A Trilogy of Knights

by Megan Derr

  Topaz called out orders. Victor extracted a small bit of his powder, sprinkling it into the wound. "Heal," he whispered, hoping it would suffice to keep Amir alive until they could get him real help at the castle. He looked anxiously at the pale, trembling man who only moments ago had been nothing more than tired and strained. "Come, Prince. We must get you to the castle. Can you climb up on my horse?"

  "Yes," Amir managed, and with Victor's help he managed to mount Briar. Victor climbed up behind him, holding tightly to Amir. He exchanged a glance with Topaz, then turned and once more urged his horse forward. "I know you are tired, Briar, but make one more run for me. Home, Briar."

  The horse obeyed, galloping for the castle as though he had all the energy in the world to spare.

  *~*~*

  Victor hovered in the doorway, uncertain of whether to announce himself or go. But the decision was made for him when Topaz caught sight of him and motioned Victor into the room.

  "A job well done, Victor." Bran said from where he stood near the window.

  "Even if doing said job required you leave without permission and miss the festivities," Topaz interjected dryly.

  "My apologies," Victor said, cheeks turning red.

  "They are not necessary," Topaz said more gently. "I sent a servant to fetch you and was informed on the state of your room. If you would but tell me the culprits responsible, I could address the matter and put an end to it."

  Victor shook his head. "It is my problem to deal with, Lord Topaz, not yours. If you'll pardon my rudeness."

  Bran chuckled. "You are much like your father. If I did not know for a fact you were adopted, I would fully believe you are Trey's blood."

  Victor smiled, honestly happy for the first time in several days. "Thank you, Majesty."

  Topaz and Bran laughed.

  "How is he?" Victor asked anxiously, looking at Amir, who was still pale, sleeping fitfully.

  "Recovering," Topaz said. "It will take him a long time. You are the only reason he is still alive, Victor." Topaz looked at him, face serious, brown-gold eyes hard. "I mean it—the only reason. I do not know what the West is about, attempting to assassinate an Eastern prince, but I mean to find out."

  Bran crossed his arms over his wide chest. "In the mean time we must send someone East. I do not think a simple message will suffice this time around." He looked at Victor. "Go get something to eat. I would imagine you have not eaten since the midday meal. His Highness will be fine."

  Victor nodded at the dismissal and departed, letting his feet carry him obediently toward the kitchen. His mind wandered over the night's events, replaying each of them and making him wonder what he could have done to prevent the arrow. How had the bandits noticed them? The shadow he'd cast should have made them all but invisible to most eyes. What would Trey have done? But Trey would be the first to say that was an unfair comparison, since—

  Victor's thoughts scattered as he tripped over an unseen obstacle in his path, barely catching himself on his hands in time to prevent smashing his face against the stone floor.

  He cringed at the familiar laughter that filled the halls, realizing he had been so lost in thought he had failed to notice the foot in his way. "Comrades," he said slowly, climbing to his feet, fighting the urge to brush dust from his already filthy tunic. "You are up late."

  "George!" a dark-haired knight smacked his friend lightly upside the head. "Do you see what you did? You got his Lordship's tunic dirty. You know how Lord Bath detests dirt."

  Victor ignored them, standing silently as the jests and jeers continued, fighting the urge to show them all the sharp end of his daggers. It would serve no purpose but to make them angrier, and he would wind up disappointing Trey and Dunstan. "Are you quite finished?"

  "Quite," a blond-haired knight mimicked. "Do forgive us if we are keeping you from finding further means by which to kiss up to the king and royal steward. We would not want to keep you here, talking to us more lowly knights."

  "That—" Victor gave up. What was the point? According to all the knights who should be his friends, he was nothing but a fussy soldier made knight solely because his fathers were close friends with Bran and Topaz. 'Lord Bath' they had taken to calling him not long after his arrival for training at the castle. He said nothing, merely turned and walked away, ignoring as best he could the taunts and jeers that chased him.

