by Pierre Pevel
And, at last, he lay down.
He was exhausted, stricken by a weariness that was as much mental as physical. Yet sleep eluded him. It was as if he had just awoken from a nightmare. Or an illness, a fever, a tortuous dream from which he was still struggling to extract himself. It was like a weight upon his soul that had lifted and left him naked.
Just before embarking, he had turned around and raised his eyes towards Dalroth to – so he hoped – look upon it one last time. Alan had waited until Lorn, his face splashed with rain, asked him in a hoarse voice:
‘What year is it?’
Alan hesitated.
‘Please,’ insisted Lorn. ‘I’ll find out eventually, won’t I?’
‘You really don’t know?’
‘No.’
‘The year is 1547,’ the prince revealed, in as gentle a voice as possible.
He could not help feeling ashamed.
Telling Lorn the year was the same as telling him how long he’d been imprisoned. But saying it obliged him to face the awful truth. Sometimes the harshness of a fact becomes unbearable when it was spoken aloud.
As his friend remained silent, the prince drew in a breath and added:
‘We are in the spring of 1547.’
There, all had been said.
Lorn took some time absorbing this information.
‘So it’s been … three years …’ he murmured.
‘Yes.’
Lorn had nodded slowly.
He had remained silent, but at that moment he had felt, for the first time in a very long while, an emotion that was neither fear nor dismay.
One of the most human emotions.
Anger.
Rocked by the strong swell, Lorn was drowsing when he heard a quiet knock upon his door. Amidst the creaking of the galleon, he doubted whether he had heard right and pricked up his ears.
The knocking came again.
‘Come in,’ he said in a voice that was still hoarse.
A white priest peeped in with a hesitant air. He was about fifty years old, with grey hair and a short, perfectly trimmed beard.
‘Forgive me, my son. Were you sleeping? I can come back …’
As Lorn made no reply, the priest entered. He was tall and solidly built. Upon seeing Lorn struggling to sit up, he hurriedly said:
‘No, no, my son. Don’t trouble yourself.’
Lorn contented himself with rolling onto his side and propping his head on one elbow. ‘May I?’ asked the priest, pointing to a stool.
Lorn having nodded his assent, the priest sat down.
‘I am Father Domnis, my son. Perhaps you remember me. We met three years ago when—’
‘I remember.’
‘As you might guess, Prince Alderan’s asked me to visit you.’
Wary, Lorn asked:
‘Are you worried about my soul?’
‘It is no secret that Dalroth tests the spirit as much as the body,’ said the priest in a conciliatory tone.
He was wearing the white robe of his order with a dragon’s head over the heart, barely distinguishable as it was also embroidered in white, although with shiny silk thread. He worshipped Eyral, the Dragon of Knowledge, who was also the protector of the High Kingdom. Of all the Divine Dragons who had once ruled over the world and men, Eyral remained one of the most respected.
Lorn lay on his back again. He laced his fingers behind his neck and stared up at the cabin ceiling.
‘I’m fine, father. I need peace and quiet. That’s all.’
The priest knew Lorn was lying to him.
But he also knew Lorn was lying as much to himself, as was often the case with those who had been through a hellish ordeal. His lie was helping him combat the horror of what he had endured, what he had done, and, perhaps, what he had become. But he would need to confront reality eventually.
‘I’m glad to hear that,’ said Father Domnis. ‘However, if you feel the need to confide …’ He left his sentence dangling. ‘Or if you have nightmares, visions that haunt you,’ he added.
Lorn did not reply, his eyes fixed on the beam that ran above his bunk. He was exhausted, but a dull anger continued to grip his belly. He had no trouble containing it, however. It was like a wild but sleeping animal curled up inside him.
After a moment of silence, Father Domnis proposed:
‘Shall we pray?’
‘I no longer have faith, father.’
The priest nodded gravely, like a man who believed he understood.
‘No doubt Dalroth has—’
‘No, father. I did not lose my faith at Dalroth. I should even have liked its comfort there, but …’
He did not finish.
‘In that case,’ said Father Domnis, ‘would you permit me to pray for you, my son?’
It had been a long time since anyone had worried about him. Nevertheless, Lorn did not feel the slightest twinge of gratitude, or reassurance. He wondered where this priest, and all the others, had been while he was screaming his lungs out, tormented by the spectres of the Dark.
‘Go ahead and pray for me, father. It’s what one does when there’s no hope left.’
A short while later, Father Domnis joined Alan on the poop deck. Gripping the rail, the prince watched Dalroth recede into the night. The sea was still heaving, but they had escaped from the storm, its deluge of rain and purple lightning. The noise of the thunder had diminished.
His face lashed by the spray, the prince kept his eyes fixed on the cursed fortress.
‘Well?’ he asked.
‘Your friend is strong. I have good hope he will one day recover. But he is not the man he was, and he never will be again.’
‘The Dark?’
‘Yes, although I don’t know to what extent it has infected him. But even without that …’
The priest of Eyral hesitated.
