The Devotion of Delflenor

by R. Cooper

  “They might have a plan.” Delf sat on her hands to keep from reaching out. “They might not just be playing a game amongst Themselves, with us as the pieces. As for what you ask… that is for a chevetein to discover whenever the Three accept one. But, since you ask, I believe the Three gave you to us. They put you here, in this time, and handed you a sword that fit your hand. That means something, to me, anyway.”

  “I am a gift?”

  Delf was almost thankful the firelight kept her from getting the full impact of those eyes as Prityal asked that question.

  “Yes.” Delf did her best to hide how her heart raced and her skin burned. “To all of us. You, and Ran and Jareth, you keep us going, hold us together. I am very grateful for that, despite my attempts at humor and how they might sound.”

  “You care for the others very much.” Prityal continued to regard Delf from across the fire, intent and deadly serious. “Nearly everyone in the barracks has kind words to say of you. Is that why you are still with us? Why you are here? For them?”

  Delf dropped her gaze to hide the surge of embarrassed warmth making her smile like a fool. She had to clear her throat again and sought a new subject. “If our enemies wish to rule us, all that any of them, foreign or not, have to do is go to the Seat, to the Shrine. They choose to fight us instead. That’s wasteful, and ill-conceived, and speaks of cruelty and… I don’t like it.”

  “Delflenor.” She hadn’t realized Prityal’s voice could get softer. Her tone was surprised but gentle, and Delf had to fight to look up. “Personal reasons are not bad ones. Perhaps they are even better than mine.”

  “You fight for your friends, too,” Delf grumbled, scrubbing the blush from her hot face. “You would not serve a chevetein who had hurt them for their own gain.”

  Prityal’s eyebrows went up. “No, I would not,” she said, frowning as if realizing this was true. “Not even if the Three approved of that chevetein.”

  Delf nodded, unsurprised. “There is nobility to be found in that. And bravery… and the sort of foolishness that lets heroes be heroes.”

  “Ah!” Prityal lost her frown and lifted her chin. “That applies to you as well, Delflenor. Noble, brave, foolish—and a hero.”

  She wriggled in place, looking extraordinarily pleased with herself.

  Delf gaped at her. If she’d been holding any, she might have thrown a piece of bread and hit Prityal square in the nose. But the bread was very hard and likely would have hurt.

  She finally pushed out a vexed breath. “If it pleases you to say so, my lady.”

  “It does, my ladylord Delflenor,” Prityal retorted, quite smug for someone who still shivered when the wind blew. She held her smile for another moment, then settled back with a quiet, satisfied air. She was pensive, but at least she was no longer grumpy. “Will you sleep?”

  Delf was also pensive but inside her skull was anything but quiet. “No. I… have things on my mind now. You go ahead.”

  “Have I upset you?” Prityal considered Delf for a while longer before lying down and curling onto her side. “I didn’t mean to. You were almost a priest. You must believe in the Three and trust Them to care for us.”

  “You think that is why I’m…” Delf shook her head, but then gave Prityal the most reassuring smile she could muster when Prityal seemed concerned. “The great Prityal has called me a hero. She is wrong, but I might swoon, nonetheless.”

  “I could have been out here alone.” Prityal rested her head on her arm. “With only my thoughts in the cold dark. You saved me from that.”

  Delf’s breath caught.

  “Sleep,” she said at last, instead of shut up, or sweet dreams, or allow me to tuck your cloak around you and soothe your brow, you silly wonder. “I’ll keep watch over you.”

  She had known this journey would test her. That there might be danger. That the ride would be tedious and exhausting. That Prityal would be close enough to touch and the temptation to do so would be stronger. Delf had accepted all of that before she had left the feasting hall of the barracks that night. But she had not anticipated how much more she would want to offer Prityal comfort. That seeing Prityal tired from across a courtyard had made her worry and fret, but now that she, Delflenor of no title or epithet, Delflenor of Nowhere, had made Prityal smile, that worry had only intensified, and would continue to grow, forever.

