Just One Knight Page 4
“But—”
“No buts. Just get that ass of yours into something suitable, would you? I’ll finish the scrubbing.” She grabs the bowls from me and plunges them into the soapy water.
Granted, not washing up for the evening is one of my favorite things. Jeene and I take turns, and I know her offer of the moment has nothing to do with generosity and everything to do with following through on this daft plan of hers… Still, it gets my hands out of gray water, so that is, at least, something I can be glad of.
I take off my apron and hang it up on the peg by the door, and then I’m grasping my skirts in my hands and ascending the spiral stairs, up and up through the shop, and then up and up again, until I reach my apartment above the bakery.
Perhaps it’s related to my freedom from washing the dishes, but my spirits do feel a little lighter as I open my wardrobe door and take stock of my dresses. Truth be told, I don’t have many. There are the three that I wear throughout the week while I'm baking, and then there's my good dress, one that I put on whenever wealthy clients order cakes for special occasions. That dress is blue, light blue, like the sky, and quite flattering. But since I wear it for bakery engagements, it has a high, modest neckline.
And this is no time to be modest.
So I reach out and pluck at the edge of my red gown.
I stare at it, hanging freely in my wardrobe. I run the the hem of the skirt through my fingers, my good feelings escaping like flour through a sieve.
Asla…
Asla loved this gown.
It has a plunging neckline, with nearly off-the-shoulder sleeves that trail down to loops meant to be worn around the middle fingers. The skirt is voluminous, especially when I layer it over my petticoat. True, the dress is far from new; it has been well-mended over the years. But it looks good on me, and I feel good when I wear it, like it holds a sort of magic charm.
I draw in a deep breath as I pull the gown out of the wardrobe. With the weight of it in my arms, memory assaults me: how Asla loved the soft fabric, warmed by my body, and how she would trail her mouth along my neck, down to—
No.
No.
I ball my fists.
Asla broke off our courtship because I’ve fattened up a bit. Her reasoning is neither right nor noble, damn it, and I won't waste one more tear on that shallow knight.
This is, at least, what I tell myself as a single tear slips over my cheek.
Well, I simply have no time right now to be a silly, soppy mess. I reach up, wipe the tear away, and begin to undress.
By the time Jeene makes her way upstairs, I’m ready for whatever adventure awaits us tonight. My hair has been braided, wrapped around my head like a crown; I’ve put on the necessary undergarments to complement the dress (my drawers are, indeed, red); and I’ve scrubbed my face clean and painted it just a little. My lashes are thick with potted mascara, my lips glossy and red with paint. I even pinched my cheeks to make them warmer (though I doubt I'll have need for false blushes once I'm surrounded by knights), and I applied a sparkly dusting of ground unicorn tail to my very visible décolletage.
I’m trying to curl the errant wisps of hair by my ears when Jeene steps through the door, her grin as wide as the sea.
“Didn’t take you long to get you back in the races!” She nods her approval, clapping me on the back. “You look good enough to eat, my pet.”
“Isn't that the point?”
Jeene laughs, throwing her head back. “Yes, indeed.” Another wink. She really does love a good excuse to go out into the city. “I’m ready to go if you are.”
I grimace. “As ready as a plague.”
“Now, now.” She arches a brow. “You’ve got to be more optimistic than that. You know what they say: Act like a warrior, and the courage will follow.”
I smile weakly. “Yes, but they also say, 'Only a fool goes into battle without a sword.’”
“Then you're well armed.” Jeene blinks innocently. “After all, you have two swords, my pet.” She waves a hand at my breasts. And then, without giving me a chance to retort, or to come up with excuses, or to beg for a comforting evening of pastry-eating and book-reading, Jeene grabs my arm, threads it through hers, and all but drags me down the spiral stairs and into the bakery proper.
“I swear, this will be a night to remember,” says Jeene, grinning widely. “Get it? Because you might just find a knight to remember.”
I groan, though I can’t help but chuckle.
Chapter 5
TALIS
“This is going to be a night to remember!” Lellie coos at me. “And—because I want you to remember it, as well—promise to go easy on the ale?”
