by Jada Fisher
Sir Nogrund brought his stallion around so that he was in the middle of the squires. He winced, clearly uncomfortable riding in the saddle, but they had little choice. He’d have to endure the pain until they got back to the city.
The trip back was blessedly uneventful, which they’d figured. The main roads to Al-Sevara were all heavily patrolled and inlaid with wards to keep spirits away. Regular creatures could get past of course, but they rarely wanted to deal with humans. So, they had a nice and easy ride the rest of the day. Then, with the sun just about set and the sky a deep orange as the world turned to night, the sound of gulls reached their ears and the smell of sea salt and brine smacked into them as the city came into view.
Al-Sevara, the Red City.
She was one of the three great human cities scattered across the world, though Dorrick knew his city was the best. He’d never been to the floating mountains and golden domes of Ita-Ku or seen the pyramids and obelisks of Masrataa, but they had nothing on his city.
The Red City was aptly named for the rose stone that the walls and buildings were built of. Mined from the same cliffs that the city sat upon, rose stone was strong and smooth and shimmered red in the light. Al-Sevara was a shining red beacon for ships and travelers and humanity, a bastion of innovation and knowledge and human might.
Dorrick smiled wide as he watched the sun set beyond the sea behind the city. It made the city seem like it was ablaze in light. A stunning sight.
It took them another half-hour to pass through the vast fields that sat beyond the walls, where the food supplies of the great city were grown. Farmers waved at them as they passed, giving them blessings and good tidings. The citizens of Al-Sevara always gave the knights their love and respect. His was a well renowned organization.
Finally, they passed beneath the gates and entered the city proper. Though it was evening, the streets were still lively, streaming with people coming and going from the fields, heading to inns and their homes. The sea of people parted for them, and they elicited mostly smiles and friendly gestures. They passed Rangam’s Square, and a troupe of beautiful dancers in vibrant summer silks danced in the evening night, a bard playing a lyre nearby with a smile on his face while a crowd cheered and clapped. A couple of children ran between their horses, laughing. One walked alongside Sir Nogrund and reached up her stubby arms to give him small white flower. He accepted it graciously.
This was what Dorrick fought for. This city, these people.
The crowds of general rabble thinned as they ascended higher into the city, where the wealthier districts sat. They turned onto the Way of Swords, a vast boulevard lined with statues of heroes and knights of lore. Sitting at the end of the street was their destination and their home: the Radiant Keep, headquarters of the Order of Red Flame.
She was a masterpiece, a wonder of architecture, tall spires and beautiful latticework and columns of red marble carved with images of famous knights. The keep was almost as big as whole districts, as she held within her vast training and exercise yards. Every knight, squire, and orderly, young and old, lived on these grounds. Serving the city.
It would be about time for supper, so there wasn’t a lot of activity when they arrived. The gates were opened when they were spotted, and Sir Nogrund and Evan were taken to the infirmary straight away. Meanwhile, Dorrick, Marcella, and Ollo stabled their horses then went their separate ways to bathe after a long journey. They’d be late to dinner, but the keep never ran out of food.
After stripping out of his grimy armor and bathing, Dorrick felt amazing. He couldn’t speak for everyone, but he personally loved keeping clean. Nothing soothed him quite like a hot bath.
After they bathed and dressed, he and Ollo went to the infirmary to check on Sir Nogrund and Evan. As they entered, Dorrick went rigid. Sir Nogrund was fine, sitting up in one of the immaculate white beds, stripped down to his waist, bandages covering his thickly muscled torso. Standing next to him, armor and cape and all, was Dorrick’s father, Commander Vanter Vane.
They didn’t pay the squires any attention as they were locked in a serious discussion. Evan was in the bed next to them, out cold, but the lack of nurses around him told them that he was probably fine.
As they approached, Dorrick caught a snippet of their conversation. “I’m telling you, Vanter, you need to speak with Madam Sage. Things are getting restless out there,” said Sir Nogrund.
