Damsel Knight

by Sam Austin

  Good enough.

  She turns to see Neven beside her, his cuffed hands somehow in front of his body. Not wanting to risk any words this close to the kitchen door she taps his wrists with her good hand. Silently he guides her through the motions to move her own cuffs from behind her back. Somewhere along the way he must have figured out it was her dead arm that made the man collapse, because he wraps his own hand in his shirt before helping her with its clumsy movements.

  Her dead arm may be stronger, but moving it around is like moving some unwieldy contraption separate from the rest of her.

  By the time they both have their arms in front of them the coast is still clear. She edges around the wall, keeping close to the white stone. The building continues to the right for a bit, before making another sharp right. She follows that for a few steps, hoping she’s remembered it right. The distant hint of light from the barracks helps. A window, right where she’d thought it would be. She’d spent quite a few afternoons peering out that window, trying to catch a glimpse of the barracks without making her curiosity too obvious. The soldier’s barracks is not something for little girls to be interested in after all.

  With her arms tied behind her, it would’ve been impossible to climb in. As it is, it’s difficult. Neven drops to a crouch, hands locked to give her a boost. She narrowly avoids bristling at him, reminding herself that it’s not to do with her gender. She might be the stronger one, but her arm is injured, and he’s taller. It makes sense for her to be the one to get a boost.

  She grabs the sill, prying the small opening wider, and compressing her dead arm into an awkward angle as she wriggles through. The stone edge bites into her stomach, then she's falling.

  A sack of carrots softens her landing, the vegetables skittering through the darkness. Her hands fumbles over the uneven surface before she gives up and rolls her whole body, not stopping until she feels stone beneath her.

  Neven drops through a moment later where she'd just been.

  The room is pitch black apart from the scant moonlight coming through the window, showing a wall of shelves with food on it. Craning her head around them, she sees a line of light. The kitchens. Voices and the clattering of pans carry through the heavy wooden door.

  Not that way.

  Pushing herself to her feet, she follows the line of shelves until she feels pressure against her outstretched cold palm. A wall? Or a door?

  Her good hand skirts over it. A wall.

  Moving sideways like a crab she sticks close to the wall, stepping over mysterious bundles until she finds it. Wood beneath her fingers. Her hand finds the handle, fiddling with it until the door creaks open. She hasn’t been down here herself, but she’s seen people haul bottles of drink from the dark depths. It’s a cellar. She knows that much. What she hopes is that it leads to the maze of dark dank cellars that run under the entire palace.

  The gates will be guarded. But if they manage to emerge at a stretch of wall without men nearby then they can climb it. The wall is tall, but there are stone steps set at regular intervals, and if they’re all guarded, then perhaps Neven can come up with one of his ideas and get them over. Once they’re outside Gelert will help them. All they need to do is get past the wall.

  A sudden flash of light almost makes her fall down the stone steps. Regaining her balance, she glances around to see Neven looking sheepish above a small but bright flame, on a scrap of wood with a strip of hemp wrapped around it. No need for flat ground this time. He’s getting better.

  Boone tilts her head at the open cellar door, and they descend together.

  It's a tense few minutes of fumbling in the small light before they find another door hidden behind a rack of dusty wine bottles. They peer into the cobwebbed darkness dubiously.

  Jack told a story once about these cellars. Long ago a mad king became paranoid someone would try to take his immortality from him. He hid from his imagined enemies down here in the winding dark of the cellars, and was never seen again. He's said to be wandering down there to this day, ready to pounce on anyone who intrudes his new kingdom.

  Boone thinks he made it up. King Robin has lived over a thousand years, and his father King Goron lived at least as long before him. It's impossible to think there were still kings and palaces before all that. Yet, as the dank smell from the passage washes over her, part of her believes.

  She's just about to voice the idea of taking their chances walking through the kitchens - they could find something to cover their chains - when a creaking sound comes from the top of the stone steps.

  Someone coming to fetch wine for the King's supper.

  Boone freezes, not wanting to get caught, but not wanting to step into that cobweb strewn place either.

  Neven makes the decision for her, shoving her forward. Cobwebs break off in her hair and clothes. They form a sticky mass between her fingers as she tugs them from her face. Small hard lumps sit inside the cobwebs, making them feel gritty. Dead things, she thinks. Her stomach turns.

  Darkness closes around them. Neven hisses.

  "Sorry," he whispers. "Give me a minute and I'll get the fire back."

  His voice cuts through her panic. She takes a slow breath, trying not to notice how a cobweb brushes her cheek as she does so. She's fine, she tells herself. She's faced worse things than dank dark places filled with cobwebs.

  She's fine. She's fine. And by the time Neven's face appears above the lit torch, it's mostly true.

  Neven peers at her, the cobwebs looking even more ridiculous on his brown hair and tanned skin than it must do on her blond hair and pale skin. "Are you feeling alright?"

  She nods. "Of course."

  "Because if you're not. That's fine. People get scared sometimes."

  Boone turns away, walking deliberately into the darkness, her chains hands in front of her to block the cobwebs. "I don't get scared."

