The Knight: A Tale from the High Kingdom

by Pierre Pevel

  Everyone wanted to see the heroes of Saarsgard.

  But above all, everyone wanted to see and acclaim the man who had led them to victory.

  That is to say: Prince Alderan of the High Kingdom.

  Alan led the parade upon a grey horse, head bare and smiling, clad in shining ceremonial armour. He was cheered. People shouted his name and gave hurrahs. He waved greetings to one side and the other, trying to appear modest and dignified, as befitted a prince. The sun gleamed on his blond hair. He was young, handsome and victorious. Men and women had eyes only for him, and young girls fell in love at the sight of him.

  Esteveris had done his work well.

  As soon as news of the victory had reached Samarande, where the royal court had taken refuge, heralds had taken the roads to report how Yrgaardian treachery had been discovered at the last moment, causing the High Kingdom to refuse to sign the treaty. To which Yrgaard, adding brutality to duplicity, had responded by trying to take Angborn by force. Fortunately, Prince Alderan had led a handful of courageous men in defending the realm. And he had won after putting up a heroic resistance, thanks to Argor’s providential help.

  This version of events had been circulated, repeated and embroidered upon throughout the High Kingdom for weeks. Of course, the ambassadors of all the nations had witnessed Lorn’s dramatic intervention so no one in the various capitals of Imelor’s kingdoms was ignorant of the truth. But Esteveris knew that people were always hungry for good news and glorious feats, and that was all that mattered. What difference did it make if the truth were slightly twisted? Besides, there was no truth except what was written in the Chronicles, and the Palace’s historians were already busy establishing that.

  ‘Don’t count on your merits being recognised today, knight,’ said Teogen.

  Lorn, Enzo and he were riding side by side, at the front of the parade but ten yards behind Alan. They were the brave souls who had fought with the prince for the honour and integrity of the High Kingdom. Tribute was paid to their courage and their loyalty, but they were merely subordinates.

  ‘That’s fine,’ replied Lorn. ‘Alan is being celebrated. Loved. He embodies a new hope for the High Kingdom.’

  ‘Besides,’ interjected Enzio, ‘all those who matter know what really happened. You will soon be much sought after, Lorn.’

  ‘It’s already started. The ambassadors of Alguera and Vestfald have already asked to meet me.’

  ‘And what was your reply?’

  Lorn shrugged.

  ‘Nothing, yet.’

  ‘You should be more wary of politics than of steel,’ advised Teogen.

  ‘More wary?’ asked Lorn in surprise.

  ‘There’s no armour against politics,’ said Enzio.

  The queen and her court were waiting for the procession at the Palace gates, seated on tribunes clothed in blue and yellow. Alan went first, to pay his respects to his mother, then it was the turn of the Count of Argor, Enzio and Lorn to place a knee to the ground before her.

  The queen embraced her son and held out her hand to be kissed by the others, before inviting them in an amiable tone to stand. She had a kind word for each of them, even for Lorn to whom she said with a smile:

  ‘I know your true merits, knight. And I thank you for them.’

  Lorn was astonished.

  It would have sufficed to save appearances if the queen – who detested him – had simply smiled at him. No one could hear them over the loud cheers from the crowd.

  Lorn probed the gaze of Celyane of the High Kingdom for an explanation, to no avail.

  During the banquet, with Lorn sitting at the high table between Alan and Esteveris, the queen continued to be friendly.

  She smiled, laughed and seemed relaxed and joyful. And why shouldn’t she be? She suddenly had the people’s support, thanks to her son whose popularity was unrivalled, and the kingdom’s treasury was full, thanks to the tremendous tribute just received from Yrgaard. She would be able to conduct policy as she saw fit, both within and beyond her country’s borders. And her enemies now knew they could fear war.

  ‘When one thinks about it,’ commented Esteveris, offering Lorn a platter of meat, ‘the Grey Dragon has envisaged a strange destiny for you. The Angborn treaty you prevented was not so very different from the one we prepared with Yrgaard, three, no, four years ago …’

  Lorn turned to him.

