The Knight's Secret

by Jeffrey Bardwell

  We spent several hours laughing and exploring our bodies while the fire slowly died to glowing coals and twinkling embers. Maven spent much of that time examining and slapping my butt. After many hours, we had exhausted ourselves and both curled up next to each other. I was on the verge of falling asleep, but Maven was wide awake.

  “That grinning face. This rug on your chest. They're just like I remember them,” she murmured, running her fingers through my chest hair. “I wanted to believe in you, truly I did. And this has been wonderful, but he would never . . . There are some things you just can't disguise.”

  “Hmmm, is that so?” I asked, closing my eyes.

  I felt a hand grip my shoulder and shake it. “Wake up, pretender! You're not Sir Corbin, are you?”

  My mind was still floating. “Wha . . .?” I asked, half asleep, smacking her hand away.

  She reached down and poked my butt, none too gently. “That's a birthmark, darling. I've seen Corbin's ass more times than I can count. And there are other differences.”

  “Yes,” I mumbled, my mind still ascending from a dreamy haze, “it is a birthmark. Ugly one, too.”

  She stared at the ring nestled in my chest hair, reaching out to touch it, and then pulling her hand away. “I suspected something the first day when you were hiding your ring. But then you wore it to bed. You made love to me wearing my sister's ring, Corbin. I thought you were just teasing me with it. Everyone always said they looked the same, that each identical ring shined just as pretty as the other, but you could always tell the difference between the two. Except now you can't.”

  Her sister's ring? I thought. Did that mean Miranda was wearing Maven's old ring? By the five gods, what was Granfa doing with those? And why did he never tell me about . . . Wait . . . “Are we still talking about rings?”

  “No.” Maven began to weep. I moved to comfort her and she pushed me away.

  Was that picture with the young dragon warriors a trap? “So did you two really swap uniforms for the portrait that day?” I asked quietly. “The red and blue twins having a bit of fun?”

  “Does it matter?” She dabbed her eyes with a corner of the bed sheet. “Either you couldn't recognize the truth in front of your own eyes or you failed to catch me when I lied about it. The only thing I know for certain is that you're not my Corbin.”

  “No, I'm . . .”

  She held up her hand. “Please don't tell me. There are too many plots swirling around my head at the moment. I'm safer not delving into this one. Don't burden me with another useless secret.” Maven smiled through her tears. “Besides, I prefer to remember you as Sir Corbin. I'd like to think that old goat would have wanted to make love to me the way you did if he'd ever known how.” She sighed and clenched my hand. “Corbin is dead, isn't he?”

  I nodded, biting my bottom lip, careful not to chew. Granfa had never chewed. Here it comes. She knows my secret.

  “You're a spy, aren't you?” Maven asked, folding her legs and laying her hands in her lap.

  What!? I . . . I . . . I chewed my bottom lip furiously, no longer caring whether Granfa ever chewed on his or not. She thinks I'm a what?

  “You're working with Drake. I saw you two whispering at the end of the bar this morning. I suppose that doesn't matter any more than your name. Too many factions at court and everyone knows the empress blames the mages for her father's death. No matter your handler, you ultimately serve Cordelia I. As do we all. It was only a matter of time before that woman set a spy on me. And oh, such a spy. In the guise of Sir Corbin, no less.”

  She pushed me away, jostling the ring on my chest. I grabbed it and pressed it firmly against my sternum. I don't know how much separation from my body it took to dissolve the enchantment and I didn't want to find out now.

  The ring was bouncing all over the place earlier , Kelsa whispered with a throaty chuckle. Didn't affect the spell then. Are you professing your love to Maven?

  I glanced down. With my hand shielding the ring, it looked like I was covering my heart. “Only my face is a lie. My emotions aren't fake. I swear I'm not a spy.”

  Only the face is a lie? Kelsa drawled. What about the speech, those quaint folksy mannerisms, that hairy chest, the musky smell, and your wilted, little —

  Maven snorted and her eyes hardened. “That's an amazing replica of my sister's ring. Where did you get it, 'Sir Corbin'? It looks almost real. It's the most genuine thing about your entire costume. Corbin was never quite the gentleman he pretended to be.”

