The Knight's Secret

by Jeffrey Bardwell

  I sighed and hugged my knees. Has anyone suspected? I thought. Maven and Drake seem to know me best. Maven is more complicated: a lover . . . an angry lover? Drake's relationship is easy to slot into place: the friend, the stalwart companion.

  Drake had a dragon riding his back and no mistake. Why did he give in so easily when I rebuffed him? That's not the man I remember swapping tales around our kitchen table. I felt a twinge between my shoulders. And how does he remember me?

  A knock sounded on the door. A muffled voice slipped past my liquid earmuffs and I felt the mask sliding back over my face as it rose above the water.

  “Corbin,” Drake yelled, banging something on the door. A bottle? “If you won't come to the booze, old chum, then I shall bring the booze to you.”

  Sighing, I climbed out of the tub, tied a towel around my waist, and padded to the door. I opened it, towel flapping as I bowed and gestured for my friend to enter the room. Drake held a long-necked bottle and two crystal glasses in his hands. He laughed at the towel and waved the bottle in my face as he handed me one of the glasses.

  “Is that real crystal? Have you become a man of culture in your dotage? Could there be . . . wine in that bottle of yours?”

  “You ass.” Drake looked hurt. He swayed a bit and steadied himself against one of the chairs. “Wine? You know I'd never let that watery piss touch my lips. This is a proper glass for a proper drink. Why shouldn't we sip from the same glasses as that witch and her cronies? But we shall do it right, eh? Strip the walls. Strip our guts.” He chuckled. “Your insides will match your outsides.” He clinked his glass against the bottle and smiled even as his eyes grew hard. “There's something odd about you.”

  “Oh?” I asked as my mind gibbered, shaking my arms to watch the skin flap. “I've changed. You've changed. Happens to people all in time.”

  “Yes, but the last time I visited, a mere eight years past—”

  Something about his tone lit fire in the fog of my mind. “Twelve years,” I murmured.

  “Was it?” he asked, tilting his head and peering at me. “Drink must be going to my head. Twelve years past when we sat for the long sip, your wide-eyed little granddaughter had to watch her poor mother drag you off to bed before you drained the place dry. We sang songs praising your hollow leg.”

  “Yes, I remember.” I nodded and offered him my fancy, fluted glass. “Shall we sing now?”

  “Not in the mood.” Drake unstoppered the bottle with his teeth, spat the cork, and swiped my glass. He shoved the bottle into my empty hands and held the glass aloft, staring through the shimmering crystal at me. “You carry wine for that witch, but your glass stands empty. You cozen up to The Mouse, the most . . . the most sober man . . . in the army. Then, you refuse my invitation after dinner. Refuse it! Old Hollow Leg Corbin, passing up drinks. What's the great mystery, eh?”

  6. CORBIN, YEAR 198

  I waved the bottle under my nostrils, forcing myself to smile through the tears and make appreciative noises while the acrid fumes curled my toes and singed my nose hairs. My son-in-law could use this for wood varnish if it didn't eat through the wood first.

  I almost took a swig from the bottle, but paused as it touched my lips. Drake's expectant gaze invited me to tip the bottle back and chug it. I hesitated. That wasn't good enough. The movement was too reactionary, too scripted. That was the action of a pretender, not a friend. There was a trap hiding behind my friend's slurred speech and easy smile, whether he meant to set one or not. I mentally shook myself and snatched the dark bottle away. I raised the rum absently, and Drake's eyes followed.

  My mind still felt hazy. I groped in the darkness for an answer. Curse this fog!

  I could almost see the suspicion crystallizing behind those blurred eyes, if not tonight, than tomorrow. What dark seeds would sprout in Drake's mind as he examined the actions of this evening by the light of a new day? I had to settle his questions and my nerves in one easy motion, but how?

  A proper soldier would have anticipated this, would have taken the initiative, would have been eager and waiting, would have . . . set out his own . . . I glanced over my shoulder and reached for the large mug hanging on the bedpost. This is not an old mug for storing false teeth, I told myself as my fingers grasped the cold handle. This is a sacred vessel for storing alcohol. It's always been for alcohol and it's been waiting to fill up. I've been waiting to fill up.