With wide eyes, I correct her, “Remembering is not the point of this evening.”
She pauses, brows narrowed. “Oh? And what, pray tell, is the point?”
“To get so drunk that I forget I was ever upset to begin with.”
“Ah.” My friend rolls her eyes, looking weary. “No, no, Talis. I thought you might feel that way, but I'm trying to take your mind off of your troubles, not pickle your brain in alcohol.” Lellie's smile fades when she indicates my outfit. “And is that what you’re wearing to the tavern?”
“What? These are my best clothes.” I glance down at myself with a frown. I’m dressed in a white poet’s blouse and tight-fitting black pants. My feet are shod in fine leather boots, and I have a cobalt blue sash tied at my waist. In truth, the sash is just a bit of fabric that fell off of one of the blankets the warrior mares wear when paraded through the streets of Arktos City. I’ve folded it around my belly so that you can’t see the frayed edges.
“I know. I just thought…” Lellie shrugs. “If you wore dresses, I could lend you any one of mine. But you don’t. And the shirt is lovely; please don’t mistake me,” she says hurriedly. “It's just a bit…well-mended.”
“I’m no good at patching.” I offer her a lopsided grin.
“We all have our strengths and weaknesses,” she teases, and then pats my arm.
The latest patch on the shirt is not, in fact, the same color as the rest of the shirt. I got into a small tavern brawl last moon and received a rather large tear to the sleeve, thanks to a fellow combatant's sharp nails. So I mended the tear with what I had available...
Which was the corner of the blanket I sleep under at night.
Which is a well-washed and faded red.
It doesn’t exactly blend in.
Lellie and I are standing together in my small room above the stables. This is where all of the stablehands sleep, and the squires, too, the rooms packed side by side, each just as large as the stall beneath it. I sleep above Rane so that I can climb down my ladder and into her stall immediately, first thing in the morning, to take care of her and begin my chores.
This also means that Rane uses the opening in the room’s floor, down into her stall, as an excuse to be bossy—and nosy.
Often.
“I’ve had an idea!” Rane calls from below, stomping her hooves to gain my attention, a common habit of late. She stomps when she’s bored, when she’s annoyed, when she’s hungry. I've gotten so used to the noise that I can usually ignore it, but she's currently poking her nose through the hole in my floor, staring up at Lellie and me, and it's difficult to ignore a peeping horse. Believe me—I've tried.
“Are you rearing up again? You know you’re not supposed to be rearing,” I tell her sternly, peering over the edge of the hole and down at Rane. And, yes, the enormous warrior mare has risen up on her back legs, her front hooves planted squarely against the stall wall for balance. She normally maintains perfect balance without need of assistance, but her large belly gets in the way of everything these days.
Rane thumps back down onto four hooves. She glares up at me shrewdly. “I’ve had an idea,” she repeats, eyes narrowed. “You should ride me when you go to the tavern tonight.”
“What?” I chuckle, shaking my head. “Oh, that’s a good one.”
“What’s she saying?” asks Lellie, peering down through the hole, too. “Is the baby coming now? Is she in labor?”
“No, no, nothing like that.” I lift my brows and smile disbelievingly. “Get this: Rane says that I should ride her to the tavern tonight.” I chuckle again, but when I glance sidelong at Lellie, she has a calculating look on her face.
“Lellie, no—” I begin.
“It would certainly save your feet the trouble of walking, and give my mare a rest from carrying double. Honestly—”
“I can’t ride a pregnant mare in the city streets, all the way to the tavern. That wouldn't be good for her, not in her condition,” I protest.
But Rane chooses that moment to stand up on her hind legs once more, poking her nose through the hole in the floor and staring at me balefully.
“If I don’t get out of this stall tonight, I am going to get stablefever, and you do not want to see me with stablefever,” the horse hisses. “You’re tall, but you’re skinny—you hardly weigh a thing. I probably won’t even notice your weight on my back.”
