by Pierre Pevel
‘Sometimes I’m too tired to go home,’ explained Sibellus, seeing Lorn’s gaze. ‘Old age.’
He seemed to be sixty to sixty-five years old. Of medium height, he was slightly stooped from the weight of time, but his eyes remained alert and no doubt his mind likewise. Very modestly dressed, he boasted a perfectly trimmed collar of beard which was joined at the temples to a crown of short white hair. The fingers of his right hand were stained with ink. A knife was tucked into a sheath that hung from his belt on two small chains.
‘I must give you something.’
He turned towards an iron cupboard, opened it with a key tied around his neck and took out a small round purse which he handed to Lorn.
‘For you,’ he said.
Lorn took the purse while the archivist closed up the cupboard – which did not seem to contain much besides some documents sealed with black wax. The purse, on the other hand, was full of gold langres.
A small fortune.
‘From the Count of Argor,’ Sibellus explained. ‘He asks only that you make good use of it.’
‘I’ll see to it.’
Lorn slipped the purse into the inner pocket of his doublet. And as he was removing his spectacles, they heard, coming from a nearby room, the sound of many books falling from a considerable height.
The archivist sighed, excused himself with a glance, and went to open the door to his study slightly.
‘Is that you, Daril?’ he called.
‘It’s me,’ a youthful voice answered him. ‘It’s all right, master. I’m unharmed.’
Sibellus sighed again.
‘Put it all back in its proper order, will you?’
‘That’s what I was doing when—’
‘Just be careful. Have the others arrived?’
‘The others, master?’
‘Who do you think I’m talking about? Cam and Lerd.’
‘Umm … I don’t know.’
The archivist shut the door.
‘That,’ he said in a murmur, ‘means “no”. But Daril isn’t one to rat on the others.’ Another sigh. ‘Why is the only one who is punctual also the clumsiest of the lot?’
He sat down and invited Lorn to do the same.
‘ “Master”?’ enquired Lorn.
Sibellus nodded.
‘I’m the master archivist,’ he said.
‘And to help you, you only have—?’
‘Two archivists and an apprentice, yes.’
‘For the entire Royal Archives?’
‘Two years ago there were twenty of us. But you see, my funds have melted away like snow in the sun. And without money … That doesn’t stop documents, laws, decrees, treaties and whatnot from continuing to pour in here. And since we can’t deal with it all, it accumulates. In ever-growing piles, which will end up burying poor Daril one day,’ added Sibellus with a smile. ‘But what can I say? The kingdom is on the verge of ruin and no one knows what tomorrow holds. So who has the time to be interested in the past? And isn’t that what we are, here? The past?’
Lorn did not reply. He simply looked calmly at the archivist with his mismatched eyes. Sibellus returned his gaze, wondering what to make of this man who seemed both attentive and strangely detached from everything. The archivist knew his story from Teogen. He knew that Lorn had lost everything and spent three years in the dungeons of Dalroth for a crime he had not committed. What had he endured there? And how had he survived?
Summoning his wits, Sibellus said:
‘So, you’re a man of means now. Is there anything else I can do for you?’
‘The count said I could rely on you.’
‘It all depends for what.’
‘I have come to restore the High King’s authority.’
Dumbfounded, the archivist fell silent and stared for a long moment at Lorn, who did not blink.
Restore the king’s authority?
When the queen had seized all power and excluded, bought, broke, or eliminated anyone who resisted her? When the king, stricken by his mysterious illness, had locked himself away and was dying in a distant citadel? When he was said to be mad? Or at least guilty of having abandoned the High Kingdom and its people? With the exception of a few who struggled in secret at risk to their lives, Erklant’s last supporters remained silent and in hiding.
But perhaps they were just waiting for a man who would stand up and guide them.
Could Lorn Askarian be that man?
Teogen seemed to believe so, thought Sibellus.
He granted himself a few more instants of reflection beneath Lorn’s impassive gaze, and then said:
‘For that, yes, you can rely on me.’
