Date Knight

by Bridget Essex

  The large hallway below branches out to different hallways, and as we reach the floor level, I can see this hallway opening up to the massive banquet hall.

  Far, far ahead of us is the banquet hall itself. On a dais, overlooking the crowd, is a single, long table positioned lengthwise to the wall behind it, with Queen Calla sitting at the very center. I know it's Queen Calla because she's wearing a large crown that I can make out from this far back, and her blonde hair is loose, falling over her shoulders and the front of her dress.

  I also know it's Calla, because, beside Calla, standing on her right, is Charaxus, conspicuous because of her height and her black armor. I don't have the best view (seriously, you could fit a football stadium in here without any problem), but Charaxus appears to be bending to the queen and whispering something into her ear.

  “Come,” says Virago, placing a protective arm around my waist. “The knights have a table near the queen.”

  I see that there are many long tables as we move through the press of people. It seems that almost everyone is already drunk with whatever they have in those little goblets in their hands.

  “That's Magin,” says Virago, indicating the goblet of the woman nearest to us. The woman herself is wearing an overly large, awesome hat with about a billion different-colored feathers sticking out of it. She's saying something unintelligible to her companions, slurring the words.

  Virago smiles at me. “Magin is our drink of choice at gatherings, because it intoxicates quickly, but it also filters out of your body quickly, leaving no side effects,” she chuckles. Virago picks up a goblet from the tray of a woman walking by, and she hands the glass to me. “Would you care to try it?”

  What the hell. This is research, right? I'm the first person from Earth to visit another world. If I don't partake of the local cuisine...

  Oh, who am I kidding? I'm just really, really curious about what a magical beverage tastes like.

  I sniff the contents of the goblet as we keep walking through the crowd, and I'm captivated. There are so many notes to the scent of this liquor: the first is something citrusy. I can't quite place which citrus fruit, but I realize they probably wouldn't have the same fruits here on Agrotera that they have on Earth. Then, spiraling over that citrus note is the rich, decadent darkness of chocolate, followed by a bright inhale of vanilla.

  Virago smiles at me as I close my eyes, as I tip the goblet back and take the first sip.

  The scent of the drink was very strong, but in my mouth, it's an explosion of flavor. I swallow it down, relishing the citrus that merges so beautifully with that chocolate—the best chocolate-tasting thing I've ever had in my life, by the way, and I've always considered myself a chocolate connoisseur. The mellow blossom of vanilla finishes out the array of tastes with a flourish. I gasp as I swallow it, and then I open my eyes, staring up at Virago.

  “I've never tasted anything like that,” I breathe to her, and Virago smiles at me, taking the goblet from my hand and setting it on another tray that whirls by and is whisked away.

  “A warning: the effects should take hold in a moment or two,” she tells me as we continue across the floor. “But you didn't drink that much, so you should be fine.”

  I nod and thread my arm through hers, glancing up at the chandeliers above us. They're enormous, each one with dozens of fluted, metal arms supporting candles that illuminate the hall with a warm, golden light. There are also orbs of light around the edges of the wall, about knight-height (definitely above my head) that seem to just hover there. There is nothing that connects them to the wall; the golden orbs simply hang, suspended from nothing, making the perimeter glow.

  Because the room is so well lit, I can easily take in the splendor. There are about twenty long tables (one woman sitting at the end of one table is screaming at someone at the other end of the table, and said person keeps yelling back “What? Huh? I can't hear you!”), all with cobalt blue table runners shot through with embroidered golden stars, adorned with blue flowers in tall silver vases. Many people are moving to sit down at these tables now, but there are still plenty of bystanders milling about, waiting—I suppose—to see what's going to happen.

  Queen Calla stands up at this moment in a smooth unfolding of her body, and the entire room, surprisingly, falls into silence, as if everyone is holding their breath. You could hear a pin drop in the sudden hush.

