by K.N. Lee
Maven returned to distract me after dinner. She stepped out of her clothes and reached for the damp cape hung by the crackling fireplace.
“No, not the cape,” I cried, reaching for it. I had just spend all afternoon preparing that finicky garment for the big day tomorrow.
“Did you . . . iron your cape? Since when do you care about clothes, you old warhorse?” She chuckled and sighed, wriggling her hips as she pulled me down onto the bed. “I just wanted to feel the soft velvet against my skin.”
After some kissing, Maven knelt on the bed and invited me to mount her as though she were an animal. I shook my head and pushed her on her back. I would not play the role of a rutting beast. Instead, I performed a play devoted just for her until the woman's passion echoed off the walls. It was my sweet revenge against every clumsy male who had ever groped, touched, or slipped inside me. Now I was the man and this woman deserved better. She deserved better than my pitiful attempts last evening. She deserved better than to be the head mage in an army about to tear their magic users apart. She deserved better than to be betrayed by the country she bled to defend. I could not save her, protect her, or even warn her, but at least I could give her one last perfect night.
Maven spent a lot of that night slapping my butt. “It's not a bad disguise,” she sighed after the sex was done and we had both curled up next to each other, “but you're not Sir Corbin, are you?”
My mind was still floating. “Wha . . .?” I asked, half asleep.
“That's a birthmark, darling. And I've seen Corbin's ass more times than I can count.”
“Yes,” I mumbled, my mind still ascending from a dreamy haze, “it is a birthmark. Ugly one, too.”
“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. You and Drake. Except now you can't.”
Her sister's ring? Did that mean Miranda was wearing Maven's old ring? By the five gods, what was G'fa doing with those? And why did he never tell me about . . . Wait . . . “Are we still talking about rings?”
“No.” Maven began to weep softly.
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, my eyes popping open. “The red and blue twins having a bit of fun?”
“Does it matter?” She dabbed her eyes with a corner of the bedsheet. “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. G'fa never chewed. Here it comes. She knows my secret.
“You're a spy, aren't you?” Maven asked.
What!? I . . . I . . . I chewed my bottom lip furiously, no longer caring whether G'fa 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. 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, but my hands flew to my chest as she reached for the ring. “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 and then reached for her negligee. “Thank you for showing an old woman a wonderful, 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 mattress creaked as Maven eased off my bed, dressed herself, and 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.
6
CORBIN, YEAR 198
I could do more. The next morning, I had breakfast delivered to my room as I worked to revise the speech. I knew just what G'fa needed to finish it now: a woman's deft touch on the quill. Finally satisfied, I adjusted my cape, belted a ceremonial sword to my waist that was little more than a glorified cheese knife, and tossed the major's pips in my pocket as I left the room. I would return them the Drake later.
The cape fluttered in all its soft, velvet glory as I strutted into my role: Hero Descending Staircase, waving to everyone assembled below waiting 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. I ignored her and let a lucky few touch my cape.
I clutched the speech in my left hand while my right hand continued to wave. I felt like after so much anticipation, I was wearing the wrong costume. This was not the hero's speech I had originally planned, but it was the one everybody needed to hear. My dear old wayward friend Drake especially needed to hear it.
They had arranged the chairs in the dining room to accommodate a large audience with a central lane extending from the back of the room to a small podium. They had placed a chair next to the podium, but it was covered in plush velvet and ornate carvings. This veritable throne 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. They were split fairly even down the middle: most of the red cavalry sat on the left and a majority of the blue mages sat on the right. Maven sat near the front row, adjusting her latest purple dress and refusing to make eye contact. But where was Drake? People began taking 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 sitting down, I could see somebody had over ruled Maven's prohibitions against mage-detectors and over ruled hard.
Four large, brass edifices 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 affixed to 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 noisy procession 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 isle. They raised their swords to form a canopy of crossed blades.
These must be the new Black Guards. This was Drake's dazzling new technology? Chain mail and short swords? Any decent unit of cavalry would stomp them into the mud even without assistance from the mages.
A woman with cheek bones like two pale cliffs and dagger eyes entered last and walked between the swords. The crown perched upon her head and the purple robes trailing in her wake were as cheap clothes draped on a statue. It was the woman's cold marble face proclaiming to all the world that she ruled our empire.
