by R. Cooper
Delf banished the stray fond thoughts before she looked over.
Prityal had clenched her jaw.
“We sent her farmers-turned-warriors back home, or to the Seat, if they wished for training and discipline. We allowed her to keep a few knights for the sake of the pride cheves cannot seem to abandon even when it is wise.” Far from a pout, Prityal was glaring at the memory. “We warned the remaining knights that we would not be merciful if they struck at us again. I think they believed us.”
Prityal, splashed with blood, her sword drawn and wet, was a sight. Delf would have believed her, too.
“Was that your decision?” Delf inquired mildly, despite the anxiety that imagining the scene gave her. They could easily, easily, have lost their best knights because of the arrogance of one small leader who should have known better.
“I am not a cheve.” Prityal turned the glare on Delf, only to smooth it from her face a moment later.
Delf deliberately shrugged. “You kind of are.” She put up a hand when Prityal opened her mouth to protest. “You may be happy to serve a chevetein when one is found, but you are a captain where we have none. The knights have chosen you. Where you speak, they listen. You spoke here, and luckily, this cheve’s knights listened as well. It’s not a power you want, but you have it, and you wield it.”
Prityal pushed out her lips, then frowned. “You are being blunt.”
“You asked me to speak plainly,” Delf reminded her. “So was it? Was it your decision to strip her knights from her?”
Prityal crossed her arms. “Yes.” She made a displeased face at the word. “With advice from the others… after I lost my temper.”
The admission startled a little laugh out of Delf, a sound that made Prityal twitch.
“I’m sure you did.” Delf was sympathetic but also had absolutely no doubt Prityal had been practically snarling at that jackass of a cheve. “Was their advice for mercy?”
“Would yours have been?” Prityal did not quite snap the question, but it did have an edge.
Delf clenched her hand around a fistful of her hair. She was not angry about the cheve, not precisely, or at Prityal for being prickly over a judgment she had been forced to make. Prityal was a knight, not a maker-of-law.
But the safety of Ainle, of those in the barracks, was now a daily issue, and in the hands of a hero who listened most to two people who might have been killed that day. How Prityal would have reacted in that event was critical, and how she would react if Jareth or Ran were lost was even more critical.
“It is not a matter of mercy, it is a matter of wisdom,” Delf said at last and twisted her hair into a sloppy knot at the back of her neck. “The knights of this cheve, through the grace of the Three, didn’t kill anyone, or maim anyone in a way that would force them from the field forever. They didn’t hurt you.” She paused, waiting, but though Prityal’s expression remained unhappy, she listened.
“I would have asked her people if she still serves them, and if she is who they want to lead them—if they continue to support a cheve who has caused bloodshed and rivalry with the Seat. And I would have stressed that it will lead to more fighting, more of their children riding out against the Knights of the Seat and not returning—and for what? To make this woman feel bigger? She cannot stay cheve if they do not allow it and the Seat does not stand by her.” Delf took a deep breath, but she was already committed. “Humiliating her might make her people stay with her, and choose to support her in further nonsense. But… it was good that you welcomed some of her warriors to the Seat. That creates ties and new loyalties.”
She sounded like an instructor, which was embarrassing, but she did not rephrase her words.
“I could have done that. But cheves do not give up power easily.” The edge had left Prityal’s tone. She tipped her head a little to one side, considering Delf with attention that made Delf want to fidget.
“No,” Delf agreed. “They do not. But if she went against the will of her people, that is reason enough to finish what you started… and to get her people fully on your side, and to remind them of why the Seat is there. I…” She heard herself and stopped. “It’s a good thing I was not there, I think. Though I would not have offered you advice, if I had been.” She smiled, with her odd humor. “Now you see why you should never ask what I have been worrying over.”
“Is that what you were consulting the bones about?”
Prityal’s curiosity was sharp. Delf was going to have to ask Ran the secret of how to withstand Prityal’s attention. She would deal with Ran’s laughter.
