“That doesn’t explain why it was here.”
“It was their headquarters—or was intended to be. These pages talk about its construction as a base close to where they were operating. It makes sense, if this is where they were operating all the time.”
“I suppose so,” Guillot said.
“They were transporting the Cup out here to allow that. I’m not sure why the mages let them bring it out here, but they did in the end. Much of the Silver Circle’s treasure was in the same convoy. It was attacked by two dragons. Valdamar says the gold in the strongboxes attracted them, but the Amatus Cup was taken along with it.” She shuffled through the papers.
“The Silver Circle seems to have gone into decline straight after. This place never became the headquarters they’d intended it to be. They weren’t able to properly initiate any new recruits and the existing Chevaliers had to make do with the residual effects of their … treatments. They tried to get the Cup back, but never found it.
“Valdamar lists off the names—the names—of the dragons they managed to kill along the way, but always with far greater casualties than when they had the Cup. The castle was destroyed in the mage wars and the remaining Chevaliers turned their attention to helping establish the new kingdom of Mirabaya. That’s the end of it. They must have put protections on this hall to keep it safe, probably intending to resume the search for the Cup once the wars ended and the country was stable again.
“It doesn’t look like they ever came back, though. Not while they lived, anyway.”
“I suppose the Silver Circle had its place at court,” Guillot said, “and there weren’t many dragons left—if any. The new Chevaliers probably didn’t have much interest in living the life of danger that the old ones did, nor spending all their time out here in the middle of nowhere. My generation of Chevaliers certainly didn’t, duelling field notwithstanding.”
“I’m going to go through the other chambers to see if there’s anything else useful,” Solène said, “but I think I have everything that I need to carry out the ceremony. The words will focus my thoughts on shaping the magic in the desired way, and then we’ll be as ready as we’ll ever be.”
“I’ll be as ready as I’ll ever be,” Guillot said. “Whatever protection it provides won’t extend to you. There’s never any mention of mages helping to fight dragons, and there must be a reason for that. There’s no need for you to put yourself in danger as well. If it does everything it’s supposed to do, I’m sure that I’ll be fine.”
Solène’s face darkened. “We can discuss it on the road,” she said. “There’s still a lot of work to do here.”
Guillot could only resist the temptation to try Valdamar’s armour on for so long. With Solène working her way through the side chambers, he was largely left to his own devices. He spent some time ogling the perfectly preserved weaponry and armour, some of which were impressive indeed, Ixten’s in particular. He was reputed to have been a giant of a man, and judging by his armour, it seemed as though the stories had done little to exaggerate his size. He must have stood at least a full head taller than Guillot.
Although all the other suits were equals to Valdamar’s in quality, only his looked even close to Gill’s size. He stole back to the first secret chamber they had opened, and started putting it on. Dressing oneself in armour was never an easy task—a fact that had kept squires in work for centuries. By the time Guillot had the breastplate on, he wondered exactly how many squires Valdamar might actually have had.
He worked through the pieces in the well-practised routine he had always followed. He managed most of it himself, but there were a couple of buckles he couldn’t get tight enough. He called out to Solène, who appeared a moment later.
“If you wouldn’t mind?” he said.
He felt the buckles pull tight.
“It suits you,” Solène said.
Guillot turned around, blushing. “I, well, I was curious to see if it would fit.”
“It looks almost perfect. If it’s better than what you have, I see no reason not to use it,” she said.
“I think it’s better than anything anyone has.” He moved his arms and twisted to test the fit, surprised that there were no pinches or impediments. It was light too, far lighter than regular steel.
“Well, then, I doubt Valdamar would mind. I suspect you’re already using his sword.”
He cast a glance at the empty sword holder beside the mannequin. “What do you mean?”
“Come and see.”
She led him back to the painting at the chamber’s entrance and pointed at the sword in Valdamar’s hand.
Guillot leaned close and squinted to make out the detail. The hilt was completely different—in Imperial times they had favoured a plain cross-guard, rather than the elaborate swept hilts and ringed guards currently used. The painting clearly showed the blade was Telastrian steel, but as Guillot studied it, he saw the hint of a familiar etching along the fuller.
“Gods alive,” he said. He drew his old family blade from its sheath and looked at it. As a child, he had often wondered what the barely legible etching on the blade said, but he’d long since concluded it was the maker’s mark. “Can you read what it says?”
“Of course,” she said. He handed it to her, and she studied it. “Blade of the Morning Mist. First Among Twenty.”
“Blade of the Morning Mist,” Guillot said, his skin tingling. Morning, not Mourning, as he had always thought it to be called. Valdamar was called the Blade of the Morning Mist in the stories, but the tales must have altered with time. In the magical light Solène had cast, Guillot could see how the sword had earned its name. The blue and grey of the Telastrian steel swirled down the length of the blade like the mist that rolled across the pastures on a spring morning.
“The swords in the other rooms are numbered too,” Solène said. “There are twenty of them in all.”
“Valdamar’s was the first.”
“Yours was the first,” she said.
“I knew it was old,” Guillot said. “I never thought it might be that old, though. Nor that it might have been Valdamar’s. It’s humbling.”
“This is no time to be humble,” Solène said. “Is there anything else here you think might be useful?”
He nodded to the clutch of spears. “The heads on those spears are Telastrian. I’ll take them too.”
Solène said, “I’ve learned all I’m going to here. It’s time for the ritual.”
Guillot nodded.
“You still want to go through with it?”
“Is there any alternative?” Solène shrugged. “You’re confident that you can do it?”
She nodded.
“Well, let’s head to the river and get our pure water.”
It hadn’t occurred to Guillot to take the armour off before they left the remains of the old Silver Circle castle. It felt more comfortable than the armour he’d worn when facing the dragon and he felt more secure wearing a suit that had been made specifically for a veteran dragonslayer. Nonetheless, he couldn’t help but feel a little pompous wearing Valdamar’s armour, and sheepish at having been using his sword without realising.
The stream was only a short ride from the remains of the manor. Guillot had spent nearly every summer’s day there fishing when he was a boy, but now realised he hadn’t been there since before he left Villerauvais for the Academy. He remembered running to the river after each morning’s lessons, usually swishing a stick through the air, imagining himself chasing dragons that were terrified by his ferocity. Now he was sitting in Valdamar’s armour, wearing his sword, and readying himself to do battle with a beast he never thought he would lay eyes on. How could the world change so quickly?