The Knight: A Tale from the High Kingdom (33 page)

20

Queen Celyane was holding her last Council before her departure for Angborn when an usher entered by a hidden door, approached with muffled footsteps and slipped a note to Esteveris. Without interrupting the debate, the queen observed Draniss who was waiting behind the door. She realised it was he who had given the note to the usher and her gaze darkened. She did not like dracs and detested this one in particular, no doubt because she had never succeeded in corrupting it. The only loyalties the queen tolerated were those directed towards her. Loyalty towards others aroused her jealousy, followed quickly and inevitably by suspicion and hatred.

Esteveris unfolded the paper beneath the table without delay. He was waiting for news from Sorr Dalk, to whom he had granted unlimited funds to wipe out the partisans opposed to the cession of Angborn. He had hoped that the matter would be settled soon, but weeks had gone by without word from Dalk and the royal cortege was about to depart for the Free Cities. Had Dalk succeeded or failed? Had he met with unforeseen difficulties? Had he been unmasked or eliminated? The minister was scarcely concerned about the fate of his agent. But he was anxious for this thorn to be removed from his foot: the outcome of the negotiations he’d been engaged in for months with Yrgaard depended on it.

Esteveris was disappointed when he discovered the contents of the note: it dealt neither with Dalk nor Angborn. But what he read astonished him nevertheless. Ordinarily, in such circumstances, he would have glanced over the message then refolded it discreetly and returned his full attention to the Council’s discussions. This time, he read the note several times and looked perplexed for an instant, which in turn puzzled and annoyed the queen.

‘Bad news, Prime Minister?’ she asked curtly.

Esteveris raised his head.

‘Forgive me, ma’am. No, not bad news. At least, I don’t believe so …’

‘Then what is it that troubles you so? Perhaps you will deign to share it with the gentlemen of the Council and myself?’

The ministers maintained a prudent silence and avoided moving, even breathing.

Esteveris was seated to the right of the queen, who presided at the end of the table. He leaned forward and, in private, told her:

‘The knight Lorn Askarian requests an audience.’

‘Lorn Aska—?’

‘The First Knight appointed by the High King, ma’am.’

‘I know who he is!’ the queen snapped. ‘What does he want?’

‘I don’t know, ma’am.’

The queen calmed herself and thought quickly.

‘I will receive him upon my return from Angborn. Arrange that, would you? Right now we have enough to do.’

Esteveris quietly cleared his throat.

‘Ma’am, as it happens, the knight is waiting at the door …’

The queen shrugged and, loudly enough for her Council to hear, declared:

‘So? He doesn’t intend to force his way in here, does he? He’s at the door? Well, let him remain there.’

She provoked a few polite smiles, but Esteveris’s embarrassment only grew.

‘Ma’am,’ he said in a low voice. ‘If you please …’

As the minister’s gaze became imploring, the queen deigned to lean forward so that he could speak in her ear.

‘Ma’am, the First Knight of the Realm is the High King’s representative. It is out of pure courtesy that he requests an audience. If he wished, he could enter without being announced …’

The queen stared disdainfully at Esteveris as if he were responsible for this situation.

‘Ma’am …’ the minister insisted.

Queen Celyane realised she must ‘grant’ this audience if she wished to save face. Furious, she pinched her lips but contained herself. She sat up, placed her hands upon the armrests of her chair, and nodded.

The doors opened and Lorn entered the room.

Gloved and booted, his hair tied back with a leather lace, he was wearing the dark armour of the Onyx Guard and bore his sword at his side. Expressionless, he advanced with a firm step and halted before the Council table. He was separated from the queen by its entire length. Her ministers and counsellors having withdrawn, only Esteveris remained.

Lorn bowed.

‘I have come, ma’am, to convey the greetings of the High King your husband.’

‘Thank you, knight.’

‘He assures you of his affection and hopes to return to your side soon. And while awaiting that happy day, he is grateful to you for taking charge of the kingdom’s affairs so ably.’

The queen gave a faint, noncommittal smile.

‘Through my voice, the High King presents you with a request,’ continued Lorn. ‘He has no doubt that you will willingly grant it and thanks you in advance.’

The queen and Esteveris, who was standing beside her, exchanged a brief glance. They had both understood the same thing: that the High King’s request was in fact a demand and he expected it to be obeyed. With all due respect to the queen, his orders could not be questioned.

‘What request, knight?’ the minister asked.

Lorn drew forth a letter from his doublet and showed it to them.

Esteveris stepped forward, took the royal missive, and brought it back to the queen. But she signalled him to open it. He hesitated, then broke the black wax seal and unfolded the letter. He read it and turned a worried face towards the queen. Growing impatient, she almost wrenched the paper out of his hands.

She read it in turn.

