The Knight: A Tale from the High Kingdom (10 page)

14

Lorn grimaced upon waking.

He was hurting, his body stiff and painful, a migraine boring into his temples and almost blinding him. He breathed with difficulty, his torso bound tightly to keep his ribs in place. He was lying in the room assigned to him within the prince’s apartment at the governor’s palace. How had he reached his bed? The drawn curtains maintained a gentle dimness in the room although it was sunny outside. Everything was quiet.

Father Domnis prayed in silence, kneeling at his bedside. When he saw Lorn was conscious, he removed the hood of his white robe and stood up.

‘How are you feeling, my son?’ he asked in a soft voice.

‘Father?’

Lorn attempted to sit up and groaned.

‘Try not to move, my son. Are you in pain?’

‘I’m thirsty.’

‘Of course.’

The priest brought him a glass of water to which he added a few drops of amber liquid. Then he helped him drink it by propping up his head gently. Lorn recognised the taste of kesh liqueur with satisfaction. There was nothing better to combat pain.

While Lorn closed his eyes again, waiting for the drug to take effect, Father Domnis went to open the door slightly and said a few words to the guard in the hallway. Then he quietly shut the door and returned to the bed.

Lorn felt his migraine diminish.

‘What happened?’ he asked, keeping his eyes closed.

His voice, weak and hoarse, was that of a man on the point of sinking into slumber.

‘You don’t remember anything?’ asked the white priest.

‘I’m … so … tired …’

‘Then go back to sleep, my son. And let me pray for your soul …’

Later, Alan joined Father Domnis at Lorn’s bedside. With all the waiting and vain searching, he had not slept a wink since his friend had disappeared.

‘No one seems to know who the girl Lorn left with was,’ he said quietly.

‘Perhaps she had nothing to with this.’

‘I doubt it …’

‘You should rest, my son.’

Alan acted as though he had not heard and gazed bleakly at Lorn. Looking very pale, his face marked by blows, his friend was plunged into a sleep too deep to be reassuring. The priest wiped away a small drip of black bile that still leaked from between his closed lips

‘What happened to him, father?’

‘I fear he heard the Call of the Dark.’

‘The Call of the Dark? What’s that?’

‘Lorn has spent a long time in close company with the Dark. Too long …’

‘I know that.’

‘But if he survived it, it’s because … How should I put it?’ The white priest hunted for the right word. ‘It’s because the Dark has … accepted him rather than seeking to destroy him. It has spared him and allowed him into its bosom, as the mark on his hand bears witness.’

‘Spared him? You think so?’

‘I’m not explaining this well … You know of the ravages the Dark can wreak upon bodies and upon souls. Your friend has not become a raving lunatic. Nor a stammering idiot. And his body has not been corrupted.’

‘There is the matter of his eyes.’

‘That’s relatively minor, compared to the deformities suffered by some wretches …’

‘That’s true.’

‘Lorn is strong. No doubt that’s why the Dark has chosen him.’

‘And now it’s calling him.’

‘In a sense. He’s longing for it. At Dalroth, Lorn was exposed to an abundant source of the Dark. He became … habituated to it. And now, he misses it like …’ Embarrassed, Father Domnis cleared his throat. ‘Like …’

‘Like I missed kesh. Don’t trouble yourself on my account, father. I understand what you mean … Will he recover?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Answer me.’

‘Nothing is impossible, my son. But …’

‘What else?’ Alan asked impatiently, trying not to raise his voice. ‘Out with it!’

Father Domnis nevertheless took his time choosing the right words.

‘Now there’s no doubt that the Dark is within him.’

Lorn shifted restlessly in his sleep.

Alan took the white priest by the arm and drew him away from the bed.

‘What are you trying to tell me, father? That there’s no hope?’

‘No! Lorn can purge himself of the Dark that is within him. But he has to want to.’

‘Want to? But of course he will! How could he not want to?’

Father Domnis found it wiser not to contradict the prince on this point, for all that he knew the Dark could exercise an irresistible attraction. That for some, it was a terrible and lethal drug; one they could not do without despite the harm it caused them over time.

