The Knights of Sheba Ep.8: "To be a Knight" A

 Episode Eight: To be a Knight

 

            At midday, Viscount Salamand Seere enters his meeting hall and finds a messenger waiting.  The messenger wears a dark purple rope emblazoned with the horned mask of Duke Dantalion.  He bows low at Seere’s appearance and waits for permission to rise.

            Seere is wearing a loose, white robe with red fringes.  The sleeves hangs long over his thin hands. He pulls them back and waves those hands.  “Now, now,” he says, “There’s no need for such flattery.”  He settles on his throne.  “Rise, so that we may speak.”

            The messenger does as instructed.  He wears his large, dark hood with a mask underneath, like all those who speak on behalf of the duke. Behind the mask, Seere can see hints of green flesh and dark hair.  When the messenger speaks, he has a voice deep like a cavern and equally rough.  “I apologize, my lord, if I have offended.  I was instructed to give due courtesy.”

            “Your behavior does everything but offend, I assure you,” Seere says, crossing his legs and smoothing his robe to them before continuing.  “I am simply pragmatic, and while manners and tradition have their place in the world, that place is not my meeting hall. I would rather attend to business here, not flattery.”

            “Of course, Viscount,” the messenger says before giving another deep bow.

            Seere smiles.  “Now then, if you would, why have you come to me on this day?  What word do you bring from the duchy?”

            “My lord, the Duke Dantalion, sent me with only one message, sir.  He wished to inform you that his armies are supplied and ready upon your word.  You need only ask, and he will follow you into battle.”

            “Good,” Seere says.  “Though, hardly necessary to send you so far.  Regardless, I will have you return with a message from me, if you are so inclined.”

            “Of course, sir.”

            “Then inform your lord that we will move soon, that he will need only wait a short time, and then he will be given his due.”

            The messenger nods.  “Yes, sir.  He will be told.”

            “I thank you,” Seere says, bobbing his head in a halfhearted bow.  The messenger bows low in return and leaves.  Once he is away from the hall, Seere turns to Ruka, who is ever at his side, and says, “Soon, Ruka.  Soon, we will take our first step toward seizing our destiny and, from there, the destiny of all our kind.”

 

-The Knights of Sheba-

 

            The bell rings, and winter vacation begins.  Geneva moves through the halls with uncharacteristic alacrity and purpose, finding her locker and stuffing her things inside.  She plans to forget them for the entirety of her break.  Between Kit, school, and the knights, life has been too busy, and she is looking forward to a moment’s reprieve.

            After stowing her things, she goes straight to the gym and waits inside of Ms. Olivia’s office.  This has become their familiar routine.  Sometimes, Ms. Olivia makes her wait for nearly an hour, and Geneva uses the time to catch up on homework.  Or she would, if she were more industrious.  More often than not, she naps.

            Today, Ms. Olivia makes her wait longer than usual.  Rather than rest, Geneva paces a small, anxious circle in one corner and contemplates her free time.  She schedules her fun in blocks and struggles to sort them properly, in order of least-to-most important.  After some contemplation, she decides that Kit falls somewhere in the middle.

            Ms. Olivia finishes a final check in her planner and then puts it away inside of her desk.  Gathering her things, she pulls her satchel over her shoulder and stands.  “Ms. Oaks, if you’re ready, I would like to go.”

            Geneva stops, hands on her hips.  “I was waiting on you.”

            Ms. Olivia glances Geneva over.  “Where is your backpack?”

            “In my locker,” Geneva says.  “No reason to bring it.  Luckily, my teachers aren’t so vindictive as to assign homework for over break.”

            Ms. Olivia goes to the door and waits for Geneva to follow her through. She locks it after.  “You don’t think you should study over break,” she asks as they cross the gym floor toward the exit.  Geneva responds with a long, dead stare.  “Yes, I suppose that was a rather silly question.”

            “It’s okay,” Geneva says, “You’re still learning.  Pro-tip: humans hate hard work, and we especially hate extra credit.”

            “All humans?”

            “All humans named Geneva Evelyn Oaks.”  She points at herself.  “Yo.”

            Together, they step through the doorway and out into the chill of winter.  Snow has gathered in large, white clumps around the parking lot.  Water freezes in the cracks of the asphalt.  Ms. Olivia pulls her jacket close and says, “My, does it ever get cold here.”

