2
The vestibule of the White Palace was towering and pyramidal. Silver rays filtered down through the oculus at its vertex, perfect and unbroken, for not a speck of dust sullied the air. Embedded in the walls were spires of twisted metal that weaved into one another, resembling enormous plant life. Standing lanterns, filled with Lumaflies, marched in neat parallel lines across the floor, soaking everything in a cream glow. At regular intervals, tear drop-shaped archways branched from the room and led off into the bowels of the Palace.
Across from the main entrance, a throne rested. A swirl of alloys composed it, whites and grays and ebony blacks. They rose up to form triangular points, more wicked than any Nail. The Pale King sat upon the throne and I stood beside him. Before us, kneeling on the floor were three bugs: Hegemol, round and massive, Ogrim, barbed from head to foot, and another. One I had not seen before.
Unlike Hegemol and Ogrim, this bug bore no silvered armor, no battle-ready carapace. She did not even wield a weapon. Her garb consisted of emerald leaves that clung to her body and imbricated at her waist, forming a sort of skirt. The six-eyed mask surrounding her head curled up in the back, and vines sprouted from it like two dangling braids of hair. She was far slenderer than the Knights, with long, tapered limbs and a quiescent grace.
We had maintained this posture for several minutes now, as still as sculptures. The murmur of far-off voices rebounded down the many tunnels, creating the illusion that the room was far less empty. There was a gap in the middle of the three bugs, wide enough to accommodate two more.
The King broke the stupor. He swept his cloak aside and placed a hand on the throne's armrest. His glinting digits tapped against the metal in a rhythmic manner, drawing the Knights' eyes.
Hegemol was the first to speak up. "Pardon Lord, but perhaps we should consider postponing the meeting? Or at least adjourning for a nap? It is not for a Knight to complain," he chortled, "but these recent days have been taxing, and rest is always welcome."
The King didn't even glance at him. His look was fixed squarely on the vestibule's main entrance.
"I beseech your patience, Pale King," the leaf-garbed bug said. "Dryya and Ze'mer would never deliberately inconvenience your court. I trust that they will arrive soon."
The measured tap of the King's digits did not cease. "Patience is an asset that I have never lacked, Kindly Isma. But ill news oft arrives at the most inopportune moments."
"Do you know something, Lord?" Isma said, her voice hushed.
The King pushed himself to his feet. "Offer your reports, my Knights. This assemblage shall not see completion, but your observations are still of worth." He tilted his head. "Isma. Tell me of our buzzing neighbors."
Isma stood and performed a willowy bow. "Queen Vespa of the Hive sends her regards, my King. She continues to ail and no Royal Larvae have yet been birthed, but her brood is strong, as always. They have stockpiled many lifetimes of supplies and sealed nearly all entrances to their domain. From the Queen's tone, she seemed… reluctant to accept your offer of formal alliance."
The King nodded. "As predicted. Such aggregated minds cling so tenaciously to routine. But convey her words. I would know her true sentiment."
"Is that entirely necessary, my King?" Isma asked, twining her arms together like ivy. "We are all aware of Queen Vespa's… blunt tendencies. Surely, she need not be repeated. Synopsis will suffice, yes?"
Parched laughter escaped the King's mask. It was his first sign of levity that I had borne witness to. "My Knights strive so valiantly toward my protection. In body and ego. But Kindly as you are, Great Knight Isma, the painful truth is ofttimes necessary. So again, I ask you. Please convey her words."
Isma rubbed at the leaves of her skirt, smoothing and pleating them as a Maskfly would its wings. "If that is your will, King, then I must oblige." She cleared her throat. "Queen Vespa requested that I inform you of your folly… She stated that you overstep yourself. That you are an upstart worm seeking to defile a sacred balance. That you are consumed by delusion, and arrogant beyond any living thing. That your goal is unachievable, and that in the end even the mightiest kings bow…"
"Such insolence!" Hegemol bellowed, half-rising. "What does that pitiful little bee know of achievement? She brands our Sovereign arrogant, yet spits assumptions as an Aspid would venom!?"
The King lifted a hand to quiet Hegemol. "The Hive Queen's barb bites more deeply with every passing year, it seems."
"Yes, but you must not heed such words, my Lord," Isma said. "Remember that Vespa is an ancient creature, nearing her days' end. It makes her scurrilous and ill-tempered. She does not believe what she says. I am sure."
"Ever swift to offer consolations. I Knighted you aptly."
