by Pierre Pevel
‘Not hungry any more?’ the drac asked in a quiet, even voice.
Lorn got a hold of himself.
‘Yes!’ he said, taking the pan and the wooden spoon held out to him.
‘Some bread?’
Lorn nodded, his mouth full.
The drac drew a round loaf of bread from a travelling bag and cut off two thick slices. One for Lorn and one for himself, which he ate slowly while Lorn gulped down his meal, watching the stranger as he did. The drac wore a signet ring on the third finger of his left hand and another ring of black arcanium pierced the arch of one eyebrow. A long dagger hung from his finely crafted belt. His clothes, otherwise, were those of a traveller. It was impossible to guess his age, or even his sentiments.
Sated at last, Lorn put down the pan and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘Thank you,’ he said, looking the drac straight in the eye. ‘For everything.’
The stranger accepted his thanks with a simple nod of the head.
‘You’re welcome, Lorn.’
Lorn stiffened, suddenly on the defensive.
‘You know me?’ he asked.
‘Everyone knows you.’
‘That’s an overstatement, surely?’
‘I’ll grant you that. Let’s just say that I know you. As do a few others.’
‘Who are you?’ asked Lorn.
‘I’m an Emissary of the Grey Dragon.’
‘The Dragon of Destiny. What’s your name?’
‘Is it not enough to know that I am an Emissary?’
‘No.’
The Emissary pulled a face that seemed to say: Well, why not?
‘I’m called Skeren.’
The ginger cat had remained in the shade, upon the blanket. It stood up, stretched, and came over to settle on Lorn’s knees. Lorn allowed it to do so before gently caressing its back. The animal started to purr softly.
‘It seems that before ordering my second trial, the High King was visited by an Emissary,’ said Lorn in a casual tone. ‘What was that one’s name?’
The Emissary smiled.
‘He was also called Skeren.’
‘That’s quite a coincidence.’
‘Indeed.’
Lorn smiled in his turn and gave his full attention to the cat, still stroking it. Its eyelids half-closed, the cat pushed its head beneath his hand.
‘I imagine I also owe you thanks for that,’ acknowledged Lorn.
‘You don’t owe me anything. The High King makes his own decisions.’
‘No doubt. But without you, would he have ordered a new trial?’
The Emissary gave no reply.
‘What did you say to the High King?’ asked Lorn.
‘First of all, that you were innocent.’
Lorn chuckled.
‘So what? If we started freeing all the innocent people in prison …’
‘Then,’ the white drac was saying imperturbably, ‘we told him who you are …’
‘Who I am?’ Lorn asked in surprise.
But the Emissary did not elaborate and instead continued:
‘Lastly, we told him what you were perhaps destined to accomplish. Because you have a destiny, Lorn. And that is not something given to everyone.’
‘How lucky for me …’
Lorn scratched the cat’s head. Then, neglecting the animal, he thought for a moment, his thumb rubbing, beneath the leather strap, the palm of his marked hand.
‘I imagine that my destiny was not to rot away inside Dalroth,’ he surmised.
‘Of course not.’
‘Then what is it?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘But the Assembly of Ir’kans knows.’
‘It knows enough, yes.’
The drac seemed to choose his words carefully and explained:
‘You see, Destiny is always fulfilled in one way or another. If it’s written that a king shall die beneath the dagger of an assassin, it will happen no matter what. The assassin may fail. Or die prematurely. Or follow an entirely different path. But in that case, another will take his place. Another whose steps will be guided by Destiny. And at the appointed hour, or thereabouts, the king will die. Perhaps he won’t be stabbed by a dagger. Perhaps he’ll be poisoned instead. But he will be assassinated. Inevitably … You understand?’
‘Yes.’
‘The Dragon of Destiny always fulfils its purpose,’ concluded the Emissary.
‘With the help, sometimes, of the Assembly of Ir’kans.’
‘Sometimes, yes. But the Guardians only work to further the fulfilment of Destiny. Never anything else. When the stakes are high, they act so that everyone can achieve their destiny …’
‘… in the interest of Destiny.’
‘Yes. Exactly. What’s written must come to pass.’
Lorn remained silent.
He reflected while he caressed the cat and then suddenly said:
‘I don’t give a damn about Destiny in general or my own destiny in particular. Find someone else to fulfil it, Emissary.’
The drac remained perfectly impassive.
‘A royal wyverner has already spotted the smoke from our fire,’ he said. ‘Before evening, the Grey Guards searching for you will be here.’
Lorn could not help smiling to himself.
So, the wyverners he had seen before entering the Deadlands were looking for him, but on behalf of the Grey Guards that the High King had sent out after him.
‘Their orders are to escort you to the Citadel,’ continued the Emissary. ‘Willingly or not. You’d best go along with them.’
And as Lorn gave no reply, he added:
‘The High King is dying and awaits you.’
Lorn looked down at the cat, which was still purring beneath his caress.
‘So what?’
His tone was meant to be ironic, but it lacked conviction.
Lorn became aware that some part of him remained in service to the High Kingdom. A part he was resisting with cynicism and rancour. A part of the person he’d once been, which had not completely vanished in Dalroth.
