by Pierre Pevel
At a loss, the other guards dared not budge as Lorn and their leader stood locked skull to skull, looking into one another’s eyes, their breaths blending.
Then, barely opening his mouth, Lorn said:
‘It’s your turn to listen. The man lying there is my friend. We’re going to leave with him and you’ll do nothing to hinder us. Since I’m not an idiot, I know I won’t come out unscathed from a fight against all five of you. But I also know that I will gut you at the first twitch your men make. Do you understand?’ His head trapped as if by a vice, the man nodded almost imperceptibly. ‘Perfect. Now, I’m going to do you a favour. No one can hear what I’m saying to you, so I suggest you laugh. Laugh as if this is a great practical joke, so you can save face and we can go our separate ways as friends. What do you say? Don’t take too long to decide. One of your boys there, behind you, looks about to try something. Probably because he can’t see my dagger. So think, think fast, and answer this question …’ Lorn paused and then asked, ‘Would you like to find out what a packet of guts splattering on the floor sounds like?’
They left the smoking den without mishap.
3
An hour later, Lorn was talking to Enzio – Elenzio de Laurens – at the foot of the gangway to a galleon about to set sail. It was still night and yet sailors were releasing the moorings while others were busy on deck and in the rigging. Lanterns lit the entire ship. But the vessel bore no flag and was making ready to leave Alencia as discreetly as it had arrived.
Wearing a large black cloak whose raised collar hid his face from view, the elder son of the duke of Sarme and Vallence seemed concerned. Nevertheless he remained focused and tried to be reassuring.
‘The crew is reliable. As is the captain.’
‘Thank you, Enzio.’
‘I should not have let you go there alone. It was far too dangerous.’
‘I had Odric. And you couldn’t have accompanied me. If you’d been recognised …’
Enzio nodded gloomily.
One day, Alencia would be his capital and he would be at the head of a thriving merchant republic, particularly influential in the domains of the arts and diplomacy. He couldn’t risk being compromised by scandal, even – and especially – for a childhood friend like Alan. His father would never have allowed it.
Lorn knew all this only too well.
‘I’ll go and see how he’s settling in,’ he said.
He patted Enzio’s shoulder before making his way up the gangway.
As he entered the cabin where the prince had been installed in secret Lorn met Odric, who was leaving. His arms loaded with his master’s rags, the old servant looked concerned. He exchanged a grim look with Lorn and moved aside to let him pass before shutting the door.
Tightly tucked in, Alan was lying upon a narrow bunk. Kneeling in prayer, a priest of Eyral held his hand. The prince appeared to be sleeping, his face more gaunt and pale than ever in the light of the small oil lamp hanging from the ceiling. The cabin’s walls creaked quietly in the silence and Lorn stood for a moment, not daring to move or speak.
Finally, his prayers completed, the priest gently released Alan’s hand and rose to his feet.
‘Good evening, my son,’ he said in a low voice. ‘I am Father Domnis.’
His gaze was calm. He wore a white robe cinched by a leather belt and embroidered in silk thread over the heart, the profile of Eyral, the White Dragon of Knowledge and Light.
‘Good evening, father.’
Tall and solidly built, the priest’s hair was cut short and his beard was neatly trimmed. He was greying as he approached the age of fifty and gave the impression of possessing a serene inner strength. Lorn thought he had the look of an old soldier about him.
‘How is he?’ he asked, with a glance towards Alan.
Father Domnis turned to look at the sleeping prince.
‘I made him drink a potion to soothe him.’
‘But beyond that?’
The priest sighed.
‘The ravages of kesh have spared him nothing,’ he said softly.
‘Can he still be cured?’
‘It’s not impossible.’
Lorn plunged his steel-blue gaze into that of the white priest.
‘Tell me, father.’
Father Domnis did not blink.
‘If the prince truly desires it, then yes, he can be cured and freed from the grip of kesh. But it will be long and difficult. Painful.’
Lorn sighed, shaking his head gently.