“It’s not that easy,” his father responded, scowling deeply—an all too familiar look. “As wise as she is, she’s even more stubborn than me.”
Sir Nogrund snorted. “That’s saying something.”
Vanter Vane did not find that comment amusing, but he didn’t scold Sir Nogrund as he would have Dorrick. Being a captain garnered some respect in the commander’s eyes. Dorrick knew that the two were close, though, and his father valued the opinions and insights of all his captains.
“I will have a talk with her,” Vanter Vane said. “But I can’t promise anything.”
“Something needs to be done. The settlers out there are just sitting there waiting to be slaughtered.”
“I understand that.”
“Then maybe you can make her understand. She listens to you. And we— Ah, Dorrick, Ollo!” Sir Nogrund exclaimed as he finally noticed the two squires. He smiled.
Dorrick inclined his head in respect. “Captain. Commander.”
His father nodded at him, lips set in that cold line like they always were. Would it kill him to smile just once? Dorrick thought.
“Son.”
The two Vanes were a spitting image of one another, a true father-son duo, though Dorrick was sure that wasn’t a great fact for his father. They had the same wind-swept blond hair that they kept back in a knot. Both had strong jaws, though Dorrick’s was covered by a layer of stubble while his father’s was impeccably smooth as always. They had the same chiseled noses and sharp cheeks. The only difference between them was Dorrick had his mother’s brown eyes while his father’s were a stormy gray, near white, piercing and powerful.
Dorrick stood up straight, arms folded behind his back. He cleared his throat. “We came to see how you and Evan were doing before we went to dinner.”
“I appreciate it. I’m fine. The nurses stitched me up well, no internal bleeding or anything serious. Evan has a concussion and they gave him a sleeping tonic so he could recover, but he’ll be okay.”
Ollo sighed. “That’s a relief. Thank you, sir.”
He and Ollo were ready to leave. “Well, we see that you two are having a discussion, so we’ll just go…”
“Hold on,” his father snapped.
Dorrick went stock straight. “Yessir?”
The commander deferred to his captain. “Tell him, Nogrund.”
“Right.” Sir Nogrund sat up straighter in bed. “I explained what happened on our mission to the commander, as well as some of the other captains. Afterward, I recommended that you four have proven yourselves enough to each be awarded the rank of knight.”
Dorrick’s heart skipped a beat. “You’re… You’re saying that…”
Sir Nogrund snickered. “Yes, you two will no longer be squires. Tomorrow, you will be Knights of the Red Flame.”
Ollo laughed and ran his hands through his hair. “I can’t believe it.” He and Dorrick smiled and laughed and hugged as the captain and commander watched. It took a moment for him to realize they were doing this in front of superiors, so he and Ollo straightened and bowed, fists over their hearts in a sign of respect and gratitude.
“Thank you for this honor, sirs,” Ollo said.
“Nonsense,” Sir Nogrund said. “You’ve earned it.”
Dorrick’s father suddenly reached out and gripped his son by the shoulder. He gave him the slightest of grins, barely a smirk. “You did well, my son.”
Dorrick Vane practically melted.
The knighting was held the following evening. Dorrick and his friends were given the day off, naturally. He and Marcella could hardly believ
e it. They’d finally done it. They would be knights. After years of hard work and grueling training, it was all about to pay off. When he and Ollo had told her the news at dinner the night before, she’d practically screamed. That had garnered quite a few looks from knights around them, but Marcella had no shame when it came to that.
When the sun set the next evening, it was time for their knighting.
The Great Hall was packed to the brim, as it always was for this event. It was always a momentous occasion when young squires became full-fledged knights. It didn’t happen every day, so when it did, it was a celebration.
Dorrick and his friends were dressed in their beige-and-white dress uniforms, the trim and buttons shining golden in the light. They sat by themselves at a small table at the foot of the raised platform that all the captains ate at. The table the captains sat at was cleared of food and drinks, and they stood, arms behind their backs, in full dress uniforms, medals and pins all along their chests and shoulders, their red and purple captain cloaks billowing behind them. All twenty captains were present, which was rare because usually two or three were away on business.
