Knowing is Halfling the Battle_An Arthurian Fantasy Romp

by William Tyler Davis

  By the end of the bath the water looked more like a river, far worse even than the mop bucket at her dad’s tavern on a Sunday morning. She wasn’t as clean as when they’d started, but she was beginning to feel closer to that again.

  Gerdy had packed the few gowns that she owned and the one of Myra’s that she’d stretched. She put that one on with a smile, running her fingers over the fraying seams at her waist. Gerdy’s hips were slimmer now than they’d been when she ruined the dress—a product of the road. She made a note not to eat so much at the feast and keep it that way.

  The journey may have done her figure some favors, but it hadn’t been kind to her relationship with Myra. There had been days Myra would barely speak to her, and nights they shivered alone instead of cuddling close. This was the way of things, Gerdy knew. She had seen her mother and father fall in and out of love more than once, but they always got back together in the end. So, too, would she and Myra. Gerdy knew it in her soul.

  The same servant girl met her at the door an hour later and escorted Gerdy down the spiral staircase. At the landing, Myra arrived with her own servant. This one was cleaner than all of the others. It was like her skin was aglow, illuminated from inside, radiant and shimmering. She had a pointed face, and like Myra, she wore it well. High cheekbones, a slender nose, and wide eyes under arching brows, also like Myra, but where Myra’s eyes were green with hints of blue this girl’s eyes were as yellow as a lemon.

  And she sized Gerdy up with a cold yellow stare. Perhaps Gerdy had been doing the same.

  Myra wrapped her arm around Gerdy’s elbow. The bitterness from the road had washed away with Myra’s bath like the soot washed away in Gerdy’s.

  Down the stairs and through several passageways, the Great Hall was filled with round tables laden with food. A much larger rectangular table was high above the others on a dais, its chairs on the side that faced the crowd. The Grand Sovereign beamed from the center with a red-cheeked smile.

  It seemed the whole of the kingdom, or the whole of the nobility, had shown up and were waiting for the travelers to appear. Gerdy felt briefly queasy under the scrutiny until she realized that all eyes were on Myra, and breathed freely again.

  “This way ma’am,” the yellow-eyed girl said, her accent apparent.

  “But—” Myra began to protest.

  “You are to be seated with his majesty and his companions tonight.” The girl gestured at the high table.

  Myra looked at Gerdy.

  “Oh, all right,” she said. Myra never was good at saying no, especially when her side of the bargain was better.

  “Right here, miss.” Gerdy was seated at a table just under the stage, with Epik, Sir Wallack, and Todder. They would have a good view of the Grand Sovereign’s knees and Myra’s ankles beneath her gown.

  Beside the Grand Sovereign were what seemed to be knights but out of their armor; they wore green jackets similar to the Grand Sovereign’s ensemble earlier. Currently, the Grand Sovereign wore a suit much statelier and more regal, black with emerald and gold trim. Again, it was tailored so finely that Gerdy questioned how a seamstress could be so precise. It fit like a glove. It was as if the suit was made by magic. And she had her answer: it probably was.

  Nothing else had hinted that this place was magical in any way. Not the Grand Sovereign, not the castle, nor the people. Gerdy was left wondering if what she had heard about King’s Way was true at all.

  The men at the table and Epik stood as Gerdy was seated. She hazarded a quick smile. What gentlemen, she thought with amusement but kept it to herself. Then she looked up at the high table where Myra, too, had found her seat, and Gerdy realized that every man and woman in the room were standing at attention, waiting for their new princess to sit down.

  There was a great commotion of chairs after Myra had taken the seat next to her grandfather. And when Gerdy next hazarded a look, the yellow eyes of Myra’s servant caught her. It was a battle of who would look away first, and Gerdy wasn’t going to lose. The lemon-eyed girl’s eyes found Myra. This time Gerdy did see greed. And she was meant to see it. A wicked smirk on the servant girl’s thin lips, then a smile of triumph.

  18

  Masquerade

  Chink. Chink. Chink.

