5
I did not dream. It was not within my power. Only black pressed against me, torpid and crushing. There was no sensation, no thought, no command. The blaze of purpose was extinguished within me, and for one midnight moment, nothing drove me to act. I was not required to wait, or follow, or kill.
But it did not last.
Far-off voices flitted over me, at first too quiet to understand yet climbing steadily into coherence. Fragments of dialogue—like beams of light—lanced through the murk that ensorcelled me, sweeping it away and flooding my nothing with resonance.
"Do you believe that the little one will recover?"
"Why do you insist on that title?"
"What, 'little one'? It is a suitable name for the Vessel, don't you think, considering its vertical challenges? And besides, the King also calls it as such. That is reason enough."
"The King speaks in jest, I am sure. That name is just another of his dry humors. He does not indulge in such acts of affection."
"As far as you are aware."
"What?"
"I would wager that you have not borne witness to our King's most private moments. It is said that the toughest shells conceal the tenderest hearts. He must care for his creation in some way, yes? Do you not suspect this of our King as I do?"
"No, Ogrim. No, I do not."
The voices receded, and the viscid dark closed in once again. But this time I was not left alone. The molten spike of pain remained to barb me, in my head, my body, my limbs. They ached as if they had been ripped apart and stitched back together.
With the rising pain came another surf of voices to wash over me.
"Did the King teach you?"
"Hmm?"
"Your powers, those healing arts. Did He share His secrets with you? Is that how you became a Great Knight?"
"I suppose so."
"And?"
"And what?"
"Is there no tale to tell? Your legend must have a beginning, as all legends do."
"This persistence of yours will not lead to a pleasing revelation. It is best not to pry."
"Even so, I wish to know. Please, Isma."
"If this is truly your wish, then fine. When I was but a small thing, the King recognized in me a certain aptitude. Perhaps He foresaw something in His many futures, but whatever intent drove Him, He allowed me a glimpse into the nature of Soul. I learned all that I could from the King, and then began my own studies. Many years of toil yielded up their knowledge, and I became something of an expert."
"That ability of yours, the way that you drink the Soul from the life around you. Was that part of the King's instruction?"
"No, that came from my own insights… Listen, Ogrim. Although I would rather this topic remain shrouded, it will come to light eventually, such things always do. For that reason, I think it is best that you hear the truth from me. Are you familiar with the Soul Sanctum?"
"With its rumors, yes, gruesome as they tend to be. What are you implying?"
"I had a claw in the Sanctum's founding. Without my meddling it would never have come to be."
"Are you claiming a part in these dark deeds?"
"No, never! You must know that in the early days, the Sanctum was a different sort of place, a center of scholarship and integrity. With my aid, it made wondrous advancements within the field of Soul manipulation. What we know today of growth and regeneration are thanks to those efforts. Despite the King's reproach, the Sanctum and I were a goodly force…"
"Wait, 'reproach'? If the King granted you this knowledge of Soul, why would He condemn you for it?"
"The more that I learned, the less tutelage the King willingly offered. Study of Soul is an infinite well, and no matter how deeply I dove, there were always greater depths. I suspect that the King Knighted me not for my prowess, but merely to draw me away from my research. Perhaps He was correct to do so. The Sanctum's goal has long since been lost in its pursuit. The work toward prosperity has twisted into the obsession for power. I often wonder if the King foresaw this outcome, or if what hope he spied in me was the sad shade of an impossible future. But enough. The truth is laid out, and you now know the source of my art. You are welcome to revile me if it so suits you but expect no penitence. I did what I believed was right, as I will continue to do."
"Isma, I would never revile you… I—"
"Wait. The mending has begun."
The voices ebbed away, but I no longer sank. A buoyancy—a swelling—in my chest lifted me from the clutching void. The shards of pain were pried from my body and the dark was wiped away. The white flare of consciousness returned to me, and face was given to voice.
I beheld Isma.
She crouched over me, her fragile claws pressed against my mask. Trailing wisps of Soul hung all about us like clouds of pollen. "It is done," she said, breathing heavily. "I've repaired its shell as best I can. It should heed your commands now." She half-fell, half-rolled back onto the dead grass and propped herself up with trembling arms. "If I had possessed more Soul, then the mending would have been easier, but… there is little left here to spare."
