13
Ogrim moved like a storm through the Palace halls, the courtiers and nobles fallen leaves before him. I trailed along as best I could, but my legs faltered, and my shell ached. The duel of commands still lingered on inside me. To leave, to remain, to halt, to go. Ogrim's booming had superseded the King's murmurs, but only just.
Ogrim stomped a harsh melody over the silver tiles. His fatigue had vanished, replaced by a radiating fire. It hurt to be so close, to feel the raw heat of what had been said.
You are no King of mine.
None impeded us as we passed from the inner chambers to the grand hall. Pearl light filtered through frosted windows and onto the fissures of Ogrim's armor, but those in attendance were too occupied with bowing to notice his wounds.
Ogrim rounded a corner, and there was a sudden tolling like a bell. He staggered back. Before him—barricading the hall with his mass—stood Mighty Hegemol.
"Pardon me," Hegemol laughed. "I am so often clumsy after torpor. Are you alright?"
"Y-Yes, quite," Ogrim said. He did not meet Hegemol's eyes, and instead leaned to one side, as if that might reveal another path.
"Where are you off to in such haste?" Hegemol asked. "Has something occurred?"
"The King… commanded that I deliver the Vessel to Kindly Isma. It has not yet recovered from its injuries."
Hegemol scanned Ogrim's shell. "And neither have you, it appears. The trial must have been formidable to mark you so."
Ogrim leaned to the other side and said nothing.
There was a pause. Hegemol showed no intention of moving. "You seem troubled, Ogrim. A moment's repose might do you good. I intended to cajole the Palace chefs into preparing a feast. Perhaps you would care to join me? As they ready the food, I could ease your worries with a tale or two. Has word spread of my clash with the Traitor Lord? Not to boast, but I dealt a blow that he will not soon—"
"No! I—no, I must not tarry. We will trade tales another time. If you would please excuse me."
Hegemol's frame sagged as though burdened by a great weight. "Oh. Yes, certainly." He stepped to one side, granting Ogrim and I enough room to pass. "I would not wish to divert you from your Knightly duties…"
Ogrim lingered as though in search of something to say. But he only shook his head and ushered me down the hall.
Despite the vestibule's proximity to the courtyard, no moans of pain carried in the air, no healer bugs scuttled about. We crossed through the vertex's beam of light, but at the far entrance, Ogrim stopped. He turned and I followed his gaze. Isma was seated at the foot of the throne, hunched against its staircase. She rocked, trapped in fitful sleep.
Ogrim neither approached nor fled, remaining that way—statue-like—as he deliberated in his private realm. I waited for him, as I always did, for I could give no counsel.
You dare a dread precipice, Loyal Knight. Consider your path, for there shall be no regress.
As though feeling eyes upon her, Isma stirred. She wobbled upright. "Ogrim…"
Something settled within Ogrim, then. His fire guttered, and the invisible wires that had bound him taut fell away. With a voice made thick by so much unspoken, he said, "Do not follow me, Isma," and strode out of the Palace.
She did not heed him for a heartbeat.
Isma was beside us instantly, panting, but keeping pace. She did not demand that we stop. She did not speak at all, not until the courtyard was far behind and the only sound was of our feet upon the elevated causeway.
"You swore me an oath, Loyal Knight," she finally said.
"I did."
"A broken oath is a grave stain on a Knight's honor."
"It is."
"Well? Will you speak?"
"Perhaps I won't."
"Ogrim!"
"Perhaps I am no Knight. Perhaps honor means nothing to me."
She stopped then, as though she had struck a wall. "What did the King tell you? What has happened? Tell me, please. This is not like you!"
Ogrim hesitated. The Palace causeway had come to an end, and the Ancient Basin loomed ahead, unnaturally still. "The Little Knight and I are leaving the Kingdom. You will not see us again."
"What? The King could not have decreed this."
Ogrim turned to go.
I was to… leave? Was that my purpose?
Isma seemed about to snatch at my arm, to hold me fast as she had done in the vestibule, but her claw curled toward her chest and she instead fell into step.
