6

Lurien's claw brushed the pale metal of the corridor, eliciting a ghostly note that gamboled and skipped before us as we navigated the White Palace. Though the passages bifurcated like a root system, and the intersections lacked signpost or symbol, Lurien was unhindered. He journeyed without pause or hesitation, not even looking back to ensure that I kept pace.

Hall by hall, chamber by chamber, the Palace revealed itself in all its gleaming ornamentation. Filigree wormed around pillars, tracery spilled down windows, and the winged seal of Hallownest was omnipresent. A glow—that seemed to be born from nothing—bathed every object and hurled glaring reflections into my sight. Plants sprouted from cracks in the ceilings and floors. They were bleached and reedy, often forming in clusters before doorways and clinging to the shells of passersby.

The bugs that we encountered along our path shared Lurien's sureness of direction, as though instinct alone guided them. They scurried to and fro, their vestigial wings swishing over the floors like silken capes. In their silvered arms, they carried scrolls, tools, and victuals. They performed mid-step bows and mumbled words of reverence to Lurien before vanishing down perpendicular passages.

Their haste was incongruous with the Palace's quietude.

We emerged from the crush of one attendant-clogged tunnel into a domed chamber containing a fountain. Upon the fountain stood a sculpture, composed of an alien metal that leaked light though its interstices as if a star were trapped within. The statue depicted the Pale King, limbs tucked tightly within the folds of his robe.

Lurien paused to observe it, dipping an absent claw into the sterile waters.

As I waited, a sweetness pricked the edge of my shell, setting hunger into motion. Scintillating motes of Soul were floating about the room. They churned in the air around the statue like a billion orbiting planets. One by one, they were drawn into it, each mote faintly increasing the statue's light.

Lurien flicked his fingers free of water and followed the trail of my gaze. He hesitated for an instant before lifted a gesturing palm toward the statue.

"Reservoir," he said. "Ancient design." Lurien paused as if to collect more words but shrugged and resumed his step. "Come. King."

We arrived before a pair of doors that soared up to touch the vaulted ceiling overhead. Beside them stood a creature resembling the Great Knights in shape, but not in substance. It loomed tall and thin, with a shell of jagged metal. Glowing, white eyes bore out of the seething black pit that was its face. At our approach, it blocked the doors and brandished a scythe with its four arms. No words escaped it, but the shapeless specter of a whisper bubbled in my head.

Lurien broke his stride just long enough to glance at the thing, and it twitched as if pulled by invisible strings. With a ringing stomp of feet, it stood aside and planted the haft of its scythe on the ground. The massive doors swung open without so much as a gust of air.

We stepped through into a small, modestly furnished room that was enveloped in a canopy of plant life. The King was within, but he did not react to our intrusion. He stood beside a high-backed chair in which someone sat. From my place I could not see its occupant, but a mellifluous voice powdered the room. "Oh, Wyrm. You heap yet more burden upon your brow. To mend this Kingdom in the manner that you seek is no mild task. Other paths remain before you. An accord may still be struck. Light might yet permit your rule, so long as her animus is not impeded. Grant a small concession. End this feud. The moth tribe would make a fine libation and their lands bear little consequence."

The King reached out to brace an arm against the chair. His shoulders sank like an overburdened bridge. "No concession in a game of gods is small, my Root. It is true that Light fixates upon her ancient enemy. But, should she triumph in her crusade, what then? Without gloom to check a candle, its blaze would blind the world. I have seen such futures; none can I accept."

The voice hummed low. "But if that foreboding rings true, would not Void possess the same means if freed of its foe? To blind the world?"

"Despite her primitive nature, Light is yet a being of Essence. Of Mind. She executes her will as any thinking thing might, but Void embodies her antipode. It lacks focus. And as such, is no threat."

"I am not a courtier to be mollified and shooed aside, dear Wyrm." A vine, white as marble, rose up to drape over the chair's armrest. "Your lies spill most sour indeed."

The King winced. "I would not stoop to deception. My aim is merely to soothe. Precautions are in place such that you need not fear for the Kingdom. I say in earnest. Void is no threat to you."