And standing in the middle of them all was the commander himself, Vanter Vane. He surveyed the room with a cool and calculating gaze. It paused on his son.
The ceremony began with some prayers and blessing from the High Priest of the Sun Temple. Dorrick mostly tuned this out. He wasn’t very devout, nor was his father, but the commander allowed the church its place. The order had originally been a sect of the church centuries ago, though it was far more independent now.
After some more religious obligations and some speeches about duty and honor that Dorrick had literally heard a hundred times, he and his friends were asked to stand. They did. Dorrick’s whole body brimmed with anticipation. His nerves sang, his skin riddled with gooseflesh. It was an excited type of nervousness that he wasn’t quite used to.
“Come forward as I call your name,” his father called. The Great Hall was deathly silent. “Marcella Bather.”
Chella gulped beside him and strode forward, her arms locked at her sides. She came before his father and went down on one knee, head bowed. She didn’t need to be told to do that, as they’d seen dozens of other squires get knighted before.
The commander drew his sword and held it skyward, both hands gripped around the hilt. “You have proven yourself worthy of the title of Knight of the Red Flame. Through your hard work and steadfast spirit, you have shown that you have what it takes. Do you understand the duties and responsibilities that come with this title?”
“I do, sir,” she answered loudly, her voice trembling but resolute.
“Do you pledge to defend humanity, the great city of Al-Sevara and her citizens with all your heart and your strength, down to your dying breath if need be?”
“I do, sir.”
“Do you pledge to carry this burden until the end of your days, or until you are physically unable to do so?”
“I do, sir.”
His father paused for but a moment, taking a deep breath. “Then I dub thee Dame Marcella Bather, Knight of the Red Flame.” He brought his sword down and tapped her from shoulder to shoulder with the flat of his blade. “Rise, Dame Bather.”
Marcella stood and faced the rest of the assembled. She had a smile as wide and bright as the sun. Her eyes glistened with tears. Sir Nogrund came up behind her, wincing ever-so-slightly from his injuries, and draped her new knight cloak around her shoulders. Ruby red, thick wool, with magical stitching supposedly enchanted by the Sage of the Sun herself, it could turn back most attacks from spirits. It was a very important symbol of the knights.
As Marcella clutched her cloak tight around her, she let out a laugh of pure joy, and the hall erupted into applause. When the noise died down after a few seconds, Vanter Vane called the next squire.
“Ollo Nevanson.”
And the rites were repeated to him and then Evan, who had recovered enough to attend. Neither managed to hold back tears as they waved and bowed to the crowds, who cheered the brothers on when they were given their cloaks. Dorrick’s heart swelled with pride as his friends got their just desserts. He knew better than anyone how hard they’d all worked for this.
Finally, it was his turn. “Dorrick Vane.”
Dorrick went forward, chin held high, eyes straight ahead on the steps to the dais. He had to think to put one foot in front of the other. Gods, why am I so nervous? Was it because he was finally achieving something that he’d worked his whole life for? That he’d suffered and fought and bled and sweat for? It was a dream that he was finally about to achieve, and he could still hardly believe it.
He stood before his father, gave him a slight nod, then took a knee. The commander read him his Oaths of Knighthood and he answered each with a strong I do, sir. He could hardly feel his lips move or hear the words he was speaking. It was like he was outside of his body, watching himself receive this honor. So surreal. Was this a dream?
No… No, it had to be real.
His father held his gaze for a long time, long enough for the silence to grow heavy in the room, before he finally smirked and passed the sword over Dorrick’s head from shoulder to shoulder.
“I dub thee Sir Dorrick Vane, Knight of the Red Flame. Rise, Sir Vane.”
Dorrick couldn’t contain his smile. His heart beat so loudly that he could hardly hear himself think. He was sure he was sweating, his skin glistening in the light, stains showing on his uniform for all to see. But he didn’t care. He’d done it. He was a knight. I am a knight!
