The Age of Knights & Dames

by Patrick Harris

  There were four of them besides the man made of moss. The largest of the lot was my rescuer, a thick, broad, lumbering man with a face full of hair, an axe strapped to his back, and a belt of golden pocket watches. The other two men were smaller but nonetheless intimidating, the youngest wearing belts of swords around his scrawny hips, arms, and legs. The other was a roly-poly of a man in mustard yellow robes with scabbed knuckles and deep scars lacing his arms. The woman was a dainty thing wrapped in dirty folds of clothing. Her eyes were glassy, and her grey hair stuck out like she’d been struck by lightning.

  “Mage,” the mountain of a man whispered, turning the moss man onto his back. “We must continue on. The witch—”

  The mage inhaled sharply, painfully.

  “Decipher the gears,” he murmured, his voice deep as the ocean but light as a butterfly’s wings. “Power she has come to fear.”

  “Mage?” my rescuer said, cradling the mage’s head. “Are you with me?”

  “Cliffside’s keep, Dreadnaught’s reap,” the mage replied nonsensically. “Heart’s core. Hidden door.”

  “We’re losing him,” the woman said.

  “We can’t,” the young, scrawny boy with belts of swords said, his sweat-soaked face turning white. “He’s the only one—”

  “He’s known,” the man in yellow said softly. “He left us everything we needed.”

  “The magic,” the mage breathed, his voice growing creaky. “Gone. I too. Fallen echelon.”

  The young boy gaped.

  “Did he say—did he mean?”

  The woman nodded, depressed. “The magic is gone.”

  The boy pointed at us.

  “But they’re—”

  “They’re alive,” my rescuer interrupted. “The mage is dying. Focus, page!”

  “He can’t die!”

  “He will. He was born of the magic. He subsists off it. He dies with it.” The mountain of a man patted the mage’s back tenderly. “Rest easy, mage. We will see brighter days.”

  The mage suddenly sat up. His eyes found my friends and I. The moss around his eyes and mouth were turning black and drying out.

  “Have heart, you four, for what’s in store,” the mage said, “or Dembroch will be lost forevermore. Ignite six sparks before it…all…goes…dark.”

  The mage’s eyes lost their light and turned oily black. Each curl of moss withered and died. He slumped and lost form. A million bundles of moss collapsed on themselves, scattering across the hallway, covering the laps of his comrades.

  We all stood there for a moment, shocked. I couldn’t believe what I’d just seen. The mage had…died.

  As one, without exchanging glances, our four rescuers beat their fists over their heart. Their fabric clothes clanged like armor.

  “Come on,” my rescuer grumbled a few minutes later, “he’s gone. We need to keep moving.”

  He got to his feet, glancing over my friends and I with a sneer.

  “Anyone want to explain what’s happening here?” Meg said, her tone overly arrogant.

  “You could do the same,” he replied.

  “Look, buddy,” Clay interjected. “We just got here and—”

  My rescuer spun on Clay. A gigantic hand slammed him into the wall.

  “How is it you live?” he growled in Clay’s face. “How? While the mage dies?”

  “I don’t know!” Clay replied.

  “The queen—” I stammered. “She called us here—then she tried to kill us—”

  “That wasn’t the queen.”

  Clay and I stammered, not sure what to make of this or what it meant.

  “Speak, boy!” the man shouted at Clay.

  “Okay, okay,” Jenn said. “Everyone calm down. We all need to communicate.”

  The mountain of a man, once my rescuer, now Clay’s attacker, grumbled under his breath. He loosened his grip on Clay, letting him slide back to the ground, and loomed over Jenn.

  “That wasn’t the queen who summoned you or tried to kill you,” he explained. “It was a witch named Sorgana.”

  “What?” Meg spat.

  “She’s been imprisoned for years,” explained the young, thin man with swords sheathed around his limbs, “but recently broke free and took the queen’s place. She lured you here to—”

  “Kill us,” Meg interrupted. “Yeah, we got that.”

  “What do you mean lured us?” I asked.

