by Pierre Pevel
‘Did he seem to be Lorn’s accomplice?’
‘No.’
‘Perfect.’
‘Nonetheless, the prince came down in favour of Lorn.’
‘Yes. So now he must account for his actions to Prince Yrdel. Which means he will ask Lorn to do the same. You’ll see.’
Dalk understood.
‘So,’ he said, ‘Naé became the heart of a quarrel …’
‘This fire may catch light now. Perhaps it will catch light later. But I can assure you that, in the end, its coals will come to life …’
8
The following morning, Lorn met with Alan again as the prince was having his breakfast alone, on a balcony of the Princes’ Ship, in the shade of a canopy which rippled in the wind. Alan barely broke off eating to greet Lorn. He did not invite the knight to sit down, much less to share his meal.
So Lorn remained standing and waited.
He noted the prince’s face, his tight features, his black gaze. He also noted that Alan was drinking wine laced with kesh and that he’d already made inroads on the carafe next to his glass. But that did not explain his friend’s agitated state. On the contrary, kesh usually had a soothing effect.
Despite that, Alan seemed furious.
Two servants, silent and still, stood a short distance away. When one of them advanced to fill the prince’s glass, Lorn – who was starting to grow annoyed – decided he had waited long enough.
‘I’ve come to ask you to release Vahrd,’ he said.
Alan took the time to swallow a mouthful which he did not savour and, without raising his eyes from his plate, replied:
‘And why would I do that?’
‘Because he’s not guilty of anything.’
‘He tried to sneak aboard the Azure Guard’s vessel. That is something.’
‘He was drunk. And worried about his daughter. He drank one glass too many and did something stupid, that’s all. He’s had all night to reflect on the error of his ways and sober up. Don’t you think that’s enough?’
Angrily, Alan threw his knife down upon his plate and sat back in his chair, looking at Lorn with a disdainful eye.
‘You really have some nerve …’ he finally said.
Lorn remained impassive.
‘After all that happened last night,’ continued the prince, ‘you still want me to believe that Vahrd wasn’t acting in concert with you? That he wasn’t creating a diversion while you freed Naéris? Do you take me for a fool, Lorn?’
Lorn remained silent; Alan rose and came round the table.
‘Look me in the eye and swear you didn’t help Naé escape. Tell me she’s not on this barge right now, and that she didn’t spend the night in your cabin …’
Lorn glanced at the two footmen, who, beneath the canopy, stood to either side of the prince’s chair, acting as though they saw and heard nothing. Alan took the hint and dismissed them with a gesture. They immediately withdrew, with the prudent haste adopted by the best servants.
Lorn waited until Alan and he were alone, and then said:
‘Naé is in my cabin. You knew that full well last night, when you forbade any search of the Onyx Guard’s quarters.
‘Don’t ever pull another stunt like this on me again, Lorn! Last night was a fait accompli; you knew perfectly well that I would support you against Esteveris, but you left me no choice. You manipulated me.’
‘No,’ protested Lorn. ‘I didn’t mean—’
‘You did!’ exploded Alan. ‘You knew exactly what would happen! You knew I would take your side if necessary!’
‘But you don’t find it shocking for a minister’s thugs to be searching the Princes’ Ship?’ Lorn asked calmly. ‘Your brother never should have agreed to it.’
‘Don’t change the subject! My brother conducts his affairs as he sees fit. No doubt he has a reason to avoid a quarrel with Esteveris and I don’t believe you have any say in the matter.’
They were standing face to face, almost nose to nose, Alan quivering with anger while Lorn remained completely still.
‘You’re right, Alan. But—’
‘No! No buts. That signet ring doesn’t make you a king. Or a prince.’
Alan turned away and went to lean against the balcony’s railing. Exasperated and upset, he drew in a few deep breaths, taking the time to calm himself.
Lorn joined him and stood silently at his side.
‘You … You took advantage of our friendship, Lorn …’
‘That’s true. Forgive me. But we both know that’s not the only question, don’t we?’