The vine wrapped around the King's wrist and gave it the slightest squeeze. "I fear not for the Kingdom. I fear for you. The dream you hope to realize is beyond any god. The sacrifices already made pale before what is demanded. The commoners, in their adoration, believe their Pale King immutable, but even now, you—"

"Enough!" The King pulled his arm away, and the vine curled out of sight. "I shall not indulge this subject again. You know my intent. To the end."

The voice fell. "Yes, I know. But is equilibrium truly so infeasible? Does no vision of peace reside within your eyes?"

The King stiffened. "Amongst the gods and lords, I am called 'Usurper'. I have laid claim upon their territory and their power. They bear me no love. And neither do they you. What of your war with Unn in the earliest age? Was your claim not unjust to her reckoning? Would she have consented to parley with such an invader?"

The voice fell yet further, growing sullen. "You speak unfairly. This war with Light bears little resemblance to then… A seed does not know where it germinates. A root does not know where it burrows. When my mind came to me the war was already won, and Unn had faded to her exile."

The King massaged the side of his head with a claw. "Forgive me, but there can be no concessions in this conflict. Light abides no rival that might pilfer her flock. And the petty kingdoms of this land would rather fall to ruin than see another crown rise. If they possessed the prowess, then Hallownest would be dashed against the stones, no matter its ideal. My kingdom bears but two fates: to rule eternal, or to become dust."

"I know your heart, Wyrm. You mean me no ill. But beware. As you reach toward glory—the sort to eclipse even your former life—take care not to exceed your grasp."

The King drew in a breath as if to summon a rebuttal, but let it go, and instead only nodded.

"Now, enough of this unsavory talk," the voice continued. "Perhaps it best we concern ourselves with other affairs. If my roots sing true, then a guest has shuffled into our midst. Watcher Lurien, is it you that idles about our fractious discourse?"

With a rustle of leaves and a rasp of plant fibers, the chair's occupant rose. Its form was svelte and lofty, draped in loose-fitting strips of gray silk. No mask adorned its face, and no shell safeguarded its body. The being was unlike a bug in every way, for it possessed not arms but vines, not legs but a trunk, and not horns but a nest of branches that thrust upward like the tributaries of a celestial river. Luminescence—that dwarfed even the King's—permeated the air about it, muting the shadowed corners of the room.

Lurien startled at the call of his name and stepped forward. He bowed low, just as the attendant bug in his spire had, to the point that his mask nearly scraped the floor. "White Lady," he whispered, as if the sound of his voice were an insult.

The lofty being—the White Lady—inclined her head in greeting. Her glacial, nacreous eyes fixed him for an instant before wandering to me. "You come bearing my spawn," she observed. "Rarely is one given reason to venture so deeply into the Palace." She turned. "Wyrm, is this the Vessel of which you spoke?"

The King seated himself at another high-backed chair opposite the Lady's. "Indeed. It is unparalleled in form, hollowed more completely by Void than any else yet seen. Do you feel its potential? As a beating heart?"

The White Lady knelt upon the ground, to the groan of her trunk and the hiss of her silken shawls. She extended the vines of her arms at me and whispered. "Come."

In a blink, the bonds of Lurien's previous command evaporated, and I staggered forward, almost faster than my feet could manage. The Lady's vines encircled my shoulders and held me fast. They were soft. Faintly warm to the touch.

"Would that I could recall the seed from which it blossomed," the Lady said, "but I speak of the impossible. My progeny has fallen more numerous than droplets in a storm." She stroked the side of my head and lifted my chin so that I would look her in the eyes. "The Void has indeed done its work upon this one. What remains of our offering is but shell now. As is required of this grim task. And yet… I spy a striking nobility in its stance. Much like its father's. Perhaps too much."

She released me, suddenly, the warmth banished as if by a winter gust. She stood and stepped away, leaving me empty of purpose.

"You are certain it is faultless?" the Lady asked.

The King roused from some reverie. "Yes," he murmured. "The only perfection we two shall conceive."

"Then the pit is sealed," the Lady stated.

