The Knight: A Tale from the High Kingdom

by Pierre Pevel

  Troubled, Lorn wondered again who had summoned him to the Palace. Esteveris? It had to be someone authorised to use the High Kingdom’s seal.

  The queen? It was unlikely. And besides, why would she receive him here?

  Prince Yrdel, then, the king’s elder son and first heir to the throne? But like everyone in Oriale, Lorn knew he was in Angborn, charged with making preparations for the queen’s arrival there.

  Or else …

  In the cloister’s garden, where the central lanes of yellow earth crossed among the flowerbeds, the shrubbery and arbours, Lorn saw a sword planted in the ground.

  He approached it.

  The sword was a Sarmian rapier and something was hooked to its guard.

  A mask in black leather.

  Smiling, Lorn took off his doublet, rolled up his shirtsleeves, undid his belt, rid himself of his heavy Skandish weapon, removed his spectacles and put on the mask.

  Then, he seized the rapier and looked carefully around him.

  Two men soon appeared, each of them arriving from opposing points of the cloister. They too were in shirtsleeves. They too held rapiers identical to the one Lorn was holding.

  And they were wearing masks.

  One white. The other red.

  They attacked Lorn together and combat was engaged. Rapid, skilful combat, but also joyful: the combat of three complicit fencers who knew one another perfectly.

  The combat of three friends.

  They fought one another two against one, but as the single fighter weakened, one of the two others immediately turned against his momentary ally. Through betrayal and turnaround, the combat was constantly switching assailants and defenders. Sometimes, each of the three fought only for himself and they attacked, parried and riposted in every direction. The steel rang, hissed and cleaved the air at the height of heads and bellies. Although no blood was shed, the fencers nevertheless did not spare one another. There were shoulder blows, elbow shoves and nasty trips. And with every feint, every ruse that worked, there came a burst of happy, mocking laughter.

  At last, they could keep it up no longer.

  Out of breath but delighted, they removed their fencing masks before falling into one another’s arms with great smiles filled with emotion;

  As they had when they were adolescents and trained together, Alan wore the white mask and Enzio wore the red one.

  As for Lorn, he had always preferred the black.

  An hour later, without leaving the Palace, they ended up having lunch on the grass by a pond, in the shade of some weeping willows. They were full, a little tipsy and idly watching the carp stirring the surface of the clear water.

  ‘Hi have ha hoose hooth,’ said Enzio, pushing one of his molars with the tip of his tongue.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Alan, whose cheekbone bore a handsome bruise.

  ‘Hi haid … I said I have a loose tooth.’

  Lorn smiled.

  ‘It’s going to take a while before I feel sorry for you.’

  In addition to a split lip, Lorn himself had taken a blow to the ribs that still ached. Despite that, he felt good and more relaxed than he had since his liberation from Dalroth. The wine certainly played a part. Along with the enchanting, peaceful setting, the radiant sun, the warm, perfumed air. But above all, he was reunited with his two friends.

  Elenzio de Laurens was the son of the powerful Duke of Sarme and Vallence, in whose home Lorn and Alan had grown up. It was traditional for princes of the High Kingdom to be educated by their godfather. Ordinarily, the godfather of a prince was chosen among the high nobility of the realm, but for his third son, King Erklant had preferred to honour a foreign ruler who enjoyed his full esteem and trust. At the age of twelve, therefore, Alan was sent to Sarme. Lorn accompanied him there and they both benefited from the same excellent education as Enzio, with whom they soon formed a deep, sincere friendship that would prove lasting.

  Enzio’s gaze was caught by Lorn’s signet ring.

  ‘First Knight of the Realm,’ he said. ‘Nothing less than that … Does that mean I must call you “sire”?’

  Lorn chuckled.

  ‘You cretin. It would serve you right if I made you.’

  Enzio eyes widened.

  ‘You could? Really?’

  ‘In principle, yes. Except in the presence of the High King.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Stop pulling Enzio’s leg, sire. You don’t want me to start calling you “father”, do you?’ Alan asked ironically.

  ‘I find you’ve been leading a rather dissipated life, son.’