  The kitchens were empty when he reached them, for the hour was late enough that even the servants had found their beds. Scrounging for a few minutes, Victor left with a small loaf of bread, some cheese, and an apple. He was halfway to his room when he remembered it still needed cleaning. Suppressing a sigh, he continued on toward it anyway, for there was nowhere else to eat that would grant him the peace and quiet he craved after the long night. And he had to be awake in a few hours anyway—though at least, if the others had been awake, he would not be the only exhausted knight on the training grounds in the morning.

  Victor stumbled to a halt as he entered his room. It was clean. Perfect. Exactly as he had left it before the asses had destroyed it. No doubt Topaz had ordered it cleaned. Victor smiled and moved to sit on the small rug beside the fireplace—a gift from Dunstan, who knew how much he liked sitting by the fire but hated the hard, dirty floor. Most of the things in his room were gifts from Dunstan or Trey, a couple from Topaz and Bran. But there was nothing from his comrades or tourney tokens from the people who liked to watch the knights compete.

  But why would anyone give a token to Lord Bath? He was an entirely different sort of entertainment in the eyes of most, not the sort they admired for his knightly skills, or asked to dance, or bestowed kisses on in dark corners.

  No, he was the one they sent tumbling into the punch bowl with a well-placed foot to trip over.

  Victor shoved his thoughts aside, too tired to bear facing them. Things would work out, one way or the other. If nothing else, he would finish his time at the castle in another nine months and could return to Bellewood.

  *~*~*

  He was jarred awake by hard shaking, and a servant urgently calling his name. "Sir Victor! Sir Victor!"

  "I'm awake!" Victor sat up, instantly alert. "What is the problem?"

  "His Majesty is with the sick prince and commands you come at once. He also says to dress for travel but to leave your heavy armor."

  "I will be there at once," Victor said. He dressed hastily, heart beating rapidly in his chest. What was wrong that the king would summon him well before dawn? Victor stifled a yawn, feeling as though he'd not slept a wink. He left his heavy armor as instructed, donning only leather armor beneath an older dark blue tunic and his leather bracers. Similar leggings were covered by high-cut black leather boots. His sword belt, sword, and three daggers went next. Last of all he attached the powder pouch. He paused long enough to comb the worst of the knots from his hair, tying back what he could with a black thong.

  Minutes later he was at the prince's door, knocking softly. He slid inside at the call to enter and bowed to Bran. "Majesty."

  "Victor, good."

  "Victor," a soft, accented voice repeated his name.

  "Amir!" Victor smiled. "You are awake." Still too pale but not deathly. "I am glad to see you recovering. I apologize I could not stop that arrow." He bowed his head. "I should have watched our backs better."

  "You are not the only one trained to be more cautious, and it is because of you that I am alive at all. I owe you my life."

  "Nonsense," Victor said staunchly, cheeks flushed pink. "I am a knight. It is my duty and honor to help where I can."

  "We have a task for you, Victor," Bran interrupted, though he looked pleased.

  Victor bowed. "I will do whatever my king asks of me."

  "You are much like your father," Topaz said. "Except that you do not argue half so much. I shall have to point it out to him."

  Victor grinned, but sobered again when Brand and Topaz returned to the matter at hand. "I think, Victor, that you understand a bit of what clouds
the horizon."

  "Western knights pretended to be Northern and nearly succeeded in assassinating Prince Amir. If I had not happened to be nearby, they would have ensured that the East blamed us for it, and we would be unable to provide adequate explanation until too late."

  Bran nodded in approval. "We have sent word to the East of what little we know. But we need to send an emissary to explain in person what transpired. As you are the only one who was present, we will be sending you."

  Victor nearly fell over in shock. "What? Send me? To the East? Majesty, are you serious?"

  Amir laughed. "Of course you should be sent. Why do you sound so surprised? Even if they had not decided that themselves, I would have insisted." Amir motioned him forward; Victor went slowly. Amir's hands were decorated with myriad rings—gold, silver, a rainbow of jewels scattered among them. But from the third finger of his right hand he removed a ring that was comparatively plain, merely a band of interwoven silver and gold. "Take this. Show it to all who would challenge you. It is a gift from Amir of the East to Victor of Bellewood from the North."

