The Knight: A Tale from the High Kingdom (22 page)

11

After a week’s rest at Calaryn, the Count of Argor’s castle, Lorn deemed the time had come for him to depart. He had recovered from his fatigue and his wounds, had slept more peacefully at night thanks to Yssaris, and felt fit enough to pursue the mission assigned to him by the High King. Making himself known to Teogen was only a beginning. Now he needed to go to Oriale, the High Kingdom’s capital.

Besides, he was growing bored and he disturbed people.

Like Teogen and the others, he’d been welcomed as a hero upon their return with the freed captives. Like them, he had suffered and braved death. Like them, he had risked everything to rescue women doomed to slavery, women to whom he owed nothing. They had feted him. The count had invited him to stay as long as he liked at Calaryn, where he would always be welcome:

‘My door will never be closed to you, knight.’

But little by little …

Lorn did not seek company or anyone’s gratitude. He did not respond to the displays of friendship and respect. He did not care whether he pleased or displeased others. Nor did he care whether he was admired. Gloomy, he spoke little and did not smile. He spent most of his days reading, training, or going for long rides in the valley, with his cat as his sole companion.

His attitude bothered people and was taken for aloofness. And rumours grew about him, as people learned that the king had made him his First Knight, but also that he had been locked away for three years at Dalroth – and only recently released. For what crime, exactly? No one knew for certain, although some spoke of high treason. But it must have been serious, very serious indeed.

Lorn started to arouse distrust and rejection. The castle’s residents avoided him and no longer spoke to him, except at the count’s table. And if his left hand still drew looks, it was not only to see the famous onyx signet ring, but also to guess at what the ochre stone seal hidden beneath the leather strap looked like. People wondered why the High King had elevated Lorn to the rank of First Knight of the Realm. They spoke of the Dark and how it corrupted souls. All souls. They discussed the fit he’d suffered during the return journey and the details were exaggerated by hearsay. Some came to ask themselves whether there wasn’t too strong a shadowy part within him and whether his presence wasn’t harmful. And around Calaryn it started to be said that Lorn, perhaps, had brought ill fortune down on the expedition led by Teogen …

‘Good evening.’

It was the eve of his departure.

Night was falling and Lorn was leaning out of a wide window to enjoy the cool evening air on his own. Behind his dark spectacles, he was staring at a molten sun that was sinking into an immense gap between two distant peaks.

Lorn turned towards the woman who approached him.

He recognised her, but did not know who she was. He had noticed her during dinner, seated at Teogen’s right and conversing in a familiar fashion with him. She had just arrived that day at the castle. She was tall, slender and endowed with a rare beauty and distinction. Since everyone showed her considerable respect, Lorn gathered that she belonged to the high nobility of Argor. Nevertheless, he did not recall having seen her at the court of the High Kingdom or elsewhere.

The unknown woman smiled, wearing the white and grey dress that he’d seen her in at dinner – a simple dress with a perfect elegance that enhanced her figure. In her arms, Yssaris allowed its neck to be scratched, purring contentedly.

‘He’s yours, isn’t he?’

Lorn looked at her.

Still smiling, she handed him the young cat. He took the animal, which immediately climbed onto his shoulders.

‘What’s he called?’ asked the woman.

‘Yssaris.’

‘A fine name … It means “soul” in Skandian. Your mother was Skandish, wasn’t she? And a warrior queen.’

Lorn did not reply.

He waited, and then asked:

‘Who are you?’

‘Dame Meryll. May it please you.’

Lorn raised an eyebrow.

The woman extended a slim hand and, on seeing her wrist, his suspicions were confirmed. The symbolic patterns tattooed in red, yellow and blue extended towards the back of her hand and disappeared beneath her sleeve. Lorn knew they ran up to her shoulder and no doubt went even further.

Dame Meryll was a Lily.

‘Lorn Askarian.’

‘I’ve already heard much about you, knight.’

By way of explanation, she glanced pointedly at Lorn’s marked hand. But was she alluding to his signet ring or the stone seal? Both, most likely.

Turning to the window, Lorn set Yssaris down and contemplated the light from the setting sun outlining the black silhouettes of the mountain ridges. Dame Meryll came to stand beside him and they remained silent for a moment, long enough for him to notice that the Lily’s presence was not unpleasant. That was hardly astonishing: Lilies knew how to please men just as assassins knew how to kill them.

‘Try not to hold it against them.’

Lorn frowned.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I’ve seen how the people here in the castle treat you. And I also know what you have done. Try not to hold it against them. Forgive them for their ingratitude.’

‘It’s all the same to me.’

‘Truly?’

‘I did not do what I did to please them.’