  “She summoned you all,” he replied. “She bewitched Sir Liliford to deliver you and Page Hybore to collect you, God rest his soul.”

  Our rescuers hung their heads and pounded their chests as they had done for the fallen mage. The woman let out a muffled sob.

  In the back of my mind, I felt the pieces fall together. I’d been right: Page Hybore and our ferryman had been controlled by the witch, the only clue being their green eyes. When Page Hybore had been revived, he’d been momentarily free of the bewitchment and tried to warn me of the witch and the dangers, but he hadn’t had enough time before passing on.

  “Why would she want us dead?” Jenn bemoaned.

  “To kill the magic,” replied the woman.

  “Which she accomplished,” the behemoth grunted.

  I glanced at Meg’s wristwatch. The light of a torch caught the brass of the clock’s hands. The second hand was moving unhindered, ticking away second after second without pause. I gulped.

  “She wanted to kill us to kill the magic?” Clay asked.

  Our rescuers nodded.

  “Why would killing us—” I began, but Meg cut me off.

  “If that was the witch, where’s the real queen?” she asked, crossing her arms.

  “Locked away in the prisons, yes, yes,” the man in yellow said.

  “We’re taking you there now,” said the younger man.

  “If you lot would keep quiet long enough to get there,” the imposing man grumbled. “She’ll have plenty of questions for you. I suppose I’ll wait till then to hear a good explanation from you lot.”

  Our rescuers started to head out, but I called after them.

  “Wait, what about the…the mage?”

  The woman glanced back mournfully.

  “There’s nothing we can do now,” she said dreamily. “We’ll give him a proper sendoff when it is safe to do so.”

  She began to walk away again.

  “Hey!” Meg called after them. “Who are you? How can we trust you?”

  I shot her a look, but her demands got the job done. The four strangers returned.

  “Page Trey,” said the scrawny young man with all the weapons. He bowed. “I am one of the kingdom’s combat instructors, apprentice to Master Malleator. He—”

  “We don’t have time for this,” grumbled the largest man, and the grumpiest apparently.

  “Sorry,” Page Trey said, smiling sheepishly at Meg.

  “I’m Sir Rignot, the librarian, yes, yes,” said the squat, roly-poly of a man in yellow. He glanced over his shoulder warily, rubbing his scabbed and bruised knuckles.

  “I am Lady Sinclair, the seer,” said the woman with glassy eyes, “but you may call me the seer who does not see. Or, if it is simpler, just the seer. Yes, perhaps, just the seer. Pleased to meet you, Lady Jennifer.”

  Something about her rang a bell in my mind, a distant reminder of something that I just couldn’t quite remember, but I didn’t have time to figure out what it was. I realized the woman had been staring at Jenn the whole time, and in turn, Jenn was sliding behind her husband.

  “Watchmaker,” said the mountain of a man, running his finger along the chains of the dozen golden pocket watches hanging from his belt. “Now come on. We have places to get.”

  The Watchmaker took off, followed by his three compatriots. My friends and I trailed them slowly, trying to wrap our heads around what had just happened.

  “This is ridiculous,” Meg said under her breath.

  “I’m quite enjoying myself,” Jenn said.

  “Of course you are,” Meg repli
ed. “We were nearly killed, some walking piece of moss just died, and we’re being hunted by a crazy lady. You must be right at home. You with your death, death, death.”

  “What do you mean hunted?” Clay repeated, chuckling nervously. “We’re safe with all these people, right?”

  I noticed the woman called the seer eyeing us—well, Jenn—with a raised eyebrow.

  “It’ll be okay,” I said, more to get the seer to stop listening. “We’ll be fine, Clay.”

  “For once, I agree with you, Nick,” Meg said quietly. “We will be fine. Once we get off this island.”

  “What?” we whispered in unison, all of our voices scratchy from nearly suffocating to death.

  “We’re leaving, aren’t we?” Meg asked. “First chance we get, we’ll grab that ferry and get out of here.”

  “We can’t just—” I began.

  “Yes, we can,” Meg said. “We’re not knights and dames anymore, Nick. We’re under no compulsion to help these people out. Best if we just get out of here while we still can.”

