Hold Fast the Knight

by Lotus Oakes

  She stared a moment, then sighed. Before he could defend himself on his concern, she reached across the table to pat his cheek. It wasn't hard, exactly, but it was sharp enough to sting a little, and he jerked back in automatically. "What?"

  "It's fine," she said firmly. "You have nothing to worry about, I promise. We've been doing this for a few years now. No one's going to know. And even if someone guesses, people like to mind their own business out here." Her expression softened. "You've been stuck here this whole time, and we think it'd be good for you, to get out a little further than just the yard. Trust us."

  "I do," he said automatically. "If you're certain."

  "I am," she said, "so eat, and we'll go."

  He thought about claiming that he was too nervous―nervous, as if he were a child preparing for his first outing―but he managed to choke down the rest of his meal, and an hour later, they were saddled up and on their way.

  Along with Edgar's horse, fatter and lazier than ever after a month of no work, Violette had a shaggy-coated donkey she hitched to a creaking little wooden cart. Ariel rode perched in the back of that cart, ostensibly to keep the stacks of glass bottles from jostling each other too much, but she looked more relaxed than Edgar had ever seen her, leaning against the edge of the cart with no fear of splinters and her face tipped upwards. Very little light made it through the canopy of the forest, but once they were in the open air, she seemed to almost glow in the light.

  She looked lovely. Edgar tried to shove the thought aside, hoping that that the heat of the late-summer day would be enough to explain his hot face. For once, she'd traded out her favored plain white dresses for one that was so deeply purple it looked black most of the time, the color only catching when she shifted in the light just so. The cut was similar to Violette's, low-cut without being too improper, and her dark curls had been pinned back with ribbons sewn to resemble flowers.

  At one point, Violette glanced back over her shoulder at Ariel and snorted. "Look at you," she said. "One would think you were just as much of a plant as anyone else. I should start selling your clippings to Widow Finnes. I'll charge double. And you," she added to Edgar, who jumped a little in his saddle, wide-eyed and alarmed. "I'll say that you're the one helping me to harvest what I need and don't look at me like that, I feel like I've just kicked a puppy or something."

  Ariel laughed at that, the sound loud and ringing, enough to tip her head back. Violette twisted to make more faces at her before she straightened, and there was the hint of a smile on her face as well. Edgar huffed deep in his throat, not quite sharing the amusement, but unable to look away.

  "I don't think I can help you with that," he said. "That's a little too advanced for me."

  "Fine." Violette waved a hand, rolling her eyes. "For now. You'll learn, though, and next time, you'll see things my way."

  Edgar straightened a little in his saddle, his eyes going wide. Violette had already moved on to another gentle squabble with Ariel, and the horse continued to plod reluctantly alongside the cart, which meant he could simply react without worry about being caught. Next time, Violette had said, casual and thoughtless, like it hadn't occurred to her that there might not be a next time. If these markets came only once a month, would he be around at all?

  Violette apparently thought so. He glanced at her sidelong, watching as she and Ariel made faces at one another, then slowly sank down farther in his saddle.

  Maybe it would happen, he thought, and it surprised him how much the want was there, strange and twisting in his chest. Maybe that was enough.

  *~*~*

  The next month came and went in the same fashion: the days meandered by on the established schedule, and while Edgar no longer needed the salve regularly, at the end of the month, Violette insisted again that he wasn't yet ready.

  A third month and a fourth followed the same way. Somewhere along the way, the little guest bedroom had begun to feel more like his room than the area he'd shared with his siblings growing up. Somewhere along the way, he'd begun bringing things in, arranging and rearranging with each addition. There was a sheaf of dried flowers hung over the door to sweeten the entryway, a present from Ariel and her garden, and a handful of small colorful glass figures Violette had brought home from a distant market lined the windowsill. When the nights turned cold, a new quilt appeared on his bed without fanfare, in the same tones of deep violet-and-gold thread that he'd seen in their bedroom.