  ‘That we prepared?’ he repeated.

  ‘Well, yes! I was one of the secretaries serving the High Kingdom’s representatives. You were unaware of that?’

  ‘There were so many of you …’

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘And how far you’ve come, since then.’

  It did not sound like a compliment, but Esteveris did not appear to have heard him.

  ‘So, the same treaty,’ he continued. ‘More or less … Four years ago you were falsely accused of compromising it, and you were tried and convicted for doing so. Yet today, here we are celebrating the fact that you have achieved exactly the same result …’

  ‘It’s Alan who is being celebrated.’

  ‘No doubt, no doubt … What can I say? He is the prince.’

  Another prince was seated at their table, Yrdel sat on the queen’s right and yet seemed to go unnoticed. Grave, withdrawn and subdued, he spoke little. His dull personality did him no service and his inglorious role during the Angborn crisis had completed his isolation. Alan had already, naturally, tended to draw all the light to himself. But this evening, Yrdel seemed even more self-effacing than usual.

  Lorn wondered what he was thinking.

  By following the queen to Samarande, leaving behind a fortress which could not be defended and choosing not to recklessly engage the High Kingdom in an open conflict with Yrgaard, Yrdel had done nothing less than what his duty as crown prince required. For a prince of the High Kingdom could not risk his life in such a fashion as his half-brother had done. He could not expose himself to being captured, wounded or killed by the enemy. He could not throw himself into an adventure whose political and diplomatic consequences might prove catastrophic for the High Kingdom. Yet Alan had done all of that. Without forethought. And now he was being feted for it.

  ‘I must congratulate you, Lorn,’ said Esteveris. ‘Obviously, you prepared your scheme very carefully and you played me admirably by letting me believe that Sir Vahrd had run off with his daughter, when instead you sent him to seek the aid of Count Teogen. Bravo! I mean that.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘However … However, I must urge you not to consider me your enemy.’

  Lorn smiled.

  ‘You’re amused …’ said Esteveris. ‘I understand why. Do you want proof that we are allies?’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘I know Naéris is hiding with your friend the master archivist. I could have had both of them arrested, but I chose not to do so. Better, this morning I signed a decree clearing Naéris of all charges against her. She is no longer a fugitive.’

  Lorn looked at Esteveris.

  ‘You’ll receive a copy of that document,’ the minister promised.

  ‘Thank you, for Naé’s sake. But you won’t win my trust with a scrap of paper.’

  ‘That goes without saying. But consider my offer, knight. You will need powerful allies, ones equal to your enemies …’

  Lorn thought he caught a flicker in Esteveris’s gaze towards the queen, who, looking radiant, was laughing at some jest.

  At the end of the meal, almost all of the lights were extinguished in preparation of a show. Drums and cymbals began to beat a lively rhythm, before dancers and fire-eaters came on stage, leaping, twirling and grimacing like elemental creatures. Acrobatics and feats of dexterity followed, performed according to a dizzying choreography, punctuated by admiring murmurs and spontaneous applause.

  The spectacle, however, soon began to bore Lorn. Indeed, he was thinking about retiring for the night when a servant – leaning over him to fill his glass – di
screetly slipped him a note.

  Lorn gave no sign that anything unusual had taken place.

  He unfolded the small piece of paper beneath the table, then pressed his shoulders slightly against the back of his chair and looked down. To no avail. It was too dark for him to read anything at all.

  ‘I’ll be back,’ he said to Alan. ‘I need some fresh air.’

  ‘Don’t you feel well?’

  ‘I have a headache and those cymbals are hurting my ears. I think I’ve had too much wine.’

  ‘I’ll call Odric to accompany you.’

  ‘No need. I’ll go for a little walk and I’ll be fine.’

  Lorn stood up.

  ‘You’re abandoning us already, knight?’ asked Esteveris, without taking his eyes from the show.

  Lorn did not reply.

