The False Knight of the Motorway

by Arden Ellis

  The original structure rose fifty feet into the air, the pale brown stones supplemented and extended by new structures growing upon the ancient walls like mushrooms after rain. The foundations dated back beyond memory, to the early days when Lord Kenilworth I led her people there to shelter from the curse. The structure beneath those additions was older than any could say. e

  It was the age, more than anything, which rendered the ruin safe. There had been very little plastic within it when the curse struck. Priests and alchemists had combed the area for weeks, muttering incantations and testing the soil, before the first people would agree to settle permanently.

  In the early days, folk made an effort to avoid the places where gods had dwelt. But as the rule of law fell apart aend bandits began roaming the silent roads, the safety of strong walls began to outweigh the ever-present risk of the curse. Other godruins squatted along the outside of the town, but their structures were not so old, and some still carried the curse inside. As Wright and her party rode past one, she saw the familiar yet nonsensical letters G FTe HOP printed on the filthy wood, its windows dark and lifeless beneath the warning sigil to mark cursed ground.

  The path wound up the grassy slope to the main gate. A wall of sharpened tree trunks circled the village itself, patchwork buildings of wood, rock, and metal salvage hung with banners of colorful godcloth. Traders gathered at the gates as their wares and persons were searched for anything which might carry the curse, guards carefully scrutinizing proof of consecration while the merchants threw their hands up at the wait. The guards recognized Wright immediately and waved her past the throng. Their eyes lingered on Kai and Silva as they passed.

  Their party had scarcely passed the gates and dismounted when a group of figures clad in blue came hurrying down the streets towards them. Wright recognized one of the lord's attendants, flanked by two guards.

  "There you are—Sers," he added as a hasty afterthought. As he stopped to catch his breath, the tower guards that had accompanied him kept their eyes trained distrustfully on Silva. "The scouts saw you coming. Lord Kenilworth has called a private session of court at sundown, and the presence of your party—" Once again, his eyes flicked to Silva—"is expected."

  Wright glanced at the sky, her mouth twisting. The sun was already two hands from the horizon. Scarcely enough time to wash the dust of the journey from her skin, but if her lord called, she would go. "See that our guest receives proper room and board," Wright said with a nod to Silva. She lowered her voice. "And of course, keep someone posted nearby at all times—in case she should need anything."

  The attendant glanced at his guards, clearly taking Wright's meaning. She watched as Silva was led away, the two guards stepping into formation at her sides. Kai lingered, leaning against Jolie's shoulder. She had donned her armor at last, the rampant bear of Lord Warwick nearly disappeared beneath the dents and scratches on her breastplate. Even after four days of riding, it appeared Kai hadn't worked the last of the alcohol out of her system; she must have had secret flask squirreled away on her person for situations such as these.

  "I assume that this private council has to do with your mission," Wright said.

  Kai shrugged and winced as if the movement pained her head. The shadows under her eyes made the gray of her irises glint like coins in a deep well. "Perhaps it is merely to celebrate my safe return. Now, is there anywhere around here I can get a drink? I'll need it if I'm to survive my debriefing."

  Any sympathy Wright might have felt instantly evaporated. "You'll find temporary accommodation in the barracks," she said stiffly. "You might consider washing the reek of wine out of your clothes."

  Kai straightened her jerkin with a tug. The leather was so stiff and filthy it hardly budged. From her unconcerned expression, it did not seem to bother her. "Point taken, Ser. I'll be sure to look my very most dashing before I stand before your lord."

  Without another word, Kai turned on her heel and shouldered her way through the crowded streets—heading towards the barracks rather than the tavern, as Wright was vaguely relieved to note. Not that Kai's sobriety was any concern of hers. For a while, at least, Kai would be someone else's problem.

  Sighing to herself, Wright turned and headed for her own quarters within the keep itself, and all she had to look forward to there: a sparse chamber with a hard bed and a cold pitcher of water to wash with. She kept no luxuries, no distractions.

