Free The Knight: A Tale from the High Kingdom by Pierre Pevel Page B

woman. She had been part of the group Alan had abandoned in mid-conversation to come and greet him. About twenty years in age, she was beautiful and particularly elegant in a pearl-grey dress.
    Now she was alone, sipping from a glass of wine.
    Lorn rose to his feet.
    ‘Good evening.’
    ‘Elana,’ she said, extending her hand.
    Lorn placed a kiss upon it.
    ‘May I keep you company?’ she asked.
    Lorn nodded as she already began to sit down. After a moment’s hesitation, he took a seat at her side upon the bench.
    There was a silence.
    Bringing her glass to her lips, Elana observed Lorn’s profile closely over its edge. Then she offered him her drink.
    ‘Do you want some?’
    ‘No, thank you.’
    ‘You don’t drink?’
    She insisted with her gaze.
    ‘All right,’ conceded Lorn with a small shrug.
    He took a swallow and returned the glass to the young woman. The wine was nicely cooled, slightly flavoured with kesh liqueur. It added a sweetish note, but that was not the kesh’s sole virtue. Perhaps it accounted for Elana’s indolent air.
    Sipping her wine, she resumed her examination of Lorn. It was as if she were trying to detect in his face something that eluded her. Her black eyes flashed with mischief.
    Lorn continued to look straight in front of him.
    His embarrassment grew and he was about to speak when Elana beat him to it:
    ‘A few days ago,’ she said in a conversational tone, ‘a royal messenger arrived from the capital. He announced that Prince Alderan would soon be landing at Samarande following a dangerous expedition to the Sea of Shadows.’
    Lorn waited, and she asked:
    ‘That dangerous expedition was you, wasn’t it?’
    He smiled faintly. He’d never been called a dangerous expedition before.
    ‘My name is Lorn.’
    ‘Lorn?’
    ‘Lorn Askarian.’
    ‘That sounds like a Skandish name.’
    He made no reply.
    ‘And you were imprisoned at Dalroth,’ the young woman added.
    Lorn discreetly slipped his left hand beneath his right: the leather band still hid the Dark’s seal embedded in his flesh, but he felt as though anyone could see it or guess at its existence. His marked hand hurt for no particular reason. It was the first time he had felt that, and thought it must be a cramp.
    As he said nothing, Elana continued:
    ‘According to the messenger, you’re a friend of the prince. An old friend?’ she asked ingenuously.
    ‘Since we were born.’
    ‘So why did he do nothing, when you were convicted?’
    ‘He was far away. He didn’t know.’
    ‘For three years?’
    ‘For three years.’
    Intrigued by her, Lorn turned to look at Elana. She held his gaze without blinking and, suddenly joyous, rose to her feet, leaving her empty glass on the bench.
    ‘Let’s go somewhere else,’ she proposed.
    ‘Pardon me?’
    ‘Let’s go somewhere else. Let’s go for a walk!’
    She took Lorn’s right hand between hers and tugged him to his feet. He allowed himself to be led.
    ‘Who are you, exactly?’ he asked.
    ‘I’m the best thing that could happen to you this evening. Come on!’
    Lorn paused to take a closer look at her.
    She had long black hair, a pale complexion, sparkling eyes and a pretty face: she was very much to his taste. Or at least, to the taste of the man he had been.
    A suspicion, then, arose inside him.
    It was as though the pain caused by the Dark’s mark on his hand was heightening his wariness and sharpening his senses, as though it were warning him of a danger that was still vague and distant, but real all the same.
    Was he mistaken?
    He had to find out.
    He followed Elana.

10
     
    They left the governor’s palace but did not go far, remaining on Samarande’s heights.
    With Elana on Lorn’s arm, they followed paved, brightly lit streets, bedecked with flowers and flags, where the celebrations continued into the night. People strolled, laughed and drank. They danced in the torchlight and played skittles in front of the packed taverns. Accompanied by flutes and