The Knight: A Tale from the High Kingdom (44 page)

‘They won’t obey you.’

‘Oh yes they will. No one takes a dragon-prince prisoner.’

‘But if your men advance, I’ll slit your throat.’

‘You’ll condemn yourself to death.’

‘Do you think I’ll even hesitate?’

‘No.’ The dragon-prince stifled a chuckle. ‘A strange victory, isn’t it?’

Indeed, Lorn thought to himself, the situation was scarcely ideal.

His life depended on a stalemate which could not be maintained indefinitely. Moreover, the slightest incident – a cry, a misheard order, an arrow loosed by one side or another – was all it would take for hostilities to resume.

Lorn pondered his options.

And hesitated.

With nothing to lose, he considered leaping into the abyss with Laedras. The authors of the
Chronicles
would love that. A First Knight of the Realm carrying a dragon-prince to their deaths was the stuff of legend, much less history …

A shadow passed over the bridge.

Then another.

And a third, and then a fourth …

All eyes were lifted towards the sky to see the wyverns arriving out of the rising sun. Enthralled by the duel between Laedras and Lorn, no one had seen them approaching and now here they were, in great numbers, circling over Saarsgard.

They were war wyverns. A hundred of them, harnessed, armoured and ridden by the best wyverners in the world.

On their flanks they bore the colours of Argor.

Count Teogen of Argor was the first to land on the bridge. Then Vahrd, Orwain and others, while the remainder continued to turn in the sky, the shadow of their leathery-winged mounts casting menacing shadows over Saarsgard.

Wearing armour, with his famous mace at his side, Teogen advanced towards Lorn, who released Laedras and allowed him to stand up. And in a calm, firm voice, the count said:

‘I don’t believe, prince, that you’ll be taking this fortress today. Surrender your sword to the knight, please.’

With the dragon-prince at their head, the Yrgaardians retreated and before evening came had re-embarked for the kingdom of the Black Dragon. Saarsgard was saved and, when night fell, the High King’s banner still flew over the fortress.

Just above that of the Onyx Guard.

Epilogue

End of Autumn 1547

1

‘Who will tell of the loneliness of dying kings? Who will tell of their regrets and their wounds? Who will tell of their fear?’

Chronicles (The Book of Defiant Heroes)

In the Citadel’s throne room, beneath its immense vaults, large candelabra burned in the darkness. Carrying his helmet under his arm, Captain Norfold had placed one knee on the floor to draw as close to his king as possible. He spoke to him softly, as one speaks to dying men, in a voice strained by worry.

‘Sire. You must answer me, sire. Was it upon your orders that Lorn prevented the signing of the Angborn treaty?’

The High King, unmoving, with his back straight and his hands gripping the armrests of his Onyx Throne, gave no reply. Behind the black veil concealing his corpselike face, he was staring at a distant point that only he could see.

‘What difference does it make?’ he asked at last.

‘Sire! If Lorn disobeyed you, if he overstepped his …’

‘What difference does it make?’ repeated the king in a stronger voice.

The captain fell silent and bowed his head, torn between dejection and anger.

‘He … He triumphed, didn’t he?’ the old king said. ‘He stood alone against Yrgaard and he won.’

Norfold nodded reluctantly.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But …’

‘He’ll be glorified,’ the High King interrupted him. ‘
I
will be glorified,’ he added, stressing the personal pronoun in a quavering voice. ‘Lorn … Lorn has restored honour and pride to the High Kingdom. And to me. To us all. To you too, Norfold.’

The captain sighed.

He would have liked to speak at length with his king and bring him back to his senses, but clearly it was impossible.

‘But at what price? The Black Dragon will not let this insult go unanswered. There will be war, sire. With Yrgaard. And it will happen when the High Kingdom is more divided than ever.’

The king mulled this over.

Then he turned his head slowly towards Norfold, and said:

‘At what price?’ His eyes sparkled beneath the veil held in place by a crown adorned with dark jewels. ‘And just what is the price of the High Kingdom’s honour, do you think?’

‘I beg you, sire,’ the captain tried one last time in desperation. ‘Tell me. Did you order Lorn to oppose the treaty’s signing in your name, or …?’

Or is your First Knight of the Realm a man devoured by anger and the Dark, capable of provoking the High Kingdom’s ruin?
he thought, unable to say the words aloud.

The High King was once again staring off into space with a rocklike stillness.

