The Knight's Secret

by Jeffrey Bardwell

  He's right about the words , I thought, ignoring the 'nasty' part. There was a rhythm to Granfa's speech, like a horse galloping over loose sod. He flung his words into the air and they hit your ears in short clumps. I glared, making eye contact over the rim of the cup as he drank. “You wretched mallet thumper! The wood's mine. The table's mine. You just played with your tools all day.”

  Father choked, spraying water across the table—my table—marring the surface with dark little flecks. “Yes, I think you've mastered his tone. And if I ever hear you speak like that again young lady . . .” He growled, cheeks flushing the color of rotten plums.

  The cheeks confirmed it. Those were the right words. I sat back, folded my arms, and smiled.

  “Speak like what?” Ma asked, entering the room balancing several platters of food in her arms. I reached up to assist my mother before remembering myself and paused. She glanced between my still hands and Fa's hot cheeks and laughed. The plates rattled as her shoulders shook. “Ah-ha. Only one person could ever raise such a colorful ire in your father. Sliding into the role already, are you? So take the pork jowls, Granfa. Not like you've never helped me set the table.”

  I relieved Ma of the pork jowls and popped one of the smaller, grisly bits into my mouth . . . all to maintain the illusion of course. I licked my fingers as Ma finished setting the plates and poured me a mug of cider from the large barrel in the corner. She set the mug in front of me and I sniffed it suspiciously. Where are the bubbles? Where is the foam? Such tart juice may suit Kelsa, but not —“What is this flat, insipid brew? Where's the good stuff?”

  My mother—even in the midst of my performance, I could think of her as nothing else—grabbed the mug and drained it. She sighed and then poured me another mug of cider from the firkin on the counter. I could hear the bubbles froth from across the room as Ma returned and dropped the mug at my fingertips. “Here's your vinegar, you old coot.”

  I spent a moment admiring the foam spilling over the rim and then grabbed the mug with both hands. I quaffed and smacked my lips. The cider fizzed all the way down my throat. Kelsa only drank this brew on special occasions. But for Granfa, every meal was a special occasion and in his absence that night I wore the old man's manners like a cloak. I filled the hollow space my grandfather left behind, spending the whole evening practicing talking and eating like Granfa. Ma helped and reminisced, but all of Fa's reminiscences were sarcastic.

  After we had cleared the dishes and sat comfortably swapping stories of Granfa, Ma removed one of the rings from her necklace and passed it across the table to me. “Remember to wear this next to your skin. And don't forget who you are,” she whispered. “Your Granfa should have some unopened letters on his desk upstairs. Spend some time studying them. Look for any news or familiar names or,” she sighed, “recent deaths. Then get some rest, dear. Tomorrow will be a strange, exhausting day.”

  My dreams that night were strange. I was trapped inside a mirror looking out and the face staring back at me was a vibrating blur. We were both wearing Granfa's old armor and nothing else. I squirmed, but didn't blush. Nobody could see me and modesty is a passing stranger. I used to swim naked as a baby born with all the boys in the village. Fa put a stop to that years ago. I took to walking naked in the woods. Fa didn't know about that.

  But the experience was still physically awkward, as though Granfa's armor was punishing me for my lack of shame. The thing pinched and jabbed everywhere. The cuirass was squashing my breasts and digging into my hips. It felt like wearing two shovels strapped beneath my armpits while a wall of steel had collapsed across my chest. I struggled to breathe. The real me was trying to tell the mirror me something important, but neither of us could speak through the glass and I could not see her face as she mouthed the words. Granfa's old ring was nestled on a chain between my breasts. The ring was glowing and I could see an eerie blue light peeking out from the edges of the cuirass.

  The armor was pressing the ring against my breasts. As the ring first indented and then slowly sank under my flesh, it burned, but pleasantly. Like a hot towel, rather than the scorching heat I was expecting. A soft, blue glow spread beneath my skin from the round spot at the center of my chest until it enveloped my entire body. I could feel my eyes glow and I could almost see that blurred face. My ears began to glow and I could almost hear beyond the mirror. My lips glowed. Would the other me hear the words, now?

