The Knight: A Tale from the High Kingdom

by Pierre Pevel

  ‘I must be quick to rejoin Alan,’ said Enzio. ‘But you noticed, didn’t you?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘How many glasses of wine did you drink?’

  ‘Two.’

  ‘Me too. And how many empty bottles do you see?’

  Lorn glanced at the table which the servants had started to clear away.

  ‘Three,’ he answered gravely.

  ‘He’d already been drinking when I met him this morning. And this isn’t the first time it’s happened. It’s become a habit over the past few weeks.’

  Lorn remained silent, full of concern.

  In contrast to Enzio, he’d hardly seen Alan before embarking on the Floating Palace. But indeed, it seemed that almost every time they’d been together, the prince was drinking a little more than was reasonable. And that wasn’t the worst of it. Lorn knew – and hadn’t wanted to admit it to himself until now – what Enzio was about to tell him.

  ‘I think Alan has started using kesh again.’

  Lorn recoiled slightly and looked away from his friend.

  ‘I know he drinks wine laced with kesh,’ he acknowledged. ‘It’s not wise, but—’

  ‘I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about kesh liquor. I think he started drinking it again aboard the Floating Palace. Since his … return, he’s had plenty of time to see what the High Kingdom’s court has become and I think he’s finding it more and more unbearable.’

  Lorn sighed, his jaw clenched in anger, but he said nothing.

  ‘Alan isn’t well, Lorn. Something is gnawing at him. He needs help, and you know he’ll only confide in you.’

  13

  That evening, Lorn felt increasingly anxious as he advanced into the bowels of Saarsgard. They reminded him of the dungeons of Dalroth, making him feel he was back there. Everyone agreed that the Dark’s influence had not been felt at Saarsgard for centuries, but was that in fact true? And what did the scholars really know about what lurked in these cellars and catacombs, these vaulted underground chambers condemned to eternal night? Had they revealed all their secrets?

  Lorn gripped the hilt of his sword to resist the temptation to work the joints of his marked hand. It did not hurt. It did not even bother him. But despite that he felt an urge to rub it, as when the memory of an old pain comes to mind, even though the wound itself has long since healed.

  He had not suffered any symptoms of the Dark for months now.

  His last fit was the one he’d had during the return of the expedition against the Ghelts in the Argor Mountains, yet he did not believe he’d been cured and still feared a relapse. He knew the Dark was a patient monster still curled within him. If it had spared him recently, he owed it firstly to the Watchtowers, which had protected Oriale and its population from the Dark during the Shadows and continued to centuries later. But he was also convinced he owed something to Yssaris, who hardly ever left him now and was currently prowling the roofs of Saarsgard beneath the light of the Great Nebula.

  Lorn regretted not having the cat with him now.

  When they reached the bottom of a stairway, the gaoler pushed open a gate and, lantern in hand, entered a corridor. Lorn followed him to a door whose massive lock the man turned thanks to one of the keys hanging from his belt.

  The gaoler pushed the door open and stood back, holding out the lantern.

  Lorn took it, and had to bend down to enter.

  Lorn did not remove his hood until he was inside and the door shut behind him. He breathed in a foul air he recognised only too well, stinking of despair and the rank odours of filth, shit and fear.

  In the light from the dark lantern, he discovered a cell that was longer than it was wide, with a low ceiling and a flagstone floor. Men were shackled to the walls, a single chain running through rings riveted to the stone. All of them were attached by the neck and could only sit, lie down, or stand, but never move more than three feet from the wall. Runnels intended to carry away the prisoners’ urine and excrement converged on a hole only a few inches wide at the centre of the room.

  Arm outstretched, Lorn directed the beam from his lantern towards the prisoners and inspected them one by one. Some of them – gaunt and haggard, with bushy beards and hair, their bodies covered with sores and vermin – looked back with the wild gazes of spooked beasts. More turned away or protected their eyes with their hands. Those were the prisoners that Lorn had seen arriving. They were dirty and weak, their faces hollowed by fatigue. Some were wounded and all had clearly been beaten. But they were in better shape than those who had been rotting here for years. In the light, Lorn caught one of those unfortunate wretches glaring at him, and for an instant thought he’d glimpsed the madman he’d become at Dalroth.