“That's beside the point. Rane, you’re aren't my horse.” I spread my hands, trying to make her understand. “It’s tantamount to horsenapping if I take you out without running it past Asla. And I doubt, highly, that she’d permit her very pregnant mare to gallivant about the city.”
“What Asla doesn’t know can't hurt her,” Rane wheedles, her voice a defiant singsong. “Just put one of those parade blankets on me. It’ll cover my girth. No one will notice that I’m pregnant.” When I continue to stare at her with a stricken face, she shakes out her mane and bares her teeth. “Asla has no use for me. She won’t even realize that I’m gone. She hasn’t come to check on me in weeks.” Her mood swinging on a star, Rane huffs a little, nostrils flaring as she regards me with big, beautiful, hopeful eyes.
I exhale a ragged breath. “Absolutely not. No. No. It’s out of the question!”
Rane thumps back down onto the ground and starts hitting the stall floor with her massive hooves. “I am going crazy in here! I am not to be coddled!” she roars. But, because she’s a horse, her outburst sounds to most ears as if she’s crying out with one of her battle screams.
And it’s hardly a pleasant sound. A bit nightmarish, really.
“What’s got her so angry?” asks Lellie curiously.
“She says she has stablefever and doesn’t want to be in her stall. That's all she ever talks about, really. But she has to stay still and quiet, for the baby.”
“Oh, come on, Talis. A slow walk isn’t going to jostle that babe inside her belly.” Lellie snorts.
“Listen, this just won't work. It'd look more than a little suspicious for a stablehand to ride a battle mare through the city. Don’t you think?”
“Well... it doesn't have to be a stablehand riding her.” Lellie stares at me pointedly.
I don't know what she's getting at until she crosses my modest quarters and picks up the chest piece of Asla’s spare suit of armor.
The whole suit of armor is lying in the corner, stacked neatly, one piece on top of the other, waiting for me to polish it. Asla owns several suits of armor, and this is one of her least ornamented; she only wears it out on campaigns. She hasn’t gone on a campaign in a good, long while, and I’ve been so busy tending to Rane’s needs—a pregnant, pushy warrior mare has a lot of needs—that I haven’t gotten around to shining it up yet. The armor’s been sitting in my room for several weeks.
“Why don’t you wear this?” asks Lellie mildly.
I lick my lips, my throat and mouth suddenly as dry as a bone. I can feel the blood rushing through me; my head is pounding in tandem with my heart: too quickly.
Asla’s armor.
I could wear Asla’s armor.
And then I’d look like a knight. And no one would question the sight of a knight mounted atop a battle mare.
A knight…
For half of a heartbeat, I entertain the idea.
I cross the room and take the chest piece from Lellie’s fingers, and I stare down at my mottled reflection in the curves of the metal. No knight of Arktos would ever traipse around their beloved city in tarnished armor. But I can see enough of my reflection to make out the look on my face.
This...wistful look.
A wish that drifts over my expression, fervent and…
And impossible.
Armor doesn’t make you a knight. Without training, without courage and honor, armor is only a costume.
I place the chest plate back down on the stack of metal, and I turn to Lellie, wrap my fingers around her shoulders, give her a tight squeeze.
“I can’t,” I tell her simply.
But Lellie’s eyes harbor storms, and when she lifts her chin, when she pins me in place with her gaze, I know I’m in trouble.
“You can.”
“Armor doesn’t make you a knight, Lellie, especially when it's stolen armor—” I begin, but I don’t get very far, because Lellie is shrugging out of my grasp impatiently and leaning down to pick up the chest piece again.
“You listen to me, Talis. You listen to me.” Her voice is low and measured. If I stood an arm’s length away, I wouldn’t be able to make out her words.
This is what she tells me.
“You’re right. Armor doesn’t make a knight. It’s just a piece of metal.” And, as if for emphasis, Lellie drops the chest plate to the ground. I wince at the loud, metallic clang and stare at it, offended by the sight of the armor of a knight of Arktos thrown so disrespectfully to the floor. But Lellie’s reaching out now, and her hands are gripping my shoulders. Lellie is strong, and her fingers are digging into my skin; I stand still, and I listen.
