The Knight: A Tale from the High Kingdom (23 page)

2

‘Oriale was the capital of Langre before it became that of the High Kingdom, and since time immemorial even before that, it had been the heart of the Imelorian Empire, when the Divine Dragons ruled over the lands, the seas, the skies and the destiny of Men. There was no city more glorious and sacred, or more vast and populous. The ravages of the Wars of the Shadows had not spared it and on one occasion the Dark had completely overwhelmed it. But the protection of Eyral, the White Dragon, had preserved it from absolute destruction.’

Chronicles (The Book of Cities)

With Yssaris on his shoulder, Lorn arrived on horseback in the Redstone district. It was a poor, lower-class neighbourhood that stank and whose old houses leaned upon one another, forming a tangled skein of streets, alleys, courtyards and narrow passages. Oriale had once been a city paved in white. It still was in some places, where its splendour remained intact. But elsewhere, its wooden paving blocks had turned grey or a dirty brown. Except in the Redstone district. Here the paving blocks were made of stone the colour of dried blood, so it was impossible not to know where one was when setting foot on them.

It was sunny at the end of this afternoon. Lorn wore his spectacles beneath his hood and was dressed in grey and black, his Skandish sword at his side. He rode at a walk, without looking to right or left. In Redstone, everyone knew one another and strangers were rare.

Lorn was noticed. He was intriguing.

And worrying.

That was just as he’d hoped …

He took Yssaris in his arms and, passing one leg over the horse’s withers, slid down from the saddle in front of an abandoned and partially collapsed black tower. He stood for a moment considering it, aware of the suspicious glances he was attracting. Protected by a high wall, the keep was almost a ruin. Long ago, there had been one like it at the top of each of the nine hills on which Oriale was built.

This one was the last still standing.

A moat had defended the wall. Now there only remained a muddy ditch partly filled with rubbish and not much broader than the drawbridge allowing passage over it. A drawbridge that was raised, as it happened. And did not seem about to be lowered any time soon.

Continuing to ignore the curious onlookers gazing at him more or less discreetly and speaking in low voices to one another behind his back, Lorn approached a small door adjoining the main entrance. He tried to open it but only managed to push it a little way: its lock had been forced but a chain still barred the way.

Lorn eventually opened it with a great blow of his boot, in plain sight of everyone. He calmly entered, tugging his horse by the reins, preceded by Yssaris who went off on an initial inspection tour. The keep stood in the middle of a narrow courtyard, surrounded by a few buildings backed by the rampart, beneath the wall walk. These buildings were in no better state than the keep itself but Lorn easily recognised their functions: barracks, stable, stockrooms, forge and others. There was also a well into which Lorn dropped a stone. He heard it splash into water and, satisfied, turned back towards the keep whose shadow covered him and whose hulking silhouette was outlined against the bright sky.

A coat of arms and an inscription were carved in stone above the door. The coat of arms – a wolf’s head over two crossed swords – was that of the Onyx Guard. And the inscription was its motto.

The High King we serve.
The High King we defend.

Lorn had not been alive when nine identical Black Towers rose over Oriale. That dated back to the reign of Erklant I, five centuries earlier, when the Onyx Guard was at the height of its power and glory. Back then, perfectly maintained, they had housed dozens of horsemen and symbolised the protection provided by the Guard to the city and its inhabitants, but above all to the High King. The nine hills of Oriale in fact surrounded a tenth, which was covered entirely by the Royal Palace. The Black Towers were thus like sentries standing guard around the king, their dark stone contrasting with the white Watchtowers which rose at regular intervals along the capital’s outer ramparts, defending it against the Dark.

The Watchtowers were still there, even though the Shadows had long since ended. The Black Towers, on the other hand, no longer existed. After the Onyx Guard had been dissolved, they had all been abandoned, looted, knocked down, or dismantled stone by stone.

Except for this one.

More relaxed than he had been for a long while, Lorn drew in a deep breath. He had sensed the salutary influence of the Watchtowers long before he saw them emerge over the horizon. He knew that as long as he remained under their protection, as long as he did not leave Oriale, he need not fear having another fit. Within the city, the Dark was atrophied. The Watchtowers prevented the Dark from approaching, like a dyke containing the tide. But they also prevented it from sprouting, from expressing itself, from developing where it was already present. It was a relief, accompanied by the feeling of breathing more easily, seeing more clearly, of being lighter, more optimistic and more bold …

Hands on his hips, Lorn was looking at the Black Tower with satisfaction when he heard people coming through the small door he had kicked open. Glancing discreetly over his shoulder, he saw a patrol of the neighbourhood militia arriving. Someone had clearly decided to alert the authorities to his presence.

The militiamen deployed themselves cautiously. Hesitant, they did not know what to make of this intruder who made no effort to hide.

