The Knight: A Tale from the High Kingdom

by Pierre Pevel

  The keep was flanked by three crenellated corner turrets as tall as it was. One of them had a spiral staircase that served all the floors. The two others housed bare round rooms illuminated by arrow slits in the shape of a cross. On the ground floor, one of these rooms had been walled up. No one had really paid much notice to it until Dwain knocked down the barrier of bricks and mortar blocking access.

  And discovered a former chapel behind it.

  Apparently it was consecrated to one of the Divine Dragons, but the statue overlooking the altar with deployed wings had been mutilated beyond recognition. Similarly, all of the bas-reliefs and all the wall paintings had been destroyed with hammers and chisels.

  Yssaris was sitting on the stone altar and seemed to be waiting.

  Lorn pondered the matter as he stepped over the rubble obstructing the threshold. He did not know the Onyx Guards had once prayed to a member of the Divine and wondered which one it might have been. But if they had, had they later abandoned their worship? And why? And why wall this room up rather than refurbish it for another purpose? Why disfigure the statue? Was it an act of hatred? Of fear? Had it been committed before or after the Onyx Guard was disbanded?

  ‘That’s not all,’ said Logan, who was already exploring the room. ‘Look at this.’

  Lorn joined the former mercenary behind the altar and saw, on the floor, a broad carved flagstone. He crouched. The inscriptions had been scratched and rendered illegible, but one corner of the stone was missing and allowed a glimpse of a dark cavity beneath.

  Lorn bent down, removing his spectacles …

  And suppressed a shiver.

  He had just felt something he had not experienced for a while: the presence of the Dark. It was like the whistling of a furious wind, a high-pitched howling beneath the immense vaults, the moans of tormented souls. An icy cold invaded him.

  He stood up and, as Yssaris leapt into his arms, he said to Liam:

  ‘Don’t let anyone touch this slab. And seal off this room again.’

  Liam nodded.

  Managing to mask his turmoil thanks to Yssaris, who soothed him, Lorn had spoken in a calm and even voice. Nevertheless, the others were looking at him in surprise. Lorn could have chosen to say nothing, he still would have been obeyed. But he wanted to avoid arousing suspicions.

  ‘We’ll have time to explore all this later,’ he said. ‘Right now, we have more urgent things to do.’

  The explanation seemed to satisfy everyone. Only Vahrd frowned.

  ‘Explore what?’ asked someone in a clear voice.

  Lorn recognised Alan’s voice and turned while the guards froze as if struck by stupor. Except for the knight, all of them abruptly got down on one knee and bowed their heads.

  The prince did not seem to notice any of this and entered the chapel in a very natural fashion.

  ‘What is this place?’ he asked.

  ‘A former chapel,’ replied Lorn. ‘We just discovered it and don’t even know who it was consecrated to. And it seems there’s a crypt beneath our feet.’

  Alan looked around him with astonishment.

  ‘I didn’t know the Onyx Guard built chapels …’

  ‘Nor did I. This might be the only one.’

  Lorn made a mental note to question Sibellus on the subject.

  ‘I’ve come to fetch you,’ announced Alan.

  ‘Me? To go where?’

  ‘Enzio’s dinner,’ said the prince, leading Lorn out of the chapel. ‘Enzio. You remember Enzio, don’t you? Tall, dark-haired fellow? Thinks he’s more handsome than either of us, but with only half the justification?’

  They came out into the courtyard.

  The sun was setting but Lorn, who still had Yssaris in his arms, had to put on his tinted spectacles.

  Two saddled horses were waiting for them.

  ‘Are you planning to bring him along?’ asked Alan, pointing to the cat.

  Sibellus left the Royal Archives at a later hour than usual.

  He called out before shutting the heavy door, making sure he was the last to leave. It was a useless precaution. Since Daril had entered Lorn’s service, the master archivist no longer ran much risk of locking anyone inside. Not that the boy had tended to work long hours. But on occasion he had fallen asleep while working and woken up in the middle of the night, alone except for the mice that teemed in the cupboards and two owls nesting in the attic.

  Sibellus smiled.

