by Pierre Pevel
‘If Yrgaard were to retake Angborn in battle, at least,’ he’d said to Lorn. ‘But no … That which the High Kingdom paid in blood to conquer and then defend, the High Kingdom now cedes with the stroke of a quill … Do you know how many men died on Saarsgard’s ramparts? Returning Angborn to Yrgaard is like pissing on their graves. It’s an insult. It’s … It’s shameful. Shameful for us all …’
Lorn had then thought he guessed the High King’s intentions, as unrealistic as they might seem.
‘Do you want me to prevent Angborn’s cession, sire?’
‘No. No, of course not. It would be folly and, besides, it’s too late for that … You see, the queen thinks only of her triumph, of succeeding where all others have failed, in signing a peace treaty with Yrgaard. Esteveris, on the other hand, sees further. He does not believe a lasting peace is possible with the Black Dragon, but he knows a rapprochement between the High Kingdom and Yrgaard gives him what he needs most.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘The freedom to devote himself to the kingdom’s internal troubles. And the money he is cruelly lacking right now.’
Indeed, the High Kingdom’s coffers were quite empty.
Nevertheless, it had never been a question – officially – of the High Kingdom selling Angborn. It had simply been agreed that Yrgaard would settle an old debt. Following the reconquest of the province of the Free Cities, the High Kingdom had imposed the payment of a heavy tribute upon its defeated opponent. Yrgaard had only transferred the first half of the stipulated amount, and it was the second half that it was offering to pay now, upon signature of the Angborn treaty, as a gesture of good will. It was a fortune that was particularly welcome to the High Kingdom. No one was fooled, but appearances were saved.
‘Esteveris knows they he will soon need money, Lorn. A lot of money. To secure loyalties, but also to raise the armies needed for safeguarding the High Kingdom.’
His train of thought interrupted by the flapping of a sail, Lorn raised his eyes towards the fortress overlooking Angborn. Massive, sombre and menacing, Saarsgard resembled Dalroth. Indeed, it had been built in the same period and for the same reasons, during the Shadows. And although it had not been exposed to the Dark, the sight of it made a chill run down Lorn’s spine.
‘Sinister-looking, isn’t it?’ said Esteveris.
Unlike Yssaris who had lifted its head, Lorn had not heard the minister approach. With a quick glance, Lorn assured himself they were alone, or almost: the minister’s counsellors and guards – including Sturich – were waiting a short distance away, far enough not to hear anything over the sounds of the rigging in the wind and the ship’s hull cleaving the waves.
‘Its architecture must bring back bad memories,’ added Esteveris.
‘Indeed,’ said Lorn.
‘But all that is behind you now …’
‘You really think so?’
‘I hope so, for your sake, at least.’
Lorn made no reply.
‘I’m glad to know your slight disagreement with Prince Alderan has been settled,’ said the minister after a brief silence.
Lorn remained expressionless.
‘What slight disagreement?’
‘You know, after that deplorable escape.’
Esteveris was alluding to the altercation between Lorn and Alan the day after Naé’s escape. At the time, the two friends had parted without being completely reconciled, but time had done the rest and everyone could see, during the final days of the voyage on the Eirdre, that together with Enzio they were more inseparable than ever. In truth, things were not so well between Alan and Lorn, but they put on an act which convinced everyone of the contrary and had almost fooled themselves. Lorn wondered if they were simply refusing to admit that the years had gone by and they had changed. They were still firm friends, to be sure. However, that friendship’s initial innocence had given way to nostalgia for that innocence. For they now realised that their bond was vulnerable to rancour as well as doubt.
‘I don’t know what you’re referring to,’ said Lorn.
The minister smiled.
‘As you please … Permit me, however, to express my concern for your friend, Vahrd. No one seems to have seen him since he was arrested that famous night. Perhaps Prince Yrdel is unwilling to set him free? In that case, it would be my pleasure to …’
‘That will not be necessary, thank you.’
Lorn contained a small smile and caressed Yssaris’s head.
