by R. Cooper
Prityal gave her a surprising, stern glance. “The Three represent more than war. So, too, does Their chevetein. Even an almost-priest should know that.”
“I was not even almost a priest,” Delf argued absently as she sat back, her hands in her lap. “I suppose I am confused because you are special, Prityal. That’s obvious to everyone who meets you. You are marked by Their notice.” She bit her lip, considering. “But you’re right. That does not necessarily mean what many assume it does. Maybe… maybe you are to find the chevetein, or something similar. Perhaps you are meant to take us on the path to the new one, or to guard the Seat until one returns.” Her words were not calming, she recognized that, but they could not be softened. Prityal was special, was noticed by the spirits. Delf looked over to meet Prityal’s worried gaze. “We will stay with you. You do know that? All of us will stay with you to the end.”
She held Prityal’s stare until Prityal finally nodded. Then Delf exhaled and waved a hand in somewhat playful dismissal. “There is no use thinking on it, then, if that is the case. So we don’t need to speak of it unless you’d like to. We can talk about whether or not this pond is deep enough for diving, and if you know how to swim. I don’t, I admit it. Not well. But I can float.”
Her nonsense seemed to have no effect, at first. Then Prityal exhaled.
“Delflenor the Gentle,” she murmured, just audible.
Delf widened her eyes then glanced away. She harrumphed at the distant, visible clouds and tucked her hair behind her ears.
“I’m not prying if I ask what the Shrine was like, am I?” The conversation did not need to be about Delf, not even in jest. “I have never been. Is it as they say? Bare and plain but for the cracks in the stone floor and the thrum of the water beneath that?”
“Yes, and a beam of light from the latticework along the ceiling. The latticework has birds living in it. Spiders, too.” The description almost brought a smile to Delf’s face. “I wouldn’t have minded it, in another situation. It’s peaceful in there, if you do not think about the hill of rock and dirt above you, or the river flowing beneath your feet—beneath your knees, if you kneel as you should.”
“Not many would say no to Them.” Delf turned to Prityal again, letting her smile bloom this time. “Don’t think yourself a failure for not wishing to kneel.”
“I get more hope from you. What a quest this has been.” Prityal hummed, deliberately this time, a song Delf did not know. “Talking to you, when you allow me to, is like being shown a path where I thought there were only trees and vines. You’re more priest than you believe you are.”
For the second time, Delf had to squint up at the clouds to give herself a chance to react without blushes.
“Rosset.” Her change of topic was especially blunt when she was hiding her flustered thoughts. “If what Tili said and has heard is true, do you think he is building a force? And to what end? To make himself a cheve?”
Prityal snorted scornfully. “Cheve of what? With no food for the winter there is nothing to lead.” She tapped her thigh in agitation as she thought about it. “But more cheves think leadership is about building an army than I would have expected to when I was younger, if anyone had asked me. The work of leading people, even only warriors, seems to be beyond many of them.”
Delf nodded sadly, thinking of the years of infighting they had already dealt with. “There are some good ones, despite that. Do you know if any of those cheves have tried going to the Shrine at the Seat?”
“The ones who wanted to will have done so. There’s nothing stopping them.” Prityal tapped her thigh again. “The earth did not open. The waters did not flow. The skies did not smile.”
Delf shivered for the old language, the hint of rituals they had all forgotten, or never known. “Maybe it’s a farmer, or a weaver. Maybe we should reach out to them more, encourage them to try. I think most believe it impossible. That someone already powerful must be meant to lead us.”
“They might have no wish to.” Prityal was reasonable and impassive again. “The Shrine has not moved,” she added significantly, but then slowly inclined her head and stuck out her lips in a thoughtful pout. “You’re right that many do seem to believe it must be a knight, or the child of a cheve. The priests could start asking them… not that the priests listen to me. Or the cheves, even the wise ones. And the priests of the Three are the most mysterious.” She said mysterious but her tone meant useless. She was not wrong.