  Cleaning up was mechanical and joyless; Wright shed her travel-worn clothing in exchange for her sky-blue tunic marked with her lord's crest—the tower on a field of dawn. Her armor she left behind, yet spent longer on it than any other aspect of her appearance; cleaning and oiling its joints until it sat on its stand ready for battle once more. It always felt strange, going from the constant weight of metal to nothing more than the rustle of fabric.

  The memory of her last audience with Lord Kenilworth made her wish for the comfort of her armor. But even the finest steel could not protect her from his disappointment if she had managed to displease him a second time.

  By the time she had finished, the sun was nearing the horizon. She made her way to the keep itself, passing the denizens of the crowd as they went about their business. Hawkers cried out the virtues of the rare salvage they'd collected, priest-blessed and guaranteed curse-free; shop fronts boasted bolts of cloth, spits of fragrant meat, a fine selection of new tools copied from godmade originals. Many of the people Wright passed walked with a limp or with empty sleeves swinging listlessly; many more were marked by the touch of the curse itself, flesh twisted and marked with its iridescent shine. Even here, in the safety of the keep, the curse was never far away.

  She despised being in court, but it was admittedly one of her easier duties. As she entered the waiting room outside the keep's central audience chamber, the silence within the stone walls weighed on her; other than the guards, the only other people in the room was Silva. She stood in the center of the room, her weapons gone, blithely inspecting her fingernails under the steely glare of the guards. Her long dark hair had been braided over her shoulder; any respectability that might have lent her ragged image was ruined by the feathers and teeth woven in with her hair.

  Wright stopped before her, gestured for the guards to leave. "I hope you have your message prepared. Lord Kenilworth is fair, but he is not patient."

  A grin broke over Silva's face, baring her missing incisor. "I can get my point across."

  Reluctantly, Wright did not question her further. Straightening her back, Wright took Silva by the arm and escorted her into the silent throne room with a prickle on the back of her neck.

  The room was as empty as Wright had ever seen it. On a normal day even the halls outside would be crowded with petitioners and courtiers, or even visitors to the court who wanted a glimpse of Lord Kenilworth himself. Today the room contained only the barest contingent of guards stationed around its perimeter, and a gray-haired man with a scroll unfurled over knees. A scribe, probably.

  To her surprise, Wright recognized the lone figure standing before the dais as Kai. Kenilworth must have requested her presence early; a flicker of suspicion twitched in Wright's gut. Whatever was happening between their two lords was not their place to know, but Wright could not imagine what cause Kenilworth would have to meet with another lord's knight in private.

  Whatever they had been discussing, it did not appear to be going in Kai's favor. Her shoulders tensed at the sound of the door as Wright and Silva stepped inside. She did not even spare a glance over her shoulder as they crossed the wide floor to join her.

  The golden light of evening washed over the massive chamber from the stone windows above. Stained glass depicted scenes from their recent history: impossible cities, the curse, the world's ending. The highest central window showed the towers of the gods swallowed by a multicolored cloud, fracturing the light which touched the throne directly beneath it. From its seat, Lord Kenilworth studied his audience dispassionately.

  He wore the same blue as
Wright's tunic, the insignia of the red tower crowned by light embroidered in intricate detail upon it. His jerkin was laced with jewels, strings of pearl and greenstone and silver, all salvaged by his loyal vassals from ruins on his land. Most impressive of all his regalia was the cloak of godscloth, shreds of every color sewn into a single garment draped over his shoulders. From his glinting regalia to the handsome lines of his face turned kingly with age, none who stumbled out of the dirty and broken world could look on him with less than awe. When his eyes settled on Wright, the hard line of his mouth softened in a familiar smile.

  "Welcome back, ser knight. I am glad to have my most loyal servant back at my side."

  Wright immediately swept forward and took a knee before the throne, bowing her head to hide the flush of pride which crept into her face. "My lord." Kai and Silva remained standing.