  “That’s not sleeping,” she chided, instead of voicing anything rising from her restless heart.

  Prityal huffed but closed her eyes. She shuffled back and forth a bit, seeking a more comfortable position, then exhaled a long, weary breath.

  Delf watched her for several moments, doubting Prityal was asleep, hoping she was, before turning to stare at the fire instead. She listened to Prityal’s breathing slow, and finally grow even, and scowled at the fire when the wood popped and crackled and risked waking her.

  She was no hero, but her lady had given her this duty, and Delf would not fail her.

  It made her think of plans again, and of her role in them. But she had no way to know, and refused to ask, and ultimately decided if her place in the plans of the Three was this and this alone, she was fine with it.

  The old knights would appreciate that.

  The Three were probably laughing.

  DELF WAS gathering a few more fallen branches to throw on the fire when Prityal’s breathing stuttered, stopped, then grew fast and shallow. Delf knew what the sound meant though she hadn’t expected it.

  “Foolish,” Delf scolded herself while letting the branches fall from her arms. “She told you she was human. She reminded you.”

  Prityal stirred, hands twitching around weapons she did not hold. Delf fell onto her knees next to her but didn’t touch her. She’d seen such dreams before, and knights did not always immediately recognize the waking world when dragged from their nightmares.

  “Prityal?” she whispered, trying to be gentle despite the sickness in her stomach. The animals were awake, Frire, in particular, responding to Prityal’s distress with anxious noises. As if she heard it, and it only increased the terror in her dream, Prityal whimpered. Delf tried again with more urgency. “Prityal.” She took a breath, then spoke with the iron voice of an instructor. “Prityal of Ters, you are dreaming. Wake up now.” She reached out, knowing better, placing one hand on Prityal’s shoulder. “Prityal, please.”

  A jolt went through Prityal’s body as her eyes opened.

  Delf quickly removed her hand. Prityal turned sharply toward her at the motion, inhaling through her nose and reaching back before she stopped herself.

  Her sword was within reach, but Delf could have moved before she drew it. She doubted Prityal would view it that way, however, and spoke to end the dawning horror on Prityal’s face.

  “You’re awake,” Delf told her, keeping her voice low to soothe Prityal as well as Prityal’s concerned war beast. “You were dreaming, as we all do. A bad one, as we all have. There, now. You’re here, and we’re well, and you are awake.” Prityal did not frown at her for the stream of calming nonsense, and that only made Delf continue on with it. “When you are fully with me, I can fetch some water and make you that tisane. How is that? There’s probably enough water left in the skins for it, and we can find more tomorrow. There is a stream through this part of the woods, if old maps and plans are to be believed. And if not, we’ll leave the woods for a while, no harm done.”

  Prityal’s forehead was dotted with sweat. Her lips were parted. She had not caught her breath. But she went rigid at Delf’s last words, and that was enough to tell Delf that Prityal was back in the present. She would not appreciate Delf near her.

  “The tisane, then?” Delf asked, with a little smile that she took pains to make friendly and nothing more. She got to her feet and went to the icors, scratching Kee and cautiously patting Frire before digging through the packs for the dried leaves and petals. Her hands were shaking, so it took longer than it should have, but it gave Prityal more time to compose herself, which she
probably wanted.

  “Was it the sort of dream where nothing makes sense and yet you are frozen with fear?” Delf clucked her tongue at Frire for nosing into her business, but didn’t look up or behind her to Prityal yet. “Or was it a memory? I have the memory dreams while still awake, sometimes. But others have the first one, or so they tell me. Ah, here is your lavender.”

  When she turned at last, Prityal was sitting up, her legs curled beneath her. Her cloak was a tangle. Her eyes fixed on Delf over the dying fire. “A… a mix of those.” She wet her lips. “A memory, with things that did not happen then—or maybe I want to believe they did not. I don’t need a tisane. I… it was Til Din.”

  Delf clutched the packet of dried lavender to her chest. Hadn’t she thought of that very mountainside upon entering these woods?

