Duchain nodded with a solemn expression, then took a deep breath before speaking. “I don’t think you would be able to field a battle-effective force, your Grace.”
Amaury smiled thinly. It was all he could do to stop himself swearing to the heavens. The way sentiment in the city was heading, he needed what troops he had to maintain order. To take them out of the city to fight a battle might mean facing a city in revolt when he returned.
There remained the bigger problem of the king. Even if Solène couldn’t undo whatever it was he had done to the king’s mind, so long as Boudain lived, he remained a rallying point for the opposition. Not to mention, it emphasised the tenuous legality of Amaury’s regency.
That was something he needed to address, and soon. By taking up arms, the king’s cousins had made themselves useless to the Prince Bishop. The more distant relatives didn’t have a strong enough claim to the throne for Amaury to place any of them upon that seat. As much as he had given up on the idea of wielding power from behind someone else, the fact that the option was no longer available was oddly comforting—it was one less difficult decision to make. Or to get wrong.
With the king—incapable or not—in someone else’s hands, Amaury needed to firm up his rule. Regent wasn’t enough anymore. Whoever had Boudain could easily cook up a forged document and claim that it superseded the one putting Amaury in control.
“Before we close business for the morning, gentlemen,” Amaury said, “there’s one more matter I wish to raise. With the king kidnapped, the regency, not to mention the kingdom itself, has been placed in a position of great jeopardy.”
He scanned the faces of the men before him for any reaction. He didn’t know if he was fooling anyone or whether he was fooling only himself. They showed no signs of disbelief, so he continued.
“In order to ensure the good management of Mirabaya and the safety of her subjects, stronger measures will be needed until the king has been recovered. With this in mind, I intend to propose the following interim measure.”
He slid a piece of paper toward the seated officials. They looked at one another until Duchain took the initiative and picked up the document.
“Appointment as Lord Protector of the Realm?” Duchain said.
“Precisely,” Amaury said. “A temporary measure to ensure consistent governance and keep the throne secure for the king and his ultimate successor.”
Amaury leaned back in his chair and gave them a moment to digest the idea. These were his men. If they didn’t go for it, no one would. He knew it was too soon to declare himself permanent ruler. He needed to weather the current storm, and then, in a year or two, with fewer threats on his doorstep, he could push through whatever was needed to make him prince of the realm, as well as prince of the church.
“It seems to make sense, your Grace,” Duchain said. “Any old bandit could forge the king’s signature now.”
“Precisely,” Amaury said. “The document also outlines the mechanism by which the protectorate reverts to a regency, and from there to a kingdom, but that’s all simple enough.” He paused to gather his thoughts. “There may be some pushback on this, from any number of quarters, but it’s important that we make clear how vital this measure is for the kingdom’s prosperity.”
Pharadon wasn’t sure what to make of the scene before him. He stood, uncomfortable and weakened in human form, staring at a sign proudly announcing that in a matter of days, the Regent of Mirabaya would proudly unveil the greatest trophy of war the nation had ever known. A captive dragon, alive, but cowed by the greatness of Mirabaya’s power and by the prowess of the Order of the Golden Spur. People wandered past, some stopping to read the sign. One or two passed comment, but Pharadon ignored them. He was in no mood for conversation.
Although he could go no farther than the external wall of the incipient menagerie, he didn’t need to see the goldscale with his own eyes to know she was there, to know that she was suffering. As he allowed his senses to drift beyond his body, he felt her heartbeat as if it were his own, but slow and strained, as though each great thump threatened to demand too much from her frail body. She didn’t even seem to be aware of his presence. Her state pained him—emotion raged within, not something to which he was accustomed.
He was filled with the overwhelming desire to return to dragon form and tear the goldscale from her cage. He knew that was folly. There were many humans in the city, many soldiers. He needed time to recover from this transformation before he could attempt another. Freeing her and lifting her away would take far longer, and attract much more attention, than rescuing an enfeebled king on a misty day. He would be shot from the sky and cut to pieces. As tempting as it was to try, Pharadon knew it was a reckless act doomed to fail. Not only would the goldscale descend into barbarity, she would die before she’d ever had the chance to live.
Right now, he couldn’t even get close enough to place a gold coin beneath her body and thereby prolong her life. Still, there was no way he would sit back and do nothing. He turned and headed toward the city gate, eagerly awaiting the moment when his powers had been restored enough to allow him to return to his natural form.
As he walked, he considered his options. A daring rescue attempt was clearly out. If he had a Cup, he could enlighten her, which might be as much cruelty as a kindness—the greater awareness enlightenment brought would enhance her suffering, but it would allow her to sustain herself more from the Fount, and buy him more time to work out a way to free her.
In the time it took for Pharadon to walk several miles away from the city and wander off the road in preparation for his transformation, he did not manage to come up with any good options. What were the chances of there being more Cups? He remembered there being others, and was still confused by finding only one at the temple when he had expected far more. During the wars, he could remember a faction of dragonkind wanting to use the Cups as weapons, while the majority refused to allow such barbarity. Perhaps they had been used; perhaps they had been hidden to prevent that from happening. It was impossible to know—Pharadon had gone into self-imposed exile before the war had ended.
Might Cyaxares, the high priest at the temple, have hidden some of the Cups, to keep them away from mankind? He realised he might as well spend his time searching as sit around wondering if any remained. There were some obvious places to search, but the plan felt tenuous at best. As his body morphed back into that of a dragon, he comforted himself with the thought that perhaps as he flew, he might come up with something better.
A flight through the cool night air usually settled him and allowed his mind to focus. This night, that relief did not come. As countryside became hills became mountains, his heart felt heavy. He might be chasing a hope that was impossible; there might be nothing he could do for the goldscale. The thought made him want to cry out in despair—the idea that he was the last of his kind was too terrible to bear. More so when there was another still alive. No matter what happened, he had to spend what little time was left doing whatever he could to save her.
Pharadon had not known Cyaxares particularly well, but he knew where the ancient dragon’s territory had been, which was as good a place to start as anywhere. The intention behind the concealment worried Pharadon. If Cyaxares had intended to hide them from dragonkind, the task might be impossible. If he had only intended to keep them out of the hands of humans, it would be far easier.
Some sort of magical concealment would have been employed, and Pharadon hoped that the magic would have degraded over the years—it was unlikely Cyaxares would have thought the Cups would need to be hidden for more than a short time. A century or two at the most; little more than the blink of an eye for a dragon. Pharadon tried to think where he would hide something precious to narrow down the search area. The obvious answer was somewhere in his mountain’s caves, with his other valuables, as was the practice of all dragonkind. That didn’t seem likely in this instance, however. It was too obvious.