  "Rise. There is no need for pageantry when there is no one here to appreciate it." Kenilworth gestured them up, his sigil ring gleaming. It was the same ring which Wright had knelt and kissed when she completed her training as a squire, binding herself to him by oath if not by blood. She had no memory of her parents, both dead long ago. When she thought of her childhood she thought of sparring in the yard with the other orphans collected as Kenilworth's wards, offered protection, care, a family—and a purpose. His generosity had saved their lives. In exchange, he asked only for their unquestioning loyalty, and Wright was happy to give it.

  As she climbed back to their feet, Wright's eyes alighted on a figure seated on a wooden chair in the shadows of the throne. Even in the dim light, Wright recognized Kai's lord instantly. The scar which cleaved Lord Warwick's face was as distinct as the smirk which spread across the intact half of her mouth. It was no iridescent token of the curse which had marked her, but rather the mark of a blade.

  The mere sight of her left a bad taste crawling over Wright's tongue, as sour as the stench of Kai's wine. Warwick was little more than a brigand. She had claimed her title from her predecessor through combat so dishonorable it was practically murder. Her reign had shifted relations between their two realms from open hostility to a wary peace; but to have that killer here, sitting beside Lord Kenilworth as an equal? Wright's fingers twitched in want of her sword.

  Perhaps Warwick noticed her distaste—immediately her eyes snapped to Wright. "So this is the brave warrior who brought our dear Kai back safely," she drawled, leaning forward to inspect them like a horse trader at the market. Her gaze drifted to Silva. "Only it appears she picked up a stray."

  A deep frown cut across Kenilworth's face. "One of Tintagel's hirelings? I was not told you had taken a prisoner, Ser Wright."

  Before he could gesture for the guards to take Silva away, Wright stepped forward, raising her hands in supplication. "My lord, this sellsword bears a message. She claimed it could only be delivered by her personally."

  Kenilworth's expression soured even further as he faced Silva directly. "Well? Let's hear it, and quickly. I do not savor my time being wasted."

  Silva bobbed her head. "Of course, my lord. I am sure you are eager to discuss your plans to infiltrate Lord Tintagel's land a second time."

  The silence in the throne room was so total Wright could practically hear the dust motes drifting to the stones. Silva and Kenilworth stared each other down, Kenilworth's face a blank mask and Silva's written with a polite smile. "That is what you propose to do, is it not? Seeing as Ser Kai failed in her mission, you will of course have planned a second attempt, no doubt including the good Ser Wright. She will be a useful asset, I am sure; though of course, it will not be enough for your venture to succeed."

  Warwick laughed, a short bark of disbelief; but there was no trace of amusement on Kenilworth's face. He regarded Silva for a long time, his gaze as hard as the stone he sat upon. When he spoke his tone revealed nothing. "What is your name?"

  "Silva, if it please you."

  "It does not." Kenilworth inspected her coldly. "For being little better than a hired vulture, you seem confident in your knowledge of our supposed plans."

  "This jackal knows more than enough to ensure Lord Tintagel is made fully aware of what you're looking for—and finds it first." As she spoke, Silva reached into her jerkin, the gesture slow enough not to alarm the guards, and withdrew a folded piece of paper with the seal of Warwick's red arrow. A sharp intake of breath—Wright looked to Warwick and found her eyes locked onto Kai with a heat that could have melted steel. Kai stared at the paper with her jaw set, looking as if she was still sick with drink.

  "This map I found in your knight's possession," Silva continued. "I am the only one to have seen it. It contains enough detail for me to piece together the object of Ser Kai's mission, and the location of where she hoped to find it."

  "Lord Warwick," Kai began in a weak voice, "I thought the map had been lost. I did not know—"

  "Silence." The word was as sharp as a slap. Warwick's scarred expression did not so much as wrinkle with the tightly compressed fury in her voice. To Wright's surprise, Kai bowed her head and obeyed.

  Sitting back in his throne, Kenilworth steepled his fingers. "It seems unwise, coming here alone, unarmed, with a map only you have seen, and making threats which you have no means to carry out." From the corners of the room Wright thought she saw the guards' hands shifting towards their weapons, waiting for a command.

