The Knight: A Tale from the High Kingdom

by Pierre Pevel

  Lorn’s attention was drawn to Valmir’s vessel.

  Made of light-coloured wood, hung with grey and gold drapes, it advanced ahead of the High King’s Ship and never left that position. Small but tall, it was without a doubt the most important of all. For if the vessels could interlock with one another in an infinite number of combinations, if they could navigate without oar or sail as though moved by the river’s sole will, it was the result of both magic and the genius of their design. The bonds between Valmir and the High Kingdom were solid and their treaties ancient. The Floating Palace was the product of one of those treaties and it was thanks to the art of the mages aboard the Valmirian vessel, steady as a lighthouse, that the ensemble was proceeding safe and sound, preserving its cohesion, balance and harmony.

  It had been two weeks since the Floating Palace had left Oriale. For the most part, it had been two weeks of parties and games. The days stretched out as long as the course of the Eirdre, in indolence and idleness, while the evenings were filled with dinners, balls and spectacles aboard one vessel, then another, each kingdom and delegation trying to outshine its rivals in terms of luxury and excess to make an impression. Thus the royal court devoted itself to dancing, drinking, eating and making merry until dawn, and then spent the following day commenting and comparing notes on the previous receptions, and discussing those to come.

  Lorn had never had much taste for these pleasures.

  So one evening, he went to find Alan and Enzio and bluntly said to them:

  ‘A ride. Tomorrow. The three of us.’

  Which in fact sounded more like an announcement than a proposal.

  Alan and Enzio had both raised their heads from their game of chess. They exchanged an amused glance and then the Sarmian gentleman seemed to hunt for something on the floor. The other two had then joined him in looking beneath the table and all around, but without comprehending the purpose.

  ‘Did you lose something?’ Alan had asked.

  ‘I’m searching for Lorn’s verbs. They must have gone astray somewhere, because he speaks like a Vestfaldian sergeant,’ Enzio had said, before standing up with a wide grin.

  Alan had chuckled and even Lorn had smiled.

  ‘Very funny. But I’m going mad. I can’t stand these courtiers and this diplomatic circus.’

  ‘A ride? Now that’s an idea,’ Enzio had acknowledged. ‘We could certainly use the exercise. But where would we find horses?’

  ‘The Azure Guard has some.’

  Lorn had turned to Alan, who pulled a face and said:

  ‘It could be arranged. But it would not be just the three of us.’

  Besides the fact that Alan was a prince of the High Kingdom, Enzio was a wealthy foreign gentleman who was representing his father at the head of the delegation from Sarme and Vallence. An escort would necessarily be assigned to them as a cautionary measure.

  ‘Here they are,’ said Lorn, turning round in his saddle.

  Leaving off their examination of the Floating Palace, the two others did likewise.

  Their escort, which they had momentarily shaken off, was emerging from the wood and ascending the hill to join them. It was composed of armoured riders wearing white and blue. Previously the palace guard at Oriale, the Azure Guard had become the queen’s own. Esteveris had personally recruited each of its members.

  The troop came to an orderly halt at a distance from the tree beneath which Lorn, Alan and Enzio stood. It was led by the Azure Guard’s captain, who prodded his horse closer. Tall, heavy and imposing, Dol Sturich looked like the brute that he was. He had carried out various dirty deeds on behalf of the minister and was devoted to him.

  ‘Well, Sturich?’ Lorn called out to him. ‘Finished dillydallying?’

  The captain, out of breath and perspiring, was angry. He looked daggers at Lorn but did not answer him, addressing Alan instead:

  ‘That was very … imprudent, my lord. That … That sudden cavalcade …’

  Like Lorn, Alan did not care much for Sturich.

  ‘You command our escort, Sturich,’ he said in a severe tone. ‘Confine yourself to escorting us.’

  The captain was forced to bow his head.

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ he said.

  He turned his horse and went to wait with his men.

  ‘Say, what’s that …?’ said Enzio, squinting at something in the distance.

  Lorn and Alan looked in the same direction as their friend and saw a cloud of dust. A troop was approaching on the road that ran alongside the Eirdre. It formed a long column of armoured horsemen and infantrymen. They marched to the beat of a drum and were preceded by banners that Alan was the first to recognise.

  ‘It’s Yrdel!’ he exclaimed happily before spurring his mount. ‘It’s my brother! Let’s go and greet him!’

  The two others exchanged a glance.

  ‘I thought Yrdel wasn’t expected for several more days …’ said Enzio.

  ‘So did I,’ replied Lorn.

  They set off at a gallop in pursuit of Alan, heedless of their escort.

  3

  Prince Yrdel had journeyed to the Free Cities several weeks before the queen and it had been agreed he would come out to meet her, from Samarande, so that they might make as solemn and spectacular an entry as possible at Angborn.