  They burst out laughing.

  Enzio picked up a bottle which passed from hand to hand, and then the prince said:

  ‘Tell us instead about your Onyx Guard, Lorn.’

  ‘It’s not my Onyx Guard: it’s the Onyx Guard. The king wanted me to re-establish it.’

  ‘To what end?’ asked Enzio.

  ‘That of restoring his authority over the High Kingdom.’

  ‘Do you have money?’ enquired Alan.

  ‘A little.’

  ‘Men?’

  ‘Some.’

  ‘That’s not much.’

  ‘No. But it’s a start.’

  Enzio intervened:

  ‘Is that why the High King made you First Knight?’

  ‘I believe so.’

  ‘You deserve it, Lorn. You’ve always deserved it,’ said the Sarmian heir, patting his friend’s shoulder.

  ‘Thank you.

  ‘I second that,’ said Alan, lifting the bottle. ‘To the First Knight of the Realm!’

  And each of them drank another gulp of wine.

  ‘All the same,’ the prince continued. ‘You might have told us when you returned to Oriale. Or even before.’

  ‘I didn’t know you were at the Palace.’

  ‘Did you even bother to find out?’

  ‘No, that’s true. But I had a lot to do.’

  ‘And why don’t you take up residence here in the Palace? With Enzio here, it would be like the good old times.’

  ‘The Black Tower is almost rebuilt. I’m better off there.’

  ‘So that everyone understands that you have nothing to do with the powers-that-be, is that it?’ Enzio suggested.

  Lorn turned to him.

  ‘Yes. Something like that.’

  Elenzio de Laurens had always been the most able and the most wily of the three of them. He had inherited it. A talent for intrigue and a taste for plotting ran in the de Laurens family.

  Enzio knew the impact of symbols in politics.

  ‘There’s much talk of you here in the Palace,’ said Alan.

  ‘And what do people say?’

  ‘They’re wondering about you, mostly. And it appears you’ve been making life difficult for Redstone’s militia. Yorgast must be unhappy.’

  ‘Who’s Yorgast?’

  ‘The prefect of the Redstone district,’ explained Lorn. ‘The militia there is in his pocket. He’s ambitious and venal. Corrupt.’

  ‘And Esteveris’s nephew!’ Alan added.

  ‘That’s right,’ acknowledged Lorn. ‘And Esteveris’s nephew.’

  That detail was of some importance and Enzio understood it. He looked Lorn in the eye with a faint knowing smile. His friend had definitely not chosen the Redstone district by accident.

  ‘But tell me, what brings you to Oriale?’ asked Lorn, pulling a plate of cheese closer.

  ‘An ambassadorial mission,’ replied Enzio. ‘My father has charged me with representing him for the cession of Angborn.’

  Lorn greeted this news with an appreciative expression.

  It was a handsome honour that Enzio’s father had bestowed on him. But it also meant that the duke, the High King’s old friend and companion in arms, did not wish to witness in person the triumph of a policy that he condemned. But nor did he want to risk provoking a diplomatic crisis with the High Kingdom. The duke having fallen ill to a highly opportune fever, the duchies of Sarme and Vallenc
e would be represented officially and with dignity by the eldest son in place of the father.

  ‘The royal cortege leaves in two weeks,’ said Alan.

  ‘Are you going?’

  ‘Everyone is! My mother, my brother, Esteveris. Me. And all the ambassadors and foreign representatives in attendance here at the Palace.’

  ‘But before we leave, I’m giving a dinner,’ announced Enzio. ‘You’re invited, of course.’

  Lorn grimaced.

  ‘Liss will be there,’ Enzio informed him.

  Lorn fell silent and his face slightly paled.

  ‘I don’t think that’s such a good idea …’

  ‘I believe she would love to see you again. You could talk to one another.’

  ‘I’ll think about it.’

  ‘That’s all I ask of you, Lorn. But I can assure you that she’s missed you. My sister hasn’t forgotten you.’

  A little later, Alan showed Lorn the way out of the Palace.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked. ‘I saw the mention of Alissia shook you just now. You still love her, don’t you?’

