as tempting as it was, he knew the time wasn’t right for a demonstration of what he could do. How he could be the great leader Mirabaya so desperately needed.

  The people were afraid. They were angry. They needed the benefits the Order could bring, but they didn’t know it yet. He needed to demonstrate the wonders magic offered each and every one of them. Only when they accepted those gifts would he show them what magic could really do. What he could really do. For them, and for Mirabaya. But most of all, for Amaury.

  CHAPTER

  20

  Gill was feeling rather redundant. He didn’t have a sword, and even if he had, there was presently no one for him to stick it in. Solène, Pharadon, and the count’s physician were in conclave at a corner table, making their final preparations. The count himself continued to absent himself, no doubt hoping not being present would limit his culpability should the use of magic later be questioned. Dal Ruisseau Noir had also vanished, Gill knew not where.

  The soldiers Gill had hired to dig the hole did it quickly, eager to get their money and return to lounging by their campfire. They would have to wait a little longer, however. Not until the seamstress finished her part could the deacon conduct the rites … and Gill still had to find a few more coins to pay for it all. Now that Savin was around, Gill was tempted to put it to him—he would be bankrolling the activities of the next few weeks, until the king, once he was recovered and restored, had access to his treasury again.

  He knew there was only so long he could sit in the inn with all that tension before the temptation to have a drink became too much to resist. It wasn’t something that played on his mind much anymore, but the desire still lurked there, offering to help him through troubled times. Considering the disastrous consequences of his last lapse, he wanted to put some distance between himself and alcohol.

  Outside, he stared skyward at the early evening stars. He heard some noise behind him, and turned. It was dal Ruisseau Noir.

  “Fine evening,” the Intelligencier said.

  Gill had always thought a fine evening to be one where he could relax on his porch, in that old rocking chair, with a twist of tobacco and not a care in the world. He couldn’t imagine being much farther from that state than he was now. The thought of Amaury ruling the realm pushed him to the point of despair.

  “Fine enough,” Gill said with a nod. He felt unusually talkative, eager to distract himself from dwelling on Amaury, or what might be going on inside the inn. “Tell me, where is Ruisseau Noir? I’ve not heard of it.”

  Dal Ruisseau Noir smiled and tapped the side of his head.

  “Oh, of course,” Gill said, then frowned. “Would you not have picked something a little easier to manage?”

  The other man shrugged. “If you’re going to tell a lie, it might as well be a big one. They’re more likely to be believed. The bigger and more implausible the lie, the harder it is for a person to imagine that anyone is making up something so preposterous.

  “Few Intelligenciers keep their real names when they join the service. To do so might endanger family members and such. Besides, I like the way it sounds.”

  For a moment he reverted back to the foppish persona he had been maintaining when Gill had first met him.

  “Makes sense, I suppose. Seems like a harsh thing, though. To have to give up who you were before.” Gill thought on it for a moment. “Perhaps not, though.”

  “What brought you into all of this?” dal Ruisseau Noir said.

  “Amaury,” Gill said. “The Prince Bishop. Who else? His people woke up the first dragon when they were looking for the Cup. He wanted me to try to kill it. Not sure why—something to do with the Silver Circle having been dragonslayers back in the day, he said, but most likely I expect he saw it as an easy way to get rid of me. Didn’t quite work out for him the way he hoped. Which is something, I suppose.”

  “The people most unsuited for rule are often the ones who reach the top,” dal Ruisseau Noir said.

  “What inspired you to mount the rescue mission?” Gill said.

  “My commander’s last order was to oppose the Prince Bishop at every step, and continue carrying out our duty to the Crown. We were all but wiped out during Amaury’s takeover. A secret war was waged on the streets, and though we were ready for it, there are only so many ways to fight a power that knows almost everything about us. Only a few undercover groups, like mine, survived. You can’t stand by, hoping that someone else will take on the task that’s supposed to be yours.”

