The Age of Knights & Dames

by Patrick Harris

  CHAPTER 54:

  The Queen’s Curse

  A cold draft swept over me, like Death itself passing by, and then, deep in my chest, my heart was struck with blinding agony. My left arm went totally numb, followed shortly by knives of pain stabbing through my whole body. My veins felt like they were on fire. I fell to the ground, flopping on the metal. My torch fell from my hand, rolling to a stop at the witch’s feet.

  My fellow defenders toppled, too. Jenn collapsed, head spinning, face sickly pale. The wound on her leg bled like a waterfall. Meghan doubled over in agony, clutching at the wound on her chest. Clay, whose clothes had been on fire, screamed as the black flames ate at his flesh. Their torches tumbled away, orange flames fading to whispers.

  Though they were weak, the flames of our torches had just enough flicker. Gathered around the witch’s feet, the tongues licked her heels. The witch’s dress caught fire and, in an instant, she was covered in orange flames. She howled, but it wasn’t full of rage. It was a scream of pain, guilt, and lament. Her skin boiled and burnt.

  I couldn’t help her. I writhed on the ground, unable to scream, unable to fight for my life any longer. I was having a heart attack, I knew, a bad one, a widowmaker, and it was as much my fault as it was the queen’s curse. My body had grown weak over the years, and all this running around Dembroch had put plenty of strain on it. Now, the queen’s curse was unfolding, and the easiest way to dispatch me was with my already weakened heart.

  My foolish, weak heart, I realized. It had pined for the queen, hardened in my twenties with skepticism and disbelief of the magical, broken loose in my thirties and hammered away as I ran across the realm, and now tore itself apart to save its true love.

  But I was too late. The curse was unfolding and within a few seconds, the kingdom and everyone left on it would be gone. This was the terrible future that the mage had predicted, the one the seer had feared and Jenn had glimpsed. And we hadn’t been able to change it.

  As the witch burnt and the queen clung to life and her defenders lay dying, the isles of Dembroch trembled and began to sink into the sea. Red lightning burst from the storm clouds and struck the castle’s walls. Great chunks of stone were obliterated with pops and cracks. The tallest tower began to sway. Thunder boomed like drums of doom.

  In the Rotunda, stones fell. Page Trey and Master Malleator were buried. The Watchmaker felt his consciousness ebb.

  Outside the castle, the seer clutched her daughter close as she ran for the shore, for the ferry. She wouldn’t make it. Dembroch was being devoured.

  ◆◆◆

  Before us, though none of us could see, the burning witch writhed. The flames burnt deep into her flesh, eating away at her very existence, but the truth cut deeper.

  As much as she despised the last defenders, there was no denying what had been said: she was truly cursed. By the age of thirty, she’d lost her adoptive parents, her sister, and her home of Camelot. As promised by the curse, no authority or land had come back to her, nor had any man or woman followed her unless enchanted. She had found her mentor who had helped her on the path to darkness, but he had never truly sought to aid her. She was simply a means to an end to accomplish his goals. In short, she had lived these long years miserably, stripped of everything she loved by a curse she didn’t know she bore, doomed to lament and seek to reclaim everything she had lost. It was the curse to the letter, and oh, how she had fallen for it and let it twist her into ugliness.

  But there was a solution, she knew now. A way to free herself of the curse, of this sorrow that had filled her for eons and turned her insides to rot. If only she hadn’t been so filled with vengeance and hatred that she’d destroyed the only kingdom with the means to save her. If only she hadn’t been killing the only person left in the world who might love her.

  Through the tongues of flame, she saw her sister, frail and weak, a breath away from death, her eyes full of understanding of what was happening around her, but too weak to do anything about it.

  Guilt swept through Sorgana, cutting deeper than any knife or burning flame. She lamented her choices, so irreversible now. The curse was not fully to blame. She had done all these things. She was killing her sister. She was fulfilling all the curse intended.

  If only, she thought, she could stop it. Break it. End the curse. Undo all she had done.

