The Knight: A Tale from the High Kingdom (16 page)

‘Thank you,’ said Lorn in a choked voice. ‘Thank you.’

Later, after taking his leave of Reik and his daughter, Lorn found Hurst waiting for him at the gate to the Weapons quarter.

‘How did you know where to find me?’ he asked, as the Grey Guard fell into step with him.

‘Your windows are guarded.’

‘So you followed me and you’ve been watching me from the start.’

‘I’m protecting you. But yes, from the start.’

‘Why reveal your presence only now?’

‘I thought you wanted to be alone.’

Lorn smiled.

‘You follow a strange logic, Hurst.’

‘No, my lord. I obey orders.’

‘Did you know the High King’s former blacksmith still lives here?’

‘Yes. With his daughter. Everyone knows that. Or almost everyone.’

Lorn nodded thoughtfully.

He had already resolved to take revenge against those who had betrayed him.

To that list, he was going to add those who had abandoned his family and friends.

27

‘Because he wanted rest for eternity in the place where he had first known glory, where he had faced and vanquished the dragon.’

Chronicles (The Book of Kings)

The valley was covered with a veil of pale ash when they left the City and followed a steep track until they reached a pass defended by an imposing fortified gate, a vestige of the Last Shadows.

Norfold led the troop, followed by six horsemen carrying grey banners, some of which depicted, in black thread, the five crowns of the High Kingdom, while others had the wolf’s head which was the king’s personal emblem. Lorn and the High King advanced behind them. Twenty riders brought up the rear, wearing helmets, dark leather and mail, their swords at their side and their shields hung on the rumps of their mounts.

Topped by his crown, the High King’s face was concealed by an ebony mask encrusted with silver. He had donned a long cloak and thick gloves, so that not an inch of his wrinkled skin was exposed to the sun. Lorn was astonished to see him thus, but even more so to see him riding in the saddle, helped only by a squire. The knight had directed a questioning glance at Norfold, who remained expressionless.

‘Let’s be on our way,’ the king had said in his hoarse voice, before spurring his mount forward.

After three hours, they arrived in a valley through which a capricious wind whistled, raising whirlwinds and sheets of greyish dust which slowly unravelled in the air. A single road crossed this sinister and desolate valley. It led to the temple built on the flank of highest mountain in the Egides range, which sheltered the mausoleum of Erklant I.

They passed some pilgrims, most of them poverty-stricken, who drew apart ahead of them and doffed their hats, saluting respectfully upon seeing the colours of the High Kingdom and its ruler. The escort thundered by at a full gallop. In its dust it left behind men and women who stood gaping and incredulous, unsure if they had caught an actual glimpse of their king, watching the riders move away in a deafening din of ironclad hooves, whinnying, clanking armour and banners flapping in the wind …

Like them, the High King was going to the temple, where, forewarned of his visit, tattooed priests with shaven heads awaited him. Dressed in grey robes, they belonged to an order solely devoted to honouring the memory of the first of the High Kings, tending his tomb and praying for his soul. All had pledged an oath of silence.

The horsemen dismounted in a courtyard shielded by a high red canopy. Exhausted, the king was stricken by a malaise that obliged Lorn and Norfold to seat him on a bench. Lorn then realised the cause for his surprising vigour: his breath was laced with the heady scent of kesh.

So the High King was drugging himself.

Removing his glove, the king snapped his fingers impatiently to draw Norfold’s attention. The captain handed him a vial from which he drank a few small sips, lifting his ebony mask from below. Lorn watched a golden drop run down his king’s bony chin.

‘Sire,’ he said, ‘you shouldn’t …’

But the dying king did not want his solicitude, and dismissed it with a vague gesture. When he finally felt better, he grasped Norfold to stand up.

‘Come, son,’ he said to Lorn in a sepulchral voice. ‘We’re almost there now.’

A vertical line of light appeared in the deep darkness. It widened, becoming a slit between the two panels of an immense door as it opened.

The king entered, leaning upon Lorn, and once the door closed behind them, they walked towards the stone platform, the two facing thrones and the flaming bowls burning in the shadows before them. Lorn matched the king’s pace, supporting him without any idea what they had come here to do.