And then he lied:

‘Yes. I gave the order.’

2

There was a triumphal parade in Oriale.

Given in honour of the heroes of Saarsgard, it passed along Erklant I Street, from the Langre Gate to the palace. The building façades were magnificently bedecked in the High Kingdom’s colours to mark the occasion. Beneath a blazing sun, the gold and azure shone out in garlands, pennants, banners and silk ribbons thrown out as the procession passed by. The people thronged below the houses, at the windows, on balconies, on rooftops and even in the trees.

Everyone wanted to see the heroes of Saarsgard.

But above all, everyone wanted to see and acclaim the man who had led them to victory.

That is to say: Prince Alderan of the High Kingdom.

Alan led the parade upon a grey horse, head bare and smiling, clad in shining ceremonial armour. He was cheered. People shouted his name and gave hurrahs. He waved greetings to one side and the other, trying to appear modest and dignified, as befitted a prince. The sun gleamed on his blond hair. He was young, handsome and victorious. Men and women had eyes only for him, and young girls fell in love at the sight of him.

Esteveris had done his work well.

As soon as news of the victory had reached Samarande, where the royal court had taken refuge, heralds had taken the roads to report how Yrgaardian treachery had been discovered at the last moment, causing the High Kingdom to refuse to sign the treaty. To which Yrgaard, adding brutality to duplicity, had responded by trying to take Angborn by force. Fortunately, Prince Alderan had led a handful of courageous men in defending the realm. And he had won after putting up a heroic resistance, thanks to Argor’s providential help.

This version of events had been circulated, repeated and embroidered upon throughout the High Kingdom for weeks. Of course, the ambassadors of all the nations had witnessed Lorn’s dramatic intervention so no one in the various capitals of Imelor’s kingdoms was ignorant of the truth. But Esteveris knew that people were always hungry for good news and glorious feats, and that was all that mattered. What difference did it make if the truth were slightly twisted? Besides, there was no truth except what was written in the
Chronicles
, and the Palace’s historians were already busy establishing that.

‘Don’t count on your merits being recognised today, knight,’ said Teogen.

Lorn, Enzo and he were riding side by side, at the front of the parade but ten yards behind Alan. They were the brave souls who had fought with the prince for the honour and integrity of the High Kingdom. Tribute was paid to their courage and their loyalty, but they were merely subordinates.

‘That’s fine,’ replied Lorn. ‘Alan is being celebrated. Loved. He embodies a new hope for the High Kingdom.’

‘Besides,’ interjected Enzio, ‘all those who matter know what really happened. You will soon be much sought after, Lorn.’

‘It’s already started. The ambassadors of Alguera and Vestfald have already asked to meet me.’

‘And what was your reply?’

Lorn shrugged.

‘Nothing, yet.’

‘You should be more wary of politics than of steel,’ advised Teogen.

‘More wary?’ asked Lorn in surprise.

‘There’s no armour against politics,’ said Enzio.

The queen and her court were waiting for the procession at the Palace gates, seated on tribunes clothed in blue and yellow. Alan went first, to pay his respects to his mother, then it was the turn of the Count of Argor, Enzio and Lorn to place a knee to the ground before her.

The queen embraced her son and held out her hand to be kissed by the others, before inviting them in an amiable tone to stand. She had a kind word for each of them, even for Lorn to whom she said with a smile:

‘I know your true merits, knight. And I thank you for them.’

Lorn was astonished.

It would have sufficed to save appearances if the queen – who detested him – had simply smiled at him. No one could hear them over the loud cheers from the crowd.

Lorn probed the gaze of Celyane of the High Kingdom for an explanation, to no avail.

During the banquet, with Lorn sitting at the high table between Alan and Esteveris, the queen continued to be friendly.

She smiled, laughed and seemed relaxed and joyful. And why shouldn’t she be? She suddenly had the people’s support, thanks to her son whose popularity was unrivalled, and the kingdom’s treasury was full, thanks to the tremendous tribute just received from Yrgaard. She would be able to conduct policy as she saw fit, both within and beyond her country’s borders. And her enemies now knew they could fear war.

‘When one thinks about it,’ commented Esteveris, offering Lorn a platter of meat, ‘the Grey Dragon has envisaged a strange destiny for you. The Angborn treaty you prevented was not so very different from the one we prepared with Yrgaard, three, no, four years ago …’

Lorn turned to him.