  “Unlace the stupid armor,” I shouted at the glass. She nodded and fumbled with the straps of the cuirass while my mirror fingers followed suit. The ring sank deeper, puncturing the watery sac around my heart, and then plunging into the meat of the organ itself. I gasped and choked for a breath that would not come. The mirror shattered. My heart stopped.

  I awoke panting, clutching my chest as it spasmed. I could breathe again! I ran my fingers down the chain, searching for the ring on the end, half expecting I'd need to pull that round, golden anchor from the depths of my heart. I yanked the chain off my neck and threw it across the room. The metal chimed when it hit the wall, but the thick, woolen carpet swallowed all sounds. Let the thing sink into a dead sheep's ass. I'll find it tomorrow. Then, punching my pillow, I fell asleep again and dreamed no more dreams of mirrors or magic rings.

  3. KELSA, YEAR 198

  I played with the ring while my mother chatted next to me on the jostling cart seat. I could see her lips moving, but I didn't hear her words. After a lifetime of carrying soldiers into battle, Krag was none too pleased being reduced to a menial dray horse. The stallion trotted over every root and rock stretching across the pathway. Each body-wracking jolt turned my mind inward. I savored my sore muscle, flexed my toes, and pondered my breasts swaying to the rhythm of the cart as we traveled deeper into the woodland and closer to my coming transformation.

  Thoughts of the dream last night also preyed upon my mind. What did it mean? Would I not fit into the role of my grandfather? Could mimicking his speech and movements truly prepare me for becoming another person? Would my mind transform as well as my body? Would something of Kelsa remain buried beneath the revitalized Sir Corbin or would the burning, glowing magic consume me?

  I glanced at the ring. There was no burning, no blue glow. The gold merely flashed and then dulled again as we passed beneath the dappled light shining through the canopy. Granfa always wore this ring around his neck, but unlike the rings on his fingers, this one didn't come with a story.

  My grandfather kept this one story locked inside and I never found the key to unlock it. Growing up, I felt like he was teasing me by withholding this one last grand tale, saving it for a special occasion. How could an object owned by Granfa not be steeped in a history of cheerful fables, sad lies, or gritty half truths? But the special occasion never arrived. Every time I asked about the mysterious golden ring, he would stare at my mother with wet, glistening eyes and then mope for the rest of the day. And now he was dead. The story was lost forever.

  I asked Ma a few times, but she always shook her head and said it was Granfa's choice to share or not as he chose. And now he could never tell me. If I became Granfa, would I discover the secret of the ring? Would part of my mind transform along with my body? I realized with a start that I was not truly fearing the change. It was more like the jitters Krag got before I set him loose to race across the fields. I was eager to charge ahead, to cast Kelsa by the roadside and become Sir Corbin.

  Ma's brow furrowed as she turned to face me. “Are you certain you want to do this, Kelsa? I know what I said yesterday, but plenty of people at this event are NOT friends of your grandfather. And with fear of magic running so high, if you're discovered . . .”

  Yes, yes, let's go! I waved her concerns aside as the mantle of Corbin, the Hero of Jerkum Pass, settled over my shoulders like a warm, heavy cloak. It's not like I didn't recognize the danger. The granddaughter of Corbin Destrus was not foolish enough to wrestle with such a monstrous risk without care, but I would shake its clawed hand like the heroes of old.

 
I would not cower like some little girl. I would greet that tight feeling in my gut as an old friend, not an adversary. A noble quest to save my mother? Who was I to shirk from such a challenge? The risk just added a certain spice to the affair. I heard Granfa's cheerful voice whisper in my mind, Now death rides on your shoulder, my dear.

  “If you're certain, then we shall begin.” Ma reached up and clasped my hands. Granfa always marveled how the five gods had crammed her huge spirit into such a tiny body. There was certainly nothing fragile about her grip.

  I patted her small hand and in that moment, it was easy to imagine I was a father comforting his worrisome daughter. “Hey, aren't some of my old army buddies mages?” I asked, deepening my voice to approximate Granfa's low, rolling tones.