“They spend too much time trying to interpret a spill of salt on a table or the meaning of pouring rain instead of sprinkling rain.” Delf sighed heavily at the memory of her former instructors. “They don’t mean to be mysterious, but they speak less with the Three than they are willing to admit to. Or, I should say, the Three do not answer them much in ways they can understand. Any one of us can speak to the Three, or to any of the Wise.” She gestured at the trees, though Prityal did not see the beauty in them. “These woods are lovely, in their way. Many spirits might be among the branches. We can talk to Them, hope They’ve a mind to help us, or at least ignore us. But They might not answer, or Their answer might be swaying branches in the wind. So you see the priests’ dilemma.” Because she had just mentioned the sprits who might be listening, Delf raised her voice to finish, “We mean no harm!”
Prityal stared at her. Her expression was difficult to read, a mix of fond despair and vague confusion. “You mean like your fox,” she declared at last.
Delf made a face in protest. “Maybe. But the message—the fox—did not seem wicked.”
“Because you are not a chicken at its mercy,” Prityal pointed out. “You were still injured by the encounter.”
White cloth hung from Delf’s arm, cleaner now, but still Prityal’s colors.
Delf cleared her throat. “But far less than I could have been, then we could have been, if Frire or Kee had stumbled into that hole. And even my small injury was only because I was… distracted.” Already looking toward Prityal despite the wild creature speaking to her. “Shocking of you, my lady, to imply we are the fowl to Their foxes. Quite scandalous.”
“We are the humans to Their foxes,” Prityal corrected. “And a fox will befriend a human or steal from one based on nothing but the fox’s whims.”
“And its needs,” Delf countered lightly. “Make humans too angry, you get no chickens to feed on—only dead foxes.”
Prityal gasped, but the sound was more merry than indignant. “And I am the scandalous one, my ladylord?”
Delf shrugged and turned her grin up to the clouds. “The spirits like a little scandal and offense. You can’t have peace without strife. Can’t have calm without play. They like a joke, I think. They did give us wine.”
Bringing up wine was a foolish, reckless move, and Delf only realized her mistake when Prityal did not respond. Delf lowered her head, meeting Prityal’s eyes for a brief moment before Prityal turned away.
“What if a chevetein will not be found?” At the moment, discussing Ainle’s future was easier than bringing up their past. “Jareth has considered it, I’m sure.” Delf hadn’t, on purpose, but it did not take much effort to imagine the worst. “Ainle might fall apart, each territory under individual control, with each warring for more space, more farmland, more power. They would be open to invasion from outside.”
“Someone might persuade them to wait.” Prityal answered so quickly that it was a given that Jareth had considered this all already. “But cheves only deal with cheves, that I have witnessed. Unless you force them to deal with you. I’ve not the patience for their posturing.”
“I am sure you don’t.” Delf kept her tone serious, but Prityal cut her a sharp look despite that. Delf let it lie and carried on their discussion. “Brennus,” she hesitated at the name, “used to compare dealing with cheves to watching over children. I didn’t understand then, but I see it now.”
“Children with sticks and rocks.” Prityal glowered.
Delf didn’t fault the observation, but was
compelled to continue. “Children who respect the Wise. There is no denying Them.” Until this. This present with no chevetein and no sign that anyone could interpret about what to do, who it was, or how to find them. “I’m trying to believe our chevetein is on a path to us. But the path seems very long. Perhaps they are young. Or stubborn. Or both. Maybe someone will have to drag them by the scruff of their neck to the Seat.”
“The wise words of the almost-priest Delflenor,” Prityal commented, before her tone became wistful. “You seem to know a little of everything.”
“It’s easy to learn a little of something. Harder to learn a lot.” Delf shrugged away the implied praise. “If we ever… if we have a chevetein again, a good one, one strong enough to keep the cheves at peace and the rest of the world at bay, you ought to spend a few days in the kitchens, or out in the fields, or learning to weave. Whatever you like. It won’t kill you, though it will leave you sore.”
