The Knight: A Tale from the High Kingdom

by Pierre Pevel

  He and Alan did not return to the painful conversation they’d had. The prince waited for Lorn to express regret, if not offer an apology, while Lorn did not wish to ask for forgiveness now from anyone. So they acted as if nothing had happened, but their relations became cold and tense. When Father Domnis voiced concern about this, Alan explained what it was about. The priest had then pleaded Lorn’s cause: it was no doubt the Dark that had spoken. Alan had understood that. But despite everything, Lorn’s words still wounded him.

  As he completed his convalescence, Lorn was forced to admit that if his body was healing, his eyes remained as sensitive as ever. It was painful for him to go outside in full sunlight without protection, a weakness he would henceforth have to deal with. At first, he decided to wear a patch over his right eye, but that interfered with his depth perception and dangerously reduced his field of vision. Then Father Domnis found the solution and had some rectangular spectacles made whose tinted glasses allowed Lorn to see without being dazzled. Lorn was not pleased at first: he was not yet thirty years old and, for him, spectacles were only worn by old men and scholars smelling of paper and ink. But he came to agree that these glasses did the job perfectly well.

  Along with his black hair, his pallor, his silence, his mismatched eyes and the sombre outfits he liked to wear, the spectacles put the finishing touch to the aura that surrounded him. Even without mentioning the seal on the back of his left hand, he had a dark and disturbing air about him. People bowed their heads when they passed him in the hallways, gave him sidelong glances and whispered about him behind his back. It did not bother him. On the contrary, he relished his solitude. He found a certain degree of comfort in it, between four walls of silence and oblivion.

  15

  One morning, Lorn announced to Alan he was leaving.

  ‘When?’

  ‘Today.’

  The prince took in the news without blinking.

  ‘I should be thinking of going home, too. I’ve received a letter from my mother: she is calling me back to Oriale.’

  In fact, the letter had arrived a few days earlier. But Alan had not wished to reply to the queen’s summons before Lorn was completely recovered. He thought of offering to accompany Lorn instead, but without a sincere reconciliation between them, a touch of pride prevented him from doing so: he did not wish to appear to be begging.

  ‘The Duke of Feln is up to his usual mischief,’ he said casually.

  ‘The duke?’

  ‘I’m talking about Duncan.’

  Duncan of Feln.

  Lorn felt his guts knotting up.

  He gave no sign of it, however, and simply asked:

  ‘Still up to his neck in intrigue, old Duncan?’

  Alan stifled a small laugh.

  ‘More than ever. Especially since my mother’s authority is being questioned and those willing to lend the duke an ear are growing in number. But the lesser nobility of the sword are wary of him, and without them he will never manage to do anything against the throne.’

  ‘So he’s become a duke.’

  ‘Yes. He’s led the House of Feln since his elder brother’s death. And will do so until his nephew comes of age.’

  ‘Poor nephew. I doubt he’ll live to see his bones grow old,’ said Lorn.

  The prince and he fell silent, embarrassed.

  The few words they had just exchanged were mere social chit-chat, intended only to fill the silence and mask the lingering ill-feeling from their quarrel, and were unworthy of their friendship.

  Unworthy of them.

  Alan sighed.

  ‘Where do you intend to go’ he asked.

  ‘To Sarme. I’m planning to ask for Enzio’s hospitality for a while.’

  The prince felt a stab of jealousy.

  ‘If you’re trying to see Alissia again …’

  He did not finish his sentence, as a livid veil of sadness passed over his friend’s face. Alan immediately regretted his words.

  ‘I’m … I’m sorry, Lorn. I did not mean—’

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘Well.’

  ‘Is she …?’

  ‘Married? No, but—’

  ‘I know, Alan. There’s no need to spell it out for me. I know that I shall never wed her.’

  Lorn tried to remain impassive, but the memory of Alissia had pierced his soul and his heart like a blade of icy fire. In his mind he saw her again, beautiful and fragile, as she was the day he had asked her father, the powerful Duke of Sarme and Vallence, for her hand. And he saw her again the night he left them, she and her brother Enzio, on a quay in the port of Alencia.