  “Welcome, one and all!” Calla calls, lifting up her arms and smiling at the assembled mass, her voice carrying throughout the room. “Please enjoy our banquet. You are very welcome here,” she says, and then she sits back down amidst thunderous applause as, somewhat behind her and to the right, two massive double doors open wide, and people come out bearing silver trays of food, carried high over their heads triumphantly.

  I wouldn't be startled right now if inanimate objects started to sing about “being our guest,” because the servers move through the doors as if they're dancing, and music starts up—though I don't know where it's coming from. I can't see a string quartet anywhere in the crowd, but the music sounds live. The servers, all women, colorfully dressed in costumes with flowing cobalt veils attached to their shoulders, bring these plates of food to the tables and dance away.

  More and more women bearing more and more food enter the hall. It's a never-ending line of strange-looking dishes, some of which I might actually be brave enough to try. I did just down another world's booze, after all. Some of the concotions look like rice, and some look a little like pasta, and there are vegetables for days, and fruit (I think it's fruit?) cracked open and formed into the shapes of different animals, all brightly colored and delicious-looking. There are pies and cakes and puddings and tarts, and as a server walks by with something that looks like a pot of tea, I cave and wave her down, asking for a cup.

  “Here you are, milady!” she says, pouring the tea out with a theatrical flourish and handing me the cup with a wide smile. “Enjoy!”

  I peer down into the cobalt blue china cup and stare at the tea: it's actually glittering. And it smells glorious, like blueberry green tea.

  “Ah, you'll like that,” says Virago with a smile, before her brow furrows a bit with worry. “Are you feeling the effects of the Magin yet, my love?”

  “No, I feel great,” I tell her, sipping at the tea and sighing happily. “Oh, my God, that is so good.”

  “I'm glad...” Virago begins, but then she trails off, lifting her face, eyes wide. I've never seen her look like that before. I set the cup back down on the table, my mouth suddenly dry.

  There's a grimness that comes over her face, a frown so deep and dark that it gives me a chill.

  And again, suddenly, the room is silenced. It's shocking, as if an entire movie theater's worth of sound is immediately cut out. I follow the direction of Virago's gaze, searching throughout the room, trying to figure out what could possibly have happened to make everyone stop talking, stop laughing, stop partying...

  All heads, including Virago's, are turned in only one direction, and it takes mere seconds for me to see what caused the hush.

  At the entrance to the dining hall stands a man. But this isn't just any random man off the streets. This guy is wearing a massive, thick fur coat, stands just as tall as the knights (which, you know, is a feat in and of itself), and on top of his head, he wears a crown. It's scary-looking, that crown, because it appears to be made of several hundred nails that were slightly melted, oozing together and then forced into a crown-like shape. He has long, black, wavy hair, and his expression...

  God, he's terrifying. He has bright blue eyes, a long, wolfish nose and a scowl that seems to be the result of him trying to suppress an outright snarl (it's not working).

  As he lifts his chin, as he strides into the room with several black armored men (their armor looks a whole hell of a lot like Charaxus' black armor) falling into line behind him, I can see Calla at the front of the room standing genteelly, folding her hands in front of her but lifting her chin, eyes flashing.
r />   Calla is no pushover.

  I realize, at this moment, that this is probably that king that everyone's worried about, and I find out I'm right when Virago leans close to me, her lips brushing against my ear as she whispers, “This is the king of Furo, Charix,” she tells me, her voice hard and flat; I've never heard her sound so unhappy.

  I look up at her, eyes wide, and I whisper the very first thing that comes into my head. “That's weird. That's such a similar name to...” I drift off when Virago shakes her head gently.

  She raises a single brow and murmurs to me, “King Charix is Charaxus' brother.”

  My mouth gapes as I glance at Charaxus then, standing uneasily on the dais, her chin raised uncomfortably high, her face pointed in a completely different direction from her brother, the king. Charix, on the other hand, is staring holes into his sister's head, his eyes full of a raging fire that I feel uncomfortable to witness. His expression is predatory, and I shiver, glancing away.