Sir Nogrund came to place the cloak on him, but his father sheathed his sword and stopped him. “No, let me do it,” he said, only loud enough for the three of them to hear. Ba-dum. Dorrick’s heart slammed against his chest as his father gave him a sincere smile and draped the cloak around his shoulders. The cloak was heavy and warm, but it felt just right—perfect on his shoulders, like it was always meant to be there, like it was a piece of him that had been missing and was now found.
“You did well, Dorrick,” his father whispered. “I’m proud of you.”
I’m proud of you.
Dorrick almost fainted. Those were the words he’d wanted to hear for so long. And now there they were. Floating in his ears and into his heart and making his body hum and sing. He and his father faced the Great Hall as it exploded into a choir of applause. Marcella may have been the loudest. Dorrick, like his friends, couldn’t hold back his tears.
This was all he’d ever wanted, and it felt even better than he could have ever imagined.
The feast was a blur of drinking and smiles and laughter and handshakes and pats on the back. Dorrick couldn’t remember ever being so happy. He, a knight at last with his red cloak. His father, finally proud of him, not filled with contempt. He had everything he’d worked so hard for.
And he aimed to celebrate it.
The feasts of a knighting were always a joyous occasion. Though normally knights were held to a sense of modesty and decorum, they could let loose at the feasts. Drinks were drunk by the barrel. Enough food was eaten to feed the entire city. Songs were sung, and dances were danced.
Dorrick wasn’t a dancer—he’d rarely had reason to, even at past celebrations—but when Marcella came to him, cheeks as flushed with drink as his, smiled, and pulled him to his feet, he wasn’t going to deny her.
They danced fast and wild and full of joy, and so did all their friends and everyone around him. He even saw Sir Nogrund and the other captains enjoying themselves, though they seemed a bit more muted and relaxed. His father looked as stoic as ever, but Dorrick noticed his lips twitch up into the ghost of a smile once or twice.
It wasn’t much, but it was something.
The song they were dancing to ended and then went into a new one, a slow ballad. Knights and squires alike began to partner up, while others went to the peripheries to hit the kegs once more. Dorrick was about to do that, but Marcella wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him close.
“I didn’t give you permission to leave, Vane,” she said with a mischievous lilt to her voice.
He blushed. “I-I would never dream of leaving you, Chella,”
She grinned wide, which made his heart race. “Good, you better not.”
He put his arms around her hips, and they danced and danced, slow and steady. The whole time, his cheeks burned, and his heart beat a rapid tune. He wasn’t used to being this close to Marcella. It wasn’t a bad thing by any stretch of the imagination, he just wasn’t used to it.
“You aren’t a great dancer, I’ve noticed,” Marcella said after a few moments of silence.
He snorted. “Says the girl who can’t match a rhythm to save her life.”
She threw her head back and laughed. It was a sound he lived for.
“So, what shall I call you now?” she asked. “Sir Vane?”
Dorrick cringed. “Eh, I think my father goes by that. Wouldn’t want to confuse us.”
Another laugh. “I don’t think anyone is going to confuse you two. No need to worry about that, little Vane.”
“You wound me, my lady.”
“I speak only the truth.”
They shared a chuckle. Truth be told, if they were speaking truths, he didn’t want to be confused for his father. He craved Vanter Vane’s love and attention and his pride in him, but his father was cold and ruthless and shrewd. All things needed for a good commander, but that wasn’t something Dorrick wanted to be. Being his father wasn’t his goal. He just wanted his approval.
When they stopped laughing, Dorrick subtly pulled Marcella closer against him. “Sir Dorrick sounds fine to me.”
She noticed. Her arms tightened around his neck and she rested her face on his shoulder. “I like the sound of that. So official.”
“What about you?” he said, licking his lips. He was sure she could feel how fast and hard his heart was beating. “Dame Marcella feels like too much of a mouthful.”
She snorted. “Good. If someone’s addressing me as Dame Marcella, they either want something or want to yell at me, so they should use all those syllables.” They both laughed at that. “But no, I’ll probably go by Dame Bather. It is my name, after all.”