  But she didn’t know how. She hadn’t heard how to break the curse. She didn’t understand what the fairest magic was.

  There was nothing for it, Sorgana realized. She would not be able to break the curse by happenstance. But Coralee, her sister, could be saved. Of everything the witch had done, all the death she had caused and destruction she had wrought, she could at least reverse what she had done to her sister. Coralee, at least, would live.

  “Flames of virtue, hear my call,” Sorgana said. “From my body to hers, may the youth withdraw.”

  The color bled from the pentagram until it was black. She felt her lifeforce ebb as freshly gained youth was sucked from her. The witch aged as Queen Coralee became young once more.

  ◆◆◆

  The queen’s eyes fluttered open fully. She gasped, sucking in air.

  She had been weak during all of this, but she had heard every word. She knew the curse was unfolding—she could see her defenders dying around her, the black flames roaring to stay alive, the orange flames dwindling, her sister burning, the islands caving in. But she had heard what I’d said to the witch: that the only way to break the curse was with the lightest magic of Dembroch, the orange flames crawling over the witch and spreading toward the queen.

  In years past, Queen Coralee had been able to touch every orange flame except the final one. The one born of love. She knew now that, to break her curse and save the kingdom, she had to accept each flame, even the one she’d never been able to touch.

  It would be her end, she figured. Calling the flames to her would burn her to death, just as it was killing her sister. But it was a sacrifice worth making.

  The flames travelled down her torso, covering her completely, as though called by her thoughts. They burnt deep, searing her to the bone.

  Love, she told herself. She must feel love to break this curse, to save her defenders and what was left of her kingdom.

  Her thoughts turned to me. She thought of how I had trusted her and stuck with her when I had every reason to abandon her. It was a love she’d never known. In the same way, she felt her heart swell with the realization that she felt the same way about me—having cared for me from words alone, known my heart without meeting me, and wanted nothing more than to save me, even if it meant she herself would perish.

  And what of her sister? This terrible woman who had feasted on the innocent to prolong her life, who had sought only revenge and torture? The queen loved her still. She wanted nothing more than to care for Edith as Edith had done so long ago for her. No matter her trespasses, she could be forgiven. They could be sisters again.

  And with that thought, with that realization that she could dare to love even if it threatened her very life, the cursed queen finally allowed herself to love.

  As though invited to descend upon her, the flames seemed to burrow into Queen Corlaee. She gasped in agony. It felt as though she had been stabbed. And then, as though the blade had been pulled out, the pain fled her body. So did the fire.

  She had died. She knew it. When she opened her eyes, she would be in Avalon, doomed or blessed, free of her curse and her tribulations.

  Queen Coralee dared to open her eyes and gasped. She was still on the Aerary balcony. Much had changed. The black flames, both on the balcony and across the island, had gone. The pentagram had flickered out.

  Her sister Edith still stood before her. Flames no longer licked her skin. She was alive though badly burnt and terribly aged.

  Our curse is broken, Queen Coralee realized. They were free.

  “My sister,” she said, rising.

  Edith flinched, but Queen Coralee wrapped her into an embr
ace.

  “You will have much to answer for,” she whispered to her sister, “but not a hair on your head shall be harmed. We are free. All is well.”

  But all was not well. From the corner of her eyes, the queen saw Clay get to his feet. But Meghan, Jenn, and I didn’t stir.

  Clay ran to Jenn’s side. When he drew his hands away from her, they were bloody.

  Beyond, the island of Dembroch was still collapsing. The damage had been done and the sea was swallowing the island whole.

  “The torches,” Queen Coralee gasped at Clay. “We must spread the flames to the plinths.”

  Clay knew without asking. He scooped up the torches and swept around the ring of rocks, lighting the plinths one by one. As he touched the torches to the top of the stone, the flat tops lit with an explosion of sparks.

  There was only one left to light, but as he ran for it, the ground beneath him pitched wildly. He was airborne as the tallest tower fell.

  They all screamed, helpless and panicked. It seemed the very soul of Dembroch cried out as the castle collapsed, following the isles into the void.

