The Knight: A Tale from the High Kingdom

by Pierre Pevel

  There was another silence which, as it stretched, became embarrassing.

  Alan noticed Lorn’s left hand was bandaged and thought he had hit upon a safe topic of conversation.

  ‘Are you wounded?’

  Lorn gave him a cynical smile.

  ‘In a manner of speaking.’

  After a moment’s hesitation, he removed the bandage and, fist raised, placed his elbow upon the table so Alan could see the seal on the back of his friend’s hand. It was an ancient rune, that of the Dark, engraved upon a red stone medallion embedded in the flesh.

  The galleon soon left the black and dangerous waters of the Sea of Shadows behind. The continent was still far away, but an island loomed on the horizon. The captain set a course for this island first, and then made for two rocky needles that stood behind it. A gigantic stone arch linked these twin peaks.

  Alan and Lorn came out on deck to witness the spectacle. Standing on the poop deck, a mage from the Navigators’ Guild had already started his incantations. The ship was loaded with arcanium. Even its sails were woven with threads of this metal. Reacting to the magic, the arcanium started to glow and to hum, while an uncanny breeze lifted.

  Still weak, Lorn was overcome by dizziness. He had insisted on leaving his cabin in order to watch the ship depart from the Sea of Shadows. But he had overtaxed his strength and had not foreseen the effect the immensity of the horizon would have on him after three years in a gaol cell. He felt crushed and lost, tiny and vulnerable. The blue sky seemed infinite and the sun hurt his pale eyes. The air of the open sea was intoxicating. He had to take in several deep breaths, gripping Alan’s shoulder as his friend discreetly held him upright.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m … I’m fine …’

  ‘Sure?’

  Lorn did not have to reply.

  At the galleon’s approach, the runes engraved in the stone arch lit up. Shimmering coils spun in the air. They wrapped themselves around the ship, curled around the masts, slipped over the sails and crackled when they came into contact with the arcanium supports. A passage opened beneath the immense arch.

  The ship entered it and disappeared in a blinding flash.

  7

  ‘The High King Erklant II was wed to Queen Celyane in a second marriage, after the death of his first wife. No doubt he never loved her, although she bore him two sons.’

  Chronicles (The Book of the Three Princes’ War)

  The ladies-in-waiting busied themselves, finishing sewing on a button, measuring a sleeve, taking in a hem, adjusting a pleat. In their midst, Queen Celyane let them get on with it, holding herself straight and lifting an arm when necessary. Tall and slender, still beautiful, with dark eyes and a severe mouth, she was impassive but watchful, regularly ordering her entourage to step aside so she could see herself in the large mirror placed in front of her. This outfit was the one she would wear at an event that would mark the triumph of her policy and would establish her in the eyes of all the world as the reigning queen of the High Kingdom.

  An event fit to be related in the Chronicles.

  ‘Ma’am?’

  The queen turned her head towards a young lady-in-waiting who presented her with different sets of jewellery on a satin cushion. She was pointing to one when it was announced that Lord Esteveris wished to be received. The queen sighed and permitted her minister to enter. Behind her, one of her dressers climbed onto a small stool to place the gold-and-ruby necklace she had chosen about her neck.

  A man in his fifties appeared, plump and bald, luxuriously dressed, his fingers adorned with several rings. A former prelate, Esteveris was a cautious man and an able politician who always maintained a calm, unctuous manner. He was reputed to be aware of all the intrigues and plots brewing in the High Kingdom. Despite the countless spies in his employ and the accommodating souls who spontaneously came to him with information in the hope of winning favour, this was no doubt not the case. But Esteveris did nothing to contradict the rumour and even endeavoured to lend it credence.

  He bowed.

  ‘Your Majesty.’

  ‘To what do I owe this visit, my lord minister?’

  ‘News has just arrived, ma’am. News from the Citadel.’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  Esteveris said nothing.

  When he persisted in remaining silent, Queen Celyane understood and dismissed her entourage. The room emptied in a few seconds and as soon as the door to her antechamber was closed, the queen demanded:

  ‘Well?’