  Alone and unarmed as she was, Silva did not so much as flinch. "I had not taken you for an oathbreaker, my lord."

  The blank expression on Kenilworth's face remained carefully fixed. "I have sworn no oaths to you."

  Silva turned to Wright, her smile growing just a fraction. "Is the word of your knight not as good as your own?" She tilted her head, as if struggling to recall the memory which she had hoarded greedily from the moment Wright had made the mistake of opening her mouth. "Something about how you would cut down any who dared raise a sword to me, if I remember correctly. Or do you deny it, Ser?"

  Now it was Wright's turn to feel a sick lurch in the pit of her stomach, caught between defending her lord and the sanctity of her sworn oath. She felt the eyes of her lord turn towards her and could not bear to meet them. "Is this true, Wright?"

  Wright swallowed drily. "She asked only to deliver a message, my lord. I swore to grant her safe passage."

  Kenilworth sat quietly for a long time, his eyes turned down in thought. At last, a sigh escaped his lips. "It seems I am bound to your decision, Ser Wright."

  Around the room, the hands which had crept towards their weapons relaxed once again. They all knew the Code. Any who broke it, be they the lowest tanner or the highest lord, would immediately make themselves an enemy of all the realms, cast out by their own people and ostracized by all others. So it had been for all of living memory, since the time when there was no law and no civilization, and a man's word was as worthless as the air it took to speak it. Now, the Code was absolute.

  Silva inclined her head, still affecting the airs of graciousness. "You are an honorable man, my lord. Of course, there would be no stain on your honor if you were to, shall we say, send your loyal servants to slit my throat the moment I set foot off your land, and the terms of your knight's oath are complete. I am certain such a thought has occurred to you also."

  "And I suppose you will also have a compelling argument for why I should refrain from that course of action as well?" A note of irritation had crept into Kenilworth's voice.

  Silva only smiled. "Not at all, my lord. I would merely wish to save you the effort. I do not come here as a servant of your enemy, and there is no need for blood between us."

  Though Warwick's expression remained bored throughout the entire exchange, her agitation revealed itself in the idle tapping of her fingers against her scarred cheek. "You say you are the only one to have seen this map. Surely if you intended to bring it to Tintagel's attention, you would have done so long before now—which leads me to believe that you want something from us, my dear."

  Silva mirrored Warwick's calcula
ted smile. "What I want, as unlikely as it may sound, is to help you."

  "And why would you wish to do that?"

  "Because I know you seek the Counteragent."

  A snarl of irritation escaped Wright's lips before she could repress it. "Is it not enough that this mercenary sets foot on our land laden with threats and false pretenses? I will not allow my lord's honor to be further blemished by mockery." She looked to Kenilworth for confirmation of his outrage, but found his face was unreadable. A smirk was growing on Warwick's face that threatened to break into a grin; even Kai's expression was blank.

  At last Wright returned her gaze to Kenilworth, feeling as if the ground were shifting beneath her feet. "The Counteragent is a myth," she said uncertainly. "A tale told to children so they might sleep easier at night."

  "We tell many tales to our children, ser knight. That does not make them false." Warwick gestured at Kai with an idle wave of her fingers. "Ser Kai was sent to gather information. Though her mission was… abbreviated, what she found has led us to believe that such a relic may truly exist."

  Wright inclined her head to Kenilworth. "My lord. I mean no disrespect—but surely this is madness."

  From the periphery of the room, the sound of a gently cleared throat. "These are mad times, ser knight. Perhaps madness is the only cure."

  Wright's head jerked to the old scribe rising from his seat at the back of the room, revealing himself to be as tall and thin as a reed. The long years had left their mark, a history of laughs and frowns gathered in the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth. As he stepped forward, Wright saw the swath of wiry grey hair above his ear was shaved in the manner of a scholar or priest, with the customary brand standing out against the stubble—the mark of an alchemist. Even the lowliest bandit would hesitate to kill any who wore that mark; the knowledge they possessed was far too valuable to squander. In his left arm he carried a leather satchel full of scrolls; his right hung limply by his side.