Isma averted her gaze and clasped her hands at the waist.
"But," the King continued, "Vespa's dwindling life holds little sway over her voice. You are not the first envoy to return with such a message, and you shall not be the last. The Hive's dogma parallels much of that damnable Light. And Vespa has little desire to feign diplomacy. She has yet to aim her stinger at the Kingdom, but beings such as that are dangerous in their final moments." He descended the throne's short staircase and began to pace. His cloak slithered over the tile. "Mighty Hegemol, tell me of The City. How fares it?"
Hegemol shook himself as if dispersing a coat of snow. "The City still stands, Majesty. At least as of this morning when I last checked. The builder bugs informed me that the construction of Lurien's spire proceeds as planned. However, the cavern containing our City was too small to accommodate it. Necessity demanded that the ceiling be raised. The builder bugs are quite adept at such things, and the stone shaved away without difficulty, but now only porous rock remains. That vast water deposit above The City, the one they call Blue Lake, has begun to seep through. It showers the buildings like rainfall. Mild enough, but incessant. The mender bugs were tasked with its repair, but they claim such a thing is impossible with The City's current state. Some of the more boorish commoners have taken to calling our home 'The City of Tears' now."
The King shook his head. "To fret over something as trivial as rain is a luxury that this Kingdom lacks. Continue. What of my subjects?"
Hegemol rumbled a few decibels lower. "Regrettably, Lord. The affliction brings about more attrition with every passing moon. The City's guard strive to keep the ill quarantined, but the only observable symptom also happens to be its last: a deep and overwhelming sleep. We are often far too late… And to make matters worse, the affliction is a capricious thing. There is no pattern as to whom it consumes. The young. The old. The strong. The weak. Any bug can become infected at any moment. We have taken to hurling the victims that we can find over the battlements at Kingdom's Edge. But even then, from time to time they return, less than what they once were… Mindless. Feral. And as for those that we fail to detect in time… Attacks occur inside The City at all hours. Usually among kin in private abodes. Once the afflicted awake from their slumber, they lash out at everyone and everything, like base beasts in the throes of instinct. And there is no cure to offer them but the Nail."
"Expected," the King muttered. His pacing hastened. "And what of our might? Should it come to blows with our neighbors, do we yet still possess enough able bugs to repel invaders?"
Hegemol lifted his head. "Since the affliction began, our numbers have waned. That plague takes from the Royal armies just as it takes from the commoners." He took a breath, and his voice rose like a hoisted flag. "But we are not yet bested, Lord! Especially by something so paltry. The Kingdom's armies remain stalwart. I am confident we would weather an attack from any one of the other kingdoms."
"I see. But what of all the kingdoms, Hegemol? The Deepnest. The Mantis. The Hive. Those barbarians that have taken up residence with the Blackwyrm's corpse. Should destiny conspire against Hallownest, would we persevere? Against all opposition?"
Hegemol deflated a fraction. "I am no soothsayer, Lord. I do not possess your eyes. But if such a day were to come to pass, then I believe we would defend our lands. Our homes. To the last bug if need be. But even if our numbers should fail us, then we Knights are armies in ourselves! So long as we Knights stand, then so too will this Kingdom." He looked to Ogrim and Isma for a positive sign, but they did not meet his eyes. He lowered his head. "Our strength would see us through."
"Strength…" the King mused, as if he'd never heard the word. "Yes, strength is lifeblood of all kingdoms, is it not? Yet strength fails. Inevitably. As all things fail. The force of a bug's arm, the cutting edge of its Nail. Neither are immune to the passage of centuries. And without strength, a kingdom cannot survive. This is the meaning behind Vespa's words. 'Even the mightiest kings bow.' And yet…" The King stopped his pacing. His voice suddenly boomed against the twisted spires lining the walls. "My Knights. In my dreams I have witnessed a future where the gleaming armies of Hallownest have fallen to rot and ruin. Where time and fate have sapped the vigor from their hearts and denied their minds of purpose. In that future, strength had failed us…
But, within that revelation I spied hope. There are yet things in this world that rebuff time's devastating advance. There are yet things that retain their might, no matter the shambling ages." The King set his attention on one of the branching passageways. A repetitive clanking sound signaled the approach of something. "Ever have I strove to deny that future. All my works, all my sacrifices have been directed towards that singular goal. And today my diligence has borne fruit."