  “Oh, my God,” I mutter, shaken. “So...so this means that Charaxus is from his country? She's from Furo? The country that has everyone worried?” I ask Virago, and she nods to me, her mouth set in a thin, hard line as she watches the king advancing toward the queen's table, prowling between the tables like a ravenous lion.

  “It is one of many reasons that Charaxus and I have never seen eye to eye,” Virago murmurs, her jaw clenched with tension. “It is not good that Furo was invited to take part in the Hero's Tournament. All countries are typically invited, but Furo is simply too unstable now, with Charix as its new ruler. And there is too much at stake. Allowing the king of a chaotic, bloodthirsty country and so many of his knights to come into our capital city...” Virago shifts and looks as if she wants to rake her hand back through her hair in frustration, but she thinks better of it, instead clenching her hands into fists at her sides.

  “I think that the attempt on Queen Calla's life was because of a Furo assassin,” Virago tells me then, her blue eyes glittering with worry, her voice hushed in the stillness as King Charix's big boots tromp on the banquet hall floor. She growls softly in frustration. “But I have no proof of that, and Queen Calla would never disallow a country from participating in the Tournament—it is too unfair,” she whispers, her face now showing anguish as she shakes her head with a sigh. “I am so worried for her, my love,” says Virago, her eyes drifting up to her queen. “So very, very worried. I am worried that I cannot keep you safe. Or her safe. Or my beloved city safe—” Her voice breaks on those last few words.

  I reach out across the space between us, and I take her hand in mine. “Hey, you know what? There's nothing to be worried about. You're here now,” I whisper to her, and I finally make eye contact, holding her gaze, her worried blue eyes making my heart skip a beat. “Calla came to find you because you're the best knight for the job. I know that you can keep the queen safe. There's not going to be any assassin getting through you. I don't care what country they're from. You're the best, Virago,” I whisper to her. “The very best.”

  Virago's mouth turns up at the corners finally, and though her brow is still furrowed, she offers me a small smile. “Thank you, my love,” she tells me softly, squeezing my hand, too. “I will try my very best to keep you, and her, and everyone in my city safe during this tournament. It is my sworn duty. My honor to do so.”

  But Virago falls silent then, because the king is finally approaching the queen's table (did I mention that this is a very big room?), his boots sounding even louder on the floor now that he's closer to us. The echoing thud, thud, thud of the king and his men marching, and the advancement of so many people clad in black armor coming our way...it makes me shiver, just a little, and in a very not-good way.

  And then King Charix arrives to stand before Queen Calla's dais.

  I'm not exactly an expert in how members of royalty greet each other (is anyone an expert in that?), but if it were me, I'd probably do an awkward bow or nod my head or, you know, make some sort of gesture that I was in the presence of a person who was my equal, and someone I respected.

  But that's not what King Charix does right now. Instead of deference or respect, or even a nod of simple greeting, he stands with his booted feet wide apart, folding his arms in front of him, his biceps flexing, his expression even angrier than before. And his imposing black-clad knights, fanned out behind him, don't make any sort of gesture, either, copying their king as they fold their arms and stare daggers at Queen Calla.

  But Queen Calla, to her credit, doesn't seem to give a damn at all as she draws herself up to her most regal height and smiles beatifically at these silent, brooding (actually, they really look like they're sulking) men.

  “Gentlemen,” Calla says, her voice warm as she spreads her arms, a small smile flashing over her face. “Welcome to Arktos.”

  King Charix doesn't reply, only continues to stare at Calla, occasionally flicking his gaze to his sister Charaxus, his sister who is studiously staring off to the side, her face wooden, her jaw clenched tightly as she ignores her brother.

  For a long, painful moment of silence that seems to stretch on and on (but what is, in reality, only a handful of seconds), nothing happens. There is a staring match between King Charix, who refuses to acknowledge the queen, and the queen herself, who stands on the dais, her chin tilted up, her eyes flashing. There is perfect silence in the entire room, and all you can hear is hundreds (maybe thousands) of women and men holding their breath, waiting, watching...

  And then the spell is broken. It's obvious that King Charix was trying to make Calla look like a fool with his silent treatment. But she's too smooth for that.