  His words reminded Gill of something Va
l had said. Sentiment like that was a good way to get a man killed, yet it was something he couldn’t dismiss. He remembered all too clearly the time when he had lived by similar sentiments. He couldn’t decide whether there was nobility in these thoughts, that they were a good guide on how to live, or if it was all nonsense, poured into the heads of impressionable youths. Then they’d willingly march off to lay down their lives so that someone else could become a little wealthier or a little more powerful. Perhaps he was just a cynic. Perhaps he was right. Either way, the thought of Amaury on the throne was one he couldn’t stomach.

  “What’s next for you?” Gill said.

  “I need to contact my commander in Humberland. I’m not convinced our last message got through to him.”

  “Back to mage hunting?”

  “Perhaps,” dal Ruisseau Noir said. “I think that may be shutting the stable door after the horse has bolted. We’ll have to adapt to the new reality and find a worthwhile role within it.”

  “You’ll be telling your commander that?”

  “I will. I don’t doubt that there will be plenty more like the Prince Bishop who’ll abuse magic for all it’s worth, but people like Solène can do a lot of good in the world. We could all use a little more of that, I think.”

  “A fine sentiment,” Gill said, “and one I agree with.” He took one more reticent look at the stars, then turned. “I’m going to get some sleep. I’m not any use to those inside. Better to be rested for when I will be.”

  * * *

  Solène knew she could put things off no longer. The count’s physician had, sadly, not known nearly so much about the human brain as she had wished, while Pharadon knew far more about magic than she could hope to absorb in a lifetime. One thing was clear, however. Without her intervention, the king would continue as he was until his body weakened to the point that he would fall ill and die. She was the only one who could change that future.

  She didn’t want rumours flying around after this was done with, stories of all sorts of horrible magical goings-on. If she performed the healing behind closed doors, she knew that she would be perpetuating all the old fears of sorcery. If there were witnesses, the reality would have a chance of being known. She didn’t like having an audience, but in this case, it was important. Once the king was back on his throne, there might be a chance for her and those like her to play an open, useful role in society. Allowing people to see how innocuous the healing process was could go some way toward helping to create that reality.

  The count had called in to get an update from his physician, so the moment seemed ideal. It struck her that it might be important to have someone of his rank present to see what happened.

  Solène cleared her throat. “Perhaps, Lord Savin, you might wish to remain for the procedure? Your aides too? Banneret dal Ruisseau Noir, you’re welcome to remain also. All I request is that you keep completely silent. The concentration this will require is enormous. Any distraction could prove disastrous.”

  Savin prevaricated for a moment, but in the end gave a short nod. She knew he was uncomfortable being present when magic was shaped, but she valued her own safety far more than his comfort. Dal Ruisseau Noir gave her a nod. It felt odd knowing an Intelligencier would be watching her, but she knew he was as important an observer as could be had, if there were any future recriminations.

  Solène was as daunted by what she had to do as she had ever been. She might want it to appear innocuous to those watching, but it would be far from that. While she had drawn on an enormous amount of energy to melt the barrier beneath the palace, there was no finesse involved in that effort; thus, it was less taxing. Here the situation was reversed. The control required would make needlepoint look like the clumsiest of pastimes.

  The physician still looked unhappy that magic was going to be used to restore the king. He had suggested a trepanning—cutting a hole in the king’s skull—to let the foul humours out of his head, at which point Solène had ceased to pay attention to him.

  Her discussion with Pharadon had been far more enlightening. He told her that magic left a fingerprint and that with time she might become able to identify the shaper of the magic from the traces left behind. For now, though, if she sought out those traces within the king’s brain, she would be able to locate where the damage had been done. If the Prince Bishop had caused the injury by magic, as they suspected, this was her best approach. If it was something physical—apoplexy, some other ailment, the result of a blow—she would have to find another way.

  It was a start, but it didn’t change the fact that once she’d located the problem areas, she had to fix them. Might it be as simple as willing them to return to their former state? She could get a sense of that from the areas that weren’t damaged, and even by looking within herself, to develop a picture of what she was trying to achieve. Then there was the precision with which she would have to apply the Fount. It was daunting. Beyond daunting.

  Her only comfort was that she really couldn’t make the situation any worse. Even if she caused the king pain, he wasn’t aware enough to feel it. That magic had caused this wounded her. It proved right any person who feared magic, even justified the violence done to her and other mages. If she could heal the king, with others watching, she might be able to change the future for those like her. And she would save the life of a monarch who, in all respects, appeared to be a decent man.