  ‘I don’t know. I really don’t know.’

  ‘And other than that. How are you?’

  ‘I’m fine. The High King has given me a purpose. That helps to keep me upright.’

  ‘There’s no shame in leaning on a friend’s shoulder sometimes.’

  They had arrived in the last courtyard of the royal apartments, where it was agreed Lorn would leave Alan.

  They exchanged a hug.

  ‘It would be good if you could send news without forcing me send you another summons,’ said the prince.

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘Do you need anything at all? For your tower, for your guard, for yourself? If it’s in my power, you only need to ask.’

  Lorn thought about it and said:

  ‘Horses. Good ones.’

  ‘Done.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘See you soon, Lorn. Take care of yourself.’

  ‘See you soon, Alan.’

  Lorn went straight back to the Black Tower.

  That evening, ten magnificent steeds arrived from the Palace.

  13

  One morning, Lorn lined up his men for inspection in the courtyard of the Black Tower.

  For the first time, all of them were wearing the black leather and chain mail armour the blacksmith had designed, with the emblem of the Onyx Guard – a wolf’s head and two crossed swords – over the heart. They were grave-faced, dignified and proud. Eriad tried to make a good impression alongside the others. Vahrd’s hand was still bandaged and his face marked by the blows he had suffered, but he stood up straight and his gaze was more determined than ever. Logan, impassive and gloved, was armed with his twin blades. Dwain held, resting upon his shoulder, a warhammer that an ordinary man would have found difficult to lift with both hands. Wearing a leather patch over his left eye, Yeras had a sword at his side and a Gheltish dagger in his boot. Liam bore upon his back the big sword that was his only possession.

  Satisfied, Lorn turned to Daril who was approaching. The boy carried in his hand a bucket of paint in which a brush was soaking and a large piece of cardboard under his arm.

  ‘Are you ready?’ Lorn asked him.

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  ‘Keep an eye open and don’t stray from us, all right? And if things really turn nasty, take refuge inside the dispensary.’

  ‘Understood.’

  ‘I promised Sibellus that nothing would happen to you if I took you into my service. Don’t make me a liar.’

  They mounted the splendid steeds sent to them by Alan and crossed the lowered drawbridge, Lorn leading the way and Daril discreetly trailing, on foot, a few paces to the rear. Indeed, he was barely noticeable. Lorn and his escort of black riders attracted every gaze.

  The armour and stern expressions of those wearing it were having the desired effect.

  When they arrived, a crowd had already assembled in Elm Square, in front of Father Eldrim’s dispensary. It consisted of inhabitants of the district alerted by word of mouth. But Andara and ten of his militiamen were also present, standing back in the shadows beneath the elm trees that gave the square its name.

  Lorn dismounted and knocked on the dispensary door.

  While waiting for it to open, he turned towards the crowd and wondered how many of them were there out of sympathy for Cadfeld and how many had come to watch a new act play out in what looked to be a tragedy. For there had been several incidents in recent days between the militia and the Black Tower, and no one doubted that Andara would strike. The only question was where and when.

  Aware of the danger Lorn was risking by exposing himself in this manner, his men remained particularly vigilant. Still in their saddles, Dwain, Eriad and Logan guarded the access to the porch. A few steps up, Yeras scanned the crowd with a slow gaze, a crossbow armed and ready in his hand. As watchful as the others, Liam and Vahrd were only a leap away from Lorn.

  The door opened and Father Eldrim appeared, followed by Cadfeld on the arm of a nun. The old man was still a sorry sight despite the care he’d received and the time that had passed since he was beaten up. He had grown thin. His face was bruised and he walked with small footsteps, leaning on a cane. He seemed very fragile and all those who saw him were moved.

  Cadfeld stood still for a moment on the porch, in full view of everyone, looking dazed and hesitant.

  At that moment, in the midst of a great silence, someone applauded.

  And then another.

  And a third, a fourth, and a fifth.

  And as the militiamen did not intervene, the applause spread, becoming stronger and more rapturous. Of course, it was for Cadfeld. But it also marked a longing for freedom, the stirrings of revolt. Not everyone clapped, but those that did so congratulated themselves on their daring; proud of their newfound boldness, they were sending a message to the militia.