He was well aware that Esteveris knew that Alan had kept Vahrd locked up for a few days, before releasing him when the Floating City reached Samarande. On the other hand, the minister was surely unaware of what had become of the old blacksmith since then.
Or of his daughter.
Lorn had taken advantage of the commotion created by the court’s landing at Samarande to smuggle Naé off the Princes’ Ship. Disguised as a servant, and armed with a few pieces of silver and a letter of recommendation, she had immediately taken the road to Oriale, where, Lorn being convinced the Black Tower was under surveillance, she would ask Sibellus for his hospitality. Vahrd had disembarked the same day, just as discreetly.
‘I would imagine,’ said Esteveris, ‘that a father would want to accompany his daughter on a long and perilous journey.’
Lorn kept silent but pondered the minister’s words.
The journey to the capital was not so perilous as all that. Had Esteveris realised that Naé was going to Oriale, and insinuating that the roads were being watched? Or was he simply trying to worry Lorn in the hope of reading some sign of the truth upon his face?
‘We’re arriving,’ the minister said. ‘I don’t know if we will have the opportunity to speak again, over the next few days. I will be very busy and I imagine you will be too. Whatever you are here to do,’ he added, before walking away with a steady step.
Lorn did not bid him farewell and raised his eyes again towards the Saarsgard’s ramparts and black towers, as the ship approached the port, greeted by ceremonial salvos.
‘I want you to go to Angborn and represent me there,’ the High King had said. ‘I want you to be seen. It tears at my heart, but the cession of Angborn must take place. The High Kingdom needs this semblance of peace with Yrgaard. And it also needs the tribute Yrgaard is willing to pay … The treaty must be signed. You must convince Teogen of this, and then make sure that no one intervenes to prevent it in Angborn. The High Kingdom’s future depends on it, Lorn. This treaty is dishonourable. But it’s our only hope, do you understand?’
Lorn took a moment to think it over.
And then he nodded in agreement.
11
Queen Celyane proceeded at a walk, mounted upon a magnificent white mare and protected from the pale autumn sun and the warm drizzle by an azure canopy held aloft on golden poles by eight servants. Ahead of her, horsemen from the Azure Guard opened the parade with fifes, drums and heralds bearing banners. The official procession followed. First came the escort riders in blue and yellow, then the royal princes, the great lords and dignitaries of the High Kingdom, the members of the clergy, and the foreign ambassadors and delegations, all of them moving forward at the same solemn pace.
The procession had started off from the port, acclaimed by a vast crowd. It had then followed the route to Angborn’s fortress, through streets decorated with bunting, where the onlookers became less numerous and less enthusiastic. It was obvious the bravos and the hurrahs that had greeted the queen were neither spontaneous nor sincere. Esteveris’s agents had done what they could, but the illusion had not lasted long. Despite the garlands and the pennants, despite the applause of some, one could not help seeing the empty balconies, the closed shutters, the sparse ranks of onlookers at the foot of the buildings’ façades. The procession even received a few boos from within the houses, while passers-by doffed their caps but were silent and grave-faced – which was as much as they could do without openly expressing their disrespect for the High Kingdom’s sovere
ign. Unlike Angborn’s civic leaders and bourgeoisie who welcomed a handover of power from which they hoped to reap great profit, the common people could not forgive the queen for returning the city to Yrgaard. They felt abandoned, sacrificed, and knew – having previously endured it – that they would suffer under the Black Dragon’s yoke.
Sitting pale and upright on her mount, the queen simmered with rage, furious at not being cheered, and glad that she would soon be rid of this ungrateful city. She let none of it show, however. Looking straight ahead, only her eyes flashed with a murderous fire. As though it were not enough that she had to put up with the High King’s representative …
Lorn was riding a short distance away, at Alan’s side, behind Prince Yrdel and his barons. He wore the armour of the Onyx Guard, while his jet-black mount wore a splendid grey caparison embroidered in silver with the wolf’s head, the crossed swords and the royal crown. Unknown to the crowd, he cut an intriguing figure, all the more so since he stood out among the silk clothes, the embroidered robes, the brocades and lace trimmings, the plumes and ornaments. Dressed in black, he seemed to be in mourning on behalf of the king, for the lost glory of the High Kingdom.