The clanging grew closer, and out of the half-shadows emerged a thin, looming creature. It resembled a bug, at least superficially, with four arms and two legs. But its body was pure metal, from the top of its tri-pointed helm to the bottom of its steel feet. In its hooked claws it grasped a great scythe of some strange, gray material. A sliver of its face was visible beneath the helm. Glowing white eyes peered out of a churning mass of liquid-black.
"A soldier that does not grow old. That does not tire… That cannot fear. I forged this hope into reality, so that the Kingdom may ever be protected, that its King may never grow frail… Now step forward, my Kingsmould."
The metal thing—the Kingsmould—jolted to a halt before the Knights and stood perfectly still. It did not breathe or blink. It did not scan their faces or even register their existence. A moaning voice filled my head when I looked at it, but the words were indistinguishable.
"It is most impressive, Sire," Isma observed. Her gaze darted from the Mould to a point over my shoulder. "Are there others of its kind? Is it… conceived in much the same way as your other projects?"
"Though this is the first," The King said, "many more have been molded and await animation. And yet more shall follow still. In war they shall serve as vanguards. In peace they shall serve as sentinels. Unwavering. Immutable. Safeguarding the Kingdom as Eternal Knights."
Ogrim roused himself and spoke for the first time. "Will these Eternal Knights challenge the Trials as we have? Will they also be required to best the Champion's Call to claim their titles?"
The King regarded him, unfathomable.
"My Liege," Ogrim continued, "We all know that Knighthood is a sacrosanct thing. Those without the purity of spirit and the righteousness of will are unworthy of it. If they cannot complete the Trials, then they do not deserve to call themselves 'Knights'. Has this creature's heart been tested? Is it just? Is it chivalrous?"
"Ogrim, please." Isma said. "Now is not the time for such things. Our Lord—"
"Silence," The King murmured. "I shall speak for myself, Isma."
She bowed and resumed her kneeling. "Pardon, Majesty."
"Ogrim… You are a neophyte among us. Your ennoblement is most recent in memory, yet you are swiftest to question me. To doubt. If I enlightened you of this being, of its heartlessness, its mindlessness, its disregard for the Knightly code, how would you reply?"
Ogrim stood and drew close to the Kingsmould, taking care to remain out of the range of its scythe. "My King, if that were true, then I would beg you to reconsider. Is not Knighthood more than mere power? Is not the intent behind the Nail more vital than the striking point? Have you not warned us that nothing is more dangerous than might without purpose?"
"The Kingsmould's intent is ever an extension of my own. You speak as if I enlist ruffians and cutthroats into our ranks."
"That is not my aim, Lord. I—"
"Hear this, Knight!" The King shouted, striding past the Mould and up to Ogrim. Though he was but half the size, the King seemed a giant. "I have beheld the innumerable futures that writhe before us. And each one is a different doom. To rule is to strive against adversity, be it kings or gods or delusions. And through power alone may anything be achieved. You are aware, just as I, that Hallownest teeters upon a precipice. Would you have me discard this wondrous instrument solely to shelter your sense of chivalry? Do you truly praise it more highly than the very Kingdom which you vowed to defend?"
Ogrim grew rigid, as if a lance had run him through. "No, my King. Of course not! If Hallownest requires it of me, then I will offer anything! My life, my SOUL, my… honor."
The King stepped back and adjusted his cloak. There was a tremble in his shoulders; almost imperceptible. "Good. That shall suffice, Ogrim. But, if it palliates your pride, then do not think of this construct as a Knight, but as a tool. To be wielded and expended on Hallownest's behalf."
"A tool." Ogrim echoed. And he looked up at me as I stood atop the throne's pedestal.
I met his gaze, but if there was meaning to be found, then it escaped me.
The light in the vestibule shifted as a silhouette rose up to block the main entrance. It cast a narrow, bug-like shadow over the strip of silken carpet that stretched to the base of the throne. "It seems that I am late," the silhouette rasped. Its feet squelched as it entered the vestibule, trailing dark residue in its wake. It bore a slight limp, and its arms hung heavily at its sides. Light from the Lumafly lanterns splashed over its body, revealing silvered armor and the gore of battle. Blood—in greens, yellows, and lurid oranges—dripped from its plated contours. In each hand it gripped the hilt of a broken Nail, similarly stained. "The Mantis are at war."
"Dryya!" Isma exclaimed. She rose to her feet and darted to the bloodied bug's side. "Are you injured? It looks most dire! I must retrieve my SOUL-healing supplies. Sit. Do not move. I will return as swiftly as I can!" She turned and sprinted towards a passageway.
