The Knight's Secret

by Jeffrey Bardwell

  The cavalryman seated on my left caught me staring at the array of mounted swords and spears. The man was not wearing a uniform or armor, but a plain red tunic. I tried to pluck his name from the sea of names churning in my mind, pulling it from the depths, but his rank eluded me: Karl. Captain Karl? Colonel Karl? Major Karl?

  “I know that look,” Karl said with a low chuckle, stroking his mustache. The gray bristles were waxed to points sharp enough to stab someone. “I, too, feel undressed without my dagger.”

  Why? He's got two dangling under his nose , Kelsa whispered.

  I bit my cheek, choking down the laughter. “I suppose it's a prudent policy—”

  “Oh, no doubt the policy is well-advised. Weapons in the barracks?” He waved at the display on the walls. “Swords? Spears? Perish the thought. But to take away our daggers, Sir Corbin?” The man held up his butter knife and then glared at the bits of chicken on his plate, pushing the thigh against the breast with his knife. “How can I defend myself with this toy?” he grumbled.

  “The chicken is already dead, Sir Karl,” I said, trying not to sigh. “I believe the idea was to encourage an air of calm civility and equality.”

  “Whose idea? What equality?” Karl gestured toward the mages sitting across the table from us with his blunt knife. “They got their weapons back. We were on equal footing. Then someone,” he very carefully did not look at Maven, “took them machines that kept the magic sheathed.” He slammed one hand on the table. “Stealing the daggers tipped the balance against us. It pisses on our honor. I'm supposed to be calm about that?”

  “I will hang those magic-leeching boxes back on the walls,” Maven said, leaning over my lap with a tight smile, “as soon as you persuade everyone in the cavalry to bind one of their hands behind their back. Magic isn't truly an offensive weapon any more than your dagger, sir. It is a tool. It is a part of us.”

  “Which part?” The cavalryman snarled, stabbing the chicken thigh and breast in quick succession. The handle quivered as he left it embedded in the meat, and a thin trickle of blood and grease leaked down the side.

  Maven raised her finger high as if to stab him with it and opened her mouth. I clapped one hand over her lips.

  “Peace, Karl. Peace, Maven. I will see about redressing the balance and getting the daggers back. If we can't trust each other to keep our small arms sheathed, cavalrymen and mages alike,” I glared at the both of them, “then we are truly lost.”

  Karl nodded stiffly. “Watch yourself, Sir Corbin. It's not just the mages. Some cavalrymen can't be trusted either.” His eyes roamed to another section of the table. I followed the man's gaze and found myself looking at Drake.

  Rumors of Drake's impending defection to a mysterious new military corps and the arrival of the empress spiced the meal with a sense of expectation and dread. Some labeled Drake a traitor, others defended him. Is this how the regiment dies: not falling in glorious battle, but on the sword of political strife?

  “Is that truly wise?” the mage sitting to my right asked as Sir Karl turned away and I had begun feeding Maven the rest of my chicken.

  “You would question the Hero of Jerkum Pass, Sepharius?” Maven asked the man quietly, chewing the meat in the corner of her mouth as if she wanted to spit. “The cavalryman was right to be aggrieved: the power is unbalanced. Maybe I should have left the machines alone.”

  “What's wrong with mages sitting high in a position of strength for once?” Sepharius asked, clenching a fork in his fist. Like Karl, his clothes were also colored to match his faction, albeit blue instead of red and with more ruffles and lace.

  “After the emperor died so mysteriously,” I said, “I would not be so eager to wield a position of strength if I were you. Such strength is an illusion. The higher you sit, the easier it will be to pull you down.”

  The mage crossed his arms and sniffed. “So, you want to pull us down? You see us as criminals first and members of the regiment second, pony man?”

  “No, first I see you as a sanctimonious—”

  “What dear Corbin is trying to say,” Maven said, laying one finger across my lips, “is that we mages would do well not to antagonize. If daggers help put our non magical brothers and sisters at their ease and disperse these feelings of mistrust, then they must have those daggers. What's troubling you? Frightened of a bit of steel?”

  Sepharius gasped and drew himself up, the silk ruffles on his chest quivering. “You mock me, Commander.”

