The Knight: A Tale from the High Kingdom Read Online Free PDF Page B

end of the Shadows. That explained its name. And its storms. And the evil dreams and tortured nights of Dalroth.’
Chronicles (The Book of Shadow)
     
    The royal galleon sailed away from Dalroth and the storm. The waters of the Sea of Shadows remained agitated and treacherous, but less so than around the cursed fortress, where the forces of nature confronted the Dark without ever winning the battle. The winds abated. The swells diminished. The waves assaulted the vessel with a reduced fury.

    A cabin had been reserved for Lorn.
    There was a bunk that looked comfortable, but he asked for the wherewithal to wash first as he wanted to feel clean and decent. Despite his fatigue, he made a thorough job of it, requiring several ewers of water. He put on a fresh shirt and breeches. Gave away his prison clothing to be burned. Resolved to trim his beard rather than shave it off, out of fear of cutting himself due to the ship’s swaying and plunging into the dips between swells, but also because his hands were shaking. Alan assured him there was a ship’s boy among the crew who would be able to shave him, but Lorn would not hear of it.
    And, at last, he lay down.
    He was exhausted, stricken by a weariness that was as much mental as physical. Yet sleep eluded him. It was as if he had just awoken from a nightmare. Or an illness, a fever, a tortuous dream from which he was still struggling to extract himself. It was like a weight upon his soul that had lifted and left him naked.
    Just before embarking, he had turned around and raised his eyes towards Dalroth to – so he hoped – look upon it one last time. Alan had waited until Lorn, his face splashed with rain, asked him in a hoarse voice:
    ‘What year is it?’
    Alan hesitated.
    ‘Please,’ insisted Lorn. ‘I’ll find out eventually, won’t I?’
    ‘You really don’t know?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘The year is 1547,’ the prince revealed, in as gentle a voice as possible.
    He could not help feeling ashamed.
    Telling Lorn the year was the same as telling him how long he’d been imprisoned. But saying it obliged him to face the awful truth. Sometimes the harshness of a fact becomes unbearable when it was spoken aloud.
    As his friend remained silent, the prince drew in a breath and added:
    ‘We are in the spring of 1547.’
    There, all had been said.
    Lorn took some time absorbing this information.
    ‘So it’s been … three years …’ he murmured.
    ‘Yes.’
    Lorn had nodded slowly.
    He had remained silent, but at that moment he had felt, for the first time in a very long while, an emotion that was neither fear nor dismay.
    One of the most human emotions.
    Anger.

    Rocked by the strong swell, Lorn was drowsing when he heard a quiet knock upon his door. Amidst the creaking of the galleon, he doubted whether he had heard right and pricked up his ears.
    The knocking came again.
    ‘Come in,’ he said in a voice that was still hoarse.
    A white priest peeped in with a hesitant air. He was about fifty years old, with grey hair and a short, perfectly trimmed beard.
    ‘Forgive me, my son. Were you sleeping? I can come back …’
    As Lorn made no reply, the priest entered. He was tall and solidly built. Upon seeing Lorn struggling to sit up, he hurriedly said:
    ‘No, no, my son. Don’t trouble yourself.’
    Lorn contented himself with rolling onto his side and propping his head on one elbow. ‘May I?’ asked the priest, pointing to a stool.
    Lorn having nodded his assent, the priest sat down.
    ‘I am Father Domnis, my son. Perhaps you remember me. We met three years ago when—’
    ‘I remember.’
    ‘As you might guess, Prince Alderan’s asked me to visit you.’
    Wary, Lorn asked:
    ‘Are you worried about my soul?’
    ‘It is no secret that Dalroth tests the spirit as much as the body,’ said the priest in a conciliatory tone.
    He was wearing the white robe of his order with a dragon’s head over the heart, barely distinguishable as it was also embroidered in white,