  "Well maybe you should," Neven says, keeping close enough behind her so she can see something of where she's going. "If you got scared, you might not be so keen to run off to fight dragons, or take on armies of barbarians. We almost got burned alive, Boone! Doesn't that mean something?"

  "Nothing that can be helped by being scared."

  "My dad died Boone. Our whole village was destroyed. The people meant to be on our side are hunting us down. Ness could be dying. The only thing that might save us is a dragon that will kill us as soon as spell on it breaks. And I can't even react like a human being because of your ridiculous views about how boys are supposed to act."

  Boone doesn't look around. The anger and sadness fighting in his voice is enough reason to keep her eyes on the pitch corridor before her. A lump rises in her throat. "We can trust Gelert. I know we can."

  "No. You're just not afraid of what might happen if we can't." A pause. "Girls aren't weak. I think I've known that since I met you. And boys. They're not always strong. I know that's not what people say, but they don't always tell the truth. People. They're just people Boone. Flawed. Complex.

  "Everyone has their own universe inside their heads. Every star, planet, piece of dust different from person to person. And in all those infinite combinations of thoughts, feelings, memories, you still expect a few physical characteristics to let you shove that universe of a mind into a tiny category, and say you know how they're going to act. It's like saying every blue eyed person likes the colour purple and sings really good, and every brown eyed person knows the correct estimation of pi. It's stupid. Don't you see that?"

  Boone blinks, fighting the urge to turn around and face him. She doesn't see. Alice is weak, and she's a princess. Mrs Moore, while strong around other women, turns instantly deferral in a man's presence, Her own mother barely dared look at her father, even though he was the gentlest man in the whole circle. Claudia is the only one she can't imagine lowering a head in a man's presence, but being a witch she's not sure that counts. Witches are evil creatures.

  She's saved from answering when the corridor ends in another door. This one is d
ark and bloated, the thick wood covered in mould. When she tries the handle, it falls off in her hand, but the door stays wedged shut.

  "It opens outward," Neven says, his voice tight. "Try to put your weight here."

  He gestured at a spot next to where the handle had been.

  Digging her feet into the grimy floor, she heaves her good shoulder into the wood. She's tempted to use her cold shoulder so she won't feel the pain, but knows she also won't feel it dislocate either. The wood shudders. Another hard shove and it gives way with a crack.

  The dark beyond is a little less damp, but no less full of cobwebs. She walks through it with pride burning through her with every throb of her shoulder. She, a girl had done that while a boy stood by and watched. It's a feeling that never seems to grow old, no matter how long she lives as a boy.

  That feeling of pride tells her one thing over and over. She's strong. She's not like the other girls.

  Something in her mind pauses at that, thinking of the barbarian woman. Of the other women fighting in the barbarian army. Is it possible that Neven's right? That it's not women‘s weakness that makes them subservient to men, but the lie that the weakness exists in the first place?

  Footstep by footstep, she travels down the now wider corridor, trying not to shudder as she clears cobwebs from her way, and swipes spiders from her skin. The thought is too big, too complicated. She pushes it away.

  ***

  "Maybe we should stop," Neven says after they've been walking for hours. "Rest." His feet drag along the stone, somehow with both his shoes still attached. The last scraps of her own had fallen off sometime during their escape.

  "We're getting close," Boone says stubbornly, ignoring the fact she'd said the same thing an hour ago. It had seemed it too. The corridor became wider, the stones cleaner, and torches hung from the walls. Now there is still the occasional torch, lit with a slow burning orange flame, but the corridor has shrunk again, and the stones are dark with dirt.

  There's something off about it. Something she can't put her finger on.

  "I'm trying the best I can, but the corridors wind. I think we're heading in the right direction, but it might be days before we find a way out." Neven wraps his thin arms around himself.

  "There are torches." Boone places one foot after the other, tired and aching, but wishing to get to the end. "People use this corridor. If they come while we rest we'll have nowhere to hide. We should keep going." The idea of days down here in the dark causes her to shudder. What would they do for food? Water? They'd passed through an entire pantry of foods, a giant well stocked wine cellar, and neither one of them had thought to take any supplies.

  Stupid. They're paying for it now.

  "These torches could've been here for years." The light he's carrying fades, something Boone has identified as meaning a lapse in Neven's concentration. "If we walk into a main corridor again then we'll never get any rest. This could be our best chance to sleep for hours. Do you really want another five hours of walking with no sleep?"

  She doesn't, but she doesn't want to get caught asleep either. How bad would that look? Burned alive because they needed a nap. "A little longer. Let's see what's up ahead."

  Neven sighs, but she hears the scrape of shoes against stone as he continues to trudge after her. The sound seems monstrously loud in this place of no noise. Not even the torches on the wall make any sound, burning so low it seems they might fade to smoke and darkness at any moment.

  The torches get further apart. The corridor becomes smaller, and grubbier. But there's that feeling of discomfort again. Something doesn't add up. Something doesn't fit.

  "Why are there no cobwebs?" Neven says, frowning at his feet. The torch in his hand dwindles to red hot embers.