‘I’m listening, father.’
Alan’s tone had remained courteous. But he was a prince, a son of the High King. He was accustomed to being obeyed and he knew, with a slight inflection of his voice, how to indicate when he was starting to grow impatient.
‘You know that war changes men,’ said Father Domnis.
He was concerned to find the right words, fearing that he would exasperate Alan by clumsily declaring a truth the prince didn’t want to hear.
‘It usually changes them for the worse,’ said the prince. ‘Some come back broken. Or mad. Incapable of settling down.’
‘Some come back dangerous.’
Alan turned to the white priest, who saw in the prince’s eye what he had feared most: a seething, indignant denial.
‘Are you telling me that Lorn has returned from a war?’
‘In a manner of speaking. A war against solitude. A war against madness. Against oblivion.’
‘Against the Dark?’
‘Yes, unhappily.’
‘And did he lose this war?’
‘I don’t know. But I sense in him a terrible anger that only—’
Alan lost his temper.
‘Lorn has been dishonoured, betrayed, abandoned by everyone! He lost the woman he loved! His life was stolen from him and he spent three infernal years at Dalroth despite his innocence. Who on earth, in his situation, would not be angry? Tell me! Who?’
Father Domnis had no reply.
Alan felt suddenly weary. He regained his calm, sighed, and leaned on the rail.
‘Forgive me, father.’
‘It’s nothing, my son. I understand.’
The priest knew that Alan was not angry with him. And he also knew, the prince having confided in him several times on the subject, that his anger was not only inspired by the terrible injustice done to Lorn; it was also the expression of a profound sense of guilt.
Alan felt Father Domnis place a hand upon his shoulder.
‘There’s no cause to reproach yourself, my son.’
‘Really? Then why do I have trouble looking my best friend in the eye?’ asked the prince.
; He had a lump in his throat.
‘You wanted to rescue your friend. You blame yourself for not being there for him … But it’s not your fault.’
Staring out again at the turbulent horizon, Alan kept control of himself and nodded.
‘What can I do to help him, father?’
‘First of all, you must summon your patience. Pray. Wait and be there when he has need of you. Don’t pressure him. Don’t oblige him to do anything. Listen to him when he wants to speak, but don’t try to prise confidences out of him …’
‘On the ramparts, he was ready to throw himself over the edge. Is he still a danger to himself?’
‘No doubt.’
‘And to others?’
‘Yes.’
The frankness of the priest’s reply surprised Alan. He absorbed the news and, looking worried, straightened up.
His gaze lost itself in the distance.
‘Lorn is lucky to have a friend like you,’ said Father Domnis after a moment. ‘However …’
‘Yes?’
‘Be patient,’ advised the white priest. ‘But also be prudent.’
The prince mulled this over.
Patient, he believed he could be.
But prudent?
Born only a few months apart, Lorn and he had suckled at the breasts of the same nurses before being raised like brothers. When they were children, they had played the same games. Later, they had received their first swords together and, at the age of thirteen, lost their virginity in the same bed with two sisters renowned for their skills. The day when the king dubbed his son before the assembled knighthood of the High Kingdom, Lorn was the second in line. And after that, their friendship never weakened. On the contrary, it grew stronger over the years through thick and thin, joys and sorrows, hopes and regrets.
‘For me, Lorn is more than a brother,’ said Alan. ‘I have already let him down by leaving him to rot within Dalroth. I will not turn my back on him a second time. And you know what I owe him.’
‘The Dark is both powerful and insidious, my son.’
‘No, father!’ said the prince, clutching the rail as if he wanted to plant his fingers there. ‘I will not suspect Lorn of being someone else. What sort of friend would I be, distrusting him when he is in such need of help?’
‘I understand,’ replied the white priest as he turned towards Dalroth. ‘But don’t forget that the man you knew might have died in there.’
Lorn did not sleep.
Eyes wide open in the dim light, he stared at the ceiling above his bunk. He did not blink, he did not move and he barely breathed, trapped in a disturbing mineral stillness while the ship pitched, creaked and groaned around him.
There was a pale gleam in his fixed gaze.
6
Lorn awoke in the morning, when a servant brought him his meal.
It was old Odric, Alan’s trusted valet. Thin, dry and wrinkled, he had been in the service of the prince since his birth. So Lorn, too, had always known him.
‘Good morning, Odric,’ said Lorn, noticing that the servant was avoiding his gaze.
‘Good morning, my lord.’
In fact, Odric was uneasy and couldn’t hide it. Lorn watched him set out the contents of his tray on the table.
‘I’m happy to see you again, Odric.’
‘Thank you, my lord.’
Then, his eyes still averted, the old servant enquired:
‘Is there anything else you desire, my lord? The supplies on board are limited, but …’
‘This will be fine.’
‘At your service, my lord.
The valet withdrew, but before closing the door, he turned round.
‘My lord?’
‘Yes?’
He looked ashamed.
