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Noble Knights

Anya

P assing through the gates of Castle Might was much the same as passing into the city, but with no line and more guards. Still, it took Idris only the flash of his tattoo to grant us passage, and then we were riding through the twin guard towers of the barbican gate and into the bailey.

I glanced over my shoulder as we left the chaotic streets behind, dizzied by the height of the city’s final plateau. The castle overlooked what felt like the whole world: the huge stair-like steps of the city, the flat grasslands beyond the city wall, endless agriculture clustered along the thin thread of the Wend, the east and western forests a mere fuzz at the edges of the fertile hills rolling southward.

I was still staring as the portcullis closed, blocking my view. Then Idris was swinging off of Briar with a metallic thud. He lifted his hands toward me, and though I could climb off a horse by myself, I allowed him to deposit me on the ground. My legs wobbled with worry, but more than that, I wanted to feel his hands on me as much as I could before I had to stand on my own for trial.

Idris took Briar’s reins in one hand and my shoulder in the other, leading us farther into a huge rectangular courtyard, grassy and crisscrossed with stone pathways. Guards and other personnel scuttled back and forth between the low-lying buildings on either side of us, paying us no mind, save for the occasional fleeting acknowledgement: a look, a wave, a nod. Ahead of us, Castle Might’s keep stood resolute in the afternoon sunlight, its imposing architecture square and regal.

Idris did not gawk or meander; he walked confidently, as if he knew the way—though I noticed a slight stiffness in his gait. I knew he was a knight, but it hadn’t really occurred to me what that truly meant. He was…noble. He served the Lord. He’d probably been here countless times. Without him, I probably wouldn’t have gotten past the gatehouse of the city, let alone the castle—certainly not without shackles.

I stared at his profile, seeing the last two weeks with him from a new angle.

Idris glanced at me sidelong. “What?”

“I’m realizing how important you must be, to be able to waltz in here without questioning.”

He looked forward again. “Make no mistake, Anya. I am but a dog wearing a collar and leash in my master’s home.”

The disdain in his voice made me flinch. Why would he take an Oath if it felt like a collar and leash? And what sort of dog did he see himself as? A hound hunting monsters? A guard posted on the edge of civilization, small towns like Waldron mere herds of sheep to him? Having seen Idris’s formidable skill and power, the fact that he saw himself as a dog at all was…troubling.

He lifted his chin, and suddenly I saw the tattoo that ringed his neck in an all new light. I followed his gaze forward, realizing he wasn’t staring at the keep but something closer.

In the center of the yard stood a large marble statue of a man on bent knee, head hung. He held a round shield, and his carved cape flowed backward off his hunched form as if kicked up by wind. In his right hand, he gripped the round pommel of a sword, its point nestled into the ground. A knight of Fenrir, leaning on his weapon, about to rise after a stunning blow.

As we got closer, I realized the sword was real —and too huge for an average man. At least seven feet long. The steel shined brightly in the afternoon sunlight, its edge still razor-sharp. Until this moment, I would’ve thought Idris—with Halgren—was the most formidable-looking knight in Fenrir. But whomever the statue immortalized made even Idris’s imposing form appear diminished.

I approached the statue, halting at its base. Idris came up beside me, slackening Briar’s lead so the horse could nibble grass at our feet.

“That’s Noble the Mighty, the first Order Knight,” Idris said, “and his sword, Killhammer.”

The Order of the Mighty were the most famous and well-respected Order, with knights scattered throughout the seven territories and Marona—but I’d never heard of its founder. “His name truly was Noble?” I asked, finding it too perfect for mere coincidence. I wondered if Hattie’s crush had been named after this Mighty Knight.

“No,” Idris said with a chuckle. “His actual name was Nolan, but legends have a way of twisting word and fact.”

“What did he do to become the talk of legend? Aside from being able to wield such a gigantic blade?”

Idris quirked a brow at me. “Do you find Killhammer more impressive than Halgren?”

“Who wouldn’t?”

