The Age of Knights & Dames Page 12

  “I’m so sorry,” Jenn said.

  They sat in silence for several minutes. The seer rubbed her thumbs in the palms of her hands. When she spoke, her voice was dry.

  “I couldn’t bear it…. So I decided no more Sight. I rid myself of it.”

  “You destroyed it?” Jenn assumed.

  The seer’s face crumpled.

  “Would that I could,” she said. “The Sight cannot be destroyed. Only lost or hidden.”

  Jenn’s shoulders slumped. This quest was over before it had begun.

  “What would you have me do?” she asked.

  “Take us far from this place,” the seer pleaded. “As I was shown with the Sight. Guide us to the southern shores and to safety.”

  “And the kingdom?” Jenn inquired, thinking of the beautiful isles of the past that she had glimpsed in the library. “The queen? The other Civium?”

  The seer’s face fell.

  “I can’t abandon them,” she said, then sighed heavily. “But how would the Sight save any of them?”

  Jenn grasped at straws: “Seeing the invisible and immediate futures could be a powerful tool to prevent a misstep or know the right course of action.”

  “Only if you can interpret what you See with enough time to act in a way that circumnavigates what you have seen,” the seer chided.

  Jenn paused, letting this statement sink in. A second later, the seer frowned, knowing the trap she’d just fallen into.

  “A devilish trick,” she spat. “Insidious. Cruel.” She sighed again. “Yes, I alone could decipher what the Sight showed. But I do not wish to See again. I cannot.”

  “We must,” Jenn implored. “I…I used to sit at home every night. Watching the world burn. Getting lost in the misery of it all. This is the first night in a lot of years I’m doing something different. And if I can get off that couch, if I can face the future, so can you.” She took a deep breath, measuring her words. “If I find your Sight, if I recover the talismans, would you be brave enough to look one last time? To See what can be done? And then…no more.”

  The seer’s glassy eyes teared up again.

  “Only once more?” she asked.

  “Once,” Jenn agreed. “Where are they?”

  “Under the castle,” the seer confessed after a moment of silence. “In the catacombs. I hid them in the open, unmarked grave of Solomon.”

  Of course, Jenn thought. Because the seer couldn’t leave the Sight somewhere warm, pleasant, clean…

  “Hold on,” Jenn said. “Who is Solomon? Earlier, in the castle, you said—”

  “Don’t go the way of Solomon,” the seer repeated. “Yes, Lady Jennifer. Do not go his way. You will see when you visit his grave. His way is to suffer greatly.”

  “But who is he?”

  The seer frowned deeply. “The Poison Priest of Pavidus. Then a Hospite. Then a defender. Then the Kingdom Killer. But truly, he was but a damned knight, one of the worst. He used his authority to wreak havoc, and as a result was ultimately stripped of his titles and exiled from the kingdom.”

  That sounds familiar, Jenn thought bitterly.

  “It didn’t stop him,” the seer continued. “He went on, lost in his ways, after glory or power. No one really knew. But he was fast and effective. He gained supporters, toppled cities and kingdoms, decimated our sister islands, his home of Pavidus, even a military of a thousand. He took the name Kingdom Killer and was feared by many. Except by Dembroch. We knew him in his beginning, who he still was deep down. So, King Richard set out to put a stop to Solomon’s acts and returned home with his body…or the remains of it. They rest in infamy below, a reminder to defenders and all Civium of the poisonous perils of power.”

  “And that’s where I’ll find the Sight?”

  “The last place anyone in this kingdom would want to look,” the seer said.

  “How do I get there?”

  “Any descending staircase will lead you there eventually. The cleanest entrance is through the library.”

  “Will you come with me?”

  The seer shuddered. “I cannot. I mustn’t. The catacombs are no place for the living.”

  “I’m living,” Jenn said.

  “But you are a dame,” she replied. “You have prepared your whole life for a moment like this. I am only the seer and I must attend to my daughter.”

  Jenn wanted nothing more than to run, but knew she must stay. She wanted Dembroch to live on. Its purpose was good, a bright ray of light in the world that Jenn only wished she could be. No matter the danger, no matter the terror ahead, she had to do this. Even if she had to do it alone.