Lorn nodded gravely.
They did not swear an oath. They did not even exchange a handshake. But from that moment, a pact united them and Sibellus felt a curious shiver of excitement and hope run up his spine.
‘I want to know everything about the rights conferred by this ring,’ said Lorn, showing him his onyx signet ring. ‘Rights and duties, according to the law. But also according to custom.’
‘Very well.’
‘Find me all the documents. The most minor decree. The slightest decision. The most obscure ruling rendered by the High King’s justice.’
‘I understand.’
‘I also want to know everything about the Onyx Guard. Its history. Its organisation. Its prerogatives.
‘So be it. But you know what means are at my disposal. It will take a while.’
‘I will read everything as and when you find it. Send the documents to me at the Black Tower. Fear not, I’ll take good care of them and return them to you as soon as I have studied them.’
Sibellus flinched inside at the idea of some of his most precious documents leaving these walls. Two years earlier, such a release of rare documents would have been impossible. Or it would have been difficult and certainly drawn attention. But at present … The master archivist told himself that since practically no one cared what might become of the High Kingdom’s memory, he was free to do with it as he pleased.
As long as it remained intact.
‘Where do you want me to start?’
‘With the rights and duties of the First Knights of the Realm. I must learn them in order to remain above reproach, unimpeachable. Or at least know when I’m overstepping the bounds, as the case may be.’
Sibellus raised an eyebrow.
‘As the case may be?’
Lorn looked him straight in the eyes.
‘I am going to accomplish the mission assigned to me by the High King. Whatever the cost. But you don’t need to concern yourself with that.’
The archivist felt trepidation rising within him, but said nothing. All he could utter was:
‘Be … careful, knight.’
After Lorn’s departure, Sibellus ordered that he not be disturbed and spent a long moment thinking.
Then he called out:
‘Daril!’
An adolescent of sixteen years soon poked his head through the half-opened door.
‘Yes, master?’
‘Come in, Daril. And close the door. I’m going to be needing you.’
Upon returning from his meeting with Sibellus, Lorn immediately set to work. He started to clear the debris and the filth from the ground floor of the tower, as well as the earth and the weeds and the brush that obstructed it. He spent the day doing this, without making much headway. Of course, Teogen’s gold would have allowed him to hire workers and no doubt he would do so for the structural repairs. But he needed to toil alone, even if it meant being taken for a madman. And he also needed his efforts to be seen.
When evening came, Lorn decided he had sweated enough.
Without even washing, he went into the first inn he found and bought bread, wine, pâté, cheese and grapes, ignoring the deep silence that fell upon those present when they saw him arrive. He paid, promised to bring the basket back and returned to the tower at a brisk pace. He installed himself inside the keep, straddlin
g a bench, his victuals placed before him, while Yssaris chased a mouse on the floors above.
And he was about to tuck into his supper when someone cleared their throat on the doorstep. He was a rather scrawny adolescent, with tangled hair and protruding ears, who was carrying a small chest and seemed not to know what to do with it.
Lorn looked at him and waited.
The boy swallowed and did not dare to speak.
And the longer Lorn waited, the shyer the boy became. A mouse in his jaws, Yssaris came to see and sat down on a step at the top of a stairway.
‘Well?’ asked Lorn, losing patience.
The boy gave a start.
‘My name is Daril,’ he said. ‘I was sent by Master Sibellus. I’ve brought some documents for you. At least …’
He hesitated to continue.
‘Yes?’ Lorn prompted.
‘You are the knight Lorn Askarian, aren’t you?’
As far as knights went, Daril found himself facing a dirty man in shirtsleeves, with his hair full of dust and a disagreeable expression, who was grabbing a quick bite and drinking from the neck of a bottle inside a ruin.
‘That’s me,’ said Lorn.
‘Then these documents are for you,’ said the boy with visible relief.
‘Put them where you like. Thank you.’