‘I … I beg your forgiveness, my lord …’
His face expressionless, Lorn felt the anger that had faded during the night returning.
‘Leave me, Odric.’
Once he was alone, Lorn rose and went to the window.
The galleon had not yet left the Sea of Shadows, but it was sailing on calmer waters, propelled by steady winds. Lorn watched the waves for a long moment, and then turned towards the meal awaiting him.
He ate without appetite.
Lorn was finishing his breakfast when Alan came to join him and, without ceremony, sat down to pick at his friend’s plate. They exchanged a glance but said nothing.
Because they were true friends, silence had never embarrassed them. Yet the silence that installed itself between them now had a different quality about it. It was not the expression of a complicity that needed no words, but the manifestation of awkwardness, each of them hesitating to speak first. Lorn did not feel able to express anything at all, not even gratitude. While the prince did not know what approach to adopt, torn between the urge to take care of his friend, the fear of being tactless and an idiotic sense of decorum that inhibited him.
Moreover, he could not help but feel guilty.
‘Your eyes have changed,’ he finally said in a casual manner.
With the tip of his knife he was spreading a pat of butter on a piece of bread.
Lorn frowned.
‘What?’
‘Your eyes. They’ve changed colour. The right one, especially. At least, I think so.’
Lorn took down the little tin mirror hanging above the washbasin. Then he approached the window in order to see more clearly in the light passing through the small diamond-shaped panes.
Alan was right.
Lorn had been born with blue eyes. Now, the right one was a very faded grey. The previous evening, in the cabin’s dim light, he had not noticed this. Besides, he’d avoided examining himself too closely. It had been years since he had seen his own face, and the one he’d glimpsed in the reflection frightened him.
‘How did that happen?’ asked the prince.
‘I have no idea.’
But Lorn knew the cause of this change as well as Alan. He tossed the mirror on the crumpled sheets of the bunk and sat back down.
‘That’s not so serious,’ Alan commented. ‘I’d even wager that it will please the ladies. It gives you a … umm … mysterious air.’
Lorn shrugged.
The truth was, he didn’t care if one of his eyes had changed colour. He knew that Dalroth had done far worse to him, by stealing part of his soul for ever.
‘Father Domnis spoke to you, didn’t he?’ he asked.
Alan’s face grew grim.
‘Yes.’
‘And?’
The prince weighed his words carefully.
‘He’s afraid you’ve been corrupted by the Dark.’
‘Do I seem to have lost my reason?’
‘No,’ admitted Alan.
That did not prove anything, however.
Both men knew that the Dark’s contagion might not be apparent. It was furtive and patient. It could wreak havoc before it fully revealed itself. It might even go completely undetected.
Lorn sighed.
‘And what do you believe?’
‘I believe you are my friend and I will do everything in my power to help you.’
They exchanged a long glance that spoke volumes, before Lorn finally said:
‘Thank you. Thank you for taking me out of that hellhole.’
He almost had to force himself to say it.
He knew that Alan had braved the storms of the Sea of Shadows in order to fetch him home from Dalroth. He was equally convinced that the prince had done everything he could to hasten Lorn’s release. And yet he couldn’t feel any gratitude towards Alan. The torments he had endured under the influence of the Dark were like raw wounds; still too painful for him to feel anything but his suffering.
‘Don’t thank me, Lorn. I owe you my life, don’t forget that.’
Lorn said nothing.
‘Furthermore,’ continued Alan, ‘there’s no reason to thank me. Or anyone else. You should not have been sent to Dalroth in the first place. You were inno
cent and—’
Lorn stopped him.
He had no desire to hear his friend speak of his innocence and he knew perfectly well where he stood in this matter. His pain and his anger were on the verge of becoming outrage.
‘Don’t hold what I’m about to say against me, Alan. You … You are my friend. I know you couldn’t help me these past three years. But others could, and they did nothing. Nothing at all. So forgive me if I hold a grudge against all of you. Even against you personally. I still have too much … too much anger in me.’
The prince nodded, with a profound sadness in his eyes.
‘I understand.’
Lorn then regretted having caused his friend sorrow and tried to explain himself more clearly.
‘No one deserves to endure what I did at Dalroth. The suffering, the nightmares, the madness, the Dark … No one deserves that and I can’t …’
His voice choked. He could not finish his sentence.
The prince hesitated, and all he found to say was:
‘Free, Lorn. Free and declared innocent. I wish I could have done more but I didn’t know about the accusations made against you. I would have defended you, otherwise. And three years would not have passed before—’
Lorn’s gaze hardened.
‘I’m sure of that. But as I said: don’t ask me to forgive you now.’
‘Without you,’ Alan continued nonetheless, ‘I would no longer be of this world. And where was I when you needed me?’
‘Stop it, Alan. Just stop.’
Lorn’s tone had become icy and menacing.
The prince pulled himself together at last and, ashamed of his self-pity, fell silent with his head hung. He knew that he was sometimes selfish and he was angry at himself for giving in to his tendency to ease his own conscience.