  "But—"

  "Take it," Amir insisted, every inch the commanding prince though he lay sick in bed. "And whosoever tries to take it from you," he spoke almost as if reciting a spell, "will suffer the wrath of the Eastern throne."

  Willing his fingers not to shake, for already he felt as though he had been tossed into a lake with rocks fastened to his feet, Victor accepted the ring and slid it onto the third finger of his right hand. Though it should have been too large, for Amir was bigger than him, the ring fit perfectly. Amir caught his arm as he pulled away and tugged Victor far enough down that he could lean up to softly kiss his cheek. "Go in peace, my friend." Amir laughed. "Tell my brother that I order him to behave."

  Victor blinked, wishing for the millionth time that his skin did not flush every time he was unsettled, and managed a nod. He was sinking fast into waters well out of his depth. "I do not think I am a fit emissary, Majesty." He looked at Bran anxiously.

  "I think you will surprise yourself, Victor." Bran settled a hand on his shoulder. "Remember the men that raised you and that you make them—and us—proud with everything you do. Your actions last night only further prove what many of us already know."

  Topaz nodded, agreeing. "Your things should be packed by now. I am sorry we cannot make a fuss of this for you, to put those little brats you call peers in their places." He strode over and grasped Victor's chin, forcing Victor to look him in the face. "You are not Lord Bath. You are Sir Victor of Bellewood. No matter what anyone says, you earned that place. Now," he dropped his grip and stepped away, "Sir Victor, make for the East with all due haste. Should you encounter trouble, send word. When you have reached your destination, inform me at once."

  Victor bowed, one hand fisted over his heart. "Yes, Lord Stewadr Majesty. Highness." Gulping, Victor bowed once more and then departed, heart in his throat as he all but ran for the stables—but stepping out into the courtyard he found his horse ready and waiting for him, tended by a young stable boy. "Sir Victor!" the young boy smiled, obviously happy despite the sleep-heavy eyes half hidden by straggly brown hair.

  "Good Morning, Richard." Victor ruffled his hair. "Thank you for preparing Briar for me."

  "He's my favorite horse," the boy confided. "The others are all so mean."

  Victor laughed. "Yes, I know all about mean horses. Briar likes you too." Victor fumbled in his purse for a moment and pulled out a few coins. "Here, Richard. For you and your mother. Now get back to bed, scamp. If anyone tells you to do otherwise, tell them I ordered it so."

  The boy beamed and hugged Victor as best he could, barely reaching his waist. He was far too young for the stables but somehow the boy managed. "Thank you, Sir Victor!" Richard hugged him again and then dashed off.

  "Well, Briar. I hope you are more rested than I." Victor petted his horse fondly, laughing softly as the horse nuzzled him back. He reached into a small side pocket of his powder pouch and withdrew a small square—powder which had been made into a paste and then hardened to form a sort of candy or pill. He fed it to Briar, who like him had grown up eating the strange sweet. Patting him one last time, Victor moved around and swung up into the saddle. "Come, Briar. We go to the East."

  He rode hard, stopping only once when the quiet early morning was shattered by a hawk's cry, and he halted Briar that Luna might alight on his arm. She nipped gently at his fingers and Victor laughed. "I see someone had a fine hunt. You are the most beautiful woman in the wild. Would you come with me to the East?" He stroked her gray and white feathers and let her nip at his fingers some more, then threw his arm up to release her into the sky. "Come, my Lady of the Sky, show me how best to reach the East." He took off again, laughing at the cries that guided him, worries temporarily forgotten.

  *~*~*

  It took six days with Luna's guidance, and Victor knew she had saved him at least a day's time.

  The East, unlike the other three countries, was notoriously reclusive. They communicated and kept peace with everyone, but it was not often you saw more than a merchant or occasional wanderlust-stricken traveler. Their borders were walled and rigidly guarded. What had Prince Amir been about that no one had known a royal caravan had been headed for the South?