"Indeed."

"Eternally?"

The King cocked his head. "Never again shall mortal eyes behold the refuse of our labor. As was promised."

"And into that pit, how many excursions did you make, Wyrm? To retrieve. To dispose."

"As many as was made necessary."

"But the number, do you recall?"

"Many," the King said, cold and flat.

The Lady pressed two vines against her cheeks. "Not once did these eyes survey that pit. And now they never shall. Was that a duty shirked? An act of cowardice?"

"Our compact entailed no such burden upon you. The offering of seeds was your only concern. It is ill advised to brood."

"But is it not the task of a progenitor to witness where its seeds might fall? To ensure the fertility of the earth, the kiss of the sun." Her gaze drifted once again to me.

The King rested his chin upon a clenched claw. "Lady. You brook no lies nor illusions. But only in they shall you find solace, if that is what you seek. Our deed is done. And no matter all the power in the cosmos, it shall not be undone. Do not succumb to regret. At this moment above all others."

The Lady crossed the room in a ponderous fashion, the roots of her trunk-like body working collectively to drag her along. From atop a modest pedestal, she retrieved a silk-lined basin of silver that was carved in the likeness of a shell. She resumed her seat and gazed down into the basin's confines. "If the Vessel proves true, and our toil is indeed over, then what shall become of this one?" She tilted the basin, revealing a small object—ovate and milky white—nestled in the silk. The object's surface was irregular, like a thin layer of bark, and it sparkled in the room's ambient light. "This seed has incorporated your quintessence more fully than any other. I had thought it might serve as a suitable nucleus for a superior Vessel. But now…"

The King was motionless.

"Should you triumph over Light and Void," the Lady continued. "Should all our impediments be surmounted, then a wondrous future awaits this Kingdom. Perhaps this seed might have a place in it. We would nurture it, as our first, true child. And one amongst my progeny would finally… endure."

"Dispose of it."

"What?!"

"I am not misheard," the King whispered. "That seed is to be discarded."

"Wyrm!"

"The conditions of our union stand. Neither in prosperity nor in desolation was an heir born of my own quintessence promised. And none shall be given. If you claim to perceive my ambition—to abet it—then this verdict should come as no revelation."

"You would deny me this slightest thing?" the Lady hissed. "Why?"

"Hallownest must not be harrowed by the rot that is succession. There must be no lineage to track, no bloodline to justify rule. No excuse for dissidence. Only one sacrosanct need sit upon the throne. Forever."

The Lady pressed the basin tight against her chest. "So, it is fear then. Of this little thing's divinity."

"Fear? I am compelled by no such weakness."

The Lady laughed, one hard note that reverberated through my shell. "This is your child! Do you truly foresee such maliciousness from it? The same foreseen in Light? Or those guiltless grubs?"

"Yes, Lady. I do." The King bowed his head. "Such is the weight of prescience."

"To the pit with your prescience! Amongst your futures, you spy not one where this heir grows to be your ally and not your bane?"

The King was quiet for a time. "Correct. Now, again I ask. I… beg. Destroy it."

The Lady's roots cracked the tile beneath her trunk. "Is your contempt for your own offspring so absolute?"

"It is not contempt that—!" The King stopped. Collected himself. "No, it is not contempt. It is not fear. It is purpose. Inexorable purpose that shall not be hindered by pain nor cost."

"Then what of Herrah?" The Lady's branches quivered. "The Beast made her terms most apparent when the mantle of Dreamer was first offered to her. And now, as if by whim she aligns herself with our purpose. I am not so blind, and I should hope you not to presume me so. This dalliance of yours—the royal offspring that shall be its result—bears the very same threat to your sanctity as this meager seed. Why do you hurl these hypocrisies at me?"

"A Dreamer's duty is eternal service, a stasis made worse than death. What favorable bargain might be struck with such a dire demand? For all the wealth and power in this worldly frame, Herrah would not see herself bought. Her obsession is to but one end, and desperation required that I provide it, no matter how it might threaten me."

