The Knight: A Tale from the High Kingdom (15 page)

25

Lorn was ready when they came to fetch him. He was waiting in the castle’s hall, indifferent to the portraits of Langre’s kings that adorned the walls. He was anxious. He had no idea what Erklant II wanted from him and only knew what the Emissary had told him: he had an extraordinary destiny before him and it started here, in the Citadel, in the form of an audience with a dying High King.

He was granted entry to the throne room.

It was long and high-ceilinged, punctuated by columns and plunged into darkness. Its narrow arched windows were all hidden behind thick black curtains. Large candelabra were positioned at regular intervals from the door, but the flickering flames of their candles permitted one to see only dimly.

Lorn advanced towards the throne set upon a dais, at the end of a long crimson carpet which muffled the sound of his footsteps. The silence was profound, but there was a sense of a vibrant presence beneath the stone arches. Lorn had indeed the feeling that he was walking towards his destiny. He held himself straight and tried to remain calm, his fist gripping the hilt of the Skandish sword which hung at his side.

The old King Erklant II waited unmoving on his throne of ebony and onyx. He was booted and wore grey chain mail and black leather. A dark veil, held in place by his crown, concealed his face. His right hand rested on the pommel of his sheathed sword as if it were a cane.

Lorn bowed when he reached the foot of the dais covered in a black-and-silver carpet. The platform was overlooked by a large skull that seemed to be made of polished stone: that of Serk’Arn, the Dragon of Destruction slain by Erklant I at the end of the Shadows.

‘Come. Approach so I can see you better,’ said the High King in a hoarse voice.

Lorn climbed the steps to kiss the signet ring on the hand the king held out to him – a dry, bony hand. Then, backing away, Lorn returned to his place at the foot of the dais and knelt, his head bowed in a sign of respect and obedience.

‘Rise, Lorn. Rise,’ said Erklant, accompanying his words with a wave of his hand.

Lorn stood up to let the king observe him. He then noticed Norfold standing in the shadows two paces from the throne, never taking his eyes from the knight.

‘Your eye,’ said the High King after a moment. ‘The right one. It’s … It’s changed, hasn’t it?’

Lorn had not donned his dark glasses to appear before his king. Besides, they would have been useless in the dim light.

‘Yes, sire.’

‘The Dark?’

Lorn nodded.

‘Show me your hand,’ said the High King.

When Lorn hesitated, he insisted:

‘Show me.’

Lorn slowly undid the leather strap wrapped around his left hand. Then he set one foot on the dais and leaned forward, his arm outstretched, so that the High King could see the stone seal embedded in his skin. The old king took his hand and examined the mark of Dalroth carefully.

‘Does it hurt?’ he asked.

‘Sometimes.’

With slow, delicate gestures, those of a fragile old man, the king yielded Lorn’s hand.

Then he sat up and asked:

‘We have done you a grievous wrong, haven’t we?’

As Lorn remained silent, the old king repeated as if to himself:

‘Yes. A grievous wrong …’

He remained pensive for a moment, before declaring:

‘I’m glad to see you again, son.’

Son.

The High King had always called him ‘son’ out of affection. To be sure, he had other godsons besides Lorn because he never refused that honour to the elder sons of his lords and knights. But in Lorn’s case, the bond had been truly special. Lorn knew the king loved him like a father. He had never doubted that, at least, not until his trial and his sentence. Erklant had done nothing to save him, or even to defend him. He had not spared Lorn from Dalroth. He’d abandoned him.

For Lorn, the wound had been deep and it remained so.

‘You … You did nothing,’ he said, in a voice that quavered with emotion. ‘You could have … One word from you and … and …’

He was unable to complete his sentence, feeling his guts tighten in anguish.

The High King did not reply, but his gleaming eyes continued to scrutinise Lorn from behind the black veil that hid his gaunt face.

After which, he nodded gravely.

‘Help me,’ he said.

He tried to stand, holding on to his throne with one hand and leaning on his sword with the other. Surprised, Lorn hesitated as Norfold came hurrying forward and assisted the High King to his feet.

‘Thank you, Norfold,’ said Erklant after catching his breath. ‘But I believe … I believe Lorn is strong enough to lend me his arm.’

The captain understood and regretfully entrusted the king to Lorn. Taken aback, the latter had no choice and found himself supporting an old man who seemed fragile. He thought that it would take almost nothing for Erklant to break his neck and, meeting Norfold’s gaze, read the terrible warning there.

‘That way,’ said the High King, indicating the tall black curtains.

There was a balcony behind them.