  “What about the magic?” I asked.

  “What magic?” my stepsister chuffed.

  “They said it was dead,” Jenn said sullenly. “All the way now.”

  “And then they blamed us,” Meg said. “I know one thing for sure. This isn’t my rodeo. So I’m out. Who’s with me?”

  There was a brief pause, then Clay said, “Can I come with you?”

  “Me too,” Jenn echoed.

  My head swiveled between the three of them.

  “You all want to leave?” I said, aghast.

  “You dragged us here,” Meg said. “None of us wanted to come.”

  “We just wanted to say hi to some old friends at the diner,” Clay said honestly.

  “I just don’t want to die,” Jenn said.

  “What is it with you and death?” Meg grumbled.

  I gaped at them, completely shocked. For the first time since reuniting at Dave’s Diner, I realized I was amongst strangers. Gone was Clay the brave, Jenn the carelessly happy, and Meg the staunch stepsister. Before me was a coward, a depressed pessimist, and an impatient, self-reliant soul. All they could think about was their recent scrap with death and how badly they wanted to avoid further confrontation.

  “What happened to you all?” I suddenly spat.

  Meg’s lips grew thin.

  “You may not remember this, Nick,” she spat back, “but fifteen years ago, you chose Dembroch over me.”

  “Over all of us,” Jenn added.

  “Dembroch never wanted you,” my sister said. “But I did. I still do. I may not particularly like you somedays, but I don’t want you dead.”

  “Come on, Nick,” Clay whispered. “Come with us.”

  “Let’s make a run for it,” Meg suggested.

  “I’m no good at running,” Jenn bemoaned.

  “Whatever, Jenn.”

  They all stopped and pushed me back the way we’d come—only to screech to a stop.

  The seer stood behind us. She stared at us with her glassy eyes.

  “Do not go the way of Solomon,” she whispered harshly.

  She waved her hands. We all cringed, Jenn squawked, expecting to be flung across a room. But there was no green light or magic. The seer was just shooing us along. So I spun around and hurried after the Watchmaker, page, and librarian. My friends followed suit, Meg mumbling under her breath. The seer slunk behind us, watching us like an eagle-eyed teacher monitoring her preschool subjects.

  At long last, after passing through the Rotunda and twisting through more corridors, we found what must have been the castle’s prison. On the far side of the chamber were four cells. Dying sunlight streamed through one window. Cobwebs hung from the corners. The putrid smell of spoiled food and bad plumbing oozed from the space.

  While the seer and Page Trey kept watch down the corridor, the Watchmaker approached the leftmost cell.

  “My queen,” he said.

  A bundle of cloth on the floor stirred. I thought I heard sniffling.

  “Do not despair, my queen,” the librarian said. “Your defenders are here, yes, yes.”

  There was a gasp, then the bundle of cloth was thrown aside. A woman stood and ran to the bars, clutching them.

  Clay and I stutter-stepped backward. Jenn yelped.

  The woman behind the bars was the same woman I’d seen a glimpse of in the throne room. She was wrinkled and furrowed, more bone than flesh, a skeleton wearing human skin. I could see every vein, knuckle, joint, and ligament.

  “Do not be afraid,” the woman said, her voice croaky and weak. “It is I, your queen. Please, come closer.”

  We didn’t move a muscle.

  “Sir Nicholas!” the woman cried, her weak voice full of desperation. “Sir Clayton. Ladies Jennifer and Meghan! Please, it is I, Queen Coralee.”

  We still didn’t move, not willing to fall for another trick. This was surely the witch, pulling us in for another trap. We’d been fools to even trust our rescuers.

  “It’s the queen, you doles,” the Watchmaker grunted. “The witch cast a spell to disguise the two of them. The witch looks like the queen, the queen looks like the witch.”

  “Yes,” the woman begged. “As you are the last defenders, I am the true dowager of Dembroch. I am the rightful queen.”

  I didn’t want to believe him, but I caught sight of the woman’s eyes. They may have been sunken and glassy with considerable age, but they were pleading, kind, and brimming with tears. The witch’s eyes, though disguised as the queen, had been overflowing with malice. Eyes were windows to the soul, after all. No disguise or magic could hide their true intentions.