  “No great mystery,” I said calmly, twisting my lips into a sneer as I held my mug up like a scepter and gazed down at those puny crystal glasses. “Merely wondering when you were going to show up with the good stuff. Drinking with old friends is best done in private, not with a mob.” I waved the bottle toward the faint sounds of revelry below with a dismissive slosh.

  Drake nodded, seeming to accept this explanation. His eyes widened as they moved from the bottle to the mug and then fixated on the large mug.

  “A proper glass for a proper drink!” I smiled, clinked the mug against the bottle, and filled it. Then I tilted my head back to choke down the entire mugful of brew. It scorched my throat, coating it with liquid fire. I wiped my lips with the back of my hand and extended the mug and bottle toward my friend.

  Drake laughed and reached for them both with a pair of shaking hands. I lifted the bottle slightly as he missed his first grasp at the smooth, glass neck. He filled the mug with the slow, careful precision of a man who is not quite the master of his own body. He took a deep sip and smacked his lips. He offered me the mug back.

  I snatched the bottle instead, taking a long pull of the fiery rum. It felt appropriate now that I had established my bona fides. The first drink had been a blaze in my throat. The second kept burning the whole way down: past my throat, past everything. The fire settled in my chest, slowly seeping down into my stomach and then spread outwards. My cheeks and toes flared with the warmth of it. I had to check and see whether the towel wrapped around my waist had caught fire.

  The towel was still there, but the alcohol had burned away something else: the fog in my mind. I blinked. Not only wasn't I tired anymore, my entire body was vibrating like a lute string, thrumming to my heartbeat.

  Drake chuckled. “Ah, there's the Corbin I remember.”

  I grinned behind the upended bottle. After filling that giant mug two times, there was hardly any rum left. We had 'bled the dragon' as they say. “So what's prowling through your mind, Drake? You've been wanting to chat about . . . something all evening.”

  “Have I?” he asked, scratching his head and taking another sip from the mug. “Something prowling through my mind? Saw the witch prowling through the halls earlier. You know no matter what she says, no matter what she does, she still hasn't forgiven you. Never will, most likely.” He tilted his head back and drained the mug. “She still calls you a scoundrel, a rogue, and worse!”

  I rolled the bottle between my hands. I tilted my head and snorted. “She's not the forgiving sort. But you didn't come here to talk about Maven.”

  “Didn't I? Hmmm, no. I didn't.” Drake leaned back in his the chair and crossed his arms. He tapped his heel on the floorboards. Downstairs, we could hear the dim murmur of countless plots and schemes passing between the rest of the regiment. “Beware, Corbin. Danger lurks down there. Not everyone appreciates the Hero of Jerkum Pass as I do. The old alliances are shifting. There's skullduggery here at the capital. Foul whispers among the regiment.”

  I squinted one eye and peered up into the empty bottle, shaking it over my tongue. “Plots? Here in the capital of the Iron Empire? Gossip among the regiment? Why yes, and I do believe this over-fermented grape juice may be a little alcoholic.”

  Drake laughed. “More than a little.”

  “The empire thrives on twisted plots and the army trades secrets as naturally as it breathes. They're just playing the same tired games, Drake. Giving the same tired speeches.”

  “Are they?” Drake set the mug down next to the crystal glasses. His eyes narrowed. “Well, we're not entirely un
prepared. There's something new happening, something grand. I want you by my side when the speeches die and the swords come out.”

  “New intrigue? Glorious.” I grinned and rubbed my hands together. My heart pounded a little harder as I leaned forward and spread my hands, palms open and inviting. “So, what's this grand scheme of yours? ”

  Drake waved me away. “No, not yet. You've only just a rye . . . arri . . . only just got here. All the old factions are splitting and reforming. Keep them guessing where you stand.” He groaned and rubbed his forehead. “You and your 'proper glass.' Stick to making speeches, hero. Good plots are like fine liquor. This one still needs to ferment awhile before I show it to you. But everyone's going to want you on their side. Sample each offering.”

