“I’d ask that your village chaplain carry out the necessaries for Beausoleil.”
“I’ll see to it,” Edine said.
Her eyes narrowed and Gill could tell that she detected something was up. Rather than explain, he doffed his hat and headed for the tavern.
CHAPTER 24
Auroré walked through the grassy field, holding a young boy’s hand. Gill knew the child was his, and knew that he was dreaming, but that didn’t make it feel any less real. His wife had died in childbirth and their son had taken only a handful of breaths before he had followed her to the afterlife. He hadn’t dreamed of them in a long time—the bottle had helped him escape that spectre. The dream was ever the perfect moment, which made it so much harder when the inevitable came, and he woke up to discover that it was not his life. He prayed for the dream to last, for the gods to give him a few more moments of the joy that could never truly be his. He remained deathly still, barely daring even to breathe as he watched his family walking in the warm summer sunshine. Happy.
He was so transfixed by the scene that he didn’t notice the shadow that glided across the field. A jet of flame roared through the air, shattering the serene silence that had been punctuated only by the laughter of mother and child. Guillot looked up and saw a great black dragon swooping down on them, the flame jetting from its nostrils leaving a great charred streak on the ground. As Gill tried to shout a warning, he realised he hadn’t been still and silent out of fear of waking from the dream, but because he could neither move nor make a sound. He had to stand where he was, his heart being ripped asunder, as he watched them laughing and talking, while flames tore toward them. Auroré looked back at him and smiled. His heart broke.
Guillot’s room at the back of Gaufre’s inn was pitch black when he woke with a jolt, Auroré’s smiling face burned into his mind. His sheets were soaked with sweat and his heart was racing. His lingering sense of personal failure wouldn’t go away, because it was warranted. He had lost a man and had trusted another whom he should not have. He tried to think of what more he could have done, or of any situation that required armed men where no casualties could be guaranteed. That was impossible, but he couldn’t shake the feeling.
Now, down two men, he still had to deal with two more dragons. What was he to do? Take on more men? Keep throwing them at the problem until it was dealt with? That would leave a pile of bodies on his conscience so big that he wouldn’t be able to recall any of their individual faces. He could try to slay them by himself—perhaps not depending on or looking out for anyone else was the safer option. If fate had chosen him to slay dragons, chosen that moment to bring them back, when he was the only remaining member of the Silver Circle, who was he to argue?
Then again, fate or the gods had taken Auroré and their son from him, so why should he do anything that fate mandated? Part of him wanted to turn his back on the whole thing, return to Villerauvais and sink into a bottle of wine. But there was no Villerauvais anymore, and there wouldn’t be a Venne either, unless he did something about it.
He rubbed his face roughly, as though the sensation would pull his mind out of the hole it was in. When he was younger, decisions had come so easily. Life had been a great adventure with everything to gain and nothing to lose, and consequences had been distant things he couldn’t imagine ever brushing against. Now, consequences were all there was.
Gill met Val in the square not long before dawn. After the Cup ritual, Gill checked over their saddles and equipment, wondering if, in his fatigue after a night of interrupted sleep, he had said the words properly.
“Do we have to do it every day?” Val said, as he tended to the packhorse carrying the extra lances.
Gill shrugged. “To be honest, I don’t know how long it lasts for, but I’d rather not find out the hard way.” Gill rummaged about in his head for an innocuous word, lest there be someone listening. “If we administer it every day, we know we’re covered.”
“Makes sense,” Val said, then after a moment, added, “It won’t harm us, will it?”
“No. I’ve no reason to think so. The old Chevaliers used this, and some of them are said to have lived into ripe old age. The ones the dragons didn’t kill, that is.”
Val laughed, just as the sound of clattering hooves filled the square—Cabham at the head of a group of five horsemen, all armoured and ready for a fight. Cabham touched his helmet’s visor as he rode past, puffed up and proud at the head of his little band. Gill had to admit they very much looked the part. For a moment he felt like a fraud, wearing the original Valdamar’s armour, but then he recalled that Cabham was even less entitled to his newfound status than Gill felt he was.
“Peacock,” Val muttered under his breath.
“Ignore him,” Guillot said. “We have our own work to be about. Speaking of which, let me take a look at that sword.”
Val drew it from its scabbard—a roughly shaped and stitched piece of leather that Gill reckoned Val had made himself. Judging by the expression on his face, the blade was his pride and joy. Gill wasn’t expecting to be impressed—so long as the weapon was sturdy and sharp, it would do. He was pleasantly surprised. The sword was of a style frequently used by infantry sergeants, halfway between a long dagger and a rapier, with a simple hilt and a broad blade. These weapons could be brutally effective, and their compact size meant they could be used in a crowd or by someone who did not have a great deal of skill. The balance wasn’t bad, the steel looked good, and the edges were keen. He suspected it wasn’t the first such sword the smith had made.
“A good blade,” he said, flipping it in an overly flashy manner before offering it back to Val, hilt first.
The lad beamed a smile and sheathed it.
“We can go through some cavalry cuts while we’re riding out,” Gill said. “If we’ve found nothing by lunchtime, I’ll show you the first five positions.”
Val furrowed his brow.
“The positions. They start off as fun, but once you’ve done them a thousand times, you’ll dread even mention of the word. They’re the basic guards and attacks of swordsmanship. You practise the movements over and over until they come more naturally than scratching your arse. If you get to the Academy, every day will start with an hour of work on the positions.”
Gill hauled himself into the saddle and centred his mind on the sensations that indicated dragons were near. He could feel the tug, could tell that the source wasn’t far off. It looked like they might not get to the positions that day, after all. “Let’s get going,” he said.
“What’s it like there?” Val asked as they rode out of town.
“Where?”
“The Academy.”
“It’s fine. Tough, and competitive, but fair. Anyone who works hard will be respected, regardless of their skill or position at birth. The talented tend to get away with a lot, but that’s the same everywhere. Most work hard there, but some think the most difficult part is getting in. They learn how wrong they are pretty fast. Any that don’t are gone by the end of the first term. I liked it there. You always had purpose, something to do. Life isn’t complicated there.”