"And none more suitable could be found?" the Lady asked. "Those that would play gatekeeper to your Vessel without first asking the sun and the stars?"

The King chuckled. "You ask questions of which you are already versed. Though Lurien's vow was destined, Monomon's came as sheer fortune. Well are you aware that three Dreamers are requisite. Vespa served as the final recourse. And our offer evinced naught but scorn. Thus, the pact with Herrah remains."

"Fine! Then when all is done, what shall you have? To the very end, nothing to call child but a mere bastard? Hidden away lest it threaten your rule?"

The King's gaze settled on me. "I shall call Hallownest my child. And it shall grow as no other offspring could ever hope."

With a creak, the Lady leaned in over the basin. She cupped the seed between two vines. "Ages have dawned and died since our first meeting, Wyrm," she said. "Then, you stood a shining beacon in a realm of senseless night. And though at first, your promise alone bound us, admiration bloomed within me as the most eager of buds. Know that I am yours. Forever more. But do not exploit my fervent heart. When all pretense is forsaken, Herrah's aim is my own: an offspring, a child. No simple shell, no tawdry spawn that shall not survive two seasons, let alone a lifetime. Before even this foul undertaking, I had borne legions, only to witness them wither and die. The ember of Essence does not kindle in beings so small, so evanescent." Her grip tightened upon the seed. "And I grow weary, so weary, of outliving them. When shall I have what is promised, Pale King? How long shall I languish?"

Time stretched, but the King offered no reply. He did not meet the Lady's eyes as she glanced up at him.

"And you shan't tell me," the Lady muttered. "Prescience fails again. How apt. But even still… in you my trust is planted. To the end."

With a sudden twist of her vines, the Lady crushed the seed to powder and cast it upon the floor. The particulates glittered briefly, and the Lady watched them until they became indistinguishable from dust. "Behold," she said, her voice thick. "Another foe of Hallownest is vanquished. A jubilant turn for the Kingdom; no longer is its stability imperiled." The Lady wiped her vines, rose, and returned the basin to its pedestal.

The King pressed his claw against his mask and grew still.

In the ensuing silence, Lurien rocked from foot to foot and scuffed at the seed remnants upon the ground. "King?" he eventually inquired. "Vessel?" He extended a finger toward me, as if to affirm my existence.

"Yes, Watcher," the King said, straightening. "Your prudence returns us to our purpose. Battle was not the design of this audience. Instead, we gather here to mark the Vessel's growth. So, step forth Lurien, that I might construe its deeds."

With atypical haste, Lurien trotted to the King's side and sank gracefully into a kneeling pose. He lifted his head, displaying the one-eyed mask to the King. But Lurien did not speak. He offered no verbal report at all. The King simply stared down at him with singular scrutiny.

A still moment passed, and then the King released a wisp of a chuckle. "Exquisite. Truly. It transcends all expectation. Mere days free of its prison, and already it displays mastery over Shade." He turned to the Lady, almost mirthful. "Root! This Vessel has claimed victory over Great Knight Isma in single combat—at the apex of her power! Never before has a—"

"Is my purpose here fulfilled?" the Lady asked, puncturing the King's words. "I would depart if so. A needless thing is a curator to an empty nursery."

"I perceive your pain," the King said. "It cuts most deeply. But do you not esteem yourself to be my prime adviser? Upon us rests the encumbrance of choice. To hone this Vessel's shell, it need be assigned a fitting tutor and a worthy challenge. Quell your sorrow, if for but a time. I beseech your counsel."

The Lady lingered by the basin. Her vines strained against its shape as if attempting to shatter it. "Duty does not relent," she whispered. But in a bolder voice, "the path you behold is evident. To both our eyes. Neither approval nor reproach—even from your White Lady—would see you diverted. The counsel you seek is but the echo of a deserted room."

The King shook his head. "Strike at me if it so salves your hurt, but still I would know your mind on this. Do you believe power enough resides within this Vessel to endure the trials of the Great Knights?"

