The Knight's Secret

by Jeffrey Bardwell

  Maven finally broke the long silence with an abrupt sigh. “You were different, so enticing . . . but the pile of little clues kept mounting. I suspected after the first day. I knew for certain last night at dinner. I physically confirmed the truth after our evening of passion. I just couldn't keep deluding myself.” She began to weep softly.

  “You knew I wasn't Corbin when we made love,” I accused, clutching the papers in my hand until my knuckles whitened. Who had been fooling whom that night? I felt dirty, betrayed, my feelings ravaged. A tight knot formed inside my chest.

  She nodded, dabbing her eyes with the corner of her dress.

  “Then why . . .” I sighed and released the papers. There was something peaceful in the way they floated to the ground, but the knot merely tightened.

  Maven took a deep, ragged breath. “Do you have any idea how I felt that first day? It was like floating through a dream. I thanked the five gods for delivering the Corbin from my fantasies right into my arms. And it would have taken divine intervention to transform him into . . . someone like you. So I ignored the little voice in my head. I squashed my instincts. I pushed away any scrap of evidence that you weren't real. I didn't want the dream to end.” She hunched over the dresser, laid her head in her hands, and sobbed.

  I reached down and squeezed her shoulder. “I've never been someone's dream before.” The knot eased as a tingle passed through my fingertips. I released my grip.

  She looked up and I smiled. Maven wiped her tears with the back of her hand. “Oh, you're good, handsome, you're too good. Whoever coached you didn't know the old coot half as intimately as I did. You're not quite Sir Corbin, but you do a decent impression of his best qualities. You're like an idealized version of the Hero of Jerkum Pass.”

  At first, her words flowed past like a warm stream. I knew I would never approach the awesome glory of the real Sir Corbin. At best, I was a crude copy. Then, a few cold splashes penetrated my mind. I was too good? Idealized? His best qualities? The cold chill began to seep deeper into my mind. Was this woman deaf and blind? It's an act, a facade. I am nothing like Sir Corbin. I could never be anything like Sir Corbin . . .

  She blushed. “You're also a far better man, a more tender lover, and a greater hero to boot.”

  What disgusting blasphemy was this? I said nothing, wrapping myself in warm, glowing thoughts of my grandfather to ward off this slanderous chill as this witch assaulted my most cherished memories. The tight knot in my chest had vanished, but now my mind twisted and curled and snarled. They're lies. She lies. It can't be true. My grandfather was a stupendous man.

  I clenched my teeth. “You are a liar. Sir Corbin was a true hero. He was a great man. The greatest!”

  Maven startled, then composed herself. “So you say. I think the real Corbin would have tried to save the mages at least. The old man loved this regiment as much as he loved that stupid horse.” She glanced at the pips on the corner of the dresser. “Be wary. Drake will suspect a ruse.”

  I nodded, flexing my jaw. The argument over my grandfather would have to wait. I had to defend his purpose now. I could defend his honor later. “Of course. The real Corbin would never have betrayed the regiment. Because he was such a wonderful, honest man. But accepting those pips was a mistake. Drake told me I was helping the mages. I believed him. I was drunk.” I glared at the pips my old friend had foisted upon me. “Why would he suspect me ?”

  Her eyes twinkled above a guarded smile. “Because in Drake's eyes, you were merely pretending to be drunk. Questioning why you would use such an obvious, shallow ruse to grab those pips will torment the man. The real Corbin Destrus could drink the whole regiment under the table, a legacy of long years spent practicing. Your breath doesn't constantly smell like a putrid ale barrel, thank the five gods. It's one of the many little differences I adore about you.”

  More slander. Had I been too besotted with her to notice it before? I shook my head. This was not the time to argue with Maven. I needed her cooperation and goodwill. She could still expose me, bare my deception to the world. The arrow in my trousers twitched as my mind slid down the familiar path blazed the night before. Such a short trip from the dresser to the bed. The tingling surge prodded me to give the joints on the dresser a second glance. Seemed sturdy enough to support two people.

