by Pierre Pevel
Lorn gave him a sad smile.
At Dalroth, he had often recited the passages he knew by heart. And when he grew tired of those, he reconstituted others from snippets he could recall. Sometimes, only the rhythm or flavour of a verse remained in his memory, while the actual words were missing. In that case, he invented new ones. All means were valid if they allowed him to escape in thought from his situation.
Rilsen saw the painful veil that clouded Lorn’s gaze but did not know the cause. His eyes fell upon the cat, which had fallen asleep.
‘What’s its name?’ he asked.
‘I haven’t the slightest idea.’
The reply left the officer perplexed.
The truth was that Lorn was still looking for a name. He hesitated because he was familiar with cats and knew one never really named them. When a name seemed to finally suit the animal, it was because the cat had chosen it.
There was a moment of silence, while Rilsen, having exhausted more innocent topics of conversation, felt obliged to come to the heart of matters.
‘I wanted you to know I have no quarrel against you,’ he said.
Lorn looked at him, thinking he had been just like this young officer once.
Three years earlier, he too had belonged to the Grey Guard and no one, back then, had doubted that he would one day command it. The High King was his godfather. He was the friend and confidant of Prince Alderan. He had covered himself in glory at the borders of Valmir and – despite his modest origins – he was going to marry the daughter of the powerful duke of Sarme and Vallence. Everything seemed to being going right for him.
‘I joined the Grey Guard a year after your departure,’ explained Rilsen.
‘My departure …’ noted Lorn bitterly.
‘At the time, everyone believed you guilty. And the guards even refused to speak your name.’
Lorn was affected by that piece of news.
Perhaps he was less indifferent than he thought, after all. But hearing that the Grey Guard, of which he had been a proud member, had disowned him, wounded him more than he could admit.
‘And now?’ he asked.
‘Now, they don’t know what to think. Those who arrived after you, like me, are more sympathetic to your cause. They think nothing can be held against you now, since you were innocent of the charges brought against you. But the others …’ The officer sighed. ‘You need … You need to understand that all of them, including Captain Norfold, were under suspicion after you were convicted. And you know full well that mere suspicion is already a blight upon one’s honour. Some of them could not bear it and quit the Guard rather than answer defamatory questions. And those that remained have trouble forgiving you. I know,’ he hastened to add. ‘I know … But for three years, you embodied everything they most despised: a traitor to his own honour and to his king, who besmirched the honour of the company of the Grey Guards. And now, all of a sudden … That’s why they’re giving you the cold shoulder. And I must confess that I don’t entirely know what to do. Because even though the king demanded that your innocence be recognised—’
‘Just a minute,’ Lorn interrupted.
Fearing he’d heard correctly, he stood up, upsetting the cat.
‘You said the king demanded that …’
He did not finish.
‘That your innocence be recognised, that’s right,’ said the officer. ‘Why?’
Lorn made no reply.
Up until now, he had thought that the High King had ordered a new trial at the end of which he had been absolved. At least, that’s what Alan had said to him and what everyone seemed to believe. Yet Rilsen appeared to be saying that the High King had decreed his innocence. Had a second trial actually taken place? If it had, was it merely a formality whose outcome had been ordained in advance, in accord with the royal demands? It seemed to Lorn that the king had wanted him freed and used his power in order to make that happen. But why? Why now, after three long years? And had the High King acted on his own, or at the behest of the Assembly of Ir’kans?
After all, if the Emissary were to be believed, Lorn had a destiny …
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Rilsen worriedly.
‘Nothing,’ lied Lorn. ‘Nothing. I’m … I’m tired, that’s all.’
And since Lorn now seemed preoccupied solely with caressing the head of his purring cat, Rilsen stood and went to rejoin his men.
They left the following morning.