"Ever shall it ring odd to hear question in your voice, Wyrm. You, gleaner of the future's fickle secrets, yet always stricken with uncertainty." The Lady released her grip on the basin. Her body slackened. "I do not impugn your claims of the Vessel's might. It is the pinnacle of our efforts. But amongst the previous pinnacles all fell short before Dryya. Knowing this, you shall still send it forth with my Knight. Such is your foregone resolution. And though superfluous, I am in accord with this path. I do not feign to know what shall transpire, only that the outcome shall ordain our fates."

"Your blessing is most welcome," the King said. "But the blaze within your Fierce Knight denies me any supremacy. The White Lady's will alone stirs her step. You must dispatch her."

The Lady considered. "Very well. Assuming that Dryya returns from the Mantis War unscathed, then she shall measure the merits of this newest Vessel, whatever that may bring."

The King nodded. "And as a lump of ore upon a master's anvil, the Vessel shall approach its perfect form. To become a tool… utterly Pure."

The King's words drew the Lady's attention to me, but with an intensity unlike anything before. The blue of her eyes pierced to my core like the point of a sapphire nail. My breathing came in gasps, as if a stone were pressing down upon my chest.

"Though called a tool," the Lady said. "and wielded as such, what is Void but a weapon? As quick to cut friend as foe. Tell me. Did this one defeat Isma, or slay her?"

The King rose and stood beside the Queen. He too watched me, but his gaze did not crush my shell. "To best a god, one must dabble in parlous forces. Were I to inform you of Isma's demise, would it annul your pledge?"

"Do not toy with me," the Lady said, her eyes narrowing. "If you seek to probe my limits, then you shall learn them in due haste."

"A fair censure," the King admitted, with a slight bow of his head. "My apologies. It is a Wyrm's nature to delve. I offer in truth that Isma survived, but by a margin most narrow. Should you dispatch Dryya on this quest, then a similar threat shall loom over her. Are you prepared to wager your fondest companion? One whose devotion exceeds even my own?"

The Lady ruminated for a time. "Sacrifice begets sacrifice. And gambit begets gambit. Countless shards of yourself have you surrendered. And countless offspring have I. From the beginning, you have wagered your Kingdom. And now shall I wager mine. My Dryya. In no good conscience may I do less…"

"Very well. Then we—"

"But," the Lady said, "I shall not endanger my favored champion any more than need be. I ask that she not travel alone."

"Little can be spared in this age of peril," the King mused. "The forces of Hallownest grow thin. But still, convey your wish and it shall be done."

"Only a fellow Great Knight shall suffice as escort. Nothing less and nothing more."

"Acceptable. Then, four—" The King paused. "Three choices are before you."

"Despite his great strength," the Lady muttered. "Hegemol tires most easily. He shall seek hibernation at the conclusion of this war. And Isma's talents shine most brightly in the aftermath of conflict. She shall be occupied with the wounded."

"You request Ogrim, then?" The King asked. "Indeed, his presence at Isma's duel proved her salvation, but…"

The Lady tilted her head. "'But'?"

"When first he ascended to Knighthood, Loyal Ogrim beheld in me righteousness and truth. He balked at no command, for in his noble mind, I embodied all that was good. But now my grievous deeds are made known to him, and I am tarnished in his eyes."

"That is not so rare an occasion. None of the previous Greats returned from that pit unshaken, though they oft donned bravado's mask."

The King's head jerked in a curt denial. "Those same Greats chained themselves to my vision, not for its virtue but for its power. Yet, Ogrim desires no perfect realm, no absolute dominion, merely a world devoid of dishonor. And if such a wish cannot be realized within me, then he shall seek it elsewhere."

"You suspect his epithet undeserved?" the Lady asked.

But the King did not respond.

"You speak of your many futures, then?" she prodded. "One known? Or merely dreaded?"

"Yes," the King whispered.

Something between a scoff and a laugh escaped the Lady. "A goodly heart beats in Loyal Ogrim's chest. Though dilemma may batter his reason, and though foresight is no agent of mine. I shall trust Dryya's care to his claws. Such is the wild faith upon which we earthly beings rely."

The King turned to the great doors. They opened soundlessly before him. "As you wish…"