  He left the banquet hall and was finally able to read the mysterious note in the light from a candelabrum. He pondered it. Someone had taken the pain of contacting him in this clandestine fashion. So time was of the essence, for one reason or another.

  Lorn recognised the secret code.

  It was one employed by Irelice, which brought some very bad memories to mind. This code had been used to encrypt some compromising letters that had been found among his possessions after his arrest, and had led to his conviction for treason.

  At the time, he’d sworn that he knew nothing of those documents or the code protecting them.

  In vain.

  Four years later, Lorn was surprised by the ease with which he deciphered the note.

  3

  Duke Duncan of Feln was waiting on a bench in a quiet garden within the Palace. Lit by a torch planted in the ground, he appeared to be alone and stood when he heard Lorn approach.

  ‘Good evening, knight. Forgive me for arranging a meeting with you in this fashion, but I must leave Oriale and it would be best, for your sake, if we weren’t seen together.’

  With a gesture, he invited Lorn to take a seat. But the knight remained standing and, using the torch to set alight the note that had brought him here, he said:

  ‘Employing that Irelice code was hardly prudent.’

  ‘I wanted to be sure I caught your attention,’ explained Feln. ‘As I told you, my time is short. I hoped to see you at the banquet, but Esteveris made it clear at the last moment that my presence was no longer desirable. A minor humiliation for my daughter and myself. Pointless, but very much in the manner of Her Majesty Queen Celyane of the High Kingdom …’

  Lorn waited until the paper was almost entirely consumed before letting it go and watching it disintegrate, its glowing particles carried off by a breath of air.

  ‘You are returning to your lands?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. Thanks to you, the moment has come to make myself scarce.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘The queen is enjoying her newfound popularity and the kingdom’s coffers are full. Knowing her, none of that will last, but for now she’s in control. Her allies are increasing in number, while even my staunchest supporters are wavering …’

  Feln heaved a fatalistic sigh and smiled.

  ‘What can I say, knight?’ he resumed. ‘The wheel turns and turns again. Would you care to take a stroll?’

  It was already night.

  Lorn considered the dark and silent garden around them, and asked in an ironic tone:

  ‘Should I expect to be abducted? After Samarande, and the fortified inn on the road to Brenvost, that would be a little much …’

  ‘So you guessed.’

  ‘That Irelice was behind it? I didn’t need to guess. Your henchmen were careless and talkative. Besides, who else would want me to disappear? Who else would be worried that I had been rescued from the dungeon where I was rotting?’

  The duke shook his head contritely.

  ‘I did not order you to be abducted. And I certainly didn’t want to make you disappear. I know what services you rendered us and I know what they cost you. I have many faults, but I’m not ungrateful. I am loyal.’

  ‘Is that all you wanted to say to me this evening?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking. I wanted you know to you have nothing to fear from Irelice. On the contrary, I ask you to regard us as your ally.’

  The proposition amused Lorn.

  After Esteveris, Feln was the second person to hold out a hand to him this evening. They were disputing his favours. Even the queen was casting smiles his way, although he was not fooled by them, any more than he believed the minister’s or the duke’s sincerity. Both men were guided by their interests, by their political calculations. These offers only proved one thing: Lorn now occupied a key place on the High Kingdom’s chessboard.

  ‘I also want you to know,’ added Feln, ‘that your secret is safe with me. No one will ever know the charge of treason was well founded. No one will ever know the truth.’

  Lorn smiled, but the look in his mismatched eyes was ice-cold. Too calmly not to be menacing, he approached Feln, who became frightened, held his breath, and froze. Lorn pressed up against him, chest to chest, gripped his neck firmly, and murmured in his ear:

  ‘And who would believe you? A loyal and devoted knight, unjustly accused of treason, returns from hell and saves the kingdom at the request of its ruler. That’s the tale. It’s beautiful, too beautiful for people to have any desire to hear another. And it matters little what you know. It matters little what I did. And besides, I’ve more than paid for it.’

  Lorn let go of Feln and stepped back, allowing the duke to breathe.

  ‘Safe journey,’ he said as he walked away. ‘My regards to your daughter.’