  CHAPTER 55:

  Dembroch’s Deliverance

  And that would have been the end of it—Dembroch, the queen, the last of the defenders, the Civium, the reignited magic, all of it—had it not been for Clay.

  As the mage had foreseen, Clay truly walked two paths. After slaying the Dreadnaught, he’d promised Jenn he’d never let go with the intent of dying before he let her go again. Figuratively, yes, but magic is a spoken art and often too literal.

  While walking to the Gate Grounds, he had made another promise: that so long as he breathed, Dembroch would persist. The two promises made two different paths, both leading to the Aerary. There, Clay had held his wife above the abyss.

  If he’d held on, he would have died and Dembroch would have fallen. But Jenn had chosen a different path. She had let go of Clay, at a terrible cost to their marriage, and in so doing, made it so that Clay was present in this final moment atop the tallest tower. And because of their sacrifice, because of the path they’d chosen, the future was in his hands.

  As the tower fell and Clay plummeted after it, he grabbed the final torch. He flung it at the last, unlit plinth. The torch’s end hit the plinth’s flat top and, with an explosion of sparks, the fire spread. The sixth plinth burst into flame.

  The next second, the six flames erupted into a ring of flames, the orange turning into a rainbow of colors. Magic and its timelessness returned in full to Dembroch.

  ◆◆◆

  Below, in the Rotunda, a hand broke out of the rubble.

  “Tower of Dembroch, fall no more,” Master Malleator declared, “rise again, your foundation restore!”

  Golden light swarmed around the master’s hands. All around them, the roar of the falling tower dwindled.

  ◆◆◆

  The seer’s shouts of fear became cries of joy. Before her very eyes, the castle tower stopped falling. The crumbling of the isles stalled.

  In her bones, she felt a strange spark of light. She wondered for a moment what it was before recognizing it like an old friend.

  Magic had returned to the kingdom.

  She snapped her fingers and gold sparks flew around her like fireflies. The seer shouted again, overjoyed.

  She turned her gaze back to the tower and truly looked. Not with her human eyes but with her Sight.

  And then she saw the truth. The Sight had fooled her. It had looked to the moment the tower fell and no further because that was when the magic had returned. That was when the kingdom had regained its timelessness. And the Sight, the devious power it was, had only shown her the collapse, not the aftermath where time was suspended and magic returned.

  Now, though, she could see it. And the immediate future was beautiful.

  She set her daughter down and, bending the magic she had not used in years, called for the kingdom to heal itself.

  ◆◆◆

  The rubble in the Rotunda began to lift. Page Trey was freed. Holding his bruised ribs, he got to his feet.

  Master Malleator stood amongst the rising debris. The Aerary balcony hovered a few feet above him, held up by golden light. As he watched, the balcony began to rise. All around them, the castle reassembled.

  A weak voice called. The page ran to the side of the Watchmaker. He was badly hurt. Lying belly-first on the ground, he was inscribed in a circle of blood.

  The Watchmaker turned just enough to see the hovering tower and murmured: “Well done, boy. Well done, indeed.”

  In his hand, he held the queen’s pocket watch. The hands were spinning backward.

  ◆◆◆

  The Aerary balcony rose to the top of the tallest tower and rested into place. The upper tower settled back onto its columns. A ring of multicolored flames burnt brightly on the plinths.

  Above, the clouds dissipated. The midday sun started to shine upon the isles of Dembroch. Healed by the return of its magic and with help from the seer, the trio of islands rose once more from the sea. The forests regrew and blossomed into thick tuffets. The vineyards sprang back to life, rivers ran full. Cracks in the land filled and sprouted flowers, colorful blooms of reds, yellows, and oranges. A billion golden sparks of magic spread across the whole land.

  Upon the Aerary balcony, now permanently affixed atop the tallest tower for all to see, Clay and the queen rushed to the fallen. Meghan was rousing, holding her chest and hyperventilating.

  “Just breathe,” the queen said.