  He was forced to admit that he missed Daril. His former apprentice was one of the least gifted he had ever trained. But at least he was willing enough, unlike the other two employees the master archivist had under his orders, who did practically nothing to earn their salary. A very meagre salary, it had to be said. Which probably explained their lack of enthusiasm.

  Sibellus, who had arrived at an age when the number of winters remaining to him were counted, often wondered what would become of his beloved archives when he took his retirement, or, as seemed more likely, he gave up the ghost among his registers, binders, scrolls and parchments. He feared that none of this would ever truly survive him. What was not thrown away would be destroyed, and what was not destroyed would be forgotten. If the Royal Archives were the memory of the High Kingdom, Sibellus was the last guardian of a patient doomed to amnesia.

  Night was falling and he still had some distance to travel before he reached the small house where since his wife’s death nothing had really changed. But the air was warm and Sibellus enjoyed the walk which, for him, was an opportunity to breathe in something other than centuries-old dust.

  And to reflect.

  Lost in his thoughts, he did not notice the man who had been following him for several days now, any more than he noticed the others who had flattened themselves against the wall at the corner of an alley, deserted at this time of night. If he had lived in Redstone, perhaps he would have recognised them as Andara’s henchmen. He thought he was dealing with thieves instead, and said:

  ‘I … I don’t have much. Here. Take it all.’

  But they weren’t after his money.

  He did not see the first blow coming.

  17

  As it was a private dinner, only twenty guests were expected. Among them were a prince of the blood and the minister Esteveris, who had apologised in advance for not staying long. The dinner would take place at the Palace, in the large salons of the residence of Sarme and Vallence. Among the residences within the Palace precinct assigned to foreign embassies, this was one of the most luxurious and refined. It stood in the middle of a magnificent garden whose terraces scattered with ponds offered a unique view of Oriale.

  Lorn had been reluctant to attend but Alan would not hear otherwise. Lorn had never had a taste for social gatherings and since his return he had only really been at ease when on his own or in the company of a few close associates. The truth, however, was that he dreaded meeting Alissia again. He had loved her madly, convinced she was the woman of his life, the one with whom he would live happily until the end of his days. In his ardour, there was nothing he would not have done or sacrificed for her. And during his years of suffering at Dalroth, his memories of her had been a source of great comfort.

  Yet Lorn was convinced that seeing her again would be painful.

  Did she still love him, despite the years and sufferings? And what did he feel exactly? Did he love her or was it nostalgia for their past, for the man he had been before? Was he still capable of loving?

  Rubbing the palm of his marked hand distractedly, Lorn pondered this, standing alone on a balcony, when he heard several people coming out of the salons. He turned round, blinking in the light from the big chandeliers, and saw a plump man matching the description of Esteveris, surrounded by several counsellors.

  Night had just fallen. It was warm outside and the Great Nebula was almost absent from the sky.

  ‘Knight Askarian isn’t it?’ said the minister, approaching.

  Lorn bowed, respectful but silent as Esteveris turned to those a
ccompanying him.

  ‘Gentlemen, I present Lorn Askarian, First Knight of the Realm.’

  Lorn and the counsellors greeted one another briefly, at a distance, whereupon the minister said, with every sign of sincerity:

  ‘I was not aware you would be here this evening, knight.’

  ‘I wasn’t either.’

  ‘Chance has done well then in bringing us together. I’ve been meaning to meet you for some time now, but … The affairs of the kingdom, you understand?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘But walk with me, would you?’ The minister took Lorn by the elbow and drew him away from listening ears. ‘Let us use this opportunity given us to speak a little.’

  They went to sit on a stone bench lit by torches.

  ‘I have learned,’ said Esteveris, ‘of the excellent work you are accomplishing in Redstone.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Oh yes, indeed … Your efforts to re-establish justice there, your good relations with Father Eldrim and, of course, the work you’ve undertaken to restore the Black Tower to its original state. As far as that goes, I hope you will soon find another master builder. I can recommend some excellent ones, if you like.’

  ‘Thank you. I’m sure that won’t be necessary.’

  Lorn remained cold and distant but Esteveris continued to smile in a friendly fashion, as if he hadn’t noticed anything amiss.