He allowed a moment of silence set in, and then, collecting himself, declared:
‘We’ll be leaving soon. In a few days, we will reach the High Kingdom.’
‘The sooner the better.’
Lorn looked down again at Alan and felt a lump growing in his throat.
‘He’ll need the best possible care, father. He is a prince of the High Kingdom.’
‘And he’s your friend,’ added Father Domnis with compassion.
Lorn turned towards the priest and studied him for a moment, as if trying to take full measure of the words just uttered.
Then he said:
‘Yes, father. That he is.’
Lorn met with Elenzio de Laurens again on the quayside just as dawn was breaking: it was time to take to the sea. The two friends embraced, and then Lorn said:
‘Thank you, Enzio. And please thank your father. Without him, without you, without your spies who discovered that the signet ring was for sale, we might never have found Alan again. Or found him too late.’
Enzio smiled.
‘Make sure he arrives home safely, will you?’
‘I promise,’ said Lorn.
Whereupon he drew forth a blood-stained letter from his doublet and asked:
‘Can you deliver this letter to Alissia? I was hoping to see her, but—’
‘I have a better idea. Deliver it yourself.’
As Lorn stood there in puzzlement, Enzio pointedly turned towards the entrance of the quay. Lorn followed his gaze and he saw her.
She was dressed in a riding outfit, looking tired and dishevelled, her boots covered in dust, but she was smiling and her eyes sparkled.
And she was so beautiful.
Alissia.
They rushed towards one another and embraced, exchanging a passionate kiss that lasted long enough to force Enzio, a tolerant friend but also a protective brother, to discreetly clear his throat. Lorn took Alissia’s face between his hands and delicately separated it from his own.
Astonished and delighted, he smiled.
‘I … I thought you were in Vallence,’ he said in an emotion-filled voice.
‘I jumped into the saddle as soon as I heard.’
‘Heard what, Liss?’
‘That you were here.’
‘Don’t tell me you rode all the way from—’
‘Be quiet. And hold me tight.’
He obeyed, hugging Alissia with all his might, eyelids closed, inhaling deeply to fill himself with her presence.
It lasted a too-short moment, and then he said:
‘I must leave.’
‘I know. But let me believe you’ll stay awhile.’
‘I’d like that.’
‘Then stay.’
Regretfully, Lorn drew apart from Alissia and looked deep into her eyes. He delicately brushed back a reddish-blonde lock that had fallen upon the cheek of the woman he loved.
‘I can’t. I must return to the High Kingdom as quickly as possible. My duty calls me to the king. They say he’s ill.’
‘Don’t set sail on this ship, Lorn. I have a feeling the journey won’t end well.’
‘Come now, be reasonable. I shall return as soon as I can.’
‘I share Alissia’s foreboding, Lorn,’ said Enzio, who had approached them. ‘Stay awhile.’
‘What’s come over the two of you?’ asked Lorn in surprise, with a hint of amusement which faded as he saw the worried expressions on the faces of both brother and sister.
‘Something evil is brewing in the court of the High Kingdom,’ announced Enzio. ‘There are rumours of intrigue and plotting. It does not sound at all good to me …’
‘Just a few days, Lorn,’ insisted Alissia.
Lorn gave her a tender smile as he caressed her cheek. He was confident and the young woman’s fears touched him all the more because he was convinced he was in no danger.
‘What could possibly happen? Don’t worry, Liss. Everything will be all right.’
He embraced Alissia again tenderly, and then exchanged a last manly hug with Enzio.
‘Thanks again, my friend,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you soon.’
He hastened back on board, just before the gangway was removed.
I
Spring 1547
1
‘Black were the jewels of his royal crown. Black the veil that fell before his gaunt face, the extinguished fire of his eyes, the fold of his absent lips. Black the signet ring on his bony hand. Black the accursed days of his prolonged dying.’