Idris clutched his breastplate, as if I’d wounded him. “So quickly have I fallen from your esteem?”

I rolled my eyes. “Killhammer is at least a foot longer than Halgren.”

“It’s not the length of the sword, but how a knight uses it, that matters.”

I scoffed at the cheap joke, even as my face flushed with memory—with desire.

Idris bent down, his lips grazing my ear. “Have you forgotten that mine glows blue?” he whispered almost inaudibly, his voice teasing and seductive.

“Are we still talking about Halgren? Because otherwise, you really ought to see an apothecary about that.”

Idris tipped his head back, laughing heartily.

I faced the statue again. “So, what legendary tale precedes this statue?”

A new voice joined our conversation from across the courtyard, drawing both our attention. “Six hundred years ago, in the War of Wraiths, an alchemist’s apprentice named Nolan from Fenrir enlisted in Marona’s Royal Army. He worked his way up the ranks, and eventually founded the Order of the Mighty, the first Oath-bound Knights, which led the charge at the Battle of East Hammer. His victory marked the end of the war.”

The speaker halted a couple paces away. He was tall and broad, with golden hair and a kingly jaw. Based on the regality of his appearance, I would’ve thought him the Lord of Fenrir, except that he wore gold armor and possessed an Oath tattoo. A red and orange cloak was draped over his shoulder, and a dazzlingly ornate double-headed battle-axe was strapped to his back, the rounded blades glittering behind his head like a deadly halo.

At the sight of him, Idris took a knee, bowing deeply. “Oderin,” he said, chin tucked.

Following Idris’s lead, I lifted my skirts and sunk into a low curtsey.

“Rise, you ass,” Oderin said to Idris, striding forward. He clapped Idris on the back, then pulled him into a quick hug, their metal armor clacking together. When he released Idris, Oderin turned his golden-brown eyes on me. “Who do we have here?”

“This is Anya Alvara,” Idris said.

I rose, staring up at the golden warrior.

“She’s here for trial before the Lord,” Idris added.

Oderin’s warm smile faltered, his brows drawing together. “A criminal?”

Idris procured a folded paper from his pocket and handed it to the other knight. Oderin unfolded it quickly, eyes darting over the page. “A hypothetical criminal,” he amended, not without a hint of pity in his tone. He waved the paper. “This prisoner caravan was meant to arrive two days ago.”

“She was the lone survivor,” Idris said. “It’s why I’m here.”

Oderin’s tan skin visibly paled. He handed the paper back to Idris. “Seems there’s much to discuss. Come. Let’s get you inside.” He turned on a heel, marching toward a low building off to the right.

Idris tucked the paper back into his pocket. It must’ve been a crime record he found while cleaning up the mess after he rescued me. It was a reminder that, no matter what had happened between us on the road, our quest had begun with Idris’s sense of duty toward the Lord—a directive that was still intact.

Idris pressed his hand into my back, guiding me quickly forward, with Briar on his other side. While we walked, he whispered into my ear again—not sultry this time, but forceful. “Say nothing of what you’ve seen.”

It turned out that “much to discuss” didn’t include me.

Once Briar had been handed off to a stable hand, I was deposited in Oderin’s single bedroom inside the barracks. Apparently, he was a rather high-ranking Knight of the Order of the Mighty, overseeing the Royal Guard. Which explained Oderin’s gold armor, glamorous weapon, and Idris’s immediate, respectful bow.

What I hadn’t gleaned on our short walk to Oderin’s quarters was how he knew Idris and why they were so chummy. Oderin must’ve been the friend Idris had mentioned, the reason he knew of the One Week cabin.

Their friendship certainly boded well for me. Oderin had deposited me in his bedroom —not a dungeon—in spite of my technically being a prisoner of Fenrir. As far as temporary holding cells were concerned, this was quite cushy. As I stared out Oderin’s single window, overlooking the eastern foothills of the Axe Range, I wondered how else their chumminess might benefit me.