  It was a torment.

  The prince wanted to make amends and asked:

  ‘What do you need?

  Lorn shrugged.

  ‘A good horse. Money. Supplies. A sword … Only the bare minimum.’

  ‘Understood. But it’s a long journey to Sarme.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Take an escort.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Just a few men. You can pick them yourself.’

  ‘No, Alan.’

  ‘You were attacked on the very night of your return. What makes you think the people who wanted to make you disappear won’t try again?’

  ‘I’ll be careful.’

  ‘You know as well as I do that it’s not always enough. Accept an escort, Lorn. You can send it back as soon as you’re safe in Sarme.’

  The prince was truly worried and Lorn understood that. But he remained obstinate and refused again: he wanted to travel alone, whatever the risks.

  ‘As you will.’

  ‘I’m going to get ready,’ Lorn said.

  He waited as the prince looked away in silence, both saddened and exasperated by his friend’s attitude: Lorn, once again, was refusing his help.

  Lorn moved off but halted before he left the room.

  He hesitated, and then said:

  ‘Thank you. For everything.’

  Alan turned his back to him.

  ‘Of course,’ he replied in a cold voice.

  An hour later, in the stables, Lorn was checking that his horse was in good health and correctly saddled when Father Domnis came to join him.

  ‘I learned you are leaving, my son.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Lorn replied without ceasing what he was doing.

  ‘The prince is worried about you.’

  ‘So he sent you?’

  ‘No. I share his concern, however.’

  Lorn was silent as he lifted his mount’s hooves one by one.

  The white priest insisted:

  ‘You could have another fit like the one … the one you had before.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘If it happens, it would be best if you were not alone.’

  ‘No doubt, yes.’

  There was another silence, but this time it was Lorn who broke it:

  ‘Listen, father. I know the nature of the illness I’m suffering. But the choice before me is quite simple. Either I live in fear of another Call that may occur whether I like it or not. Or I take the risk of living my life.’

  ‘It’s a risk you may be forcing others to take as well, my son,’ said Father Domnis in an even tone.

  Lorn looked at him and said:

  ‘The Dark has already stolen so much from me.’

  ‘I understand, my son. Nevertheless, you can’t—’

  ‘Goodbye, father.’

  Lorn led his horse out and put one foot in the stirrup.

  ‘Just a minute!’ exclaimed the white priest. ‘Take this, would you? Who knows if it might be of use to you?’

  He held out a medallion bearing – in white enamel – the rune of Eyral, the White Dragon.

  Lorn hesitated before taking the pendant and climbing onto his horse.

  Then he kicked his heels.

  Lorn left the governor’s palace without looking back. He did not see Alan who, with a grave expression, watched him depart from a window. He only halted at the gates of
the city, where he called out to a beggar and tossed him Father Domnis’s medallion.

  Seeing that the pendant and its chain were made of silver, the man broke into a toothless smile and shouted in delight:

  ‘Thank you, my lord! May Eyral accompany you!’

  Lorn was already trotting away.

  16

  ‘His ancestor was Erklant I, whose glorious name he bore. King of Langre, Erklant I, nicknamed ‘the Ancient’, had fought during the Last Shadows and led his kingdom to victory against the armies of Obscurity and Oblivion. He then vanquished the dragon Serk’Arn and, through a series of conquests and treaties, became the first High King. He died after living almost a century.’

  Chronicles (The Book of Kings)

  The gate was so tall that it seemed narrow, when twenty men abreast might have crossed it. The immense double doors shook. A luminous crack appeared between them and widened as they drew apart. Then they halted, barely opened. But it was more than enough to grant entry to a tiny silhouette, that of an old, ill king who advanced leaning on a cane.

  The gap between the doors had traced a long, narrow carpet of light upon the floor. The High King followed it, walking straight ahead with a slow step, his back bent, preceded by his inordinately stretched-out shadow. The darkness was thick. But from the way it absorbed every sound, one easily sensed that the place was gigantic and cavernous: a hollow mountain.