            “Not the same where you’re from,” Geneva asks, her head down against the wind.

            “There are places in my realm that are cooler, but nothing quite like your poles, I must admit.  Where I was born is warm and humid, more like your summer.  The change here is drastic, and one I was not expecting.”

            “Oh, yeah, you’re still new here, aren’t you?”

            Ms. Olivia nods.  “Less than a year.”

            “Well, now you know what to warn others about.”

            “I suppose so.”  They reach the SUV and climb inside.  Ms. Olivia turns it on while Geneva fiddles with the heater.  It blows cold air on her fingertips as she waits patiently for it to warm.

            “So, what’s on the schedule today, teach?”

            “I was thinking of working with the ring again.”  Ms. Olivia fastens her seatbelt and pulls forward, turning onto the road.  The heater starts to work, stirring the cold air of the car with fresh warmth.

            Geneva glances sideways at Ms. Olivia.  “You aren’t going to pull a gun on me, are you?”

            “Hopefully, that will not be unnecessary.”

            Half an hour later, they arrive at the compound’s front gate and follow the long, winding dirt road into the thicket where the building stands.  The changing of the seasons has brought early nights, and a thick darkness chokes the still, white landscape.  In the distance, the city glows like a gathering of fireflies.

            Geneva’s parents still believe Ms. Olivia is her tutor.  After months of training, Geneva has mixed feelings on the matter.  On the one hand, the lie allows her to train to be a knight.  On the other hand, the lie makes it possible for her to even be a knight.  In fits of frustration, she blames her parent’s gullibility for all of her problems.  Usually, that helps her feel better in brief spurts.

            They enter through the front door and head straight to the basement.  Anymore, the elves no longer gather to watch her fail.  It is a small comfort.  Stepping into the basement, she finds it well-lit but chill.  The rest of the house is dark, even the rooms that are occupied.  The elves conserve their energy where they can and run the entire facility on solar power.

            Before they begin, Ms. Olivia has Geneva strip her jacket.  Geneva stands stiff, holding her body and shivering as she waits for instruction.  Meanwhile, Ms. Olivia pulls a few books from her satchel and lays them out on a table.  When she turns, she says, “Are you ready, Ms. Oaks?”

            “To go home? Yes, please.”

            “Ms. Oaks.”

            “Just a joke.”  Geneva lowers her arms and takes a deep breath.  “So, need to put the armor on, right?”

            “Yes.  By now, I imagine it shouldn’t be any sort of trouble.  You should be quite familiar.”

            “Totally familiar,” Geneva says.  “Still, kind of afraid of what will happen if I fail.”

            “Then don’t fail.”

            Geneva blows a raspberry.  “Okay, here I go.”  She closes her eyes and focuses on the ring.  In each instance since, Geneva has found the switch more swiftly, and she has learned to harness the ring, to conjure it, as if it is second nature, and she does it without the aid of adrenaline or fear.

            Weeks ago, Geneva realized something important.  The ring is, scientifically speaking, an impossible thing.  It is small and weightless, yet it houses an entire armor inside of it.  It is technology so advanced as to be magic and, after she put it on, it became a part of her.  It wormed its way into her nervous system, merged with her flesh and became a part of her body, her bone, itself.

            Sometimes, she could feel it in her heartbeat, in the expanse of her lungs, in her aches and pains.  It was her, and she was it.

            Being a part of her, Geneva realized the ring didn’t require fear.  It knew when she wanted it, because it could feel that want.  Like her hand, she simply had to reach out and flex it.  It was speech and movement.  She had the ring inside of her, she simply needed to use it, to move muscles she didn’t previously understand.

            Rather than think of combat, Geneva started thinking of choices.  When she first put the ring on, she made a choice, a decision to be more than she was.

            “Always impressive, Ms. Oaks.”

            Geneva opens her eyes and the armor is there, light as air and molded to her form.  She blushes to think of anyone seeing her in it.

            Ms. Olivia puts a hand on her hips.  “You’ve learned to summon it smoothly.”

            “Yeah.  See what happens when you let me work at my own pace.”

            “Yes, well, we will see how quickly you will take to this next task.”

            “Oh God,” Geneva says, eying her teacher apprehensively through the lenses of her helm. “What now?”