Lorn helped the king pass through them, and then accompanied him to the balustrade. From here, one had a view of the entire valley. Dusk was falling. The cold shadows of the mountains stretched out, wide and unruffled. Pent up between its cliffs, the Citadel was already plunged into night.

The king held onto the railing, but Lorn sensed his legs were weak and did not release his elbow.

‘At present,’ said Erklant, after taking in the scenery, ‘this is my entire kingdom …’

‘Sire, you are still the High King.’

‘I wear his crown, yes,’ retorted the old king with immense weariness. ‘But it’s too heavy … I no longer have the strength to reign, to govern. My kingdom is ailing because of it. I have neglected it too long, Lorn. Far too long. And because of me, it is dying. As I am …’

Tired, he turned and, with a long wrinkled finger, pointed to an armchair on the balcony. Lorn eased him into it and, acting the role of a nurse, arranged the cushions as best he could.

Once he was seated comfortably, the High King heaved a profound sigh of relief.

‘That’s better,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’

Then he hunted around for something, seemed irritated and, as Lorn remained standing, called out:

‘Have a chair brought out here for the knight!’

‘No, sire. I assure you that—’

‘A chair for the knight!’

Someone hurried to bring a stool to Norfold, who had stayed back, standing at the threshold of the balcony. The captain left it beside the king’s chair and withdrew.

‘Sit down,’ said the king. Lorn obeyed. ‘Closer, closer …’

Lorn drew the stool near enough so that the High King, leaning to one side, could speak in his ear. Erklant’s breath was acrid and he wheezed whenever he took a breath.

‘I could do nothing, you know that?’ he confided. ‘If I had intervened, interceded in your favour … I would have been accused of supplanting my own justice. Because you are my godson. And Alan’s friend … Do you understand?’

No, Lorn did not understand.

For what the High King had refused to do back then in the name of his integrity, he had finally done three years later. Out of remorse or sense of duty. Or more likely still, at the behest of the Assembly of Ir’kans.

‘And secrecy had to be maintained,’ added the king. ‘Secrecy as to the accusations brought against you and secrecy regarding your trial. All that to preserve another secret. A bigger secret. The secret of those damned negotiations with Yrgaard.’ The king’s eyes blazed behind the veil. ‘With Yrgaard … Yrgaard! How did I let myself be persuaded that a rapprochement with Yrgaard was not only possible, but desirable? How?’

The king interrupted himself and, with a resigned air, recovered his composure.

‘If I had defended you, it would have been a scandal,’ he said. ‘Word would have leaked out about how and why you were accused. And of what. Our … Our allies would have learned about our discussions with Yrgaard. Learned what we were preparing to do. Betraying our alliances. Reneging on our treaties. There … There would have been crises. Wars, perhaps …’ He grew as heated as his meagre strength allowed. ‘And the evidence, Lorn! The evidence against you! It … It left no room for doubt! I could not believe you were guilty, not you, who I loved like a son. But you were, Lorn! You were!’

He fell silent and between his bony fingers took the hand Lorn had placed upon the armrest of his seat.

‘Forgive me,’ begged the old king in a broken voice. ‘Forgive me …’

Distraught, furious, Lorn did not know what to say or do.

As if caught in a shameful act, he glanced surreptitiously at Norfold, who remained expressionless but stood ready to intervene. He felt a desire to withdraw his hand, but King Erklant clung to it with the small tenacity that remained to him.

He hesitated.

And felt rising within him an emotion he was slow to recognise and which overwhelmed him …

Revolt.

No longer able to bear it, he stood up abruptly and drew back his hand as though the king’s had suddenly become burning hot.

‘No!’ he exclaimed.

The High King instinctively cringed.

Norfold leapt forward, his hand on his sword and a few inches of steel already emerging from the scabbard as Lorn turned round and, shaking, leaned on the railing.

The old king halted his captain with a gesture and kept one arm stretched towards him in order to keep him back.

He waited.

Lorn got a hold on himself, still quivering with anger but his breathing easier. His eyes remained stormy, however. In the distance, the sky grew overcast just as night was falling and the thick clouds concealed the Nebula from view.

‘It was the Assembly of Ir’kans who told me you were innocent, Lorn,’ said the old king in a voice filled with emotion. ‘I swear to you I did not know …’

Lorn did not react.

‘The Guardians also said you have a destiny, and that destiny needs to be fulfilled.’

Realising the danger had been averted, Norfold relaxed and resheathed his sword, but did not step back.

‘They also told me who you were,’ added the High King.

That caused Lorn to raise an eyebrow.

‘Who I was?’

‘Who you are,’ Erklant rectified. ‘Who you have always been.’

Lorn recalled what the Emissary had confided to him in an offhand manner: ‘We told him who you are.’

