The Magenta Knights

This Story Contains Mentions or Themes of: Physical Violence, gore, or abuse, a child's death, and a concerning amount of magenta.

Lord Galvin’s knights bore the magenta standard. His messengers pinned their hats with magenta plumes. Even his household servants wore magenta armbands.

So, when Alsie heard tell of a knight wearing a magenta cape, she dragged her younger brother Simon to the plaza. A crowd formed a sort of corridor out of the street. As if they couldn’t be sure when a horse would come galloping through, and whether they would be trampled if they were in its path. The crowd was thickest near the fountain, though they left a good deal of space between themselves and the knight. There he was on horseback, conversing with Father Clemens.

Alsie pushed to the front of the crowd, holding Simon’s hand.

Then, she let go, stepping into the street, “Stay right there.”

He nodded. He’d always been a listener.

She walked towards the knight, eyes fixed on his helmet. He was turned away from her. Still, Alsie pressed her shoulders back and raised her chin, just as she’d been practicing. She took long, smooth strides. She probably looked far more confident than she felt. Maybe that was why nobody stopped her.

Then, Alsie stepped in horse manure. After a moment’s pause she wiped as much of the squishy substance as she could off of her shoe before continuing forward. The street felt longer than she’d originally thought.

The knight finished speaking with Father Clemens, performing a sort of salute as he turned his horse. It was then that he noticed Alsie walking towards him.

He rode towards her, moving at a measured trot. The rhythm of his horse’s hooves striking the ground was almost like a song. One she desperately wanted to join in.

The knight slowed to a stop a short distance away from her, “What business?”

Alsie met his eyes, “I wish to be trained as a knight, and defend our land as one of Lord Galvin’s men.”

He smiled, in the way one smiled at the child of a potato farmer who wanted to learn flight, “A noble pursuit. Have you been trained in the art of the sword?”

She nodded, “Every day for the past few years.”

At least, she had trained in the art of the sort-of-sword-shaped-stick. With no formal instruction and no one to train with.

“Are you familiar with the Manners and Acts?”

“I know my pleases and thank yous,” Alsie ventured.

The knight shook his head, “My apologies, but your future does not lie in knighthood.”

He moved to go past her, but she blocked his way. At twelve years old, this could very well be her last chance to join an order of knights. Especially Lord Galvin’s. He was the only one she knew of who accepted commoners.

“Wasn’t it Lord Galvin himself who said that anyone is encouraged to seek knighthood?”

The knight shook his head, “Anyone of proper education and skill.”

Alsie put her hands on her hips, “I can read.”

The knight’s expression changed slightly, maybe in surprise, “Then perhaps you could become a knight. Read the book. I’m sure Father Clemens has it somewhere.”

“The book?”

“Manners and Acts. You’ll have to memorize it.”

She stared at him, “And then you’ll accept me?”

“I’m not accepting anyone at the moment. Wouldn’t trust myself with that work yet. But someone else might.”

For the first time, Alsie noticed how young the knight looked. He might have been in his early twenties, and had a clean-shaven face.

He frowned, “But they probably won’t. So you might as well direct that effort somewhere else. There is always a need for scribes.”

She nodded, “I understand. But I will learn the book. And I will become a knight. And we will meet again in Lord Galvin’s ranks.”

“I wish you luck, then.”

The knight left, and Alsie didn’t stop him this time. He sped up to a canter. The saddlebags on his horse bounced up and down with the steps. The corridor widened slightly, people stepping back to make way for the knight. The knight avoided them easily. But one small boy didn’t step back far enough. One of the saddlebags hit him, and he stumbled backward, lost to the crowd. The knight didn’t seem to notice.

With a start, Alsie realized that the boy who had been hit was Simon. She ran to where she’d left him, nearly slipping in horse manure on the way. A small clump of people had formed around her brother. He stood there, grinning in the way he always did when he was trying not to cry.

“Are you hurt?” she asked.

He shook his head, though his smile tightened, “I’m fine.”

“Your brother fell and hit his head,” a woman addressed her.

Alsie recognized her as Kav’s mother, the locksmith’s wife, and, more commonly, Inara.

“It doesn’t hurt that bad,” Simon promised.

Alsie hugged him, “I’m sorry, I should’ve left you with mum.”

“You smell like horse poop,” he noted.

They went home after that. Their mum decided to take Simon to the apothecary the next day. But the next day came without him. He lost his race against the sun. His funeral was simple. That day, Alsie decided that she would never wear the magenta of Lord Galvin’s men.

Still, she wished to train as a knight.

Four years later, Alsie wore a yellow belt. Not golden. Pale. An odd choice for a nobleman’s colors. Of course, many of Baron Micael’s choices were odd. That didn’t make him any less respectable to her. Especially since she had been accepted to join his knights, should she complete her training.

The problem was that starting today, she wouldn’t just be training with the Baron’s other knights. Alsie would be training with those of Baroness Ultan, Lord Weatherwax, Lady Elwes, and Lord Galvin, under the watchful eyes of the Eniors.

And, considering the fact that it was only those with about Alsie’s amount of experience, she’d almost certainly be the oldest one there.

In this regard, she was almost right. Actually, she was the second oldest by about five weeks.

The oldest was a boy of sixteen years. His name? Liam. His colors? Magenta.

Naturally, Alsie hated his guts.

She avoided sparring with him. She spoke to him little. And she always made sure there was at least one person between them when they ate.

Oddly enough, Alsie got along well with everyone else.

She swallowed a mouthful of bread, “How did your father respond?”

Will shrugged, “Apparently he said he could make more children.”

“He didn’t even try to negotiate?” Tari wondered, eyebrows raised.

Tavian shook his head, “That’s terrible.”

“So,” Eva posed the question that hung in all of their minds,“Why weren’t you hanged?”

Will had taken another bite of food, and so had to chew a minute before speaking. They waited in anticipation of his next words. Alsie found herself unconsciously leaning towards him.

“They figured it would be better to launch me at the castle,” he smiled in a way that reminded Alsie of Simon, “You know how it is, the more theatrical, the better.”

Liam coughed, “What?”

“You heard me.”

Horror crept upon Eva’s face, “Lord Weatherwax tried to shoot an eight-year-old from a trebuchet?”

“No, actually, he’s the one who saved me,” Will corrected, “Held me hostage for a while though.”

“Excuse me?” Liam exclaimed.

Despite her vow of silence towards him, and the fact that the phrase hadn’t been directed to her, Alsie responded with, “You may be excused.”

“Wow. Thanks. I appreciate it,” he muttered sarcastically, “Your generosity is unceasing and I don’t know how I cou–”

“Shut up, Aborough,” Eva snapped.

He closed his mouth, then opened it, then closed it again, face reddening.

Scot laughed. Liam turned his attention back to his food. Alsie smiled.

Eva was officially her favorite person.

As the weeks marched on, they allied themselves in the pursuit of tormenting Liam. And an arduous pursuit it was.