The Knight: A Tale from the High Kingdom (6 page)

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 directed 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.

‘I would understand if you wanted nothing further to do with the High Kingdom,’ the prince continued. ‘But you should know that when you’re ready, I will be glad to have you at my side.’

Whether he accepted it or not, Lorn knew what this offer represented: an extraordinary rehabilitation.

‘Thank you,’ he said.

‘Don’t thank me. I’m not doing you a favour. I really do need you.’

Lorn frowned and stood.

‘What’s going on?’

The prince hesitated, and then revealed:

‘The affairs of the High Kingdom are going badly, Lorn. My mother’s authority is increasingly called into question, and my father—’

His voice choked off.

Lorn waited.

In the past, he would no doubt have offered the prince the comfort of a friendly word, a considerate hand placed upon his shoulder. But he now felt incapable of that. Perhaps it would come back to him.

Alan served himself another glass of wine, promptly drinking half.

‘My father no longer rules, Lorn. And he’s doing very poorly indeed.’

‘Is it that serious?’

‘Yes. You … you would not recognise him if you saw him. He’s more dead than alive. Gaunt and pale. He looks like a withered corpse. Dry. Wrinkled. It’s frightening to see. And his voice … his eyes. They’re—’

Alan was unable to continue. He finished his glass and stood gazing into the distance.

‘I … I know that you have every reason to hate him, Lorn. But if you saw what he has become, you would pity him.’

Lorn doubted that but preferred to say nothing. Instead, he asked:

‘What’s wrong? What ails him?’

‘No one knows. The doctors, the mages, the priests, all are powerless. People are starting to say it’s the Great Affliction.’ The prince grew animated. ‘The Great Affliction! But why? For what crime would my father suffer the Great Affliction?’

Lorn did not answer.

According to legend, the Great Affliction struck culpable kings. It persisted for as long as the fault was neither redressed nor pardoned, and it could harm an entire kingdom. It brought famines, wars and epidemics. In the end, no one was spared.

Alan regained control of himself.

‘If it does not happen before, then the High Kingdom will slide into war upon the death of my father. I will be forced to take up arms to defend the throne and I would like to be able to count on you. But as I said, I would understand if you refuse. I’m not asking you to give me an answer right away. Only to think about it.’

‘I promise I will. But for now …’

‘I know, I know. You need some time.’

They exchanged a smile.

‘Do you know why your father ordered a second trial for me?’ asked Lorn. ‘He must have thought I was guilty when I was convicted, since he did not exercise his right to pardon me. So what changed after three years?’

‘I don’t know,’ the prince replied. ‘But shortly before he ordered that second trial, he received a visit from of an emissary of the Assembly of Ir’kans.’

‘An emissary?’

‘That’s what they told me.’

‘Nothing less than that …’

Lorn remained lost in thought for a moment.

‘It seems I have a destiny,’ said Alan casually. ‘Perhaps you do too …’

But Lorn had no chance to formulate a reply.

‘Did you hear that?’ the prince asked suddenly, listening carefully.

‘Yes.’

‘It sounds like cannon fire …’

Intrigued, Lorn hurried to climb up on deck. Alan, who knew what it was about, followed him more slowly.

Shading his eyes with his hand, Lorn counted nine cannonades.

‘The count is correct,’ he said as Alan joined him. ‘Nine for a prince of the blood. Something tells me you’re expected.’

‘Once again, Esteveris has done his job well.’

‘Esteveris?’

‘My mother’s minister. Don’t you remember him? Bah! You’ll become acquainted with that snake soon enough …’ Alan heaved a resigned sigh. ‘Meanwhile, I need to play my part as a prince.’

Lorn suddenly realised how terribly weary his friend looked.

Samarande was bedecked in the colours of the High Kingdom when the royal galleon landed. Stages and barriers had been erected and people stood ready to toss armfuls of flowers from their windows as the procession passed. Kept back by halberdiers, an impatient and joyful crowd had gathered on the quays and in the neighbouring streets. The weather was splendid. The entire city was celebrating.

