“The reason the one you have doesn’t work the way you think it should is because it’s already been used, and they only imbue their full power once.”
“This one hasn’t been used?” His voice changed instantly from growling malevolence to something brighter, hopeful. Desperate.
She smiled and nodded. “Untouched. The last of its kind. Other than that, as best as I was able to tell, it works the way you think it does. You just have to drink from it. And all your dreams become reality.”
The Prince Bishop’s eyes widened in delight, then narrowed. “You’re certain? Certain that this is how it works?”
The intensity of his delivery made her doubt herself. She shrugged. “I think so.”
“That’s not good enough,” he said. “This is the last one? You said this is the last one.”
She nodded. “That’s what the dragon said in the temple.”
“It spoke?”
“Well, yes. It was in human form at that point.”
“Astonishing,” the Prince Bishop said. “But if this is the last one, I can’t take the risk of wasting it.” His voice rose. “I need to know for certain. I need to know the correct way to use it. This Cup might be the answer to everything. I can’t waste it.”
He paced across the office to the window and stared out into the darkness, tugging at his goatee in agitation. After a moment he turned back to her. “Tell me about the temple. What did you see?”
“It was incredible. Ancient, yet perfectly preserved. That would be because of the magic, I suppose. The whole place was filled with sculptures and covered with inscriptions.”
“Inscriptions. Were you able to read any of them?”
“Of course not. I couldn’t even tell you what language they were in.”
“Couldn’t you use your limited magical ability to decipher them?”
She smiled wryly, the dig at her disappointing magical talents not going unnoticed. She wondered if he would ever get over it, but supposed the wound must be particularly sore now, after she had delivered the news of his new protégé’s betrayal. It seemed that he was to be ever disappointed by those he placed his hopes in.
“No,” she said. “I’ve always directed my ‘limited magical ability’ toward things that are useful to me. I’ve never included millennia-dead languages on that list.”
The Prince Bishop let out a breath with a deep sigh, then walked over to his desk and slumped into the chair. In that moment, Ysabeau regretted the attitude she had adopted, and wanted nothing more than to console her father. It felt as though there was a gulf between them, one she could never hope to cross. In any event, she knew that consolation was not what he desired.
“It’s possible that there was more detailed information there on how the cups were used. Probable.”
He fixed his gaze on her. “I need you to go back. Right away. I’m sure the danger has passed by now, so you’ll be free to carry out a more thorough investigation. I’ll have some scribes and linguists from the university accompany you, to copy the inscriptions and start working on translations.”
Ysabeau gritted her teeth. She hadn’t even taken the time to have a drink of water, let alone the lavish meal, hot bath, and ten hours of sleep she’d promised herself during the exhausting ride back from the temple. She’d been running on empty for hours, and it was only having the end in sight that had kept her going.
“Take a room at Bauchard’s and get some rest,” the Prince Bishop said. “I’ll need a little time to get the team I have in mind organised. Naturally you can put it on my tab.”
“Naturally,” she repeated. There was no asking. He gave his command, and expected it to be followed. No other man alive spoke to her like that, treated her like that. Still, he was her father, and had been there for her when she had most needed him. She smiled and tried to relax. He was ordering her to Bauchard’s, a place of luxury, and she was so tired.
“I’ll send word when I have everything in place.” He stared at her with that expectant look he used to indicate that it was time to leave. Obedient, Ysabeau stood and headed for the door.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” he said.
She realised she was still holding the Cup. She lifted it and allowed her tired gaze to dwell on it a moment.
“I think you should leave it here,” the Prince Bishop said. “For safekeeping.”
“Of course, Father,” Ysabeau said. She placed the Cup on his desk, rather than into his outstretched hand, and left. As soon as the door closed behind her, she realised she had forgotten to ask him about the odd mood in the city. Conversations with the Prince Bishop were usually like that—dealing only with the things he wanted to deal with. At this point, she was so tired she didn’t really care anymore.
CHAPTER 6
Gill led his little band around the city walls to St. Boudain’s Gate, on the western side of the city, named after a king who was more interested in matters spiritual than temporal. As poor a reputation as he had as a ruler, the funds he diverted into the church were sufficient for his beatification, and he would be remembered as St. Boudain, rather than Boudain the Feckless, which was perhaps more appropriate. Gill had always taken odd pleasure in looking behind the reputations of the great and good of Mirabaya, as though to confirm to himself over and over that his cynicism was justified.
“Think we’ll have any problems?” Solène said, as they approached the guarded gateway.
“No,” Gill said. “I doubt it. Maybe be ready to gallop for safety, just in case.”
“Confident then,” Solène said.
He shrugged. “You never can tell. The last lot looked a bit jumpy. If they’re on alert, it’s possible word will have spread and these guards will be looking for us. I doubt it, though.”
“What do we do when we get in?” Solène said.
“Let’s cross one bridge at a time, shall we?” Gill said. The truth was, he had no idea. Loath though he was to admit it, he reckoned they’d lost the Cup as soon as their quarry reached the city gate. In all likelihood, it was already in Amaury’s possession. He didn’t want to say so, though. He knew how important the Cup was to their dragon-in-human-clothing comrade. Best let him find out they had failed by himself, so any anger could be directed elsewhere. Angry dragons were something Gill had had his fill of. He much preferred them when they were playing nice.
He studied Pharadon as surreptitiously as he could. Though the dragon’s human disguise appeared perfect—apart from when he tried a challenging facial expression, like smiling—Gill worried that there was a flaw somewhere. An errant horn or a patch of scales that a particularly vigilant guard would spot. He supposed that the phrase “vigilant guard” was something of an oxymoron. Most of them were bored witless and counting the minutes until they could go back to barracks or home to their families. Nevertheless, every so often you got one who was eager to impress, new to the job or looking to make rank.
They reached the gate. On the scale of attentiveness, these guards seemed to be at the lower middle. They were stopping people, but only asking where they had come from. They were paying a little more than lip service to their duty, but not much.
“Where from?” the guard said.
“Trelain,” Gill said, immediately wondering if he should have said somewhere else.
“See any dragons?”
Gill chuckled. “No. Not a one.”
“Move on.”
Gill gave a salute of thanks and urged his horse forward. He wondered how the guard would have reacted had he learned that he was staring at a dragon even as he asked the question.