Guillot, Solène, and Pharadon had been put up at the village inn, which was larger than a village this size would have otherwise possessed, were it not on a major road to the west. Gill felt refreshed by a night in a decent bed and a generous breakfast, but his body didn’t shake off abuse quite the way it once had, and he couldn’t think of anything nicer than a prolonged period of idleness. His gut twisted with unease when his train of thought added “and a few bottles of a fine vintage,” thereby ending that dream. That was a road he didn’t want to walk down again. Perhaps constant activity was the best thing for him after all.
Every large building in the village had been commandeered for billeting by the army; smaller structures were being used to accommodate officers whose dignity couldn’t stretch to sleeping in a tent if there was an alternative. Gill didn’t see many villagers moving about, but that was only to be expected. An army of strangers, ostensibly friendly or not, was never something you wanted to see camping next to your home. Everyone had heard horror stories of the actions of unruly armies, and no village wanted to become the source for the next one.
The night before, when Gill and his companions returned to Castandres, they had brought the king to the tavern and gently laid him on a worn, stained oak table at one side of the taproom. The army’s physician had assumed responsibility for his care. Despite their conversation about healing, neither dal Ruisseau Noir nor Gill suggested Solène attempt it right away; they could see how exhausted she was.
This morning, however, it could be put off no longer. Gill turned away from the village scene, the cathartic distraction it provided short-lived, and went back into the inn. He’d met Boudain only once before, when the young king had requested Gill’s participation in the first dragon hunt; the contrast between then and now made for grim viewing. To Gill’s eye, there didn’t appear to be anything wrong with him—no wounds, no obvious injuries. But his eyes rolled in their sockets and there was a sheen of drool on his chin. Gill had seen men like this before. Their conditions had been caused by a heavy blow to the head, and none of them had ever recovered. He couldn’t claim to understand much about magic, but fixing a man’s head seemed like a big ask.
There was quite a gathering that morning, to witness the spectacle of the king being brought back to health by means not used for a millennium. If magic really could achieve such wonders, why had it been outlawed and oppressed for so long? How many lives might have been saved or improved by it? Then again, human beings seemed particularly ill-suited for great power, and there was always someone who would seek to exploit such a gift for personal gain. A fine example of that sat on the throne in Mirabay at that moment. Contrast that to Pharadon, who had enjoyed that power and more for centuries, yet lived contented in a mountaintop cave.
Gill cast Solène a glance; he could tell from her expression that she was thinking more about the gathered crowd than the task before her. She had slept for a time, but much of her night and morning had been spent in discussion with Pharadon, for magical guidance, and the physician, for instruction on the human mind. The physician was the Count of Savin’s personal doctor—considering the count’s wealth and close relation to the king, Gill hoped he’d attracted a good one.
Still, how much did anyone know about a person’s brain? It’s not like it beat, like a heart—it just sat there, thinking. Gill reckoned that thanks to battle, he’d seen as many brains as any physician, and he didn’t have the first clue how they worked: he only knew that when you drove a blade into one, or bashed it hard enough, it stopped.
Dal Ruisseau Noir was barking orders to the tavern keeper. Water, towels—hot, cold, damp, and dry—seemingly anything he could think of to keep the king comfortable. There was still a continuing discussion on how they were going to proceed, whether the physician would try some conventional treatments first, or if Solène would lead the way. Despite what magic promised, it was proving difficult to convince everyone that it was their best option.
Feeling of little use and keenly aware that while the king was getting all this attention, poor Val was waiting for a send-off that befitted his great courage, Gill left the tavern. He collected the lad’s body from the shed they’d stored it in the night before; ignoring the smell that was starting to grow strong, Gill carried him to the church.
A small yard to the side of the church held a dozen or so graves marked with headstones. Rural and urban communities alike tended to cremate their dead, unless the person was of some significance. Most of these stones probably belonged to former seigneurs—those who didn’t have a crypt at their manor. There was room for Val, and there were plenty of soldiers idling around who’d be glad of a coin to help dig the hole. Gill pounded on the weathered wooden door and waited for the churchman. In a place this small, the clergyman was likely no more than a deacon.
For a soldier, even a church this modest was a potential target for theft. There was always a bit of silver plate or a gold chalice to be had, so it was no surprise that whoever was inside was reluctant to open the door. Gill pounded on it again but there was still no reply.
“I’m here to buy funeral rites,” Gill shouted. “I have coin. I’m not here to cause trouble.”
If there was anyone in there, Gill reckoned they’d need a few moments to consider what he’d said. While it didn’t appear as though the army was causing any problems, they hadn’t been there long, by all accounts, so there was still plenty of time for that. A billeted army was rarely a positive thing for a village’s residents. The most they could hope for was that the troops would leave before stealing or destroying too much. He supposed that if he’d already been tarred with that brush, he might as well take advantage of it.
“I’m happy to pay for the rites,” he shouted. “But if I have to kick in this door, I’m not paying for repairs.”
That seemed to do the trick, as a moment later he heard the scratch of a bolt being drawn. The door creaked open and a man in stained vestments—white, with a powder-blue trim—peered out. He looked at Gill suspiciously, but relaxed when he saw Val’s body. An odd thing to make someone relax, Gill thought.
“Your son?” the deacon said.
“Squire,” Gill said. “I want him buried. There’s a nice spot over there.”
“We only bury our—”
“Buried,” Gill said. “I’ll pay you three crowns, three times what the rites should cost. I can have some soldiers dig the hole for you. All I need is space in your yard, and the rites.”
They said charity started with the church, but Gill reckoned greed did too. Still, there was no point expecting churchmen to be better than everyone else when they were led by a man like Amaury. The promise of three gold coins was enough to convince the deacon. Gill would have to rustle them up from somewhere. His purse had gone astray at some point, likely while in the river. Considering all that he had done, he reckoned he had more than three crowns owing to him at that point, and he was determined Val’s funeral would be properly paid for.
“That spot, you say?” He pointed.
Gill nodded.
“That won’t be a problem. You’ll have the hole dug?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Bring your squire in. I’ll see that he’s prepared and ready.”