‘It will be long and painful, my son.’

‘Long?’

‘An entire lifetime might not be enough.’

The morning came when, sitting up in his bed, Lorn could eat without assistance.

It was the first real meal he’d had since a patrol had found him in Bejofa and brought him, still unconscious, to the governor’s palace.

‘Now this is a pleasant sight,’ said Alan as a servant took away the remains of the copious breakfast that Lorn had just wolfed down with appetite.

As the servant was young and pretty, Alan could not prevent himself from following her with his eyes. No fool, she gave him a coy smile before closing the door.

‘How are you?’ asked Alan.

‘Much better, thank you.’

‘Would you allow me to let a little sunshine in? It’s a magnificent day outside and it’s like a vigil for the dead in here.’

With the shutters half-closed, the room was plunged into dimness.

‘I’d prefer it if you didn’t,’ Lorn said.

‘Oh? You’re not over that?’

Lorn shook his head.

His eyes were still sensitive to bright light. The right one, now a pale grey, hurt him in particular: very soon after being exposed, it was as if white-hot needles were being stuck into his skull.

Alan made the mattress tilt and Lorn, who was still careful when making the slightest gesture, grimaced with pain.

‘I’m sorry,’ said the prince, realising his clumsiness.

‘It … It will be all right …’ said Lorn, cautiously finding a comfortable position.

Alan tried not to move again.

‘We were worried sick, do you know that?’

‘We?’ noted Lorn.

‘All right. I was worried sick,’ the prince corrected himself, emphasising the ‘I’. ‘But what got into you, disappearing like that?’

‘I … I don’t know …’

‘I hunted for you everywhere, that night. As I had a very bad feeling, I ordered search parties. And it was only the following day that they found you. Unconscious. And in Bejofa! What the hell were you doing in Bejofa?’

‘It’s a long story.’

‘Not a problem. I have all my time.’

‘I’m tired, Alan.’

‘No. You’ll sleep once you’ve told me who put you in this state.’

The tone was friendly but firm.

Lorn knew Alan well enough to realise he would not rest until he obtained satisfaction. The prince’s solicitude was as sincere as his worry and his questions. He wanted to know, and he would.

‘There are witnesses who say they saw you leave the party in the company of a beautiful young brunette,’ said the prince.

Lorn nodded.

He recounted his meeting with Elana and the trap into which she had lured him, up to the moment when he threw himself out the window. But he concealed his fit of violence when, convinced she had betrayed him, he’d tried to make her talk. And he did not mention Irelice.

‘The house she took you to, could you find it again?’ asked Alan.

‘I think so, yes.’

‘I’d be surprised if there was anyone waiting for us, but perhaps they left some clues behind. You really don’t know what these people wanted from you?’ Alan asked.

‘To abduct me. But other than that …’

‘Since you were seen leaving together, I made some enquiries about this Elana. No one knows who she is, exactly. And she wasn’t on the guest list.’

‘She’s a bold one. She was chatting to you and the Yrgaardian ambassador when I joined you.’

‘Yes, she must have been after you from the start. No doubt she thought the best way to reach you was through me.’

‘And since you’ve never been able to resist a pretty woman …’

‘That’s an exaggeration,’ Alan protested, on principle.

‘You don’t say.’

‘And then?’

‘It’s … It’s fairly cloudy in my mind. I remember falling into the river and I don’t really know how I managed not to drown. After that …’

Lorn disguised the truth again.

He mentioned Delio but said nothing of the fit he underwent, nothing of the despair and the shame, nothing of the anguish and the suffering that had gripped him to the point of regretting that he was still alive. Did he really expect to fool Alan or was he lying to himself? He couldn’t say. Perhaps he simply wanted to postpone the moment when he would have to face the events of that terrible night. But the main thing was that, due to the Dark and its hold over him, he found himself concealing the truth from his only friend.

But the prince was not so easily deceived.

‘Why are you lying to me?’ he asked sadly.

Lorn looked at him without being able to utter a word.

‘I know,’ Alan went on to say, ‘that something else happened to you that night. Something terrible that Father Domnis names the Call …’

Since Lorn continued to remain silent, Alan finally stood up.