"Still, it was masterful work," Ogrim said, stepping close. "This incident would have come to a far more gruesome end without your art. In my eyes it is a great gift."
Isma's gaze was set on the floor.
"So, is the little one awake?" Ogrim continued. He looked down from the great pinnacle of his body. "Are you alright?" he asked me. "Can you stand?"
I did not respond, but the words came to me as a command, like rushing water filling an empty basin. I pushed off the shriveled earth, dregs of vertigo threatening my balance, but I did not fall.
Lurien's garden stretched out before me, gray and lifeless. It was just as it had been before I lost awareness. Skeletal branches, blighted leaves, and disintegrating flower petals greeted me. Ash flaked off the vines that clung to the walls and fell like snow.
"Woah, careful now," Ogrim murmured. He cupped a claw beneath my arm and steadied me. "Your stalwart conduct is admirable, little one, but do not push yourself to such a breaking point. By the King's own words, you are a treasure of Hallownest, always rest when you feel a need for it."
Isma leaned forward and wrapped her arms around her knees. "There is scant reason in coddling it, Ogrim. Learning the Vessel's breaking point was the exact intent of this trial." Her voice grew hard. "It seems to have surpassed me in that aspect."
Ogrim released my arm and cocked his head at Isma. "What is this I detect? You called the little one incapable of resentment, but do you claim the same merit? That mutual amends I demanded was not merely for the sake of its pride, but yours."
"Why would I care about such a thing?" Isma asked, tightening her grip on her knees. "One does not begrudge a training dummy."
Ogrim chuckled. "It is fortunate for us all that you are such a mighty warrior, Great Knight. Defeat comes so infrequently that you have not yet learned how to be graceful in it. Perhaps you should take a note from me. With all our sparring, I mastered that particular skill."
Isma rested her head on her knees, as if she could no longer hold it aloft. "Please. Enough," she said, barely even a whisper.
Ogrim shifted from foot to foot. "I am sorry," he said. "That was clumsy, I had hoped a dash of Hegemol's humor might ease things, but—" He rested his armored bulk upon the ground. "Sorry."
I watched the pair, for no other purpose presented itself. The serrated hooks of pain and weariness had fallen away. I stood tall once again.
From across the desolate garden, Lurien approached. He kicked at flower husks and piles of ash, removing the meager obstacles from the cobbled path. His lower robes were caked with filth as if he had been at the task for quite some time. He spied me and shuffled near.
"Repaired," Lurien observed, tonelessly. "Good." He extended two slim claws to explore the rectified contours of my mask. His touch was light, like droplets of water. "Come," he said, as he turned away from the ravaged garden and set off toward the elevator shaft.
Just as it had before, Lurien's command clashed against Ogrim's. The two differing orders, one to stand, the other to follow, vied for supremacy within me. I leaned toward Lurien and took an excruciating step. And another. But a voice called out, dragging me to a halt.
"Wait," Ogrim said. He rose and wiped at the dust coating his shell. "Watcher Lurien, where are you off to with the little one?"
Lurien drew a line with his gaze, from Ogrim to the elevator shaft and then back again. He repeated his command to me and resumed walking. "Come."
I lurched into motion, my legs stiff and faltering.
"I must insist, please wait," Ogrim said, jolting me to a second stop. "The King entrusted the little one to my care. Now that Isma is no longer in mortal danger, I would like to remain true to my charge. Grant us a moment to recuperate and we will accompany you."
"It is alright," Isma whispered. "Doubtless, the King has provided Lurien with his own instructions. He has as much a right to guide the Vessel as we, and it is unreasonable for us to hinder him with my weary steps." She stood up, so laboriously that Ogrim reached out a claw to assist, but she shooed him away. "I offer my thanks yet again, Watcher. Without your wisdom, I would be a corpse, and the Vessel might have been irreparably damaged." She offered a bow so shallow that it was little more than a nod.
Lurien's frame rose and fell, as if in a deep breath. He inched closer to the elevator shaft.