  She did not know if the battle had been worse than any other, or if she had been young and the horror and shock had burned into her mind because she’d had nothing to prepare her. Ange thought that the early years after Brennus’s death had damaged so many of them because none of them could ever have imagined the number of cheves who would chafe at the Three’s rejection, that good and respected cheves would turn against them simply for being Knights of the Seat who did not support their quests for power.

  The strongest of those cheves had been the would-be Tyrant. But before the Tyrant had reached the Seat, there had been Til Din.

  Delf had not been trained to ride into a fight with an icor then. Her own feet had carried her onto that steep, heavily wooded hillside, against knights older and stronger than her. She had fallen, stumbled up again, found herself kneeling in a darkened glade with someone else’s mace in her hand, their bone and blood on her face. The noise of the battle not far away and yet so very distant.

  Sometimes in her memory of that moment, she was watched. Sometimes, she was the most alone she had ever been.

  She had done what she had to, to survive. But she had walked herself to that fight, and would walk back to it when she was needed. Delf alone held the blame and weight of it, and had carried a mace with her into every battle since, no matter how ugly a weapon it was.

  Til Din had made her a Knight of the Seat, full of strength and regret, as well as a terrible pride in herself, in those who lived at the barracks and stood with her.

  She had thought of them when she had reached for the helmet she could not remember removing, then risen to her feet to return to the battle.

  “These woods.” Delf shook herself out of the memory. “When we entered them, I thought of it as well.”

  Prityal slowly nodded. “The sudden absence of light. I was not prepared.” She scowled and looked away. “There is also the smell of the smoke. In the winter, when there are fires in nearly every room, I… I think of...” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I tried not to keep a fire lit in my room, but there is no other way to keep warm, some nights.”

  There were a few other ways. Cuddling was always popular. Loving or fucking as well, though Delf wasn’t going to shatter the mood with the comment she might have made about that.

  Prityal lifted her chin to regard Delf warily, making Delf realize she had gone silent for too long, and now Prityal was expecting judgment.

  “I’ve spent nights with many others,” Delf told her, and received a brief, harsh glare for it, which she chose to ignore because Prityal was clearly unhappy that Delf had witnessed her terror. “You are not the only one so afflicted,” she added gently. “Are yours frequent?”

  Prityal nodded again. She offered nothing else.

  Delf debated forging ahead to make the tisane, but Prityal seemed to be waiting for her to do something. “What do you usually do to calm down afterward?”

  “I walk.” Prityal reached up to twist one of her curls into a little knot. “All night, at times.”

  “Oh.” Still clutching the lavender, Delf wandered over to pick up some of the dropped branches so she could feed the fire. Then she sat back down on her bedroll. “Instead of sleeping? At all?” Despite her effort to sound calm, some of her disbelief came through, and worry made her blunt. “You should go to one of your friends instead. For comfort, or to get tired out so you can sleep.”

  “Tired out?” Prityal echoed, her confused frown quickly shifting into one of displeasure as she realized Delf’s meaning. She firmed her lips, then looked away.

  “Though that doesn’t work for everyone.” Delf silently called herself a fool. “I’m sorry for upsetting you. You still ought to seek out your friends when you need help. For comfort, as I said. Perhaps talk to one of them.”

  She had bungled it. Prityal was going to treat her coldly from now on. The tentative friendship that still amazed Delf was over because Delf would never understand what someone like Prityal might want.

  “I’m not going to pull them from their rest,” Prityal quietly interrupted Delf’s internal self-scold. “My friends do too much for me as it is.”

  Delf sat, taken aback for several reasons. “They’re your friends,” she replied at last. “They might be experiencing this themselves. They certainly aren’t going to think less of you. No one could,” she added firmly. “Not ever.”

  Prityal darted a look at her. “That is not how others view me.”