  She helped the seer to her feet.

  “I’ll meet you at your home,” she promised. “Look once more for me and I will take you and your daughter to safety.”

  The seer beamed from ear to ear.

  “You were always my favorite, Lady Jennifer.”

  ◆◆◆

  Jenn found her way back to the library. Inside, she found stacks overturned, wooden cases blown to splinters, pages torn and strewn, books rent into hundreds of pieces. Only a few bookcases remained standing.

  “Some temper tantrum,” Jenn mumbled, making a personal note to never cross the librarian.

  She circled the library, looking through doors until she found one with a descending staircase. A cold draft blew out of it.

  Jenn felt her bravery ebbing away. Why was she pretending? She wasn’t brave or good or hopeful. Why would she voluntarily go into the catacombs, where there would be corpses and death and disgust? She should just—

  “Help me,” a voice called.

  Jenn nearly jumped out of her skin. She spun around to find Sir Rignot pinned under a heap of splintered wood. He had a fresh bump on his head and blood running from his nose.

  “What happened?!” she cried as she worked to free him.

  “The witch,” he replied. “She attacked shortly after you and your friends left. She seeks you vigilantly. I fear she lingers close. And you?”

  “The seer,” Jenn explained. “She left her Sight in the catacombs.”

  The librarian frowned. “Of course she did.”

  Jenn pushed away the last, largest piece of broken bookcase and helped the librarian up. He weaved on his feet for a moment.

  “I’m afraid I’m not much use here,” he said, looking around his destroyed library. “May I accompany you, Lady Jennifer?”

  She was all too eager to accept the offer. They pulled two torches from the wall and Sir Rignot unlocked the door. Together, they descended into the catacombs.

  Perhaps, Jenn decided, she could face the darkness. With a little bit of help.

  CHAPTER 17:

  Rescuing Royalty

  I slunk through the castle, jumping at the sound of every creak and crack.

  At last, I found my way back to the prison. In the last cell was the queen, looking like the old, frail, ugly witch, but worse than when I’d last seen her. Blood tricked from her mouth. She had a black eye and long scrapes in her arms. The witch had been obviously been by and vented some of her frustrations.

  “Sir Nicholas,” the queen rasped when she saw me. “You should not be here—”

  “We already have our quests,” I explained. “You are mine.”

  For a moment, I thought I saw the queen blush, but it was hard to tell on such a ghastly appearance.

  “If the witch returns, she will show no mercy,” the queen whispered.

  “I’d better get you out then,” I replied.

  “Careful,” the queen said. “The witch cast a spell on the door of my cell. Should anyone open it, she will surely be alerted.”

  I pursed my lips, thinking hard.

  “She may have done that to your cell,” I thought aloud, “but I doubt she did it to these ones.”

  I opened the door to the cell beside the queen’s slowly. Nothing happened, so I entered it and inspected the makeshift wall of bars separating the queen’s cell from the one I stood in. Four rus
ted bolts secured the bars to the stone wall.

  “I have an idea,” I said.

  From further down the hallway, I retrieved an iron torch. I snuffed out the flame and took it back to the prison cells. There, I wedged the pointed end of the torch between the bolts and the stone wall. I began pulling and twisting. Slowly but surely, the bars began to bow and tremble. It would take a while, but it would work.

  As I worked, the queen paced her cell.

  “Given your presence and insistence to aid me,” the queen said, “I assume you intend to heal what cannot be mended?”

  “Well–uh,” I stammered, not sure what to say about this.

  “I have given it much thought,” the queen said when I didn’t speak. “If the mage’s musings mean me, and my broken heart must be mended, we must go to the source. My heart was first broken by the loss of my king. Perhaps the only way to mend it is to avenge his death.”

  “The witch?” I assumed.

  The queen nodded. “I do not take the task lightly. But the king cannot die in vain. The witch shall pay penance for her transgressions.”

  There was a fine line hidden in her words. I didn’t sense she wanted to harm or execute the witch, only to make the witch own up to her crimes.