‘Where are we?’ he murmured.

The king gave no reply.

They climbed the steps of the platform, which used up the king’s remaining strength. He collapsed on the empty throne and struggled to regain his breath.

Lorn knew nothing of this place.

He was familiar with the temple, the mausoleum and the immense funerary monument to the glory of Erklant I, before which he and Alan had been required to pay their respects each year when they were children, on the anniversary of the first High King’s death. The pilgrims filed past this same monument in reverent silence, under the watchful eyes of the priests. For they believed the remains of the vanquisher of Serk’Arn lay within.

In fact, the real tomb was elsewhere, behind the colossal doors, in the dark, cold belly of the mountain. Plain but massive, it stood behind the stone throne upon which the effigy of Erklant I sat. Lorn could barely see it in the darkness, on a pedestal, the flames of the bowls reflecting on its black marble veined with arcanium, a frieze of ancient runes encircling its base.

Lorn wondered who else, besides the temple priests, was aware of this secret.

‘Here he is,’ said the old king. ‘I brought him to you.’

Lorn turned back to the High King who had removed his ebony mask and seemed to be speaking to the statue of his ancestor sitting opposite him.

‘Sire?’

But the king ignored him and added:

‘Only you can tell me if he is who the Guardians claim he is.’

‘Sire, you’re not …’

The High King then turned towards Lorn.

‘Come. Come here, next to me …’

Lorn hesitated but obeyed, standing on the king’s right.

‘Look,’ the king said, pointing in front of them.

Lorn looked in the direction indicated, towards the statue of Erklant I and the tomb in the darkness beyond.

‘We are ready,’ announced the old man, straining to raise his hoarse voice. ‘We await you! You can appear!’

Disturbed and worried, Lorn stared at the statue seated before him.

Its likeness to the current High King was stupefying, to the point that Lorn expected to see it move, shake off its mineral rigidity and come to life. It would start with a slight twitch. Perhaps a shudder that would crack the stone. Or a gleam in the depths of the eye sockets …

Suddenly, Lorn became aware of a presence in the immense shadows surrounding them. There was the heavy sound of chains being dragged. Then that of claws of steel and bone scraping rock. A movement in the air caused the fire in the bowls to flicker.

He was looking in the wrong place; the High King wasn’t speaking to the ghost of his ancestor. A cold sweat running down his spine, Lorn raised his eyes towards the tomb just in time to see a leg set down upon it.

An immense scaly leg.

That of a dragon who, coming forward, slowly poked its head out of the darkness.

‘
I am Serk’Arn
,’ said the dragon in a powerful voice that resounded in Lorn’s mind. ‘
Who are you?
’

Livid, Lorn drew his sword. A futile reflex. An inferno would swallow both him and his Skandish blade if the dragon belched fire.

‘I’m not in any danger,’ said the king, supposing that Lorn had meant to protect him. ‘Nor are you, if you are who I believe you to be. Put away your sword. It’s useless to you.’

Lorn wasn’t listening.

Torn between fascination and horror, he could not take his eyes off Serk’Arn, the Dragon of Destruction whom, according to legend, the first High King had confronted and slain. And yet the dragon was right here before him.

It had come out of the shadows and it was looking at him.

Lorn felt his heart pounding madly.

The dragons had once ruled the world. They had been divine beings before the sacrifice of the Dragon-King had hastened their decline at the end of the Shadows. When Erklant the Ancient had faced Serk’Arn, it was no longer the immortal creature of former times. And no doubt it was even less powerful now, five centuries later. But there was a furnace growling in its throat. Its claws could rip through the best armour and its scales would blunt the best steel. Its jaws were wide enough to close around a man and its fangs were sharp enough to sever him in two.

And nothing would resist its breath.

Yet, the worst thing was probably the evil aura which emanated from him, an aura that terrified Lorn and covered him in an icy sweat. Because the inferno that burned in the entrails of this monster was not of this world, but was fed by the Dark.