  I leaned back in the chair, rubbing the stubble on my chin. “You want me to . . . spy for you? And what will you be doing while I'm sampling all this intrigue?”

  He glanced at the empty bottle. “Fermenting my own plan of course. Not ready to uncork that one right now.”

  I shook my head. “You mean fomenting . . .”

  Drake burped and then smiled. “Let the intrigue slurl . . . swirl around you. You're good at that. Sip. Savor. Seduce.” He peered at my flushed cheeks. “So what really happened between you and those,” he fluttered his fingers, “so-called dragon warriors? I never did hear the whole story.”

  And you're not going to hear it tonight. I bristled and then smoothed my features. Drake might not be as drunk as he appeared and what little he seemed to know of this story was far more than I did. I rolled the empty bottle underfoot across the carpet, choosing my words with care as Drake bobbed his head to follow the path of the bottle. “A knight never betrays the confidences of a lady, Sir Drake. Secrets of the heart are like sealed bottles of fine wine dipped in hot wax . . .” Off his indignant look, I laughed as the fire crackled beside me. “Yes, wine. There's always a temptation to leave the seal intact. For when you breach it, who knows if you will find the same spicy concoction from your youth or that time has soured your memories to vinegar?”

  My old friend grunted. I turned to gaze into the dancing flames and contemplate the many holes lurking in my own memories. Tomorrow's foray into the world of secrets and machinations would give me a chance to start filling those holes.

  “Oh, that witch has gone sour all right.” Drake slapped his thigh. “Fine. Keep your secrets. Just know that fresh skullduggery awaits you. The floors are covered with it here. So wear some good boots tomorrow. I will find you after you've waded through it. Then we have our fun, eh?” We both rose from our chairs and he clapped me on the back. “By the five gods, I've missed you!”

  I mimicked the gesture and slapped him between the shoulder blades. Somewhere, deep inside, a part of me smiled even as I winced from the force of his blow. So this is how two men hug. Fascinating.

  After Drake left, I laid on the soft mattress, towel beginning to unfurl around my waist. Where I had only sought sleep before, now a craving for the impending thrill built inside me. Part of me was responding to the swirling intrigue down below and part of me . . . to something else. The caress of the towel as it slid off my body. The delicate scratch of goose feathers on my back. The sound of each lingering footstep in the hall. Each sensation was impossible to ignore. The recurring thought that my evening wasn't over mounted in my mind.

  There was a progression to these things. First the friend, then the . . . lover? Rival? What precisely was my relationship to 'the witch' as Drake called her? Would she come tonight? Would she knock on my door? I glanced at the latch, willing it to turn and the door to creak open .

  Nothing happened except a small surging in my loins. Laughing, I crumpled the towel into a wet ball and threw it across the room. The cold ring slid across my chest, catching my hairs as I sat up in bed and leaned against the headboard. Were those soft footsteps outside my room or had I imagined them?

  Someone knocked on the door, five sharp raps. My loins tightened. A part of me rose from the bed and it wasn't my toes. Did my subconscious body remember that knock? The sound came again. I swelled and surged to the surface. I scrambled out of bed, looking for the towel, which was all the way across the room. I took a deep breath, glancing around for something to cover myself. I found my shirt and tied it around my waist like an apron.

  What happened to that free-spirited girl who enjoyed frolicking through the woods without a scrap of clothing? Kelsa asked as I sprinted across the room.

  She became an old man with boy parts , I replied, responding to the soft fabric cinch around my waist. I resisted the urge to rearrange the draping shirt, uncertain if I wanted to enhance that mysterious bulge or hide it. The rough fabric just enhanced things further. I sighed. Time to get the door, though reaching and turning the latch to discover who was knocking at such an hour was a mere formality. My body knew who would be waiting there.

  The old woman stood with one hand on her hip, her other hand stretching toward the ceiling. The stark contrast of the hard rectangular frame emphasizing every soft, gentle curve. Her purple dress had transformed into a sheer, blue negligee that draped over her body like a shimmering sky. Dark, little storm clouds centered over her breasts, the tight fabric relaxing as she lowered her arm and smiled.

  My tongue could hardly fathom the proper response as words danced on the tip of my tongue and fell into silence. I stepped back without thinking.