“I am a knight. So I will tell you what a knight is.” Her eyes glitter. “A knight is noble and kind. Generous and valiant. Courageous and passionate. A knight is protective and fair. If she sees injustice, she will right it. If she sees pain inflicted, she will stop it. She will champion those who are powerless, and she will defend those who are vulnerable. She is forever dauntless and forever brave. That,” she murmurs, searching my face, “is what a knight is, Talis. You don’t need someone to tell you that you’re a knight. You don't need a ceremony to make it official.” She pauses, her next words clear and certain: “You always were one.”
I flex my jaw, eyes stinging.
“I know you,” she goes on. “I’ve known you for a long while. I’ve seen how you move through the world. I know that what I say is true. I’m angry at my fellow knights for being blind to what is right before their eyes. But no one’s perfect. We’re all always trying to do and be better. Myself included.” She offers me a rueful smile. “So it may, perhaps, be ‘wrong’ of me to suggest that you wear Asla’s armor…but I promise you this. You are just as much of a knight as she is. Because Asla? She falls flat on many of the vows we take as knights. She forgets to champion the vulnerable, to be kind and fair. Of course, it’s not my place to judge. But, then again…no one is perfect.”
Lellie offers gives me a grin, and she picks up the chest plate, holding it out to me in her firm grasp. “Talis, wear it tonight. Just tonight. See how it feels. And know that, someday, you will wear it for always.”
I stare at the chest piece, my heartbeat thrumming under my skin.
“This hurts nothing and no one. And it’ll give you the strength to keep going. To know that this will come to you. Eventually.” Lellie’s voice is quiet in the stillness. I can see Rane’s ears pricking through the hole in the floor, but she’s fallen silent. It seems as if the whole stable has fallen silent. I hear only the roar of my blood as I stare at the metal in Lellie’s hands. Stare at it, and ache for it with all of my heart.
“It’s just a costume, Lellie,” I protest—unconvincingly, voice cracking—and she shakes her head and holds the armor nearer to me. It’s almost pressed against my heart now, though there’s a small space between the armor and me.
A small space—but it’s still enough to say no.
Until Lellie says, “This armor isn’t a costume. If you wear it tonight, Talis, it’s a promise.”
This is the moment, I realize from somewhere far distant. This is the moment, the decision that’s going to change my life forever. Don't be silly, the rational part of my brain protests. I shouldn't put so much weight on an inconsequential evening.
But something is waking up in my bones, a deep-rooted knowing.
If I take this armor, if I choose to wear it tonight…something’s going to happen. I don’t know what. I don't know if it's good or bad. But there’s possibility in the air.
Change is coming.
And because I’m hungry for change, because I’m starved for hope, and I want to believe that I can become this…I reach out with my hands.
I want the promise.
So I take the armor.
Lellie beams and nods, happiness rolling off of her in waves. “I’ll go saddle Rane, yeah? You get dressed; meet me in the stall.”
Lellie, of course, knows how to saddle a battle mare. Stablehands rarely accompany knights on campaigns, and not every knight has a squire, so the knights must know how to saddle a horse as expertly—and quickly—as I can.
I nod my agreement at Lellie. Now that I’ve made the decision, I feel strangely calm.
“Her parade blanket is in the tack room,” I say, as Lellie angles toward the stairs, gathering up her full skirts before she begins to descend.
She salutes and then drops down into the stall below.
With a sigh, I close the trap door, letting it fall with a thunk as I stare at the pile of armor.
And then I start to get dressed.
Stablehands don’t dress the knights, of course; they do that themselves. But I know how everything works. I’ve seen some of the knights put on their armor before, and it’s not so complicated. Besides, I’ve dreamed about it enough times. Does that count?
As I attach each piece of the armor, my hands aren't shaking. In fact, my hands go through the motions effortlessly. It’s almost as if I’m watching myself from outside of my own body, and I'm in awe of how swiftly I place each piece of metal, how naturally I tie the thongs, how easily the metal covers my body, almost as if I’m growing a new skin over the old.