The galleon having anchored in the port’s waters, a delegation of notables came out to meet it aboard a big, luxurious barque. From a distance, people recognised Alderan of Langre, prince of the High Kingdom, when he took a place in this barque to reach the shore. Cheers rose, but the crowds contained their joy until the prince appeared wearing a magnificent outfit with silver trimmings upon a tribune decorated with gold leaf and covered by a canopy of blue silk.

Trumpets sounded and it was a triumph.

On the quays, a movement of the crowd obliged the halberdiers to brace themselves and call out warnings. Their orders were drowned out by the cheering, the bravos and the redoubled applause. The spectators craned their necks and jostled one another, jammed together shoulder to shoulder. Smiling and waving, Alan received the acclaim.

Lorn had remained on the galleon. Wearing a hood which protected his eyes from the sun, he watched the scene and said in an admiring tone:

‘I don’t recall him being so popular …’

‘He wasn’t, before his return from Alencia,’ Father Domnis informed him. ‘It’s almost as though he embodies all the hopes of the High Kingdom in these troubled times.’

Young and handsome, charismatic, Alderan of Langre enjoyed the favour of the people who willingly forgave him his old escapades. Youth must have its way. And besides, wasn’t he already settling down? Hadn’t he visited all of the Imelorian kingdoms as an ordinary gentleman, in order to deepen his knowledge of the world? And undergone a retreat in a monastery for more than two years? It was said that he was generous, attentive and brave.

‘Some parties are starting to dream that he will inherit the throne upon the death of the High King,’ the white priest said.

‘That sounds a bit hasty,’ said Lorn. ‘Has Yrdel renounced the throne too?’

Alderan was not the only prince of the High Kingdom. He had two older brothers: Jall and Yrdel. And while Jall had abandoned his claim on the crown by joining the Church, Yrdel remained the firstborn and, by right, the heir to the Onyx Throne.

‘As far as I know, Yrdel is very much alive, isn’t he?’ insisted Lorn.

Father Domnis shrugged.

‘I don’t get mixed up in politics, my son. But the High Kingdom is divided and under threat. The people are worried. They dream of a great king and fear that Yrdel will not fill the role.’

Lorn remained silent.

He recalled what Alan had confided to him earlier in the day. His worry that a war would break out in the High Kingdom upon the king’s death and that he would have to fight to ‘defend the throne’. But take up arms against whom? And to defend whose throne?

His own, or Yrdel’s?

Lorn reproached himself for imagining his friend to be a usurper. Such a suspicion would never had occurred to him previously. But did that mean he was wrong?

Calm and self-assured, the prince acknowledged the homage he had just received. He addressed a few words to the crowd from the tribune, following which he waved while the people cheered, and then he climbed into the saddle in order to take the head of the long and superb procession awaiting him.

Lorn raised his eyes towards a dazzling sun.

He was now free and the world seemed infinite to him; full of danger and uncertainty.

9

‘The festivities in honour of the prince lasted an entire day. When evening came, a ball was held in the governor’s palace, while banquets were thrown for the population in the neighbourhoods, streets, courtyards and gardens of the brightly lit city of Samarande.’

Chronicles (The Book of the Three Princes’ War)

An hour before the ball, Alan returned to the apartment assigned to him within the governor’s palace. There he found Lorn and only took the time to hang up his sword before falling into an armchair, his feet crossed upon a low table.

Lorn had spent the afternoon indoors, in the shade of the louvered shutters, away from a radiant sun he was no longer used to. At Dalroth, he had sometimes been permitted to leave his hellhole down in the cells to spend a few hours alone in one or another of the fortress’s small, damp, enclosed courtyards. But the sky was rarely clear and it was usually raining or drizzling – the light of a tomb.

Alan heaved a long sigh as he stretched out.

‘Look like hard work being a blood prince,’ remarked Lorn.

