Pharadon had no idea where Cyaxares’s mountain was, only that it would lie deep within the mountainous terrain that had once been his territory. There should have been four Cups at the temple, but there had only been one. Four was an important number to dragons. There were many legendary reasons; some said Araxion, first of the enlightened, had tasked four of his comrades to go out to enlighten others, but Pharadon had always suspected the true reason was because they had four talons on each of their forelimbs.
Whatever the reason, four Cups had always been kept at the temple. When one was used, it was immediately replaced by the priests. That meant three remained unaccounted for. Had they been used as weapons, Pharadon suspected the skies would be filled with his kind and the lands below would have been devoid of humans. Hidden in a safe place seemed their most likely fate. The only challenge was finding them. A needle in a haystack, as humans might say, but Pharadon had a lodestone of sorts.
As he flew, he let his mind drift onto the Fount. His consciousness floated along its ethereal waves, carried along like a vessel navigating a great ocean. Even after having been awake for some time, he was amazed at how strong the Fount had become during his slumber. It was difficult to fathom, but was a joyous thing—it spoke of life and wonder and fecundity. In any other circumstances, it would have been a great time to be alive. As it was, the threat of loneliness spoiled it.
His senses picked up every ripple, every shallow, every depth of the Fount as his great wings carried him high above the mountains, and the miles dropped away behind him. He spotted what appeared to be a new Fount spring that had formed during his hibernation. That was a rare thing indeed, and something he would have to investigate if time ever permitted. A goldscale, a Fount spring—so many wonders, but none of his kind to revel in them. It filled his heart with a sadness.
On and on he flew, letting the song of his kind, which perpetually drifted along with the Fount, distract him from the harsh reality he found himself in. He didn’t think he could ever grow accustomed to the mountains without so much as a trace of other dragonkind present. It felt as though something fundamental was missing, like the tops of the mountain peaks, or the snow.
He lost track of how long he had been flying, part of his mind searching, part convinced he would never find what he was looking for, and part wondering what life he could make for himself as the last of his kind. Then he felt it. Like a dense knot in a sheet of cloth, Pharadon sensed what he was looking for.
CHAPTER 29
Picking over the scene of a battle was an ugly thing, all the more so with an inexperienced victor. A disciplined force might have held ranks until they were given the order to pursue, but as soon as Boudain’s motley force caught the scent of victory, they charged. Cutting down the retreating force as they ran, men stopped only when their attention was caught by an attractive piece of plunder.
In other circumstances, Gill would have done his best to stop them and reorganise, but he thought it unlikely Chabris—whom he had not seen on the field of battle—would be able to rally his fleeing army, so there was no chance of a counterattack.
The king and his small retinue arrived, and Boudain surveyed the grisly sight of his dead cousin. The young king appeared unmoved.
“I’ve sent some horsemen to chase down Cousin Chabris,” the king said. “I’ll put down good money that the snivelling little turd will do whatever I tell him, if he thinks it’ll save his skin.”
“Not everyone reacts to the threat of death with courage,” Gill said.
“Indeed, unlike you,” the king said. “I couldn’t believe what I was seeing when you ran across the tops of those shields. That’s a story that’ll be told for some time, mark me. You won the day for Mirabaya. Again.”
Looking down, Gill shuffled his feet. He couldn’t deny how good it had felt. For a moment he had been possessed of much he had thought was gone forever—valour, speed, prowess. It was an intoxicating feeling that he wanted more of, but he wasn’t sure what to make of it. Would he become a bigheaded fool once more? Lose sight of the things that were truly important? Was there anything left in his life that was truly important?
Before he could say anything in response, the king continued. “Unlike my father, I don’t forget good service, and yours has been beyond what could be reasonably asked. Despite that, I’m afraid there will be more calls on your great talents in the days to come.” He looked out past Gill. “Ah, here comes my darling cousin.”
Raising his head, Gill saw the finely armoured nobleman being escorted on horseback toward them, hands bound before him. This encounter would be an interesting test of the young king’s mettle, and Gill was curious to see what would happen. What kind of man was Boudain, really, and what kind of king did he intend to be? The next few moments would give strong indications of that, and the campaign to retake Mirabay would set them in stone. These were interesting times. Gill had very much hoped he had seen the last of those.
“My Lord Chabris,” the king said, when his cousin was within earshot. “Your circumstances are sadly reversed. What do you have to say for yourself?”
“I, your Highness, I … Lord Aubin convinced me that you were bewitched. I can only apologise for my error in judgement and beg for your forgiveness.”
The king let out a short laugh. “If you were convinced I was bewitched, what’s changed your opinion? Surely there is little different about me than when last we spoke?”
“I … The gods wouldn’t have given victory to a man possessed by darkness.”
Gill cringed. If that was the best Chabris could come up with, the king would need to be of a merciful nature indeed.
“Guillot dal Villerauvais gave me victory,” the king said.
Gill cringed again.
“A good, loyal man,” the king said. “The type of man I need in my service, one that Mirabaya might be proud to call one of her own. You, though? Rebellion at the first hint of cause. Does that sound like the type of man I need in my service? A man of whom the people of Mirabaya might be proud?”
“No, your Highness. It doesn’t.”
“I’m glad we agree.” The king turned to his retinue. “String him up. Brand him with the word ‘traitor.’ I want everyone who sees his swinging carcass to know why he’s there and what happens to those who betray their king.”
Two men-at-arms stepped forward and pulled the Count of Chabris from his horse. His jaw had dropped open and all the colour had drained from his face, but he remained silent until they started to drag him toward the village. He cried out for mercy, between mewling sobs that made Gill feel embarrassed for him. He was a traitor, and this was a traitor’s punishment. It was harsh, but everyone knew that. Chabris would have known the risks when he chose to side with his cousin against his king.
Boudain showed no reaction to the cries, instead fixing his gaze on his remaining cousin, the Count of Savin. The message was clear, and Gill could see from the expression on Savin’s face that it had been received.