The Age of Knights & Dames

by Patrick Harris

He watched us expectantly, as did the seer. My head was spinning with flames and Latin and SparkSources, the answer eluding my grasp like words to a song you can’t quite remember.

  I glanced at my friends. To my surprise, they didn’t look scared or bored. Clay and Jenn seemed awed. Meg’s face was strangely vacant. Something within them had stirred, even if they, like me, didn’t have an answer for the librarian.

  Sir Rignot cleared his throat. “Allow me to nudge you ever closer. Do you recall the final line from the tale? ‘The kingdom’s magic persisted forevermore, bound in the age of knights and dames.’ The Latin for this final phrase is milites flammis animam, or the flame protector’s age. But it is not age in the meaning you may first assume. Animam—age—has several meanings. It can be translated to mean a time period, a person’s years of life, a person’s youthfulness, and even parts of the body: mind, heart, soul, life. It could mean any of those…or—” he looked pointedly at us “—all of them.”

  Jenn caught on first.

  “So ‘the age of knights and dames’ could be translated to the youth and heart of the defenders? As in us? Our youth?”

  Sir Rignot nodded. “Even when your titles were stripped, you were still tied to the flames, acting as a fuel source with your youth.”

  “Well, no wonder the magic died,” Meg interjected. “We’re humans. We grow older. We die.”

  “But we’re not dead,” Clay said.

  “Not yet,” Jenn said, rubbing hand sanitizer generously over her hands.

  “Uh, guys, I said. “I don’t think it’s just our physical age. I think it’s our…”

  I didn’t know the word for it.

  “Metaphysical age,” the seer offered.

  Meg rolled her eyes. “What a crock of—”

  “Do not underestimate the invisible,” the seer said sternly. “Just because you can’t touch it or see it doesn’t mean it’s not there. In fact, the unseen often has more influence on us because we ignore it, and, consequently, is often more powerful than we give them credit. They are—”

  Meg chuffed. “Invisible? Like what? Name one thing.”

  “Love,” the seer replied simply. “Caring. Trust. Empathy. Apathy. Bonds between friends or family. Curses. Promises. All unseen. All the more potent for it.”

  “So our youth—” Meg made air quotes around the word as she said it with disdain “—acts as fuel for flames? That’s not even scientifically accurate. Flames can’t be fueled by youth. Even if it could, we’re not on fire. We’re not close to the flames. It’s not possible.”

  The librarian and seer both screwed up their faces, words sharp on their tongue. They had a lot to say on this matter, but I cut them all off. My brain had been spinning for the last few minutes and I’d just realized what Sir Rignot was trying to say.

  With everyone’s attention on me, I flipped open my book until I found the story I needed. It was the musings of an old Dembroch knight and his dissertation on the truest traits of a defender.

  “Guys, listen to this,” I said. “ ‘Only through these truest traits—faithfulness, love, peace and patience, gentle generosity, joy, and goodness—may a SparkSource and defender truly be worth his flame,’ ” I read. I pointed at the Latin translation for the traits. “Fides, caritas, pax, modestia, guadium, bonitas. Those were the words written on the sides of the plinths when the flames started. Because those were the traits exemplified by the SparkSource to start the flame, and the same traits you had to have to become a knight and dame. Just as they start and fuel these magic flames, these truest traits are the substance of our youth. To have these within us keeps us young.”

  Jenn and Clay looked confused. Sir Rignot nodded eagerly. Meg was eerily silent. I had a feeling she knew where this was heading.

  “I don’t get it,” Clay said.

  “Let me back up,” I said. “Remember the two who kissed on the cliff? They started a flame of caritas. That’s real, true, deep love. Their kiss was the perfect example of it, and so their love created a spark, which became a magical flame. It’s the same with all the others. All the SparkSources acted in a way that fully embodied a venerable trait and, as a result, flames were born. But the SparkSources didn’t just start the flames, they fueled them. It was a permanent, unseen bond. As they continued harboring those traits, the fires continued to burn. So when the SparkSources became knights and dames, anyone who joined their ranks and put their hair in the fire had to exhibit those traits too. If it was within them, the flame wouldn’t burn them. And then, once part of the order of defenders, they joined in the responsibility of fueling them.”