"Halt!" The King said.
Isma skidded to a stop and whipped about. "But Lord!"
"Do not disparage the prowess of your fellow Knight. Fierce Dryya is unharmed."
"He is right," Dryya said, looking down at herself. "This is not mine."
Isma shuffled back and dabbed at Dryya's pauldrons with a shred of leaf, accomplishing nothing but to smear the blood like paint. "You are certain?"
Dryya nodded and waved the leaf away. She strode across the vestibule and toward the King. In motion, her body was lean and inflexible, like an iron rod. And yet the armor about her flowed so naturally. The faulds at her waist descended like the petals of a bellflower, and rustled as if caught in a faint breeze. She stomped to a halt before the King. "Where is my White Lady?"
The King took some time to reply. He scanned the blood that sullied Dryya, from the top of her three horns to her feet. "Later. Tell me of the Mantis. And Ze'mer."
"You foresee all things, do you not?" Dryya sniffed. "You should know better than I. Now, I ask again. Where is my Queen?"
The King bristled. "If the Mantis intend war, then I would hear of it. So, speak, Knight."
"The Queen is in her chambers," Isma interjected, stepping between the two. "She returned from Her Garden this morning on a Royal Stag. In good spirits, it seemed."
Dryya's stance slackened. Her shoulders drooped an inch. "Good. I must go to her. She must be informed."
"I am this Kingdom's Sovereign. You shall inform me." The King said. "Where is Ze'mer?"
Dryya did not reply, and marched off as if the King did not even exist, moving towards a passageway strewn with hanging, white vines. Ogrim and Hegemol rose, but made no move to stop her.
Isma was the only one to pursue, closing the distance with three elegant steps and wrapping her lithe arms around one of Dryya's. "Tell us, please," Isma whispered.
A graveled sigh escaped Dryya's mask. "If I must." Her broken nails dropped to the tile with a crash, and she turned back to the group, shouting as if addressing an unruly crowd. "The Mantis do not war with Hallownest, they war with themselves. In-fighting has sparked between the Mantis Lords. The strongest among them—the one the others have taken to calling the Traitor Lord—has absorbed the affliction within himself to elevate his power. Many of the Mantis warrior caste have thrown their lot in with him and done the same. They assaulted Mantis Village, attempting to stage a coup, but were repelled and have instead retreated into the Queen's Garden to lick their wounds and defile Her territory with their disease."
Dryya made another move towards the vine-choked passageway, but Isma would not relinquish her arm.
"When did this happen?" Isma asked.
"Hours ago," Dryya said. "I, Ze'mer, and our retinue arrived in Mantis Village for the annual Peace Talks, and within minutes the Traitor Lord struck."
"And what of that Royal retinue?" The King murmured. "What of Ze'mer?"
Dryya scoffed. "The retinue was decimated. Not a bug was left standing after the attack. Your servants are fragile. And the Mantis have always been excellent fighters. Without overwhelming numbers your people are easy prey. If the other Mantis Lords had not helped me, then I would be just as dead."
The King looked away, his head bowed.
"As for Ze'mer," Dryya continued. "She deserted."
"What?!" Hegemol roared, "Never! A Great Knight would sooner die!"
"I watched her retreat from the field of battle!" Dryya snarled. "She is a coward, or worse, a turncoat. Just as the tides shifted in our favor, she fled. With the corpse of some female Mantis in her arms."
Isma flinched as if she had been struck, and relinquished Dryya's arm. She pressed her hands against her mask, obscuring the six eyes.
Ogrim was at Isma's side in an instant. He placed a claw on her shoulder. "Take heart," he whispered. "This is a mistake, nothing more. Ze'mer would never do such a thing without reason."
"No, Ogrim," Isma whispered back. "You don't understand…"
Once freed of Isma's grasp, Dryya continued on her dogged path. She spoke over her shoulder as she exited the vestibule and pressed through the hanging vines. "I will return with fresh Nails and the Queen's bidding. If you Great Knights plan to join me in the defense of Her Garden, then be certain not to imitate Ze'mer's failure."
"Halt, Dryya!" The King shouted. "You are to train the newest Vessel!"
Her reply was distant, and muffled behind the swish of shifting vines. "I do not have time for another of your puppets. Train it yourself."
The vestibule grew quiet. The King muttered something under his breath and returned to his throne. He fell into the seat and braced the temple of his mask against a fist.