Ogrim hunched beside Isma. "Are we sure?" he asked, hushed. "The King will not be displeased? I do not possess Hegemol's chronicle of faultlessness, but that does not mean I take pleasure in failing at my duties."
"You need not worry, our service here is done." Isma said. "And besides, I too have a task in need of fulfillment, one that only you are suited for."
Ogrim cleared his throat. "Well, I—If I am needed, then I suppose things are concluded here. I certainly don't intend to suggest another sparring session. We've had more than enough excitement today." He lumbered over to me and leaned down. "Little one—Little Knight. This was quite an afternoon. A bit harrowing for my tastes, but you proved your worth and forced me to swallow my own presumptions. You are ever a surprising one. Take care, and heed Lurien's every sparse word. He is likely a greater instructor than I'll ever be." Ogrim patted the top of my head, and then swept into a bow.
Yet again, Lurien repeated his command. It came from over his departing shoulder, terse and sharp. But this time, no friction held me in place. Instead, a force like a strong gust pressed against my back, setting me into a trot.
Lurien halted beside the elevator shaft and pulled the glittering lever. He did so with such meticulous slowness that its every inner mechanism clicked sequentially in a cascading melody. We waited as the chains jangled and the elevator ascended from deep below.
Behind us, the two Knights' voices were made audible only by the echo of the chamber.
"Will you forgive it?" Ogrim asked.
"For what, besting me? I have given my answer."
"No, for forcing this side of yourself into the light, even if only before Lurien and I."
Isma scoffed. "Lurien was already well-versed in my history, and no duress compelled me to explain myself. It was my choice. I had always intended to tell you of this, but… the correct time just never seemed to arrive."
"Yes, but had the Vessel not wounded you so, would you not—"
"Ogrim!" Isma blurted. "It is quite cruel of you to assail me with these questions while I am so drained. When you are next on the brink of death, I will make sure to harry you in kind. Now, enough of this matter, please. The task that I have to offer is of no small importance, and it must be done in secret. Not a single witness, do you understand?"
"Very well, it was not my intent to vex you." Ogrim said. "Now, what do you require of me? Although this seems an ominous request, I vow that your secret will be kept."
"Good…" Isma said. The echoes died for an instant. "I am not so proud that I would deny the facts. I am weakened and in sore need of my grove. It is no short jaunt away, and as much as I wish to, I cannot rally even a single step. With that said, would you… carry me there?"
"Would I?" Ogrim's laugh danced along the walls. "Of course, but why the insistence on secrecy?"
"You know. Bugs will talk, it is their way. I do not wish the commoners to see us in such a state."
"There was an ample crowd at the mustering grounds," Ogrim mused. "Word of your injury will surely spread. I do not understand the point in attempting to conceal what is already known."
"No, that is not—" Isma cleared her throat. "Y-Yes, well, warrior bugs are a different lot from the squeamish citizens of The City. Hearing of a Knight's weakness and witnessing it directly are two very different things."
"Nonsense," Ogrim rumbled. "Take last month for example. After my tumble into that bed of mushrooms, was it not you that dragged my stunned bulk out of the Fungal Wastes and through The City's streets? The commoners did not wail and claw at their shells upon sight of my failure."
"Humor me," Isma murmured.
"Fair enough. In any case, I call this a lucky stroke. I am granted a chance to repay one of my many debts!"
Isma gave a cry, drawn between a squeak and a shriek. "That was far too rash, I was not prepared!"
Again, Ogrim's laughter rebounded. "How might I ferry you to your repose, fair lady? Upon my honor, I will not rest till you arrive in safety."
"Careful that you do not choke on your own delight," Isma said, almost a laugh. "I would appreciate it if you remained to the side streets and alleys. From there we might find a passage into the Royal Waterways where we are more likely to go unseen. And… take the stairs if you would, please. Elevators and I are not the dearest of friends."
"So, it shall be," Ogrim said.
The voices faded, replaced by the sound of two heavy feet crackling through dead foliage.
And I turned, unbidden, to snatch a glimpse of Ogrim's back as he departed through the garden's far exit, Isma in his arms.