Although the gibe was mild, his tone was not mild at all. Alan pulled a face and wondered how much bitterness and reproach really lay in Lorn’s words. After all, if one of them had good reason to complain about his fate …

The prince chose not to comment.

‘I can’t bear it any more,’ he said. ‘And I have less than an hour to prepare for the ball.’

Standing, he went to serve himself a glass of wine and drained it in a single gulp. Lorn noticed the shimmering golden streaks that betrayed the presence of kesh in the dark wine.

The prince poured himself a second glass.

‘I’m exhausted,’ he declared in a weary, distracted tone.

‘This ball is held in your honour,’ Lorn said. ‘I doubt they’ll start without you. Or that anyone will remonstrate with you if you arrive late—’

‘No, you misunderstand me.’

Lorn frowned and waited.

‘I’m tired, Lorn. Really tired …’ The prince began to slowly pace up and down the room. ‘Tired of the honours and salvos and trumpets. Tired of putting myself on show. If you only knew how I missed the days of our youth. When I was simply the king’s third son, the unruly young one who no one knew what to do with.’ He halted and turned towards Lorn. ‘We were happy back then, weren’t we?’

Lorn gave a faint wistful smile, thinking of the carefree days evoked by the prince. The memories of wild horseback rides, laughter, games, wine and tumbling wenches rose to mind.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘We were.’

Alan’s gaze was already fixed on a less distant and much less pleasant horizon.

‘Now, he continued with a serious air, ‘the whole kingdom thinks my father has abandoned them. Or that he is mad, or dead, or might as well be. And my mother is more hated than ever. As for Yrdel …’ He shrugged. ‘Well, you know him: Yrdel is what he is. He will make a good king but he will never be loved by his subjects. But the people love me. They cheer me. They organise feasts for me. They believe in me. Why? It’s a mystery. Perhaps because I am the last one they should believe in, but there it is.’ He snickered bitterly. ‘So this is how my mother and her minister employ me. For no purpose but to be cheered and feted …’

Lorn had just realised how Alan’s popularity could be a political weapon. It was hardly surprising that others had already sought to make use of it, for better or worse as far as the High Kingdom was concerned. That afternoon, talking with Father Domnis, he had learned that the High Kingdom was preparing to sell Angborn to Yrgaard. The news had shocked and appalled him. But it was clear how Prince Alderan’s visit to Samarande would reassure the other Free Cities.

‘They did not want me to go and fetch you at Dalroth,’ Alan was saying.

‘They?’

‘My mother and Esteveris. On the grounds that I was needlessly exposing myself to the dangers of the Sea of Shadows, when I should be attending to the affairs of the High Kingdom. They were furious that I cancelled a state visit at the last minute …’

Lorn had never met Esteveris but he knew where he stood with Queen Celyane. She did not and never had liked him, no doubt due to his influence over her son. That influence could only be harmful since he had often, deliberately or not, encouraged Alan to free himself from his mother’s tutelage.

‘But Esteveris is an old fox,’ the prince continued. ‘It didn’t take him long to arrange matters more to his liking. The news of my courage has already spread far and wide throughout the High Kingdom: I did not hesitate for an instant to confront the dangers of Dalroth, flying to the aid of a friend, unjustly condemned. Apparently it’s even thanks to me that your name was cleared.’ Disgusted, he shook his head gently. ‘And that’s how history is rewritten …’

Alan fell silent.

He was sincerely sorry about the turn taken by events.

‘I have not done this to further my glory or to serve Esteveris’s plans,’ he said. ‘And certainly not to be greeted as a hero, when the High Kingdom should be bestowing honours on you.’

Lorn was surprised by the prince’s candour and did not know what to say. But when he saw Alan drinking a second glass of wine laced with kesh, he blurted out:

‘You should perhaps go easier with that, no?’

It was not truly a question, or even advice, but a plain observation.

The prince did not immediately understand.