  I wasn't sure what to make of that odd declaration. “If you don't want to know my true name, then I can't tell you . . . precisely how I got this ring. But I came by it honestly.”

  “I could almost believe that.” She patted my hand covering the ring, looked around the room, and then frowned. “Would you fetch my robe, please? ”

  “Of course.” I nodded, retrieved the garment, and held it open for her. Maven sighed as she donned the robe and belted her sash. Then she turned to face me.

  “Thank you for showing an old woman a magical evening, whoever you are. And I assure you, mages do not use the term 'magical evening' lightly, my dear. I haven't felt this spry and young in ages.”

  The floorboards creaked as Maven shuffled out of the room. She thought I was betraying my grandfather's legacy. My heart yearned to tell her the truth and save this woman from all those dark, swirling plots. “It was the least I could do,” I whispered, reaching toward the door as it closed behind her. The heavy iron latch descended through the silence like an axe.

  11. CORBIN, YEAR 198

  The bar was draped in shadows and moonlight, quiet as a shattered heart save for one, lonely person nursing a bottle of dragon rum: Drake. At least, I assumed it was dragon rum. My old friend's fiery breath had a distinctive acrid stench.

  The man looked like a moth-eaten rag doll someone had broken across the counter and left there to rot. His clothes were frayed and rumpled. His movements had a flopping, jerking quality. He sipped from a small, plain glass as I approached, looking over the rim and grunting at my lopsided trousers, disheveled shirt, and bare feet. He set the glass down and pushed it aside. A loud scraping noise, like a knife against bone, echoed through the silent chamber.

  “Drinking alone tonight?” I asked, hesitating a moment before sidling next to my friend. He waited until everyone else had left . Perhaps he doesn't want company. Then I saw the pain lurking behind his eyes. Drake looked worse up close: his cheeks were red and puffy. His knuckles were bloody.

  “Few friends left in the regiment theesh days,” Drake said, fishing behind the counter for a second glass. He smiled and went to pass it to me.

  I shook my head and reached into my pocket. I slammed my giant mug on the counter. The impact reverberated up my arm, somehow making my teeth ache. The fake teeth could stay in my head tonight. Fake teeth for a fake hero. She knows. The best of the mages knows I'm a fraud. How can I save them now?

  The speech , Kelsa whispered. You still have Corbin's speech. Sway their hearts.

  The speech is a half finished mess and I am a poor judge of hearts. Besides, the leader of the Mage Corps is going to expose my facade tomorrow. Any speech I make will fall on deaf ears. I glanced at the bottle Drake held in his hands. “Don't spare the rum. Rumors and strife are tearing the regiment to pieces while they all dither and wait for the hammer to fall.” I slid my large mug across the counter, savoring the sound of scraping bone. A harsh sound. A painful sound. My ears did not deserve soft, gentle sounds.

  My friend nodded, his rosy cheeks jiggling as he raised his tiny glass. “A hammer named Cordelia I, long may she reign!”

  “Events have been building too fast. It's like watching water rise behind a dam. I need to save the mages before the dam breaches.” I reached into the gloom, stretching my fingers wide. “The answer's out there somewhere. I just need to find it. A true hero could find it.”

  Drake shook the bottle, grinning ruefully as he wavered on his stool. “Won't find you
r answers in here. I've been looking for hours.” He hiccuped and cradled his free arm around my shoulders. I allowed it: this wasn't a slap on the back and I was afraid he might fall without my support. But could I offer him my support, too?

  Sometime between the drinking and the rambling, he was going to ask me to join the Black Guards again if he didn't pass out first. Would this be where betraying the regiment led me? Slumped over a bar in the darkest hour of the night with no friends or allies? Well, one friend, I amended.

  “What answers have you been seeking?” I asked as Drake upended the bottle, spilling most of the rum into my mug.

  “Same ash you,” he slurred. “It's a hard thing we're doing tomorrow. But ish for the good of the country, yeah? Any hero can fight against . . . feh, enemies. But taking a stand against your friends? Thash a true heroics, buddy. Hey, yer the Hero of Jerkum Pass. You can persuade everybody to calm down, yeah?”