And paled slightly before addressing Lorn:

‘It shall be done according to the will of the High King,’ she said in a toneless voice.

IV

Autumn 1547

1

‘Of all the Divine Dragons who once ruled and whose abrupt decline was brought about by the death of the Dragon-King, only one still sat, centuries after the Shadows and their ravages, upon the throne of an Imelorian kingdom. She was named Orsak’yr, the Hydra of Yrgaard. And she was also known as the Great Black Dragon, who had once commanded Night and Death.’

Chronicles (The Book of Dragons)

In Dorvarsen, the capital of Yrgaard, the rider trotted through the first formal courtyards of the royal fortress before gracefully dismounting and racing up a gigantic staircase, wide enough to allow thirty men to climb it abreast. He entered the building and, still moving straight ahead, passed through several halls and corridors at a brisk pace. His spurs jingled in time with his footsteps, the doors ahead of him opening beneath the impassive gaze of scarlet suits of armour, whose wearers, if any, were completely invisible. Finally, he came to a halt before a pair of stone doors which seemed to have been carved out from a single colossal block of white marble.

The line dividing them could scarcely be discerned and yet the doors soon slowly drew apart without disturbing the total silence that reigned in this place. The man crossed the threshold before they finished opening and trod upon a long blood-red carpet. Stamped with a sinister black rune, very similar to that of the Dark, cloth hangings decorated the columns which supported the breathtakingly high vaulted ceiling above. These hangings marked with the sign of the Black Dragon were the same shade as the carpet. Other figures in scarlet armour stood guard, all of them carrying a large shield and a long spear. They looked like dwarves against the pedestals of the huge columns, while distant silhouettes fluttered beneath the vaults as if it were a stone sky.

The man continued to advance with a more measured, respectful step.

Yet it was not simply the scale of the hall that intimidated him.

Nor the silence that crushed him.

Tall, slender and athletic-looking, the man was dressed in black and red, the colours of Yrgaard. He wore riding boots, heavy articulated gauntlets and an embossed breastplate. A cape hung from his shoulders. He had an imposing but haughty bearing, full of arrogance – that of a selfish, pitiless and cruel being, to whom the world was peopled by inferior creatures. His hair was long and red. His features were regular and his gaze was firm. He was handsome, cold and disturbing. His eyes were reptilian.

His name was Laedras and in his veins ran the blood of the Black Dragon.

The red carpet ran the entire length of the hall. Laedras strode to its end and, head bowed, and respectfully placed one knee on the floor before the tall steps of a large stone dais. To either side of these steps stood yet more sentinels in scarlet armour. All around the dais covered with crimson rugs were cold braziers. And upon it, there sat a black dragon.

An immense hydra, whose seven horned and scaly heads were almost exactly alike.

Orsak’yr.

The Dragon of Death and Night.

‘Rise …’ one head started to say.

‘My son,’ finished another.

Laedras stood up.

‘Thank you, mother.’

He was one of the Black Hydra’s offspring. A ‘dragon-prince’, as they were called. Some claimed there was one for each of the hydra’s heads. Except for their eyes, they were human in appearance, but they did not grow old and bore within them part of their progenitor’s power. That made them formidable adversaries, capable of unleashing a Dark force strong enough to cut down a rank of soldiers.

‘The squadron is ready, mother.’

‘Good …’

‘You will …’

‘Command it.’

‘I will do so according to your orders, mother. But …’

‘Yes?’ asked one of the seven heads. They weaved incessantly but never took their eyes off Laedras.

The latter hesitated, and then asked:

‘An entire battle squadron, mother? To escort one ambassador?’

The Black Dragon’s eyes gleamed and, after a moment of silence, all of the heads said in unison:

‘Diplomacy is war before the cannons sound.’

2

‘In order to travel to the Free Cities, the queen decided to descend the course of the Eirdre and embarked on the splendid vessels of the Floating Palace, which, in the opinion of the wise, was one of Imelor’s greatest and most magnificent wonders.’

Chronicles (The Book of the Knight with the Sword)

Lorn and his mount plunged into the wood at a gallop. Two riders were chasing him. Like his own, their mounts were excellent. Purebred, highly strung, and powerful. They too were running flat out.

Bent forward over the neck of his horse, Lorn raced along a narrow path. Branches brushed against him from the right and the left and passed just over his head. He risked a glance back and saw that the faster of the two riders was catching up with him.

He smiled, pleased and confident.

As long as he stayed on the path, none could pass him.

‘You’re cheating!’ Alan shouted to him.

Lorn started laughing.

‘Really? Who forced you to follow me into the wood?’

The prince scowled but consoled himself with the thought that Elenzio too had taken the same route without thinking. Curiously enough, knowing that he was not alone in falling into such a crude trap was somehow comforting.