Then, looking at his empty glass, he said:

‘Oh, that?’ He set the glass down. ‘Don’t worry, the kesh is merely there to give it colour …’

Kesh could be a formidable drug. It was an effective remedy for pain, but in strong doses caused a slow physical and psychological deterioration that often proved fatal. Alan had almost become one of its victims. Following relapse after relapse, he had fled, leaving all behind, and would have been dead in some sordid smoking den if not for Lorn. His recovery had been long and difficult. Rather than journeying to the other Imelorian kingdom or going on a religious retreat, he had undergone a painful cure in an isolated monastery, in the care of Father Domnis. And in deepest secrecy.

Lorn merely looked at him without saying anything and the prince displayed a wide but somewhat nervous grin.

‘It’s true! Don’t you worry about me. I’m cured.’ And he felt obliged to insist further. ‘I swear to you! I am cured. But try some of this wine, if you don’t believe me. You’ll see it’s harmless. Wine fit for a maiden …’

Lorn didn’t know whether to believe his friend or not.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’m glad to hear that the whole sorry episode is behind you.’

Alan clapped a friendly hand on his shoulder.

‘I’m fine, Lorn. Of the two of us, I’m not the one you should worry about. Look after yourself instead, will you?’

Lorn nodded.

‘Perfect!’ exclaimed the prince with renewed enthusiasm. ‘Now I need to get ready … Are you coming?’

‘I don’t think so, no.’

‘Are you sure? Think it over.’ Alan was already halfway to the door. ‘We’ll discuss it again in a little while, all right?’

Lorn didn’t reply.

Leaning out at the balcony, Lorn listened to the noise and the laughter coming from the ball arranged by the governor in the prince’s honour. All of the members of the city’s high society had been invited. Once he was ready, Alan had again tried to persuade him to come along.

‘It will do you good, Lorn. Who needs to have some fun more than you? To drink and to dance? And perhaps court a beautiful lady or two?’

But Lorn had refused. He was in no mood to meet strangers and endure their gazes. Already, aboard the ship, he had noticed how the crew avoided him and talked behind his back. He was returning from Dalroth, and the reasons why he had been sent there mattered little. Innocent or not, he had spent nearly three years locked up in the fortress. Innocent or not, he bore the mark of the Dark.

Remembering Father Domnis’s advice, Alan had not insisted further.

‘I would stay here with you, but—’

‘I don’t need you to hold my hand. Go and be a good prince.’

‘If you change your mind—’

‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Alan.’

‘And if you need anything at all, Odric is at your service.’

‘Until tomorrow.’

Alan got the message and gave him an embarrassed smile.

‘Right. Good … Until tomorrow.’

The apartment assigned to the prince looked out over the gardens of the governor’s palace and provided a magnificent view of the city and its port below. Night had just fallen. Illuminated by the vast grey and white Nebula, the splendid starry sky was reflected in the black waters of the Eirdre. The scent of flowers and trees lining the paths filled the air.

As did the noise from the party rising up to the balcony from the open windows of the large salons downstairs. People were chatting and laughing. Glasses clinked. The orchestra was playing a lively reel, marked by the pounding of the dancers’ heels on the parquet floor.

Lorn regretted not having gone with Alan.

It had been a long time since there had been any gaiety in his life. A long time since he had been joyful and carefree. Why should he deprive himself now, after three years? He only had to descend a few steps. Did he want to live like a hermit for the rest of his life? Sooner or later, he would have to face the world around him. He’d known tougher challenges and yet he hesitated, as one hesitates to love again after a heartbreak …

The night being exceptionally fine, the party left the salons and the orchestra moved out onto the terrace. More tables were set up outside. Torches were lit. And an entire dancing parade of dresses soon brightened the gardens.

‘Odric!’ Lorn called out over his shoulder.

The old servant appeared promptly.

‘My lord?’

‘Is there an outfit in the prince’s wardrobe that might fit me?’