  Feln swallowed, and then called out:

  ‘No one can explain it and some don’t want to believe it, but it seems the Dark protects you, knight. Take care that it doesn’t guide you!’

  Lorn walked off with a tranquil step into the shadows.

  Lorn left the Palace thinking about the duke’s parting words. The Dark had indeed protected him from the dragon-prince’s fire. Steel against steel. Fire against fire. The Dark against the Dark.

  He did not know how or why, but the fact remained.

  He was alive and had never felt such well-being before. As the Dragon of Destruction had predicted, his body had let itself be taken over by the Dark rather than resisting it, and he had emerged stronger, tougher and capable of unequalled feats.

  Like surviving a Dark blast.

  And his soul?

  In truth, he didn’t care about that, convinced that if he possessed a soul, it had died in Dalroth. Perhaps that was the price to be paid.

  An exorbitant price, whatever his crimes had been.

  Yes, Lorn had betrayed the High Kingdom.

  Four years earlier, he’d revealed the content of the secret treaty the High Kingdom was preparing with Yrgaard, which had prevented it from being signed. That did not warrant his incarceration in Dalroth, or enduring what he’d endured, alone against madness, death and oblivion.

  Alone against the Dark.

  Moreover, he had been denounced. Betrayed. But by whom and why? He didn’t know, but now that he had the power he was going to find out. He was influential enough at present to manage it and had every intention of using his advantage, starting with obtaining the minutes of his secret trial from Sibellus.

  After that, whoever had brought about his ruin would pay for it with their life.

  4

  Midnight.

  Lorn considered finding his men in the tavern where they had agreed to celebrate the victory at Angborn, and to pay tribute to Dwain, whose remains now rested in the cemetery at Saarsgard. Only Vahrd, Yeras and Logan had returned to Oriale with Lorn. Liam had remained at Samarande, confined to bed by a fever which the doctors assured them was not serious. Anyway, it was better that he rest while his wounded arm healed. He would rejoin the others later.

  Lorn’s steps took him almost of their own accord to the Black Tower, through a Redstone district filled with rejoicing
crowds. He walked with his head down, but was recognised several times and invited to have a drink, which he refused politely by saying he would take up the offer later. He was, in fact, anxious to go home and shut himself away in the quiet of his new quarters. Following Andara’s death, restoration work in the tower had resumed unhindered and Lorn had been pleasantly surprised upon his return to find it was almost completed. Scaffolding still surrounded the keep, but it was now perfectly functional and inhabitable. Proudly flying a banner with the wolf’s head and crossed swords at its summit, a Black Tower once again stood in all its glory in Oriale.

  Lorn found the place plunged into darkness and silence. But it was not deserted, which surprised him.

  ‘Daril?’

  The boy was there, dozing in a chair on the keep’s ground floor, with a candle stub burning in a saucer at his feet.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ asked Lorn.

  Daril stood up, rubbing his eyes.

  ‘I … I was waiting for you, my lord.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To see if you needed me. Do you need me?’

  ‘No. Run along and amuse yourself. You’re at liberty like the others.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Go! Have a drink. Dance. Play. Get your hands on a girl or a boy …’

  ‘A boy?’

  ‘Do whatever you like, but scarper. Do you know where Cadfeld is?’

  Although mostly recovered, the old bookseller still enjoyed the Onyx Guards’ hospitality.

  ‘He went out with the others, my lord.’

  ‘Perfect. Then go and join them,’ said Lorn, starting up the spiral staircase.

  ‘Until tomorrow, my lord!’

  ‘That’s right.’

  The unkempt boy went off, with his eyes sparkling and a huge grin on his face

  Lorn lived on the keep’s last floor.

  He entered his quarters unwarily and just had time to see Yssaris’s small body lying in a pool of blood before he received one, two, three dagger stabs in his side.

  He collapsed.

  Men emerged from the shadows. Dressed in black and shod in supple boots, they wore finely crafted leather masks whose harmonious and complex patterns shifted about.