  ‘You know, knight, I’ve always thought that this tower, since it is the last remaining Black Tower, should be preserved. That it should be saved, to keep the memory alive … But I must I confess I kept putting the matter off. There was always something more urgent, and funds are scarce. And so the days fly by …’ He sighed, and then appeared to find his wits. ‘But I digress.’

  He placed a hand bedecked with rings upon Lorn’s shoulder.

  ‘Knight, I’m convinced the queen will insist on receiving you soon. Be assured that Her Majesty and I rejoice in knowing that the High Kingdom has a First Knight once again. And even more, that the Onyx Guard has been reborn. I have no doubt that, commanded by you, it shall render the kingdom great services and recover its former glory.’

  With these words, his hands joined before his chest, Esteveris saluted him with a smile, stood up and rejoined his waiting counsellors. Lorn watched him walk away with the feeling of having just encountered a clever, cruel and patient serpent. He remained seated on the bench for a moment, thinking.

  Until Alan came and found him.

  ‘What are you doing out here on your own? Come on, everyone’s in there. And take off those spectacles, will you? You’re frightening people and it’s deep night out here.’

  Lorn obeyed, before following the prince back across the balcony.

  ‘I was speaking with Esteveris.’

  ‘No one speaks with Esteveris. One has the impression of speaking with Esteveris and later realises that one has merely been listening.’

  Lorn smiled faintly and had to admit Alan had a point.

  ‘And what did the good minister want?’

  ‘To let me know he has his eye on me, I believe.’

  ‘That sounds like him. Does he seem like a lizard to you?’

  ‘Somewhat, yes.’

  ‘I really don’t understand how my mother puts up with him, all day long …’

  They went into the salons and Lorn blinked in the bright candlelight reflecting off the mirrors and the gilt inside the room. Dazzled, he had to wait a little before he could see clearly. And then he froze in place.

  Alissia was there.

  She had arrived while he was meeting with Esteveris and was now happily conversing with someone.

  Who was it?

  Lorn could not care less. He had eyes for Alissia alone. She seemed more beautiful than ever. Her red-blonde hair was lifted above her exposed nape in a refined chignon held in place with combs adorned by emeralds. She was wearing a pale green dress whose embroidery, in a darker shade, highlighted her elegant curves. Her lips were only slightly rouged. Enhanced by golden glitter, her brown eyes shone. She was smiling and holding in her gloved hand an ivory fan encrusted with jade.

  She noticed him in turn and looked troubled, nodding distractedly at the person she was talking to. As if all alone in the world, she and Lorn exchanged a long glance. She smiled at him. Tenderly. Moved. Sincere. And he did not know what to do, as warm lava ran through his icy veins. Then it was if a slow, silent lightning bolt split his chest apart.

  He loved her.

  And was stricken by the pain born of this henceforth impossible love.

  ‘She’s beautiful, isn’t she?’ observed a feminine voice.

  Lorn did not react right away.

  ‘Lorn,’ said Alan, ‘I’m pleased to introduce Eylinn of Feln.’

  Alissia directed her attention once again to the person in front of her who had not ceased speaking. Lorn turned to see who had broken the spell and discovered a young woman of delicate beauty, very pale, with a crimson mouth and sparkling eyes.

  ‘Delighted,’ said Lorn, making an effort to be polite. ‘I’m—’

  ‘Everyone knows who you are, knight,’ Eylinn interrupted gaily.

  ‘Eylinn and Alissia have become inseparable,’ said Alan by way of completing the introductions. ‘Be good,’ he added, before ducking away.

  Lorn watching the departing prince shake hands and distribute smiles to the other guests.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Eylinn murmured to him, ‘I won’t hurt you …’

  It was meant as a gentle jest.

  Lorn accorded her a good-natured smile but remained on his guard. He knew who he was dealing with: Eylinn was the daughter of Duke Duncan of Feln, one of the High Kingdom’s most powerful lords and a notorious plotter. And the daughter, it seemed, was just as talented as the father when it came to ruses and intrigue. Perhaps she even surpassed him, as she had two weapons the duke lacked: an air of innocence and a disturbing beauty.

  ‘And what if you offered me something to drink?’ the young woman suggested in a bantering tone.