  “Fie! No ranks in the slop house.” I grinned, plucking the chicken leg off my plate and banging it against my plate with a loud squelch. Sepharius winced as bits of grease splattered across his pretty blue shirt.

  “Forgive me. I merely wonder if adding weapons to a foul situation will not make things more,” the mage plucked the fabric of his shirt between two fingers and flung the grease onto the floor, “messy.”

  “It can hardly get messier,” Maven said, smiling at the stains on the man's shirt. “Corbin merely seeks to redress a poor policy.”

  “And whom do you suppose authored this policy?” Sepharius waived to the courtiers in their red livery. “What will she say then she finds it overturned? Why is she coming here at all? The empress is a figure for coins and parades. Why would she desire to mingle with old soldiers? Surely not to hear old Corbin spew at the mouth?”

  I could feel my cheeks flush and the hair on my neck bristle as I rose to defend my good name, butter knife unwittingly in hand. The knife hovered in the air a moment. The dull murmur of conversation around us seemed to pause. Maven grabbed my wrist and squeezed. The knife clattered to the table. The low murmur swelled around me again.

  “Put that away before you vindicate the puffed opinions of that little dragon shit,” she whispered before turning to Sepharius and raising her voice. “I'm certain our beloved empress had her reasons. Worry less about our friends in the cavalry. When the enemy comes for you, they won't be attacking with daggers . . . or butter knives.”

  I sighed as Sepharius turned away in a huff. I sliced another sliver of chicken, but Maven's lips were pursed as she glared at me. I ate the chicken myself, and the rich sauce turned to bitter ashes in my mouth. I was no better than the men and women I was supposed to be pacifying.

  “You could cut the desperation in the air and serve it for dessert,” I said quietly. “They would all choke it down, too. The gods bless their weapons if it eases some of this tension, but we are all destined for the Black Tower if any of them dare to wield the things.”

  “You would fight the injustices of the world with a butter knife?” Maven shook her head. “Keep cutting pieces of chicken instead. And keep smiling. You're supposed to be warding off the gloom, not feeding it. Feed me instead if you must.” She opened her mouth. I smiled and gently placed another sliver of chicken on her tongue.

  “I would fight with my words, not weapons,” I murmured as she chewed, remembering the firebrand mage in the village square who refused to unleash the fire in his fists. “Not even a butter knife.”

  “Oh? That's not what I saw. And while some of us don't need . . . butter knives,” she said, swallowing, “your point is well made. The moment we attack one another with any weapon, metal or magic, the army will dissolve into chaos and the empire not far behind us.”

  “Yes, but will my words be enough? Nobody has listened so far. I can barely make them sit side by side while the breach widens around me.” I stared at the knife next to my plate. “When I don't widen the breach myself.”

  “My words have certainly had little impact. They all run away from me. Maybe . . . if I tried the butter knife.” Maven chuckled and reached up to caress my face, waving her other hand to gesture at our squabbling neighbors. “You will have a captive audience for your words tomorrow, hero: the cavalry, the mages, and the empress herself. Everyone will be focused on you. What will you say?”

  I stabbed the gristly chicken carcass with my fork. “I don't know. Something inspiring? Something witty? Someth
ing to remind them of the glory of the regiment?”

  “Haven't finished it yet, have you?” She chuckled, reaching under the table. “Would you like some help wielding your quill?”

  I distracted her with a light kiss while the courtiers in red hosiery cleared the dishes away. They set fresh tiny bowls with matching tiny forks even though my old fork was fine. The courtiers wheeled carts with large steaming porcelain tureens with ladles rising from divots in their lids, waiting to serve us . . . what, precisely?

  “The courtiers solve our problem for us! They've gathered all the doom and gloom and placed them in one spot.” I grinned. “How long you think that bitter brew's been stewing in the pot?”

  “By the five gods, sometimes I hardly recognize you. Have you become a poet now as well as a hero?” Maven dug into my ribs with her elbow. “ Unless despair smells like honey and apples, I think we're getting something sweet tonight.”

  “Oh, I'm still the same Corbin I've always been,” I murmured as the crisp smell of apple crumble surrounded me. I snapped my fingers and flagged down one of the courtiers. “See about getting the small arms back to their owners, won't you?

