At daybreak, Adric charted a route that would take them straight through Gidot Wood to the rear entrance of Thorne Castle. The plan was expedient on two fronts. It was the fastest and shortest path. And, it would remove the burden of playing caretaker to Emeric, or the empty shell of the knight that remained, and the cursed lantern from the squire’s shoulders before the clocks in Caelius struck noon.
The stunning Caelian sunrise did little to lighten Aldric’s mood. He stole a glance across the small campsite. Sir Emeric sat motionless against the tree where the squire had positioned him, his back stiff and eyes staring straight ahead at nothing. Never blinking. Emotionless. Cursed.
“I wish you’d blink, Emeric,” Aldric muttered.
He shook his head, not waiting for a response that he knew was not coming, and rolled up the canvas that he used for a tent. The squire tossed the tarp over his shoulder and carried it to Blaze.
“Still nothing to say either, eh?” he said as he strapped the canvas roll to the back of the saddle. “I’m scared, Blaze. What is the king going to say? What is he going to do?” Aldric ran a hand through his wavy hair. “Blame me…that’s what King Rumilar will do, boy. Always the squire’s fault.”
Fury, mixed with equal parts dread, flowed up to the surface, burning beneath his skin as he thought about his fate and how Emeric’s foolish decision would probably cost the lives of both of them. Aldric spun around and stomped over to his charge.
“Say something!” he screamed down at the knight. “Anything! You’re Emeric. Slayer of beasts and giants!” Rage overtook him. Alric’s hands grabbed Emeric’s shoulders—the cool metal armor, as cold and hard as the knight’s eyes, did nothing to tamp down the fire igniting the squire’s blood—and shook the cursed man with all of his might. “SPEAK!” Aldric screamed into Emeric’s face, releasing his fears and frustrations and a fair bit of spittle.
The knight’s teeth rattled as his head shuddered back and forth, but no sound escaped from his silent lips. Aldric’s face hovered so close to Emeric’s. The warmth of the knight’s slow, steady breaths brushed over his cheeks, proof that his mentor still lived.
“If you won’t speak, then blink… Please. I’m begging you—”
Aldric stopped. He yanked his hands from the armor and fell backward to the ground.
“What am I doing?” he whispered, staring down at the palm of his hands, half expecting to see the imprints of the steel shoulder pads burnt into his flesh as penance for his cruelty. “I’m sorry, Emeric… Sir, please forgive me.”
He sat, as motionless as the knight, as his mind replayed the angry words and actions over and over, humbling his squire’s heart. Emeric said nothing. Did nothing. Was nothing.
But you were something. Someone great, Aldric longed to tell the broken man seated in front of him.
“Please return. Fight, Emeric. You’ve defeated giants with one swing of your sword. Can you not find it within you to slay this curse?”
“I’ve done all I can for him,” Aldric told Demon as he strapped Emeric’s saddle onto the stallion’s back. “It’s up to Emeric to fight. Or, the gods.”
Demon whinnied and snorted, his head bobbing in agreement. “Don’t give up hope,” he whispered to the horse, but the words were for him, for Aldric, because without hope, what value remained in life?
He finished packing up the camp and lifted the knight up and into the saddle, strapped to Demon’s back. Aldric climbed into his saddle on Blaze, reached out, and grabbed Demon’s reins.
“Change of plans, Blaze,” Aldric said. He tugged on his horse’s reins and guided them north. “We’re taking the long way home, boy.”
They rode throughout the day in silence. Near the Valdisian border, the squire guided his group westward until they reached the edge of the capital city. As the sun began to set, Aldric led Demon, with Emeric strapped in his saddle, south down the main street of Caelius, the intimidating Thorne Castle slowly growing larger in front of them.
“No avoiding fate now,” Aldric said to himself. “I hope the gods and King Rumilar will be merciful.” He stole a glance over at Emeric. “May they be merciful to you, too, Sir.”
As the moon’s silvery light pierced the darkness, Aldric, with Emeric in tow, rode through the center of the capital. Every shop was closed, their doors locked, and the town’s citizens holed up in their homes for the night. The squire was grateful that the late hour provided him and his knight a reprieve from their curious eyes and gossiping tongues.
“No one to ask us any questions, Blaze,” he whispered and leaned back in his saddle. Aldric’s shoulders relaxed, allowing the steady, rhythmic clomping of the stallions’ hooves over the cobblestones to soothe his nerves and his anxiety. “Finally, something is working in our favor.”
The moonlit outline of the massive castle gates appeared in the shadows as they reached the end of the row of shops at the edge of town. The town was so different at night. The crisp, salty air from the Galimorey Sea filled his nostrils instead of the sweet scents of dewberry pies and cocoa cakes that wafted from Mrs. McNulty’s bakery each day. Aldric licked his lips as his mouth salivated at the thought of the indulgent dewberry dessert. A flickering flame caught Aldric’s attention, erasing any thoughts or longings for dessert.
He squinted toward the window of the last shop on the right; subtle movement, accompanied by a faint amethyst shimmer, caused his heart to pound faster. Aldric narrowed his eyes more, barely able to make out the silhouetted figure in the shadows watching.