  “Queen Coralee?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said, wiping the tears away.

  I approached the cell. Clay warned me, but I knew now that the woman before us was our true ally.

  The queen reached through the bars, holding out a hand. I took it and she squeezed it tightly.

  At long last, despite all appearances, I’d met the queen of Dembroch.

  CHAPTER 12:

  The True Dowager of Dembroch

  “Bless you, Sir Nicholas,” Queen Coralee said, holding my hand firmly. “I thought you had fallen at the whims of the witch.”

  “Almost,” I acknowledged, forcing a laugh.

  “How do you live while the magic has died?” the queen asked, looking over my friends and I.

  It was the same question the Watchmaker had shouted at Clay, but none of us knew what they meant by it. I stammered.

  “We must then celebrate these small, mysterious victories,” the queen considered. “While you four still stand, the witch shall never succeed, nor shall Dembroch truly fall.”

  She glanced past us, surveying her four subjects.

  “Where is the mage?” she said tremulously. When no one said anything, she cast her eyes to the ground. Slowly, deliberately, she knocked her fist against her heart and whispered quietly.

  The Watchmaker cut in.

  “Pardon me, my lady,” he said, “but time is short and we have much to discuss. Has the witch been here yet?”

  “Come and gone,” the queen said. “She is hunting for you.”

  It was the librarian’s turn to pipe up: “And the magic has truly died?”

  The queen nodded sorrowfully, sharing a quick, dark glance with the Watchmaker. “The last flame has extinguished. The Gate Grounds are dark. Time has resumed.”

  Queen Coralee turned her attention back to my friends and I.

  “My defenders, there is much to say, and little time to share it. First, let me apologize. I should have summoned you long ago rather than have you suffer through this storm. I shall make it up to you in due time. But we have more pressing matters. The witch wreaks havoc. Monsters roam our woods and the sea. Our Watchmaker’s home has been devastated and his watches have been stolen. Our remaining Civium are under constant threat of attack. But the main root of the problem, what has caused much of this, is that t
he magic has been…” She took a breath and tried again: “Our magic is…dead. With it gone, time reigns over the kingdom once more. And its affects are swift and terrible. Our mage has already perished. Death looms over our precious isles and all who remain here. For Dembroch to survive, for us to defeat the witch…we must restore the magic.”

  No one laughed at the mention of magic this time. The queen’s plea was as raw and honest as could be. Terrifying even. There was no denying her need or what she believed needed to be done.

  “Restore it?” Clay asked. “How would that fix things?”

  “The island’s famine would end,” the queen replied. “Our residents would once more be safe. But more than fixing our current problems, we must restore the magic to stop the witch. Whatever she intends for this kingdom, she can only accomplish it with the isles’ magic extinguished. If it were restored, she would be powerless to accomplish her ends.”

  “Which are?” Meg goaded.

  The queen shook her head to say she did not know, but the way she kneaded her hands, the way she seemed to draw into herself, the way she looked to the Watchmaker, I sensed the queen had a pretty good idea.

  “The Watchmaker has been tasked with discovering her intentions, but the Dreadnaught has complicated that end goal,” the queen said. “For the time being, our best hopes of saving the kingdom is to restore the magic.”

  Meg had finally had enough.

  “Okay,” she grumbled. “The gig’s up. Where are the camcorders? Where’s the audience? You got us! We almost fell for it! But this restoring the magic thing was a step too far.”

  The people of Dembroch, from the queen to the Watchmaker, stared at her.

  “Lady Meghan,” the queen implored, “it is the only way.”

  Meg chuffed.

  “It may be difficult to accept,” the queen offered, “especially for visitors from the world beyond, but let me assure you. There is—was—magic on Dembroch. And for the kingdom to see a future, we must reinstate it.”

  I knew the queen was telling the truth. In the last few hours, I had seen unequivocal evidence that magic was real. But Meg refused to believe it. She argued with the queen, demanding she drop the act.