  He dismounted some distance from the gate, which was guarded by at least a dozen soldiers, and approached at a slow walk. He stopped when he was still several feet from them.

  "Who are you?" a soldier demanded, speaking in the language common to all four countries but with a slow, heavy accent.

  Victor bowed, letting go of Briar's reins. "I am Victor of Bellewood, a Knight of the North. I have come to speak with the Eastern King about his son, Prince Amir."

  The guards began to speak in their own language, and Victor listened, fascinated by the strangeness of it, so different from the short, coarse words of his own language, from the slightly smoother tones of the common language. It was pretty, elegant and rolling. He jumped when the guard—perhaps a captain—turned abruptly back to him. "What do you know of Amir?"

  "I know I must speak to the king, not to you." Victor tensed when the man approached him with sword drawn.

  "Prince Amir was attacked. Many are saying by your people." He held the tip of his sword to Victor's neck. "Have you come to curry favor, realizing too late your mistake in attacking our prince?"

  "Nay," Victor said, lifting his hand to pull the sword away, left hand loosening his own sword in its scabbard. He blinked at the look of shock on the captain's face, confused when the man dropped his sword and back away, bowing low. "What…"

  "We did not realize, Lord Knight. We beg your pardon."

  Victor looked at them with a puzzled frown, then shifted his gaze to follow where the captain's eyes pointed.

  The ring Amir had given him.

  The captain was once more speaking rapidly to the other guards. He motioned Victor forward. "Mount your horse. I will have my men take you to the palace. Forgive my rudeness."

  "There is nothing to forgive," Victor said as he mounted Briar. A soldier beckoned to Victor, motioning him through the gate. Once beyond it, he spurred them to a faster pace. Victor murmured quietly to Briar, promising him all manner of treats and lots of rest as reward for the rigors through which Victor had put him the past several days.

  He rather hoped for a nap himself, but doubted he would be that fortunate for at least another day or two.

  They reached the palace by nightfall, and Victor hoped his astonishment did not show on his face.

  It was beautiful, and so unlike the heavy stones of the castles back home. It seemed to spread out all over, rather than build up. So many arches and open halls, moonlight and fresh air going everywhere. He caught glimpses of mosaics and tapestries and paintings as he was sped along by guards and men in courtly garb, exhaustion fading beneath an onslaught of anxiety and fear. Victor took a deep breath as he was escorted into what could only be the throne room, though he had n
ever seen one like it.

  Not a long, stark hall with a single carpet and rows of knights and crested tapestries hanging between sconces. Muted torches and soft, deep rugs, the smell of sweet incense and a man more sprawled than seated in a chair that looked far too comfortable to be a throne.

  They were dressed strangely, in patterned silks of so many colors it made Victor dizzy to look at them all, and they wore slippers rather than sturdy boots on their feet. A young woman played a stringed instrument he did not recognize, though as he approached, she and all but one other figure were dismissed with nothing but a wave from the massive man in a dark red turban seated on the throne. Victor kept his eyes fixed rigidly on that man, afraid that if he looked elsewhere he would lose himself to gawking at the bizarre, beautiful room.

  Not certain what to do, Victor knelt before the king and bowed his head.

  "You are the knight I was told would be coming to see me," the king said. "Show me the ring."

  Victor looked up only briefly, still uncertain of the etiquette—he should have thought to ask Amir—and simply held out his right hand for the king to see.

  A large, warm, calloused hand took his, thumb brushing over the ring. "It is Amir's ring," a deep voice rumbled, the accent only slightly more pronounced than the king's. Victor shivered, something about the voice jarring him. But still he did not look up.

  "Come, stand," the voice said. "Any who bears such a ring does not kneel before the king."

  Victor allowed himself to be tugged to his feet and slowly raised his eyes to regard the owner of the striking voice.

  It felt like his heart stopped, just for a moment, before it started beating far faster than could be healthy.