Feeling restless, I turned away from the window and went to my pack. Underneath the spare clothes and Hattie’s tinctures were the numerous letters I’d carried from Waldron. It comforted me to look upon them, count them, remind myself of the community I had back home. Each letter was secured with Mayor Tomilson’s seal pressed into the wax—proof of their legitimacy. I’d already read through Hammond’s instructions, too, just a few sentences about etiquette (such as remembering to curtsy and not looking at the Lord until prompted). I knew nothing of Mirror Trials, but the advice of a Mirror Knight and the character references from my closest friends and neighbors—combined with my connection to Idris and now Oderin— had to mean something.

I had expected to grow more and more anxious the closer I got to facing the Lord, but a quiet hope was building in me instead, a fortress made entirely of my community, each person a pillar of support. Bolstered, I allowed myself a moment to indulge in imagining my trip home. Riding Briar with Idris wedged into the saddle behind me. Frosty nights snuggled up in our tent. Cresting the hill into Waldron. Folks crowding Swan’s Row, waving excitedly. Wicker bounding over the cobblestones and into my arms to lick my face. Introducing Idris to the town.

With a sigh, I tucked the letters carefully back into my pack. I was getting ahead of myself.

I glanced out the window again, noting the position of the sun. Almost an hour had passed since I’d been deposited here, and I was getting bored of my own thoughts. I could take a nap, but it seemed weird to sleep in Idris’s friend’s bed—and besides, I was too antsy to rest.

Seeking other interests, I sank into the wooden chair by Oderin’s small writing desk. The surface of the desk was littered with papers: maps, records, and lists of names. I brushed a finger over the uneven edge of a particularly precarious stack and casually read the top: a news report from the remote western town of Yar-on-Gray. As I skimmed the words, a cold prickle of dread prodded at the base of my throat like the steely tip of a dagger.

Abomination.

Massacre.

Few survivors .

I swallowed. Reread. The report was rushed, barely two sentences.

I lifted the sheet off the stack, hoping to find further explanation underneath, but the disruption caused the papers to slide sideways across the desk. I fumbled, catching the slow topple and steadying the pages lest they spill onto the floor. But as I pushed the papers into a pile again, the stack remained unsteady, balanced awkwardly atop a small but rather thick book.

Carefully, I leaned the stack against my arm and slid the book out from underneath their weight, setting it aside as I straightened the papers back into balance. Once the almost-mess was contained, I picked up the book. Perhaps it would entertain me while I waited for Idris and Oderin to return.

The book was bound in red leather, its edges tooled with a pretty triangle pattern. In gold debossing, the cover read: Orders .

A hungry curiosity swept over me, and I flipped through the pages, my attention gobbling up as much as it could. As its simple title suggested, the book was a log of all Orders: their histories, what they entailed, with details about the magical bindings, including the words knights recited to take their Oaths.

My first instinct was to search for Idris’s Order, but I knew so little, beyond his charge to fight monsters. And I saw no mention of “monsters.” Remembering the news report, I began skimming for the word “abomination,” but in my frenzy, I didn’t spot that, either. The word I did see in great repetition was, perhaps, more presently disturbing: “sentence.”

As in criminal sentence.

I found it on the pages for the Order of the Shrewd, the Order of the Fierce, the Order of the Valiant. I’d never heard of such Orders before, but each and every one of them had the same final line in their Oaths:

By the Fates and the arcane power of this Oath, I swear fealty to the Order of [that which the Oath pertained], never to forsake my duty except in the completion of my sentence or death, whichever comes sooner.

Was the Lord using some Orders as a form of imprisonment? Punishment? It was a known fact of Fenrir that countless Orders existed, some famous and lauded, others secret. It was the same as the factions in Fenrir’s army, the cavalry a known entity, while no-doubt there were spies and other groups carrying out more clandestine dealings. I’d never thought much about who took the Oaths and how—or why. Over the years, a few young men had left Waldron with their sights set on enlisting in one way or another, but I’d never taken much interest in how folks served the Lord. It’d never concerned me.