  “So the fuel for the flame is our youth,” Jenn said slowly, thoughtfully, “which is composed of these truest traits?”

  I nodded, dreading the gravity of this truth.

  “That’s it, yes, yes?” the librarian interjected. “The flames are not tied to your years of age, but to the age of your soul. If you hold the six truest traits within you and embody them fully, you will be forever young.”

  “This doesn’t make any sense,” Clay said. “I have love within me. And happiness. All those things Nick read. I’m still young.”

  Sir Rignot pushed on, hell-bent on making us understand. I already knew what he was saying and knew it would hurt to hear. Meg was biting her lip, the first sign of tepidness I’d seen from her.

  “A person must grow old physically,” Sir Rignot said, “but they need not grow up! Even when an elder has brittle bones and failing organs, they may choose to smile, share kindness, and seek out the silver linings. That is their soul choosing to stay youthful. A soul’s age—yours, mine, anyone’s—is dependent upon the presence and constant training of the truest traits. The more love and goodness in your life, the younger your soul. But each of you?” He pointed at us all. “I saw it while you were talking to the queen. She saw it. The Watchmaker saw it. You are dead men walking. Dead women. Your souls are dead as brittle leaves, faded and extinguished as the fires it once fed. Your youth, that invisible quality you dismiss so easily, is gone.”

  “Well, forgive us for our glaring flaws,” Clay chuffed. “We’re only human.”

  “Flaws you choose to embrace,” Sir Rignot retorted. “You choose sloth over initiative, cruelty over gentleness, pessimism over hope, tepidness when asked for dedication. Don’t you see? You four were the last ones bonded to the flames and as your youth died, so did the magic. The witch didn’t have to kill you. You killed your spirit and ended the magic for her.”

  The weight of this hung heavily on my conscience. I’d known it for a few minutes now, but to hear it out loud was like a hammer hitting your finger: you see it coming and it hurts even worse. And this truth, this revelation, cut me to my core.

  After all my longing and searching, the kingdom I’d loved so much in my youth had been in danger because of…me. Not Sorgana the witch, not because we weren’t knights and dames anymore, but because my friends and I had lost our way in life. In the past decades, we had all grown old before our time, skeptical, easy to anger, cowardly, and pessimistic. As our spirits had died, so too had the flames. Once fueled by the truest traits of love and faith and patience, the fires had died as our hearts were filled with anger, boredom, and hopelessness.

  I remembered when the witch had tried to kill us. Leeched of air, suffocating to death, I’d intentionally dismissed Dembroch and its promises, abandoning my hope to be part of it and save it. At the same time, I’d felt an internal tremor. I’d thought it was external, but perhaps it had been my soul letting out its dying gasp. That, I realized, was the moment that the last flame had extinguished. That was the moment the last of my youth had died, and as a result, Dembroch’s magic had died too.

  I had ended the magic, I realized. My friends had contributed, but I had put the final nail in the coffin.

  Terribly, in my mind’s eye, I saw Page Hybore lying before me, eyes pleading, voice whispering, every ounce of his being begging me to save his home. Though he’d been bewitched to re
trieve me, he’d given his life to get me here in hopes I’d succeed. The mage, too, had died trying to tell us what to do, to impart some knowledge as to how the magic had died and what we could do to fix it.

  These people, I realized, knew no limits to their sacrifices. To them, this land and what it represented was worth dying for. It was time I gave it the same weight. I had to save this place. Not because I was being forced or coerced, but because I genuinely wanted to. Because I chose to. I, who had avoided commitment and mending mistakes my whole life, had to fix what I’d destroyed and restore this kingdom to its former glory.

  “Yes, you see it now,” Sir Rignot said. “Look at your pocket watches.”

