by R. Cooper
Delf batted her away, then darted a glance to where the Hope herself was sitting, stiffly silent, momentarily forgotten by her friends. Prityal stared at her lap as if there were nothing else of interest in the hall, or indeed in all of Ainle. Newly returned to the Seat and the barracks as Prityal was, someone should have at least been filling her in gossip and other goings-on.
“What’s all over?” Delf demanded in a faint, distracted voice, blinking a few times when Ran reached out to poke Prityal in the arm and make her look up. Prityal offered him a weak smile that made the wine churn in Delf’s stomach. “Nothing’s all over,” Delf continued, shaking her head until more of her hair fell into her eyes and concealed her face.
“Don’t say such things aloud,” Ange started to scold, perhaps teasing or perhaps not, as if crows and other carrion birds were hiding in the noisy barracks, heads cocked to listen for whispers of despair. “You cannot know that for certain—”
The great doors at the entrance to the hall shrieked as they were pushed open with too much force, cutting Ange off and shocking most of the others into silence. A few continued to speak, but their words fell to nothing as Tumil marched the length of the hall in a direct path to the three before the fire.
“Aw, fuck,” Ange finished. “Delf, I am blaming you for this.”
Delf said not a word in her own defense.
Tumil was the youngest priest of the seven who stayed near the Seat to council the chevetein they did not have. He was a priest of Anstha, of seed and plow and harvest—and ale, much of the time. But of the seven who served the more well-known spirits, he was the one counted on to deal with practical matters. He should have been busy with his duties, not bursting in on resting knights. Not unless he had deemed something urgent enough to bother.
His short hair was windswept. His tunic went to the floor, the sleeves of his robe nearly falling over his hands. He frowned and began to speak even before he was halfway through the room.
“Knights,” he said in greeting, using the still, echoing voice magic that priests learned early in their training, either to make the stubborn listen, or to be heard even above the rumble of thunder. A dove followed him, perching on his shoulder when he stopped. “We’ve received a message from the village surrounded by Oryl Wood. A contemporary of Brennus was given a place there and now requests aid.”
“A cheve?” Jareth asked with real surprise, delicate brows pressed together as if, like Delf, she was also struggling to recall a cheve from that part of the country. Oryl Wood was a dense forest, with patches that reached out like fingers from the vast wilderness that used to be settled territory, or so stories claimed. The Wood had once covered most of Ainle, said those same stories, and more than one legend was set beneath the canopy of its ancient trees. Few traveled through what remained of it, sticking to the edges to gather what timber was needed, a fact which was likely the reason this particular region must have avoided attention and conflict for so long.
“No.” Tumil took a moment to catch his breath. “Rosset. Once of this barracks, who served the Seat, was gifted land long since abandoned by the cheve that had been. The people there had no need of one, so he was not a replacement. He was sent there to live, and to offer guidance if the people needed it. I believe he suffered an injury,” Tumil added in explanation.
A house as a reward for service, especially for one wounded in combat, was not unheard of. Delf did not relax her posture, and was only vaguely aware of having moved away from the wall. People meant a village and farmland somewhere on the other side of the Wood itself.
“There are cheves near them who might be better suited to help,” Jareth pointed out slowly. Of course, she was knowledgeable of that. She had knowledge of most things.
“Rosset has asked for our best.” Tumil held up the slip of paper with the message as if to prove his words.
“Best what?” Ran wondered, incredulous. “Fighter? Leader? Breadmaker? What skills are we supposed to provide?”
Jareth hummed thoughtfully while soothing her beloved with absentminded petting. “As I remember it, that land is a somewhat disputed territory. Perhaps that was really why the old knight was sent there, to keep the peace. But it has been years. The situation might have deteriorated.”
Delf couldn’t help a derisive snort. The entire country had deteriorated.
“So there is a village, and it is either defenseless with some other problem, or defenseless as two different clans fight over it?” Ran was not all that soothed. “The best knights, then. That is what he means.”