  ‘I was just thinking of that.’

  ‘Liar.’

  Charmingly, Eylinn took Lorn by the arm and led him to a buffet overspilling with food. The duchies of Sarme and Vallence were warm lands where one dined and went to bed late in order to take advantage of the cool evenings. In accordance with this custom, dinner would not be served until a little later, but there well-stocked buffets to help natives of the High Kingdom wait patiently.

  Lorn did not wait for a servant to attend him. He filled two glasses of wine and he and Eylinn clinked them together.

  ‘Were it not for the cession of Angborn,’ said Eylinn, ‘you would be the only topic of conversation here at the Palace.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘You weren’t aware of that?’

  ‘I don’t frequent the Palace much.’

  ‘Which makes you all the more interesting, over there in your tower. How is the High King?’

  Lorn raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Why ask me that?’

  ‘Because you are the only person I know who has met him in the past year. Perhaps even two or three years, if I don’t count Prince Alderan.’

  ‘The prince met the High King recently?’

  ‘I think so, yes. Before he went to find you at Dalroth, if I remember rightly.’

  Lorn nodded but was silent, distracted.

  Eylinn caught him darting another glance towards Alissia. At the other end of the room, she was now talking to her brother Elenzio and to Esteveris, who was wishing them farewell before he left.

  ‘It might be difficult this evening,’ said Eylinn, ‘but I can arrange a meeting.’

  ‘Pardon?’ blurted Lorn in surprise.

  The young woman smiled, amused by the ease with which she had suddenly captured Lorn’s complete attention.

  ‘Alissia wishes to meet you, knight, but discreetly. She wants to speak with you. I believe she … she has many things to say to you. And you
have much to say too, no doubt. No?’

  Lorn stared at Eylinn.

  He did not know what to say or to do. He told himself, however, that the woman had deliberately caught him out and that the abruptness of her proposition was intended to provoke him.

  To measure the sincerity of his feelings.

  Or perhaps it was all just a game to Eylinn, who was watching him over the lip of her glass with a mischievous smile.

  But Lorn did not have time to ponder this for long.

  A sound caused him to prick up his ears.

  ‘Did you hear that?’ he asked.

  It was the ringing of a distant bell.

  Without waiting for a reply, he left Eylinn and hurried out to the balcony. Other guests had preceded him, also drawn by the far-off but clear echo of the tocsin.

  And it was indeed the tocsin, ringing out over the city.

  ‘Fire!’ Lorn murmured.

  He elbowed his way to the balustrade, but unlike the others, he did not have to search about before looking in the right direction.

  He already knew what he was going to see.

  A fire had broken out in the Redstone district.

  18

  Lorn arrived at a gallop but was forced to dismount when he reached Elm Square. A fire was ravaging Father Eldrim’s dispensary. Immense flames were erupting from its roofs and its windows, licking the walls and raising whirlwinds of incandescent ashes. The heat was so intense that it forced people to keep a safe distance.

  By the time Lorn reached the scene it was too late to do anything, except hope that the blaze would not spread. Luckily, the dispensary was surrounded by streets isolating it from other buildings. And the roofs of the neighbouring houses were being hosed with water, in order to douse the smallest flame or hot coal carried by the wind. But the dispensary itself would be nothing but smoking ashes by morning. And as for the unfortunate wretches who might still be within …

  As soon as the fire had been detected, the nuns had tried to evacuate the establishment. Neighbours had offered their help spontaneously and the Onyx Guards had come running as soon as they’d heard the tocsin. But those first on the scene had discovered chains keeping the exits closed. With bars protecting the windows, tools had to be found to cut the chains while panic mounted among the people imprisoned within. Some had taken refuge on the roofs … and been forced to jump when they were cornered by the flames. Under Vahrd’s leadership, the guards had not dawdled but had broken down the main doors with their axes and maces. Some had fought the fire while others, risking their lives, helped volunteers bring the bedridden patients out of the burning building. The tanks of mobile pumps were soon drained and the buckets of water transferred by human relays to the inferno proved woefully inadequate. The blaze devoured everything. Nothing could contain it and the battle was finally abandoned.