His voice was firm, but it sounded forced to Ysabeau. “As best I can tell,” she said.
“What’s wrong with it? Why doesn’t it move?”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” Ysabeau said. “Perhaps it’s hibernating?”
The Prince Bishop nodded. “Yes. Perhaps.” He looked from the cage to the gate, then back again. “Getting it through the gate’s going to be a problem,” he said.
“I thought that myself,” Ysabeau replied. “But it’s not my problem.” She flashed her father a winning smile, then urged her horse forward and into the city.
Amaury didn’t like how relieved he felt once he was back inside the palace walls. That meant he had to admit to himself how concerned he was about the situation outside. As unsettling as these realisations were, they didn’t detract from his excitement at what Ysabeau had brought him. A real, live dragon. Caged and slumbering. It was beyond the realm of his imagination, and he had always prided himself on his ability to think big. The prestige it would bring was immense—enough, perhaps, to soften the blow of having let the king slip from his grasp. The satisfaction he had felt at preventing Gill from taking the Cup soured completely once he had realised the attempt was merely a distraction from the actual mission. Dal Villerauvais, it seemed, had more artifice than Amaury had ever given him credit for.
Word was yet to get out that the king was no longer in the city, but it would. Soon. The news could be dismissed as misinformation for a time, but eventually it would be undeniable. Considering how angry the citizens already were, he might be better off admitting it from the get-go, and trying to twist the information to his advantage, painting those who had taken the king as traitors.
The dragon had come just at the right time—Divine Fortune showing that perhaps she still did favour him. Showing the people this great trophy was the perfect thing with which to grab their attention, and distract them from everything else that was going on. At that moment the beast was being brought downriver to a site where it was to be loaded onto a barge for transport into the city. With three armies roaming the countryside, he wasn’t going to risk disassembling part of the city wall, no matter how much value the prize might bring.
It hadn’t taken him long to work out what to do with the creature—there was an old duelling arena on Southgate Road that would be a perfect home for it. He could have a sturdy enclosure built to cover the arena floor, leaving plenty of space for his citizens to come and view their great prize. His citizens. He wondered if they’d ever think of him as their liege. Their saviour—for that was what he undoubtedly was. When the Ventish marched south or the Ostians landed on their shores, led by powerful battle mages, the people would ask where the king was and why he was not protecting his people.
Thanks to Amaury, that day would never come—Mirabaya would have its own battle mages, far more powerful than anything the Ventish or Ostians could come up with. He feared the people would never appreciate the great service he had done them, at so much personal risk and sacrifice.
He knew that he had come too far to hand power to someone else. If whoever it was had an ounce of sense in their heads, they’d have him thrown in the dungeons as soon as they sat on the throne. There was no longer any question of ruling from the shadows, through a puppet king. Not anymore. In any event, he deserved this. All that he had done, all that he had sacrificed, was to make sure that Mirabaya was strong, and safe. No one else could do that. Only him.
Amaury returned to his office to draft the orders for his new dragon menagerie. As he took up his pen, his gaze fell on the wooden box containing the two Cups. They were of no more use to him personally, so he was sending them to the Priory. Their temporary boon would be of great use to his mages-in-training, and more importantly, they could give the Order’s mages worthwhile power while they were carrying out the tasks that would build public support.
The mood in the city was ugly, and his health clinics had not yet achieved the effect he was hoping for. People were using them, but only in small numbers, only with reluctance, and always with fear. Even the healed seemed to resent magic. He was certain that would change with time, but time was something he was running short on. Eventually he was going to have to face his challengers on the field, and when that happened, the last thing he needed was a city that would turn on him as soon as his attention was directed elsewhere.
If kindness wasn’t working, he would soon have to alter his tactics. A display of power might cow the people into obedience long enough for him to deal with other issues, but he knew that would cause problems of its own if not managed carefully. The residents of Mirabay needed to know what he could do if they didn’t get in line, but he had to be careful not to punish them so severely they would resent him all the more. He would have to show them what the stick looked like, but make it clear the carrot remained available. Perhaps he could use the dragon in that regard? Might his new magical power allow him to yoke the beast to his will?
He desperately wanted to use his power, but now that he had access to it, he felt ill at the thought of what the effort might do to him. His state after the encounter with Gill and Solène—unconsciousness, followed by pain and fatigue—remained a great concern to him. That there was still a price to be paid for his use of magic was obvious. Amaury had hoped the Cup would free him of such constraints, but it seemed that was not to be. Far more power, but still at a cost. He supposed that was right, in the grand scheme of things, but it was frustrating. It would take time to learn how to control it without killing himself before he could unleash its full potential.
If the gods favoured him, the inscriptions his academics had brought back from the temple would accelerate the process. Otherwise, he would continue to rue his decision to have Kayte dal Drezony killed as he stumbled along his journey of self-discovery.
CHAPTER 25
In Gill’s experience, there was always a moment of calm before a battle—that last, momentary hesitation where everyone involved reconsidered whether they wanted to be there or not. For the men behind the pickets, the army staring at them from just beyond crossbow range looked far larger than it had when it was at camp. For the men in the army, the pickets looked unassailably high, defended by men who would fight to the death. Everyone would be wondering why they had chosen to be there, and if the coins they were paid, or the potential for plunder, was worth it.
The ones carrying the seed of doubt in their minds would be the first to break if things started going wrong. As he scanned his defences, Gill wished there were a way to tell when a man was wavering. If one on the picket were to turn and run, the rest would follow. Panic was the greatest killer of armies he’d ever seen, and when dealing with levies, it was an ever-present threat.
These troops weren’t men who’d grown up with their heads filled with notions of honour; they were farmers and tradesmen who wanted nothing more than to make a bit of extra money before returning to their families. If they had a bit of an adventure along the way, and went back with a few stories to tell, all the better. Dying for their king, far from those they loved—who would likely never hear how they died—didn’t seem so noble when it was staring at you from a few furlongs away.
Silence prevailed, joined by an uncomfortable partner—tension. Beside Gill, the young king exuded tension like a reeking body odour. It was understandable—it was his first battle, and the fact that he hadn’t soiled his britches meant he was already ahead of a great many men who had faced a similar situation.