  “I’m about to begin,” she said. “Please, complete silence from now on, until I tell you I’m finished.”

  Savin had kept back five men, two of them tough-looking bannerets who, Solène feared, might be there to deal with her, should her magical ways prove to be too profane for the count.

  “So much as a squeak out of any of you,” Savin said, “and I’ll have the hide off your backs.”

  He gave her an authoritative nod. It wasn’t what she would have done in his place, but so long as the result was what she wanted, there was no harm done. Pharadon and the physician stood at the other end of the table. Pharadon gave Solène an encouraging smile, while the physician stared at the king with a consternated expression on his face. All being well, he was about to watch his profession become obsolete.

  She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and opened her mind to the Fount. She allowed herself to relax as her mind drifted along the lines of beautiful, glowing blue energy. Feeling more at peace with the Fount than she ever had before, Solène began to focus on the king, his form outlined in blue light. She moved into his head and almost let out a gasp when she saw the traces Pharadon had spoken of. Glowing blue scars, but not the sort of narrow, smooth marks created by a sharp knife. They were rough, as though made with a serrated blade, or a clumsy cut.

  After a moment’s study and thought, Solène chose her approach. Rather than will healing, she decided to will the hideous scars away, using the Fount to gently wash them from the king’s flesh, conveying energy into his brain to restore it to its original form.

  It was painstaking work. As the tide washes pebbles along the beach, so too did her application of the Fount’s energy sweep across the king’s brain. The danger was she would wash away something that was supposed to be there. She focussed her will to applying tiny, delicate brushstrokes of energy, like a fine artist painting in a subject’s eyelashes. She allowed herself a momentary smile as the first scar began to recede, the edges drawing in, leaving normal flesh behind. She couldn’t be sure the end result would be what they were all looking for, but she was certainly removing the damage the Prince Bishop’s clumsy magic had caused.

  On and on she went, one delicate stroke at a time, narrowing her focus to a pinpoint, and regulating the amount of energy she allowed to flow through her, all the while trying to pretend that there weren’t eight other people in the room, watching her stand there with her eyes closed, apparently doing absolutely nothing.

  CHAPTER

  21

  When Gill came down to the taproom the next morning, looking for breakfast, King Boudain was sitting
in a chair, wrapped in a blanket, drinking a mug of broth. By himself. He had the distant stare of a man who’d been to all three hells and back. Despite all that, he didn’t look too bad, all things considered. A little pale, emaciated, and bedraggled, but nothing that some healthy living wouldn’t put to rights in a few weeks. To think of the state he’d been in the previous day …

  “Highness,” Gill said, bowing his head belatedly.

  Squinting up at Gill, the king said, “Dal Villerauvais, isn’t it? The slayer of dragons.”

  “The same, Highness,” Gill said. The moniker felt awkward, but it seemed to be sticking, so he reckoned he might as well accept it.

  “It seems we have one last dragon that needs slaying,” Boudain said. “Can I count on you once again?”

  “I’m ever a servant of the Crown,” Gill said, wondering if he’d ever be able to tell his liege to leave him in peace. Still, it wasn’t like he had anywhere to go, and despite his belief that many of the battles he had fought over the years had no worth, this one did.

  “Good man, good man,” the king said, sounding distant.

  “How are you feeling, Highness?” Gill said.

  The king’s focus, which had drifted, snapped back. “Who are you?” He looked around. “Who is this man? Where am I?”

  The physician rushed over—he’d been sitting at the bar. He looked like a man who hadn’t had any sleep the previous night.

  “Relax, your Highness,” he said. “You’ve had a bad injury to the head. All’s well now, but you’ll be a bit confused for a while. Breathe easy now.”

  Boudain looked at the physician with a puzzled expression, but his agitation quickly melted away and he took another sip of his broth.

  Gill left him to the physician, and broke his fast at the bar—eggs, sausage, and pancakes. Dal Ruisseau Noir appeared just as Gill was finishing. He looked tired—clearly he, like the physician, had not slept.