Even more worrying was the fact that part of him was excited by the prospect of adulation, as though some facet of his personality that had been pushed into a dark recess saw the opportunity to come forward. He didn’t know if he wanted to allow it out again. No, he knew he didn’t. His fingers tightened painfully on the reins.
Perhaps he should find a ditch and dump the head. Eventually someone would find the head or the body and proclaim the terror ended. Perhaps they would claim the kill as their own, letting Guillot off the hook entirely. Part of him was drawn to the notion, and part of him was horrified. He had been brought up with a sword in hand; it was his duty and purpose to do things like he had just done.
And yet … the fame and adulation that winning the Competition had brought him was false. He had revelled in it, but it was an illusion built on illusions. None of the accolades had any real meaning. This would be no different.
The wars he had fought in had been vehicles for rich and powerful men to protect or increase their wealth. Which side of a border they lived on made little difference to ordinary people. Watching their homes looted and burned did. Watching their fathers, sons, and husbands conscripted to fight battles that had nothing to do with them, never to return, did.
Killing the dragon was the first truly useful thing Guillot had done in his life, and he was frightened by the reaction it would create. All that was worthwhile was done, all that was to come was devoid of value. The trophy was needed to prove to people that they were safe. That was important. His discomfort was not, and he abandoned the idea of cutting the litter loose.
There was also Amaury—the Prince Bishop—to consider. Gill was less concerned about him. He fully expected that Amaury would try again to have him killed, but facing men with swords and bad intentions had never bothered Gill. For a time, he would be too great a hero for Amaury to touch, but Guillot knew better than most how quickly fame fades, and he was certain Amaury would be carefully watching for that moment. Assuming Guillot let him live that long. Amaury had already tried to have him killed, and there was still something in Gill that wouldn’t let him forget that.
Amaury had racked up enough transgressions against him to be called out on the duelling field were Amaury an ordinary man. His position as Prince Bishop meant he was not an ordinary man, however, and killing him would be far more complicated. Guillot wondered if it was even worth the effort. He was tired, and worried, and he just wanted to go home. His heart grew heavy as he was reminded he didn’t have a home anymore.
There was a single, nervous-looking guard on duty at the Trelain city gate. Usually there would be three or four—even more in a time of danger. He barely acknowledged Guillot and Solène; his gaze roamed the horizon and the sky, searching for danger from above. That the guard was there at all was testament to his bravery, sense of duty, or perhaps stupidity.
The streets were all but deserted. Gill could see some signs of looting—broken windows, boards ripped away from where they had been nailed across doors. It was amazing how much the character of a town could change in only a few days. Even when they passed someone, that person would pay them little attention, and Guillot felt his hopes rise that he could get to the Black Drake, get fed, and perhaps even steal a few hours of sleep before having to deal with the fuss the news he brought would cause.
“Streets are quiet,” Solène said, rousing from her doze or stupor at last.
“People were getting ready to leave when we rode out,” Guillot said. “Looks like they made good on that. Can’t say I blame them, all things considered.”
“Good for us,” Solène said. “There’ll be less attention. Means we might get some rest.” Her voice was heavy with fatigue.
Gill nodded, feeling much as she sounded, although there was something in her voice that wasn’t entirely fatigue. The tone reminded him of something, but he couldn’t be sure exactly what.
CHAPTER 3
Amaury, Prince Bishop of the United Church and First Minister of Mirabaya, looked out of his office window into the garden below. The king dallied there, in flagrante delicto with his latest flavour of the month, a young country noblewoman who still bore the innocence of a life spent far from court, an innocence that would wither and die after a few months in Mirabay. By then, King Boudain would have long finished with her. The king needed to marry soon, to create a political alliance that would increase his power, and provide him with an heir. It was time he set aside the frivolity of youth.
Amaury sighed. Not long ago, the king’s affairs had amused him no end. Now, levity was something he was finding increasingly difficult to come by. He had just received word that the people he had sent to Trelain to finish off dal Villerauvais and retrieve the Amatus Cup—some of the best members of his Order of the Golden Spur—had been found dead on the side of the road. Details were sketchy, and it sounded as though there had been little left of them by the time the remains were found. They should have been difficult to kill, so Amaury wondered who might be responsible for their deaths. It was worrying on a number of levels, and something he’d have to get to the bottom of, but later. For now it was simply another problem on a long, ever-growing list.
He had sent for Commander Leverre, but the man was conspicuously missing. Amaury had even sent a pigeon to Trelain, to see if Nicholas dal Sason could shed any light on the matter. He was in the dark on many things, and that was not a circumstance he appreciated.
He wondered if Guillot was dead, but suspected he was not. Dal Sason would have notified him if the job was done. If dal Sason had failed, it was likely he was dead. The Prince Bishop was beginning to feel quite careless in his application of manpower. In the past few weeks, the Order had suffered more casualties than in its previous entire existence. What was worse was that those killed had been the best available, meaning the talent he had so carefully gathered and nurtured was being diluted. If things continued like that, the Order would be wiped out before long, and with it, Amaury’s hope for the future. He would need to bolster its ranks with mercenaries, and make new officer appointments. Another set of problems for his list.
Amaury returned his attention to the king’s indiscreet behaviour in the garden below. Boudain was indolent, often idle, and were it not for his arrogance and stubbornness, the young king would have made an ideal figurehead, concealing someone more suited to ruling but happier in the shadows, where real power dwelled. As it was, he was proving trickier to manage than Amaury would have liked, at a time when his attention was needed elsewhere.
Perhaps he had been wrong to have the old king killed. Well, it was too late to regret that.
The Cup remained a tantalising solution to Amaury’s problems. That Gill appeared to have it was frustrating. Amaury had been right to counsel the old king to punish Gill harshly. He had it coming. Guillot’s supposedly careless sword stroke during the Competition had robbed Amaury of his dreams when they were little more than boys. He didn’t believe for a second that the blow had been an accident. Amaury had often considered settling the score once and for all, but he was always so busy. Then he’d had the king strike him down, and ever since, the Prince Bishop had comforted himself with the knowledge that Gill was rotting in obscurity.