  “Tell me about the witch,” I said as I popped one bolt and began to work on another. “The magic of Dembroch is gone, but she’s still throwing magic around. And she keeps aging.”

  “She is a mystery unto herself,” the queen replied, kneading her hands. “Prior to arriving on Dembroch, she managed to internalize her magic, a task not easily accomplished or lightly taken. It causes great strain on your heart and mind. But she has accomplished this feat nonetheless. As a result, she is her own source of magic. So long as she can speak an incantation, her will can be done.”

  “And the aging thing? Back in the throne room, she went from thirty to ninety in a few seconds.”

  “As you may have seen, the use of her magic puts a strain on her body and ages her terribly,” responded the queen. “Like many witches and warlocks before her, she consumes the flesh of the incorruptibles to stay young.”

  “Incorruptibles?”

  “Innocent, long-living creatures. Whales, turtles, elephants, the like. By eating their flesh, Sorgana consumes their lifeforce and uses it for her own.”

  I remembered the turtle Sir Liliford had retrieved for her from the Bridgemaster’s home. I gulped. The witch had eaten the poor creature.

  “Does that mean…humans?” I gulped.

  The queen shook her head. “Unlikely. Humans are much more complex creatures. She wouldn’t be able to simply—”

  “Eat us?” I interrupted. My skin crawled and I decided to change the subject. “How did she get here?”

  “My husband,” Queen Coralee replied. “She arrived on Dembroch covered in his blood, possessing his chroniseal.”

  “The witch killed him?”

  “We can only assume, though she has never claimed responsibility. I also believe she tortured him for information. The witch knows Dembroch intricately—the geography, the castle, the magic—though she has never been here. I believe she learned these secrets by way of force.”

  I winced, my imagination running wild to picture King Richard, the once proud monarch, strapped to a chair in the freezer of a butcher’s shop, the witch using her magic to torture him until he spilled every secret she wanted to know.

  “So why is she here?” I asked. “What is she trying to accomplish?”

  The queen kneaded her hand like she was trying to polish off her fingertips. I sensed she was choosing her words carefully.

  “She has yet to say,” the queen answered. “Whatever she intends, it required ending our kingdom’s magic and its safeguards.”

  “The timelessness?” I assumed.

  The queen bit her lip and nodded. I sensed she knew something more that she was not sharing, perhaps because it was only a puzzle piece that did not complete the full picture or some personal matter that put her in a bad light.

  “Whatever she does next,” Queen Coralee continued, “I believe it to be a matter of reprisal.”

  “Revenge?” I echoed. “For what?”

  The queen paused. “Sorgana…claims to know me.”

  “Do you know her?” I asked.

  The queen shook her head earnestly.

  “If I ever knew her, I cannot recall. Whatever slight she believes I paid her, or however Dembroch has failed her, I cannot possibly know. It must have been long ago.”

  “Long ago?” I said. “As in before… Before you got here?”

  She nodded. “I was not born on Dembroch. Like many others, I was brought here. Long ago.”

  I couldn’t help asking. “How long have you been alive?”

  Queen Coralee smirked at me.

  “It is impolite to ask a queen her age,” she said with a wry smile. “I stopped aging right before my thirtieth birthday. But, I can say with reasonable assurance that I have been on Dembroch for at least two thousand years.”

  My jaw dropped. I was speechless. Sure, I’d figured the queen was older than she looked, maybe a hundred years, but two thousand? I couldn’t even fathom this. That meant when she’d been born, the Roman Empire had been falling, King Arthur had been seeking the Holy Grail, and chess had been invented.

  I returned my attention to the bolts, which I had been neglecting the last few minutes, my mind spinning. Given I’d messed up my life in a matter of twenty years, I couldn’t begin to imagine the things Queen Coralee had seen in her thousands or what small crimes she or her kingdom may have committed to warrant the witch’s assault.

  CHAPTER 18:

  The Dreadnaught

  Deep in the woods to the north, Clay jumped behind a tree. His pulse raced. He clutched a broken tree limb, unsure what to do with it. If Jenn could seem him now…

  The sound of a million ticking clocks was all around him. It was so dark and the canopy of gnarled, dead trees was so thick, he could hardly see a thing. A hundred paces away was a clearing, bright with the setting sun, but he didn’t dare go for it. Whatever was moving through the trees, it was headed right for Clay. The ticking was growing louder.