‘The guards brought you back here in the same state as they found you in the street where you were lying. Half-dead. And covered in a black bile which you’re still coughing up at times … That was enough for Father Domnis to understand what had happened to you.’

‘I … I don’t remember anything about that,’ Lorn attempted to say.

‘Stop it!’ Alan said angrily, but without raising his voice. ‘Just stop … Nothing obliges you to confide in me. You don’t owe me a thing. You don’t owe anything to anyone. But don’t take me for an idiot. If you don’t wish to talk about something, then say so and that will suffice.’

They stared at one another for a very long moment.

‘I do not want to speak of that,’ Lorn said at last, before averting his eyes.

‘As you wish. But I can’t help you against your will.’

‘I haven’t asked you for anything, Alan. Leave me alone.’

For the prince, it was a hard blow.

Lorn regained strength.

In the course of the days that followed, he was soon fit enough to walk in the gardens, with the help of a cane at first, and then without. He got better and forced himself to perform long and painful exercises. It was not simply a matter of healing from his wounds. He wanted to recover the vigour, speed and endurance he had possessed before Dalroth. Also, the efforts he made prevented him from brooding and, when night-time came, caused him to fall into a deep sleep. So he trained from morning till evening, spending long solitary hours in the fencing room wielding a sword and riding mounts borrowed from the stables until they were exhausted.

He and Alan did not return to the painful conversation they’d had. The prince waited for Lorn to express regret, if not offer an apology, while Lorn did not wish to ask for forgiveness now from anyone. So they acted as if nothing had happened, but their relations became cold and tense. When Father Domnis voiced concern about this, Alan explained what it was about. The priest had then pleaded Lorn’s cause: it was no doubt the Dark that had spoken. Alan had understood that. But despite everything, Lorn’s words still wounded him.

As he completed his convalescence, Lorn was forced to admit that if his body was healing, his eyes remained as sensitive as ever. It was painful for him to go outside in full sunlight without protection, a weakness he would henceforth have to deal with. At first, he decided to wear a patch over his right eye, but that interfered with his depth perception and dangerously reduced his field of vision. Then Father Domnis found the solution and had some rectangular spectacles made whose tinted glasses allowed Lorn to see without being dazzled. Lorn was not pleased at first: he was not yet thirty years old and, for him, spectacles were only worn by old men and scholars smelling of paper and ink. But he came to agree that these glasses did the job perfectly well.

Along with his black hair, his pallor, his silence, his mismatched eyes and the sombre outfits he liked to wear, the spectacles put the finishing touch to the aura that surrounded him. Even without mentioning the seal on the back of his left hand, he had a dark and disturbing air about him. People bowed their heads when they passed him in the hallways, gave him sidelong glances and whispered about him behind his back. It did not bother him. On the contrary, he relished his solitude. He found a certain degree of comfort in it, between four walls of silence and oblivion.

15

One morning, Lorn announced to Alan he was leaving.

‘When?’

‘Today.’

The prince took in the news without blinking.

‘I should be thinking of going home, too. I’ve received a letter from my mother: she is calling me back to Oriale.’

In fact, the letter had arrived a few days earlier. But Alan had not wished to reply to the queen’s summons before Lorn was completely recovered. He thought of offering to accompany Lorn instead, but without a sincere reconciliation between them, a touch of pride prevented him from doing so: he did not wish to appear to be begging.

‘The Duke of Feln is up to his usual mischief,’ he said casually.

‘The duke?’

‘I’m talking about Duncan.’

Duncan of Feln.

Lorn felt his guts knotting up.

He gave no sign of it, however, and simply asked:

‘Still up to his neck in intrigue, old Duncan?’

Alan stifled a small laugh.

‘More than ever. Especially since my mother’s authority is being questioned and those willing to lend the duke an ear are growing in number. But the lesser nobility of the sword are wary of him, and without them he will never manage to do anything against the throne.’

‘So he’s become a duke.’

‘Yes. He’s led the House of Feln since his elder brother’s death. And will do so until his nephew comes of age.’