Daril searched around for a likely spot to deposit the chest, did not find one, and finally put it down at his feet. Lorn then thought he could dine in peace, but the boy did not seem in any hurry to leave. He stood there, idly gaping about at the place, the disorder, the old furniture, the tattered tapestries, the exposed timbers and the wrecked floors.
He seemed fascinated.
‘Anything else?’ asked Lorn.
‘No, no,’ answered the boy.
But still he did not leave.
His attitude intrigued Lorn, who turned towards Yssaris. The cat had let go of its dead prey but remained on the highest step of the stone stairway that climbed along one wall. It waited, curious to see what would happen.
Lorn hesitated, and surprised himself:
‘Are you hungry?’
Daril was one of those gangly adolescents who were always hungry.
‘I’ll say …’
With a wave of his hand, Lorn invited Daril to join him. The boy did not wait to be asked twice. He hurried over to straddle the bench and drew a penknife from his pocket. His eyes shining and full of gratitude, he then displayed a ferocious and joyful appetite. He was too busy eating to speak, but smiled cheerfully between mouthfuls. Lorn dined with less enthusiasm, but could not help grinning too.
At last full, Daril wiped his knife on his thigh, folded it and stood up.
‘Thank you, my lord. But I’d best be going now.’
And as Lorn simply looked at him while finishing the cheese, he added:
‘Master Sibellus said that you would be returning the documents.’
‘Since that was what we agreed, yes.’
‘Because I could come back to fetch them, if you like …’
Lorn considered the boy with a mixture of stupefaction and amusement.
‘Good night, Daril.’
‘Good night, my lord.’
Daril started leave, reluctantly, but turned back just before he passed the tower’s threshold.
‘My lord?’
‘What?’ asked Lorn, forcing himself to recall that patience was a virtue much prized by philosophers.
‘If I were you, I wouldn’t place much trust in these timbers.’
Lorn looked at the beams overhead.
‘Because in my opinion,’ the boy continued, ‘if they don’t kill you by collapsing beneath you, it will be because they have already fallen on top of you … If I may say so myself, my lord.’
‘They don’t look to me to be in such a bad state as all that …’
‘The master beam is warped. And those joists over there, on the right, are about to give way. You need to reinforce them but it would be simpler to tear it all down.’
Lorn asked in surprised:
‘Are you an expert, then?’
‘A little bit. My father is a carpenter. He wanted to teach me the trade and it seems I have a good eye but, well … It was thanks to a cousin that they found me a place in the archives. It’s boring but I prefer it to carpentry.’
‘And what is it you dislike so much about carpentry?’
‘Splinters,’ the boy answered, without hesitation.
Lorn looked at Daril, then at the tower’s timbers, then at Daril again.
He smiled.
5
Days went by, during which Lorn continued to clear out the tower. He worked alone, sometimes sweating blood, but never giving up. He knew he was being watched and that the rumours about him were growing. In fact, he made sure they did. Although he spoke little, explained nothing to anyone and allowed free rein to interpretations of all kinds, he willingly made a show of himself. He noted with satisfaction the curious faces at the windows of the neighbouring houses and left open the small door he had kicked in when he arrived. It would have been ideal if he could have lowered the drawbridge to allow passers-by to have a look into the courtyard, but the mechanism was jammed with rust and dirt.
Nevertheless, the news that the Black Tower had a new occupant and that the occupant was exerting himself to restore it did not take long to spread beyond the Redstone district. Indeed, Lorn was counting on it soon becoming common knowledge throughout the city. And he did not doubt for a second that word had already reached the Palace.
One evening, Lorn went to the inn where he had adopted the habit of ordering his meals. But instead of paying and leaving with the basket of victuals that was waiting for him, he sat down at a table and called for a pitcher of beer. A thick silence fell, everyone watching the mysterious occupant of the Black Tower from the corner of their eyes. But since he said nothing and did nothing except drink his beer in the shadows, there were merely some awkward clearings of throats before conversations resumed and the inn regained its usual atmosphere.
They forgot about him. Or almost.