  ‘Are you looking for me?’ asked one prisoner before the lanternlight reached him.

  He rose with a clanking of the chain as Lorn turned and illuminated his face. Dazzled, Cael Dorsian blinked and lifted his arm to shield his eyes, while trying to look sideways at the knight.

  ‘Lower that, would you?’

  Lorn complied.

  ‘Good evening, Cael.’

  The other man hesitated.

  ‘Lorn? Is that you?’

  ‘It’s me.’

  ‘Shit. If I’d been expecting you … You’ll excuse me for not saluting you,’ said Dorsian, jiggling the chain.

  ‘Don’t trouble yourself,’ Lorn replied coldly.

  Dorsian eyed him for a moment.

  Tall, blond and broad-shouldered, Dorsian was the same age as Lorn. He had a certain bearing about him, despite present circumstances, his filthy clothing, his greasy, tangled hair, and the bruises from blows to his face. But his pretended nonchalance – which was in fact just vanity – spoiled the effect.

  ‘I see you’ve not changed much,’ he said, sitting back down against the wall.

  Lorn gave no reply.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ said Dorsian to all present, ‘allow me to introduce Lorn Askarian, the fine flower of the High Kingdom. Unjustly accused and convicted, now absolved of all charges and appointed First Knight of the Realm. We respectfully salute you.’

  Still seated, he gave the caricature of a bow, tilting his head forward and twirling his right hand in the air.

  ‘Are you finished?’ asked Lorn.

  ‘Why are you here? To gloat, now that you’re high and mighty, and I’m reduced to this state? Just like the good old days. You always liked to lord it over me with your grand airs and lofty sentiments …’

  Lorn and Dorsian had attended the royal military academy together, where the most worthy sons of the High Kingdom – by merit or by birth – were sent for training. Gifted but lazy, and resistant to authority, Dorsian had been expelled after being accused of raping a girl. He was convinced Lorn had falsely denounced him and had nursed a tenacious hatred for him ever since. A few years later, the two young men had crossed paths once again in the border region of Valmir, where Lorn was fighting under the banner of the High Kingdom and Dorsian commanded a company of mercenaries, selling themselves to the highest bidder and engaging in a variety of criminal activities.

  ‘Bah!’ he continued. ‘It would be wrong for you not to enjoy this … If you knew the pleasure I felt when I learned that the noble, valiant, irreproachable Lorn Askarian had been convicted of high treason … But it was just a tragic mistake, wasn’t it? And here you are.’

  ‘Naé is well,’ said Lorn. ‘She’s free and in good health.’

  That piece of news took Dorsian aback.

  ‘Na … Naé?’ he stammered. ‘Free?’

  ‘Yes. And safe.’

  Dorsian collected his wits.

  ‘So you know,’ he said.

  ‘That you almost got her killed? Yes, I know.’

  ‘I didn’t want that. I even tried to convince her not to—’ He interrupted himself. ‘But don’t you think she’s strong and intelligent enough to make her own choices?’

  Lorn made no reply and returned Dorsian’s stare. The rebe
l leader finally smiled and said:

  ‘It troubles you, our relationship, doesn’t it?’

  ‘You’re raving.’

  ‘I’m trying to work out why you’re here. I’m already puzzled why I’m here. Until today, they seemed happy enough keeping us locked up in the city prison. Our gaolers had plenty of fun beating and starving us. And suddenly, this morning, they brought us here. Do you know why?’

  ‘You and your companions are going to be handed over to Yrgaard.’

  Silent at first, Dorsian absorbed this piece of news with real courage. Then he stood up and asked:

  ‘So this is a farewell?’

  Lorn turned to the door and called:

  ‘Gaoler!’

  The door opened to reveal the gaoler, who entered with two large baskets and started to distribute the food – bread, wine, meat, cheese – to the famished prisoners.

  ‘I can’t do more for you right now,’ said Lorn. ‘Regain what strength you can. You’ll be needing it soon.’