  Then he heard it. The scuttle of legs. Many of them, light as a whisper of wind. They grew closer. He held his breath.

  There was a gust of air behind Clay. It wrapped around the tree, tossing his hair and tie. The breath was rancid and acidic, like a vat of overactive stomach acid turned loose in a belch.

  The ticking was overbearing now. Clay couldn’t even hear the creature’s movements. He squeezed his eyes shut. There was nothing to be afraid of. It was probably a friendly beast, surely not the Dreadnaught.

  But when he opened his eyes, prepared to make a run for the clearing, his blood ran cold. Hovering in the darkness in front of him, blocking his view of the clearing, was a set of eyes the size of cars. They were pumpkin orange and staring right at him.

  The creature roared at Clay. He was bathed in a ghastly acidic stench of mold and decay and undigested food. A billion ticks were drowned out in a horrendous, screeching roar.

  The eyes lunged at Clay. He was done for, he knew it—

  Something big and fast slammed into Clay. Suddenly, he was moving, held not by teeth, but by an arm. The monster roared and chased after them. Trees fell as the massive, shadowed body smashed through them.

  Branches slapped Clay’s face and tore at his clothes as his rescuer raced out of the woods and into the clearing. His rescuer dropped Clay and belly-flopped onto the ground.

  “Don’t move,” the Watchmaker whispered gruffly.

  Clay breathed a sigh of relief, sure that if anyone could protect him, it would be this burly, axe-wielding, giant of a man. But the Watchmaker wasn’t ready for a fight. He lay flat, weapons holstered, looking out of the corners of his eyes.

  The pursuing monster charged into the clearing only to scamper to a halt. It roared angrily, rearing its head skyward. Clay gasped. The mo
nster—it was surely the Dreadnaught.

  It was repulsive, like a slimy insect you’d find under a rock. Wormlike in shape with centipede legs, the Dreadnaught was at least fifty feet long and as many feet around. It must have had muscles in its back, because its top half was rearing up like a cobra ready to strike. Its skin was gelatinous, slimy, and ghost white. The gigantic orange eyes were two of hundreds, though the others were black and beady like a spider’s. Pincers and jaws gesticulated hungrily. The tick of a million clocks emanated from its body.

  Shaking with fear, Clay felt the ground around him and grabbed a rock.

  “Drop it,” the Watchmaker whispered. “You’ll just get its attention. Lay still.”

  Against his better judgement, Clay lay prone in the dead grass.

  The Dreadnaught, pasty white and bug-eyed, scanned the clearing. Its nose slits opened wide. A thousand fangs clicked together, a many-forked tongue flicked out. The pupils of its eyes dilated and expanded sporadically in the dying light. A tense second later, the Dreadnaught roared and lumbered off, nearly stepping on Clay as it went.

  Once the monster had disappeared into the shadows of the forest, the Watchmaker pulled Clay to his feet.

  “How did it not see us?” Clay gasped.

  “Bad eyesight,” replied the Watchmaker. “Can’t see well in the light. Makes up for it with impenetrable skin.”

  “Well, sheesh, thanks,” Clay breathed. “I owe you, big guy.”

  “Don’t forget it,” the Watchmaker said gruffly. “You get eaten by that thing, you get digested over a couple seasons. Slowly. Painfully. So, best be more observant of your surroundings.”

  The Watchmaker pulled his gigantic axe from his back and walked off.

  “Wait!” Clay shouted.

  The Watchmaker didn’t even stop, letting out a chuckle as he went. Clay ran after him.

  “I’m here to help,” he said. “I’m supposed to come with you.”

  “Supposed to?” the Watchmaker echoed. “Big man you are, then?”

  “I want to come with you,” Clay insisted. “Together, we can—”

  “I’m not a fool, boy. You no more want to be here than the last poor sap who was told to come help me,” the Watchmaker said. “And the last. And the last.”