Chronicles (The Book of Kings)
The High King had asked for his throne to be moved close to the window. He wanted to watch the rain falling on the Citadel that night. It was a white shower, loaded with ashes that left a pale shroud upon the tiles and the stones. A sinister omen. The announcement of a forthcoming war, famine, or epidemic.
Or a period of mourning.
Old King Erklant hoped any mourning would be for him. He was ready to die, readier than when he threw himself into a melee at the height of battle. Was it because he had challenged Death so often in the past that it was taunting him today? He suffered from an illness that the priests, the mages and the doctors did not understand. A mysterious illness that had made him a skeletal old man, who always felt exhausted and whose reason, at times, became confused.
A gust of rain blew through the open window and pattered at his feet.
He did not react, remaining immobile on his throne of ebony and onyx. He was lucid, however, not asleep behind the veil concealing his face. Immersed in his thoughts, he was reflecting on his reign, on his sons and his queen, on his kingdom threatened by rebellion and war. Thanks to the warnings the White Dragon had sent in his dreams, he knew the future would be dark and tragic.
But what could he do about it?
He had been a great king. For as long as he could remember, he had ruled, loved and fought like one. So what had become of this glorious and formidable king? Had he disappeared for ever? How had he become this old man who, hidden away in an empty fortress, was simply waiting to die? Now he only inspired pity.
Bitter and careworn, Erklant II allowed himself to be distracted by the drops splashing on the window ledge. Then his gaze followed the chalky drips that were forming a puddle inside and his thoughts started to drift away from him …
But he gathered them back in.
His bony hands gripped the throne’s armrests and, pulling with his arms and pressing with his legs, the High King slowly rose to his feet. It was a small victory. He was weak, but out of pride had continued to dress the part of a warrior king. The leather and steel chain mail weighed heavily upon him.
Having drawn a deep breath, he took a step.
And another.
A third took him to the window.
He observed the Citadel beneath the white cloudburst: the rain-splashed rooftops, the tall curtain walls and their walks, the fires of the watchtowers and the dark outlines of the mountains.
Beyond them spread his kingdom.
The High Kingdom.
Erklant II sighed.
Long ago, during the Last War of the Shadows, other men had shut themselves up in this solitary fortress. Led by the man who became the first High King, several thousand warriors had waged what they believed would be their final combat, right here. For them, it was not a matter of vanquishing the hosts of the Dragons of Obscurity and Oblivion, but only of resisting them to the bitter end and falling with their weapons in their hand. Like them, the old king had come here with the intention of dying. The Citadel would be his tomb, far from prying eyes and murmurs.
But his plans had come undone.
The members of the Assembly of Ir’kans had spoken to him. Or, at least, they had sent him one of their emissaries, as was their wont. The High King had received him. He had listened to him and found new hope. Perhaps he could still save his kingdom and end his reign with a semblance of glory. If the Assembly were not lying, that was the will of the Dragon of Destiny and only one man was missing before it could be fulfilled.
A man defamed and banished.
A man condemned to hell.
A man who must now be recalled to service.
Rain clinging to the veil covering his bony face, the High King raised his eyes and his gaze lost itself in a distance greater than he could see, looking towards a ship that seemed tiny on a storm-tossed sea.
2
‘Dalroth was ringed by high walls and a distant sea. Some said it lay beyond our world. It had been built during the Shadows, against the armies of the Dragons of Obscurity and Oblivion. It had survived the patient wear and tear of time, but the Dark remained a powerful force there, able to corrupt the bodies and souls and dreams of cursed men.’
Chronicles (The Book of Shadow)
A violent storm broke out that night.
An angry sea raged around an island towards which a solitary galleon was making its way. The beleaguered vessel struggled to maintain its course – pitching, plunging and then rising again – its prow sometimes standing straight up before crashing down upon the foaming crests. The rain-filled squalls caused the sails to flap noisily. Black waves exploded against the sides of its hull. The gale swept across it from end to end. Its masts and wooden frame creaked ominously but the ship sailed on, illuminated at intervals by great purple lightning bolts in the sky.