They were obliged to follow several ravines and pass through increasingly steep-sided valleys and gorges. With each passing day, the air grew colder and sharper, the vegetation sparser. They endured sometimes biting winds which whistled and carried their moans as far as the bare summits. The Egides were an austere world of black and grey rocks, meagre grass, thorny bushes and stunted trees clinging to the stone. The riders spoke little, often travelling single file along the precipitous paths, halting for the night in the ruins of fortified towers, which, during the Shadows, had defended each pass on the route to the Citadel.
Protected by his hood and his dark spectacles, his cat resting upon his shoulders or tucked into one of his saddle bags, Lorn seemed to be surrounded by a black aura. This was partly due to his reserved air, his expressionless silences and the distance he kept between himself and the others. But it also stemmed from something deeper. Like the crew of the ship that had taken him from Dalroth, the guards avoided meeting his glance and spoke in low voices behind his back. He aroused both curiosity and concern. Without actually fearing him, the riders of his escort were wary and maintained an instinctive prudence. No doubt they sensed the presence of the Dark within him.
Lorn had all the time he desired to reflect.
He now regretted the way he had treated Alan before leaving Samarande. He felt guilty about having repeatedly spurned the helping hand his friend had offered him. But if he had accepted it, he would then have been obliged to open up, reveal himself and surrender to emotion. Dalroth had given him a thick skin, but beneath it the flesh was still raw. Lorn had no idea who he was now. How could he share his feelings, his doubts and his fears? He knew he was not completely free of Dalroth and that it would take time. But did he have that time? Would the Dark ever leave him in peace? He was afraid that it had welded itself to him so intimately that he could not be rid of it without amputating part of himself. Perhaps he had become a solitary, tormented soul who would never find repose. Perhaps he should simply admit it and adapt to this terrible truth. And perhaps he would be doing a favour, both to himself and to those who loved him and were trying to help him.
Only the Emissary’s cat managed to soothe him.
So, stroking the animal who was purring with its eyes closed, Lorn lost himself in the contemplation of the landscape. The immensity of the mountains, the depth of the chasms and the height of the summits made him almost feel drunk. He had often crossed the Egides on his way to the Citadel. But the spectacle that spread before him was not of the kind one grew used to. And how many times had he dreamed of these mountains in the darkness of his cell. Today, the Egides range rose up at the borders of the High Kingdom. But once they had looked out over a vast wild region that had since vanished for the most part beneath the Captive Sea. Of the rest, now only the Deadlands remained. History had been written and legend forged here. During the Last War of the Shadows, it was in the Egides that King Erklant I, at the head of several thousand men, had fallen back to resist the triumphant armies of the Dragons of Obscurity and Oblivion. It was in the Egides that those heroes had built the Citadel where, cornered, they had courageously fought on until the sacrifice of the Dragon-King had provoked a cataclysm and opened the way to victory. And it was also in the Egides that Erklant I, alone, had vanquished the Dragon of Destruction and appropriated his power.
The history of the High Kingdom had been born here and it was here that Lorn had witnessed its zenith, its decline and its fall. He had faced his destiny in the shadow of these legendary mountains.
And now he
was returning.
24
At last, after long days, they reached a valley tucked between abrupt ridges and walls. By means of an old paved road, they went past a town and continued to the end of the valley. This ended in a dark crevasse whose steep sides, pointing towards the sky, met in a cul-de-sac.
Here lodged the Citadel.
It was an immense fortress. Before reaching it, they needed to cross several walls barring the crevasse. Then they arrived at the foot of the first rampart. The Citadel never seemed as imposing as at this particular angle, where one waited, tiny and crushed, for the gates to open, the drawbridge to be lowered and the portcullis to be raised. Other ramparts lay behind it, in rising ranks, the tallest enclosing a castle whose keep and crenellated towers were partly dug into the cliff.