I genuflected a heartbeat before the crowd dropped to one knee. The statue of Empress Cordelia I cracked a smile and spread her arms stiffly, hampered by the heavy robes.
“Please rise, Sir Corbin,” she chuckled. “For today it is I who have come to pay homage to you.” She offered her hand and I kissed it.
“I am honored, my empress. If you please, I had prepared a few short words to mark this occasion, but they say long, boring speeches are the tradition. Who am I to question tradition?”
“Oh, I have heard much about you from a mutual friend, Sir Corbin. I find false modesty so unbecoming. Do not geld your speech on my account. That seat behind you looks most comfortable.”
“As you wish.”
She turned to the audience, who were all still on their knees, and wiggled her fingers at them. “Oh, do sit down.” She pointed to the woman in the purple dress and raised her arm. “Except Maven: Commander of the Mage Corps. You shall remain standing.” Cordelia draped her robes as she sat, crossed her legs, and turned to me, making a show of ignoring the old woman standing alone in the audience. “As you say, upholding tradition is very important, Sir Corbin. Do you know why the imperial royalty wears purple robes?” She snapped her fingers and gestured to the Black Guards. Two of them moved on either side of Maven, keeping their swords bared while the rest sheathed their blades and surrounded the room, standing at parade rest along the walls between the large black plinths.
I glanced at Maven, who stood shivering, eyes flitting from one sword to the next, as I turned towards Cordelia. “Forgive me. I am ignorant, my empress.”
“There is a rare gastropod: a small snail that dwells high in the dragon country on the eastern mountains,” the empress said. “Collecting these snails is perilous and costly and it takes 1,500 crushed, pulverized shells to produce a single ounce of purple dye.” She squeezed her fist and then ran one finger down the length of her dark hem line.
“How fascinating,” I murmured. And what new garment will you stain with the blood of the mages when you crush them like tiny snails? I shook my head to clear such dark thoughts as I glanced at my papers on the podium. Maybe once she heard my pleas, woman to woman . . . hero to empress, Cordelia would go back to crushing snails instead of people.
“Historically, such a magnificent color was used to represent wealth and power and reserved solely for members of the imperial line.” She glared at Maven. “One of the many traditions that faltered under my father's regime. Well, I shall brook no rebellion in my midst. Even a symbolic one. Black Guards, strip the Witch Queen of her false regalia.”
One of the Black Guards snickered. He raised his sword. Maven braced her hands above her head and screamed. The four mage-detectors filled the room with harsh shrieks as their dials began spinning backwards wildly. Nothing else happened. Maven dropped her arms and hung her head. The noise abated. The dials stopped.
“So sorry, my dear,” the empress crowed. “Your dirty magic tricks won't save you today.”
Everyone watched, mouths agape, as one might watch the tip of an avalanche or a runaway cart careening towards a wall. Maven's labored breathing rose above the silence as the guards began cutting her dress. They moved around her like a barber's hands, the snicks and slices of their swords shearing the woman's dignity away. Maven stood quiet and quivering as tattered fabric drifted to the ground all around her. Nobody on either side of the isle moved to help.
“Empress,” I cried, dropping to my knees, hands clasped. “I beg of you. This is my celebration. Allow me the honor of disciplining this offensive creature for you before I deliver my speech.”
“What a marvelous idea.” Cordelia waved her hand at the two Black Guards surrounding Maven. The one with his sword raised grunted before sheathing his blade. They both bowed to the empress and marched to join their companions. “You may proceed, Sir Corbin.”
I bowed to the empress. Then I sauntered down the isle, aiming a gentle kick at one of the Black Guards who had not retreated in due haste. I unfastened my cloak and snapped it in the air. Then I draped it over Maven's quivering form. I stepped away, turned, and bowed again to the empress.
Cordelia sat watching the tableau, turning from me to Maven in short, little fits. She gripped the arm rests of her chair until her knuckles whitened. Finally, she exploded, “You are much too gentle with these mages, Sir Corbin. Too gentle! Why do you not manhandle the witch or strike her as she deserves?”