The procession crossed the city and, via a fortified road, reached Saarsgard. The fortress in fact stood apart from the rest of Angborn. Backed by forbidding rocky escarpments, it had its own port and served less to guard the town than the strait, its ramparts and cannons looking primarily out to sea. Like Dalroth, Saarsgard comprised several enclosures defended by towers, portcullises and drawbridges. It was a formidable citadel. Whoever possessed it controlled Angborn. And whoever controlled Angborn threatened the other Free Cities by dominating their sea.
Ceding Angborn and its fortress to the Black Dragon was clearly an act of folly, Lorn said to himself. A folly desired by all, including the High King himself – regretfully, to be sure. But despite its promises, despite the treaties, Yrgaard remained the High Kingdom’s hereditary enemy. Ceding Angborn to it was like muzzling one’s dogs and entrusting the sheepfold to the wolf because it pretended to accept a pat on the head.
Saarsgard’s governor-general was waiting for the queen and her retinue in the main courtyard of the fortress. He was a courtier without military experience appointed by Esteveris to this post because he was docile and pro-Yrgaard. The queen and her minister had no desire for a commander who might create difficulties at the last minute. With the Baron of Gharn, there was no risk of that. His predecessor, on the other hand, had been an old general loyal to the High King, who’d been speedily removed once the plan for Angborn’s cession began to take shape.
The queen paid scarcely any heed to the speech given by Saarsgard’s governor before the garrison drawn up in ranks. Still angry, she’d even shortened it with an annoyed expression and then shut herself up in her quarters along with several close companions, who tiptoed about her. The brass band that was supposed to play was sent away, the garrison troops dismissed and the procession dispersed, disappointed by the queen’s bad temper.
Lorn felt oppressed as he passed beneath the low black archway and entered the ancient fortress. He left Alan and rejoined his own men with relief. Liam informed him they had taken up their quarters and found a quiet stable for the horses. They had also had time to scout the site and take their bearings. In short, all was ready.
‘The fortress is almost deserted,’ said Dwain.
‘The garrison has already started to withdraw,’ explained Yeras. ‘Only the Castel is still occupied. The rest is empty.’
‘The High Kingdom is really in a hurry to rid itself of this place,’ noted Logan bitterly. ‘Yrgaard will be able to take possession a few hours after the treaty signing.’
They knew what that meant.
The next day, before nightfall, the colours of the Black Hydra would be waving over Saarsgard.
Lorn led his men to the Castel, through deserted streets which gave the impression that the sinister stronghold had been abandoned after falling victim to a sudden curse. He was lodging there, along with the queen, the princes, Esteveris and all of the most noteworthy guests, and he knew the way perfectly well.
This was not his first visit to Saarsgard.
For it was here that Yrgaard and the High Kingdom had held the clandestine negotiations whose smooth conduct he had been charged with protecting, when he was still one of the High Kingdom’s bright young hopes. Despite the passage of time, the old fortress held few secrets from him and he could honestly claim he knew each building, each hallway, each room of the Castel, after having guarded them night and day while the representatives of the two kingdoms laboured to draw up a peace treaty.
More than three years had passed since then.
An eternity …
They arrived.
The Castel was the heart and the most ancient part of Saarsgard, a fortress within the fortress, created centuries before the rest of it was built. It stood upon a rocky base, surrounded by a vertiginous crevasse whose walls plunged down into shadows haunted by the backwash of the Sea of Mists. Its bridge, its portcullises and its ramparts sheltered a maze of towers and courtyards joined by archways and flights of steps hollowed by wear. Its walls were thick, pierced by low doors and cruciform embrasures. Its keep, known as the ‘Sanctuary’, was massive and austere, as sinister as it was menacing, and seemed to have been carved from a single column of crenellated granite.