Lorn appeared on the terrace wearing black leather and grey linen. Elegant but lacking confidence, he attracted little attention. Those present chattered and laughed without taking any interest in him. Their glances slid over him with indifference. Two lightly tipsy girls, laughing together, bumped into him. They barely noticed him and did not apologise.

Lorn was rooted in place for a moment, unsure what to do. He had the strange sensation of being lost on the stage of a theatre. He was thinking of returning the way he came when Alan spotted him and, stopping mid-sentence, immediately came over with a wide grin.

They exchanged a manly embrace.

‘I know that doublet,’ jested the prince.

‘Yes, Odric—’

‘Keep it. It suits you better than me.’

Lorn nodded.

‘I’m so glad you changed your mind,’ he said as he took his friend by the elbow.

He turned towards the people he had abandoned. They were waiting, looking intrigued. Lorn met their gazes, noticing an attractive young woman in the group as well as a man with a severe-looking face and hair plastered back, who was staring at him.

‘Who’s that grim fellow?’

‘The ambassador of Angborn. A Yrgaardian by origin. He’s delighted with the idea that his city will soon be under the Black Dragon’s authority once more. She’s such a pleasant being, after all …’

Since the Shadows, a Divine Dragon ruled over Yrgaard. A formidable and feared creature, intelligent but cruel, the Black Dragon nurtured an implacable hatred for the High Kingdom.

‘Come,’ added Alan, ‘I’ll introduce you.’

But Lorn refused.

‘Actually,’ he said in the prince’s ear, ‘if you don’t mind, I would rather …’

People were starting to dart glances in their direction, wondering who this man was the prince treated with such familiarity. He must be the friend Alderan had brought back from an expedition to the Sea of Shadows. They spoke in low murmurs, heads tilted together, pretending to look elsewhere.

‘He’s said to have spent five years at Dalroth for a crime he did not commit.’

‘Five years? I thought it was three.’

‘But what was he accused of?’

‘Who knows? Both trials were held behind closed doors.’

‘To deserve Dalroth, it must have been something terrible …’

Ill at ease, Lorn rubbed the back of his left hand through the thin leather band that wrapped it. Alan guessed how he was feeling and immediately blamed himself for his lack of foresight.

‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘Besides, I’m getting bored … Let’s go and have a glass of wine somewhere else. The governor has imported an Algueran wine at great cost. It’s no match for our Langrian vintages, but it’s not too bad …’

Lorn followed Alan towards the buffet tables set up on the terrace. The prince purloined a bottle and two glasses, and they took a few steps out into the gardens. All those whose paths they crossed watched as they walked as far as a balustrade where they could look out over a harmonious perspective of flowerbeds and paths. There Alan filled the two glasses with a slightly unsteady hand. Lorn deduced that his friend had been drinking, but kept silent.

‘I … I’m sorry,’ said the prince, staring at a spot on the ground.

‘Sorry?’

The prince tried to choose his words carefully.

‘Yes, I … I realise that I’ve been tactless …’

Alan was standing with one shoulder hunched, as he always did when he was sincerely, deeply embarrassed. It did not happen often and one needed to know Alan as well as Lorn did to interpret this gesture. Prince Alderan had a calm, sunny personality, full of self-confidence, for whom dealings with others always seemed easy.

‘I don’t know how to go about this the right way,’ the prince was saying. ‘Yet I would like to help you, Lorn. I would truly like to help you.’

Lorn kept silent.

Alan had realised that he wanted the old Lorn back, as he was before. The prince had expected to find Lorn exhausted, to be sure. And bruised. Perhaps even diminished. He knew his friend had emerged from a terrible ordeal at Dalroth; but he wanted him to still be Lorn. Even though the road might be long and recovery difficult, he wished for Lorn to remain the person that he, Alan, had always known and cherished. The person he missed. And the one he wanted with all his might to find again. He’d been motivated by a sincere solicitude and affection, but also – he understood now – by a streak of selfishness and perhaps even capriciousness.