  Looking concerned, the minister announced:

  ‘The High King has received another emissary from the Assembly of Ir’kans.’

  As the queen did not react, he added:

  ‘It’s the second time in only a few months, ma’am.’

  But the queen remained expressionless. So he continued:

  ‘After the first interview, the High King ordered the trial that absolved Lorn Askarian. And now I’ve learned that a troop has left the Citadel bound for Samarande. To Samarande, where Prince Alderan will soon be landing, ma’am. That cannot be a coincidence …’

  Esteveris fell silent, convinced that the queen would finally react.

  He was not mistaken.

  With an impatient snap of her fingers, she pointed to a gold-and-vermilion service on a table. Bowing, the minister went to pour a cup of wine while the queen sat in a low-backed armchair. She took the cup that Esteveris brought her, but barely wet her lips.

  ‘I suppose that you have no better idea of what was said during this second audience than at the first …?’

  ‘No, ma’am,’ admitted the minister in a prim tone.

  ‘Don’t you have spies within the Citadel?’

  ‘Only a few, ma’am.’

  ‘But very able ones, fortunately …’

  Esteveris was sufficiently acquainted with Queen Celyane to know it was never a good sign when she resorted to irony.

  ‘The High King receives the Assembly’s emissary alone,’ he explained. ‘Even Norfold, the captain of the guard, remains outside the door. My spies cannot risk—’

  Queen Celyane bade him to be silent with a gesture, and then, containing her frustration, tapped nervously on her armrest.

  ‘What mission was this troop assigned?’ she finally asked.

  ‘I do not know.’

  ‘How many men?’

  ‘Twenty horsemen from the Grey Guard.’

  ‘But there’s no doubt that they are heading for Samarande.’

  ‘None, ma’am.’

  ‘At the order of my husband.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  The queen of the High Kingdom pinched her lips.

  Samarande was the most influential of the seven Free Cities – their capital, in a sense. Long ago, the province of the Free Cities had belonged to the High Kingdom, before being invaded by the kingdom of Yrgaard. As soon as he was crowned, the current High King had reconquered it at the end of a military campaign that had driven the armies of the Black Dragon back across the Sea of Mists. Erklant had since granted a degree of independence to each of the Free Cities in order to win their gratitude and loyalty. They governed themselves as they saw fit, as long as they paid their taxes and never acted against the interests of the High Kingdom. After suffering under the Yrgaardian yoke, this newfound liberty allowed the Free Cities to prosper. Yet one of them was about to throw off the tutelage of the High Kingdom and return to the bosom of Yrgaard …

  ‘Do you think the High King may try to oppose Angborn’s cession?’ asked Esteveris.

  Rather than a question it was a warning, all the more prudent on the part of the minister as he had already posed it several times before. He was the principal architect of this political and diplomatic masterstroke that would make Angborn a full-fledged Yrgaardian city. Nevertheless, he was aware what this cession represented in the eyes of the High King and his last remaining supporters.

  The queen shrugged her shoulders.

&nb
sp; ‘That senile old man?’

  ‘The province of the Free Cities was the most handsome conquest of your husband’s reign,’ Esteveris said. ‘And throwing the armies of Yrgaard back into the sea was one of his most glorious feats. It’s easy for our adversaries to claim that ceding Angborn to the Black Dragon means amputating part of our territories and bringing Yrgaard to our doorstep. No doubt the High King, however isolated, is not—’

  ‘Leave my husband where he is, will you? Leave him in that fortress he has chosen to make his tomb. After all, isn’t that what he wants? To die in peace?’

  The minister bowed respectfully.

  ‘As for our adversaries …’ the queen continued. ‘The cession of Angborn to Yrgaard shall take place, whether they like it or not. It will benefit the High Kingdom. It will re-establish diplomatic relations with Yrgaard and lay the foundations for an unprecedented alliance. The High Kingdom and Yrgaard! The two most powerful realms of Imelor allied at last!’