  I haven't agreed to join your treachery yet, you sot! I grabbed the brimming mug with both hands and took a long swig. “I'm a token hero. They all stare politely and then ignore whatever I say. They respect me, but they won't listen.” I thought of Maven. “Or they listen, but they don't trust me.”

  “Join me, then. The empress has given me a heavy task. I need you by my side. Just like old times.” He reached across the space between us, gingerly, and patted my arm.

  I thought of the two soldiers on guard duty tonight. Would the whole army split as they had when Drake went recruiting for traitors: one bemoaning the end of our traditions and one actively seeking to destroy them?

  Drake smiled. “Everyone will listen when you have the might of the empresh behind you. We stand on the brink of a monumentous day. The time of the mages is over.”

  “The time of mages is over,” I echoed, a bitter taste in my mouth. “And I suppose your Black Guards are a new, modern force. New weapons, new armor, the latest machines, ” I hissed the word like a curse. Wretches like Tenyson would slot right into this horrible new force. I raised my bottle and silently wished Drake luck coaxing the woman into a suit of black armor. The cavalry would be well rid of someone like that.

  He blinked at me and nodded. “We are the gloved hand of the empress. She provides us with the latest, fanciest . . .um, gloves.”

  I sneered. “The fist of the empress, you mean. And you want my help to crush the mages between your fingers.”

  “Why do you cling to them, Corbin? We are not the aggressors here. Who plunged the empire into war during its founding? Who terrorizes the common folk with spells and incantations? Who keeps the army mired in the past? Who murdered the old emperor?”

  “Half rumors and hearsay,” I said.

  “And the other half!? The mages are to blame and you know it. We tried living side by side with them since the dawn of the empire. What did we get in return?”

  Not even pretending any of them are worth saving anymore, are you? I sipped the dregs of my rum and counted the successes of the empire's mage integration on my fingers. “A stronger, larger empire. An armistice with the northern barbarians that's lasted two-hundred years. An end to dragons destroying our towns and villages. They gave us a lasting peace.”

  “Which they broke when they killed the emperor,” he cried. “This revolt threatens the safety of honest imperials everywhere. And how many rebels hide among our own ranks, Corbin? The army is antiquated, idealish-tick. Our beloved regiment is sheltering a cancer in its heart.” He reached past my chest with his other arm and clenched his fist. “We shall pull the cancer out together.”

  I glanced over the rim of my mug, hiding a sardonic smile. Destroy the regiment to save the regiment? A brilliant plan. “And after we catch them, we subject our honorable magic veterans to fair trials of course. Separate the innocent from the guilty.” I clasped my hands together, then broke them apart. The innocent hand reached for another bottle. The guilty hand reached for the major's pips, which had suddenly appeared on the counter.

  “Of course,” Drake murmured, but his eyes said otherwise.

  “I may need some more persuading.” I shrugged off the arm Drake had placed around my shoulders and hunched over my booze. I cracked a fresh bottle of rum and emptied it into my mug. We sat in companionable silence, drinking. I finished the second one quicker than the first. I hardly remembered the third. Soon we had bled a whole catastrophe of dragons between the two of us and my head was beginning to ache. My mouth tasted of dry vomit.

  Drake pushed his glass away and stared at me for a long time. “If you won't join the Black Guards for my sake, or to preserve the integrity of the regiment, then do it for,” he choked on the name. “Maven.”

  “The witch?” I asked, snorting into my mug.

  He quirked one eyebrow. “Yes, the witch. Had a falling out with her, did you? You think anyone else in the cavalry is going to stand against the empress for a mage? If you still have the glimmer of a stirring in your heart for that witch, join the Black Guards. Empress Cordelia will be more inclined to listen to a man wearing black than red.”

  “Buddies with the empress, are you?” I spread my arms. “Then why isn't yer pal Cordelia here drinking with you?” I pointed to the empty bottles. “I helped you slaughter those dragons. Me! And you want me to betray my regiment? Why would I do that?”

  “You're the only pal the mages have left in the army. Won't you join the guards . . . for their sake? You do want to save the mages, don't you?”