  I asked this more for her benefit than for mine. I knew most of their names and certain hidden scars both internal and external, and could have recited a litany of intimate, embarrassing details of long forgotten escapades. I could even describe some of their faces: several of the characters from those stories had visited our house over the years. I remembered them all. And they remembered me as a squalling naked baby.

  I glanced at the stasis box. Thanks, Granfa!

  He told me every story multiple times with many different versions, but certain incidents always remained the same, allowing me to separate a bare, hazy truth from all the exaggerations. But none of his embellishments were to praise himself. Often the reverse occurred for all his bragging. According to Granfa, he stumbled across victory like a drunkard tripping over a half full wine bottle. I loved him all the more for his flamboyant humility. The bottle was always half full with Granfa. He was fond of cheerfully reminding me that the Hero of Jerkum Pass could be a jerk as well as a hero. He was just another character in his own tales. He told me all the stories . . . save the one about the ring.

  “Yes, but all those mage friends are under the same dark cloud I am,” Ma said, wringing her hands. “Even safe in the bosom of the army, people likely aren't practicing much magic these days after the emperor's decree.” Ma looked over her shoulder and pulled the reins. The path was deserted. The cart lolled to a stop and Krag stomped his hoof. Ma's white palfrey, Jenna, tied to the back of the cart, whinnied in response.

  I took a deep breath, watching my chest rise and fall as my ribcage expanded. Will breathing feel any different as a man? I thought. I swayed against the seat. Sitting? How do men shuffle all their dangly male bits when they sit? What would Fa have said if I asked him that one? Slapped me.

  Honesty compelled me to admit my father would have hit a son just the same for daring to ask the reverse. Gender wouldn't matter. I slapped my own cheek gently. “I'm ready, Ma.”

  She cocked her head and gazed into my eyes for a long moment. Then she sighed and nodded. “You studied all the recent correspondence from your Granfa's desk last night after dinner?”

  “Yes, Ma. His friends all sent letters and everyone is looking forward to the ceremony. They're all hale and hearty. Even the mages.”

  “You mean plump and retired.” Ma laughed. “Didn't you read what they didn't write? 'Fill the gaps' as he used to say? Most of my father's living acquaintances are hardly any younger than he is. I doubt most of their commissions are still active.”

  I pointed my trigger finger into the air and closed my eyes, reciting one of Granfa's favorite quotes: “An old soldier never stops soldiering though his helmet be a trough, his uniform a dust rag, or his weapon an ornament.”

  “All that practice last night bore fruit. You've got the cadence just right.” Ma stared past me toward the box in the bed of the cart and smiled a sad, little smile. “Let's take care of the rest of it.” She pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed. “Could you please open the box, dear? I need to see him one last time to get all the details right . . . and to say my goodbyes.”

  I helped my mother pry the lid off the stasis box, a coffin now in all but name. The ripe stench of a rotten privy gushed from the container and I swear I saw cloudy, black smoke fall to the floor of the cart and drift off the back. I shook my head and the sight vanished. Sadly, the smell remained. And beneath that smell lay my grandfather.

  I forced myself to examine his body. His cheerful, animate face was placid. His rosy cheeks were pallid. His expressive hands were still. Can I breathe life back into that face? Gesticulate with those hands?

  I looked at my own dirt-encrusted fingernails. My grandfather's hands had been washed, clean and unblemished. I started picking the dirt from under my nails and glanced at the sacks in the cart where the ceremonial armor lay waiting.

  The decorative light steel, embossed leather, and fine red brocades would feel heavy on my shoulders. Granfa always said he always felt like a museum piece on display in that fancy armor, that we should bury him in his old dented regimental uniform, but that would have to wait. Sir Corbin had one final quest to complete before he saw the priests.

  Ma stared at him for a long time and then looked at me. I started to reach to flip the body over, but Corbin's daughter stayed my hand. “I've seen enough for the enchantment. Every detail. Every scar. Every pimple. Let's get this done and then close the box before another traveler passes, dear. I prefer to remember your Granfa as the lively man he was, not this empty shell.”

  I nodded. He won't remain an empty shell for long, I promised myself. I shall fill that shell in spirit and Sir Corbin will walk, speak, and breathe again.