  Maven leaned back in the chair and stretched her arms. Her clothing pulled taut against her body. My loins tightened. Surely, Maven didn't mean to slander my sacred memories. She was only angry and confused by my cruel deception. I should comfort her. That's what a true hero would do.

  No, no, no. I clenched my fist out of sight of my lover . . . my ex-lover. She doesn't see me as a person. I'm not real to her. I'm just a fantasy lurking behind a familiar face. And she has the most disturbing animus against my grandfather. She is at breast an ally, nothing more. Think with your head, not with your dick. Don't you dare start imaging what you'd like to do to those soft, heaving—

  “Well, now that you have them in your clutches, what are you going to do with them?” Maven asked with a coy smile.

  My hands clenched. “Do with them?” I echoed, voice cracking.

  “Your little drunken prizes.” She gestured to the major's pips. “The insignias of a traitor to the regiment. There is an opportunity and a danger to joining the Black Guards, major.”

  “Lieutenant,” I corrected gently. “Drake is right to suspect a ruse, but there are other traitors in the regiment who accept my membership in their ranks in good faith. I will wait to use those pips until the time is right. Please don't do anything drastic in the meantime.”

  “I make no guarantees. The empress is a vile, hateful creature.”

  “I wouldn't know. I've never met the woman.” I quirked my eyebrow. “Had . . . the real Corbin . . . ever met the woman?”

  She pursed her lips and then shook her head. “Doubtful. Was he an administrator in the imperial army? Cordelia rarely leaves the palace grounds. I daresay he had never laid eyes on our glorious empress nor she on him.”

  I sighed with relief and glanced at my notes. How to introduce myself to the empress had been something of a quandary. I had no stacks of correspondence or memories of Cordelia laughing around our kitchen table to reference. The past was so easy to trip over. If we had never met, and knew each other only from reputation, so much the better.

  “Those crumpled fragments made for interesting reading. I look forward to hearing you speak before an imperial audience tonight. I hope you devote as much care to smoothing the wrinkles from your speech as you do to your cape. . . . Sir Corbin.”

  I unlocked the door and opened it with a little bow. “Thank you. I appreciate your insight and discretion.”

  Maven shrugged. “It costs me nothing to keep your secret. You seem truly eager to defuse the situation . . . and I owe you for indulging an old woman's wild fantasy.” She smiled, kissed my grizzled cheek, and walked away. I stared at the empty space she'd left behind as a torrent of conflicting emotions drove me to the floor.

  Sometime later, the persistent knocking at my door pulled me to my feet. The same courtier from this morning stood in the doorway holding a tray in one hand with a small selection of foodstuffs. There was something else different. I focused on the tray and the lad behind it.

  Not the tray. His tunic. When had he found time to change his tunic? I glanced down at the boy's hosiery and grinned. No change there. Still patchy as a flea-ridden dog.

  The courtier blushed under the scrutiny. “Forgive me, Sir Corbin,” he murmured. “This late in the morning . . .” His cheeks flushed harder when I laughed and waved aside his concerns.

  “No matter.” I glanced at the tray, a three way contest between apples, rolls, and pastries with a steaming mug of tea watching over them all. “If this is the five gods' rebuke for sending you away this morning instead of enjoying the early morning bounty, I shall make do.”

  The courtier bowed. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  I waved him inside, g
esturing to the dresser. The courtier set the tray next to my notes. The youth bowed again, then retreated from the room. I idly rolled one of the apples across the tray as the courtier swung the door shut. The small breeze launched one of my notes into the air. The rustling paper rose like a forlorn hope. I grabbed the note before it hit the ground. Time to get to work.

  The contents of the tray vanished as I spent the next several hours writing and revising the speech, swatting aside the crumbs of my meal while the quill flew across the parchment. I knew just what Granfa needed to finish it now: a woman's deft touch. How many times had Granfa told me honor was the core of the regiment? But I must approach my topic from an oblique, practical angle.

  There was also the political animal caught in this mess, and politics would devour all those pleas for honor and glory. Patriotism was the proper morsel to satiate the political maw. An appeal to the glory of the empire, a glory that included mages: something stirring, yet calculating. That would be the key for persuading everyone to dismiss these baseless fears.