‘Poor nephew. I doubt he’ll live to see his bones grow old,’ said Lorn.

The prince and he fell silent, embarrassed.

The few words they had just exchanged were mere social chit-chat, intended only to fill the silence and mask the lingering ill-feeling from their quarrel, and were unworthy of their friendship.

Unworthy of them.

Alan sighed.

‘Where do you intend to go’ he asked.

‘To Sarme. I’m planning to ask for Enzio’s hospitality for a while.’

The prince felt a stab of jealousy.

‘If you’re trying to see Alissia again …’

He did not finish his sentence, as a livid veil of sadness passed over his friend’s face. Alan immediately regretted his words.

‘I’m … I’m sorry, Lorn. I did not mean—’

‘How is she?’

‘Well.’

‘Is she …?’

‘Married? No, but—’

‘I know, Alan. There’s no need to spell it out for me. I know that I shall never wed her.’

Lorn tried to remain impassive, but the memory of Alissia had pierced his soul and his heart like a blade of icy fire. In his mind he saw her again, beautiful and fragile, as she was the day he had asked her father, the powerful Duke of Sarme and Vallence, for her hand. And he saw her again the night he left them, she and her brother Enzio, on a quay in the port of Alencia.

It was a torment.

The prince wanted to make amends and asked:

‘What do you need?

Lorn shrugged.

‘A good horse. Money. Supplies. A sword … Only the bare minimum.’

‘Understood. But it’s a long journey to Sarme.’

‘I know.’

‘Take an escort.’

‘No.’

‘Just a few men. You can pick them yourself.’

‘No, Alan.’

‘You were attacked on the very night of your return. What makes you think the people who wanted to make you disappear won’t try again?’

‘I’ll be careful.’

‘You know as well as I do that it’s not always enough. Accept an escort, Lorn. You can send it back as soon as you’re safe in Sarme.’

The prince was truly worried and Lorn understood that. But he remained obstinate and refused again: he wanted to travel alone, whatever the risks.

‘As you will.’

‘I’m going to get ready,’ Lorn said.

He waited as the prince looked away in silence, both saddened and exasperated by his friend’s attitude: Lorn, once again, was refusing his help.

Lorn moved off but halted before he left the room.

He hesitated, and then said:

‘Thank you. For everything.’

Alan turned his back to him.

‘Of course,’ he replied in a cold voice.

An hour later, in the stables, Lorn was checking that his horse was in good health and correctly saddled when Father Domnis came to join him.

‘I learned you are leaving, my son.’

‘Indeed,’ Lorn replied without ceasing what he was doing.

‘The prince is worried about you.’

‘So he sent you?’

‘No. I share his concern, however.’

Lorn was silent as he lifted his mount’s hooves one by one.

The white priest insisted:

‘You could have another fit like the one … the one you had before.’

‘I know.’

‘If it happens, it would be best if you were not alone.’

‘No doubt, yes.’

There was another silence, but this time it was Lorn who broke it:

‘Listen, father. I know the nature of the illness I’m suffering. But the choice before me is quite simple. Either I live in fear of another Call that may occur whether I like it or not. Or I take the risk of living my life.’

‘It’s a risk you may be forcing others to take as well, my son,’ said Father Domnis in an even tone.

Lorn looked at him and said:

‘The Dark has already stolen so much from me.’

‘I understand, my son. Nevertheless, you can’t—’

‘Goodbye, father.’

Lorn led his horse out and put one foot in the stirrup.

‘Just a minute!’ exclaimed the white priest. ‘Take this, would you? Who knows if it might be of use to you?’

He held out a medallion bearing – in white enamel – the rune of Eyral, the White Dragon.

Lorn hesitated before taking the pendant and climbing onto his horse.

Then he kicked his heels.

Lorn left the governor’s palace without looking back. He did not see Alan who, with a grave expression, watched him depart from a window. He only halted at the gates of the city, where he called out to a beggar and tossed him Father Domnis’s medallion.

Seeing that the pendant and its chain were made of silver, the man broke into a toothless smile and shouted in delight:

‘Thank you, my lord! May Eyral accompany you!’

Lorn was already trotting away.