“I never ask the bones anything specific,” Delf answered without thinking, then shook her head because that wouldn’t make sense to someone like Prityal. “I don’t receive real answers,” she explained. “I was never gifted in magic.”
“I thought you were speaking plainly now.” Prityal gave her a darting, sly smile. “Are you lying or being modest?”
Delf opened her mouth, caught her in not-quite lie. She coughed. “The bones always tell me nonsense,” she answered, truthfully. “Things that are obvious untruths.”
Prityal let out a little sigh. “It was too much to hope for that any of us would have the answers. I apologize. And… I will think on what you said.”
“Oh.” Delf stared at her. Prityal meant that. She was so incredible, and yet the Three had not chosen her. She must have some other purpose, then. That’s what Delf’s old teachers would have said, what Bon would have said, with an added look that implied Delf should have caught on much quicker. Bon and the others had often looked at Delf in that way, more disappointed than hopeful. Delf had odd humor, too many questions, and no attachments. She had no doubt that the priests in charge of her had been relieved to see her go.
Delf watched Prityal and held in her sighs, following Prityal’s actions when Prityal mounted Frire to continue their journey.
“I’ve never spoken in depth to any of the priests. Not about other matters, or belief.” Prityal clicked her tongue to encourage the goat to hurry up, and smiled when the goat walked between their two icors, which were nearly side by side. “Would you mind telling me what training priests actually receive?”
“Oh,” Delf said again, foolishly warm at the show of interest although it was not personal. Her early training was a safe conversational topic, at any rate, and, if Delf were going to discuss her failures, it may as well be with someone she had no hope of impressing in the first place. “Much like with the knights, it begins with everyone at the same level, learning discipline through chores and shared labor. Then they want you to start considering which aspect you are drawn to, because that’s how you’ll learn about magic, or so they said. Then….”
DELF ASKED for the first watch once they camped for the night, and received a long stare for it, but no stiff arguments or cold conversation. She did not, however, think Prityal slept much despite lying on her bedroll for several hours and shivering once or twice when the wind stirred.
Delf kept an eye on the goat sleeping peacefully between the two icors, and the too-still body of the Hope of Ainle, and sighed to herself when, halfway through the night, as if she had somehow kept count of the exact hour, Prityal roused and bid Delf to rest.
In the morning, Prityal shivered into her cloak as she ate dried apricots. She was lightly snoring from atop Frire by midday. She woke with an expression that dared Delf to comment—though whether it was about her snores or her inability to sleep for long, Delf could not say. But with the wisdom of the Three, Delf offered not a single comment, though she had to bite her tongue to do it.
They began to pass woodlands by the afternoon, and by early evening, a thicker, denser line of trees appeared on the horizon.
They might have camped one more night beneath the stars, but Prityal had remarked, softly, on the waiting villagers, and so they had ridden on, until the canopy was above them.
Three
into the Wood
DARK DESCENDED faster in the woods, the way it di
d in the lands down the sides of the mountains.
Delf had not enjoyed her time in the mountains, and hadn’t expected Oryl Wood to remind her of it—although they had not truly entered the Wood yet, merely the outskirts. The trees were thick, some bare, some fat with greenery, the birch almost glowing white as the moon rose.
It was in Oryl Wood where Saphar was pursued for seven days and nights by a creature which lurked just out of sight, until the famed knight had finally turned on her pursuer. Gaufre, the weaver who was said to have founded the Weaver’s Guild, ran from an unwanted suitor and found himself lost in the Wood where he discovered the yarn spiders at their work, as well as the ashter leaves that when dried and powdered made purple-blue dye.
There were other stories, set among trees that might not have been Oryl Wood, but could have taken place somewhere beneath these dark branches.
Tagonel the Brave, who bound herself to an outside magic-user who had demanded what those in other lands called bride in exchange for the safety of a village, and then had been taken away to someplace heavy with trees. Tagonel had slain the magic-user in their wooden bed, at least in one story. There were always other versions.