Lorn was one step ahead of them. His hands still on his hips, leaning back slightly, he had the air of a property owner admiring a recent acquisition and, without turning round, he announced:

‘My name is Lorn Askarian. First Knight of the Realm. I’m taking possession of this tower.’

3

That very evening, Esteveris received a visit from Yorgast the prefect. In Oriale, each district was administered by a prefect whose authority was unquestioned as long as ordered reigned and taxes were collected. That was the case in the Redstone district, where Talinn Yorgast was in charge.

Despite the late hour, Esteveris was still working at his desk, in his private apartment. Since he just taken his third and final daily bath, beneath his silk and brocade dressing gown he wore only a gauzy cotton shirt that clung to the bulges and folds of his obese body. His smooth skull shone with the pomade that a servant had patiently applied and whose purported virtue was to soothe the terrible migraines from which the minister suffered. As usual, his stubby fingers were heavily laden with rings and gemstones. His lips were greasy from the pastries into which he bit as he read a worrisome report.

The prefect’s unexpected call did not enchant him, but he allowed the man to be shown in. Yorgast was about thirty years old, svelte and carefully groomed.

Esteveris rose to greet him.

‘Good evening, Talinn.’

‘Good evening, Uncle. Thank you for receiving me.’

‘Unfortunately, I can only grant you a few moments.’ He indicated his desk crowded with papers, maps, reports and dossiers bound with leather laces. ‘As you can see, my days are long and full.’

Yorgast was the minister’s nephew by marriage, which explained his appointment as prefect. Esteveris had never had cause to regret it. He knew Yorgast was dishonest, ambitious, greedy for gold, and corrupt, but he was loyal and his district was firmly in his grip.

Esteveris sat back down and offered a seat to his nephew. He would have liked to offer him a pastry as well, but saw there were none left intact on the plate. The minister had acquired a taste for these confections made with honey and orange blossom during a journey outside Imelor, when he still a cleric of the Church of the Sacrificed Dragon-King. He now had a plateful served in his room every evening after dinner. He dipped into it distractedly as he worked, replacing the pastry that he had just chewed, and then, his mouthful consumed, reached out his hand to retrieve the bitten morsel … or another.

‘So, Talinn, what can I do for you?’ he asked in a friendly voice.

The prefect squirmed upon his chair.

‘To tell you the truth, Uncle, something happened today in Redstone. Something I just learned of, that will no doubt be of interest to you.’

Esteveris made a show of licking away the sugar that remained stuck to his fingers.

‘I’m listening.’

‘Well … A man arrived today. He goes by the name of Lorn Askarian and claims to be First Knight of the Realm. I know it’s impossible, but he has a signet ring that seems to prove it. And he’s taken possession of the Black Tower.’

The minister already knew all that. He had learned of Lorn’s arrival a few hours earlier, thanks to the extraordinary network of spies and informers he maintained at all levels of society, from the slums of Bejofa to the queen’s antechamber. He preferred, however, not to tell his nephew that. One useful way of winning people’s loyalty was to let them believe they were useful, even indispensable. After greed, there was no shorter or stronger leash than vanity.

‘I did not wish to intervene,’ Yorgast continued. ‘Not without having informed you and consulted with you beforehand, Uncle.’

‘You did well.’

For form’s sake, Esteveris asked a few questions which the prefect answered eagerly. Following which, Yorgast asked:

‘But what does this mean? Who is this man? Is the signet ring on his finger authentic?’

‘It is, unfortunately.’

‘So you know who he is?’

‘A man the High King has recalled to his service.’

‘The High King!’ exclaimed the prefect. ‘But that—’

‘Don’t be alarmed,’ his uncle interrupted him. ‘There’s nothing to be concerned about.’

‘Truly?’

‘I assure you.’

Yorgast hardly seemed convinced.

He kept his district firmly under his thumb. He had crushed it with taxes, taking more than his share and even using his position to engage in some profitable trafficking. The idea that a representative of the king was going to install himself right in the middle of Redstone was not at all to his liking.

‘Don’t worry,’ insisted the minister, rising from his armchair with a smile he meant to be soothing.

Realising the interview was over, the prefect also rose. He continued to wear a sombre expression.

‘But what does he want, this … this Lorn?’

Esteveris took his nephew by the elbow in order to see him out.

‘I don’t know …’ he said with a shrug. ‘Perhaps to recreate the Onyx Guard all on his own!’ he added.

Yorgast open his eyes wide.

‘You think so?’

The minister burst out laughing.

‘I’m jesting, Talinn! I’m jesting! Come now, get a grip on yourself!’

Anxious not to leave a bad impression, Yorgast forced himself to cheer up and laugh in turn.