The Dragon of Destruction advanced its head into the light from the bowls. Its red eyes glowed like two spheres filled with incandescent metal. Crossed by ivory horns, a membranous ruff surrounded the base of its skull. It almost hid the arcanium collar which tightly encircled its neck and was attached to long, heavy chains that, dragging on the stone, shackled its chest and legs.

Erklant I had not killed Serk’Arn. He had captured and enslaved him.

‘It was subjugated by a spell to the kings of Langre and their descendants,’ said the old king as he stood. ‘Ever since, we have derived our power and our glory from it.’

Feeling stunned and disorientated, Lorn turned towards the High King, but the latter was addressing Serk’Arn:

‘So, my old friend? What is your verdict?’

The humbled dragon stirred in its chains and roared. Nevertheless, it plunged its terrible gaze into that of Lorn and probed, hunting for something …

… which it found at last.

‘
The Guardians did not lie to you
,’ it announced regretfully. ‘
I can do nothing against him.
’

The High King’s thin dry lips smiled. His pupils, reduced to little black dots, shone with hope and joy.

‘Which means,’ he said, ‘that I am going to entrust you with the destiny of my kingdom. Because I am dying. In less than a year, I will no longer be here.’

Lorn turned and raised his gaze towards the dragon’s blazing eyes. It felt as if Serk’Arn’s powers could sweep him away and annihilate him at any moment.

It was …

‘And if nothing is done, the High Kingdom will disappear with me,’ the old king was saying.

It was like facing a silent storm, an invisible hurricane.

‘I know this is a terrible thing to confess, Lorn. But I need you. The High Kingdom needs you.’

It was like being pierced by an incredible force, rising out of the entrails of the world and of time.

‘Lorn, are you listening to me?’

But Lorn did not answer.

Or rather, he did not answer the king, because he was concentrating wholly on the words he was exchanging in thought with the dragon – words that they alone could hear.

A long moment passed in silence.

II

Late Spring 1547

1

‘And so he left the Citadel and its grey stone ramparts. Except for the High King, none knew his destination. He rode the byroads, alone, with a sword at his side and a wolf’s head ring on his finger. Finally, after long days, he left the plains of Langre and climbed the first foothills of the Argor Mountains. In his sleeve he carried a letter sealed with a black wax seal.’

Chronicles (The Book of the Knight with the Sword)

‘Ma’am?’

Queen Celyane of the High Kingdom did not turn round.

She was alone, watching the rehearsal from an upper gallery, surrounded by an odour of sawdust, wood glue and fresh paint. The Palace’s grand hall had been rearranged to match the layout of another hall, two hundred and fifty leagues away, where Angborn would be ceded to Yrgaard in the course of a long ceremony. Ropes stretched between poles divided the space and marked off the places where the attendees would sit. Around them, curtains closed off certain perspectives while opening others and provided the outlines of corridors. Drawn in chalk, a central aisle led to a wide dais on which mannequins sat in armchairs imitating thrones. On either side of this aisle, workmen were building terraces of seats. The racket of their hammer blows annoyed the master of ceremonies. Aided by his assistants, he was carefully choreographing a group of servants who had been requisitioned to embody the diplomats and other dignitaries who would be attending the event from the far corners of Imelor.

‘I beg your pardon, ma’am.’

The queen still gave no reply.

It was as though a spectacle or a sumptuous theatre play was being prepared on a stage with a painted backdrop. One almost expected to see some pyrotechnical effects being tested. Yet in fact it was the signature of a historic treaty between the High Kingdom and Yrgaard that was being organised. The smallest details of the ceremony had to be meticulously worked out in accordance with the demands of protocol and etiquette. While taking into account the specific enmities and susceptibilities of each participant. One faux pas, the slightest delay or oversight, might spell disaster. The queen did not want any hitches. This treaty would mark the success of her foreign policy and would definitively impose her authority both within and without the borders of the High Kingdom. Nothing must be left to chance. Nothing must mar the day of her triumph.

Celyane stood there thinking for a moment, her eyes shining, a half-smile upon her lips. Then, growing irritated at the presence of her minister at her back, she asked:

‘What is it, Esteveris?’

The man came forward but took care to remain in the shadows behind her.