  As her words grew heated, the queen had risen and took a few steps. She calmed down and added more thoughtfully:

  ‘It will be a done deed in a few weeks, Esteveris. We will be in Angborn and before delegations from the world over we will sign a treaty with Yrgaard that will force all our enemies, within and without our borders, to carefully reconsider their … positions.’

  Celyane was smiling and her gaze shone, fixed on something far away. She stood proudly, satisfied with herself, in the dress she would wear for the occasion, which, like her triumph, only required a few finishing touches.

  Seeing that she was savouring her forthcoming victory over all those who contested her authority or doubted her ability to rule on her own, the minister refrained from mentioning the tribute Yrgaard would be paying to acquire Angborn. Of course, the political and diplomatic advantages that the High Kingdom would reap from this operation were assured. But it still came down to selling Angborn – and the formidable fortress that defended it – in order to fill the royal coffers. The High Kingdom was on the verge of ruin and needed Yrgaardian gold.

  ‘The fact remains that the High King has just sent twenty horsemen from his guard on a mission to Samarande,’ said Esteveris after a moment. ‘If their mission does not concern the treaty, it probably has something to do with Prince Alderan’s arrival.’

  The minister paused before getting to the crux of the matter:

  ‘Or with the return of Lorn Askarian …’

  The queen gave him a steely glance.

  ‘Lorn! So Dalroth did not get the better of him?’

  ‘It’s possible he’s no longer alive, ma’am.’

  ‘How long was he at Dalroth, exactly?’

  ‘Almost three years.’

  ‘And can anyone survive that?’

  ‘Not with one’s reason intact, so it’s said.’

  ‘In that case, what could the High King want with this man?’

  ‘I don’t know ma’am.’

  Celyane of the High Kingdom pondered for a moment, then gave a haughty smile and clapped her hands loudly, which prompted the return of her ladies-in-waiting.

  ‘It’s another of that old fool’s whims,’ she said dismissively. Once again she became the centre of feverish activity and, standing straight, she stretched out her arms horizontally. ‘Let him amuse himself as he pleases,’ she added. ‘We have other fish to fry.’

  Esteveris returned to the luxurious apartment he occupied in the palace. He ordered a scented bath to be prepared and, dressed solely in a long ample shirt, he sank into the steaming water. The thin cloth clung, diaphanous, to the folds of his obese and completely hairless body. Fat beads of sweat ran down his ruddy face, wiped away at regular intervals by a servant.

  The minister was worried.

  Of course, the kingdom’s situation was cause for concern. The empty treasury. The legitimacy of the queen’s rule increasingly questioned. The peasantry threatening to revolt and the nobles plotting with the Duke of Feln. And the other Imelorian kingdoms massing their forces at the borders because they were hostile towards the rapprochement between Yrgaard and the High Kingdom.

  But Esteveris was almost as tormented by the return of Lorn Askarian and the audience to which – he was convinced – the High King would summon him. Before ordering Lorn’s second trial the old king had received an envoy from the Assembly of Ir’kans. That couldn’t be a coincidence. The Assembly must have had a reason for wanting the man’s liberation despite everything he had endured at Dalroth. What message had it sent to the High King? What had it revealed to persuade him to take this step?

  Esteveris had to assume that the High King, at present, knew. A perspective that was more than worrying, especially when one thought of what Lorn risked learning if he harboured even the slightest desire for revenge. And how could he not, after what he had endured? Anyone in his shoes would want to discover who had plotted his downfall, and why.

  Curiously, it did not seem to trouble the queen.

  Why not?

  How could she not see the threat that Lorn’s return represented? How could she not be interested in whatever Erklant was up to in the Citadel? When the High King had shut himself away there, everyone had believed he was planning to end his days in peace, far from the scrutiny of others. But it had occurred to Esteveris that the king was actually seeking a refuge where he could act in secret. In hindsight, this hunch seemed to be correct …

  You old fox, the minister thought to himself, smiling faintly as he reclined in the perfumed vapours of his bath.