She delighted to be on the receiving end of one of Prityal’s pouting frowns again. “I’m strong.”
“I know,” Delf admitted, voice rough at the memory of Prityal chopping wood. She sighed heavily and then returned to the moment and Prityal staring at her. She shook her head. “Farming and making food require different muscles.”
“Ah.” Prityal accepted that with a nod, although she still looked as though she had something she wanted to say. In the end, with her pout lingering, she turned away. “People would expect me to be good at it. Perfect,” she added in a whisper, “like a legend.”
Delf wondered if another touch would be allowed. “When we have a chevetein, perhaps you will be free to do more of what you might like to do, Prityal. Or at least what you might like to try.”
“When,” Prityal echoed. “You give me hope again.” She turned to Delf, her gaze as serious as ever. “I wish you had spoken to me this way without wine on your breath. I wish you had spoken to me in any way.”
Delf held her stare despite her shame. Her failure was new and sharp, made her clench her jaw and wipe her cheek with a tight fist. Then she pushed out a breath.
“So do I,” she admitted, her head heavy. “I will try to remember in the future that you are interested in what I have to say, even when I try to be funny.”
She was trying to be funny now. Prityal clucked her tongue, then gave Delf a stern look.
“Your jokes are armor,” she said, devastating and oblivious to the gasp locked in Delf’s throat. “I didn’t see that before. I am not sure why you feel armor is necessary even when among friends, but I would like to know the reason.” She frowned harder, but it did not feel directed at Delf, despite how earnestly she looked at Delf a moment later. “It would be faster if you told me, but I cannot expect you to remove your armor when I still have mine.”
Delf suspected that her mouth was hanging open.
“Did I disarm you?” Prityal had the gall to seem surprised, and then, even more shockingly, pleased. “I’m getting better at this.” Her jests were all the more powerful for being so rare. “The answer really is practice.”
Swallowing took effort with Delf’s throat so dry. “And you are practicing on me?” she asked at last, although she did not get a chance to follow up by wondering what precisely Prityal was practicing, because through the trees was the glint of light on water.
There, ahead of them, in the midst of the green and brown of the autumn forest, was Tili’s “lovely little pond.”
Eight
the origin of shrines
“AND THIS is not their shrine?” Delf asked in disbelief the moment they stopped in front of the pond and slid from the backs of their icors to marvel at its beauty.
The pond the locals loved sat on its own in the middle of a small glade surrounded by trees, which gave it a private, almost secret air. It was larger than Delf had expected, a roughly formed semi-circle, with a shallow bank nearest to them, and a collection of gray boulders rising from the water at the center. The boulders were out of place among the trees, looking as if they had been set there by some giant long ago. Crystalline water trickled down the surface of the rocks into the pond, indicating it was actually a spring.
Delf could only imagine the scene in the summer, with the sun and the wind and the water working together to make rainbows in the spray whenever anyone splashed, and the ground around the water likely covered in flowers. Animals would approach the pond at dawn and dusk. Young humans would slip away to play in the cool water during the heat of the day, although older humans with their lovers would be wise enough to return under cover of night.
“If the people love this place so dearly, perhaps it is their shrine. To the Three or to the forest spirits… or to whatever they do here. That’s why they forgot the old one. It wasn’t needed.” Prityal surprised her with the sentiment. Not for believing it when that was clearly true. But for guessing that more flirting or loving went on here than swimming or bathing—if that was what she meant.
“That is the origin of shrines, as far as I know,” Delf agreed absently. “And this place certainly qualifies as well-used and well-loved.” She walked to the edge to consider the lightly rippling waters. “Places have power because we gave it to them.” The wind stirred her hair. “Should we light a fire?” She was hardly going to refuse a chance to clean up in such a beautiful spring, but it was going to be very cold.
Prityal took some time to pull her attention from the water, her mind apparently on other things. “Hmm?”