Lorn followed the escort to the castle, at a walk, in a reverential silence, the hooves of their horses clacking on the flagstones. The Citadel was a sacred place, impossible for a subject of the High King to enter without experiencing fear and respect, for the history and the legend of the High Kingdom were forged here. But Lorn felt a special emotion of his own. He had been born in the Citadel. He had been dubbed a knight and received honours here, and then imprisoned while his trial took place, until he was finally convicted. Memories returned to him, melancholy and often painful. Words spoken. Laughter and tears. Fleeting odours. And a maelstrom of contradictory feelings which threatened to overwhelm him …
Norfold, the captain of the Grey Guard, was waiting in the castle’s upper courtyard. Behind him, soldiers in armour formed a guard of honour leading up the keep’s stairway. Lorn dismounted and handed the reins of his horse to a squire. Still mounted, Rilsen gave him a nod and moved off, followed by the horsemen he commanded.
Lorn looked at Norfold without saying a word.
His life had become a nightmare when the captain had arrested him, three years earlier. Lorn had been entrusted with the security for some highly confidential meetings taking place between the High Kingdom and Yrgaard. Those meetings were designed to lay the basis for a peace treaty and required the utmost secrecy. The High Kingdom and Yrgaard were hereditary enemies and the balance of alliances among the Imelorian kingdoms rested for a large part on this centuries-old antagonism. If their allies discovered that the High Kingdom and the Black Dragon were coming to a rapprochement behind their backs, it would set off a series of political and diplomatic crises that would be certain to ruin all their efforts. But if initial ground for agreement were found, other negotiations would ensue, perhaps putting an end to five centuries of open and covert warfare. Lorn knew the dramatic consequences that even the slightest leak would have on the outcome of these talks. Warned of the stakes, he was equally aware of the trust accorded to him by the High King and the honour shown him. And everything seemed to be proceeding smoothly, until the day Norfold, expressionless, had demanded his sword and placed him under arrest.
Facing Lorn, three years later, Norfold was just as stoic.
He’d barely changed at all. Tall and solidly built, he was about fifty years old and had an impeccably trimmed goatee. He remained silent, containing his anger, but his look was baleful and expressed everything he could not say aloud. He had not forgiven Lorn. He did not believe in his innocence. And although Norfold would fulfil his duty, scrupulously obeying the orders and the will of the High King, he left no doubt as to his own deep conviction. Lorn inspired nothing but anger, hatred and scorn in him. His place was in Dalroth, until he died.
Lorn, head held high, met him with a gaze that was just as eloquent.
A tranquil gaze, which said: To hell with you.
Norfold understood it and nodded almost imperceptibly, as if to signify he would lift up the gauntlet and respond to the challenge. Both men realised they were henceforth sworn enemies.
‘Follow me,’ said the captain after a moment.
‘Is the king expecting me?’
‘No. It’s already late in the day. His Majesty will receive you tomorrow. You can go and rest.’
Together, they climbed the keep’s great staircase between stiff, grim-looking soldiers who stared straight ahead. Evening was already falling upon the Citadel and torches were being lit.
Lorn made use of the castle’s steam room, then retired to the chamber assigned to him in one of the towers. He found clean clothes waiting for him, pressed and folded. The walls were bare and the furnishings austere, but the bed was soft and after several days riding in the mountains and camping in bivouacs, Lorn fell into it with pleasure. And he was on the point of drifting into sleep when a meal was brought to him.
A second knock came at the door a little later, when he was finishing his dinner.
‘Come in,’ he called, after wiping his mouth.
The door opened and a tall, stern-looking fellow appeared. He towered over Lorn by a good foot, wore the black breastplate of the King’s guards and sported a martial-looking moustache. He was thirty-five to forty years in age and it was easy to see that he had been a soldier his entire life. A scar in the form of a crescent moon marked his right cheek.
Lorn did not remember having seen him before.
‘Yes?’ he asked.
‘I’ve received orders from Captain Norfold to present myself to you, my lord.’
‘Why?’
‘I have been charged with your protection.’
‘My protection or my surveillance?’
‘Only your protection was mentioned.’
The man’s gaze was tranquil, almost indifferent. Lorn tried to size him up, but in vain.
‘There’s nothing I can do about it, is there?’
‘I beg your pardon, my lord?’
‘No matter what I say, you will remain at my side.’