            “You needn’t be afraid, Ms. Oaks.  I simply wish for you to draw your wand.”

            “Wand? Like, a conductor’s wand? Or a fairy wand?”

            “Neither,” says Ms. Olivia, sounding somewhat bemused.  “The wand is a weapon each knight has, unique to each signet armor.  We’ve discussed, at some length, the abilities of the armor.”

            Geneva counts them out on her fingers.  “We’ve got strength, speed, rejuvenation, languages, underwater stuff, environmental stuff…”

            “Yes, a vast assortment, but also, each armor has an ability unique to it, and each armor also has a wand to channel those abilities, focus them, though I am hesitant to admit that I am unsure how they do so. The texts are unclear.”

            “That sounds like a reoccurring problem.”

            “True, our resources are limited in relation to the armors.”

            “Then it’s a good thing you put a teenage girl in one to fight off monsters.”

            “This was your choice, Ms. Oaks.”

            “Yeah, yeah, and you like to rub my face in it,” Geneva says. “So, how do I get this wand out? Do I need to rub something?  Like a lamp? Or other things you rub.”

            Ms. Olivia reaches for a book and pauses.  “Ms. Oaks, are you making a sexual joke right now?”

            “No, I would never,” Geneva says, and she pauses.  “Yeah, I am. Sorry.”

            Ms. Olivia picks up the book and paces the length of the table.  “In truth, I was hoping you could figure it out, as you did the conjuration of the armor.”  She looks hopefully at Geneva—who is busy scratching a knee—and then sighs. “No, that would be too easy, wouldn’t it?”

            “Afraid so, teach.  So, what can you tell me about the wands right now? I mean, what do the texts actually say?”

            “As I previously said, each armor—five in total—has its own ability unique to it.  The wands serve as both weapons and conduits, linked to the armor and meant to focus the energy of the armor.  As a result, the knight can amplify and direct the powers.  As an example, the shield signet has a natural shield which can be projected over a wider area.”

            “Right, but that doesn’t tell me how to find it,” she says, looking around her armor.  She sees nothing but plates and weave.  “By the way, what does my armor do?”

            “Yours is the white signet,” Ms. Olivia says, flipping the book open to a marked page.  “Also known as the feather signet.  The information on it is particularly sparse, due to the last wearer, a woman named Belquis.”

            “Belquis, huh?  And, remind me, what exactly did she do to be so, er, sparse?”

             “Back on topic—each signet armor has a place to keep the wand when not in use.”  Ms. Olivia runs her fingers along a page, mouthing the words as she reads them.  “And it says here that the signet’s sheath is.  Near the tail bone?”  She looks over the book at Geneva.

            Reaching back and feeling about her rump, Geneva says, “I’m literally pulling a wand from my butt. That’s some magic trick.”

            “Ms. Oaks, there’s no need to be crass.”

            “Right, right, sorry, forgot I was doing combat drills with my grandma.”  Geneva finds something protruding from the armor plate away from the small of her back and grips it.  “Wait a minute,” she says, and she gives it a tug.  It moves, slowly, resisting at first and then sliding free.  A long tongue of liquid steel unravels from her waist and solidified into a short, flat double-edged blade.  The blade has vents running along its length, making it look serrated, and is hollow inside.  Geneva finds it is surprisingly light.  She holds it up.  “This it?”

            “Why, yes, Ms. Oaks, I do believe it is.  Good job!”

            Geneva bows. “A-thank you.”  She swings the wand, slicing the air cleanly in two.  The edges of it catch the light and gleam sharply.  “You know, when you said wand, I was imagining something more stick-like.  This looks more like a sword.”

            “No, wand is the proper translation into your language, I believe,” Ms. Olivia says, returning to her book.  “And it is a device for channeling the armor’s energy after all.”

            “It can channel whatever, I don’t think wands are supposed to be sharp.  This thing looks like it could cut.”  She fingers the grooves along the blade, sticks her fingers inside it.  “And it’s hollow?”

            “No, right here,” Ms. Olivia says, tapping her book.  “Wand,” she says in elven, and she repeats it to Geneva in English.

            “I heard you the first time.”

            “You heard,” Ms. Olivia smiles, “Ah, yes, of course, the ring translates for you.”

            “Anyway, I don’t care what your book says.”  Geneva points at her wand.  “This isn’t a wand.”