With a clang, the elevator slammed to a stop, drawing my attention. Within it, standing serenely, was the attendant bug. He initiated a vibrant bow but faltered upon noticing the state of the garden. Lurien offered no explanation.
Rain battered the window as we ascended, and with my strength restored I did not stumble or fall. We passed several floors, but none possessed doorways, only stone statues of Lurien gazing back in blind vigilance.
Without warning, the elevator jerked still, so violently that our feet briefly left the floor. The room before us was murky and gray, devoid of Lumafly lanterns. Lurien stepped out, beyond the reach of the elevator's feeble light, and I followed. He did not glance back at the attendant, and soon the clangor of chains announced the elevator's departure.
Lurien approached the vague shape of a table and sifted through the dark. He took something up in his claws and made a jerking motion. There was a scream of metal upon metal, and a shower of sparks filled the air. The red pinpricks swirled and frolicked before winking out of existence. In their aftermath came the gentle quiver of flame—a candle. First one, then two, then a dozen—all lighting successively and casting a dull glow upon the room.
The personal quarters of Lurien the Watcher came into focus. They were capacious yet cluttered, lacking any sense of organization or purpose. Bookcases, chairs, desks, and worktables amalgamated into a labyrinth of fine shellwood. Reams of garnet silk were scattered upon the floors and served as carpet. The candles were perched haphazardly on furniture, decorative poles, and slabs of stone.
Rain-streaked windows encircled the quarters, separated only by supporting arches. They looked out over every region of The City, though much of the landscape was made inscrutable by shadow.
Lurien took a long moment to evaluate the room. He turned to me and nodded, almost meekly.
We weaved past scroll-strewn shelves and lustrous sculptures. Lurien took up a candle—pinching its base between two fingers—and pointed from time to time at passing objects. Gilded scales, armor-plated urns, and an easel supporting a half-finished painting. One object in particular caught Lurien's attention. He stopped before a table, upon which sat an orb of glass fused onto a golden disc. Within the orb floated a bead of pure white that twisted and undulated like a living thing, adopting a new, fantastical shape with every passing second. It resembled the energies that had floated about Isma, but this was far more substantial, condensed into something real.
At the sight of it I began to ache deep in my chest.
"Hunger?" Lurien asked. The singular eye of his mask was trained upon me. He waited, as if for a reply that would never come.
An eager, black maw opened within me, but I did not reach out.
He slid the golden disc across the table. "Eat," he said, and tipped it over the side. The disc fractured against the tile and the glass exploded into a hundred pieces, scattering beneath the bookcases. The nebulous, pale energy—the Soul—fled its prison and expanded into the open air.
The maw within me responded to the new command by opening even wider, to the point that I felt I might split apart. A spectral wind emanated from my body and set the nearby scrolls to fluttering. The Soul floundered within this wind like an Aspid trapped in a cage of brambles. With a flash of light, the Soul vanished into me. Warmth suffused my shell and the maw cracked shut.
"Better," Lurien said after appraising me. He set off down another isle, removing the glass shards from his path with a push of his foot.
At the far side of the room, beside an open window, stood a huge apparatus of interlocking metal tubes and panes of glass. The thing was angled downward toward The City. Lurien approached it, with more haste than I had ever witnessed from him. He halted at its lower end beside a stool. "Look!" he said, the acoustics of the room making his voice a giant. "Come! Sit!"
I did as I was bid, and he adjusted the small end of the apparatus so that it was parallel with my mask. The distorted lens glimmered softly with reflected candlelight.
Lurien tapped the apparatus. "Look," he repeated.
I leaned forward. And saw The City. The rain and billowing mist disguised much, but the tall buildings and twinkling Lumafly lamp posts were unmistakable. At Lurien's touch, the apparatus pivoted on well-oiled joints, and the image changed. I spied the tiny, pointed figures of guards patrolling the streets, and commoner bugs huddled together beneath awnings. Again, the view changed, and I saw Hegemol marching at the head of a great host, Dryya at his side. Warrior bugs wielding nails and lances followed him into the mouth of a tunnel.
Lurien lifted the eyepiece, seeming content with his presentation. He looked out over The City and approached the railing before the open window. In the far distance, the centipedal cluster of lights—Hegemol's army—had begun to disappear beyond the bounds of The City's cavern.