‘Sire, I don’t understand.’

The old king stood, brusquely refusing Norfold’s help, and slowly, painfully, made the effort to walk over to Lorn.

‘If the Guardians are right, you are more than you believe, Lorn. But sometimes, the Guardians are mistaken. Or they dissemble because they deem it necessary for the will of the Grey Dragon to be fulfilled … But if they are telling the truth, then you may well be the High Kingdom’s last hope.’

No longer knowing what to think, Lorn could not help giving a cynical smile.

‘The last hope,’ he said mockingly. ‘Me!’

And with the slowness of an anger he found difficult to contain, he turned towards the old king and raised his left fist to show him the Dark’s mark on the back of his hand.

‘Me?’ he repeated in an almost menacing tone.

None of this made any sense.

A fat white drop exploded on the armrest of the king’s seat. Others followed and spattered on the balcony’s flagstones, its balustrade and the rooftops nearby.

The High King raised his eyes towards the sky and smiled resignedly.

Lorn knew the white rains were said to be sent to the High Kingdom by Eyral, the White Dragon. In the draconic pantheon, he was the Dragon of Knowledge and Light. Bearing a pale ash that became dust as it dried, these rains were often an evil omen, warnings sent to the High King by Eyral from the Sacred Mountain.

‘Let’s go in,’ said Erklant. ‘I’m very tired.’

Lorn remained out in the rain.

‘Tomorrow, I will pay my respects at the tomb of Erklant the Ancient,’ said the old king as Norfold escorted him inside. ‘Accompany me, Lorn. That’s all I ask of you. Accompany me tomorrow …’

And he added:

‘After that, you shall do as you like.’

26

Lorn again dined alone in his room, with Hurst standing guard at the door. He had barely any appetite and soon pushed his plate away, pensively stroking the ginger cat which had jumped into his lap. Added to the drumming of the rain upon the roofs, the cat’s purring soothed him and helped him stem the tumultuous flow of thoughts, fears and questions.

The rain ceased, leaving pale white drip marks on the grey stones. Night was falling and the Citadel seemed deserted. Abandoned. Not a movement. Not a sound except that of the drops falling from the roofs into large white puddles.

A tomb.

At his window, Lorn recalled when the Citadel, albeit as austere as ever, had been a fortress full of life. It had always enjoyed the High King’s preference. But it was isolated and not easily accessible, uncomfortable and inconvenient. It did not lend itself well to the exercise of power, to the point that Erklant II had resigned himself to residing there only during the hottest month of summer, when the heat was unbearable at Oriale, in the heart of Langre. It was the month when Alan and Lorn stayed with the High King before returning for the remainder of the year to the duke of Sarme and Vallence, who had been entrusted with the prince’s education.

Lorn could not help from smiling at the memory of the happy days he and Alan had known in the shadow of these walls, which, back then, had not seemed so sinister to him. It was before the Citadel had become the final resting place of a very old king grown lonely and ill, awaiting death surrounded only by his personal guard and observing the decline of his kingdom from his now tottering ebony-and-onyx throne.

Lorn realised he would be unable to sleep.

Under the cat’s watchful eye, he donned his baldrick and a hooded cloak before straddling the window sill. He knew the Citadel’s rooftops by heart, having run over them all night long with Alan each summer when they were younger. For the thrill, for the pleasure of discovery and of transgressing the rules. But also to elude the vigilance of their guardians.

Just like today
, Lorn said to himself, thinking of Hurst.

Nothing and no one could forbid him from going where he liked, but he wanted to go there on his own.

From rooftop to rooftop, taking care not to be seen by the sentries, Lorn left the Guards’ district where he was lodged. Then, fearing he might slip on the damp tiles or take a bad fall in the darkness that had settled upon the fortress, he descended to the paved streets and made his way to the Weapons district.

The Citadel was divided into districts, which usually consisted of a courtyard and a few buildings. They were separated from one another by wall walks, watchtowers and crenellated ramparts, forming a mosaic. The King’s district was the largest and best defended of them. Partly dug into the cliff, it overlooked all the others. But there was also the Stables district, the Arsenal district, the Ambassadors’ district, the Temples district, the Schools district, the Hospital district and several others, modest or glorious, sometimes forgotten, making it almost impossible to count them all.

The portcullis of the Weapons district was raised.

The place seemed empty. The courtyard was deserted and the buildings around it were plunged into darkness.

Not a sound.

Lorn felt a lump in his throat.

Traditionally, the Weapons district was where the royal master-of-arms and the royal blacksmith lived. The first trained and instructed the High King, while the second forged weapons and armour for him. Each, in his fashion, was entrusted with the king’s life. It was a prestigious but heavy responsibility, and one had to prove oneself worthy of it.