  I looked at Drake, trying to gauge if he was being serious, but his face kept melting. And had the man's voice changed? His words sounded like an echo. “I'm the magish pal, am I? Feh! They're not friendly. I thought . . . they were, but they're not.”

  “A true hero is a man who makes the hard choices,” Drake said, slapping me on the back.

  This is true , I thought. I made a hard choice tonight, didn't I? I'm going save the mages. How is Drake going to help with that?

  Drake was speaking again. I tried to focus on his words. “Those mages need you in the ranks of the Black Guards to counter balance the more overenthusiastic elements of the new corps. Go where you can do the most good, ease them through this transition.”

  What he said made so much sense. I glanced at the major's pips he had pushed next to my fingertips. They were so shiny.

  “Take them. Feel the weight of them in your hands,” Drake crooned. “You left the army before your prime, Corbin. A retired famous lieutenant is a curiosity, but an active major in the guards has true influence. The world is changing, old friend. Do you want to sit on the sidelines, basking in old glories, stuck in the vanguard giving tired old speeches?” He jabbed the pips with one finger. “Or do you want to lead the charge once more? The Hero of Jerkum Pass, reborn! A new day dawns!”

  The new day jabbed my eyes with bright golden daggers while red spots spread beneath my eyelids. I sat up in my bed, blinking as a dull pain puddled in my head. I bit back a groan—I didn't want to wake Maven—and eased myself back down into the soft pillow, but it brought no comfort. I turned to ask Maven why my head was stuffed with cotton.

  My eyes tried to fill the empty space in the bed next to me. I could just make out the curves she'd left in the mattress if I squinted hard enough. Why wasn't Maven lying there next to me? Had she left . . . earlier . . . I turned my head as something shiny glistened from the dresser: the major's pips.

  The events at the bar last night crashed down around me, ending with the pips. Had I accepted a position in the Black Guards? Had I betrayed the regiment in a haze of drunken fervor or merely taken the pips as a gesture of good faith to consider Drake's offer? The pips winked at me in the bright sunlight and I wanted to cover them up with something.

  Maven was right. I could never truly become Sir Corbin, but maybe I could grow into the role.

  I brushed my fingers over the cold, sharp insignia on the major's pips. Would Drake sense something amiss if I didn't wear them? Would the mages in the regiment erupt if I did? Any decision I made would onl
y further inflame the situation. I sighed as the pain in my head grew louder, shifting from a dull throb to a loud clatter.

  A soft knock sounded on the door, and my fingers twitched. I scrambled to catch the pips as they slid off the dresser.

  “What?” I growled at the door.

  “I've a tray of vittles for you,” a quiet voice called. “Sir Drake thought you might be feeling a bit squashed beneath the dragon this morning. Said you would appreciate a private breakfast away from all the noise downstairs.”

  My fist closed around the pips and squeezed. The pain in my hand helped distract from the agony in my head. A private breakfast. Was this a thoughtful gesture or clever distraction? Drake doesn't want me congregating with the rest of the regiment . . . why, precisely? I felt a small pang as I ascribed the most venal motives I could imagine to the man who had once been Grandfa's dearest friend.

  Maybe he had no other reasons than kindness and a shared headache? Kelsa murmured. You liked him well enough last night. Everything doesn't have to be a dire plot.

  “It does when Drake's involved. He's a Black Guard, now,” I whispered.

  “Sir Corbin?” the voice called with quiet urgency. “Are you unwell?”

  I threw myself into a robe and rushed to open the door. A young courtier with a disheveled tunic and runs in his red hosiery stood balancing a tray overflowing with foodstuffs and beverages. The tray clattered as his arms shook under the weight of it .

  Poor lad. I wonder if Drake had planned to join me in this repast? I plucked a tall glass of water from the tray, and pinched a single pastry in the hand that held the pips. I shooed the lad back with my fingertips. I raised the glass in a mock salute. “Thank you for gathering this magnificent spread, but I will be joining the rest of the regiment to break my fast.”

  “Yes, sir. Of course, sir.” The courtier's head bobbed, and he turned away. I could hear the clattering tray grow fainter as the door closed behind me and smiled. Maybe that young man would find a private alcove to lighten his tray on the way to the kitchens.