The Ancient Basin was a dry, dead thing. Though the Palace's adornments covered every surface, drifts of black fog and hanging vines stole away the glimmer. The filigree resembled crude iron, not silver, and bristled with menace. We passed a statue of the king coated in a soot-like substance. Dark rivulets ran down the face like tears.
"So… it is betrayal, then?" Isma asked.
She waited for Ogrim's denial, but none came.
"Will you tell me nothing?" she continued. "Am I to grasp in the dark while you keep to your silence?"
Ogrim slashed at a cluster of vines blocking our path, but his ruined claws could no longer cut. He pressed through them instead.
Isma trailed just over his shoulder. "It is a bitter riddle you lay before me. I fail to imagine what could bring you to abandon everything, to steal away into the wilds and leave this Kingdom to rot. Do you no longer care for its subjects? Do you no longer care for me?"
Ogrim bowed his head as though leaning into a gale. He did not stop. "You would be wise to return to the Palace before your absence is known. You are needed. Far more than I."
"Every Knight is needed now! I have already lost Ze'mer, I will not lose another! Follow me back to the Palace, please. Whatever has transpired can yet be undone. I will vouch for you." She reached for Ogrim, but he pulled away.
"More words cannot veil what has already been said. I have made my choice. Revile me if it so suits you."
With two swift steps, Isma closed the gap. She wrapped Ogrim in her supple arms, claws locking over his chest. She pressed her cheek tight to his neck. "Never," she said. "I will never revile you."
Ogrim fought her pull, his paltry strength against hers. But he could not tear free. He sank to his knees like a failing machine, and she knelt beside him.
Then he wept.
I could not fathom this: the pain. It flowed from Ogrim like a mortal wound, and I could do nothing to staunch it. There was no foe, no threat before us. I could bring no power to bear here.
I was useless.
Ogrim tried to speak through his quaking, to articulate all that had transpired, but Isma hushed him as though he were a hatchling. She held him close, and a muted wind of Soul rose about them. They glowed like a great lantern as Isma eased his hurt. The cuts in Ogrim's shell faded to scratches, and then to nothing at all.
Isma slumped, but Ogrim caught her by the waist. He rested her heavy head on his shoulder and bottled the last of his anguish.
After a long exhale, he said, "The truth you seek will do no good. It will end your faith. It will lead you down my path, and I do not wish that."
"But still, I will hear it," Isma whispered. "I must know what tortures you."
"…They are his children."
"What?"
"The Little Knight, the Vessels. They are the King's own progeny, his shell and blood made hollow by Void."
Though she could hardly lift her head, Isma looked at me. "I slew children?"
"No," Ogrim snarled. He shook her, as if trying to draw her from a dream. "Stop!"
"Those broken shells… He called them tools…"
"Hear me, Isma. You are not to blame."
"I slew children!" A crazed energy took hold of Isma. She pushed free of Ogrim and skittered away from me until her back dug into the tunnel wall.
Ogrim pursued her, claws out and pleading. "This is no fault of yours."
"I never pried… So many years and I never pried…"
"You did not know."
"But I suspected!" Isma crumpled in on herself, drawing her knees to her chest.
"This rests on the King, no one else. You must understand that."
Isma's wail diminished to a murmur. "I hid. I could not bear to ask, to learn I was a lie."
Ogrim crawled over to sit beside her. "If you are not the Kindly Knight, then nothing in this world is true."
At that, Isma flinched. She drew her eyes away from me, and the horror-spell waned. She went quiet and gripped Ogrim's arm as though he were the edge of a cliff.
The exchange lulled, and the basin's sober aura shrouded them. Ogrim did not stand. He did not bid us to leave, despite our purpose.
I watched Isma, watched her toil to avoid my existence, her eyes burrowing into the stones.
Like so many others, she feared me, but not for my power. She feared my being—what I represented. Was I at fault for sowing this fear? Was that unbecoming of a Knight?
After a cold, windless time, Ogrim spoke. "Do you recall when first we met?"
Isma made a flat noise, the sound of a mind far away.