  It was easy. It was nice, in the best sense of the word.

  And that felt dangerous in its own way. Every time Violette called him by name, her hand brushing against his arm and his back, and every time Ariel took his hand or leaned close, it felt like his heart might explode. The looming prospect of returning to the farm felt odd and distant, sometimes less real than a dream.

  But this wasn't supposed to be his. This was only a temporary moment, and eventually it would slip from his hands. Ignoring it only carried him so far.

  So it was almost a relief when, on the last day of the fifth month, Violette said, "All right. Fine. Tonight will be the night."

  Edgar sat up straighter in his chair; his spoon nearly dropped from his suddenly nerveless fingers. There was a strange, restless little flutter in his stomach, and he couldn't say if it was anticipation or dread. And somewhere under that, he thought that he was perhaps relieved, too. The anticipation was finally over.

  "All right," he said.

  Violette tapped her fingers along the curves of her mug. Her expression was as opaque as he'd ever seen it, her eyes dark and her mouth a soft, flat line. In spite of the blank expression, he thought she seemed sad as well.

  "You're as ready as you'll ever be," she said, as Ariel rose from her chair and came to stand behind Edgar, settling her hands lightly on his shoulders. The points of contact were more comforting than expected, and he found himself leaning into it. Violette reached across the table to him, and he completed the gesture, brushing their fingertips together before he curled his hand, grasping hers in turn. It felt a lot safer than he would have expected. "I'm going to warn you now, though, it's not going to be easy. I cannot protect you from what you'll see, nor can I help you if you need it. Neither can Ariel. You will be entirely on your own."

  Edgar took a deep breath, feeling the weight of Violette's hands, and then let it out slowly. He almost smiled, though the impulse faded an instant later; instead he met Violette's eyes evenly, trying to project as much confidence as possible.

  "It's fine," he said. He saw something flicker across Violette's face, her mouth turning down for a moment, and Ariel's hands tightened on his shoulders. "It wouldn't be fair if I had help. Just tell me what I need to do."

  *~*~*

  "They call the last night of the month the Hollow Night, and that's always the longest night. The rest of the world has forgotten it except for on the Hollow Eve, but the Forest remembers. It knows. You've heard the stories, haven't you? There's some truth to them. You won't see your dead grandparents or anything, but those with reason―the hungriest, the angriest, those with things left undone―they will be at their strongest. It would be more dangerous for Ariel or I to help you than if you go alone, but they've seen how you've lived with us these past months. They will not be happy. You must be careful, but for tonight, show me that you are the knight you wish to be. Stand guard, walk patrol, and keep our home safe."

  She'd given him a small ball of light that floated close to his head and illuminated his footsteps, a sword that was lighter than it looked and gleamed wickedly sharp at the edges, and a shield of wood that smelled strongly of rosemary and lavender.

  "There are oils painted onto the wood," Ariel told him, from the doorway of the house. "For protection. She put as many charms into it as would hold." She hesitated, then reached out to him, brushing her fingertips against his cheek. "Be careful."

  He saluted her. "Of course, Your Highness," he said. The joke was an old one, slightly flat, but it got the briefest of smiles in return.
<
br />   Before he could turn, though, she caught his face again with her long warm fingers and leaned in to kiss him.

  The contact was gentle. Her lips were slightly rough, chapped from the cold air. The contact felt like an electric shiver down the full length of his spine, and he had to lock his knees to keep from simply buckling in place. She lingered for a few seconds, just holding that pressure, then pulled back. Her eyes were dark and wet, and she stared at him a moment longer, then blurted, "We'll be waiting for you," and then she stepped back and closed the door, and Edgar was alone.

  "Oh," he said faintly, "all right. I'll be back."

  It took him nearly a minute to get his breathing under control, something outright giddy and warm coursing through him, like his blood had been replaced with sunlight. The simple pleasure lingered even as he turned and looked to the forest.