  The fact remained that the queen’s lack of concern could be dangerous and, if she persisted in doing nothing about Lorn, Esteveris would have to take care of the matter.

  For the good of the High Kingdom, for the good of his queen.

  And also, perhaps, for his own good.

  Closing his eyelids, he called for more hot water.

  8

  ‘The Navigators’ gate having transported them to the waters of the Sea of Mists, they arrived three days later within sight of the Free Cities. The voyage had proceeded without incident since the royal galleon left the terrors and storms of the Sea of Shadows. It was, at last, the end of the crossing.’

  Chronicles (The Book of the Knight with the Sword)

  ‘It’s me,’ announced Alan, as he knocked on the cabin door.

  ‘Come in.’

  The prince found Lorn stretched out on his bunk, reading.

  ‘We’re about to arrive.’

  Lorn closed his book and glanced out the window. They had passed the city of Angborn on its island and were now sailing the calm waters of the Sea of the Free Cities.

  Their heading was due south, as far as Lorn could tell.

  ‘Thank you. We’ll be landing at Samarande, won’t we?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Looking preoccupied, Alan drew up a stool and sat down, leaning forward, hands joined, elbows resting on his thighs.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Lorn.

  ‘You’ve hardly left your cabin these past few days.’

  ‘I found some books in an old chest. And since I needed to catch up on my reading …’

  The jest did not make Alan smile.

  Lorn gave a sigh, sat up on the edge of his bunk and looked his friend straight in the eye.

  ‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘Give me time. This will pass.’

  His gaze, however, said something quite different.

  But if Lorn had lied, it was not so much to reassure his friend as to be left in peace. As sincere and well meaning as it might be, Alan’s often clumsy solicitude weighed on him.

  ‘Really?’ asked the prince.

  ‘Really.’

  The truth was that Lorn preferred to avoid the ship’s crew.

  Out of superstition, the sailors were wary of him. He was marked by the Dark and therefore cursed; he could only attract bad luck. Reason enough for him to be feared and despised on board. It had not taken long for Lorn to notice the hostile, worried glances direc
ted his way whenever he left his cabin. And to make matters worse, the sunlight still dazzled him painfully; his eyes seemingly unable to readapt to the light of day. So he had fallen into the habit of going out on the deck only after nightfall, beneath the glow of the Nebula. He devoted the daytime to reflection, reading and resting.

  ‘You seem to be doing better,’ said Alan, rising to his feet.

  In fact, Lorn did look better. To be sure, his face remained pale and drawn. But he had regained some strength. His mismatched eyes shone with a new gleam. He had trimmed his beard short and his black hair, neatly cut, now fell to his shoulders.

  Alan went to serve himself a glass of wine from the jug placed on the table.

  ‘Do you want some?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  The prince drained his glass in a single gulp, and asked:

  ‘Have you thought about what you’ll do?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Now that you’re free. What are you going to do?’

  Lorn looked down bleakly at his left hand and the leather band concealing the seal of red stone embedded in his flesh.

  Free, he thought.

  Was he really? Would he ever be, with this infamous mark? For it to appear, one had to have come under the influence of the Dark. But on its own, that was not enough: not all those who came into contact with the Dark were marked in this manner. Without anyone knowing why, it did not place its rune on just anyone. Did it prefer the strongest, or the cruellest, or those most inclined to serve it? It was in any case a terrifying privilege. To be sure, those whom it adopted survived. The mark spared them the worst of its corrupting effects and they seemed to escape the physical and mental degeneration that struck others. They always ended up paying the price, however. For although the Dark did not kill those it marked, it did bring them misfortune. And Destiny, sooner or later, came to settle accounts with them.

  So, in a way, Lorn owed the fact that he was still alive to his mark. It represented the Dark’s choice. Without it, he would be dead. Or mad, with his body eaten away and deformed. But should he rejoice in that fact? One did not escape the Dark. One did not ever become free of it.