  We pulled out our pocket watches. When I clicked it open, I saw that the minute, second, and hour hand were no longer at 11:00—where it had been stuck since Page Hybore gave it to me—but now pointed at the numeral twelve. As before, the gears in the back were still moving. A quick glance at my friends’ watches proved that theirs read the same: midnight. I wasn’t sure how, but it seemed obvious. These watches didn’t tell the time of day. They were tied to our souls somehow. And though we were still alive and the gears were still turning, our souls had struck midnight. We, like the magic, were dead inside.

  “You see,” said the librarian. “That is why the magic died. The witch got exactly what she wanted without hardly lifting a finger.”

  I couldn’t have felt any lower. By the looks of it, my friends felt the same way. Clay hung his head. Jenn was crying and rubbing hand sanitizer over her palms. Meg was biting her lip and blinking hard.

  “Sir Rignot,” Jenn said, breaking the quiet. “You and the queen said the witch can’t know any of this. But the magic is dead, so what does it matter?”

  “True enough, true enough,” the librarian said. “But what the witch does not know and you now do is how the flames were started. If she were to know this, she could have severed your bond to the magic quicker. She could have created her own magic. There is no telling what she could have done. But she does not know and never shall. Only you know. And with this knowledge, you can start new flames.”

  “Bring the magic back?” Clay asked.

  The librarian nodded.

  “And bring the Hospites back?” Jenn asked.

  Again, the librarian nodded.

  I felt my heart leap. There was a glimmer in the darkness we’d created.

  “Great!” Clay said, his bravado returning. “So how do we do it?”

  “Like the SparkSources,” Sir Rignot said simply. “Each of you must exemplify the truest traits and bear a spark. And the mage knew exactly how it needed to be done.”

  He began rummaging through maps and books covering the nearby table.

  “Some time ago,” he said as he searched, “when the witch first arrived and was imprisoned, the queen consulted the seer and the mage.”

  “I wish she never had,” the seer said with a heavy note of melancholy.

  “The mage,” the librarian continued, “ascertained four threats to Dembroch that must be eliminated, four tasks that must be resolved. In so doing, the kingdom would be saved and the magic would be reignited.”

  “The mage can see the future?”

  Sir Rignot chuckled. “No, no, my good sir. In this kingdom, only the seer sees the future.” The seer hung her head. “The mage is gifted with wisdom beyond years given his substantial age and can see evident truths where we see murky waters. While the seer predicted doom, the mage foresaw a way to save the kingdom. And that task falls to you four.”

  “Can’t it be someone else?” Jenn asked.

  “There is hardly anyone left on the island, and of the few left, most are attempting to complete what the mage commanded,” the librarian replied. At last, he found what he was looking for and pulled a roll of paper from under a stack of books. He held it close as he faced us, speaking with dire intensity, “Truly, as you will hear and if the mage is to be believed, which he should be, you four must take up these tasks and aid us in our struggles. And if you four cannot help us, then the kingdom is truly lost.”

  Hand heavy with the weight of the words on the paper, the librarian handed it to us. There on its surface were five groups of verses, presumably spoken by the mage and recorded quickly by a listener.

  I took it and, taking a deep breath, read aloud as my friends looked over my shoulder.

  “The last day begins when the magic is gone and I too shall join the fallen echelon. Have heart, last defenders, for what’s in store. You have until noon next day before Dembroch is lost forevermore. Start six flames, ignite six sparks, return them to the Aerary before the sun is highest in the dark.”

  I paused. These were similar to the words the mage had spoken before he’d died, but there was a new piece of information: a deadline. According to this, from the moment the magic died, the kingdom had until tomorrow to be saved…or it would be gone for good.

  The only way to prevent that, I knew, was to do what was written below. Hands shaking, I read on.

  “Hopeful defender of her choosing, aid the seer, return to her the power she has come to fear. In the imposter’s grave within hallowed halls confined, discover sight to aid the blind. In your hand will be the power to see what can be done to save Dembroch in its final hour.”

  “Lady Jennifer,” the seer said airily. “Of the four, you shall be my dame.”

  Jenn let out a sad whine.