After a moment, two men took up places at a neighbouring table without noticing Lorn’s presence. One was a tall bearded man, a former soldier by the look of him, and the other a workman with calloused hands and hair whitened by plaster. They had barely sat down when they were joined by a young man, as badly dressed as he was badly nourished, who worked as a public scribe. They ordered drink and, very soon, the conversation turned to the topic of Lorn.
And more specifically, of his signet ring, the focus of every sort of speculation.
‘It’s made of onyx,’ said the scribe. ‘With a wolf’s head upon crossed swords. And a crown over it. And all of that in silver.’
‘Where did you hear that?’ asked the workman.
‘I heard it from the woman who came to see me this morning for a promissory note. Wife of one of the militiamen the knight showed his ring to, the day he arrived.’
‘The wife of a militiaman. You have dealings with those sorts of people, do you?’
Lorn had already had occasion to observe that the militiamen in Redstone were hated and feared by the population.
The young man shrugged by way of excusing himself.
‘What would you have me do? A man has to make a living.’
‘The crown and the wolf’s head are the personal emblems of King Erklant,’ said the former soldier pensively. ‘The wolf’s head and the crossed swords were those of the Onyx Guard. But there only exists one ring that bears both the king’s coat of arms and that of the Onyx Guard.’
‘Which is?’ asked the scribe.
‘That of the First Knight of the Realm,’ said a man, listening to the conversation.
It was Cadfeld, an old white-haired man whose thick drooping moustache was dark grey. He was also an inhabitant of the neighbourhood and a regular at the inn. Dressed in filthy rags, he lived off public charity and the little he earned from selling second-, third
- or even fourth-hand books. Lorn had seen him walking the district’s streets, a bag full of tattered dog-eared volumes over his shoulder.
‘The First Knight is both the captain of the Onyx Guard and the representative of the High King,’ explained Cadfeld. ‘That’s why he bears both coats of arms. But he must renounce his own and those of his family.’
‘For good?’ asked the workman in surprise.
‘Yes,’ said the former soldier. ‘Until his death.’
‘For as long as he remains the High King’s representative,’ corrected the seller of old books.
He took his glass and, leaving the small table where he’d been sitting on his own, went over to join the trio. His glass was empty. He filled it from their jug of wine and said:
‘In the beginning, the kings of Langre only named a First Knight on special occasions. A tourney, for example. Or a duel in an affair that obliged the king to defend his honour, weapons in hand – something he could not do, since he was the king. It was an immense honour to represent the king, but a fleeting one. After the tourney or the duel, the king withdrew the title and the First Knight went back to being … himself. Because we say, for convenience’s sake, that the First Knight is the representative of the king. But it’s actually much more than that. He is the king. He embodies him. He becomes his physical person.’
‘Really?’ said the scribe.
‘Consult the legal texts,’ said Cadfeld. ‘What the First Knight does, the king does. What he says, the king says. And what happens to him, happens to the king. The only power the king does not abandon to his First Knight is that of reigning. But everything else …’
He drained his glass, poured himself another, and then added in a conspiratorial tone:
‘You need more convincing? Then listen to this …’ The three other men leaned forward over the table, silent and attentive. ‘There’s mention in the Chronicles of a king who was wounded in the course of a hunt. This king was named … No. I forget his name, but it doesn’t matter … That same evening, a ball was to be given at the Palace and the queen was eager to dance there. Something which the king was incapable of doing, because of his injury. On learning this, the queen grew angry, cried, threw a tantrum and made impossible demands. But in vain. A queen of Langre is only allowed to dance with her spouse, so she would not dance at all that evening …’ Cadfeld had a gulp of wine before resuming his tale. ‘Who was it who had the idea of naming a First Knight for the duration of the ball? Some say it was the king, in order to please his wife. Others say it was the queen, and that she herself chose the knight. In any case, the king named a First Knight of the Realm. So the queen had a partner. And she could dance as much as she pleased. But the story does not end there …’