A tingle of fright crept up the squire’s spine. Zelinda. The owner of Tids & Bits antiques shop. Aldric had never been inside the odd place and had never met its mysterious shopkeeper either. But that had not stopped the rumors from reaching his ears over the years. He knew knights who had exchanged relics discovered during royal crusades for a few bits of silver at her shop.
Respectable Caelians rarely ventured through the shop’s doors, labeling Zelinda a witch. Aldric had disavowed the continued existence of witches and magic as folklore. He and every other person in Iosia knew that Onyx magic and all of its practitioners had been destroyed or exiled. No magic existed in the kingdom anymore.
“Or that’s what I thought. What I believed until we walked into that cave on Megiddo.” He patted Blaze’s head and focused on the shadowy castle ahead. “People fear what they do not understand.” The lantern in the saddlebag hummed louder than it had since leaving the mountain. “Those that are smart do anyway,” he said and dug his heels into the horse’s ribs. “C’mon, boy, let’s pick up the pace. It’s time to get this nightmare over with.”
The heavy wooden gates creaked as they swung open, welcoming the great Sir Emeric and his squire home to Thorne Castle. No one gave the duo a second glance. Aldric knew that from a distance, in the dim light, even the most eagle-eyed king’s guard would not sense that Sir Emeric, the last living knight from the Frost Moon Uprising and hero of the Battle of Gumarich, no longer existed. Aldric bowed his head, his fingers tightening around the leather reins, unwilling to look fate and whatever his future held in the eye.
He guided Blaze and Demon through the courtyard, past the barracks and the torchlit walkways where pages and guards now slowed their steps—the light providing them their first looks at the hollow-eyed Sir Emeric. Some men bowed their heads. Others opened their mouths but could not find the words. An older scullery maid wandered out from the shadows and stared up at Aldric and then at Emeric. She stared into the knight’s eyes, which gazed past her as if she were as clear and invisible as a pane of glass.
“Oh, by the gods,” she cried out and fell to her knees. “What darkness have you brought into the king’s castle, boy?”
Aldric did not answer her. He did not stop until he reached the entrance to Master Galen’s chambers. If anyone could cure Emeric, it would be the renowned Huxtelan Healer.
The sun was rising; its harsh rays filled Galen’s chambers with bright light, chasing away the final shadows of the night. As Aldric watched the Healer circle Emeric, he wished that the sun could remove the shadowy curse that had swallowed Emeric’s soul, too.
“This is quite disturbing. I don’t understand it at all,” Galen mumbled as he stopped and waved a hand in front of the unblinking knight’s eyes. “No visible injury. No wounds at all. He’s alive, and yet…”
“He’s no longer Sir Emeric,” Aldric replied solemnly.
“Yes, my boy, I’m afraid you’re correct. At least the essence of Sir Emeric no longer exists.” Galen ran a hand over his dark bald head. “But how exactly did this happen?”
“A curse.”
“That much I have gathered on my own, Aldric. But I sense no trace of Onyx magic. No trace of any magic that I have ever encountered.” The Huxtelan adjusted his traditional dark robe, his long fingers fidgeting with the corded belt cinched around his waist. “I am familiar with many types of magic and spells—”
“You mean there’s more than Onyx magic?” Aldric said.
“Of course, dear boy. There are many forms of magic and spells, too.” He pointed at Emeric. “But this?”
“It was the lantern. From the cave. The flames stole Sir Emeric’s soul, Master Galen.”
“Lantern? What lantern?”
Aldric rose and walked out the door. He returned a few minutes later carrying the satchel with the lantern. Shades of purple and blue glowing through the rough burlap, the humming of the flames eerily silent. He placed the bag on the table and took a step back.
“The lantern inside is what cursed my mentor.” Galen stepped forward. Aldric raised a hand. “Don’t open it. Don’t look at what’s inside. He looked at it,” the squire jutted his head toward the statue-like knight, “and you see what it did to him.”
“And you did not?” Galen asked, heeding the warning by not approaching closer to the table.
“No, sir. I tried to warn Sir Emeric, but it was too late. I grabbed the saddlebag and covered the lantern with it. Careful not to stare at the flames. I could not save my knight, but I can save you.”
“I admire your loyalty to Emeric and your consideration for my health, young squire, but I am an expert in such things. Trained to handle things which others fear, and you do not understand.”
“I may be a meager squire, Master Galen, but I know what evil resides within the lantern’s flames. Heed my warning, or not. The choice is yours. If you’re smart, you too will fear what is inside that bag. You should be terrified, even, because it is you who does not understand its power.”
Aldric flexed his hands, clenching and unclenching them, releasing his rage. Anger would help nothing. It would not cure Emeric, and he would likely find himself sentenced to death by hanging. Aldric released a long, slow breath and walked out the door.
“I’ve done my duty.”
King Rumilar Thorne summoned Aldric to the throne room before breakfast’s end. The squire had expected it. He welcomed it, even, for it brought him one step closer to being done with the entire nightmare once and for all, be it life—or if the rumors about the king were true, and Aldric knew that they were having witnessed some himself—or death. Either way, his duty would be over and his fate determined.