  Lorn knew it as well as Andara.

  From on top of the steps, he exchanged stares with the leader of the militia over the heads of the noisy crowd that separated them. Andara could not see Lorn’s eyes. Just two dark rectangles that reflected the sunshine. However, he did not doubt that they were filled with a look of challenge. He clenched his jaw and balled his fists, trying to remain impassive.

  Without taking his eyes off Andara, Lorn leaned to the side towards Father Eldrim.

  ‘Are you still determined to do this, father?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘You can still back down.’

  ‘I know. Let’s do it.’

  Lorn then gave a nod to Daril who was waiting at the bottom of the steps. The boy joined them on the porch and placed the sheet of cardboard he was carrying on the dispensary door. It was a stencil which he daubed with black paint in a few brushstrokes.

  Curious, the crowd quietened down and soon saw the dripping drawing that remained on the door: two crossed swords whose meaning was obvious.

  The Onyx Guard protected this house and those who dwelled in it.

  Lorn spread his arms to demand silence.

  ‘Residents of Redstone! I am Lorn Askarian, First Knight of the Realm. Starting from today, in the name of the High King and by virtue of the powers he conferred on me, I offer you the protection of the Onyx Guard! All you need is to want it and to show that by tracing this emblem upon your door! These swords are ours! They will protect you and I defy anyone to oppose them!’

  A shiver ran through his audience.

  In a state of uncertainty, everyone turned towards Andara. Jostling elbows, craning necks, standing on tiptoe to see how he was going to react.

  Standing completely still, the leader of the militia said nothing, his eyes flashing with anger. Then he gave a curt order and spun on his heels to stalk away, followed by his men.

  The crowd watched him leave in humiliation without really believing it, before breaking out into sudden joy. There were shouts, bravos, laughter and cheers.

 
‘There,’ said Lorn with a grave expression. ‘War has been declared.’

  ‘I hope you know what you’re doing, my son.’

  ‘Andara will not dare to come after me. But be wary, father. He could come after you.’

  ‘The Unique will protect me.’

  Once again, Lorn wondered how much of the absolute confidence shown by the black priest in the face of danger was due to true courage and how much to blind faith.

  ‘But don’t be fooled yourself,’ Father Eldrim continued. ‘These people are applauding and cheering now. They’re here in numbers and feel strong. They’re intoxicated by the moment. It’s giving them courage because it’s making them reckless. But then they’re going to return home. Alone. And they’re going to reflect. They will think of everything they have to lose and become afraid once more. They will tell themselves that you can’t protect them all, and they’ll be right.’

  As Lorn said nothing, the priest turned towards him and insisted:

  ‘Won’t they?’

  ‘There’s no war without casualties, father.’

  The noise in the square was so loud they could barely hear one another, to the point that Father Eldrim believed he’d misunderstood.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said you’re right, father. I can’t protect all these people from the militia. Or their families. Or their houses. Or their shops.’

  ‘Some of them are going to pay the price for their audacity today.’

  ‘Yes. Sooner or later, Andara will wreak revenge for the humiliation he just suffered.’

  Containing a growing anger, the black priest stared at Lorn, who for his part stood watching the crowd.

  ‘And that doesn’t bother you?’

  ‘It’s inevitable. So I accept it.’

  ‘You accept it, but that doesn’t cost you much,’ the priest reproached him. ‘And it’s just too bad if innocent victims pay for your ambition. Because nothing matters more than the Black Tower, does it?’

  Lorn forced himself to stay calm. He took in a deep slow breath and, after a silence, said:

  ‘Some priests, black priests like you, came to Dalroth once. They prayed a lot, said a few masses and heard the prisoners’ confessions. I remember one of them. An old man who had been a chaplain. He’d accompanied armies on campaign and was familiar with all the world’s horrors. Since he was asking me to confess my sins, I told him that the biggest sinners, at Dalroth, weren’t the prisoners, no matter what they may have done. Because I did not deserve to suffer what I endured there, every day and every night, father. And do you know what that old man told me?’