We stood there for a time, watching the starry trail grow shorter. "Come," Lurien eventually said.
We passed through an innocuous door beside a plinth of stone. Beyond was a room, much smaller than the last, but even more cluttered. There were no curios or oddities, merely a pedestal and a tall chair. Stacked all about them were the discarded shells of lesser bugs. They were sheared flat on one side and served a purpose much like a scroll or tablet. Many were covered with a cream paint, in the smooth, curling patterns of some written language.
Lurien sat at the chair and drew a bucket of the paint out from behind the pedestal. He rummaged briefly, then placed an unmarked shell-tablet before himself. "Read," he whispered.
In one fluid motion, Lurien dipped his spindly finger into the bucket and flourished it like a quill. The white contrasted with the blackness of his claw as he scribbled upon the surface of the shell. Arches and lines and circles collected into a cumulative message.
One that I could… somehow understand.
Vessel. We are at last alone and I am granted a moment to gather my thoughts. Words are ever a toil, thus, this medium shall instead enable our rapport. For I know beyond doubt that you comprehend it. Just as I did.
Lurien dipped his finger again, mixing the paint into a slow whirlpool. The chair sat too high for him, and his feet dangled uselessly.
A great destiny looms over us. You. And I. And the others that might dare to call themselves Dreamers. By the will of our great King, we are to serve a purpose incomparable in consequence, ultimate in sacrifice. And that destiny grows close. The candle of our nation gutters, and we possess not the time nor the privilege to delay.
A slow breath echoed from beneath Lurien's mask. He flexed his claw and freshened his makeshift quill.
I have watched your progress. It is my King-given purpose. From seed to egg to nascent chrysalis, I witnessed your growth and the potential it betokened. The King is transcendent in his sculpting art. Perfection brushes you in a way yet unseen in our kind. But you and I—
The paint ran dry on Lurien's finger. He scraped futilely to complete his thought, before dipping back into the bucket and resuming. His writing quickened.
—But you and I bear much the same mark. I see it in you as clearly as through my grand telescope. Know that such a mark is no blessed thing. In my forging long ago, the King espied in me that odious sign. And though I once shared the same purpose as you, such an honor was stripped of me upon discovery of my defect.
Lurien's strokes consumed the last visible space upon the shell-tablet, and he batted it off the pedestal. A chitinous crunch resounded as it hit the ground, and Lurien replaced it with another blank.
The King took great pains—invested much of himself—to hollow your being and gouge the frailty from your shell. Just as he did mine. But though He pursues ideal in all His implacable fervor, true flawlessness is not our perquisite. Not even you, born of the King's own quintessence.
A pause. Another application of paint.
Time is too short. My resplendent Lord perceives in you a long-awaited triumph, no matter the mark that festers within. Too much has he supped on failure, too many has he offered to the slavering jaws of ambition only to receive nothing in return. He shall not see your truth. He shall not see your flaw. And lamentably, it is not this Watcher's station to voice dissent.
Lurien claw twitched, the white dripping from his digits.
The mark within is a cancer of its own. It is not born of the affliction but serves as its antithesis. Many would call it boon, but for we instruments of the King, it is a thing most hated. It is mind. It is will. It is voice. And you, Vessel, must not allow it to sully your purpose. You shall become the pillar upon which this kingdom teeters. And you must never fracture. Too many lives, too grand a future, rest on what you must become. And so, I beg. Please—
Lurien stopped writing. He dug his sharp finger into the shell-tablet until its surface cracked like glass. He turned to me, placing his claw upon my shoulder, smearing paint on my cloak. With a force that his decrepit arm seemed incapable of, he pressed down on me. "Serve," he hissed. "Thoughtless. Eternal. For King. For Bug. For Hallownest."
I was gripped by something; a constricting force against my shell. Lurien's words bore down upon me, stilling my breath.
The chair screeched as Lurien rose. He braced nearly all his weight upon the pedestal, as if standing were simply too much. "Come," he breathed, "King." He pushed back to his full height, swaying toward the door and the chamber beyond.
And I followed. It was my purpose…