  Meghan sucked in air slower, blotting the puss from her wound.

  “She’s lost so much blood,” Clay gasped, tending to Jenn. “What can we do?”

  Queen Coralee looked to her sister.

  “You are more learned in the art than I,” she said.

  Edith, frail and toothless, looked unsure.

  “Please,” Clay begged.

  The witch approached slowly. She held her hands close to Jenn’s face.

  “Her ring,” the witch said. “Do you have it?”

  Bewildered, Clay pulled Jenn’s diamond wedding ring from his pocket. He’d put it there after he’d pulled it free on the Aerary balcony.

  “Place a hand on her wound and the ring on her heart,” the witch told Clay.

  He did as asked, but the second he touched her, an electric shock jolted through him. He pulled back, angry welts on his fingers.

  “Hurry now,” the witch said. “She is suffering.”

  Clay placed his hands upon his wife again. A shock ripped through him, but he fought against it, maintaining a hold on her.

  “Prized possession close to thine,” the witch said, her words hard to understand with her cracked lips and broken teeth. “Heal the wounds for all time.”

  Jenn’s diamond ring shone bright white. In an instant, the blood soaked back into her. The wound on her leg healed. She let out a gasp as she awoke. Clay wrapped his arms around her, kissing her forehead. She gulped in pain at his touch. When he tried to put her wedding ring back on her finger, the metal burnt her skin as though it had been left in a kiln. Clay held onto the ring, the both of them exchanging nervous looks, too scared to try to hug or kiss or hold one another.

  Meanwhile, Queen Coralee scooped me up into her arms. My body was heavy, the muscles all relaxed. I did not respond to the movement.

  “Sir Nicholas!” she called.

  I still did not move. The queen’s heart dropped. Was she too late?

  Edith approached timidly.

  “May I?” she asked.

  “Please,” the queen replied.

  The witch ran her hands from my head to my toes.

  “He was a breath away from death before the curse was broken and the magic restored,” she said. “His heart was badly torn. He will be in agony unless mended.”

  “Can you—?” asked the queen.

  The witch shook her head. “I cannot mend his heart. But he will not perish while on Dembroch. He lives.”

  Trembling
, still holding her chest, Meghan crawled over and felt for my pulse. Pushing through the pain, she smirked.

  “He always was a deep sleeper,” she said.

  CHAPTER 56:

  The King’s Killer

  I jolted awake to the screaming of my name, my chest aching in protest. My friends stood around me, tears in their eyes, giant grins on their faces. Behind them was a beautiful blue sky. The dark clouds and red lightning were gone. The midday sun was shining down on us all.

  My eyes were drawn to the six plinths where a ring of multicolored fire flickered. Sparks hung in the air like stars.

  And then there was the queen. She held me in her arms. Her face was an open book of emotion.

  I knew more from intuition than fact what had happened. The queen’s curse had been broken. Dembroch was saved. We were all going to be okay.

  I rolled onto my feet and swayed, lightheaded. My heart didn’t feel quite right, my whole body hurt with each beat, but I was alive nonetheless.

  Then I saw the witch. At first, I thought I was hallucinating, but she was there.

  “Don’t you—” I began, holding up a hand in defense.

  “Be calm, Sir Nicholas,” Queen Coralee said, moving between us. “Edith is our enemy no more. She has forsaken her actions and the evil in her heart. Her curse, like mine, is broken. She accepted the fairest magic in her soul. And here on Dembroch, we offer our guests forgiveness, hope, and healing.”

  “Prove it,” I insisted.

  The witch hobbled to the ring of multicolored flames spitting sparks. She held out her hand timidly, fearfully even. When she touched the flames, her skin did not burn and she did not cry out.

  I hesitated another moment, unsure. But there was no denying the truth. If the witch was touching the flames, she had truly changed. As my friends and I had rekindled our youth, the witch had seen the error of her ways. And, if I was being honest, the unsightly woman before me was no longer dangerous. She cowered and cringed, a raw human with no power and many sins to atone for.