The prince frowned.
‘What?’
‘The real reason you’re angry,’ said Lorn, ‘isn’t because I put your back to the wall. It’s because I didn’t warn you we were preparing to rescue Naé …’
It was true; Alan was feeling excluded. Almost betrayed.
‘But how could I tell you?’ Lorn continued. ‘You don’t really think you could have been involved in it? You’re a prince of the High Kingdom. By hiding our plans from you—’
‘Don’t you dare,’ Alan interrupted, his voice rich with anger. ‘Don’t you dare say you were protecting me. You didn’t trust me, that’s all there is to it.’
‘I swear that’s not the case.’
Lorn was sincere but Alan wasn’t listening, saying:
‘You’re wrong about me, Lorn. Entirely wrong. After all, I’ve always been a prince, haven’t I? So what difference does it make? To me, none. But to you?’
The prince left his question hanging and moved on, saying:
‘You don’t make things easy for your friends, Lorn …’
The knight gave no reply.
Although both sorrowful and angry, Alan nevertheless felt a resurgence of hope when Lorn called out to him.
‘Alan!’
The prince had almost left the balcony. He hesitated, then turned back towards Lorn who, standing at the railing, kept his gaze fixed on the horizon.
Alan waited.
‘I am sorry,’ said Lorn.
The prince departed without saying another word.
9
‘He had been a great king, and a valiant one, feared and respected by all, allies and enemies alike. He’d waged many a battle and won immense victories. But as his reign drew to a close, his glory and his strength waned beneath the weight of his faults, while his throne tottered. Yet pride, rather than remorse or the warnings of Destiny, made him unwilling to die leaving his kingdom to ruin.’
Chronicles (The Book of the Knight with the Sword)
From the throne room’s balcony, seated beneath a canopy which protected him from the chalk-laden drops, the High King watched the white downpour falling upon the Citadel. More melancholy than ever, he sat perfectly still.
‘Why do these rains never cease?’ he asked in a weak, scratchy voice.
‘I don’t know,’ said the white drac who was standing beside him.
‘Have I not obeyed the will of the Dragon of Destiny? Have I not redeemed my faults?’
‘I’m only an Emissary, sire.’
‘But what do the Guardians say?’
‘Emissaries do not attend the Council’s meetings.’
The old king smiled faintly behind the black veil which hid his cadaverous face.
‘Come now, I know your ways,’ he said. ‘Do you imagine you’re the first Emissary I’ve met? I know full well that you’re better informed than you admit …’
Skeren hesitated.
In his role as Emissary, there was indeed a difference between what he knew and what he was supposed to know. And what he had the right to reveal was yet another thing. Jealous of its secrets, the Assembly of Ir’kans was always careful to say as little as possible. It sometimes obliged its emissaries to conceal truths, or even to lie in order to further its aims and encourage the fulfilment of Destiny.
The white drac could not admit that the Guardians had deceived him, and were still doing so, but he was reluctant to lie again.
&nb
sp; So he kept silent.
‘Norfold believes freeing Lorn from Dalroth was an error,’ said King Erklant. ‘And that entrusting him with the fate of the High Kingdom was sheer folly. He thinks I never should have summoned him back. Or made him my First Knight. Or authorised him to reform the Onyx Guard … In short, he thinks I never should have listened to you. Norfold hates Lorn, that’s understood. But he doesn’t like the Assembly of Ir’kans and its emissaries much more, mark my words.’
Skeren nodded, with a knowing smile.
‘I’m aware of that.’
‘All the same, is he really wrong to be wary of you?’
‘How can I answer such a question, sire?’
‘And was I wrong?’
‘I beg your pardon, sire? Wrong? Wrong about what?’
‘To have listened to you! Wrong to have trusted the Guardians and carried out their will.’
The Emissary considered his reply, and then said:
‘It’s a question of the Grey Dragon’s will, sire …’
The High King’s bony shoulders shook with a small laugh that sounded like a hiccough.