‘That
we
prepared?’ he repeated.

‘Well, yes! I was one of the secretaries serving the High Kingdom’s representatives. You were unaware of that?’

‘There were so many of you …’

‘That’s true.’

‘And how far you’ve come, since then.’

It did not sound like a compliment, but Esteveris did not appear to have heard him.

‘So, the same treaty,’ he continued. ‘More or less … Four years ago you were falsely accused of compromising it, and you were tried and convicted for doing so. Yet today, here we are celebrating the fact that you have achieved exactly the same result …’

‘It’s Alan who is being celebrated.’

‘No doubt, no doubt … What can I say? He is the prince.’

Another prince was seated at their table, Yrdel sat on the queen’s right and yet seemed to go unnoticed. Grave, withdrawn and subdued, he spoke little. His dull personality did him no service and his inglorious role during the Angborn crisis had completed his isolation. Alan had already, naturally, tended to draw all the light to himself. But this evening, Yrdel seemed even more self-effacing than usual.

Lorn wondered what he was thinking.

By following the queen to Samarande, leaving behind a fortress which could not be defended and choosing not to recklessly engage the High Kingdom in an open conflict with Yrgaard, Yrdel had done nothing less than what his duty as crown prince required. For a prince of the High Kingdom could not risk his life in such a fashion as his half-brother had done. He could not expose himself to being captured, wounded or killed by the enemy. He could not throw himself into an adventure whose political and diplomatic consequences might prove catastrophic for the High Kingdom. Yet Alan had done all of that. Without forethought. And now he was being feted for it.

‘I must congratulate you, Lorn,’ said Esteveris. ‘Obviously, you prepared your scheme very carefully and you played me admirably by letting me believe that Sir Vahrd had run off with his daughter, when instead you sent him to seek the aid of Count Teogen. Bravo! I mean that.’

‘Thank you.’

‘However … However, I must urge you not to consider me your enemy.’

Lorn smiled.

‘You’re amused …’ said Esteveris. ‘I understand why. Do you want proof that we are allies?’

‘I’m listening.’

‘I know Naéris is hiding with your friend the master archivist. I could have had both of them arrested, but I chose not to do so. Better, this morning I signed a decree clearing Naéris of all charges against her. She is no longer a fugitive.’

Lorn looked at Esteveris.

‘You’ll receive a copy of that document,’ the minister promised.

‘Thank you, for Naé’s sake. But you won’t win my trust with a scrap of paper.’

‘That goes without saying. But consider my offer, knight. You will need powerful allies, ones equal to your enemies …’

Lorn thought he caught a flicker in Esteveris’s gaze towards the queen, who, looking radiant, was laughing at some jest.

At the end of the meal, almost all of the lights were extinguished in preparation of a show. Drums and cymbals began to beat a lively rhythm, before dancers and fire-eaters came on stage, leaping, twirling and grimacing like elemental creatures. Acrobatics and feats of dexterity followed, performed according to a dizzying choreography, punctuated by admiring murmurs and spontaneous applause.

The spectacle, however, soon began to bore Lorn. Indeed, he was thinking about retiring for the night when a servant – leaning over him to fill his glass – discreetly slipped him a note.

Lorn gave no sign that anything unusual had taken place.

He unfolded the small piece of paper beneath the table, then pressed his shoulders slightly against the back of his chair and looked down. To no avail. It was too dark for him to read anything at all.

‘I’ll be back,’ he said to Alan. ‘I need some fresh air.’

‘Don’t you feel well?’

‘I have a headache and those cymbals are hurting my ears. I think I’ve had too much wine.’

‘I’ll call Odric to accompany you.’

‘No need. I’ll go for a little walk and I’ll be fine.’

Lorn stood up.

‘You’re abandoning us already, knight?’ asked Esteveris, without taking his eyes from the show.

Lorn did not reply.

He left the banquet hall and was finally able to read the mysterious note in the light from a candelabrum. He pondered it. Someone had taken the pain of contacting him in this clandestine fashion. So time was of the essence, for one reason or another.

Lorn recognised the secret code.

It was one employed by Irelice, which brought some very bad memories to mind. This code had been used to encrypt some compromising letters that had been found among his possessions after his arrest, and had led to his conviction for treason.

At the time, he’d sworn that he knew nothing of those documents or the code protecting them.

In vain.

Four years later, Lorn was surprised by the ease with which he deciphered the note.