Lorn saw that the path suddenly divided in front of him.

He picked the right-hand fork; Alan immediately took the left.

‘Wrong choice!’ Lorn yelled.

‘We’ll see about that!’

As for Enzio, he continued to pursue Lorn. And since the Sarmian heir kept his mind on his riding and the path, rather than shouting challenges, he was gaining ground. Lorn was a little late in realising this, too busy tracking Alan’s progress among the trees and branches.

Lorn and Alan burst out of the wood at the same time, trailed closely by Enzio.

‘It’s Enzio who’s cheating!’ exclaimed Lorn. ‘He’s too serious!’

‘As always!’ Alan shouted gleefully.

The Sarmian gentleman simply smiled and spurred his mount.

The three riders were now galloping up a hill towards the tree that stood at the top. Lorn and Alan were riding almost boot to boot, but Enzio remained focused and his mount still had reserves which his friends had already used up. He drew level, wormed his way between them, and then edged ahead by a neck. His two friends urged their horses on, to no avail. The neck became a length, and stride by stride Enzio outdistanced them.

With a leap, his horse cleared a hedge in front of which Lorn and Alan finally gave up.

They halted their horses.

‘How does he do that?’ marvelled the prince.

Gasping for breath and wearing an admiring expression, he watched Enzio moving off in a cloud of dust.

‘No idea,’ confessed Lorn. ‘Of course, a stranger might suspect that Enzio rode better than we did …’

They began to detour, at a walk, around the hedge.

‘Nonsense,’ said Alan. ‘I would argue that he had the better horse.’

‘And the better saddle.’

‘And the better bridle …’

The prince smiled.

‘Just look at that big pillock, he hasn’t realised the race is over.’

Elenzio was indeed still galloping his horse towards the tree at the top of the hill.

‘You’ll see,’ said Lorn, ‘he’ll even have the nerve to claim he’s won.’

‘Winning a race when there are no other riders? A handsome feat!’

‘But he’ll claim we were racing him …’

‘The cheeky devil! But now that I think of it: if he had the better mount, perhaps it was because he chose better than us.’

‘I see what you mean. I think we agree that we allowed him to have the better mount. Out of charity.’

‘And the better saddle.’

‘And the better bridle …’

They arrived at the tree feeling quite pleased with themselves, finding Enzio there, who had dismounted and was only half-annoyed with them.

‘You’re such poor losers,’ he said, looking off into the distance.

Of the three of them, he was most often the victim of the two others’ pranks and japes. He’d assumed this role good-naturedly for years now and even exaggerated his air of outraged dignity. As a child, he had always been the trio’s voice of reason.

Lorn and Alan leapt down from their saddles and, standing to either side of Enzio, they looked out in the same direction as him. The three young men remained silent and still, admiring a unique spectacle beneath an immense, sunny sky.

Adorned with glorious multi-coloured banners, a city of canvas and wood was descending the course of the Eirdre River. It was composed of dozens of barges, tightly moored together in groups of four of five, forming what seemed like distinct neighbourhoods. The size of these barges – or ships – varied. Some bore splendid structures rising three storeys or more, with balconies, galleries and vast canopies covering terraces. Others, more modest, formed clusters at a remove from the grander vessels.

This city, which appeared to be drifting upon the slow waters of the river, was just as much a royal residence as the Citadel or the former palace of the Langrian kings in Oriale. It was carrying the High Kingdom’s court, which was accompanying Queen Celyane and her minister Esteveris to Angborn. The royal barges were the longest and the tallest vessels, with the High King’s Ship – which some now called the ‘Queen’s Ship’ – dominating them all. They were surrounded by barges from the Imelorian kingdoms: Alguera, Vestfald, Loriand, Sarme, Iredia, Valmir and others – with the notable exception of Yrgaard. Even the Church of the Dragon-King had its own barge, which looked like a floating cathedral.

Superbly bedecked with bunting and flags, the High King’s Ship was the heart of this mobile mosaic, whose disposition shifted according to practical requirements, but also according to intrigues, diplomacy and the whims of a proud and temperamental sovereign. Having one’s vessel moored to that of the queen was an honour which could be granted and withdrawn, so that one could measure the degree of royal favour bestowed on a given personage by the position of their barges. To that was added the complex game of traditions, alliances and rivalries, the vessels gathering together according to political or religious affinities, and changing according to the evolution or – sometimes – sudden reversals of diplomacy. The layout of the Floating Palace was thus constantly changing for both frivolous and serious motives: a quarrel over etiquette at an official ceremony, the opening of trade talks, or the declaration of a war. The rapprochement of two vessels, the distancing of another, or the arrival of a fourth, was never innocent. Each mooring line tied or untied, each gangway set down or raised, was a signal, a salute, or a warning to one’s allies and enemies alike. To the point that the arrangement and rearrangement of the Floating Palace’s layout, on an almost daily basis, was a faithful portrait, in outline and in fine detail, of the diplomatic relations among the Imelorian kingdoms.