  It had become so familiar to him over the past few months. Even with the dimming of the oncoming evening, and Violette's warning lingering, the memory of that small kiss was warm in his chest, and it was not so difficult at all to find his bravery.

  "All right, Edgar," he murmured to himself. "Time to go and make your fortune."

  *~*~*

  The first hour passed without incident. Edgar walked the perimeter of the clearing, half the time tiptoeing and holding his breath. Every small noise from the forest itself made him tense, but though he strained his eyes in the darkness beyond his light's edge, he saw nothing.

  The second hour passed the same, and he found himself beginning to relax. By the end of the third hour, he found himself wondering if he could simply find a place to sit for the rest of the night. For all of Violette's warnings, there seemed to be nothing wrong at all.

  But it was during the fourth hour, the midway point of the night, that the forest around him changed.

  It started as a low droning noise, not unlike the buzzing of a disturbed beehive. Edgar stopped to look around, and before his eyes, the trees, close-set and tall, began to waver and shift form. Watching for too long made him dizzy. When he looked down and then back up again, he found himself suddenly in a wide-open clearing, surrounded by tall stakes and leaning crosses.

  Bodies in varying states of decay had been tossed about everywhere: littered across the ground, impaled, crucified, hanging from the trees. The smell hit him a moment later, overly sweet and meaty and dust all, and he gagged once before he could swallow the reaction down. Violette's little light, which had remained steady and bright the whole time, shivered and exploded in a shower of tiny fading sparks.

  Overhead the moon was full and round, so even without that light, Edgar could see quite clearly. Though there was no breeze, one of the hanging skeletons turned to him, its long naked bones rattling. A moment later, the others also turned to look at him, and instead of buzzing Edgar could now hear whispering, low but rising, all around him. It sounded like dozens of voices muttering amongst themselves―but out of that, one voice rose louder and clearer, unmistakable.

  "You."

  "Hello," Edgar hazarded after a moment. He held the shield close to his body and tightened his grip on the sword. He only had a passing understanding of how to use either, but they were still better than being completely unarmed. His entire body felt pulled tight, almost vibrating. "What do you want?"

  "You dare too much," said the one clear voice, and the other, lower ones murmured in tones of agreement. "Knowing what you do, you still come here, bearing the gifts of the witch. Foolish."

  "I didn't really mean to come here," Edgar said. "I was just walking the same path I'd been for hours, and then I found myself here."

  The whispering grew even louder, distinctly angry in tone, but the spokesman―spokesghost?―among them remained calm, even in its sternness.

  "You came because you were still curious. A part of you doubts. And well you should: even as you do this, noble in your belief that you are helping them, they are plotting your doom."

  "Doom" seemed to be a popular word with the others; it echoed around Edgar in excited hisses.

  "Without the desire, you could not have found this place," the one ghost went on. Edgar looked around again, and focused on the largest of the hanging skeletons. The sharp white bones of its toes just barely hovered above the ground. Shallow furrows had been gouged in the earth underneath it. "And soon this will be the only place where you can be. We are all victims of the witch and her familiar."

  Before Edgar could say anything, something cold gripped his ankle. He looked down and found a hollow-eyed ghost clutching at him, and though he could see his own leg through the ghost's translucent fingers, he couldn't pull away from its grip.

  "And yet here you are, in spite of all warnings," said the skeleton in the tree. "We have tried so many times to show you the truth and to save you from your fate, and you have denied us each time."

  "All you people did was just tell me to do stupid things," Edgar said. His own voice went a bit sharp at that. "Grab the princess and run, even though that's what got me killed. Slip poison into the princess's meal so she's incapacitated and can't fight back. Try to drown the witch while she's sleeping! Take the ax and chop them up in their bed―honestly, what sort of advice is that?!"

  "They will kill you, as they have killed us," said the skeleton, and the other voices murmured in agreement. "You will come to haunt this graveyard with us, trapped here by the witch's magic."

  "In time," whispered the ghost that held Edgar's ankle, "you will understand, and you will advise the next foolish knight who comes after you to flee, or to kill the witch before she can add him to our number. We do not take delight in seeing our company grow, except in one way."