  The tinkling of metal against glass chimed from the high table. Sir Wallack, to Epik’s right, gripped his knees at the sound. He had once informed Epik that the rapping of a knife against glassware was the worst way to call a toast. He never mentioned the proper way.

  The room was ghostly silent by the second chink, and the Grand Sovereign stood. No toast was made.

  “Welcome,” he said pompously. “I trust you’re all fed and watered. At least well enough to lend me your ears for a moment.” He marveled at Myra a moment “Our guests arrived today. And in time for the start of our Harvest Festival...” he trailed off, smiling broadly. “It’s as if someone planned it that way. As if by magic.”

  The audience chuckled appreciatively.

  “Now, our guests, as newcomers, are unaware of the festival and have no inkling of what awaits. The Harvest Festival is a month-long acclamation of our kingdom. Not just the kingdom, we celebrate, too, our prosperity. There is a feast every night, not unlike this one. There will be dancing, and merrymaking, and of course the tournament. Everyone here loves a joust, am I right?”

  In place of clapping, a clatter of spoons against tables erupted. Sir Wallack gripped his knees tighter.

  The Grand Sovereign’s smile receded slightly. “Yes, it’s a grand affair. Only clouded by this bit of bad business. This treaty with Dune All-En.”

  Moans from the audience, in a chorus—as if rehearsed.

  “I know. I know,” the Grand Sovereign commiserated. “But that’s what the delegation is here to do, to put right all the wrongs… Or at least those they are able. This dear girl," the Grand Sovereign put a hand on Myra’s shoulder, “is my granddaughter, the Princess of Dune All-En. In her party is their champion, the knight who will ride in our tourney. What did you say his name was, dear?”

  Myra said it softly, but Epik didn’t have to prick his ears to know what she whispered.

  “Oh, that’s right.” The Grand Sovereign boomed, “Epik. Could you please stand? Oh, that’s right, he’s a bit small. Do you mind standing on the table for everyone to see you?”

  Epik did mind, but sheepishly complied.

  After the speech was dessert, a heaping mound of bread pudding, spiced and sweet with a bourbon sauce flambéed then poured over it, burning with blue fire. Todder and Wallack dug in; Gerdy didn’t waste her time on it. Instead, Gerdy’s attentions were focused on Myra deep in conversation with the Grand Sovereign. Epik could see it in Gerdy’s eyes, she wished that conversation was with her.

  Later, everyone milled about the room with the nobility—everyone save those at Epik’s table. The nobles, they had to be nobles because these guests were finely dressed, carried themselves as if they too had attended Sir Wallack’s etiquette school. All of them could be balancing dozens of invisible books over their straight backs, their posture erect and their chins held high.

  The fat old knight didn’t pay them much attention. He had no trouble finding a table with more wine and dessert. His stomach peeked out beneath his purple jacket, the same formal attire that both Epik and Todder wore, albeit larger.

  Gerdy broke away. She was trying to speak with Myra but was having no luck getting her attention. The princess was still captivating the Grand Sovereign. And Myra’s yellow-eyed servant put her hand in front of Gerdy to keep her at bay.

  Most of the King’s Way knights had left the table and were engaged in conversations of their own around the room—save one.

  “Aren’t you a little short for a knight?”

  Epik was used to having to look up when someone spoke to him, no matter if he was seated, as he was now, or not. No matter if the individual was standing, as this one was, or not. But this time, Epik’s neck had to crane all the way back to see up int
o the caverns that this man called nostrils.

  “Well, aren’t you?” The knight was grinning.

  “A bit.” What do you think I’m going to say?

  He recognized the man, the knight, as the one seated at the place of honor to the Grand Sovereign’s right.

  The knight wore the same Kelly-green jacket as the others. And perhaps it was a trick of the light, but Epik could swear there was a greenish tinge to his skin. Even his eyes were a dark forest green, though that wasn’t nearly as spectacular as the greenish hue of his skin.

  Epik thought about standing, but not on the table. Even then, the man would still tower over the halfling.

  The green-tinted man hovered over Epik expectantly. What he expected, well, Epik didn’t expect.