  “I suppose not.” Delf sighed. The Hope could not cry, or show fear, or have bad dreams. Prityal was aware people needed her to be impervious and strong. But she shouldn’t have to be. “It’s not shameful,” Delf assured her. “But you should try something else, if the walking does not work. Something to let you sleep.”

  “I see you awake, often enough.” Prityal cut another look at her. “Many nights, in fact.”

  Nights that Delf had not known Prityal had noticed. Until now.

  Delf raised her eyebrows innocently. “I sleep in the barracks. Sometimes they are loud.”

  Prityal turned to look directly at her. “You could take a room. You’ve earned one.”

  “Those are for higher-tier knights,” Delf answered without thinking, then shut her mouth when Prityal narrowed her eyes.

  “You never…” Prityal ended her sentence there, then reached up to twist another knot into her hair. When she released it, it formed a thick curl. “You say that, yet you volunteered to accompany me here as an experienced knight.”

  “Not certain how I became the focus here.” Delf glanced to the dark, but as usual, no spirits felt the need to offer her aid. “But I couldn’t let you go alone. That is such a frown you are giving me, my lady.”

  Prityal released a furious puff of air and pointed at her. “You make me wish I knew more of strategy. But that has never been my skill. I am a dagger. I need to be directed.”

  Delf was surprised enough to stare openly. “That’s how you see yourself? Lady of Strife only?”

  “I did not say I was one of the Three,” Prityal corrected, too warm for the words to have frost. “Much less that one.”

  “I think the crows of war would find you,” Delf argued, half-serious. “There is no greater shield maiden, as they used to call knights like you in the oldest stories.”

  Prityal firmed her mouth, but considered Delf with intent, bright eyes. “Then which of the Three are you?”

  A question no one had ever before asked Delf. She hesitated. “Not war, or farming, or protecting the household. I’ve no kin to artisans, despite my sewing. No desire to make metal from earth.” She finally let go of the lavender to hold out her hands, callused from sword and spear and sewing needle. “I have but one skill with these.”

  “Blunt again,” Prityal remarked flatly, glancing away.

  Delf’s lips parted. “That time… that time, I meant the lance.”

  She had no reason to flush hotly and yet she did.

  Prityal could barely look at her. “Ah,” she murmured, then hurriedly got to her feet. She straightened her cloak with much attention. “I will look for more wood for the fire. I won’t go far. Perhaps I’ll find water. For the tisane.”

 
She was flustered. Delf had done that. Or, rather, Prityal had flustered herself.

  Delf reached out to stop her, though she did not know what she might have said that would have helped.

  “Delflenor.” Prityal stopped on her own, at the edge of the circle of firelight, and turned back without quite meeting Delf’s eye. “Your hands are also good for healing. You should know that.”

  With those soft words, she vanished. In the dark outside the firelight, she would compose herself, and return calm and collected and likely never speak of this night or her bad dreams to Delf again.

  Yet she left Delf stunned and unable to forget. She might not even realize the blow she had struck.

  Delf could not make herself mind. She stared at her hands for a moment, the knobby joints and strong wrists, before forcefully directing her gaze to the fire.

  There were priests of the Three who chose fire as their symbol, because fire destroyed life, and fire created life, and fire preserved life by keeping it warm. Most chose three images together, or three wavy lines to indicate water, but some, for whatever reason, cherished the image of a flame.

  Delf considered the ordinary campfire in front of her, and the smoke and sparks rising to the sky. She had not expected her place to be so close to the hero of the story, but had accepted it the moment she had first made Prityal smile. She had promised to serve her and be her friend, unto death, or whatever the plans were for Prityal and Ainle. Compliments and Prityal’s shy trust only stirred more tender protective feelings in Delf’s heart, feelings that would frighten her someday in the future, when this quest was over and she was deep enough into her wine to wonder what Prityal’s path was.

  In the plans that may exist, Delf had been put here and given these moments to bind her even more strongly to Prityal. A gift with a purpose behind it that Delf could only guess at. But she knew the stories. As she had told Prityal, the stories featured a lot of trials and suffering. They did not always end happily.