Lorn’s father had been Erklant II’s master-of-arms. He had accompanied the High King on all the fields of battle, and once the time of wars had passed, remained at his side. Lorn had spent the first years of life here; been raised here by his mother and father; returned here each summer during his adolescence. It was here that he’d been trained in the harsh crafts of weaponry by his father, sweating blood alongside Alan, but never giving up despite fatigue or wounds.

Lastly, it was here that he had loved for the first time.

Her name was Naéris. She was the only, adored daughter of Reik Vahrd, the royal blacksmith. A true tomboy, she had shared in Lorn and Alan’s games when they were children. When she became a winsome adolescent, both boys became besotted with her. Later, she would fall in love with Lorn, but he was looking elsewhere. But that particular summer, she preferred Alan, who was already adept at courting females. Over the years, Lorn became used to this state of affairs. Alan was silver-tongued, attractive, elegant and full of energy. There was something radiant about him. He enchanted people. And the same qualities that made the crowds adore him also meant that sooner or later women ended up in his arms. No one resisted him for long.

Alissia had been the only exception.

Lorn remained silent for a moment in front of his childhood home. In his eyes, it was his father’s above all – the place where the master-of-arms, following the death of his wife, had grown old on his own until his death.

The shutters were closed.

Lorn tried to open the door. It was locked but wobbled on its hinges. Shoving against it with his shoulder, he forced it without too much trouble and let it swing open before him with a creak.

He hesitated for a moment on the threshold, an odour of mustiness and old dust filling his nostrils.

Then he went inside.

He could barely see in the darkness. However, the place was familiar to him and nothing seemed to have moved since …

Since as long as he could remember.

Or at least since the last visit he’d paid his father, upon his return from Sarme and Vallence where he’d gone searching for Alan. Of course, he’d been unable to say anything about his mission, or about the hold that kesh had taken over a prince of the High Kingdom. Even to his father. Even to the royal master-of-arms.

Two days later, Norfold had demanded his sword and placed him under arrest.

‘Who are you?’ asked a voice at Lorn’s back. ‘And what are you doing here?’

Lorn turned round and was immediately dazzled by the light from a dark lantern. He raised his hand to protect his eyes and averted his head, while trying to catch a sideways glimpse of the other person.

‘I warn you that if I call the Guard, it will be to collect your corpse!’ threatened the young woman who stood in the doorway. ‘So answer me!’

Wearing boots, breeches, shirt and doublet, she brandished her lantern in her left hand and held a sword in her right.

‘Naé?’ exclaimed Lorn. ‘Naé, is it you?’

The young woman hesitated.

‘L … Lorn?’

She raised her lantern, which illuminated her face while ceasing to blind Lorn with its glare. He had no difficulty recognised her large dark eyes and wilful air, the tender gleam in her glance and her left cheek marred by a nasty scar.

Naéris.

‘It’s me, Naé.’

‘Lorn!’

She let go of both sword and lantern to throw herself into his arms and hug him tightly for a long moment, her slender, firm body pressed against him disconcertingly. He didn’t know what to do with his hands, but finally put them round her.

Moved, the young woman struggled to find her words.

‘It’s … It’s you, it’s really you … I … I thought …’

‘I was freed, Naé. Declared innocent …’

‘But how?’ she asked, taking a step back to look at his face; ‘We didn’t even know if you were …’

She smiled, tears in her eyes.

‘I was recalled by the High King,’ said Lorn. ‘I—’

Naéris interrupted him.

‘No, not here. Come,’ she said, pulling him by the hand. ‘You’re going to tell us everything. Papa will be so glad to—’

She fell silent, suddenly grave.

‘What’s the matter?’ asked Lorn anxiously.

‘I … I’m sorry, Lorn … About your father.’

‘Thank you, Naé.’

‘It was Papa who found him, did you know? One morning. It … It was already too late …’

Naéris’s eyes grew misty again, and these tears were no longer ones of joy.

‘Go on, lad. Have another glass.’

Lorn had lost count, but did not have the heart to refuse. Besides, Reik Vahrd had started pouring without waiting for his assent and, seeing the bottle empty, turned towards his daughter.

‘Bring us another, Naé.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course I’m sure!’

‘Don’t you think you’ve drunk enough?’

The old blacksmith considered his daughter with a muddled gaze.

‘You know that you’re still young enough to get a spanking?’

‘No I’m not, and I haven’t been for some time. Furthermore, it would be the first you’ve ever given me.’

Shrugging, Reik leaned across the table to confide to Lorn:

‘I think I botched my daughter’s education …’

Lorn smiled and pushed his full glass towards Reik.