The king sat on a marble stone dais adorned with carved thorns cut from black onyx. Rumilar wore no jewels on his rugged fingers, no crown atop his thick black mane. Dressed all in black trousers and boots and a crimson tunic that fit taut against his broad chest and muscular arms, he presented a terrifying image of strength without mercy.
Adric swallowed his terror, pulled his shoulders back, and forced himself to keep his head held high as he walked down the crimson runner towards the king. If he was to die this day, he did not intend to die a simpering coward.
At the edge of the platform, Aldric stopped and sank into a deep bow, his rapid heartbeats echoing in his ears as fear began to claw its way back to the surface.
The Thorne King was well-known for three things: his menacing Sentinel form—a massive eagle with long, razor-sharp talons that could (and had) rip out a man’s throat with a single swipe. Second, his special Sentinel’s guards were always close by and ready to do Rumilar’s bidding—a loyal, sadistic, and deadly group entrusted to quell uprisings and dissent without hesitation. Lastly, the king possessed a tumultuous anger—a rage that even he did not attempt to control. The remains from the prior night’s floggings still visible in the castle courtyard proved that one tempted death at any encounter with the Thorne King. Rumilar Thorne was not a man prone to mercy or forgiveness.
“And I have arrived home with a soulless knight, a glowing lantern, and a story that I barely believe myself,” Aldric whispered to himself, careful to keep his voice inaudible to anyone besides himself. He tugged at the collar of his tunic, the fabric, and its cut suddenly feeling too tight around his neck. How do I explain this? he silently asked himself as he arose from the bow.
“Squire, what is your name?” Rumilar’s deep voice bellowed.
“Aldric, your Majesty.”
“Master Galen has informed me that you have brought me back a hollow knight. My finest knight. That Emeric does nothing except sit and stare. He does not even blink. That he lives but is lifeless. Is this true, boy?”
Aldric nodded, his tongue refusing to utter a sound. The king’s fingers brushed over the pommel of the sword hanging from his waist.
“Tell me why I should not have you drawn and quartered. Not make a lesson out of you. Perhaps I should have my scribes record your story and my punishment for your treason as a warning for any future fool who believes himself cleverer than the Thorne King.”
“Your Majesty?” Aldric’s voice squeaked. “I don’t understand?”
The corners of Rumilar’s mouth twitched. “However, as I am a merciful king…” He gestured lazily with his left hand. “You did return Sir Emeric home. You did not abandon him, nor did you run away. You also were smart enough to bring the lantern and not look at the flames.”
“You believe me, then? You will not kill me?”
Rumilar rose, adjusted his sword, and shook his head. “Not today, young Aldric. Zelinda informed me of the grave danger you faced. That lantern is an ancient relic known as the Lantern of Lyre. How it found its way from the island to a mountaintop, I do not believe we shall ever know, but you proved yourself a worthy squire. Smart. Resourceful and loyal. So, you shall live, and my scribes will record your story.” The king winked across the room at Aldric. “After all, children enjoy such fairytales.”
They would fear them if they knew the tales were real, Aldric thought but knew better than to say to the king.
“Did you destroy the lantern, your Majesty?”
“No. Zelinda has agreed to contain the relic in her vault. Lock it safely away so that no one else suffers the same fate as poor Emeric.”
“Um, and what about Sir Emeric? Can Master Galen or Zelinda heal him?”
“That question, I am afraid, I cannot answer. It is one only the gods can answer.”
Rumilar turned and exited the chamber. His Sentinels and royal guards followed behind him, leaving Aldric alone in the throne room. Aldric released a long, slow breath, wiped away the single tear from his cheek, and exited the chamber in the opposite direction.
Blaze was waiting for him when he entered the royal stables. Demon, in the next stall, watched the squire, the loyal stallion’s eyes alert yet wary in the shadows. Aldric’s heart broke a bit for the horse with no knight and for the knight with no soul.
“Goodbye, Demon,” he said as he rode out of the stables. “It’s time we find a new life, Blaze.” He snapped the reins. “Run, boy. As fast as the winds. Our destiny awaits.”
A week after Blaze galloped away from Caelius with Aldric in the saddle, Sir Emeric Kierterad—Royal Knight of the Thorne king, slayer of giants, breaker of siege lines, hero of the Battle of Gumarich—was moved from the castle to The Citadel in Huxtela. The Healers tried all their herbs and potions, scouring ancient writings in search of a cure that was never to come.
Emeric never spoke again. He never blinked. The Healers took to calling him the Stone Knight; others, following the Thorne King, called Emeric the Hollow-Eyed Knight.
A decade after Aldric had returned him to Thorne Castle, Sir Emeric died as he had lived—soulless.
This is where our scroll ends, but as with most things in the Realm, there are still secrets waiting to be revealed. Zelinda has a few things that she would like to add to the tale of The Hollow-Eyed Knight and Aldric the Squire and The Lantern of Lyre.
Read Zelinda’s Reflections on The Hollow-Eyed Knight and The Lantern of Lyre next in the Story Vault as the Realm Keeper searches the scrolls for a new tale and relic to reveal.
Be sure to share this tale with someone who believes in magical whispers and lost legends.