  He's right. The walls are dark and grubby, but there are no cobwebs. There's no sign that any kind of life has claimed this part of the cellars. And while the walls are dark with dirt, there's a clear path through the middle of the floor cleaner than the stone around it. Where human feet have shuffled down this path.

  If this path is as recently used as those marks suggest, why does it look so ill-kept and neglected? As if someone made the effort for it to look that way.

  Her thoughts are cut off by Neven's grip on her arm. The metal of his chains are cool against her skin.

  There's a gap between the torches larger than before. If it weren't for something unexpected, the tunnel would plunge into cold darkness, unbroken apart from the far away hint of light from the next torch.

  But it's not dark. Light streams bright out of an opening in the stone wall, brighter than the torches they've passed. An offshoot, far out here in the middle of nowhere. If not for the light, they would've walked past it without noticing.

  Boone swallows nervously. Her hands tremble. Lying inside the doorway is a small figure. A body. A child's body.

  She glances at Neven, barely able to see his features with the torch down to embers. Then she walks forward, needing to get a closer look. Neven follows, keeping to the shadows of the wall.

  It's a boy around ten. Olive skinned and plain faced. A red line gapes from one side of his throat to the other. There is no blood.

  A spark of recognition leaves her limbs that can feel tingling in shock. The page boy who took Sir Julius's horse. The same one who ran into the throne room to tell them of the barbarian attack. How can he be dead?

  Her spinning mind spits out another, better question. Who murdered him?

  Chapter 25

  As one, she and Neven back away from the light coming from the doorway. This is not a good place to be.

  Her back hits something soft and warm. Spinning around, she finds herself facing a man's large stomach. She looks up.

  It's the man she knocked aside to free Neven. More than that, it's the man she saw in Mr Moore's house that day long ago when she was someone else. The man who would've been her husband had the soldiers not come. By his side stands the King, who looks down at them with curiosity in his warm green eyes.

  Neven drops his torch to the ground where the remaining embers splutter to nothing. She keeps her gaze on the men, not looking at the torch or Neven. Her heart jumps in her chest. They don't know him, she tells herself. So they won't notice the slight hesitancy before the torch fell from his hand. They won't notice he'd dropped it on purpose. It would not do for them to look at it too closely and wonder how such a poor torch was able to burn.

  It takes all her willpower not to run. They wouldn't get far. Two boys running from a King filled with magic. He could burn them right here if he wanted. If the pig farmer recognises her, the King would probably do just that on hearing who she used to be.

  The King's gaze drifts past them to the body in the doorway. He grimaces. "Poor boy. Drust, would you be so kind as to take the body to the head druid's chambers. I'm surprised Mattis left the child here like that. He wanted to bury the boy himself."

  The pig farmer moves, shoving through the middle of them without a second glance, and scooping up the child like a sack of corn. He grunts at the weight. He walks away, back down the corridor where Boone and Neven had come from.

  Despite his size, his footsteps make no noise. Then once he strays a few metres from the King's side all sound returns to his movements, his shoes scraping along the ground as normal. It's like the King had shrouded them in a bubble of silence, and now that bubble had popped.

  "Forgive me for my trickery." The King looks down at them, an attentiveness to his gaze she'll never get used to. Sure, she remembers he used to look at the men and boys like that, but having that recognition directed at her feels different. She finally catches a glimpse of what they mean when people call him the good King, the fair King. Talking to him, he makes you feel worthy of his time and attention.

  But that doesn't change what he did to her father.

  "How long were you following us?"

  Neven whips his head around. She can feel him staring at the side of her head for the words. She stands a littl
e straighter, keeping her eyes on the King's. All the while her mind is reeling, looking for a way out.

  "Only so long as it took to find you. It was not my intention to startle you, but I understand you and Sir Angus had a disagreement earlier. I didn't want to announce my presence too early and have you disappear on me as you did them."

  "And the boy?" She gestures where his body had been. "Did he have a disagreement with someone?"

  "You're jumping at shadows." King Robin shakes his head, pity in his expression. "But I suppose you have a right to after the day you've had. The boy - Art was his name, a fine lad - he was caught outside the palace gates like so many others when the barbarians came. He was one of Mattis's serving boys. I made sure the body was brought back. Mattis wished to tend to the burial rituals alone, but I fear he must have attempted too much. He is strong of heart and mind, but not body. Now, stop skulking in shadows and join our celebratory feast."

  Boone freezes, not sure what to say to that.

  "Celebratory feast?" Neven asks, his voice little more than a squeak.

  "For our victory. One I'm told you were instrumental in performing." The King turns back to the corridor. "This way. And hurry. The locating spell sent me down many strange paths before I found you. Not even a King can convince hungry soldiers to leave the choice pieces alone if he's gone too long."

  Boone and Neven glance at each other, then back at the stream of light coming from the mysterious room. She can't see much, but gets the impression it's a large room. Perhaps there would be places to hide, but perhaps there wouldn't. She's not even sure if being in a separate room would protect them from the King's magic. He uses it so rarely, no one is sure of its scale.

  Neven gives a shrug, obviously coming to the same conclusion, and jogs after the King. After a moment she follows.