‘Then why did you?’

Lorn thought about it.

‘Someone had to,’ he said. ‘Besides, I wasn’t alone.’

‘That doesn’t diminish your merits.’

‘Think rather of the merits of those who fell.’

And brusquely, he asked:

‘What do you want from me?’

The Lilies had initially been an order of elite courtesans. They still were, but their missions had become diversified over time. Beautiful, intelligent and cultured, travelling frequently and with access to private bedchambers, they were also employed as messengers, spies, intermediaries and negotiators. Discreet and influential, respected, they served wealthy employers and knew the secrets of the powerful. They never forgot, however, to protect their own interests.

Dame Meryll’s placid smile did not falter.

‘I only wanted to pay my respects, knight. Count Teogen speaks very highly of you. And it’s not every day that one meets a First Knight.’

‘Nor a former inmate of Dalroth, am I right?’

The Lily did not blink.

One might think at first sight that she was thirty to thirty-five years of age, but Lorn surmised she was ten years older than that. He reckoned she was in her – very beautiful – forties. It was a matter of her self-assurance and the depth of her gaze. As well as the small wrinkles at the corner of her lips. And a certain serenity that did not come with youth. It was also a matter of the respect shown to her, a respect that must correspond with her rank within the order. Most Lilies retired once their beauty faded. The ones who remained were those who desired – and were able – to rise within the hierarchy.

Only the best remained.

‘It seems to me you were declared innocent, knight.’

Lorn shrugged.

‘It’s like a scar on one’s face. It doesn’t matter whether the wound was deserved or not. It doesn’t matter whether he who inflicted it regrets his gesture or not …’

‘The king has nevertheless bestowed on you the signet ring of the First Knight of the Realm. That is a measure of the confidence he accords you.’

Lorn looked down at the onyx and silver ring on his left hand. He knew some of the reasons that had prompted the High King to appoint him First Knight. Not all of them were good ones and no doubt there were others he was unaware of. But he was sure of one thing: this signet ring was going to arouse curiosity, anxiety and envy.

‘What do you want from me?’ he repeated.

He was now on his guard, convinced that the Lily was hiding her true intentions.

‘I simply wanted to convey my sympathies, knight. Do you find that so odious?’

Lorn felt Yssaris place a velvet paw on his marked hand. He drew in a breath and calmed himself.

‘No,’ he confessed.

The power of this woman verged on magic, on enchantment. But he felt no desire to fight it.

‘I also wanted to assure you that we are pursuing the same goal,’ said the Lily in a softer tone. ‘You and me. Or rather, you and us.’

She smiled again.

‘And what goal is that?’

‘The good of the High Kingdom, of course.’

Lorn stared at her for a long time, without her appearing to grow upset.

Then he gave her an odd smile and, carrying Yssaris, walked away.

‘Good evening, madam.’

‘Good evening, knight. Until we meet again.’

The following morning, very early, Lorn saddled his mount himself. With Yssaris resting upon one shoulder, he led the horse by the bridle from the stable as the castle began to stir in the first light of dawn. He crossed the courtyard and found Teogen at the portcullis of the inner wall.

Lorn was surprised because he had bade the count farewell the previous evening, at the end of a private audience during which he had explained the details of the mission the High King had entrusted him with. But there Teogen was, waiting for him, wearing boots and a long vest of padded leather, cinched by a wide belt.

‘Good morning, knight.’

‘Good morning, count.’

‘I wanted to wish you a safe journey. And to thank you again.’

‘There’s no need.’

The light being still dim, Lorn was not wearing his spectacles, or his hood. Teogen could thus look directly into his mismatched eyes.

He read nothing there.

‘Come,’ he said, after a brief hesitation.

With a gesture, he invited Lorn to follow him.

Lorn placed Yssaris upon the saddle of his horse and the two men walked a few paces together, watched by the young cat.

‘The king’s plan has every chance of failing,’ said the count. ‘As for this idea of reconstituting the Onyx Guard …’ He shook his head sceptically. ‘But the venture is worth attempting and you may count on my help.’

‘The king will no doubt soon be enlisting you. And your wyverners.’

‘I am and I remain at the High King’s service.’

Lorn nodded.

‘But you, knight, will be quite alone,’ continued Teogen. ‘You will need to find other allies besides myself. And ones much closer to hand. That signet ring elevates you and protects you, but it also exposes you and does not make you invulnerable. Trust no one and beware of daggers in the night. And be sure to see Sibellus. I told you about him yesterday: he will be of great assistance to you. He’s an old friend. I vouch for him.’

‘I will be sure to call upon him.’