Still leading his men, Lorn traversed the bridge that crossed the gulf and disappeared into the Castel.
While the High Kingdom’s court finished settling in, Lorn watched the sun set over Saarsgard from his windows. His apartment was on the same floor of the keep as those of the queen and the two princes, Esteveris having been forced to give up his place.
With Yssaris purring in his arms, Lorn reflected that having been sentenced to die in Dalroth, he had been rehabilitated by the High King in the Citadel – the very place where he had been judged and convicted. A first whim of Destiny. Now – by a second whim – he had returned to Saarsgard for the signing of a treaty much like the one prepared here three years earlier, in the greatest of secrecy and under his guard. Lastly – a third whim – he knew that, in this very same place, his life was about to take as dramatic a turn as the day when he was arrested for high treason. He’d survived Dalroth but he might very well die here, in another fortress inherited from the Shadows.
‘The Grey Dragon definitely has a taste for irony, doesn’t he?’ he said in a low murmur.
The cat looked at him as if waiting for him to say something more.
12
The following day, as the final preparations for the ceremony kept the High Kingdom’s court busy, Lorn was finishing lunch with Alan and Enzio in his apartment when Liam entered.
‘My lords, please forgive me,’ he said, bowing first to the prince.
‘What is it?’ asked Lorn.
‘You need to see this for yourself, knight,’ replied the veteran, crossing the room hurriedly.
He went to the window.
Intrigued, the three friends rose to join him there and saw what it was about. Below, a column of prisoners was filing into a small courtyard. Under close guard, the captives were marching slowly, hobbled by the weight of their chains and exhaustion. They disappeared one by one through a low door in the keep.
‘They’ve just arrived,’ explained Liam. ‘They’re the rebels who fought against the cession.’
‘The ones Naé joined?’ asked Alan.
‘Yes, my lord. Until this morning, they were held in Angborn’s prison.’
‘So why transfer them here?’ Lorn wondered out loud.
‘That’s Esteveris through and through,’ said Alan.
‘Esteveris cannot liberate them or have them murdered in their cells,’ said Enzio. ‘But I doubt he wants a trial that would allow others to take their side.’
‘And,’ added the prince, ‘he cannot execute them without making them martyrs.’
‘So he’s handing them o
ver to Yrgaard along with the fortress,’ concluded Lorn. ‘Letting the Black Dragon decide their fate.’
‘You have to admit it’s a neat solution,’ said Alan, turning away from the window.
He seemed both resigned and admiring. With a less steady gait than he would have wished, he went to the table, filled the first glass he saw with wine and drained it in a single gulp. His two friends exchanged a glance but said nothing.
Lorn turned back to look at the sparkling horizon and the Sea of Mists to the north. He caught a glimpse of a bright object reflecting the sun, revealing the location of the waiting Yrgaardian fleet.
‘Ten ships,’ said Enzio, who had seen the same glint. ‘An entire battle squadron. So that’s what Yrgaard sends to escort a diplomatic mission.’
‘Officially,’ said Alan from behind them, ‘they’re there to protect the dragon-prince from possible attacks by Skandish pirates.’
‘As if Skandish sails had ever been sighted this far east in the Sea of Mists!’ exclaimed Lorn.
‘Perhaps they didn’t take the most direct route …’ Enzio joked.
There was a moment of silence, during which Alan emptied the last bottle of wine and said:
‘It’s time to go, Enzio. The general rehearsal is starting soon and we don’t want to keep the queen waiting, do we?’
‘Certainly not,’ replied Enzio.
‘And we can’t let anything spoil the celebration, can we …’ the prince added with a bitterness that intrigued Lorn.
Alan and Enzio left, leaving Lorn and Liam alone.
But the Sarmian gentleman soon returned to fetch his dagger, which he had removed to sit more comfortably at the beginning of their lunch.
It was merely a pretext, however.
As he tucked his weapon into his belt, he glanced at the open door and drew Lorn aside by the elbow. Liam understood and withdrew.