  "One day," said the skeleton in the tree, "one day, we will be so many that we will break free of the witch's spells, and we will come spilling forth to find her and her false princess. On that day, we will have our vengeance. And you will understand that day, too. You will be one of us. You will long for your teeth in the witch's throat, and the princess screaming as she is torn apart―"

  "No," Edgar snapped. His fear had faded, turned now to outrage. He yanked at his leg, but the ghost refused to relinquish its grip. "I would never―no, more than that, they would never! Listen to yourselves! You were all supposed to be knights, how could you even think this is the right thing?! Did any of you even ask if Ariel wanted to be freed?""

  "I don't want to go home," she'd said, her voice small and guilty. A home that called her Arthur, that didn't want to let her be Ariel. She'd been so happy when Edgar had let it go at that. What else mattered?

  "She doesn't, by the way," he added. He kicked at the ghost holding him, but it tightened its grip even more, hobbling him. "Which I have been trying to tell you lot for months! What good does your vengeance even do?"

  "We are the king's men," said the skeleton. The wind picked up for a moment, so strongly that the skeleton's jaw rattled on its hinges. The sound was oddly close to laughter. "We came here at his behest, to do what he asked of us. You foolish boy, you who were never a knight to begin with, what do you know?"

  "Even if her father wants her to come home," Edgar said, "she has a right to refuse―"

  "Not that," said the skeleton. It sounded almost condescending now; it sounded like Edgar's father when he was deepest in his cups. "But if the prince were to return, or his son to rise out of the forest, what would happen to Farthys? If the royal line gets a child on the witch of the Silver Forest, that child would have claim to the throne that stands in Alusa. Should such a thing be allowed?"

  "I think you're overestimating how much Ariel wants to go back," Edgar said. "And I don't think she and Violette are going to have or want kids anytime soon."

  "For now, you say," the skeleton said, "but that will not necessarily stay the same. What happens, if the witch bears the child of Farthys's throne? As long as the royal scion lives, prince or princess, that claim might someday come. Do you think that our King Xavier would allow that sort of uncertainty?"

  "I
think that's worrying too much," Edgar said. "Ariel's his only child, right? Wouldn't it be a good thing if she had a child that decided they wanted to come back to Alusa?"

  "Fool!" The skeleton's jaw rattled again, this time without any wind to move it, as if the force of its emotion alone was enough to set it moving. The others echoed the sound, hissing and muttering amongst themselves. "Royal ascension is nothing like your petty farming dynasties. A new heir must be chosen. Once that happens, conflict from the previous heir would only divide Farthys into civil conflict."

  "If you kill the witch and the false princess," said the ghost who held Edgar's ankle, "then you will have proven yourself as a faithful servant of the kingdom. Bring back proof of that, and surely the king will knight you on the spot."

  A chill went through him, like long fingers dipping into his chest and splitting his ribcage open. "On the spot?" Edgar echoed. "Really?"

  "You will be a true knight of the kingdom," the skeleton said. The other voices around them rose again in agreement―in encouragement―and the grip on Edgar's ankle loosened just slightly. "You will be fit to be one of our number and ride forth under the banner of our king, noble and true. All will be moved by the tales of your honor, your bravery, and your grand deeds performed for the good of the state. Sir Edgar Marcusson, pride of the nation Farthys."

  Edgar swallowed. It was uncanny, really, how much the skeleton sounded like his father now. Not the exact voice, but the same cadences, the same particular cajoling note in the tone. He'd always sounded like that when telling the stories that had captured Edgar's interest in the first place, proud and fond, talking about a world that Edgar could only see from a distance.

  He closed his eyes and took a deep breath that tasted of rosemary and lavender. He thought about Ariel's tentative smile and the brightness in Violette's eyes. He thought about how Violette leaned against him when she was tired and distracted, and the faint roughness of Ariel's lips against his own.