            “Well, it most certainly isn’t a sword.  While it can be used for melee combat, that purpose is supplementary, not primary.”

            “Then we’ll come up with something else,” Geneva says.  She looks it over.  “A wand-sword?  A sword-wand? A swand?”

            “Ms. Oaks, perhaps this is better left for later.  For now, I would like you to run through the sword exercises we’ve been doing recently.”

            Geneva grins behind her helm.  “See, even you think it looks like a sword.”

 

-The Knights of Sheba-

 

            After training, Nina drives Geneva home and then returns to the school.  She wants to touch up her notes about her training sessions with Geneva.  Normally, she would take such work home, but Erak’s sudden visit has left her feeling safer at the school.

            By the time she finishes her work it is nearly nine p.m.  She gathers he things into her satchel and steps out into the cold night.  The temperature has dropped dramatically and will continue to do so, she is sure.  Her coat, she decides, is not thick enough for these winters, and she resolves to purchase a new one.

            And some gloves.

            As she approaches her vehicle, she sees a man in the distance, an elf wearing a patrol uniform.  He is thin and shivering in the cold wind. She calls out to him, and he salutes clumsily, shaking in the cold.  She returns the gesture before speaking.  “Corporal, what in the worlds are you doing here?”

            “Oh.”  He glances back toward the gate tree.  “I just got here.”  He looks at her, breathes into his hands for warmth.  “And, uh, I was wondering if I could get a ride back.”

            “Isn’t someone scheduled to come get you?”

            He shrugs.

            “Well, I suppose it’s too cold to wait.  Get in, I’ll give you a ride.”

            “Thank you,” he says, approaching her SUV curiously and watching her.  He opens the door after her and climbs in after, as well.  She buckles in and turns the car on.  Before pulling out, she gives him an expectant glance.  He is busy warming his hands.

            She clears her throat, and he looks at her.  “Yes?”

            “Your seatbelt, Corporal.”

            “My…”  He looks at the strap across her chest and then follows it up her shoulder.  Looking back, he finds his own seatbelt and fumbles it out.  “Oh, yes, my seatbelt.  Sorry.”

            “It’s fine,” she says, pulling forward.  “You must be a new recruit.”

            “Yes,” he says, wrestling with the clip.

            “Welcome to the team.  I hope you like it here.  The Human Realm isn’t nearly so bad as they make it out to be at home.”

            Holding the clip in place, the corporal stares out the window at the city lights.  He marvels.  “Yes, it seems magnificent.  There’s so much light.”

            Nina gives him a quiet glance.  “You come from a rural area, I take it?  Perhaps a colony.”

            “Ah, yes,” he says, peeling his eyes away city momentarily.  “Yes, this is all quite new to me.  Actually, I have a few questions, if you would oblige.”

            “Certainly.”

            “The watches, are they normally so light?”

            “Normally? No.  We assign watches in groups of four.  To have one of you…”  Nina sighs.  “The resurgence of the demons has drawn attention, but perhaps Erak is growing lax without any recent sightings.  Erak being your commanding officer, Major Draco, as I am sure you are aware.”

            “Demons,” the elf says.

            “Yes.  You haven’t heard?  I thought they had put it in the report.”

            “I guess they haven’t updated it yet,” he hazards.  “Or, they might have.  I only glanced at it.”

            Nina shakes her head.  “You really should read each report thoroughly. The information is important to the success of our mission here, I assure you.”

            “Of course, ma’am.  I apologize, and I promise to do better.”  He returns to staring out the window, awed by the cityscape.  The lights glitter like little stars, hanging, suspended in patches of darkness.  “Is there anything else I should know,” he asks, looking back at her reluctantly.

            “Well, have you heard about the resurrection of the knighthood yet?”

            “The knighthood?”

            “I’ll infer that to mean ‘no.’  Recently, we’ve reassigned one of the signet rings of old. In case you aren’t well-versed on the subject—few elves are anymore—the knights were an ancient order of demon slayers.  With the demon threat returning, it was thought prudent to bring them back.”

            “I see,” the corporal says.  “And it was this new knight that killed the demons that came earlier.”

            “No,” Nina says warily.  “No, she is still in training and far from combat ready, I am afraid.  But she did battle one briefly,” Nina pauses, “It did not go optimally.”

            “I see,” he says.  “Her training, though.  How is it going?”