“I regret that I am blinkered by my honor. Not the sleek, practical honor of those people in night-colored armor,” I sneered at the Black Guards, “but a more old-fashioned code. I see neither an evil, horrible mage, which this wretch of a woman undoubtedly is, nor a vile traitor who deserves nothing less than the deepest, dankest dungeon, my empress. Which she certainly does. My poor, knightly eyes merely see a woman in a state of dishabille who offends the world and my empress with her crass nudity.”
“She is no woman,” the empress scoffed with a wave of her hand. “She is a mage. Whatever embarrassment she suffers from her . . . 'dishabille' . . . is of no concern to me. That quivering thing is beneath contempt. You would extend chivalry towards one such as that?”
“Chivalry? For a mage?” I pretended to guffaw even as my heart quailed. How could any speech redeem such a monster? Maven is still a person no matter what else she is, Empress Cordelia. “I merely wish to cover her like a ratty old chair and set her out of sight.” I pushed Maven down into her seat. “Not a word,” I whispered in her ear. “Not one word as you value your life.”
“Oh, I see.” The empress clapped. “You weren't abetting my political rival, you were merely covering a piece of human furniture. How glib. I look forward to hearing this speech of yours.” She crooked her finger. “Why don't you trot back to your little podium and deliver it?”
“At once, empress,” I said and assumed my place beside her throne. I shuffled my notes and glanced behind me.
“Yes, yes,” she said irritably. “I already said you could begin.”
“Friends, as my eyes take joy for what souls remain from the good old 110 Imperial Army Regiment, my heart weeps for those not with us today. But I am sure they are sitting with us in spirit.” I raised my arms and smiled. “I come to you not as a hero, not as a soldier, but as a man. A simple man. A truly humble man.”
A few members of the audience tittered. One brayed like a donkey.
“Most amusing,” the empress chuckled. “A humble hero. A fine jest, Sir Corbin.”
The titters from the audience swelling into an awkward, stilted laughter.
I shook my head, wondering whether most of them could see the rueful grin even as I quirked my lips and revised my speech, catering to the empress. “Yes well, maybe not so humble. I look at the brave men and women seated before me today . . . and I see more shades of red and blue than I ever knew existed. I ask you to pause for a moment and consider what dyes stained that fabric.” I turned and bowed to Cordelia. “Nothing so grand as the purple mountain snails, I'm afraid.”
She nodded and smiled.
“Yet every one of us marched into our first battle with a pure, snowy white uniform. And every one of us came back stained.” I shuffled my notes. “These stains accumulate over the years until nothing pure is left. Is it the blood and entrails streaming from our fallen enemies that stains us?” I shook my head. “No, such things roll off us like
water over wax. What stains us then?”
I glanced around the room, looking for Drake. I let the silence linger. A few audience members began to fidget. The empress coughed.
“It is the blood of our friends. Those whom we failed protect or those who threw themselves into the fray to protect us. The men and women who marched arm in arm to battle and did not march home. Their sacrifice is what dyes your uniforms, ladies and gentlemen, more than any plant sap or crushed bugs or even putrid, slimy snail juice.”
I could hear Cordelia grind her teeth behind me. Piss on her snails. After the debacle with Maven, I didn't think words dipped in honey could sweeten that bitter heart. But maybe I could sway a few cavalrymen to side with their magic-wielding brothers and sisters. I pressed onwards.
“Remember those who have died. Was the person who sacrificed their life for yours wielding magic or a sword? Does it matter? Does that knowledge somehow change their sacrifice? I ask you to look deeper than the color of your uniforms and embrace your shared history. In times such as these, we must all band together and remember that whatever else we may be, we are soldiers of the empire first.” I pumped my fist in the air. “Long live the army! Long live the regiment!”
Not one word. Not one whisper of a cheer as every eye swiveled to stare behind me and to the left towards the empress. I felt her eyes bore into the back of my skull. I glared at the audience and shook my head. Piss on them, too. G'fa would have approved.
The room reeked of sweat. Or maybe that was just me. I glanced into the audience again, scanning all those anxious faces. Where was Drake? He should have heard this. I could hear the throne scraping the floor behind me and forced myself not to turn and face the wrath gathering behind me. I rushed to finish my speech. The axe was falling.