Lorn’s attention was drawn to Valmir’s vessel.

Made of light-coloured wood, hung with grey and gold drapes, it advanced ahead of the High King’s Ship and never left that position. Small but tall, it was without a doubt the most important of all. For if the vessels could interlock with one another in an infinite number of combinations, if they could navigate without oar or sail as though moved by the river’s sole will, it was the result of both magic and the genius of their design. The bonds between Valmir and the High Kingdom were solid and their treaties ancient. The Floating Palace was the product of one of those treaties and it was thanks to the art of the mages aboard the Valmirian vessel, steady as a lighthouse, that the ensemble was proceeding safe and sound, preserving its cohesion, balance and harmony.

It had been two weeks since the Floating Palace had left Oriale. For the most part, it had been two weeks of parties and games. The days stretched out as long as the course of the Eirdre, in indolence and idleness, while the evenings were filled with dinners, balls and spectacles aboard one vessel, then another, each kingdom and delegation trying to outshine its rivals in terms of luxury and excess to make an impression. Thus the royal court devoted itself to dancing, drinking, eating and making merry until dawn, and then spent the following day commenting and comparing notes on the previous receptions, and discussing those to come.

Lorn had never had much taste for these pleasures.

So one evening, he went to find Alan and Enzio and bluntly said to them:

‘A ride. Tomorrow. The three of us.’

Which in fact sounded more like an announcement than a proposal.

Alan and Enzio had both raised their heads from their game of chess. They exchanged an amused glance and then the Sarmian gentleman seemed to hunt for something on the floor. The other two had then joined him in looking beneath the table and all around, but without comprehending the purpose.

‘Did you lose something?’ Alan had asked.

‘I’m searching for Lorn’s verbs. They must have gone astray somewhere, because he speaks like a Vestfaldian sergeant,’ Enzio had said, before standing up with a wide grin.

Alan had chuckled and even Lorn had smiled.

‘Very funny. But I’m going mad. I can’t stand these courtiers and this diplomatic circus.’

‘A ride? Now that’s an idea,’ Enzio had acknowledged. ‘We could certainly use the exercise. But where would we find horses?’

‘The Azure Guard has some.’

Lorn had turned to Alan, who pulled a face and said:

‘It could be arranged. But it would not be just the three of us.’

Besides the fact that Alan was a prince of the High Kingdom, Enzio was a wealthy foreign gentleman who was representing his father at the head of the delegation from Sarme and Vallence. An escort would necessarily be assigned to them as a cautionary measure.

‘Here they are,’ said Lorn, turning round in his saddle.

Leaving off their examination of the Floating Palace, the two others did likewise.

Their escort, which they had momentarily shaken off, was emerging from the wood and ascending the hill to join them. It was composed of armoured riders wearing white and blue. Previously the palace guard at Oriale, the Azure Guard had become the queen’s own. Esteveris had personally recruited each of its members.

The troop came to an orderly halt at a distance from the tree beneath which Lorn, Alan and Enzio stood. It was led by the Azure Guard’s captain, who prodded his horse closer. Tall, heavy and imposing, Dol Sturich looked like the brute that he was. He had carried out various dirty deeds on behalf of the minister and was devoted to him.

‘Well, Sturich?’ Lorn called out to him. ‘Finished dillydallying?’

The captain, out of breath and perspiring, was angry. He looked daggers at Lorn but did not answer him, addressing Alan instead:

‘That was very … imprudent, my lord. That … That sudden cavalcade …’

Like Lorn, Alan did not care much for Sturich.

‘You command our escort, Sturich,’ he said in a severe tone. ‘Confine yourself to escorting us.’

The captain was forced to bow his head.

‘Yes, my lord,’ he said.

He turned his horse and went to wait with his men.

‘Say, what’s that …?’ said Enzio, squinting at something in the distance.

Lorn and Alan looked in the same direction as their friend and saw a cloud of dust. A troop was approaching on the road that ran alongside the Eirdre. It formed a long column of armoured horsemen and infantrymen. They marched to the beat of a drum and were preceded by banners that Alan was the first to recognise.

‘It’s Yrdel!’ he exclaimed happily before spurring his mount. ‘It’s my brother! Let’s go and greet him!’

The two others exchanged a glance.

‘I thought Yrdel wasn’t expected for several more days …’ said Enzio.

‘So did I,’ replied Lorn.

They set off at a gallop in pursuit of Alan, heedless of their escort.