Delf’s personal favorite of the many tales of Ainle’s past could also have occurred here. The Song of Laradoc had many variations, strange verses added depending on which region one heard it, though the skeleton of the story was always more or less the same.
The knight, Laradoc, who, having been sent to battle a wolf-like, winged creature ravaging the herds of distant villages, befriended a lowly priest-in-training, who told them she had been betrayed by a lover, her cheve—or lord, as they had been called then—and cast out. Laradoc offered their protection, though the priest-in-training insisted they would be more hindrance than help. So the knight and the not-quite-priest had traveled together searching out the creature, enduring many hardships, driving it into the woods only to find themselves hunted.
At the end, Laradoc had been grievously wounded in order to save the priest’s life, and the priest revealed herself to be a spirit in disguise. The tales varied as to which one. A local spirit was most common, but in some, she was the Lady of Devotion herself. She saved Laradoc with a kiss, which Delf felt silly to think of but did not stop thinking of, all the same.
She tried to think of it now, as the cold darkness of the Wood in the nighttime began to bring unpleasant memories to mind.
She and Prityal stopped when they found a space clear enough for a small fire and their bedrolls on either side of it, with the icors and the goat close in case of wild beasts. Although so far, Delf had only heard small scurries in the distance, likely whatever birds would remain throughout the approaching winter, squirrels still stocking up, and weasels or mice heading for bed to avoid the sharp eyes of owls.
Riding for several days under somewhat sunny skies had allowed Delf to fall into a simple rhythm; rest and ride and listen for Prityal’s hums or snores or soft, careful conversation. She was abruptly in much colder darkness and unfamiliar territory, and their earlier conversation had put the mountains in her mind.
Prityal held her cloak closed and kept the hood over her eyes. Her thoughts might have also gone to the past.
Delf offered to find and heat water for a tisane, to warm them both a little, since she could not make her usual teasing offer to share a bedroll, not to Prityal. But Prityal had commented that a tisane was hardly worth the effort before falling back into a tired and slightly grumpy silence. A dinner of nuts, dried berries, and more hard bread did not improve her mood. So much so that Delf half-considered shocking her from her brooding by crawling into her lap.
This new comradery between them, however, stopped her. She would not want to ruin it with something Prityal would probably view as a bad joke.
“You don’t have to worry over me,” Prityal announced in the middle of Delf warming herself with far-away fantasies of what might happen if Prityal at least let her hold her close for the night.
Delf blinked herself back to the dreary, exhausted moment.
“I was imagining myself in a bedroll, my cold toes warm at last.” Delf shared enough of the truth to draw a startled smile from one grouchy living legend.
“I’d love a hot bath,” Prityal leaned in to confess.
“Yes,” Delf hissed immediately in agreement. “The dust of the road has never made me happy.”
“A lavender tisane,” Prityal went on, the way knights on campaign often expressed longing for comforts they could not have.
“We can do that, at least.” Delf straightened her spine to glance around, although the darkness outside the ring of light from their campfire did not give any indications of where to find water.
Prityal waved her down before she could get up. “In the morning, I will want it more. Unless you would like some now.”
Delf shook her head, then realized she had a wide smile on her face despite her foul mood of just a few moments before. “Nothing bonds people so well as shared complaints,” she murmured, then outright grinned when Prityal let out a tiny, amused huff. “Do you think the knights of old, in the songs and legends, felt this way on their quests? Mad at dirt and irritable for the chill in their fingers?”
“Safe to say they did. They were only people.” Prityal did not lose her smile, but it became stiff.
Delf did not consider herself especially gifted with wisdom, but she did and could learn. Prityal did not like to be thought of as an image, though she allowed others to do so for the sake of the mood in the barracks—and the country.