‘All the same,’ Esteveris added, ‘you would do well to keep me informed of all this. You’re vigilant, that’s good. So continue to be, all right? Keep a discreet eye on this man and report to me regularly about his deeds and gestures.’

It was an unnecessary precaution, as the minister already had the new occupant of the Black Tower under surveillance.

‘Understood, Uncle.’

‘After all, what harm can one man do?’

‘None,’ the prefect acknowledged.

But he didn’t sound very convinced.

Once Yorgast had left, Esteveris sat back down at his desk. Preoccupied, he swallowed several pastries in a row as he reflected. He did not know what Lorn was doing in Oriale. He only knew that Lorn was the High King’s key piece and had just been pushed to the middle of the board. The opening moves complete, the match was at last truly starting.

Esteveris sighed.

As if he needed this! As if he didn’t have enough worries, enough problems to solve, with the cession of Angborn approaching! Did the High King really have to choose this moment to start acting up from his citadel? Couldn’t he simply die there, retired from the world?

Esteveris realised he’d finished off the plate of pastries and reproached himself. With a sudden grimace of disgust, he pushed it away in a fit of ill temper and let it fall upon the wooden floor, where the porcelain broke into several pieces.

The noise drew Draniss, the minister’s private valet. Mute as usual, the black drac passed his head through the door and gave his master an enquiring look.

Esteveris waved him away with an irritated gesture.

Then he changed his mind and called him back.

‘Draniss!’

The drac returned.

‘Is Dalk still here?’

Draniss nodded.

‘Send him in.’

Nodding again, the drac left.

When Sorr Dalk entered, Esteveris was waiting on the balcony.

Announced by the rapping of his heels and the jingling of his spurs, he joined the minister but waited to be asked before saying anything. The night was warm, clear and peaceful.

And Dalk was not an impatient man.

He bided his time, with a thumb stuck in the buckle of his belt and a hand resting on the pommel of his sword.

‘I read your report,’ Esteveris said at last. ‘Is there really cause for concern?’

Dalk had returned from Angborn.

‘I think so.’

‘And who is this Cael …’

‘Cael Dorsian. A very minor and very dubious member of the nobility of the sword. He has gathered around him all the opponents of the cession of Angborn to Yrgaard. He speaks of treason, of dishonour. He does not recognise the queen’s right to govern. He says he only owes obedience to the High King. People are listening to him.’

‘Can he be reasoned with?’

‘No.’

‘Can he be bought?’

‘Again, no.’

‘Silenced, then?’ Esteveris asked angrily, turning towards his henchman.

Dalk did not blink.

‘That would be ill-advised,’ he said.

The minister cursed and took a moment to calm down.

‘I know that,’ he said. ‘It’s never a good idea to create a martyr to a cause … What about arresting him? Hasn’t this baron already done something illegal?’

‘Nothing. Nothing we can prove, at least. For the moment.’

‘What do you mean?’

Dalk explained that, for some time now, a band of brigands had been active in Angborn. They only stole from wealthy Yrgaardians, or from merchants, bankers and ship-owners favourable to Yrgaard. Cargoes had been stolen, houses burgled, warehouses emptied, stockrooms burned. All of it with such minimal violence that up until now there had only been some cuts and bruises. But for how much longer?

The brigands signed their misdeeds with printed leaflets which they left behind at the scene or posted at night on the city’s walls. Very popular, they claimed to be loyal subjects of the High King. They condemned the queen’s illegal regency, which was leading the High Kingdom to its ruin. They rejected the cession of Angborn and promised to continue the struggle when the city was handed over to the Yrgaardians. They were fighters, preparing to wage a legitimate war by seizing funds from the enemy that would soon be needed for their cause.

‘And according to you, Dorsian is the leader of this band,’ said Esteveris.

‘Dorsian denies it. But he says the same sort of thing as they do. Moreover, he’s a man of action. And he has all the qualities needed to gather about him a handful of brave and determined volunteers.’

Troubled, the minister mulled this over.

The actions of these brigands risked compromising the good relations that were being established between the High Kingdom and Yrgaard. They needed to be stopped as quickly as possible, before they did any further harm and attracted more supporters. The idea that they might try to strike a daring blow during the treaty signature caused Esteveris’s temples to break out into a cold sweat. The queen, who wanted that day to be her triumph, would never forgive such an insult.

Or anyone responsible.

‘Return to Angborn, Dalk. Leave tomorrow.’

‘Understood.’

‘Do as you see fit. Use any means necessary and spend whatever you have to. But I want these criminals dead or behind bars as soon as possible. And guilty or not, I want Dorsian silenced. Is that clear?’

Dalk bowed and withdrew.

Sensing a migraine coming on due to anxiety, Esteveris called out:

‘Draniss!’

The black drac appeared.

‘Some wine,’ demanded the minister. He hesitated. ‘And pastries.’