‘You … You’re slippery as a … as a …’
The drac guessed which word the old king did not dare to utter.
‘As a snake, sire?’
The High King hesitated.
‘It’s the usual expression,’ added Skeren in a friendly tone. ‘I see no reason to take offence.’
‘Yes,’ said King Erklant, scowling a little. ‘As a snake …’
He fell into one of his misleading silences.
The High King had absent spells and could remain silent like this for long moments: his mind escaped and deprived his mummified body of the small life that still animated it. But sometimes he simply fell asleep, closing his eyelids behind the concealing black veil. In both cases, he sat unmoving and indifferent, inaccessible, his wheezing breath slowly lifting his meagre chest.
Uncertain, Skeren waited while the rain redoubled in strength.
Whiter and heavier, its drops pattered and burst upon the grey stones. The roofs were covered with milky water which overspilled from the gutters and fell in cold white trickles. Puddles drowned the paving stones. Streams raced down the streets, drawn to the deserted Citadel’s lower regions.
‘Does any of it really matter?’ the old king suddenly said. ‘If Norfold is partly right? That Lorn never should have been set free? Does it really matter?’
The Emissary carefully refrained from responding.
Did the king truly expect a reply? Probably not. He was probably thinking aloud, carried away by the train of his thoughts, his doubts and his fears.
‘Guilty or not, what does it matter? That’s what Norfold doesn’t want to understand. In his eyes, a traitor is a traitor and he’s convinced that Lorn betrayed the Grey Guard and the High Kingdom. That he betrayed me,’ added the High King, sounding disillusioned. ‘And that’s something a man like Norfold cannot forgive.’
He paused for a moment and reflected.
‘For my part, I know that Lorn is innocent,’ he said. ‘But the truth is, that is no longer of any importance …’
Once again, the white drac made no reply. First he wanted to learn where the old king’s thoughts were leading him.
‘Because the common interest outweighs all else, doesn’t it?’ continued Erklant II. ‘What do a man’s faults and crimes matter, if his actions save a multitude?’
The Emissary raised an eyebrow.
He wondered whom the High King was trying to convince. Was his question rhetorical?
‘There’s no doubt that Lorn has a destiny, sire.’
‘And this destiny is to save the High Kingdom, is it not?’
Skeren chose his words carefully.
‘I believe so. But all I know is that the destiny of the High Kingdom cannot be freely fulfilled without Lorn. That is what the Guardians affirm. It’s what they were told by the Grey Dragon.’
Suddenly irritated, the High King made a gesture with the back of his hand, as if shooing away a fly.
‘That remains to be seen!’
‘Sire?’
‘The Guardians never tell us what they actually want, do they? They don’t confide in you or in me. Or in anyone else. And that’s how it’s always been.’
‘That’s true.’
The drac knew that the king’s wariness towards the Assembly of Ir’kans was shared by almost everyone. The Guardians, however, did not deserve all of the accusations voiced against them and certainly not to be the target of a fearful hostility which, occasionally, was deflected onto their emissaries. Still, Skeren thought the Guardians had their share of blame to bear. The secrecy they surrounded themselves with, their arrogance and their refusal to explain or justify their decisions, all contributed to arousing suspicion.
What were they hiding, exactly? And why? To what end?
These questions were the ones being pondered by the High King and the Emissary was forced to acknowledge their legitimacy. Skeren was the one the Assembly of Ir’kans had entrusted with informing the king that Lorn should be freed from Dalroth and given all the means necessary to fulfil his destiny, as it was bound up with the future of the High Kingdom. Erklant II had enough experience and wisdom not to take the Guardian’s pronouncements lightly. Nevertheless, he remained a proud king whose decisions determined the fate of Imelor’s most powerful nation, and he did not intend to let his actions be dictated by anyone.
The truths that were subsequently revealed to him mattered little.
The Prophecy of the Princes and, as troubling as it might be, the secret of Lorn’s origins mattered little.
There was no question of the High King taking the assertions and promises of the Assembly of Ir’kans at face value. He wanted guarantees and had only obtained one, but it came from the best and the worst of his allies.