  14

  Upon leaving Saarsgard’s dungeon, Lorn felt an urgent desire for fresh air and went, on his own, for a walk upon the ramparts. The fortress seemed strangely silent. The night was clear and cool, the Great Nebula spreading across a cloudless sky.

  From the ramparts, Lorn was able to make out, a long way off to the north, the lights of the Yrgaardian fleet accompanying the dragon-prince who would represent the Black Hydra at the treaty signing. Alan had said this battle squadron was meant to protect against attacks by Skandish pirates. But in truth, Lorn told himself, all of Yrgaard was aboard that fleet. It spoke of pride and wariness, the desire to be feared and to impress others with its power.

  Ten ships.

  And perhaps more, further out to sea.

  How many men could they carry? Enough to take rapid possession of Saarsgard. The inhabitants of Angborn would soon feel Orsak’yr’s yoke.

  His gaze filled with bitterness, Lorn contemplated the dark horizon for a moment.

  The rivalry between Yrgaard and the High Kingdom had endured for centuries. It had political, diplomatic, military and commercial motives. But above all, it was rooted in the hatred Orsak’yr bore for Eyral, the High Kingdom’s tutelary dragon. As Lorn saw matters, Yrgaard and the High Kingdom could sign all the treaties they liked but true peace would be impossible until the day the Dragon of Death and Night ceased to hate the Dragon of Knowledge and Light …

  Lorn sighed.

  Making its presence known with a meow, Yssaris leapt into Lorn’s arms. The knight smiled and, rubbing its head, asked:

  ‘Had a good prowl?’

  The young cat started to purr.

  ‘You’re right,’ said Lorn. ‘It’s time to go inside.’

  The cession of Angborn would be signed the following day.

  Lorn returned to the Sanctuary.

  At nightfall, all of the doors were closed except the main one, which was guarded by sentries from the Azure Guard. Lorn passed them without a glance, as they stood to attention for the representative of the High King.

  Oil lamps burned in the corridors, where a deep silence reigned. Lorn wanted to take the stairway, but at the bottom of the steps, Yssaris nimbly escaped from him and walked away in a tranquil fashion, tail held high, with the air cats have when leading the way.

  Lorn hesitated.

  Then he followed the young feline.

  Yssaris entered the keep’s hall and disappeared into the shadows. The next day, the immense chamber would host the ceremony of Angborn’s cession.

  His eyes adapting easily to the dim light, Lorn strolled after him.

  Everything was ready.

  The scents of sawdust, wax and fresh paint still floated in the air. Lit by a few night-lights, hangings with the colours of the High Kingdom and of Yrgaard decorated the walls and tiers of seats. A gallery ran round the room at the height of the first floor, from which dozens of banners hung – from there, heralds with trumpets and drummers would accompany the ceremony. Cordons marked out squares for the audience. A long carpet ran from the door to the dais upon which the queen, the princes and Lorn – as First Knight – would take their places. A seat beside the queen was reserved for the dragon-prince, who would preside with her over the festive banquet after the ceremony.

  Lorn heard a noise.

  At first he thought it was Yssaris who had upset something but he sensed a presence in the darkness and immediately reached for his sword.

  ‘No need to panic,’ said Alan, revealing himself. ‘It’s only … only me.’

  His voice was slurred and he walked unsteadily. Unkempt, his eyelids drooping, he held a half-full bottle in his hand.

  ‘So, you came to have a look too?’ he asked. ‘Before tomorrow’s great triumph?’

  He made a clumsy gesture and staggered. Lorn moved to assist him, but the prince managed to catch himself on his own.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘All right …’ Grumbling, he let himself fall onto a bench and swigged from the neck of his bottle. ‘A triumph … What rubbish! We’re going to witness a tragic error tomorrow, Lorn. A tragic error … And the only … the only real question is: is it the last of my father’s reign, or the first of my mother’s?’

  ‘You can’t stay here, Alan. Not in this state.’