  King Erklant hobbled towards a stone platform, where four bowls of oil burned. They framed two thrones facing one another. One, with its back to the door, was empty. The other had an immobile occupant, sculpted from the same rock as the seats.

  It was a king.

  A warrior king, with his crown and boots, wearing a hauberk, one hand on the armrest of his throne, the other gripping the hilt of a sword resting with its point on the floor.

  The first of the High Kings.

  The old king sat before his ancestor, whose name he bore. The resemblance between them was striking. They seemed to be of the same age and looked almost like brothers. The same clothing. The same wrinkles and hollow face. The same sharp cheekbones. The same jutting jaws. The same long straight hair. And the same deep eye sockets.

  ‘Good evening,’ said the High King.

  He waited for the pains in his joints to diminish. He also needed to catch his breath.

  ‘It has been a while since my last visit,’ he said finally. ‘Forgive me.’

  He sighed.

  ‘The news is bad. The city of Angborn is going to be ceded to Yrgaard …’

  He was alone, yet the old king sensed a presence. A powerful and immense presence whose invisible aura was almost palpable.

  ‘Yes,’ he said as if in answer to a question. ‘Ceded. Or rather sold.’

  King Erklant became thoughtful. His gaze grew vague for an instant, and then his attention returned.

  ‘Sold! Can you believe it?’ He became agitated. ‘And to the Black Dragon! To the Hydra of Yrgaard. And they dare to present this as a diplomatic success?’

  He calmed down and his voice filled with sarcasm.

  ‘For diplomatic relations will at last be established between Yrgaard and the High Kingdom, do you see? As if Yrgaard could ever become our ally …’

  Gloomily, the High King fell silent, before murmuring to himself:

  ‘I already made the mistake of believing that. Wasn’t once enough?’

  He shook his head and, directing his words at the invisible presence, added:

  ‘But one has to admit that the queen has laid the groundwork well … Esteveris has been negotiating in secret with Yrgaard for months and now everything has been arranged. Or almost. Whether the other kingdoms like it or not. Or anyone else, for that matter …’

  His voice died.

  Despondent, the old king knew that Yrgaard would never be a loyal ally. A few years earlier, he had let himself be persuaded to attempt a rapprochement. To no avail. The hatred of the Black Dragon for the High Kingdom was too deep and too ancient. She had ruled Yrgaard since the Shadows and had a visceral enmity towards Eyral, the White Dragon of Knowledge and Light – the protector of the High Kingdom. Eyral was still worshipped here and his oracles continued to guide the High Kings.

  ‘I don’t know what Yrgaard has in mind,’ confessed Erklant II. ‘I only know that Angborn is being handed over to it cheaply and in complete contempt of the blood shed to liberate the Free Cities. But the final straw … The final straw is that we have almost as much to fear from an honest alliance with Yrgaard as from the Black Dragon’s treachery. For the other kingdoms all have good reasons to worry at seeing the two most powerful realms of Imelor allied to one another. For the moment, they’re putting on a brave face before the fait accompli. But how long before they react?’

  The old king’s shoulders slumped, but then he straightened up upon detecting a movement in the darkness.

  ‘There remains one source of hope, however. Lorn will soon be here; did you know? I sent my guards to seek him … They will soon bring him back here … I raised him as my own son and I believed he betrayed me, but that was a mistake. In truth, he has always been loyal and the Guardians say that …’

  A sound like the scraping of metal against stone interrupted him.

  ‘Yes,’ the High King resumed. ‘He’s returning from Dalroth and I know full well what that means … Three years. Might as well say an eternity. Yes, an eternity …’

  His thoughts eluded him once again.

  Once the old king went away, once the tall doors were closed again and the bowls extinguished, shadows massed around the stone thrones, a pair of red eyes opened and a dull roar rose from beneath the mountain.

