He walked through the rest of the crypt, but he only recognised Valdamar’s name. One hero among many, the only one to be remembered. There was tragedy in that. Considering that Valdamar’s tomb had not been given precedence over any of the others, it was difficult to believe they had not done anything to distinguish themselves. Perhaps the years and retellings had handed their tales to another hero.
The back wall was carved with text from ceiling to floor. The inscription was flanked on either side by representations of the two figures he had seen near the altar in the previous room—the supplicant knight, and the majestic, robed figure holding a cup in one hand and a small stick in the other. It was clearly an anointing ceremony of some sort. Guillot himself had been through one when he joined the Chevaliers, although the cup he had been handed had been far larger and never seemed to empty.
He cast his eyes over the carved words but could not understand them. Occasionally a word might seem familiar, but not enough to make sense of it. Whatever was written there would have to remain a mystery, at least for the time being. If he survived all that was to come, perhaps he would be able to find someone at the university in Mirabay who could read such things.
With one final look around—his gaze lingering on Valdamar’s tomb—Guillot knew it was time to get back to Trelain. It seemed there was nothing more for him to discover here, although the secret chambers left him with many questions.
Trelain had a bleak atmosphere when Guillot returned, worse even than when he had departed. He suspected that word had leaked of the injured man recuperating in the Black Drake, and that he was the survivor of an ill-fated dragon-slaying attempt. Guillot could smell fear on the air. The streets were emptier, and much of the activity was of people preparing for the worst—shutting up properties, hurrying about as though every moment in the open put them in further danger. People had been unsure before. Now they were afraid.
There were still plenty of villages between the dragon and Trelain—as far as he knew—and it could happily feed and destroy its way through the countryside for weeks before reaching the city. That wouldn’t matter, though. Soon the panic would start and everyone who could go, would.
He didn’t expect the Order’s healers to arrive until that evening at the earliest—more likely at some point the next day. While he still felt better than he had before, thanks to Brother Hallot, the battering he had taken in the dragon’s cave had taken a toll. Another round of healing might bring him back to his best, which was an appealing thought. It gave him hope that he could prevail, although, despite the gravity of the situation, he couldn’t help but feel it would be cheating. It was odd how daft notions of honour and fidelity stuck in your head, even after a lifetime of seeing their gaping flaws in the cold light of reality.
He wondered what Valdamar would have made of such thoughts. The perfect hero, the man to model oneself on. True, brave, and just. Guillot wondered if he had ever kicked a man in the balls during a fight, or slid a dagger into an enemy’s back on the battlefield. He shook his head. There was no shame in looking for an edge when the stakes were mortal. The old Chevaliers were rumoured to have been given magical gifts by the Imperial sorcerers. If Amaury’s warrior mages could do the same for him, he would welcome it with open arms.
The stable boy appeared as if by magic as soon as Guillot entered the stable yard at the Black Drake. He slid down from the horse and tossed the lad a penny before heading inside. A hot meal, a bath if one could be rustled up, then sleep. To his surprise, dal Sason was sitting by the fire.
“Feeling better then?” Guillot said, trying to muster as much cheer in his voice as he could.
Dal Sason turned to look at him, a grimace of pain twisting his face.
“Not feeling better then,” Guillot commented.
“I’ve broken ribs. What do you think?”
Guillot shrugged and sat. “What’s good to eat tonight?”
“Where in hells have you been?”
“I went for a ride.”
“You’ve been gone for two days.”
“It was a long ride,” Guillot said.
“I thought you’d run off. Thought your nerve had gone.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
Dal Sason fell silent for a moment. “Sorry. That was unfair.”
“Understandable enough. It seems like half the town’s getting ready to leave.”
“Word must have gotten out that we didn’t kill it.”
Guillot nodded. “Surprised the panic hasn’t spread faster.”
“As soon as word of its next attack gets here, things will get ugly fast. It’s up to us to try to stop that.”
“I know,” Guillot said. “Do you really think we’re up to it?”
“We have to try,” dal Sason said.
Guillot laughed. They’d done that once already, and it hadn’t gone so well. “Is it worth it?”
“Worth what?” dal Sason said.
“Whatever the Prince Bishop is paying you. Is it enough?”
Dal Sason gave a sad smile. “In our line of work, is it ever enough?”
CHAPTER 39
Solène rocked gently from side to side as the horse trotted along the road toward Trelain. She had done the vast majority of her wandering on foot, with only the occasional ride in a cart or wagon. She didn’t think she would ever feel entirely comfortable on horseback, perched just high enough for the drop to look daunting.
She didn’t know how to feel about returning to Trelain. On the one hand, the growing sense of misgiving that had been twisting in her stomach for the past few days was gone. She had realised there was a problem, and now she was doing something about it. However, the last time she was in Trelain, the townsfolk had wanted to burn her at the stake. She was torn between the desire to spur the horse to a gallop to get to Guillot all the sooner, and turning around and fleeing from trouble. People tended to have short memories, but she knew she risked her life by returning to the city.
Leverre was not proving the most talkative of travelling companions—although after all he had been through, and after having ridden through the night, he must have been utterly exhausted—so Solène was left to stew in her own thoughts. She tried to use the time to connect all the pieces of information she’d gathered, with little success.
“How did he save your life?”
The voice came as such a surprise that Solène jumped in her saddle.
“Pardon?”
“Guillot. What did he do that saved your life?”
Solène felt anxious when she thought about it. That day was the closest she had come to death. “The townsfolk discovered I could do magic,” Solène said. Leverre grunted an acknowledgement. “They were going to burn me.” Admitting it out loud doused her in emotion, and she could feel a lump form in her throat. She had never spoken about it before, never acknowledged to herself how close she had come to a terrifying and agonising death. She had tried to take it in her stride, filing it away in her mind with all the other daily hardships of life when you have no one, have nothing. She’d be damned if she shed a tear in front of Leverre, however. He was both her superior officer—if that mattered anymore—and one of the surliest people she had ever met. She refused to show weakness to him.