Ogrim took it as encouragement and continued. "It was in the Palace garden following the Champion's Call. You remember, yes? Even now, to me that moment is a clear window."
"You were wounded," Isma murmured.
And Ogrim dared a laugh. "I was indeed, so much so that Ze'mer had been forced to haul me halfway across the Kingdom. I never did repay her in full." He let the memory percolate—to collect color and form. "The King had not yet silvered me. I was a Knight in name but not appearance. What a dull shell I sported, the sort fit for a vagabond. When Ze'mer left me there, without a word's introduction, do you recall how you treated me: the sudden stranger?"
Isma did not respond, but she looked at him.
"Exactly as you always have," Ogrim said. "With kindness. With love."
"Fleeting courtesy does not make us who we are," Isma said. "Our deeds do."
Ogrim nodded. "Quite so. It was not your gentle manner that earned your name, it was from those innumerable healings, of Knights and nobles and common bugs snatched from the jaws of death."
"But what of the Sanctum?" Isma asked. "What of the innumerable bugs stripped of their Soul? And what of the princes and princesses I cast to the pit? Would they not earn me a different name?"
Ogrim faltered. He glanced about as though he might find the answer in the basin's murk. He settled on me. "We are none of us without flaws. I know that now. The most noble intent can molder. The most flawless shell can crack. But we cannot hate ourselves for our failings. That way brings only despair." He pulled Isma's arm nearer, enclosing it between the flats of his claws. "At the vestibule, I ran because I could not bring myself to tell you of what I must do. I could not suffer the loathing of the one I prized above all else. But you forgave me, for even this. Why can you not forgive yourself? If anyone is deserving, it is you."
Isma laid her head on her knees and said nothing.
Do you truly expect some manner of apology?… I—Perhaps I do!… Mutual amends are in order between you and the little one… With a few earnest words, any rift can be repaired.
Though I had no words, I was not without deeds. I drew close. My arm—the very limb that the King had reforged—hovered over Isma's head. Ogrim tracked me but did not intervene. My claw descended to brush her brow, the faintest caress, the only apology I could muster.
Isma startled and let out a quavering gasp. She straightened to look me in the eyes.
Did she understand? Had the rift been repaired?
…I hoped so.
"It is not hollow." Isma breathed.
"Yes," Ogrim said.
"How long?"
Ogrim lifted a shoulder. "From the beginning?"
As though pressing her arm through a flame, Isma reached out and touched my cheek. She was quiet for a moment. "And this is why you will leave us. You cannot abandon a Ves—a child to their fate…"
Ogrim squeezed Isma's arm, then let it go. "Yes."
Before Ogrim could stand, there came a sound from beyond the haze of black fog, a rhythmic clanging that rose with the passing seconds. The ground tremored as something approached, and through a curtain of vines emerged a massive shape—Mighty Hegemol. The head of the Mighty Knight's mace crashed into the earth, and then all was very still.
Infinitesimally, Ogrim tensed. He shifted his legs beneath himself, readying to spring.
But Hegemol lifted a claw. He stepped away from his mace and sat upon a giant, fossilized shell. It cracked beneath his weight as he hunched to breathe.
"It has been—a turn or two—since—we three last convened," Hegemol said. "I'd hoped—our next meeting—to be of finer fortune—but—"
"Why have you come?" Ogrim asked.
Hegemol took a last gulp. "You know very well."
"The King?"
Without looking up, Hegemol nodded.
"I will ensure the Loyal Knight's return," Isma said. "Leave this to me, Hegemol. I will bring him back."
Hegemol's claws were clasped between his knees. They shook as though in the throes of a duel. "My task is to collect the Vessel," he said. "Ogrim is left to his own ends. He is no longer welcome within the Kingdom…"
From the farthest realm you emerged, and to the farthest realm you shall return. Go. The Loyal Knight is no more.
"That-That can't be so," Isma said, "You jest. Tell me you merely jest!"
"Today is not a day for such things," Hegemol murmured.
Isma turned to Ogrim, as though he might refute it, but he did not. Isma receded into herself, staring blankly into the distance.
