The king gave him an odd look, so Gill explained, saying, “Lad wanted nothing more than to be a banneret.”
“Then he’ll be one,” Boudain said. “Posthumously, at least.” He held out his hand and fixed one of his new attendants with his gaze. “Your sword.”
The man looked nonplussed, but did as his king commanded and handed over his sword, hilt first. The king took it and strode forward. With little grace, he took the banner from beneath Val’s hands and looked at it.
“A fine sigil,” Boudain said before tucking it back into place. He did his best to lever the stiff fingers around the sword’s grip. “For service to your liege, I invoke my rights as sovereign of Mirabaya, and with this sword and this banner, I name you, Valdamar, Banneret, with all honours, rights, and dignities so entailed.”
The man who had handed over his sword looked shocked. Gill hoped the blade wasn’t a treasured family heirloom, as its former owner wasn’t likely to see it again. Judging by the gemstones encrusting the hilt—an affectation that wasn’t to Gill’s taste—it was, at the very least, expensive. Still, all being well, the man’s advancement in the king’s service would more than make up for the loss of the costly weapon.
It was a touching act, even if it was no more substantive than Gill’s having the banner made. Still, he would make the king sign a letter giving effect to what he had just said, and send it to the Hall of Bannerets in Mirabay, to ensure that Val’s name was added to the register.
Gill did his best to listen to the deacon’s short sermon as the gravediggers placed Val in the ground, but his mind was filled with a turmoil of emotion that he struggled to keep at bay. Grief, guilt, loss, thoughts of others he had cared for, who had all ended up in the ground, while he still stumbled from day to day. As the ceremony came to an end, Gill realised there were still some matters outstanding.
Gill cleared his throat and wondered which of the hangers-on would have to reach for his purse. “I hate to trouble you with this, Majesty, but there remains the issue of the bill.…”
After the funeral, Gill paid the gravediggers and parted company with the king, who wished to look over his army, before returning to the inn. He was eager to check on Solène, to see if she was recovering from the strain of her efforts. Before he got there, he spotted a lonely figure walking away from the building. A familiar one. Gill jogged through the village to catch up to him.
“Pharadon!” he called.
The dragon in human form turned to look back at him. He appeared tired to Gill, but Guillot was never sure what was a reflection of the dragon’s true feelings and what was a mask.
“You’re leaving?” Gill said.
“I’m returning to the temple. It’s time I get back to the goldscale. I’ll do what I can for her, then we’ll get to the mountains, away from all this. I fear hard times are coming to the lands of humankind.”
“I think you’re right.” It occurred to Gill that having a dragon on their side would give them a huge advantage. “I can’t convince you to stay? Help us finish this?”
Pharadon shook his head. “People are already terrified of dragons. They only know us in our base and savage form. How do you think seeing a dragon slaughtering swaths of soldiers would appear to them? Enough damage has been done. Best that my kind aren’t seen by people again for a very long time.”
“I suppose that might be for the best,” Gill said. “We owe you for what you’ve done. Getting the king out of the city. Staying on to show Solène how to heal him.”
“Faced with the alternative of the man who had the vessel of enlightenment stolen, helping the king seemed like the right thing to do.”
“Hopefully the kingdom will last long enough to thank you. Repay you in some way, perhaps.”
Pharadon nodded but said nothing.
“Safe journey,” Gill said.
With that, Pharadon turned and continued his lonely journey.
“I believe we should treat with him, Highness,” the Count of Savin said. “No one wants civil war.”
Gill observed the council of war from the back of the inn’s taproom, which had been converted from infirmary to command centre. The Count of Savin’s attitude had changed significantly since the king had regained his faculties. Everyone’s had. Boudain was a king without a throne, a man who had many enemies. If his side won the coming war—a war that Gill was convinced would take place—those enemies would be dispossessed; many lands and titles would be up for grabs.
“We’ll send word to your cousins to announce your recovery, but I wanted your guidance on how to open negotiations with the Prince Bishop,” Savin said. “What should we send him?”
“The Usurper?” the king said. “We’ll send him nothing. There will be no negotiating with him. I want his neck on the headsman’s block. He tried to kill me, and it’s only luck, or the fact that he lacked sufficient magical power at that time, that saved me. By all accounts he now has more power than he knows what to do with. He needs to be put down like the rabid dog that he is.”
That silenced the gathering for a moment. Gill could see that the king was struggling to contain his anger and worried that too much stress might cause a relapse.
“When can we expect to hear back from my cousins?” Boudain said.
“Two days, Sire,” someone said. “They’re both camped within a day of Mirabay.”
“If it takes longer, that means they’re thinking about their response,” Boudain said. “They shouldn’t need to. I am still the king, the Prince Bishop’s actions notwithstanding. Any man who stands against me will be guilty of treason, and treated accordingly. Make sure my cousins are aware of that.”
“Yes, Sire.”
A man rushed into the tavern. “Soldiers approaching!”
“Friends or foes?” Savin said.
The man shrugged.
“I suppose we best take a look for ourselves,” Boudain said.
Gill and a number of the hangers-on followed the king’s party out to the picket, where the guards silently observed the approaching army, which looked to number five, perhaps six thousand men. They outnumbered the king’s men by about two to one. If they weren’t friendly, things could go very badly, very quickly.
Someone produced a field telescope and handed it to the king, who scanned the approaching force.
“I can just make out some banners,” he said, squinting down the eyepiece. “Ah, there’s Aubin.” He continued to squint. “And Chabris … Odd to see my cousins marching together. Here of all places.”
“Our scouting network isn’t as extensive as I might like,” Savin said.
“Apparently not,” Boudain said. “The only question that remains is if they are here to join us?”
“I’ve not had any contact with them,” Savin said.
“Best to assume that isn’t their intention, then. Get me a horse and form an honour guard. Have everyone else prepare for an attack.”
“Highness, are you sure—”
Boudain glared at him. “Now would be a good time for everyone to stop asking if ‘I’m sure,’ and start doing what I command. Understood?”
“Of course, Highness,” Savin said.
The king surveyed the crowd. “Villerauvais, you’re with me.”
Gill nodded and stepped forward.
“I’ll need a horse, too,” Gill said, as Savin passed him. “And a sword.”
Savin had a face like thunder. “Would mine do?”
Gill shrugged. In truth, the count’s weapon was a little fancy for his taste, but with his own swords having been left at the Wounded Lion in Mirabay, it was better than nothing.