Now , it concerned me.

A dog with a collar was a prisoner of sorts, no? Did the leash not imply that the dog would run, if given the freedom?

A loud clang outside the door had me snapping the book shut and shoving it underneath one of the smaller piles on the desk. I smoothed my hands over the front of my Fate Ceremony dress, wiping off my sweaty palms. Twenty or so voices filled the hall with a sudden, nervous chatter, as if a meeting were letting out.

I went to the door, pressing my ear to it to eavesdrop. I elevated my magic, sifting through the confusion of numerous, echoing conversations happening at once as the group passed.

“—Mirror Criminals seem like the least of the Lord’s problems when—”

“—you hear the rumors from Yar? What if—”

“That can’t be possible, it’s too—”

“—wonder if the incident is related to—”

“Do you think it’s possible for an Order to fail?”

“If so, it’s a sobering thought.”

The voices diminished as swiftly as they came, the group disappearing down the hall. I turned the doorknob slowly and poked my head out to look after them, curious who they were—Royal Guard? Other knights of some kind?

I’d barely caught a glimpse of annoyingly unidentifiable red and orange rounding the bend when a voice called out from the direction from which the others had come.

“Anya?”

I startled, blinked, not truly believing who I saw.

Hammond was standing at the end of the hall with a tall, dark-skinned woman who wore the same Mirror Knight attire as he. Given the delays Idris and I faced on the road, they must’ve just beaten us to the capital after the Mirrors’ tour across Fenrir.

“I’ll catch up with you,” Hammond said to his fellow knight, and with a nod, she turned on a heel, disappearing around a corner.

Then Hammond was rushing toward me, his bootsteps echoing in the now-quiet hallway. When he reached me, Hammond glanced at both ends of the hall before pulling me into a quick version of one of his bone-crunching hugs.

His eyes were wide when he released me. “ Fates , Anya, I thought you were—” He covered his mouth with a hand.

“You heard about the prisoner caravan,” I guessed.

He nodded, then glanced at the placard on the door. “What are you doing in the Major’s quarters?”

“Oderin deposited me here,” I said. “He’s meeting with my escort.”

“Your…” Hammond’s eyes widened even further. “ Fates , Anya, you truly are full of surprises.” He gripped my shoulders, whispering quickly. “What happened out there? There’s been some speculation among the ranks, but—”

I shook my head. “I’m not sure I should say, Hammond.”

His hands slid off me, and he straightened, regarding me quizzically. “Is that so?”

Apparently, my avoidance of his question was telling enough. I thought of Idris’s Oath, his warning: Say nothing of what you’ve seen.

“Tell me, how is Ellie?” I asked quickly.

His eyes narrowed, seeing my evasion plainly, but the topic of his wife was one he could never resist. “Morning sick,” he said, “but she glows more radiantly than sunlight on snow.”

“Throwing up all day can do that, I hear,” I said.

He chuckled, then shrugged. “Every time I call her beautiful lately, she says I’m blinded by devotion, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

I smiled at him, warmed by the hint of normalcy. Of love and humor and the hope of growing families.

“I best be going,” Hammond said, pointing a thumb over his shoulder. “Has your trial been set yet?”

“I’m not sure. We just arrived. I was told to wait here.”

“Oderin is a good person to have on your side,” he said. “I’ll do my best to be there for your trial, too.”

“Really?” I asked, touched.

“My presence won’t do anything for your case, but perhaps a familiar face…”

Bootsteps echoed nearer from an unseen hallway, but I didn’t care. I stepped into another tight hug, relishing Hammond’s kindness. “Thank you,” I said against his chest.

A throat cleared, and we parted to find Idris approaching. His nostrils were flared slightly—and not in a way that suggested magic, but…jealousy? I smirked, finding it rather silly that he’d be so on edge around Hammond , of all people.

“Idris,” I said, waving at him. “Do you know Hammond? He’s a Mirror Knight I know from—”

“The Lord will see you now,” Idris interrupted tightly.