Delf should not have called her the Pure, even if she’d had her reasons for it and Prityal had never heard her say it.
“Most of them were not even legends in their own time,” Delf mused aloud, for both of their benefits. “They were just people, as you say. The legends came later. When people had time to forget the knights themselves as unwashed or cross, shivering alone in the dark and strange woods, haunted by past deeds and strange sounds in the night. Or, the people never saw that, and so only remember the glint of weapons in the sun, and the bright banners held aloft, and the glorious deeds recounted in songs.”
“Many of those songs are about magic more than any glinting swords.” Prityal raised her head, making her eyes more visible. “Sometimes, not even magic. The knights solve riddles, or make choices. Find what the Three want them to find—or don’t, to the knights’ peril.” She blinked several times, then frowned sulkily and disappeared back beneath her hood. “I would be no help to those knights. The Three do not speak to me. Or, if They have, They have not been clear.”
A common complaint. A proper priest would answer that the spirits in all their forms respond with every single thing in the world around them.
But it was difficult to find guidance in a mild summer’s day, or a lost breadknife, or rash on one’s ass. Harder still to view the entire rainbow from one small corner of the field.
“Well, the songs do also mention tribulations, enemies, and suffering.” Delf was clearly no priest. The Ladylord of Truth could whisper into her ear and she would think it a mere breeze. Of course, the knights in the old tales had not been priests, either. “I suppose we should not be surprised... but I, for one, would have preferred to live in the part of the song with the flying banners, and the romance, and the kind chevetein bestowing the gifts of the Three on the people.”
This earned another huff from Prityal, as if she laughed despite herself. “I am still not certain if you are serious.”
Delf shrugged and offered her a somewhat wistful smile. “Serious enough.”
“Do you long most for the kind chevetein?” Prityal wondered. “I forgot you knew Brennus personally.”
Delf’s heart flopped about behind her ribs, useless and painful.
“Sure,” she agreed quietly, “for the kind chevetein.” Delf looked away from Prityal’s strong jaw and how it gleamed in firelight. “And you do as well,” she cleared her throat to add. “We cannot hold much longer despi
te your considerable efforts.”
She didn’t mean to turn the conversation to serious matters, but supposed it was inevitable. The future weighed on them all.
Prityal stretched to put another scavenged branch on the fire, sending sparks up to the sky. “If we do not find a chevetein, they will win,” she said, very soft now. “Outsiders, or a strong-enough cheve. And they will not look kindly on those of us who opposed them.”
Delf swallowed hard with a suddenly dry throat. She hadn’t realized the others had thought of this. “And yet you fight,” she couldn’t help but say.
“What else would I do?” Prityal raised her head and her hood fell back. She was not frowning or glaring at an unseen enemy. Her eyes were closed. “It’s all I know,” she offered, then exhaled before opening her eyes and looking directly at Delf. “And I am good at it. Some have said I was made for it for by the Lady of Strife herself. I might be. But I am more than battle, even if I relish a fight. Bonecrusher, you called me. You were right to. Yet I could also live happily knowing no one I care for was hurt. Peace must also have a place for me. I believe in that. If we are forsaken, if the Three wish us to be overrun, then it must be for a different sort of chevetein to reign. But… I wish They would tell us. I wish it would happen without further conflict. Do you think that a strange thing for me to say?”
She nearly whispered it. Delf wanted to kiss her brow and pet each line of worry away.
Instead, she shook her head slowly. “No. The Three are in you, the same as everyone else. You are not only one thing. No one is.”
“Ah.” Prityal sighed and briefly closed her eyes again. “Do you also believe, as many do, that the Three have a plan, and that this plan involves me?”
She spoke of it in a hush, in the near dark, with her eyes shut. Yesterday, Delf would have said that Prityal would ride bravely to her destiny with her eyes open. She would still say it. But she would say it knowing that, eyes open or not, Prityal was as afraid as anyone else. Not many others would ever realize that.