The books spoke of those born with a natural affinity for magic. He had found one or two such people, but no one with the kind of power he had read of. The books also spoke of the Cup—and that could change everything. He had to find it first, however, and that was proving more challenging than he liked. He knew he had to be patient—never his strong suit. But the day would come when it was in his possession, and the power the Cup would bring with it would be awesome. No nation in the world would be able to stand against Mirabaya. No leader would be able to deny the absolute primacy of the church. Amaury’s absolute primacy.
As he took his bishop’s robes from the locker, Amaury wondered if he would have achieved even a fraction of his wealth and power if he had lived his life with a sword in his hand, rather than a prayer book. It seemed unlikely. Not until he’d been cured had he fully realised how much he had missed fighting with a sword in hand, though only now, after several months of practise, did he feel he was approaching any sort of competence. His skills were still a long way from what they had once been, but to have reclaimed anything at all was deeply satisfying. Nonetheless, it wasn’t seemly for the Prince Bishop of the Unified Church to be frittering away his time in fencing salons, so he had done his best to keep his hobby a secret.
Covering himself in a hooded cloak, he left by the back entrance. It was only a short distance to the palace from the salon, so he wouldn’t keep the king waiting for long. He briefly considered taking the elevator up to the palace, which sat on a hill overlooking the city. The elevator was a wooden contraption used to haul supplies and the less mobile members of the king’s court up to the top of the hill and powered by oxen turning a great windlass at the top. After a moment, the Prince Bishop decided to walk the winding avenue up the hill’s side. Since having his injury taken care of, he enjoyed the novelty of walking with ease.
The palace guards knew him on sight and waved him through every checkpoint between the main gate and the king’s private office. Only then did he stop, knock, and wait to be invited in. Boudain the Tenth sat behind a desk piled so high with papers that Amaury struggled to see him without standing on his tiptoes. The young king seemed to want to directly deal with every matter his father had left to others, and Amaury wondered how long that would last.
“You wish to see me, your Highness?”
The servant who had shown Amaury in slipped out silently, leaving the two men alone in the dimly lit room.
“I do. I received this note by pigeon this morning.” King Boudain scratched his neatly clipped beard as he scanned his desk. He pushed a rolled note toward Amaury before sitting back and waiting.
Amaury unrolled the note, scanning for the general gist rather than reading it. His stomach sank; returning to the beginning, he began to read properly. It irritated him that the king had received word of these events before he had—he maintained a very expensive network of spies and informants to make sure he was always the first person to know what was going on. Now it seemed the new king had managed to make his own intelligence services do some work—for the first time in generations. He had gotten halfway through the note when the king spoke.
“I presume this is our problem made real?”
The paper spoke of a rural hamlet completely reduced to ash. It was described as being “nothing more than a smudge on the ground.” The sheet was stamped at the bottom with a small staff, skull, and sword—the sigil of the Intelligenciers. If nothing else, it was evidence that in his short reign, the king had shown the strength to bring one of his more independently minded hunting dogs under control. If that trend continued, he could become far more difficult to manage than his father was.
“It seems likely,” Amaury said.
“You assured me this wouldn’t become an issue.”
“We’re venturing into the unknown, your Highness. There will always be problems that we cannot foresee.”
“This could become quite a big one. More so if your little secret army is discovered. The people aren’t ready for magic, and you know as well as I do how the citizens of Mirabay respond to things they don’t like.”
It had only been about a year since the last riot, and Amaury remembered it well. A group of rioters had broken into his house on the south bank of the River Vosges and tried to set the place on fire. Amaury believed the riot was an expression of discontent with an ageing and increasingly dissolute ruler. He expected the change of monarch would put to rest that type of behaviour and give him peace for a decade or so—enough time to put his plans in motion. A major upset to the city’s population could change that in a matter of minutes. Nonetheless, he didn’t like the king’s implication. Boudain had known about the Spurriers since taking the crown, and had been more than happy to have them developing in the background.
“It’s your secret army, your Highness. You agreed with me that it was vital to the kingdom’s security. Both the Ostians and the Estranzans are reported to have used mages recently. It will only happen more frequently, and when it does, we do not want to be left behind. Great foresight and initiative, I believe you said when we first discussed it. We have access to records that give us a great advantage. We would be fools not to put their contents to use.”
Amaury sat down, forcing the king to move the papers on his desk to maintain eye contact. He wondered if he was taking a liberty. Although he’d known the king most of his life, for most of that time, he had been a prince. When they came into power, Amaury knew, some people got all sorts of foolish notions of having to assert themselves. He had yet to work out if Boudain the Tenth was one such person, but there was only one way to find out.
“In any event,” Amaury said, “I’m sure it won’t come to that. This is only a minor hiccup that will be dealt with in due course. It won’t alter the timeline of our plan. The Spurriers won’t be revealed to the people before they are ready to accept the idea.”
“Minor hiccup?” the king said. “You woke up a damned dragon. A real, fire-breathing, people-killing dragon. It’s already started its rampage. A small rural village we can keep quiet. What happens when it attacks a major town? It’s been so long since one has been seen, I dare say most people don’t even believe they ever existed. Think of the panic it will cause.”
“If it lives, it can be killed, your Highness, and kill it we will. We have the resources at our disposal. It’s only a matter of time.”
The king sat back in his chair. “I’m entitled to be nervous. The first year or so of a new reign is always difficult, and what you are endeavouring to do with the Spurriers will turn a millennium of tradition and law on its head. This … could change everything. The first king in centuries to have to deal with a dragon? This could define my reign. It could put a stop to your plans.”
What we are endeavouring to do. Our plans, Amaury thought. If things went wrong, he wasn’t going to take the blame alone. King or not, Boudain would share the consequences. If this boy thought he could leave a man like Amaury dangling in the wind when the going got tough, he was sorely mistaken.
“I understand, your Highness, but this is not the time to vacillate. Quite the opposite. We must double our resolve and see it through. If we do, it will all work as I have planned. To put your mind at ease, I can tell you that I’ve already taken steps to deal with this. With luck, the next news you have of the dragon will be of its slaughter. In the worst case, we’ll lose a few more remote hamlets, and have some old wives’ tales and rumours of strange goings on in the countryside to dismiss as being ridiculous. Better still, with a little time to apply my mind to it, I’m sure I can come up with a way to turn it all to our advantage.”