‘There is news from the Citadel, ma’am. The troop of Grey Guards heading towards Samarande did indeed have orders to escort Lorn Askarian to the fortress. Where the High King granted him a private audience.’

‘Very well. And?’

The queen made no effort to hide her boredom.

‘Who knows what the king told him?’

‘What do you mean, who knows? And here I was, thinking that you would know.’

The minister’s face clouded over. Ordinarily, he was very proud of the effectiveness of his vast network of informers, which he maintained at considerable expense.

Or at least considerable expense to the Crown …

The queen smiled.

She liked to score points over Esteveris, who she knew to be highly intelligent. Better still, she adored making him recognise his ignorance or impotence. Indeed, she took particular pleasure in humiliating this fat bald man, with his pink oily skin and small porcine eyes, who – in secret, he believed – lusted after her.

Esteveris was not the only one who had spies.

‘No doubt, I will find out soon enough,’ he said. ‘However, there’s something even more worrying …’

He left his sentence dangling.

But as Celyane remained silent and kept her back turned towards him, he had to continue:

‘The king and Lorn went to visit the tomb of Erklant I the following day. Then the king appointed Lorn First Knight of the Realm.’

The queen raised an eyebrow at this and finally turned round.

‘First …’

‘… Knight of the Realm.’

She cast about in her mind. The title meant something, but what?

And then it came back to her.

There had once been an Onyx Guard. It had been founded during the Last War of the Shadows and served the kings of Langre until the advent of the High Kingdom. Erklant I had dissolved it. The title of Knight to the Ebony and Onyx Throne – or Onyx Knight – had then become purely honorific and, the current High King having bestowed it upon some of his first companions-in-arms, there were only a few ageing lords who still wore the black signet ring with the wolf’s head.

The queen shrugged.

‘That title doesn’t represent much any more,’ she said. ‘Who still cares about it? And a ring in return for three years in Dalroth is not much of a reward, when you think about it …’

‘The king has made several Onyx Knights, true. But he has just given Lorn the title of First Knight. That’s not the same thing, ma’am. In fact, it’s quite different.’

‘Then explain it to me, Esteveris!’ snapped the queen in a voice that betrayed both impatience and anger.

The minister bowed slightly by way of apology.

‘The First Knight commanded the Onyx Guard, ma’am. No one has been named First Knight since it was dissolved.’

‘So the king has appointed Lorn the head of a guard that has not existed for several centuries,’ said Celyane ironically. ‘Do you think he plans to re-establish it?’

‘Who knows?’

‘And with whom? And how? When? With what funds?’

‘I don’t know,’ admitted Esteveris.

Celyane bared a superior smile …

… before frowning on seeing her minister’s anxious expression. He was ambitious and devoted, devoid of scruples and cruel. He could err through excessive zeal and perhaps even out of pride. But he wasn’t one to become easily alarmed.

The queen started to share his worry.

‘What aren’t you telling me, Esteveris?’

In the Palace hall, a great crash was heard, provoking cries of horror and pain. Built too hastily and poorly, a whole flight of terraced seats had just collapsed beneath the weight of the bit players who had taken their places, while the workmen were still working underneath. The queen leaned over the balustrade and looked down on the disaster. In the wreckage of broken planks, she saw grimacing faces, bleeding wounds and broken bones. People were already hurrying to help the victims, jostling one another in their efforts to extricate them.

But completely indifferent to the distress and suffering of the injured, Celyane was looking at something else, torn between stupor and fear.

In tumbling down, the terraces had pushed back the dais with the mannequins. The figure representing the queen had fallen from her seat and her false crown had rolled onto the floor.

Livid, with her back stiff and her features frozen, the queen turned slowly towards her minister. He had been her astrologer before becoming her counsellor. Being very superstitious, she continued to consult mages, seers and fortune-tellers. Esteveris knew that this accident, for her, was a frightening omen.

‘What haven’t you told me?’ repeated the queen between clenched jaws.

Withstanding her gaze with difficulty, the minister said:

‘I’ve consulted the texts, ma’am. Command of the Onyx Guard is not the First Knight’s only prerogative …’