            Nina frowns, deeply.  “Perhaps we should change the subject.”

 

-The Knights of Sheba-

 

The Oaks’ household is quiet.  The girls gather in the kitchen, well-dressed and somber.  Geneva has squeezed herself into a poofy black dress with open reluctance.  The lights are off and the room is lit only by candle light.  Beatrice takes her turn lighting another candle for the Menorah.

            Their mother watches from the background, wearing her own dress, and wipes a tear from her eyes.  “Thank you, girls.  I know we don’t always keep to the traditions, but it is nice to remember our heritage every now and then.”

            “Yeah, nice,” Geneva says, and her sister nudges her.  The phone rings, and Geneva is quick to say,” I’ll get that,” before rushing off.

            “Look at her,” Beatrice says, “Gets a little girlfriend, thinks she doesn’t have to set the table anymore.”

            “Shut up,” Geneva calls from the hallway.  She scoops the phone up on the second ring.  “Hello, Oaks residence, Geneva speaking.”

            “Hey, Genny.”

            “Oh, Kit,” Geneva says, wrapping herself in the phone cord while working her way into the living room.  “Uh, what’s up?”

            “Not much.  Wondering if you’re busy this weekend.”

            “Well,” Geneva says, pausing to give a moment of respectful silence to all the naps whose lives will be cut short by Kit.  “No, not really.  Why?”

            “A couple of my friends are throwing a birthday party for this girl they know—Sophie is her name, I think.  Anyway, they’re just now getting the list together.  Guess she’s a bit of a recluse or something, so they’re trying to make it a big old thing and get her a few new friends.  I was invited, and I was wondering if you wanted to be my plus one.  It’s Sunday night, I think.”

            “Yeah, Sunday,” Geneva says.  “Sounds like fun.  Should I dress up?”

            “Have you washed the vomit from that dress you wore on your birthday?”

            “Not yet.  I was saving it for something, but I guess I can throw it in the wash.”

            “Then that will be fine,” Kit says, and she can hear a smile in Kit’s voice.  “It’ll be a date.”

            “Yeah, it will,” Geneva says, smiling despite herself.  She glances back across the hall, into the kitchen, where she can see her mother and sister waiting.  “I think I need to go.”

            “You busy?”

            “It’s Hanukah here in the Oaks’ house,” she says, and she adds in a whisper, “Around the holidays my mom gets, like, weirdly Jewish, and she makes us Jew it up extra hard to compensate for our debauchery over the rest of the year.”

            “Ick.  Sounds like Catholics on lent.”

            “I guess,” Geneva says.  “You’re, what, a hedonist or something?  So, you don’t have to worry about this stuff.”

            “Methodists. So, basically.  Anyway, have fun doing that kosher thing you do.”

            “It’s a meal without meat and cheese, Kit.  That’s, like, my only food group.”

            “It’ll be good for you to try something else.”

            “Good for me?  You saying I’m fat? That’s thin ice, Kit.”

            “I think I should go before I piss my girlfriend off.”

            “Good idea,” Geneva says, smirking.  “Good night and see you Sunday.”

            “Maybe sooner,” Kit says, and Geneva says a silent farewell to her video games, too.  “Night.”

            Kit hangs up, and Geneva untangles herself from the phone cord before doing the same.  She returns to the table and tucks her dress forward while sitting.  Her mother and sister watch her.  After a breath, Geneva says, “That was Kit.”

            “Oh, we know,” Beatrice says, smiling, and Geneva rolls her eyes.

            Their mother asks, “What did she have to say?”

            “Wants to hang out on Sunday.”  Geneva searches her mother’s face and finds no clear response.  Tentatively, she adds, “I said it would be okay?”

            “Yes, of course,” her mother says.  “Though, I swear, between you and your father we’ll never have a family meal together again.”  She checks her watch and clicks her tongue.  “Where is that man?”

            Around then the door opens and their father steps into the house.  He saunters in, tall and thin as always, and he gives them a smile before stealing a roll.

            “Hey, dad,” Geneva says, and he messes her hair.

            “Genie-bear,” he says, and he winks at Beatrice, who smiles back at him.

            “You’re late,” their mother says.

            “Sorry, hon.  I got caught up talking to Stephen and…”  He looks around the room, taking note of the candles and dresses.  “And I’m a bit underdressed, aren’t I?”

