CHAPTER 21
When Gill came down to the taproom the next morning, looking for breakfast, King Boudain was sitting in a chair, wrapped in a blanket, drinking a mug of broth. By himself. He had the distant stare of a man who’d been to all three hells and back. Despite all that, he didn’t look too bad, all things considered. A little pale, emaciated, and bedraggled, but nothing that some healthy living wouldn’t put to rights in a few weeks. To think of the state he’d been in the previous day …
“Highness,” Gill said, bowing his head belatedly.
Squinting up at Gill, the king said, “Dal Villerauvais, isn’t it? The slayer of dragons.”
“The same, Highness,” Gill said. The moniker felt awkward, but it seemed to be sticking, so he reckoned he might as well accept it.
“It seems we have one last dragon that needs slaying,” Boudain said. “Can I count on you once again?”
“I’m ever a servant of the Crown,” Gill said, wondering if he’d ever be able to tell his liege to leave him in peace. Still, it wasn’t like he had anywhere to go, and despite his belief that many of the battles he had fought over the years had no worth, this one did.
“Good man, good man,” the king said, sounding distant.
“How are you feeling, Highness?” Gill said.
The king’s focus, which had drifted, snapped back. “Who are you?” He looked around. “Who is this man? Where am I?”
The physician rushed over—he’d been sitting at the bar. He looked like a man who hadn’t had any sleep the previous night.
“Relax, your Highness,” he said. “You’ve had a bad injury to the head. All’s well now, but you’ll be a bit confused for a while. Breathe easy now.”
Boudain looked at the physician with a puzzled expression, but his agitation quickly melted away and he took another sip of his broth.
Gill left him to the physician, and broke his fast at the bar—eggs, sausage, and pancakes. Dal Ruisseau Noir appeared just as Gill was finishing. He looked tired—clearly he, like the physician, had not slept.
“How’s Solène?” Gill said.
“Exhausted. Whatever it was she did, it took hours, and she collapsed at the end.”
He felt a flash of panic. He knew what that might mean.
“Pharadon is with her,” dal Ruisseau Noir said. “He says that she’s in no danger, but will take time to recover. The feats she’s accomplished in the last few days are really quite breathtaking. The strain they must have placed on her, I can only imagine.”
Gill relaxed a little. Pharadon was the right person to be with her, he reckoned, and then wondered if Pharadon could be called a person. “What about the king?”
Dal Ruisseau Noir shrugged. “No one can say for certain. He’s certainly better than he was before, and the periods of lucidity seem to be lasting longer between each relapse. We’re hopeful that he’ll be back to normal before too much longer. It seems Solène’s magic has done what we needed.”
“How do you feel about that?” Gill said, unable to resist the question.
Dal Ruisseau Noir took a deep breath. “As I said before, magic is back in the world. I’m not sure there’s any way of stopping it now. We’ve been watching developments around the Middle Sea for years, and in the past few, the reports have been the same everywhere. More and more individuals are turning up who can wield real, powerful magic. Far more than the ones we used to chase down, who could, at most, conjure up some sparks and bangs to entertain children, or who could convince adults to part with their money in exchange for some great, never-realised, magical boon. Making sure it’s used properly is going to be the challenge now. I’m convinced of that after what I witnessed last night.”
Gill didn’t know whether or not to be frightened by what dal Ruisseau Noir said. There was a new age looming and he wasn’t sure he could adapt to a new world; he felt a pang of loss at no longer having a home to escape to.
“When do you leave?” Gill said.
“Immediately. Now that I’ve seen the king is well, I can rest easy, knowing I’ve done my duty to the Crown. Now I need to do my duty to my brother Intelligenciers and make my report.”
“A safe journey to you,” Gill said, giving the banneret’s salute of clicked heels and a sharp nod. Dal Ruisseau Noir returned the gesture.
“It’s been interesting knowing you. I hope I have the chance to raise a glass with you in more settled times.”
With that, he left, walking swiftly. Moments later, Gill slipped out of the tavern and went to the seamstress’s house. She’d finished her task, and he studied the result, pleased but also bitterly sad: a small white flag, embroidered with a stylised dragon in dark green thread. It was a small gesture, but one that Gill felt compelled to make. A similar banner, each bearing a unique sigil, was given to every student at the Academy on the day they graduated. Val had not made it to the Academy, but in all respects, he exemplified the qualities that institution claimed to espouse.
Gill held the banner tenderly in both hands as he walked to the church, wondering how Val would have reacted had he seen it while he was still alive. Crossing the square, Gill was surprised to see the king walk out of the tavern, closely followed by several concerned-looking barons, lords, and bannerets, who seemed to have become his court away from court. Gill wasn’t under any illusion that they were present because of a sense of undying loyalty. These men would likely never have gotten within twenty paces of the king, let alone close enough to have his ear, in the old days. If they managed to get the king back on his throne, they would advance more than they ever could have otherwise.
“I’m glad to see you up and well, Highness,” Gill said.
The king nodded and gave Gill a wave. “Still a little shakier than I’d like. A few little ongoing episodes, as Savin’s physician likes to call them, but I recover faster after each one, and am hopeful I’ve seen the last of them. What do you have there?” He pointed at the cloth Gill was clutching with a nod.
“It’s for a friend,” Gill said. “A dead friend.”
“The young man I’m told was killed during my rescue?”
“Yes, Highness. Val—Valdamar was his name. My squire.”
“A brave lad by all accounts,” Boudain said. “You’re burying him?”
“I am, Highness.”
“Now?”
Gill nodded.
“I’ll attend,” Boudain said.
“Highness, you really should rest awhile,” the Count of Savin said. “You might feel well, but that doesn’t mean you’re completely recovered.”
“Nonsense. I feel perfectly well, and it’s the least I can do. We’ll only be over there.” He pointed to the church, then looked to Gill for confirmation.
Gill nodded.
They set off, Val’s cortège of one dramatically expanded by the king he had died saving, and by a number of men who wouldn’t have spared the lad a second glance, so caught up were they in their own self-importance. The walked in silence, Gill and the king leading the way.
The deacon had done his job well; at least, it appeared so to Gill’s inexpert eye. The last time he’d attended a funeral, it had been for his wife and child. The body was laid out with coins on the eyes, and Val’s hands were folded neatly on his body. In a gesture that was either somewhat touching, or motivated out of their desire to make sure they got paid, the grave-digging soldiers were lined up solemnly on the far side of the grave. Gill stepped forward and tucked the banner under Val’s dead hands.