  Maven's words echoed through my mind as I scribbled: Like you, he lacked foresight. He was always rushing to save the day with some dragon flash plan. I wiped a tear from my eye. More lies. Was I not planning this speech with careful tactics and precision just like Granfa used to do?

  Yes . . . Kelsa whispered in my thoughts, mere hours before giving it. Maven did know Granfa for a long time. Perhaps he wasn't always —

  I stabbed the quill in the parchment. I had no time for doubts or recriminations. I had a speech to finish. I banished all thoughts of Maven's slander from my mind and set to work. Hours passed while I bent over the parchment, scribbling and rewriting. Finally satisfied with the speech, I set the quill down. It was time to rescue the mages and save the regiment from itself.

  I donned my ceremonial armor, adjusted the velvet cape around my shoulders, and slipped the Black Guard pips into my pocket. Then, I collected my notes. I spared a glance for my sheathed dagger. After the fiasco this morning, I was almost tempted. I shook my head. They would hardly let anyone get within the same room as Empress Cordelia wearing that, not even the Hero of Jerkum Pass.

  Making use of the tall mirror hanging on the door, I centered the clasp of my cape above my sternum and double checked the polished surface of my ceremonial armor. I grinned and twisted my hips. The velvet cape twirled quite nicely. I stared at the door. Time to complete the last heroic quest of the Hero of Jerkum Pass. I took a deep breath, wondering what I'd say to Drake and the few friends waiting in the hallway. I shrugged. Something would come to me. I opened the door with a flourish and stopped.

  A wall of red and blue uniforms had gathered outside my door. I was expecting a few good friends, maybe a cheer or two. This was . . . I squared my shoulders and began to march down the corridor, the velvet cape flowing in my wake.

  Soldiers of the regiment lined both sides of the hallway, eager to pay homage to one of their own. They pressed shoulder to shoulder between the sconces. The fiery gleam in their eyes told me all I needed to know. An empress had come to honor a hero tonight and in so doing, she honored his entire regiment. There was no logic to their fervor. They knew the machinations of the empire extended far beyond the glory of an old faded hero. Nevertheless, I could feel the passion radiating off every one of them. I blinked back the tears. There's no better regiment than the 110th .

  A middle-aged mage missing her right leg raised the tip of her cane to her forehead. The woman was a fellow early retiree, her hair a shocking thatch of auburn amid the gray and white wisps of her comrades. “Go give those bureaucrats a taste of blood and dragon fire, sir.”

  I returned her salute. “It's time they remember that mages are a part of this army, too. You know, mechanicals are getting better all the time . . .”

  Oh, so you love machines, now? Kelsa murmured.

  She deserves better than a crutch and a small pension. If the artificers invented something to allow amputees to walk again, I could almost forgive them for those horrible clockwork boxes .

  The young woman glanced down at her stump protruding from her hip with a rueful grimace. “Not an option, sir. Something in me body rejects them. And they're crude and clunky and ugly.”

  I smiled. “Not half so crude and clunky and ugly as the Hero of Jerkum Pass!”

  The soldier laughed. “I would not graft you onto me leg if the five gods themselves demanded it, sir.”

  “What's your name, soldier?” I asked.

  “Private Loral, sir. The army retired me before my time. Had to find a whole new group of friends!”

  I patted Loral on the shoulder. “I know something about that,” I said gruffly. Then, with a jaunty wave, I turned and continued walking between the two rows of soldiers. Blue uniforms and red uniforms mixed with a delightful randomness. They all saluted, and I returned their salutes with a proud grin I didn't even try to contain. We're all soldiers of the regiment again tonight.

  The atmosphere even felt festive. The energy was crackling. Gone were the dark faces and sharp blades from this morning, replaced by bright smiles and burnished ceremonial armor. Anticipation had replaced fear. I took a deep breath and patted the speech in my pocket. By the gods' shining eyes, we might actually see this through.