“To help us dry before we develop icicles in our hair,” Delf finished. “And building one will give me something to do while you bathe.” Her voice stayed even despite the images that flashed through her mind. “If you’d like to go first, that is. I can keep watch.”
She doubted anything would come upon them except perhaps a stronger wind or an animal who might not hear their noise, but Prityal was prickly, and Delf did not want to offend her with anything untoward, like the joke about shared baths that Delf would no doubt end up making.
Prityal stared at her for another moment. “That’s very kind of you,” she offered at last. “You are generally kind.” She paused and it felt deliberate. “That has also been noticed.”
“Aaaah.” Delf made an inarticulate sound. “Is it practice embarrassing me?”
Prityal grew visibly pleased. “So it is like sparring. Ran has often said so, but I didn’t understand.”
“To you, sparring is barely a step behind a challenge to the death,” Delf told her, but lightly and with a hot face. Then she turned quickly to collect the bundle of linens from Tili and to go through the packs. She collected her comb, as well as flint and tinder, and considered the result the last time she had sparred with Prityal. She stopped. “Wait, what is like sparring?”
Prityal kicked aside several small stones and twigs at the side of the pond, making a space for a fire. “You have to learn when to strike, and when to wait for a counterstrike… if there is one.”
She undid her belt and kneeled to place it carefully on the ground with her weapons. Once there, she untied her boots.
Delf turned away when Prityal reached for the bottom of her surcoat to pull it over her head.
“That didn’t answer the question.” Delf buried her face in Kee’s neck for one comforting, warm moment, then pushed away to start looking for suitable branches to burn. She kept her eyes firmly on the ground. “But I don’t think there is anything you do without committing your whole self to it.”
“Just so.” Prityal had a tremor in her voice and seemed to be moving around, either to fold her clothing and set it somewhere or hopping to stay warm as she undressed. “You’ve summed up my problem neatly.” This was muffled, as if she had tugged some other garment over her head. “And you are Delflenor, who will not spar with me.”
Delflenor caught herself in the act of turning to frown at her, glimpsed the muscles of Prityal’s back, and dropped her head to stare at her hands. Her throat was dry. “You would destroy me before I could manage one hit.�
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That Delf had often wished she would was Delf’s problem, not Prityal’s. Delf moved closer to the edge of the glade, focusing desperately on her search for material to burn.
“This again.” Prityal sighed. “You are a true knight. You should place yourself where you belong—and claim a room of your own.”
“I have never felt right doing so.” Delf struggled for words, distracted by the sight she denied herself and Prityal’s warm frustration. “I like to be near others, if not always with them. A single cell in the complex would be lonely.”
“But it would be easier for you to conduct your affairs?” Prityal seemed to be making a suggestion, but it ended with a high, breathy exclamation and a small splashing noise, as if she had dipped a toe into the water. Apparently, in one area, Prityal did not leap fearlessly.
Delf half-expected a fox to jump out just to laugh at her. She waited until she heard the sound of gentle, lapping waves and Prityal’s quietly chattering teeth before she returned to the pond, although she kept her gaze on her tasks as she dug a small pit with her hands, stacked her gathered branches, and then put some dried leaves and moss beneath them.
“It won’t be much,” she announced as she pulled out the flint, ignoring the previous conversation. She got a spark going and pushed back her hair so she could lean down to blow on the flames. “Ah, there it is!” she declared at last with real pleasure, and put a few more branches and twigs around the small fire.
She sat back before looking over, and then froze. She was aware she was gawking, and, too late, recovered her senses enough to send her gaze skyward.
“Sorry.” Although there was no way she could have known Prityal would be floating or standing upright, her shoulders exposed to the air. Prityal’s hair was wet. Rivulets had run down her throat over her collarbone, over the scars and the plump swell of her breast.
“You’ve seen more than this on an average day in the barracks, or in a war camp.” The temperature of the water gave Prityal’s voice a breathless quality.