  “But, sir?” the courtier protested, “our orders—”

  “Hang your orders! If the Commander of the Mage Corps can remove those blasted brass boxes, then Corbin Destrus can allow his companions to retain their dignity. The empress cannot object to that, surely? She holds me in some regard, yes? She is coming to hear my little speech?”

  The courtier nodded as I spread my arms.

  “Well, my companions feel slighted. Robbed. These are strange, tense times.” I smiled at the man. “This would do much to ease those bitter tensions.”

  “But, sir—” the man whispered, his protests getting weaker. I pressed my advantage.

  I pushed the spear all the way up my spine and sneered down the length of my nose at the man. “Am I not the Hero of Jerkum Pass? Is this whole affair not being held in my honor? Give them back their daggers. Give them real weapons,” I gestured to the display of blunted swords and spears overhead, “before they start tearing the fake ones off the walls.”

  The courtier glanced at the display and started to laugh, then covered his mouth with one hand. He composed himself and bowed. “I will see what I can do, Sir Corbin.” As the man hurried away, his red-liveried fellows made their rounds up and down the length of the table, nestling fragrant scoops of warm apple crumble into our bowls.

  A savory pomace of honeyed fruit and steam rose into the air. I licked my lips and raised the forkful of crumble closer to my nose. I closed my eyes. I inhaled.

  The smell of warm apples wafted through my mind. Suddenly, I was a girl again, clothes tied in a bundle across my back, arms outstretched, and bare feet racing through the forest toward the apple trees. Green leaves and soft branches brushed my sides and bowed as I passed. I reached the clearing of a long abandoned orchard. The trees were overgrown, but never failed to produce. I always thought they looked like large hands reaching up and spreading their fingers to wave to the gods.

  The sun felt warm on my skin and the patches of grass lush between my toes. I made a cloth basket of the skirt tied around my shoulders and climbed the nearest tree.

  If I collected enough, Ma had promised to bake a pie. Basket full, I hopped down. One of the apples dropped and landed in the rippling water. The reflection of the tree vanished with a loud splash and I laughed.

  I squatted to retrieve the apple, bracing my hands on my thighs while I balanced on the balls of my feet, wiggling my toes in the cool, soothing mud. The grass tickled my butt, but I kept still. I focused on the wavering pool, waiting for the reflection to clear, waiting for that familiar face to appear. I could see my brows, a quivering nose, and a few strands of hair. A cold wind blew across the grass. I shivered, but kept watch. The water just kept rippling. I leaned closer, stared harder. The brows vanished. Then my nose disappeared into the wavering haze. The mud was beginning to seep through my toes. A chill traveled up my legs. The shape of my hair became fluid and indistinct. Soon nothing of the girl remained but a cold, icy shimmer in the water.

  “Corbin?” Maven hissed. “You've been sitting there holding your fork in the air for ages. What's wrong?”

  The utensil fell from my hands, clattering on the table. “I was thinking of apples,” I whispered. “Apples in the forest.”

  “Those tart, little apples?” Maven asked, squawking as I pushed us away from the table and handed her the fork. “Like the ones you'd feed to horses?”

  “Yes, apples. I used to feed Krag apples,” I said, cringing at my wavering reflection in the glass at my fingertips. “Apples and oats.” I stared up at the steel decorations adorning the walls. I was surrounded by mirrors. Every metal shield and wide sword became another surface without a face. Wavering mirrors everywhere.

  “You're worried about your horse at a time like this?” Maven asked, leaning close. I could see my hazy reflection wavering in her eyes.

  Yes. The horse. Must feed the horse. “Forgive me, Maven,” I said as I set her on the ground. “Duty calls. Please enjoy the . . . apples.” I did not quite run as the mirrors chased me from the room.

  A side door near the main entrance led directly to the stables. I wondered if there were still sentries posted on the other side of those double doors as I passed them. I was grateful they were on the other. I wasn't in the mood for human company. They would ask questions. Krag would just listen.

  I kicked over a pail of water as I entered and made my way to Krag's stall. The building had emptied for the night. Moonlit dust filtered past the windows as I walked past the stalls of lesser horses. My large warhorse bent his head over the stall railings and nickered when I reached him. I rubbed my face against his.