  As Elenzio had pointed out, Yrdel was not expected so soon. He had in fact left Samarande several days in advance and, taking the most minimal escort possible for the heir to the High Kingdom’s throne, he’d travelled quickly. A vast round-up having permitted the arrest of the last opponents to Angborn’s cession, all had finally been made ready to receive the queen, the numerous foreign ambassadors and delegations accompanying her to witness this historic event, and above all, the envoys sent by the Black Hydra. Every paragraph, every line, every word of the treaty had been weighed, studied and debated in three languages – Langrian, Yrgaardian and Old Imelorian – by armies of jurists and diplomats over the course of days and nights, each modification of one version or another giving rise to further discussions and revisions.

  But the treaty had been drawn up at last.

  All that remained was to affix the seals of the two kingdoms and the signatures of Queen Celyane and of Prince Laedras at the bottom of this impressive document, the one acting as proxy for the High King and the other as that of the Black Hydra. Angborn would become Yrgaardian, as some maintained it had always been. Yrgaard would pay a heavy tribute to the High Kingdom in compensation. And diplomatic relations would officially resume between these two powerful, hereditary enemies, whose rivalry had shaped the history of Imelor for centuries.

  Yrdel’s arrival was feted that evening aboard the Queen’s Ship, with a magnificent banquet in which Lorn was obliged to partake. He was more than weary of parties and balls, but he was the First Knight of the Realm and it was his duty to take his seat at the high table: his presence was expected and his absence would have drawn notice. He was part of the royal procession by virtue of being the High King’s delegate. It was why he’d insisted on coming along, despite the resistance of the queen, who wished to make Angborn’s cession her personal political triumph and was furious to learn that her husband would be officially represented at the ceremony. But that was precisely the mission Erklant had assigned to Lorn: be present, be seen, and speak in the king’s name.

  During the banquet, with Yrdel presiding and Alan sitting between them, the queen treated Lorn just as she had since the beginning of the voyage and their forced proximity. Unable to drive him away, she ignored him. She did not speak to him, did not respond to him and did not see him. She even pretended not to hear or not to understand when someone made the mistake of mentioning Lorn in her presence. That hardly ever occurred, however. For scarcely any members of queen’s entourage considered Lorn worthy of respect. Most ignored him with varying degrees of disdain, the most skilful managing to never have occasion to speak with him at all. Esteveris was a notable exception. He alone behaved normally, while feigning not to
notice the cold treatment meted out to the First Knight of the Realm by a jealous queen and her fawning courtiers. Even the foreign ambassadors, without being too obvious about it, found it prudent to avoid contact with him for the moment.

  Being treated as a pariah suited Lorn.

  He hated what the High Kingdom’s court had become: a nest of intrigue, and of envy, hypocrisy and cravenness, of ostentatious luxury where everyone owed their position to the queen, to her alone and not to one’s own merits – nor even one’s birth, which Lorn might have understood. This whole small, servile world made the most of its privileges and enriched itself, revelled and spent entire fortunes with no greater care than to please the queen and flatter her vanity, for she could bring about the disgrace of her favourites just as quickly as she had promoted them.

  During the banquet, while the dishes were served and artists performed their entertainments, Lorn watched the courtiers with a cynical eye, as they only laughed and applauded when the queen did. But above all, he used the time to observe Prince Yrdel who was only sitting a few places away from him and hardly seemed to have changed over the past three years. His temples had greyed slightly. Otherwise he was the same gentleman whose Algueran pedigree was undisputable. Tall, slim and very dark, he was the son of the High King’s first wife, a royal princess of Alguera who had died giving birth to him. The contrast with his half-brother Alan, ten years younger, was stark. Blond, joyful and full of energy, Alan was the complete opposite of his elder sibling. At this table where both princes were sitting, only the younger drew notice, for he was one of those solar beings who attracted light and made it seem to glow brighter and warmer.

  Lorn noted that Yrdel was not drinking and ate very little. He smiled when others roared with laughter. He lent an attentive ear to his table companions, answering them politely but in the end saying little, and he hardly seemed to enjoy the show put on by the jugglers, dancers and entertainers. No doubt his journey had exacerbated the fatigue brought on by the delicate negotiations he had conducted with Yrgaard. But more than that, Yrdel was behaving in accordance with his nature. Quiet and reserved, he had no fondness for the pleasures of food and drink, nor for festivities and luxury. And he did not seek to please, unlike Alan who – unconsciously – felt a need to shine.

  As the banquet came to a close, the gazes of Lorn and Yrdel met and lingered for a moment. Lorn read weariness and resignation in the prince’s eyes and he understood that it was almost a confession that Yrdel was making to him. Why to Lorn and not another? They did not know one another well, truth be told. But the prince had perhaps guessed that they both would rather be eating stew with one of the guard units. That they both wanted to escape this drunken celebration and these smug smiles. That they felt the same disgust for this gaudy extravagance. Although Yrdel put on a better face than Lorn, they alone – with the exception of Esteveris – were not enjoying themselves, looking and listening rather than laughing and chattering.