  “One down,” I murmured, and kept reading: “Another, whose bravery runneth over, must claim the treasure from the cliffside’s keep. Recover the Watchmaker’s most prized possession, cull the Dreadnaught’s reap. Decipher the gears of the broken clock, face the fate of two roads you dare to walk. Should you persist past a promise’s cruelest tricks, you alone can complete the six.”

  Clay, Meg, and I exchanged glances.

  “The Watchmaker doesn’t like us,” Meg said. “You’re up, Clay.”

  “I c–can’t…I…,” he murmured, looking ready to soil himself.

  “What else, Nick?” Meg asked.

  I shrugged apologetically to Clay and read on: “To another most patient, you are tasked to find the hidden door. Aid the man abandoned, master and apprentice, restore. Only together can you overcome their trial. Reunite master and apprentice, liberate Ryderwyle.”

  Meg groaned. I winked at her.

  “That one has your name all over it,” I said, remembering Page Trey asking for her help with this very task before we’d come to the library.

  Terribly, lastly, I read the final verse, which I knew would be my task: “Most faithful defender, discover the broken heart and mend it to its core. Break the curse, free the sister, the safest shores restore.”

  It was as if the mage had whispered the words into my ears. These commands may have befuddled other defenders, but I knew immediately what I was called to do and what should be done.

  So that was that, I realized. My friends and I, the last defenders of Dembroch, now knew our responsibilities and what must be done to rectify what we’d destroyed. Before us lay four quests that must be completed by noon the next day.

  Meg glanced at the verses.

  “There are only four quests,” she noted. “I thought we had to light six flames.”

  “Right, right,” the librarian said. “I observed the same conundrum, to which the mage promised that these four would yield the six. It can only be assumed that the more trying tasks will produce more than one magical flame.”

  I wasn’t quite ready to wrap my head around this, and nor was Clay.

  “N–Nick,” Clay said, his voice tenuous. “I’m not sure about this. Starting a flame is one thing. But the Dreadnaught?”

  Jenn stepped away from the seer too, looking wary.

  “You don’t have a choice,” Sir Rignot said.

  I held up my hand, quieting the librarian. Forcing my friends headlong into this wouldn’t be right. But I knew I could show them the way.

  “I know this is scary, guys,”
I said. “I know this seems daunting. But all of this mess is because of what we’ve done. Somewhere along the way, we all lost ourselves. I know I did. And for anyone else, it would just be the end of chivalry. An unhappy, miserable life. But for us, there’s more to it. This whole kingdom depended on us to be…better. And we let it down. Right here, right now, we have a choice. We can leave and never look back, or we can stay and fight. And we’re the only four who stand a chance.”

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

  I looked her square in the eyes.

  “I’d rather die here, fighting for something, than go back to Midvale, where I was already dead to the world, living that way I was.” I looked to my friends and stepsister. “I know you feel the same way. Isn’t there something here worth saving?”

  They cast their eyes around. I tried to think of what else to say to convince them, but I knew they had to make up their own minds now. I’d dragged them this far. The queen had forced us along too. Now, it had to be their choice.

  A moment later, Clay looked back to me. Miraculously, or perhaps it was the torchlight from the library’s walls, I saw a spark in Clay’s eyes. Then, Jenn gave us a ghost of a smile.

  “These people,” Jenn murmured. “The people who had to flee. They need Dembroch. And Dembroch needs us.”

  She stepped closer to the seer, taking her hand.

  “And we need them,” Clay said. “Maybe helping them…will help us.” His voice had changed. It wasn’t in his confident, boasting way, but rather a determined, quiet voice I’d known in my youth.

  I couldn’t help but smile. There was a glimmer in their eyes, some personal epiphany that had finally convinced them to stay.

  We looked to my sister. She was biting her lip still.

  “Come on,” I pleaded with Meg, desperate to have everyone on board. I knew that, without her, we couldn’t possibly complete the mage’s quests.

  Meg frowned at the ground, her gaze lost in the middle distance. I could practically hear the gears turning in her head.

  Finally, she looked at me. In the faintest voice, she said, “Yes.”