  “The Grand Sovereign has entered you in the tournament,” the knight said. “I assume you know what that means.”

  Epik nodded but was uncertain. “Jousting?” he hazarded a guess.

  “Yes, and a bit more,” the knight said. “You can call me Dom, or Sir Dom, or the Indomitable Knight—if you’re not into the whole brevity thing.”

  Epik nodded again, unsure of what to say next. It was becoming a habit.

  “And you’re Epik,” the knight said. “Sir Epik.”

  Another nod.

  “You know, usually in conversation, there’s a bit of back and forth—banter. But I’ll leave you to it tonight. We’ll be seeing each other soon, I’m sure.”

  Epik wondered how he came to acquire a revolving door of bullies. Frank Biggle in the Bog, then Coe in Dune All-En, and now he was finding common ground with Coe, this one jumped in to take the ranger’s place. A knight, no less.

  Epik’s servant girl beckoned. He was certainly ready to leave. Her brown eyes, a deeper shade than Gerdy’s, were locked on him the entire way up the stairwell. She smiled briefly before allowing the door to close on him. Then the door locked with the faintest of clicks.

  19

  Weaveworld

  A knock on the door jerked Gerdy awake the next morning—the orange eyed servant girl. She waited in the room while Gerdy dressed.

  “The princess would like to see you,” she said, and escorted Gerdy to the adjacent tower. Myra was still dressing, her own lemon-eyed servant girl standing silent guard at the door. Gerdy “accidentally” extended an elbow as she brushed past the servant.

  “Good morning your worship.” Gerdy’s tone was impertinent.

  “We’ve just got the morning to do as we please.” Myra hadn’t noticed the snark. “The festival begins this afternoon, and we’re to be back before then.”

  “Okay,” Gerdy felt the eyes of the yellow-eyed girl on her again. When she looked at the door, the servant’s lips twisted in a sneer. Gerdy’s orange-eyed servant waited behind her.

  It was another few minutes before Myra slipped on her shoes and headed for the stairs.

  “I want to see the market,” she said to no one in particular—which usually meant Gerdy was to follow her. The two servants trailed behind them, not talking.

  “Well, did you have fun last night?” Gerdy asked.

  “I did. And you?”

  They were down the staircase; Myra made for the castle entrance.

  “Are you really asking me that? Mye! Do you think it was fun sitting at the low table with hardly anyone to talk to while you were gallivanting up there, being fawned over by all those knights and your granddad.”

  “Sir Wallack and Epik talked to you some,” Myra said coyly.

  “So you did notice! I didn’t see you look my way once. Maybe I’m just beneath you now—figuratively and literally.”

  Myra sighed. “Stop this. Please don’t start a fight.”

  “I’m not starting a fight.” It felt more like a continuation of before they left Dune All-En. “Sir Wallack only corrected what silverware I used. And he kept saying I was slouching. I told him that’s just how my shoulders look. Then,” Gerdy continued hotly, “he remembered having a girl in his class say the same thing. So, I shut up.”

  Myra giggled but covered her mouth quickly at Gerdy’s expression.

  “He’s going to figure out who we are eventually,” Gerdy said.

  “I’m sure he will, but so what?” Myra shrugged. “I never liked him anyway.”

  They stepped out of the castle and into the morning haze.

  “You’re sure we’re allowed out of the castle?” Gerdy asked.

  “I’m sure.”

  “The servant locked me in my room last night.”

  “I’m sure that’s for your protection or something.

  “Did you get locked in?”

  “No, but that’s neither here nor there, is it? I’m the new princess.” The tone of Myra’s voice was haughtier than it had ever been—which was saying something.

  From the castle they went down the steep hill and out the open gates past several guards in green armor. Breathing had been easier in the stifling carriage. The air here was a brownish gray and brisk with chill. Gerdy wrapped an old blue shawl of her mother’s tightly around her shoulders.

  “I guess you’re the princess of two kingdoms,” she said. “I never saw that coming. You know, your granddad, he doesn’t look to be a thousand years old. Doesn’t look older than your dad, honestly.”