Delf feverishly shook her head, although no one paid her any attention. This Rosset asked too much. A small contingent of lower-ranked knights would do. The Seat did not have many knights to spare, anymore. Not uninjured. Certainly not from their best.
Except for one, and too many were now looking at her.
Prityal was already rising to her feet.
Delf felt the earth tilt and could not blame it on the wine.
Prityal of Ters, Tyrant-slayer and champion, stood a full head taller than Jareth. Her arms were gleaming bronze in the firelight. She wore her auburn hair short, nearly shaved at the back and the sides, a riot of curls at the top, often flattened from her helmet. Her eyes were deep brown and serious, so beautiful that Delf almost forgot the tiny slash of a scar just beneath one cheekbone, so old it might have been from childhood.
She was as muscled as any of them, perhaps more, if only because Prityal did not seem to take days of rest. She trained, and she sparred, and she stood up to volunteer for missions like this one even though she had just returned from one so perilous that her friends were still recovering. Her biceps would give Delf sleepless nights if Delf ever allowed herself to fully gaze upon them.
Prityal’s surcoat fell to her knees, plain white above her simple breeches and boots. It hung loose at one side of her chest, where her right breast was gone. The healers had spent too long in the dark of night with only lanterns for light, trying to remove the barbed and poisoned arrowhead. Delf remembered her screams, and how it had been Prityal herself, voice hoarse, who finally demanded they remove the whole breast and be done with it.
The healers had refused. In the end, Jareth had been the one to answer her request. Jareth’s blade was always sure.
Prityal was not armed, not here, but it was easy to imagine her in armor, the mail she preferred, powldrons to protect her shoulders and upper arms, vants-braces at her forearms, breastplate shining, her weapons at her hip or in her hands. The fire behind her lit her like a vision from the Three.
Her voice was always a surprise, soft as a cloud.
“I will go.”
An uproar followed. Far too much of it was cheers and whistles.
“Reckless,” Delf muttered, unheard by anyone save Ange.
“Aye,” Ange agreed, admiration in her tone despite that. “I’m leaving in four days. Reasonable cheves are few and far between now, and Cheve Jols has asked for help with the raiders along his border. Many of us are set to go. Prit knows this.”
“Things are stable, for the moment,” Prityal explained to Tumil, or her two comrades, or the excited squires in front of her. “Harvests now occupy the minds of even the most restless cheves. We cannot fail to do our duty now, as a chevetein would no doubt ask of us.”
“Yes, but not you,” Ran protested faintly, with surprising sense for someone who leapt into fights the way Ran did.
In any other circumstance, it might have been amusing to watch the Hope of Ainle debate the matter with her friend when she had no need to. “He did not ask for a contingent, merely help. There is no one else.” Prityal gestured toward the crowd. “They are called to other assignments, or injured, or too inexperienced. If it did become dangerous, I would have no time to train anyone, no matter how eager they were.”
“Then take more than one,” Jareth suggested, which drew a tremulous gasp from a watching squire.
Delf shook her head again, at that and at whatever whispe
red thing Ange was trying to tell her.
Prityal tilted her head toward Jareth even while giving the squires a proud smile. “We cannot leave the Seat with no defenders. Those healing will need the help of the begleys, and everyone else will serve as the primary guard. It’s fine, Jareth. A few days of travel, but surely nothing worse.”
“Bullshit,” Delf declared quietly, making Ange turn fully toward her. “This request comes now, offers no details, and asks for our best? She cannot go alone.”
“Jareth will convince her to take someone,” Ange answered, her tone strangely loaded. “Truthfully, an untrained squire would be more of a hindrance, but there are experienced knights about.”
“I will not risk another,” Prityal said, as if in answer to whatever point Jareth had indeed made. “If it was dire, this Rosset would have said. A knight would not endanger another knight.”
“Ladylord of Peace, still my tongue.” Delf could not take her eyes from the Fool of Ainle. “How far is it to this territory? Anything might happen, but she will leave us all to worry.”
“If only a capable, seasoned knight were available,” Ange remarked again, dry as dust.