  “Hey boy, it's Corbin.” Krag's large nostrils flared as he sniffed my face. “But it's not really Corbin, is it? Can you smell anything beneath this disguise? Can you sense the real me?”

  Krag stomped his hoof once and whinnied. Whatever that meant. I sighed and pressed my back against the stall, reaching up to stroke his mane. “It's all gotten so flummoxed, Krag.”

  The warhorse shifted and presented his shoulder to me. I smiled and scratched, splaying my fingers across his hide and searching for his itch. He nickered again, softer.

  “I only came here to save one mage. I just had to grab some gold, shake a few hands, and go home. But now the whole regiment is in danger. Shouldn't I rescue them, too?”

  Do you really want to rescue the entire regiment , Kelsa asked as the image of Sepharius' sneering face floated through my mind, or just Maven?

  I shook my head, absently scratching the horse's chin. “They're on the verge of tearing each other apart, shredding Grandfa's legacy. And Maven's right. What happens to the empire he swore to protect when the army dissolves into chaos? If I can stop that, don't I have a responsibility to do so? What kind of hero places his family above the good of his nation? Or holds the plight of one mage above the threat to hundreds? The path of a true hero is clear. Forgive me, Ma. I must forsake the vow I made you for another.”

  The warhorse stomped his foot and presented his withers. I grinned and scratched there, too. If only my problems had such simple, direct solutions.

  I relaxed tending to my horse. The routine was comfortable and familiar. I was currying and scrubbing this horse from the time I needed a stool to reach beyond his shoulders. It was something Corbin and Kelsa had done together many times, the motions practiced and ingrained in both sets of muscles.

  When I was done, I ran my fingers through Krag's mane. “Thanks, boy, I needed that.” I began to braid the mane into tight dragon tail plaits. This was one motion all my own. It always used to infuriate . . . Granfa . . . when I braided Krag's mane. I glanced at my wrinkled, old hands and giggled. What would the old hero say if he could see me misusing a soldier's fingers for such a foul, inglorious purpose?

  Likely nothing Ma would approve. I suppressed my giggl
ing. Heroes don't giggle. Smiling, I went back to the spigot and filled a pail of water. An old man's face peered back at me beneath the windows then disappeared and then reappeared again as I walked back to Krag's stall.

  I filled the trough in Krag's stall. On a whim, as he began drinking, I tossed the padding and saddle over his back. Why not go for a quick ride? We've both been cooped up too long , I thought, cinching the girth.

  I glanced at my reflection in the trough as Krag raised his head. I chose to wear this face, but a face isn't enough, I thought as I walked back from the stables. Kelsa isn't a hero. The regiment needs a hero. They need Sir Corbin. I took a deep breath. A true hero doesn't panic. A true hero doesn't ask her horse . . . his horse for advice. He takes command.

  I overturned the bucket and patted my thigh, clucking a short command. Krag snorted and lifted his right foreleg. I checked for stones lodged under his steel shoe then moved my perch and checked the rest of his hooves. The pavement would not be forgiving. The army-forged steel pounding against the imperial street would drive even the tiniest pebble deep into the horse's hoof. A small, lodged stone might not be enough to lame the animal, but was more than enough to wound. If nobody fixed it, the small wound would deepen and putrefy.

  I patted Krag's leg, admiring the way the hair draped over his fetlock. A wound could so easily transform something beautiful into an object of maggot-ridden, cloying disgust.

  I shook my head and sighed at the direction of my thoughts. Even as I was preparing to relax, the issue still lodged inside my mind. There were a few injured prides, some light festering, but nothing that couldn't be cured. I grinned as I imagined dousing Karl and Sepharius in matching buckets brimming with the foul-smelling, skin-bleaching disinfectant used to treat injured horses. Would Karl appreciate the bucket as a new weapon? Would Sepharius bemoan the fresh set of stains on his precious shirt?

  Krag nuzzled my head, gently pushing me out of the stall. I smiled and stroked his mane. Sometime in the past of fancy dinners and grumbling old soldiers, a cavalryman and a mage had burdened their opinions upon me. They felt light on my shoulders now, so very light. I shrugged my shoulders and let the burdens float away.