Surrounded by tall cliffs, the island seemed inaccessible. Nonetheless the galleon, bearing the banner of the High Kingdom, made landfall, finding refuge in a cove protected by a ruined tower standing at the end of a reef of jagged rocks. The ship docked at an old stone pier before lowering the gangway. The place was desolate, blasted by howling gusts of wind. Four soldiers disembarked and stood at attention despite the rain that spattered their helmets and inlaid breastplates. A young man joined them. He wore a sword at his side and fine clothing beneath a large cloak whose hood hid his face. Followed by his escort, he approached the cliff with a brisk step and, by means of a stairway carved into the rock face, began to climb towards the fortress at the island’s summit.
Its sinister ramparts prolonging the cliffs beset by thundering waves on all sides, Dalroth stood massive and menacing in the shrieking winds and drenching downpour, seeming to appear out of nowhere each time the lightning ripped a scarlet wound in the night sky.
The governor of Dalroth was sleeping fitfully when soldiers burst into his chamber, pushing past the servant at the door. They were soaked and their helmets and armour gleamed in the light from the lantern held by one of their number. The governor sat up in his bed with a dazed expression.
‘Wh— What’s going on?’ he stammered.
He saw the soldiers step aside to allow entry to a young man whose face was concealed by a hood dripping with rain. Without saying a word, the man handed the governor a scroll sealed in black wax. Through the half-opened curtains, bright flashes of lightning filled the room with a dazzle that froze the scene for a heartbeat.
The governor dithered for a moment.
Then he took the scroll with a trembling hand and unrolled it. The soldier with the lantern brought it close so that he could read what was written.
The order for the prisoner’s release was delivered to the captain of the garrison, who picked six able men and placed himself at their head. The storm continued to vent its fury upon Dalroth and he knew what that meant: if the Dark inflicted nothing more than nightmares and morbid ravings before morning, they would be fortunate. They’d best perform thei
r duty quickly.
In these times, the fortress of Dalroth was a prison so terrible that, out of clemency, judges sometimes allowed condemned men to choose death rather than be sent there. No one had ever returned from it entirely sound of mind. Too much blood had been shed there, too much suffering and despair had been witnessed, too many lives sacrificed. And although the era of the Shadows was long over, the Dark remained a powerful force in the bowels of the fortress where the prisoners were held. Each of them, in their cells, experienced their own special hell. Hounded even in their dreams by macabre visions and abject terrors, afflicted by twisted obsessions, all of them succumbed to madness. At the mercy of the slow corruption of the Dark, even the strongest minds could only resist for a few years.
The captain and his men advanced with a determined step, accompanied by the rattle of weapons and chain mail. To reach the gaol, they had to walk along empty corridors, descend increasingly dark and sinister stairways and pass through a series of gates that were locked behind them. The air was dank, charged with humidity and anguish – it was an effort to breathe.
Leading the way, the captain wore a sombre expression. As for the soldiers, they were already being nagged by a vague sense of dread, which was only one of the first symptoms of the Dark. They were aware of the effect and struggled to retain their self-control, resisting the urge to invent figments in the shadows, to feel a breath down their necks, to imagine a creeping presence at their backs.
Normally, the Dark only represented a danger at the very lowest levels of Dalroth. Elsewhere, it induced a sentiment of oppression and loss which one gradually became accustomed to, just another aspect of the prison’s grim atmosphere. But on these nights when the purple storms raged, the Dark rose like a miasma from the island’s entrails, aggravating fears and angers, reviving old resentments and suspicions, transforming sorrows into hopelessness. It could, in some individuals, provoke brief episodes of dementia. That night, moreover, the captain had not slept. He had been anxiously watching the storm from his window when the sergeant on watch had knocked at his door. He had expected the man to announce a suicide, a bloody brawl between soldiers, or some ominous unrest among the inmates. The arrival of a royal envoy had come as a surprise, but was hardly more reassuring.