Serk’Arn, the Dragon of Destruction.
‘She was beautiful,’ said the old king, who had once again silently drifted off into the meanders of his thoughts again. ‘Very beautiful. A queen. A Skandish queen. A warrior queen.’
The Emissary realised after a moment’s delay that the High King was talking about Lorn’s mother. In an almost dreamy tone, Erklant continued:
‘I think I loved her. In my fashion, but I did love her. As I loved so many others,’ he said with a hint of regret.
Then he declared more forcefully:
‘But I did not know. I didn’t know Lorn was my son. I never even imagined it until …’
Until I told you, thought Skeren. And the idea grew within you, that the innocent man rotting in Dalroth was perhaps indeed your son. A bastard, to be sure. But one you might have spared, or rescued during those three long years.
‘But of that,’ said the old king, returning abruptly to the wariness that the Assembly of the Ir’kans inspired in him, ‘of that I am sure, now. On this point, the Guardians have not lied. They could not have done so. Lorn is my son. My blood runs in his veins. That of my lineage.’
The drac gave no reply and thought of the detachment with which the High King had exposed Lorn to the Dragon of Destruction. Since it had been subjugated by magic, it could not harm a descendant of its vanquisher, the first King Erklant. The High King had therefore envisaged bringing Lorn before Serk’Arn, to see if the dragon spared him. For the old king, it a way to obtain proof of Lorn’s origins. The idea that he might be delivering an innocent victim to the Dragon of Destruction did not even cross his mind, or at least had not stopped him. Would he have even felt any remorse, if – based on a lie by the Guardians – Sark’Arn’s fire had consumed Lorn? The Emissary doubted it. And this was not cruelty. Or even cynicism. Just indifference: that of a dying king threatened by madness, who no longer cared about anything except saving his kingdom.
‘Where is he?’ asked the old king.
‘Sire?’
‘Lorn. Where is he?’
‘With Prince Alderan on the Floating Palace, which is taking
the queen and her suite to Angborn.’
‘And why are you not in Angborn?’
‘I’ll go, perhaps, but there’s nothing left to be done now. All is ready, and the storms ahead cannot be averted.’
10
‘Having completed its voyage upon the Eirdre, the Floating Palace halted before Samarande where the entire royal court came ashore in all its glory and pomp. For the three whole days, the town paid homage to the queen and the princes of the High Kingdom. Then the anniversary of the battle of Tears approached, along with the first cool weather of autumn. Whereupon Queen Celyane and her suite embarked on ten superb vessels, bedecked with banners and bunting, to go and greet Prince Laedras at Angborn, the city promised to Yrgaard.’
Chronicles (The Books of the Cities)
The ships sailed north upon the calm waters of the small Sea of the Free Cities. They soon arrived at Angborn, which, from its island, guarded the strait opening onto the Sea of Mists. From the prow of the royal caravel, holding Yssaris in his arms, Lorn observed the town and its citadel, now visibly growing near. The afternoon was drawing to a close.
Angborn had always been the most Yrgaardian of the Free Cities. The Black Hydra had pampered and favoured it, even making it the capital of the annexed province. After the reconquest carried out by Erklant II, not all links had been broken with Yrgaard. On the contrary, Angborn had made use of the new freedoms granted by the High King to remain as close as possible to the most powerful realm of the north. Despite the passing years, Angborn’s political and commercial elites had never stopped considering themselves Yrgaardians, and had gladly welcomed the planned cession. But for its part, the general population feared being subjected to Orsak’yr again, the Black Dragon of Death and Night.
As for the High King …
He had liberated the Cities conquered by Yrgaard’s armies. It had been one of his first deeds of glory and now, at the end of his reign, he was seeing one of the Free Cities returned to the Black Dragon. For the queen, it represented a victory, the crowning of her policy, since this cession would mark the resumption of diplomatic relations between the High Kingdom and Yrgaard. But for the king, it was an especially bitter defeat.