Hegemol planted his claws on his knees to stop their shaking. He lifted his head. "Why did you not listen?" Pain warped his voice. "Did you think my proverb so foolish? I urged patience in the face of doubt, yet so quickly you acted. Why?"
Ogrim thrashed as though the questions bit into his shell. "Why did you lie?" he countered.
"What?"
"In the pit—those children, that grave. You lied to me in full."
Hegemol straightened. "I did not. The Vessels are not children. The Void renders them less than bugs. When they hatch from those ebon eggs, they are not living things."
"Does that pedantry bring you peace?"
"No," Hegemol said, without pause. "But peace is not the claim of a Knight. Our claim is duty and strife. What has caused that to slip your mind?"
"Duty. Again, we bandy that word." Ogrim sank back, elbows on knees. "To whom is a Knight sworn, Hegemol? To what?"
"King and Kingdom… Do you no longer find that to be true?"
Ogrim did not reply. He stood and dusted his shell as though readying to leave.
Hegemol stood as well, unfurling his shadow over the tunnel. "Wait! I see it in you: the scorn. You think the King a villain. You think him unworthy of fealty. His methods are too distasteful, is that so? Even if those methods are the only means of saving this land? You would flee from responsibility all so that your sterling chivalry might not be muddied? Is that not greed? Is that not arrogance? Tell me, would you rather keep your righteousness than see this kingdom live?!"
Ogrim shook his head, looking so small, so tired.
Hegemol shrank. He let the echoes of accusation fade. "I am—I am sorry. In this last parting I should offer condolences, not barbs. It is only that—that I had such fond hopes for you… Truly, you were a grand Knight, Ogrim. And now…"
Isma shook from her stupor. She fought to her feet. "Can he not be again? The Pale Court has faced crises of this sort. Were we both to defend him before the King, then surely—"
"No," Hegemol said. "We are beyond that hope."
"Indeed." Ogrim took me by the shoulders. "Farewell, my friends. Perhaps we will meet again."
Before Ogrim and I managed a step, Hegemol was beside us. "The Vessel, Ogrim. Please."
"The Ancient Basin is a tangled place," Ogrim said. "The King would not fault you for returning empty-clawed."
"You know that I cannot do that. All the Kingdom pivots on this Vessel."
Isma flanked Ogrim defensively. "It is flawed, Hegemol. The Vessel is not hollow."
"It is not our place to refute the King," Hegemol said. "He asserts its purity. For me, that is enough."
Ogrim steadied himself. He faced Hegemol as he had faced so many before. "You will not have them."
"Think, Ogrim! You beheld the lighthouse keeper as surely as I. Within the pit, you saw what Void had made of him, how he liquefied within his own shell! Yet knowing that, you would unleash this thing upon the world? Are you so confident that you can restrain it? Forever?"
"The Little Knight is no beast upon a chain. Whatever their birth, they are no more a threat than you or I."
"None but you hold that confidence."
Hegemol surveyed us as though we were far away: a distant place, a distant memory. "We come to the end, then. Beyond words, beyond reason."
"So it seems," Ogrim whispered.
"Very well. Goodbye, my friend. I will remember you."
He grasped his mace and turned away, dragging it for a step across the stones.
Then he planted his feet.
All the world slowed: the beating of hearts, the drift of fog, the swing of the mace. Hegemol's body spun, all his mass behind the motion. Though something pulled at me, shapeless and veiled, I did not react. I was not fast enough to find the will. The blow encroached on Ogrim, to snuff his life in one terrible stroke. His claws hung limp, his defenses low. For all the King's warnings, he had not foreseen.
And then he was falling, thrust aside by a slender arm. Isma interposed herself between Ogrim and his death. And for a sheer, crystal moment, she was triumphant, a Knight as I had never seen.
Then her chest collapsed like a dome of glass.
Author's Note:
We're in the endgame now.
Although the shortest chapter in the novella, this was easily the hardest to write. For those of you still reading after all this time, thanks for sticking around :) If you're so inclined, then throw me some feedback. I always enjoy your comments.