  Suddenly despondent, the prince shrugged and murmured something. Unable to hear, Lorn approached and crouched before him.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I … I hate what the High Kingdom has become, Lorn. I hate it … All these courtiers. The intrigue, the ambition, the lies. And the flattery, Lorn. All the flattery … If you knew how weary I am of it …’

  Alan’s eyes were full of distress and guilt.

  ‘You aren’t to blame for that,’ Lorn told him. ‘It’s not your fault if—’

  ‘I know Yrdel has done what- he could,’ the prince continued without hearing a word. ‘But he’s alone … Alone against Esteveris. Alone against … against my mother … She hates him, you know.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘Because he’s not her son. While me … Me! You’ll see … One day, she’ll want me on the throne in his place …’

  The sentence died in a bitter snicker.

  Lorn felt guilty. No one knew Alan better than he. He knew that behind the charm, the carefree manner and dashing grace lay hidden doubts, faults and pain that Alan sought to forget, or soothe, with kesh. He was fragile and subject to crises of self-doubt that laid him low, but he concealed them out of a sense of decency as much as pride. And because he had been raised with the idea that a prince of the High Kingdom must never be weak.

  Lorn had believed that Alan had been cured of these crises when he had freed himself from the kesh. Or at least he’d wanted to believe that, out of his own selfishness. But evidently the prince was not free from the doubts eating away at him.

  Or from kesh.

  ‘Odric!’ Lorn called.

  He was convinced the old servant was waiting somewhere nearby and he was right: Odric was not long in appearing. He bore the mark of a recent blow to his face. Seeing that Lorn had immediately understood the situation, he looked away, ashamed for his master who had struck him in a fit of anger.

  Lorn pretended not to notice.

  ‘Help me.’

  Together they lifted the prince. Then, when Lorn was sure he had a firm hold on him, with an arm around his shoulders, he said to Odric:

  ‘Go on ahead and make sure we don’t run into anyone.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  The old servant left and Lorn waited.

  ‘He did not ask to see me,’ Alan muttered. ‘Not once since my return. He could have written. Asked for my news … But no.’

  Lorn did not immediately understand whom Alan was referring to.

  ‘The king?’ he finally asked.

  ‘My father, yes. Does he even know I’m alive?’

  ‘Of course!’

  ‘Then he couldn’t care less about me …�
��

  Lorn had no reply. He wanted to find words to comfort the prince, but he searched in vain. Moreover, even if he felt sorry for his friend, he was also angry with him. Seeing Alan this way, knowing that he had succumbed once again to the lure of kesh, revolted him. He could not help holding it against his friend. There were people who had done everything, tried everything in their power, to help the prince. And he’d relapsed, betraying the trust placed in him.

  ‘He despises me,’ Alan continued. ‘He’s forgotten me. I might just as well never have returned from that monastery where they had me locked up …’

  Screaming with pain, sometimes begging to be put out of his misery, maddened by fever and delirium while his muscles, his bones and his guts formed one massive ache, Alan had endured a martyrdom during the long months needed to purge his body of kesh.

  And all that, for what?

  Seized by a sudden loathing for himself, the prince threw away his bottle, which smashed in the darkness. The smell of kesh soon began to pervade the room.

  ‘I … I suffered, you know? In that lost and lonely monastery.’

  ‘I know,’ Lorn said.

  ‘But you …’ murmured Alan, once again finding the thread of his chaotic thoughts. ‘He called you back to his side. He … He summoned you and made you First Knight of the Realm … Why does he prefer you to his own son? A king should prefer his own blood, shouldn’t he?’

  Lorn, yet again, had no reply.

  Luckily, Odric returned and, from the door, signalled that the way was clear.

  ‘You need to sleep,’ said Lorn, helping the prince walk.

  Seated in the shadow of the throne destined for the queen, with its paws straight ahead and its head held high, Yssaris watched them move away.

  15

  The following morning, beneath Yssaris’s tranquil gaze, Lorn did something he had not done for a long while. Unsure if he even believed in the divinity of the Great Dragons, and without addressing any one of them in particular, he prayed, kneeling in his armour before a window in the pale light of a fragile dawn. He did not pray for himself or to be forgiven, but for the souls of those who had faith and were going to die, unaware of the lies of Destiny.