            “A bit,” Beatrice says, “It’s okay, though.  Men rarely know what they look good in.”

            “Suppose I should go for a shower then,” he says.

            “You’re fine,” their mother says primly.

            “No, no, you don’t want me getting my grimy trash hands all over the food.  It won’t be long,” he says, and he nibbles on the roll on the way out of the kitchen.

            “Girls, excuse me, I’ll be right back,” their mother says, and she follows their father out of the room. 

Beatrice gives them a lingering look before sighing.  “Here we go.”  She looks at Geneva, who is staring apprehensively at the rolls.  Beatrice knits her brow.  “What?”

            “Dad’s a garbage man.”

            “Yeah, so?”

            “I just hope he washed his hands before coming home.”

            Both girls cringe at the rolls.

 

-The Knights of Sheba-

 

            Days pass without word from Shirley, and every time Claude thinks about her, he gets twisted up inside.  He spends his nights alone in his hotel room, waiting by his phone and staring at the ceiling.  The days, he spends alone at work.

            Marisa invites him out for drinks, and he turns her down.

            Claude and Shirley have fought before.  When they were children, they would bicker over everything, and a few hours would pass, and she’d come back and apology, and he would apology after.  This time, however, he fears there will be no apologies.  He’s afraid that there won’t be any chance to forgive her.

            Saturday morning marks the end of her silence.  On his way back to his room after work he passes the front desk and is informed of a call from Shirley. At first, he feels excitement, followed shortly after by a wave of anxiety.  Before he can clock out, he makes a decision: he will ignore it.

            Marisa is already in the office when he steps in to clock out.  She greets him with a smile.  “Well, good morning, Mr. Sulky.”

            Claude frowns.  “I’m not sulky.

            “You’re a little sulky,” she says, punching out and stepping aside.  She holds up his card for him.

            “Thanks, I guess,” he says, taking his card and punching it.

            “Oh, come on, don’t get all mad.  I’m only playing.”

            “I know,” he says, leaving with her.  “Guess I have been a little upset lately.”

            “Tell me about it?”

            “Yeah,” he says, and she stands there waiting.

            “No.  Really, tell me about it.”

            Claude gives her a quick uncertain glance.  “Really?”

            “What?  We went to dinner once, Claude.  Don’t make this a thing.”

            “Right, right,” he says, jamming his hands into his pockets.  “Well, you know Shirley, right?”

            “Everyone here knows Shirley,” Marisa says, “And everyone likes her, too.  For the record.”  She smiles at him.  “We approve.”

            “Yeah, well, thing is, we kind of had a fight.”

            “We’ve also heard all about your little tiff.”

            “What? How?”

            “You know how Thomas is,” she says.  She pulls her hairnet off.  “So, what’s up? Why’re you two at it?”

            “You don’t already know?”

            “I’d rather hear it from you, hear your side since everyone has a bias for her big, blue eyes.”

            “Yeah, that happens,” Claude says.  “Anyway, she wants us to move in together.  To get a place, and I’m just not so sure about it all.”

            “And why aren’t you sure?”

            “Because,” he says, and there his words fail him.

            “Hey,” Marisa says, “That’s a good reason you’ve got there.”

            Claude rubs the back of his neck.  “It’s just weird.  I’ve known her for so long, since we were kids.  We used to do everything together.”

            “Do you like her?”

            He blushes.  “She’s like my sister.”

            “Do. You. Like. Her?”

            “I,” he looks away, “’m not so sure.”

            “You look pretty sure,” she says, looking out the window at the pale, winter morning.  “Listen, Claude, it might be weird taking advice from me, considering that one date we had.”  She smiles as he rolls his eyes.  “But I think you should at least call her back.  I mean, whatever is going on between you, it’s pretty clearly tearing at you.  And maybe you’re not ready for all of this yet, but don’t you think it’s better to face up to it than to ignore your best friend?”

            Claude shrugs.

            “Well, isn’t that nice and stoic of you.  Now, despite what my empty calendar book says, I am busy, so, later.” She heads toward the front while Claude waves.

            “You have a good night, Marisa.”

            She stops at the door and turns.  Waving, she backs her way out and says, “For God’s sake, just call the girl, will you?”

 

The Knights of Sheba 108 A…End