“The high circle have none to spare,” Delf answered shortly, not in the mood for whatever point Ange was about to make. “There is no one her equal to watch her back, no squire to be trusted to try.” Delf shut her mouth to stop the rest of her words. But Prityal could not be allowed to disappear from the world.
“I know of no priests who have been to that territory in the recent past.” Tumil chose that moment to speak again, full of too much ale or unconcerned with the tightening of Prityal’s smile, the flash of fear in her eyes despite how she stood, resolute. He likely did not see it. Not one of the little squires before her did, and that was why they could not be trusted to keep her safe.
“She cannot go alone,” someone called out in a wine-roughened voice, a voice Delf was startled to realize was her own. The words echoed through the hall, as if the hall had suddenly gone silent. Delf stared at Prityal’s shoulder, her bare arm, her loose fist. Her voice did not grow smooth. “I… I offer myself.”
“You?” Jareth asked, tone heavy with what was likely disapproval of a lower-level knight being charged with protecting her closest friend.
In contrast, Ran seemed almost maniacally delighted. “Problem solved. What say you, Prit?”
Delf dragged her gaze up to meet Prityal’s eyes. She realized she was still seated and rose to her feet. Her face was hot with wine. Her hair hung in her face. A worthy defender she was not.
“I do not have her skills,” Delf added, to Jareth, to anyone except the woman regarding her steadily. She did not know what to think of the softening of Prityal’s mouth. “I’d serve more as her squire than a true comrade-in-arms,” Delf joked, though she did not lie about the difference in their skill levels. “I can carry her shield, if nothing else,” she went on, foolish with wine and fear, for Prityal relied on armor more than a shield, “lead her icor.” Delf strangled the rest of her words before they could emerge, closed her eyes, and took a breath.
When she opened them, Prityal had not looked away.
“Which is to say, I am a poor substitute for one of your circle.” Delf spoke to Prityal at last, because Ange did not even glance at her, which told Delf exactly how her tone must have come across. She had meant to mock herself, not the others. Delf did not think she would have the fortitude to do what Jareth had done if Prityal asked, certainly could not best Ran in a wild fight, and was no match for Prityal’s devastating calm in the sparring ring. She had not been even when they had been practically children, which was the last time Delf had been forced to face her.
Delf had been knocked on her ass. The not-yet Tyrant-slayer had never been one to take prisoners.
“It was an offer made honestly.” Prityal lifted her chin without taking her gaze from Delf, who drew in a rasping, dry breath. “I cannot go alone, as you said yourself, Jareth. You say I need an experienced knight, and I won’t insult this one, if Delflenor truly wishes to be at my side.”
Delf shut her mouth and made not a sound at hearing her name. It should not startle her. There were not so many of them that Prityal wouldn’t know her. They had trained together, ages ago. Encountered each other, as happened in a crowded barracks. But she did not think she had ever heard Prityal say it.
She nodded without thinking.
Ran let out a yell that was more suited to victory on the battlefield than the conclusion of an insignificant negotiation, and Prityal spun sharply toward him, breaking the spell keeping Delf on her feet.
Delf collapsed back into her seat and groped for her abandoned cup of wine. She downed its contents in one swallow, only to have Ange snatch the cup.
“None of that now,” Ange chided, barely stifling her cackles. “Delflenor of the high circle, the Champion of the Champion.”
“Shut up,” Delf hissed. She was no such thing. Begleys, squires, and knights alike were glancing to her, appraising, surprised, amused. A few seemed almost regretful. Delf turned from them toward the fire, where Tumil was now discussing the situation with a trio of knights who had already forgotten Delf. “I would,” she murmured, then stilled her hands. Lower-tier she might be, but she knew how to wait and calm herself before the trouble truly began. “It should not have reached the point where there is only me.”
“I suppose not.” Ange was not one to ponder the desires of the Wise. “But there is only you. And you could not leave her to do it alone.”
“I would not leave anyone to do this alone.” Delf caught Ran’s passing glance, his sharp, feral grin. She didn’t know Ran well enough to know if it was a threat, a blessing, or not aimed at Delf at all. “It is not only because it is her.”