  “Sir Corbin answers his door in nothing but a shirt? This is new.” Maven sauntered into the room, her bare feet erasing Drake's bootprints, leaving a trail in the soft, plush carpet straight to my bed.

  She glanced at the empty bottle and draped herself across the mattress. “Invite me in for a cuppa wine, soldier?”

  Parts of me turned towards the bed and the rest followed. It was like having a tiny arrow below my waist that kept pointing at everything. How can boys think with these things pulling, distracting, pointing? The arrow surged again. I untied my shirt and threw it aside as I surrendered and let the arrow lead me where it will. What was the difference really between one horn tugging from the outside and two curling horns tugging from the inside? There were certainly little differences (that stupid arrow surged for everything), but it wasn't an entirely unfamiliar pull.

  “No wine. I am already drunk on your beauty,” I said with a lazy smile. It seemed a Corbin thing to say.

  Her nose wrinkled. “Not to mention rum.”

  I nodded. The ring on my chest bobbed as I pretended to lurch toward the bed with wide, drunken steps. The weakness was only partly feigned, I realized as my legs grew numb. The arrow ignored all that and pulled me teetering towards the bed. Legs were not going to be necessary for much longer.

  “Are you going to wear that ring to bed?” Maven asked, her lower lip pouting.

  “Is it . . . inappropriate?” I replied, curling my finger through the ring and running it up and down the chain as I stood next to her. I had one lonely thought questioning the appropriateness of it all before the yearning tug of the arrow removed all doubt.

  “Horribly inappropriate.” Maven's voice grew deep and sultry. “Naughty, even.” She reached up, pulled me down onto the bed, and straddled me, her negligee fluttering across my bare skin.

  “You're still wearing clothes,” I murmured, plucking at the gauzy fabric. “Hardly fair.”

  Maven smiled and shrugged out of the negligee like a ferret wriggling from a tunnel.

  Her breasts had once been magnificent. A distant part of me was almost jealous. The nearer part of me reached up to touch them. They had deflated with time to merely gorgeous, yet remained full and taut. If I were as much a man inside as I was outside, her age and wrinkles would not diminish my desire. The arrow pulsed, seeming to agree. Perhaps I am more of a man inside than I thought.

  I traced my fingers around her areolas and pinched her nipples, then caressed her breasts like Tannis had caressed me that day in the woods. I suddenly filled with desire wanting to know how he felt touch
ing me. Her nipples flushed with a familiar tingling sensation and parts of me responded in spite of myself. But I wasn't Tannis and Maven wasn't a young woman in the forest. I withdrew my hands and her erect nipples pointed with stiff accusation.

  I looked away, eyes drawn to the sensation of someone watching from the corner. A ghost of the boy I once loved in the woods? I blinked and the apparition faded.

  “Why do you hesitate? Minerva is dead, Corbin.” Maven glanced over her shoulder and chuckled as she placed my left hand back around her breast. “Go on, squeeze it. My sister isn't standing there in the corner. No voyeuristic ghost watching us make love. No more guilt. No more shame. Enjoy yourself. Relax.”

  My mind perked for a moment. Here was that same hidden story, a clue pointing towards . . . something. She felt around below my waist. The thought vanished. My arrow pointed harder as she stroked it and all my thoughts vanished. She wrapped her fingers around it and squeezed, rubbing her thumb against the arrowhead. “Well. Don't relax too much.”

  I knew that firm grip and the confident, teasing smile that followed it. I had worn that smile myself a few times. I could count the number of boys I've enjoyed on the fingers of one hand. If I had to count the number I've turned away, explaining that my pleasure in my naked body was not an open invitation to pursue their own, I would have long since run out of my fingers and started chopping off theirs.

  Now, the roles were reversed. I was the man fumbling his way through the performance. I knew how this play went, and I remembered most of the lines, but the moment the parts were switched, I lost my place. I was a horrible understudy.

  Maven soon abandoned her tugging and caressing. She slid her sweaty body over top of mine, positioning my arrow inside her. “Oh, Corbin, let me impale myself on your lance.”