The count remained silent for a moment, while they returned to Lorn’s horse. Then he said:

‘I still don’t understand what motivates you, Lorn. But you are preparing to accomplish the impossible in the name of the High King and for that sole reason …’

He did not complete the sentence, but simply exchanged a firm handshake with Lorn.

‘Some victories start off as lost causes, don’t they?’

Teogen rejoined Dame Meryll on a rampart of the outer wall. Wrapped in a grey cloak that fluttered in the wind, she watched as Lorn rode away towards the morning sun.

‘Well?’

‘I really don’t know what to make of this Lorn,’ the count confessed. ‘He’s brave, intelligent, determined and one of the best fighters I’ve ever met, but …’

He left his sentence dangling and shook his head, helpless.

‘Do you think he might succeed?’ asked the Lily. ‘Do you think the king has made the right choice?’

‘I don’t know,’ admitted Teogen. ‘And the king has committed numerous errors as his reign draws to a close. But if this man returned from hell is the last chance that remains for the High Kingdom, then we must put him to the test.’

III

Summer 1547

1

‘Within the Assembly of Ir’kans, the Seventh Guardian was the one who, before his peers, had demanded and defended the liberation of the Knight with the Sword, so that his destiny might be fulfilled. Contrary opinions were voiced and the Assembly debated and decided in favour of the Seventh despite the opposition of the Third Guardian and others. An Emissary was named and the Knight with the Sword was rescued from the Citadel of the Shadows and the torments of the Dark. So the Knight’s star shone once again in the firmament of the Grey Dragon, but with a sinister gleam. And all doubted whether they had acted rightly.’

Chronicles (The Book of Secrets)

Evening was approaching.

The white drac had lit a campfire in the clearing. His horse hitched not far away, he was sitting on a fallen tree trunk and watching a hare he had killed that afternoon, on his way, cook in the flames. He was wearing plain, sturdy clothing, without armour, but with a long dagger at his belt. His scales were white. A ring of black arcanium pierced his right eyebrow. His slit eyes were an intense turquoise.

Skeren saw the smoke rising from his fire twist in the air, as if shaped by invisible hands. They sculpted a bust, a head, a face hidden by an ample hood. A thick darkness fell all around. There was silence, then the ghost apparition grew animated and the Seventh Guardian said:

‘We, the Grey Council, require your aid.’

‘It is yours,’ replied the drac in an even tone.

‘Do you know the Ancient Tongue?’

‘I understand it and I speak it.’

These were ritual formulas. The Emissary and the Guardian punctuated them with solemn bows of the head, before continuing their conversation in a language forgotten by men.

‘We have seen the star of the Knight with the Sword grow dim.’

‘He almost perished, trying to escape his destiny,’ explained Skeren.

‘Did you save him?’

‘Yes.’

‘And what became of him?’

‘The Knight spoke with the High King in the Citadel and he was brought before the dragon Serk’Arn. Then he travelled to Argor, where he distinguished himself and won Count Teogen’s esteem.’

‘That will be useful to him. Do you believe him worthy of his destiny?’

‘I don’t know,’ admitted the white drac, weighing his words carefully. ‘His soul is … troubled.’

‘His star shines with a sombre gleam that darkens that of the prince. Perhaps … Perhaps we were mistaken …’

The confession disturbed Skeren, but he tried to remain calm and waited.

‘But what we have done cannot be undone,’ the Guardian continued.

The drac nodded.

Because he was the Seventh Guardian’s favoured Emissary, he knew much about his intrigues and secrets. He had carried out many missions on his behalf, over a very long period of time. He had always served him loyally, even when he had been obliged to use byways in order to succeed without running afoul of the Assembly. The Seventh Guardian was something of a maverick. He was a strong, proud and independent spirit who often acted on his own initiative and presented his peers with a fait accompli. In his eyes, the end justified the means as long as the end sought was the will of the Grey Dragon: nothing must stand in the way of Destiny. It had sometimes led him to make questionable decisions and, despite the attempts by the Assembly to bring him to heel, to exceed his prerogatives. So he had not hesitated to resort to ruses and lies in order to hasten the liberation of the individual whose star was now surrounded by a troubling aura.

‘Where is the Knight, at present?’

‘He’s on his way to Oriale.’

‘Good.’

The Seventh Guardian bowed his head a second time and abandoned the dragons’ tongue.

‘Serve us well,’ he said.

‘I shall be the Emissary of the Dragon of Destiny,’ replied the white dragon.

These were more ritual exchanges, marking the end of the interview.

Skeren blinked when the apparition vanished into the coils of smoke. Around him, the thick shadows lifted and gave way to an ordinary darkness. The forest filled with sounds, and the Nebula started to emerge in the night sky.