Hegemol slammed the floor with his foot, with enough force to send tremors through the Lumafly lanterns. "Of all the arrogant, boorish, quarrelsome behavior! That Dryya!" He spat the word. "How can you tolerate this from your own Knight, Lord? This is far from her first offense!"
The King waved an arm and stared off into space. "She is not my Knight. Fierce Dryya has forever belonged to The White Lady—to the Queen. Since long before Knighthood, or even Hallownest itself, Dryya has served as the Queen's lone protector and confidante. Thus, my Sovereignty means nothing in her eyes."
"That is no excuse, Lord!" Hegemol bellowed. "Is there not some punishment to be devised? This insult cannot be allowed to stand!"
"Do not overstep yourself, Hegemol. You Knights hold no dominion over one another. You possess no right to find fault in the actions of your peers. Should judgment befall Dryya, then it shall be at the White Lady's bidding, and none other. Such was the deal we struck. If you consider yourself to be my instrument—forged in the fires of my aspiration—then Dryya is but a thing lent and borrowed, nothing more. One takes special care with others' possessions."
"You speak fairly, King. But she went so far as to mock your prescience: the very foundation of this Kingdom. No instrument is devised to bite back at its wielder…"
Ogrim spoke up, barely above a whisper. "But did you truly foresee this attack, Lord? Ze'mer's desertion?"
Hegemol growled at Ogrim like an animal. "Watch your words, now."
"But did you?" Ogrim repeated.
The King sat upon his throne, as still as a corpse. Eventually, as if waking from a dream, he stirred. "No. Ogrim. No, I did not." With effort, the King rose once again and descended to stand before the Knights. "This conclave is adjourned. Step forth and receive your commands. If this Kingdom is to survive then there is much to be done. Thus, I ask once again of you Knights. Is your fealty unshakable? Is your conviction indefatigable? If the tasks that I lay before you demand your very lives as tribute, would you see them to the end?"
"Yes, Lord," Hegemol said.
"Always," Isma murmured.
Ogrim lifted his head, and his horns gleamed in the oculus' light. "For the Kingdom. Ask, Pale King. And it will be done."
"I expected no less," the King said. He lifted an arm and the Kingsmould, which had been immobile until that moment, lurched into motion. "Mighty Hegemol, you shall pursue Fierce Dryya, and aid in her purpose. My White Lady is as covetous of her domain as any monarch is rightful to be. She shall not suffer the Mantis within Her garden. You are to assist Dryya in its reclamation. And. To test the capabilities of my construct. The Kingsmould shall follow your commands as dutifully as you follow my own. Fight bravely, Knight. And return."
Without a word, Hegemol surged to his feet and marched off down the passageway of hanging vines. The Kingsmould trailed after him, clanging against the tile like a war drum.
"But what of us?" Ogrim blurted. "Would we not be of use on the field of battle?"
The King nodded at me over his shoulder, and I felt his command, even though it went unspoken. My legs were stiff and sluggish from prolonged standing, and I stumbled slightly as I descended the stairs. Isma did not look at me and kept her eyes locked to the floor, but Ogrim's gaze was unflinching upon me, head cocked to one side.
"Hallownest languishes," the King said, "not due to petty strife and border wars, but as the result of something far more malign." He gestured at me, palm up. "I forged this Vessel, this Hollow Knight to be a weapon capable of striking at that malignancy. In this regard, Loyal Ogrim, Kindly Isma, you two are to take charge over this Vessel and impart your knowledge upon it. Teach it all that you know of the warrior's mettle. And in doing so you shall prepare it to fulfill its ultimate purpose… And mayhap save us all."
Ogrim scratched at his head with a claw. "My King, I do not understand. How could this chil—"
"Vessel," Isma whispered.
"H-How could this Vessel be of use to us?" Ogrim continued. "What salvation could it possibly offer?"
The King's scrutiny shifted from one Knight to the other. "Isma, you are privileged to certain knowledge regarding this Vessel's nature. Divulge what you feel is sufficient to dispel Ogrim's incertitude. I trust in your discretion." He lifted an arm and pointed toward the Vestibule's main entrance. "You pair shall forthwith escort this Vessel to The City's mustering grounds. The soldier bugs and commoners alike must bear witness to it, so that hope may not wither. Now go quickly, Knights. Time is not our ally."
With a flourish of his cloak, the King turned from us and marched down a passageway leading deeper into the White Palace. His steps made no sound as his shadow diminished into the distance.
"Well," Isma said, after a cough. "Shall we?"