‘Didn’t you say that if I do not fulfil my destiny, someone else will do so in my place?’
‘Yes,’ conceded the drac. ‘But that won’t happen without a cost. Destiny always prefers the least difficult path. It won’t give up readily, now that it has chosen you. And the entire High Kingdom will suffer from your decision, not to mention what awaits you personally …’
‘Are you trying to scare me?’
‘No. But I know where the byway you desire to take will lead. It goes to Sarme and makes you an assassin.’
Lorn raised an eyebrow.
‘Whereas if you agree to speak to the High King …’ added the Emissary, letting his sentence drag out, ‘your destiny will be an extraordinary one. Believe me, if you embrace it, it will provide you with ample means to wreak your revenge.’
He rose upon uttering these words, as did Lorn. He gathered up his effects, stuffed them into a bag and mounted his horse waiting attached to one of the stakes in the circle surrounding the mound.
‘Goodbye, Lorn. Make your destiny your ally. You will find none more powerful.’
Lorn saluted the Emissary gravely with a nod of the head, before realising that he still held the ginger cat in his arms.
‘You forgot your cat!’ he called out.
‘Cats don’t belong to anyone,’ retorted the drac, who was already moving off. ‘But that one seems to have adopted you. Keep it near you.’
‘Does it have a name?’
‘Almost certainly, but I don’t know it.’
The Grey Guards arrived at nightfall and found Lorn waiting for them, sitting cross-legged with the cat rolled into a ball between his thighs as he poked distractedly at the embers of his campfire.
Raising his head, Lorn watched the troop approach.
It was composed of twenty horsemen in armour with crested helmets, five black crowns adorning their grey banners and shields. Lo
rn knew these signs and emblems only too well, having borne them himself before being accused, defamed and convicted. So, when he saw the pennants flapping in the wind amidst the rumble of a steady gallop, an unexpected emotion squeezed his throat.
He remembered the ceremony, conducted with great pomp, when he was admitted to the ranks of the Grey Guard. He remembered what an honour it had been to belong to this elite company, to which the king entrusted his life. He remembered his feeling of pride, and even more, his father’s pride. And he remembered the moment when he was arrested. Only a few months had gone by between the moment when the captain of the Grey Guard had handed him the famous crested helmet in the king’s presence and the moment when he’d demanded that Lorn give up his sword …
Lorn pulled himself together.
Holding the cat in his arms, he stood up and waited for their arrival.
22
‘It is the hardiest, the rarest and perhaps the most beautiful flower of Imelor. No snows are cold enough to prevent it from blossoming in the springtime and enduring until the last days of autumn, no drought is cruel enough, no rain is violent enough, no hail is heavy enough. And it is said that even the Dark is powerless to tarnish its lustre or wither its beauty. As if immortal, it grows only on the eternal summits of Langre, of which it is the emblem and the pride. It bears an ancient name: Irelice.’
Chronicles (The Book of Symbols)
Eylinn of Feln enjoyed, alone, the delights of a hot, perfumed bath. Languid, her eyelids closed, she relaxed in the soft light. A few candles were burning. Her hair lifted into a loose chignon and her slender neck resting upon a cushion, the young woman breathed peacefully, a thin smile upon her lips.
She only opened one eye when her father entered. Duncan of Feln seemed irritated. Perhaps even angry. He let himself fall heavily into an armchair in the luxurious bathing room and heaved a sigh.
‘What’s the matter, father?’
With a sombre look, the duke stared at a point in front of him. His breathing wheezed and his jaw was clenched tight. He sat there silently containing his wrath, his muscles stretched to breaking point.
‘The imbeciles!’ he muttered to himself.
Eylinn knew her father rarely gave way to anger. He considered it a weakness whose consequences were always detrimental. An angry man thought poorly and made bad decisions. He allowed his emotions to govern him, rather than his intelligence and experience. But in politics – the domain in which Duncan of Feln excelled – allowing oneself to be ruled by sentiment was more than a mistake: it was a fault that might prove fatal.
‘The imbeciles,’ repeated the duke.
Eylinn turned away and pulled on a robe as she rose from her bath. She got out of the tub, dripping, and approached her father, placed a kiss upon his brow, and then went behind him to rub his shoulders.
Duncan gradually recovered his composure.
‘They tried to abduct Lorn in Samarande,’ he announced. ‘And a second time on the road to Brenvost. And they probably would have tried again, if a troop of Grey Guards patrolling in the region hadn’t forced them to give up …’
‘Relax, father.’
‘And now … And now, they have the nerve to come to me …’
The duke took a deep breath, before closing his eyes and exhaling slowly. He waited a moment for his daughter’s skilful massage to take effect, and said:
‘It’s Hebart. He took advantage of our journey through Argor to organise this … idiocy. I imagine he had little trouble convincing the others. They’ve all been shitting themselves since they learned that Lorn was to be freed …’
‘But Lorn only had dealings with you.’
‘That’s right.’
‘So he has no knowledge of Irelice’s other members, does he?’
‘Of course not! But what can I say? They’re afraid of their own shadows.’
The young woman pondered for a moment.