“I know.” Ange patted Delf’s shoulder, the touch awkward with her hands full.
“But I would,” Delf kept her voice low, only for the two of them, her gaze on Prityal’s profile. “I would carry her shield.”
“I know that, too.” Ange perhaps meant to be reassuring. “That is why there is no one better for this fool’s errand than you. You have all night to contemplate the path you have put yourself on, as I have no doubt you will. But try to sleep, will you? Even if we could, I would not want to spare you—either of you.”
Ange patted Delf’s shoulder one last time, then left, perhaps to spend the night with her secret love before her journey forced them apart. She gifted Delf the remainder of her wine, as a test, perhaps. Delf was not going to drink it. Ange had been correct; Delf drank when troubles were over, and hers were only beginning. She would leave in the morning, from the sound of it.
They would leave in the morning.
The others continued to make their plans, looking to Delf a few times as though expecting Delf to join them. Since her opinion was that they shouldn’t go, she thought her silence would be more appreciated.
She watched until the warmth of the wine had faded from her blood, and Tumil abandoned the hall for his other duties, and Prityal assisted her two injured friends in getting to their feet so they might retire for the evening. Then, with the eyes of too many still upon her, Delf rose and slipped from the hall.
THE BEGLEY sent to wake Delf found her already awake and in the stables, readying her icor for the journey. The icors were well taken care of by begleys and squires, as directed by the Stablemaster, as well as by the knights themselves, but most active knights tended to lavish affection on their personal mounts and were frequent visitors to the stables for reasons in addition to feeding, grooming, and shit-mucking.
Despite the fact that Kee had seen Delf only hours before, she had politely listened to Delf’s many complaints about the entire situation while Delf had brushed Kee’s violet locks and fitted simple tack around the thick, sharp, pearlescent gray horn at the center of Kee’s forehead that was as deadly as a kick from her massive hooved feet.
Kee had finer tack, but Delf did not think riding into a troubled village in f
inery was particularly wise. Her appearance, or Kee’s, were not likely to matter, in any event. Delf had, as Ange had predicted, spent much of the night thinking of it. She would dress as she was, a lower-tier but experienced knight, there to reflect the greatness of the Hope. Anyway, this was not a war party.
That said, she was in a long-sleeved padded doublet that went from her neck to below her hips, leather vants-braces, and one of the sleeveless surcoats she had embroidered herself, yellow flowers at her hem. After assuring the begley they were on their way, Delf led Kee out into the courtyard at the center of the barracks, shivering at the predawn chill despite her many layers.
She nearly stopped to see the glorious trio of Prityal, Ranalaut, and Jareth already there, heads bent in earnest discussion, as they nearly always seemed to be. Prityal was absently scratching the flank of the pack goat that some dutiful squire had loaded with food and other provisions. The goat’s tail waggled, though the goat itself seemed focused on sniffing Prityal’s boots to see if they were edible.
Delf continued forward instead of staring, if only to spare herself another sharply aware smile from Ran.
Some of her long hair escaped in the breeze, floating before her face until she scraped it back behind her ears. The cold had reached the metal in her piercings, making each hoop and tiny globe icy to the touch. The one at her eyebrow was much the same. She looked almost as she always did at the barracks, except for her padded armor and the bright splotches of color on her nicer surcoat.
Ran and Jareth appeared to have come to the courtyard in spite of what any healers might have advised. Each was ashen, damp with perspiration as no one should be in the cold. Jareth had a thick blanket around her shoulders. But both had made the walk to bid farewell to Prit on this uncertain endeavor, and for that, Delf could not fault them.
Prityal wore a white and black, sleeveless, thickly padded doublet that went to her knees, with what looked like a plain, long-sleeved tunic shirt beneath that, and a thin, but likely warm, brown cloak, worn off one shoulder and her usual white surcoat. She was also wearing mail, as well as a long dagger at her belt. Ready for a journey, and aware of danger.