  “Well, Dad doesn’t know magic, now does he?”

  “I… guess not,” Gerdy said, unsure.

  “Besides,” Myra continued down the street, “Granddad said he’s not nearly as old as what the commoners claim he is. He said that those stories got more out of hand the further they went from King’s Way. It’s all pub talk. You should know more than most about that.”

  Gerdy did. But she also knew about granddads.

  Myra’s fallen for his greedy grandfatherly love, hook, line, and sinker, she thought.

  “I get it,” Gerdy said. “I do.” Stories did tend to twist and turn and become something else entirely when overheard then retold over pints of ale. “Does that mean the magic isn’t real either? I haven’t seen any. King’s Way is supposed to be full of magic. Dark magic.”

  The shabby city wasn’t nearly as sinister as she had imagined as a girl. Gerdy used to color pictures of a black castle against a cloudy gray and lightning-filled sky. She had pictured the subjects as slaves enthralled to the king’s magical power, even imagined there would be a statue erected in the city center, the Dark Lord, as some of the pub’s patrons had called him.

  And yet, here everyone was calling him the Grand Sovereign.

  “Well,” Myra considered that. “Granddad did say there would be plenty of magic at the tournament.”

  “Does that mean like magic in the air? There’s usually some of that at sporting events. And,” Gerdy hurried to catch up, “we’re to attend this festival? When are you and, um, the delegation, going to discuss a treaty?”

  “Oh, Gerdy,” Myra said condescendingly. “Don’t worry your head about that. Granddad said we’re here to have fun. We’ll sort those things out later.”

  Myra might be quick to brush business aside, but she wasn’t the one locked in her room. The sooner they returned to Dune All-En, the better, to Gerdy’s mind.

  They found an open-air market where vendors selling everything from vegetables to jewelry lined a square. The small stalls had canvas roofs and sides protecting each seller from the wind, which had picked up.

  Between the stalls, cables were strung overhead, crisscrossing the entire space. Over those cables carpets, rugs, and blankets were on display. They had to step under some that hung low, almost touching the ground.

  This is just like Mye, Gerdy thought, itching to spend her money after being stuck inside the coach for so long.

  Gerdy ran her hand across a table of golden jewelry while Myra inspected a pair of earrings—probably testing if they were fake.

  The seller, a tan older woman with wrinkles as cavernous as the Bludmud Gorge glared at Gerdy through narrow black eyes.

  The baleful stare cause
d Gerdy to falter.

  “I thought you said we were allowed out of the castle.”

  “We are,” Myra said.

  “Then why,” Gerdy asked, “is that yellow-eyed girl following us so close?”

  “Catarina? I’m sure it’s just a precaution. Granddad said I’m to do as I please.”

  Catarina stayed back with Gerdy’s orange-eyed girl, a short distance away. She was close enough to be seen but not so close as to hear their conversation, Gerdy hoped.

  “Granddad also said I could have anything at the market I desire.” Myra put the earrings down on the table and gave the old woman a scornful look. “These are fake, ya know. This isn’t gold at all.”

  Myra moved on. Gerdy followed. So did the servants. Gerdy couldn’t help looking back now and again. They were always there, always a look of mild resentment on Catarina’s face.

  “Come on,” Myra said as Gerdy lagged behind. “Do you want to hold hands?”

  Gerdy blinked at Myra’s offered hand.

  “No,” Gerdy said hastily—too hastily.

  Myra drew herself up imperiously.

  “Fine, if that’s how it is.”

  “No,” Gerdy said. “It’s not that. Did you read your scroll? You know, the ones your dad gave us.”

  “I did,” Myra pursed her lips crookedly, scrunching the whole side of her face in an effort to recall. “It didn’t say anything about not holding hands.”

  “Well, what did yours say?” Gerdy asked.

  “It was strange. I expected one of his usual notes like the ones he used to write me when I was little. Clean your room. Take a bath. Listen to your babysitter. He must know I’ve grown out of that.”

  “So what did it say?”

  “It said ‘your will is your own.’ Isn’t that odd?”