  But what made them even more alike was that both of them, in their own way, were strangers at this court. A silent observer, Yrdel had been the first to realise this, but Lorn, in turn, came to the same opinion soon enough. To be sure, Yrdel received all the signs of respect that were his due. He was lauded and flattered. But that was mere hypocrisy and pretence. He was the son of a queen whose memory was hateful to Queen Celyane, jealous of the love the High King had long borne for her predecessor. Despite the smiles and the attention she bestowed upon Yrdel in public, there was no doubt that Celyane preferred her own son Alan. The courtiers made no mistake on this score and knew that, in order to please the queen, it was wise to attach themselves to Prince Alderan. Besides, which of them did not actually prefer Alan, who made Yrdel seem so dull in comparison?

  When Yrdel turned away to join his laughter to that which Alan had just provoked with some jest, Lorn recalled something Father Domnis had told him upon their arrival at Samarande. It concerned Alan: ‘Some parties are starting to dream that he will inherit the throne upon the death of the High King.’ And the white priest had added that the people were hoping for a great king and feared that ‘Yrdel is not that king’ .

  Lorn’s gaze slowly swept over those present at the banquet, wondering how many here would rejoice, or at least raise no objection, if Alan seated himself upon the Onyx Throne instead of his elder brother.

  His eyes slid over Esteveris who was watching him.

  And then they came to rest upon the queen.

  After the banquet, a magnificent display of fireworks was launched from a barge situated behind the Floating Palace. When the torches and lanterns were extinguished, Lorn used the darkness to slip away. He snatched a bottle of wine and went off on his own to a terrace exposed to the warm breeze, but just when he had sprawled out in an armchair with his feet crossed upon a low table, Yssaris nimbly leapt upon his thighs.

  Lorn smiled.

  ‘So there you are. How are you?’

  In guise of a reply, Yssaris pushed its small triangular head under Lorn’s hand.

  Lorn had hesitated over whether to bring it along on this journey, the ginger cat having quickly made itself at home in the Black Tower and its surroundings. But then Lorn realised he was more attached to the cat than he believed and, above all, that the fits brought on by the Dark had ceased since the Emissary had entrusted it to Lorn’s care.

  Was it a coincidence?

  Lorn wasn’t sure. He only knew that the young cat’s presence relaxed him, and now once again, the heat and Yssaris’s gentle purring did not take long to soothe him as Lorn sat there with the cat in his lap and drinking from his bottle of wine.

  Behind him the night lit up, the rockets splashing the Great Nebula’s pale constellations with bright colours.

  4

  The following day, Lorn made a point of joining his men for training. The Onyx Guards had obtained exclusive use of the fencing room on the Princes’ Ship for two hours per day, early in the morning and late in the evening.

  Vahrd was missing from roll call.

  ‘Anyone know where the Old Man is?’ asked Lorn.

  No one knew, but Dwain, who shared a cabin with the blacksmith, said:

  ‘Somebody knocked on the door this morning. It was Vahrd who opened. I was still sleeping and it woke me up.’

  ‘Did you see who it was?’

  ‘No. And since the Old Man seemed acquainted with them, I didn’t worry about it. After all, he still knows a lot of people. They spoke in low voices, and then they went off together.’

  ‘Did Vahrd say anything to you?’

  ‘Only that he’d be back in time for training.’

  Lorn raised an eyebrow.

  ‘I don’t like the sound of this.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Dwain. ‘Perhaps I should have—’

  ‘No,’ Lorn curt him short. ‘Vahrd doesn’t need a chaperone.’

  ‘It’s barely been an hour since he left,’ noted Logan.

  ‘That’s true,’ Lorn admitted.

  But it worried him, and it could be read upon his face.

  ‘We could try asking around,’ proposed Liam.

  Lorn hesitated but then saw all their eyes urging him to agree; they wanted to help.

  ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘But discreetly and carefully. I don’t need to remind you that we’re not exactly popular around here: if Alan hadn’t invited us, we’d be sleeping down in the hold. So don’t make matters worse if the Old Man has got himself in a fix.’

  ‘Don’t bother,’ said Vahrd. ‘I’m here.’

  Everyone turned towards the doorway, where the old blacksmith had just appeared.

  ‘All right?’ asked Yeras.

  Vahrd nodded, but he had sombre look and his face was drawn.

  ‘What’s going on?’ asked Lorn.

  ‘May I speak with you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  The others understood and withdrew, exchanging nods with Vahrd, who seemed grateful for their support.

  ‘It�
��ll be fine, lads. Thank you.’

  ‘Logan!’ Lorn called.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Guard the door, will you?’

  ‘Yes, knight.’

  The mercenary with the twin swords shut the doors behind him, leaving Lorn and Vahrd alone in the fencing room.

  ‘It’s Naé,’ said the blacksmith in a low voice. ‘She’s been arrested.’

  ‘Naé? But why?’

  ‘She was part of the group of insurgents who wanted to prevent Angborn’s cession.’

  ‘Idealists.’

  ‘Patriots!’ Vahrd corrected Lorn in a harsher tone than he intended and which he immediately regretted. ‘Sorry,’ he said, pulling himself together. ‘I knew it was a terrible idea.’

  ‘Is it this group she went to join, when she left the Citadel?’