‘Orders are orders, my lord. They can be changed by those that give them, but not ignored by those who receive them.’
‘And the one you’ve received thus came from the captain of the guard.’
‘Yes.’
Lorn saw no reason to make a fuss.
‘So be it,’ he said. ‘Your name?’
‘Hurst.’
‘Hurst. That’s a name, is it?’
‘It is when one is called Hurstvenskaren.’
‘I see. Any first name?’
‘Veskarstendir.’
Lorn wondered if the guard was having fun with him. He watched him attentively, but the other man seemed to be one of those people completely devoid of a sense of humour.
‘Veskarstendir,’ repeated Lorn.
‘Yes.’
‘Veskarstendir Hurstvenskaren.’
‘Yes.’
Lorn made a big effort to keep a straight face.
‘I could call you Veskar.’
‘I prefer Hurst.’
‘Then Hurst it shall be. Good night, Hurst.’
‘Good night, my lord.’
And with that, Hurst closed the door behind him.
Lorn pondered why he’d been assigned a bodyguard. Who, upon reflection, was just as much his keeper. Norfold distrusted Lorn and probably wanted to show he had his eye on him. But perhaps the captain had learned that Lorn had been the target of an attempted abduction at Samarande. And his duty, however disagreeable, was to protect Lorn. If something happened to him, Norfold would no doubt have to answer to the High King. Because he knew him well, Lorn held his former captain in high esteem: there was no man more loyal, honest, or devoted. If the king gave him the order, he would give his life to save Lorn’s.
It was sadly ironic …
His mood becoming sombre again, Lorn poured himself a glass of wine and went to lean a shoulder against the window frame.
Almost deserted at this hour, the Citadel was silent. One heard only the wind whistling outside, the flapping of banners and the ringing bells that marked the rhythms of military life. The Citadel had never been a joyful place, but Lorn had known it to be far busier when, as adolescents, he and Alan had spent summers with the High King. King Erklant had always
preferred the Citadel to his other palaces. Because he was a warrior king. But also because from here he could frequently visit the tomb of his ancestor, Erklant I, whose name he bore and whose memory he venerated.
Erklant the Ancient.
The one who had triumphed during the Last War of the Shadows. The one who had founded the High Kingdom. The one who had defeated Serk’Arn, the Dragon of Destruction, and appropriated his power.
History and legend were so closely intertwined concerning him that it was difficult to believe he had been an actual being of flesh and blood, who had dwelled in this Citadel and fought against the armies of Obscurity and Oblivion in these mountains. But it was still more difficult to believe that his body rested close by, beneath a stone slab.
Lorn’s wandering gaze was caught by the silhouette of a tower. It housed the prison where Lorn had awaited the outcome of his trial. He had not even been present during the proceedings. Accused of having breached the secrecy surrounding the negotiations, which he was supposed to ensure ran smoothly, he had been reduced to helpless silence while his judges, behind closed doors, heard testimony and examined documents that apparently established an overwhelming case against him. No one spoke in his defence. The trial was a summary affair and, less than a month after his arrest, Lorn embarked for Dalroth. As for the negotiations between the High Kingdom and Yrgaard, they resumed two years later at the initiative of the queen’s minister, Esteveris. And by some strange whim of Destiny, Lorn had returned at the very moment they would lead to the re-establishment of diplomatic relations between the two countries and, in the end, a peace treaty.
Feeling bitter, Lorn drank a gulp of wine without tasting it.
Exhausted, Lorn fell asleep and dreamed.
His nightmares sent him back to his private hell. He found himself wandering, lost and anguished, the corridors of a fortress which was both Dalroth and the Citadel. He heard cries, sobs and moans. His own, perhaps. The Emissary spoke to him, but his voice was muffled by the din of a storm whose purple lightning bolts dazzled him. Helpless, Lorn watched the Emissary walk away. Then he turned and, terrified, raised his eyes towards a polished dragon’s skull. He screamed when the dragon’s jaws opened and set his entire body alight with burning fire.