  17

  ‘After the sacrifice of the Dragon-King and the cataclysm that followed, after the drowning of the province of Elarias and the birth of the Captive Sea, long after the end of the Last War of the Shadows, the Deadlands remained cursed and corrupted, subject to the Dark which impregnated the earth and the water and the stones and the wind.’

  Chronicles (The Book of Elarias)

  Upon leaving Samarande, Lorn did not travel up the Eirdre valley although it would have led him to the heart of the High Kingdom. Instead he rode west, following the coast of the Sea of the Free Cities for several days, and then turned south. His intention was to cross the province of Issern until he reached Brenvost. There he would embark on the first ship leaving for Loriand, from where he would travel to the duchies of Sarme and Vallence. It was not the shortest route, or the easiest one. But Lorn knew he was in danger and although he had refused the escort offered to him by Alan, it nevertheless seemed safer to take byroads. Moreover, his destination mattered less to him than the journey itself, which he hoped to put to good use reflecting on his situation. He was not even sure he would reach Sarme, and he did not care.

  The king’s illness, the queen’s regency, the cession of Angborn and the intrigues of Yrgaard, all of that left him indifferent. As did Alan’s doubts and worries. And Irelice. And even the Dark. Lorn was no longer the man he’d been. He no longer felt any obligation to the High Kingdom, or to the High King. He wanted to have no dealings with anyone. He only aspired to one thing: to be left alone. He wanted to travel for a long time on his own, incognito.

  He wanted to forget.

  To flee.

  And, perhaps, to lose himself.

  The province of Issern was hemmed in by wild mountains to the east and the Deadlands to the west. A few isolated farms were scattered across it. Its only real value was the royal road that linked the Free Cities to the coast and to Brenvost, one of the busiest and most prosperous ports on the Captive Sea. Merchants and merchandise travelled this road every day, despite the brigands who had been preying upon them since the High Kingdom had withdrawn the troops keeping watch over the region – due to its inability to maintain them. Now increasingly bold and audacious bands were robbing travellers before finding refuge in the nearby hills.

  The only really safe places were the
great inns built along the road. Completely self-sufficient, they were fortified and defended by mercenaries. One could eat and sleep there, but also change mounts, have one’s horse shod or repair a cart wheel. All these services, however, commanded exorbitant prices. A pallet and a bowl of soup cost as much as a fowl. But the walls were high, the stones solid and the gates robust. Here, one could rest and relax with peace of mind between two anxious days on the road. And too bad for those who lacked the means to pay or preferred to save their money.

  The first two nights, Lorn spent sleeping under an open sky. Each time, he moved away from the road and took care to find a discreet spot, where his fire could not be seen and his horse could not be heard. He had more than enough to pay for several nights at inns. Even so, he preferred solitude and never grew tired of observing the Great Nebula above him. He had missed this spectacle during his imprisonment at Dalroth. Moreover, with his eyes sensitive to the weakest glimmers, he could now appreciate details that others could not make out. Everything – the dimmest star, the faintest coil, the smallest milky cloud – appeared to him with perfect sharpness when he was not wearing his dark glasses. It almost seemed as though he was now, like some animals, better adapted to nocturnal life than to the daytime.

  On the evening of the third day, however, Lorn decided to stop at one of the inns.

  The idea of eating a cooked meal and sleeping in a proper bed was quite tempting. Perhaps he would even remain a day or two, provided he could occupy a quiet room on his own. His horse was also in need of rest, as well as a new shoe for his right front hoof: spending a little time in the stable would do him good.

  Moreover, Lorn had suffered another mild fit while on the road, towards the end of the afternoon. It had started with pains in his hand and arm. Then came the trembling and the beginning of a fever. Luckily, Lorn had only needed to concentrate and take some long, deep breaths to bring himself under control. But he now dreaded the next outbreak, which he feared would be both imminent and more violent. And all things considered, he preferred to have it surprise him in a place where someone could come to his rescue and where he could receive care afterwards. He was not happy about the prospect. Coming to terms with these fits was admitting the Dark’s hold on him. But he needed to deal with it. Hiding his head in the sand would be suicidal. The Dark was an adversary who would not be ignored.