‘She’s your greatest success.’

‘If you say so,’ replied the blacksmith with a doubtful expression … before winking at his daughter seated at the end of the table, slightly apart from the two men.

With age, Reik’s blond hair, gathered in a ponytail, had become mixed with silver, but he was still as tall and massively built as ever. His rolled-up sleeves revealed some of the blue tattoos that covered his arms, chest and back. Skandish tattoos, similar to the ones Lorn’s mother had borne. Magical, they turned red and changed shape whenever the person they protected was swept up by a warrior’s fury. Reik was both Skandish and a blacksmith so he knew how to work arcanium, allowing him to forge extraordinary weapons and armour.

‘He fought to the very end, you know?’ Reik said suddenly. ‘Your father. He never believed the accusations against you. And when you were sentenced, he tried everything in his power to … But what could he do? Everyone turned their back on him. Even the High King, don’t you see?’

He grumbled.

‘Everyone, except you two,’ objected Lorn.

The blacksmith exchanged a glance with his daughter and smiled at him.

‘Yep. Except us,’ he conceded bitterly. ‘For what good it did … I should have liked to have done more for you, lad.’

Lorn nodded.

‘I know.’

He knew that Reik was sincere. He was Skandish like his mother and in many ways Lorn had been the son he’d never had. His wife had died giving birth and he had never remarried. He adored his daughter, but she wasn’t a son.

‘Your father swore he would have your name cleared,’ resumed the old blacksmith glaring into empty space. ‘That he would obtain a second trial … He raged about it. He couldn’t sleep. He knocked at every door. Every single one. In vain, and it wore him down. He found himself alone and exhausted, with neither friends nor money. But he never gave up …’ Reik heaved a sigh. ‘And then one morning, since he hadn’t opened his shutters, I went to see him. The door was open. He was sitting there in his armchair, in front of the fireplace. Dead.’

Lorn was suddenly cold and felt his hands tremble. His mouth turned dry and a weight crushed his chest. At first, he thought another fit might be coming on. But it had nothing to do with the Dark. It was the anger and pain that invaded him like a burning poison running through his veins.

Staring into space, he had trouble holding back his tears.

‘Where is he buried?’ he asked after a moment.

‘Here,’ replied Naéris. ‘In the small cemetery within the Weapons district.’

‘What?’ protested Lorn. ‘Not the one in the King’s district?’

‘No,’ said Reik. ‘No.’

He drained Lorn’s glass in a single gulp and stood up with less difficulty than one might have imagined, saying:

‘Wait. Don’t move.’

He stomped out of the kitchen where they had gathered, at the back of a large house that was now almost empty. He left the door ajar and vanished into the backyard.

‘Where is he going?’

Naéris slid along the bench to sit closer to him. She emptied half of her glass into Lorn’s and they each drank a mouthful of wine before she replied.

‘His place.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘He sleeps above his forge,’ she explained.

‘And you?’

‘Here. But in the attic.’

‘Why?’

The young woman looked Lorn straight in the eye.

‘Papa is no longer the royal blacksmith, Lorn. We’ve lost almost everything. And no one is willing to open their door to us … We shouldn’t even be here any more but Papa won’t leave the Citadel. So we’re practically hiding out. Never knowing if someone will come to expel us tomorrow.’

‘And the forge?’

‘Extinguished,’ Naéris said it as if she were announcing a death.

Reik Vahrd was no ordinary blacksmith.

He knew the secrets of Skandish warsmiths and how to work arcanium and steel to make the best weapons and armour anywhere. On becoming the royal blacksmith, he had sworn an oath forbidding him to forge for anyone other than the High King.

Lorn looked at the empty bottles upon the table and understood why Reik did not fear losing his touch by drinking more than was reasonable.

‘All this happened because you supported my father, didn’t it?’

‘Yes. But don’t say anything to Papa,’ Naéris hastened to add on hearing her father returning. ‘You know how proud he is. He—’

Reik entered, coming to sit back down and placing on the table, before Lorn, a sword in its scabbard.

‘Here,’ he said. ‘It’s yours.’

He took the sword, which he had recognised, and could not resist unsheathing it with a smile.

There was no possible doubt.

This sword was his, the one Norfold had demanded from him when he placed him under arrest. It had been given to him by his mother, who, like all Skandish women, had been a warrior. The sword was also Skandish, and excellently made: its blade was wide and heavy, sharp-edged on one side, and its basket guard enveloped his hand. A formidable weapon, but one that required skill to wield.

‘In the end, that’s all your father had left,’ the old blacksmith explained. ‘I do not know how he managed to obtain it.’