‘What were they planning to do with Lorn once they’d abducted him?’ she asked aloud.
‘As for that!’ Duncan chuckled. ‘I’m not certain those cretins even knew themselves.’
‘Who was in charge of carrying out this task?’
The duke shrugged.
‘I don’t know. I still don’t know all the details of the affair. But I doubt Hebart dirtied his own hands … Be that as it may, the damage is done. And it’s up to me to deal with it, now.’
Her hands paused on her father’s shoulders, before Eylinn asked:
‘What damage, exactly? Is it really so serious, father?’
‘Who knows how Lorn will react? What if he decides to come after us?’
‘Assuming he knows who tried to abduct him …’
‘Who but Irelice would want to silence him? Who else would profit from having him disappear? If Lorn hasn’t worked it out yet, he will soon enough.’
Eylinn took a few steps, thinking out loud.
‘That’s by no means certain. Lorn has no doubt many other enemies who are unlikely to be pleased by the news of his return. Besides, what can he do against us? Speak out? Why would he do that now, when so far he has kept silent?’
‘Yes … Perhaps you’re right … Nevertheless, we’ll need to keep an eye on him.’
The young woman ceased pacing back and forth.
‘Wasn’t that your intention, in any event?’
‘Yes,’ admitted Duncan ruefully.
He remained pensive for a moment and then declared:
‘I’m going to make sure Hebart regrets this blunder for a long time. I will make sure he toes the line and marches in step from now on. As for Lorn … I believe the best thing to do is to wait and see. I’m convinced that if the High King ordered his liberation, it was not simply to repair a …’
He hunted for the right word.
‘An injustice?’ suggested Eylinn.
The duke smiled.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘A terrible injustice.’
23
‘Having found Lorn in the Deadlands, the Grey Guards sent after him by the High King escorted him to Elarian, where they embarked for Ryas. After a short crossing on the waters of the Captive Sea, they resumed their journey by road and, riding towards the Citadel, reached the Egides Mountains.’
Chronicles (The Book of the Knight with the Sword)
They made a stopover at the foot of the Egides range, at an old castle that defended the access to a steep-sided valley. The halt was a welcome one to all, and in particular to Lorn who had not yet recovered from his fight with the wolves in the Deadlands.
The Dark, moreover, continued to tax him.
During the short crossing by water to Ryas, he suffered withdrawal symptoms which he managed to keep secret. Alone in his cabin, lying huddled up on his bunk, trembling and feverish, with cramps in all his limbs, he had stifled his moans of pain. The crisis happily proved less acute than the first one and he was able to contain it. In the morning, he had discreetly poured overboard the black bile he had vomited into his chamber pot and the only proof of his illness left was his sheets, drenched in a sour sweat. Even so, he feared the next fit would surprise him without his being able to conceal it. He wanted to believe his need would diminish over time, that the fits would become less frequent and less violent. But would he ever be truly weaned from the Dark?
That evening, like every evening since the Grey Guards had been escorting him, Lorn ate a short distance apart from the troop, without anyone saying a word to him. Then he lit the end of a candle he’d kept in his pocket and opened a small stained, dog-eared book which he had purchased in the port before embarking for Ryas.
Indifferent to the conversations of the horsemen who were talking in low voices in the castle’s vast refectory, he was absorbed in his reading and stroking the cat left to him by the Emissary, when the officer in command of the troop came and sat down by him. His name was Rilsen and, until now, he’d barely spoken to Lorn. Like his men, he had treated the knight with a cold respect, as if scrupulously fu
lfilling a duty against his will. Lorn asked for nothing more. Besides, the silence he was condemned to suited him very well, with the young ginger cat as his sole companion.
Rilsen said nothing for a moment and drank from the neck of a thin metallic flask which he kept about his person. Then, with an abrupt gesture that betrayed a certain embarrassment, he held it out to Lorn.
‘The nights are always cold within these old stones,’ he said.
It was an attempt to break the ice. Lorn pondered it for a moment, but saw no reason to reject the peace offering. He closed his book, took the flask and lifted it in a silent toast to the officer before taking a small gulp of brandy.
It tasted good.
‘Thank you,’ he said as he returned the flask.
Rilsen restoppered it before slipping it into his boot.
‘What are you reading?’ he asked.
‘The Chronicles.’
‘Which book?’
‘The First Kings of Langre.’
The Chronicles of the Kingdoms of Imelor was an immense text comprising a hundred volumes gathered in books and divided into songs and verses. History and legend were mixed together, and scholars argued over whether such-and-such a book deserved to be included in the canon, if this song was really in its proper place or that verse shouldn’t be interpreted differently. The debates were endless, all the more so because the books continued to be written and expanded year after year. Certain volumes were travel tales, others philosophical musings, collections of prayers, or mystical and prophetic texts. The origin of the most ancient books was a mystery, which did not prevent some of them from becoming founding documents in the High Kingdom and elsewhere.
The Book of the First Kings of Langre was one of them.
‘That’s one of my favourites,’ said Rilsen.
‘Mine too.’
‘My father read The First Kings to me when I was a child. I learned my first letters with it.’
