Where once the church had been ruled by the Prince Bishop from Mirabay, in recent decades, the individual dioceses had grown increasingly independent. Each state sent its cardinal to Amaury’s annual congress, but they no longer remained in Mirabaya year round, and their participation when present was lacklustre at best. Other than that, he rarely, if ever, heard from the other archbishops. Men of learning and influence amongst the people, they always had the ears of their rulers, and if Amaury could bring them back under his control, the power he could exercise would be enormous—far more than any local potentate could hope for. Mirabaya would be supreme, the physical support for the church as it spread its influence across the world, and the Order was key to that. Might was the only thing men with power understood, especially when it came to having to give up some of that power.
He swept through the cathedral’s nave, giving only a curt nod to the eager deacon who had come out to greet him and paying little attention to the man’s disappointment. He sped down the tight spiral staircase to the archive, focussed on his thoughts.
He was under no illusion that it had been anything but his political acumen that had won him the old king’s ear, and it was the monarch’s mental decline that had allowed him to build such an impressive power base so quickly. Amaury’s predecessor, gods bless him, had been too much of a firebrand to gain much traction at court. He had been like the embarrassing uncle that families had to humour, but tried to distance themselves from.
Amaury thought of him more fondly than that. Had it not been for the previous Prince Bishop, Amaury had no idea where he would be now. Probably like so many other crippled swordsmen who had turned to the bottle or dream seed, who ultimately met their end on the Black Carpet, the illegal and often deadly underground duelling circuit. He didn’t even have a country estate to retreat to—his father had taken it away from him when he lost in the Competition, favouring the younger brother over the severely wounded elder.
The church was universal, though, and the perfect vessel to exercise a type of power that did not end at national boundaries. Amaury did not see why he should pay court to a king, or seek to curry favour from a man entitled by birth, rather than by merit. It should be the other way around. Until Amaury gained a firm grip over the church and its bishops, that was not going to happen. So long as foreign bishops saw themselves as independent, their rulers were not going to pay attention to a Mirabayan priest, regardless of his title or the former authority of his office.
He had long wondered if there was a magical way to sway public opinion, and this was one of the things he kept an eye out for as he pored over the shelves in his private, forbidden library. It seemed like too much to hope for, considering how the College of Mages and all its people ended up.
He needed to focus on what he knew—manipulation of public opinion the old-fashioned way. Still, that was a task for the next day. That night was his, and his skin tingled in anticipation of what he might discover on the shelves.
CHAPTER 22
Guillot had spent most of the previous evening doing the positions and had risen before dawn to pick up where he left off. By the time he joined the others for breakfast, he felt as though he was already halfway through his day. His shoulders complained of overuse. He had improved, but only marginally. Movements that had once come easily, had been fast and fluid, felt like they were lubricated with gravel.
Dal Sason looked up from where he was eating alone and gave Guillot a nod when he entered the room. Leverre and his people were sitting a noticeable distance away, talking quietly amongst themselves. They didn’t react to Guillot’s arrival. Guillot sat opposite dal Sason.
“How’s the food?”
“Not bad,” dal Sason said. “Sleep well?”
“Middling.”
“I know what you’re up to, by the way.”
Guillot’s gut twisted. “What do you mean?”
“You can fritter away as much coin as you like. It won’t make the slightest difference to the Prince Bishop. It’s said that he’s richer than the king.”
Guillot concealed a sigh of relief. “Perhaps, but I’d still prefer that I benefit from it, rather than him.”
“Do you mind me asking: why all the ill feeling?”
“I do mind. It’s none of your business.”
Dal Sason blushed, but the innkeeper arrived in time to spare them an awkward moment. Gill ordered eggs, bacon, bread, and jam. It didn’t even occur to him to ask for a glass of wine, which was something new.
“I expect we’ll be arriving back in Villerauvais some time this evening?” dal Sason said.
“Something like that,” Guillot said, regretting how sharp he had been. “Depends on whether our friends here have another day of hard riding in them.”
Leverre overheard the remark. “We’ll still be going long after you’ve dropped from the saddle,” he said.
Guillot raised his glass of water. “I certainly hope so.”
“As soon as you’re done eating, we move,” Leverre said.
Guillot turned back to dal Sason. “From the way he speaks, you’d almost think he was in charge.”
Dal Sason chuckled. “You might think that, but actually, I am.” Guillot frowned. As the alleged dragonslayer, he believed he was also leading the expedition. “I’m the only impartial party,” dal Sason said. “Leverre wants to prove himself and his people. You want to … Well, I’m not sure what you want to do. All I’m interested in is seeing this threat to the kingdom extinguished.”
“Impartial but for the substantial reward I’m sure the Prince Bishop is to recompense you with.”
Dal Sason blushed but said nothing.
Guillot leaned back in his chair, not sure how to respond. It stung to be passed over. He had been the finest swordsman in the land, fought in several wars with distinction, and had been declared a hero three times over, but now, it all seemed to count for nothing. All that mattered was his membership in a social club for dissolute noblemen. What possible value could that have?
“Why do we have to go to Villerauvais, anyway?” Leverre said. “We have our plan.”
“I need to get something,” Guillot said. “We’ll make Trelain not long after nightfall if we maintain our pace. A good night’s sleep there, an early start, and we’ll be in Villerauvais by noon. It won’t delay us.”
Leverre made to open his mouth, but Guillot fixed him with a stare that said the discussion was over.
Guillot had mixed feelings returning to Villerauvais. He was sober, in new clothes, and cleanly shaven. Quite possibly no one there would recognise him. He was afraid to learn if there had been many more attacks in his absence, and wondered how the people would greet his return. Might they have thought he had abandoned them?
When all this was over, if he still lived, he would change. He would invest time, money, and energy into the village and his demesne. At one time, he had harboured great plans for Villerauvais; when had they drifted into the ether? After the Darvarosian War? The Szavarian War? Or one of the others?
He should have left the city and taken Auroré back to Villerauvais after the wars, before he joined the Silver Circle. That was the moment everything started to slide downhill. Hindsight again. What a wonderful thing it was. It might be too late for his happiness, but that didn’t mean it was too late for Villerauvais.