  My mother rummaged through one of the burlap sacks. “You'll need to strip your clothes before we begin. Here,” she said, tossing me a blanket. “Drape this over yourself to avoid a chill.”

  I skinned off my clothes, kicked off my boots, and slung the blanket over one shoulder until I was only wearing the ring around my neck. “What chill?” I asked, wiggling my toes in the soft dirt, almost hoping some handsome prince came galloping over the ridge.

  “I hope you're as comfortable in your new body.” My mother sighed.

  I grinned and said nothing. All my doubts had vanished in my eagerness to start the quest. A hero fallen. A magic spell. I felt like a character in one of my grandfather's stories.

  “You're definitely his granddaughter. Surprised the pair of you never gave your poor father a heart attack.”

  I shrugged. Surely after twenty-three years, my parents were used to my particular ways? My father's odd taboos against the expression of the female form were more concerned with appearance than substance. He never suppressed my raw spirit. He even stopped interjecting the word 'husband' into every other sentence five years ago. It's not like I don't help support the family. The demand that I venture into the village to earn steady wages was the only thing Fa and Granfa ever agreed upon.

  “Focus on me,” Ma said. “Your mind is wandering.”

  I braced myself against the side of the cart. “Will the transformation hurt?” I asked as my mother started glancing from Granfa to me and muttering.

  “Do you want the answer I'd give my daughter or the answer I'd give my father? It may hurt . . . slightly,” Ma said, laying her fingers on the ring. It began to pulse with a blue glow and all I could think about was mirrors.

  “Do any of your patients ever believe that?” I asked. “Did you tell that to the elder before you fixed his hand?”

  Ma shrugged before continuing to mutter and wave her fingers over my body.

  “Why are you whispering?” I asked, wincing as my face started aching.

  My mother's fingers weaved through the air. She caught me watching and lowered her hands. “Mage talent runs in families. If you ever exhibit any skills yourself, I don't want you to know how to do this. It's too dangerous and there's too much of my father in you . . . which bodes well for this madcap venture.”

  “But this was your plan,” I protested. Yes, I told myself. It was Ma who misled the elder and Ma who volunteered to pose as Granfa and Ma who wanted to be a hero her whole life . . .

  “Well, my father makes up a part of me, too, dear,” Ma s
aid as my body began to shudder. “Just not the magic part.”

  I screamed as my back arched. It felt like someone dragging hot knives along my spine. My entire body burned. My face felt like someone was trying to smack a round glob of mud into a square frame. My breasts began to melt and shrink. All the fat squeezed into my belly. My hips surged and drove themselves up into my shoulders, widening my chest as they went.

  What happened down below is harder to describe. You know how when you make sausage and the loose meat solidifies and extrudes out a hollow cavity with a delicate casing wrapped around it? Imagine that except the casing has a hole at one end and the sausage is on fire. There was also a leather pouch with two grapes in it attached to tiny strings so they bobbed and jiggled when I moved. After that first flush, the sausage just drooped.

  “It's done,” my mother gasped and I reached down to examine my new body, noticing in passing that my thick, fumbling fingers had hairy knuckles. Even my chest, my arms, my legs, and even the sack dangling between my legs had a thick mat of hair. How can men stand all this? How do they walk? I wiggled my hips, but the everything just dangled like a cluster of soft, overripe figs clinging to a tree branch.

  Sweating, Ma turned away to slide the lid back onto the stasis box. “Your jerkin's in the bag with the armor. Get dressed,” she said, head downcast, refusing to look me in the eyes.

  Pulling the shirt over my head didn't tug my hair as it ought. I reached up and patted the top of my head. My dark blonde, butt-length tresses had become pale, shoulder-length corn silk.

  I looked down at my mother and smiled as I wrapped one of my wavy curls around a trembling finger. For the first time in my life, our hair finally matched. I wanted to cry and embrace her. I suppressed it. I've never felt closer to her than in that moment, but I said nothing. That was a sentiment from Kelsa, but now I must become Sir Corbin.

  “Yes, Ma,” I replied, startling at my hoarse, deep voice even as I mentally berated myself. You're Sir Corbin. Not Kelsa, Corbin.