  Oh, the pensive undercurrent still wavered beneath those calm smiles. I could see it in little fidgets and facial tics or when fingers strayed toward the daggers that weren't there. But they were ready to go down swinging, by the five gods. Every back was stiff and every salute crisp. If the regiment was destined to die today, we would perish with our heads held high, dressed in our dragon-slaying best, and grinning at the world even as it rolled over us .

  My cape fluttered in all its soft, velvet glory as I strutted into my role as everyone congregated to celebrate the life and accomplishments of Sir Corbin Destrus, Lieutenant of the Crimson Cavalry. Somewhere in the back of my mind, an exasperated girl was screaming to get on with it. I ignored her and let a lucky few soldiers touch my cape.

  I continued to wave and salute. The soldiers I passed fell into formation behind me, their eyes shining and uniforms glowing. I felt like I was wearing the wrong costume. The flashy ceremonial armor seemed out of place. I longed for my old blood-stained suit of greasy leather and dented steel. This was not the gaudy heroic speech I had originally envisioned the day I began this strange journey, but it was the one everybody needed to hear. My dear old wayward friend Drake especially needed to hear it. I paused at the top of the stairs, waving to the crowd below. They cheered. They whistled. They threw themselves into the celebration with the gleeful abandon of a prisoner savoring his last meal who didn't know whether a pardon or the gallows lay in his future.

  I tried to peer beyond the crowd. I paused and collected myself. Somewhere down there behind the guarded mirth and pomp, the empress was waiting.

  14. CORBIN, YEAR 198

  The procession continued into the dining hall. The courtiers had arranged the chairs to accommodate a large audience with a central lane extending from the back of the room to the front, ending with a platform bearing a small podium and a large throne behind it. The regiment began to seat themselves. As I walked forward toward the podium, I noticed several courtiers gently pushing soldiers out of their seats and leading them to another part of the room.

  I shrugged. Someone too obsessed with rank, most likely.

  The throne behind the podium was covered in plush velvet and ornate carvings. It was much too fine for a humble, old soldier, but it did match my cape.

  I turned away from the fancy chair and arranged my papers on the podium. An indiscernible scent hung over the room like a low cloud, but it wasn't coming from the audience. I scanned the people milling about and fidgeting in their chairs.

  As more soldiers had entered the dining hall, the seating manipulation of the courtiers became clear. They were ushering the regiment into an awkward segregated arrangement, stifling even the appearance of camaraderie. The audience was now sp
lit evenly down the middle: the red cavalry on the left and the blue mages on the right.

  Orders from our beloved empress? I wondered. Is she seeking to emphasize our differences before she strides down that aisle like an imperial wedge and splits us apart? I lowered my fist behind the podium and clenched it. I will not let that happen.

  Maven sat near the front row, adjusting her latest purple dress and refusing to make eye contact. But where is Drake?

  People began to stir in their seats. A glint of brass in the back corner caught my eye and I looked up from my notes. I blinked and turned around the room. I had missed them as I was walking through the crowd, but now that everyone was seated, I could see somebody had over ruled Maven's prohibitions against mage detectors and over ruled hard.

  Four large, brass mage detectors with their odd, singular backwards spiral dials now dominated their respective corners of the room, each mounted on a large, polished black steel plinth. The plinths were almost man-shaped if you squinted and the whole assembly reminded me of a collection of bizarre clocks inlaid within the chests of large, obsidian statues. The massive figures gave the whole room an aura of a museum . . . or a mausoleum. Now that I had noticed them, I could identify the scent lingering in the air: metal polish.

  A sudden commotion distracted me from the plinths as a parade of individuals marched into the dining room and down the isle between the chairs. First, a pair of gentlemen in red hose marched down the aisle blowing trumpets. Then, men and women in chain mail with black surcoats emblazoned with the red imperial crest marched into the room and took up placements along the left and right sides of the aisle. They raised their swords to form a canopy of crossed blades.

  These must be the Black Guards. This was Drake's dazzling new technology? Chain mail and short swords? I scoffed. Any decent unit of cavalry would stomp them into the mud even without assistance from the mages. I glanced at the obsidian figures displayed in the corners and smiled. Better to send the statues against us.