  She laughs a little, and the sound is low, musical, like bells pealing. She tilts her head to the side, her smile growing wider.

  “It must have been a harsh journey, milord,” she says, her eyes flashing merrily, and her mouth turning up mischievously at the corners, “for you are too tired to even speak! Do not worry; we will ply you with food and drink, help you get your strength back. Dancers!” she calls, clapping her hands, “help welcome the king!”

  And then Calla sits down gracefully, leaning back in her chair and threading her fingers together over her stomach as she watches the king imperiously. Her sitting down is obviously a dismissal.

  Round one, Calla: 1, Charix: 0.

  To my surprise, the king—who has a very pale face, as white as chalk—begins to flush. Through the back doors, dancers come rushing in, running in rhythm as they flood the room, a tidal wave of blue- and purple-bedecked women.

  They're wearing wide-legged pants and a wide strip of shimmering cloth over their breasts, but other than that, these women are bare-skinned, with metal necklaces and bracelets and anklets shimmering as they begin to whirl around. And though these women are, technically, scantily clad, there is nothing overly sexualized about what they're doing. If anything, they look incredibly wild, tossing their heads and long hair, their muscled legs kicked high as they spin, their arms upheld to the sky. I'm mesmerized watching them move in rhythm, watching them spin and leap and run past us. Again, I can't see any band playing, but there's music in the room now, and it's louder, wilder, too.

  The dancers spin around Charix, and he has no choice; he must retreat, back to the table on the far side of the room, because they'll make him part of their act if he doesn't. There was room for him to sit up on the dais with Queen Calla (I'm assuming that the other people sitting with her are other dignitaries and rulers from other countries), but there were too many women between him and the dais for him to wade through, so he's stuck on the outer edge of the room. It's a snub from Calla, who surely had this orchestrated if he decided to be a jerk about things; she strikes me as the planning sort. But then my stomach clenches, and I worry about what this will mean for relations between Arktos and Furo. A snub from Calla won't sit well with that angry king...

  I can't worry about all of that for too long, though, because the women whirling by the table draw my attention. They're so dam
n energetic (seriously, if I attempted a single flying leap, I'd probably end up in the hospital with a broken foot or something), and they're such a pleasure to watch as the music spirals faster and faster, and the women move, adjusting to the music as they kick higher, leap off of each other's shoulders or over each other, the fabric on their costumes shimmering, their bodies, in every earth-tone color you can imagine, living personifications of the music that swells around us.

  Finally, the crescendo of the music cuts out, and the women sink to the ground at the same moment, falling artfully where they stood. For a long, drawn-out moment, there is complete stillness, and around the edges of the room, a smattering of applause breaks out from people who aren't sure if this is the end of an act. But then the applause stops, because a different kind of music begins to fill the banquet hall, a single strain that sounds like a flute being played mournfully, the notes falling over each other to climb higher and higher, swirling in a minor key that tugs at my heartstrings so much that I reach out to Virago and take her hand, squeezing it, emotion filling me.

  And, one by one, the dancers rise around us again, like seeds growing up within the earth, unfurling leaves, starting small, still curled up tightly on the ground, and then one arm reaching up elegantly, a questing vine, searching for light. And another arm reaches up, their balled hands opening slowly, fingers spread to the air and the light overhead as they rise, opening their hearts as they arch their backs, their eyes still closed until the very last moment. They begin to hold onto each other, and they hold each other close, drawing closer still, closer, as a drumbeat begins to fill the hall, a slow, sensual beat that stirs something inside of me.

  I didn't sense anything sexual in the women's movements before, because there wasn't anything sexual about them. But now something is changed, because they are, in essence, moving together. It's heartbreakingly beautiful, how each woman looks at her partner, how tenderly she holds her as they spin slowly on the floor. Every action, every delicate change of hand or foot, is in rhythm with the music, and as the two women begin to merge, the drumbeat starts to throb faster, like your heart starts to beat quicker when you see someone you love, when you look at them across the room...when you look at a woman and just know.