The Devotion of Delflenor

by R. Cooper

  “If you have questions, you may as well ask them,” Delf offered, though she was tired and her thoughts were many and unsettled. If she stayed where she was, Prityal was remained in her sight. Delf exhaled a little in relief, then did her best to focus on the questions from Rosset’s most promising begleys.

  IN THE END, the interior of the ruin was both more and less impressive than Delf had imagined. She wanted to know how the high ceiling had been achieved, but also knew she wouldn’t understand if a stonemason figured it out and explained it to her. At the same time, this relic of the past was really just a large, rectangular room, big enough to carry an echo, and probably impossible to heat in the winter except for the places directly in front of the massive fireplaces at either end.

  Rosset and his begleys, since Delf knew no other way to describe them, had filled some of the space with roughly hewn tables, benches, and a few chairs. This was where they all ate, it seemed. There were carved or sculpted niches in the walls, which someone had filled with thick candles of beeswax, though only a handful were lit. On the long sides of the building were high windows, small arches cut out of the stone to let in light and air, some of the walls still marked with traces of paint or enamel.

  It could have been the hall of a cheve, if on a much grander scale. But, on their short tour of the ruin, none had called Rosset that, including Rosset.

  The vast, echoing chamber had a narrow corridor along one side, lined with smaller rooms of differing sizes, probably meant for varying purposes, so long ago. Rosset apparently stayed in one of them, not his house in the village. He brought out some of his things, including his old helmet and breastplate, to show Prityal, and Delf had followed after them and said nothing despite the increasingly displeased looks she received from Ainle’s Champion. Delf had been vaguely interested in the older armor, the vanity and tradition that had led Rosset to have sigils and designs embossed on the metal and worn leather. But Rosset wasn’t displaying them for her, and Delf had considered it more of her duty to keep an eye on everything else.

  Rosset’s energy had flagged near the end. Prityal had left him to walk down the stairs by himself, without offering him her arm. She must have been concerned for his pride.

  Then, in the last moments before the sun truly went down, the begleys returned to attend to their evening meal preparations, and with more questions, and Delf was pulled to the kitchens after one final look at Prityal. Prityal was sitting before a fire, with half a dozen eager faces turned toward her, her attention away from Delf.

  It was almost like being home again.

  Ten

  questions asked and a story told

  THE EVENING MEAL in the ruin felt much the same. If Delf closed her eyes, the chatter was just like the noise of the barracks as hungry knights and knights-in-training bickered, flirted, and debated over their meals.

  She did not close her eyes for long, though she was tired. She had been trying to catch Prityal’s attention for some time, since Delf had arrived too late to sit near her. Truthfully, she didn’t think the begleys, or Rosset, for that matter, would have given up space for her even if she’d been early.

  She had dashed in, still overly warm from the kitchens, holding a large bowl full of bread, and let Bors drag her to the bench on one side of the long table. Prityal was several seats down and on the other side, at Rosset’s right. Rosset, at the head, didn’t seem to notice much beyond the Tyrant-slayer supping in his grand hall.

  Delf sipped her wine, ate her soup, and wished once or twice that she was back in the barracks, where Prityal had also ignored her, or seemed to ignore her, but it had bothered her less because she had not ever expected more. Here, in this place, Prityal would not look at her, had not, since Delf had come in and sat down.

  Prityal had smiled at her at first, wide and welcoming and a touch relieved. In the moment it had taken Delf to accept that smile was for her, it had already faded. Bors had leaned over to pour some wine into her cup as well as the one in front of Delf, and Prityal had frowned and looked down. A moment later, she had turned to answer something one of the others had asked her, and she had not looked over again, not in any of the times Delf had raised her head from her meal.

  It was just as well that Delf had been given a room to herself for the night, though she worried that without someone friendly around her, Prityal would not sleep, too afraid of having bad dreams in this unfamiliar place, surrounded by people who expected her to be fearless.

  Delf did not even know where Prityal was meant to sleep. Delf had been offered a small room that was obviously claimed by someone else, or many someones, who had given it up so that a Knight of the Seat might use it. It was tiny, with high, narrow, unshuttered squares for windows, and a straw pallet in one corner, and a mysterious stone that stuck out from one wall, which had been carved and painted probably centuries ago, and which now was used to hold a pitcher of water and a bowl.

  Prityal’s room was likely much the same. Nothing either of them could object to, and yet Delf worried.

  She worried without enjoying her wine much, and occasionally turning to answer something Bors or one of Bors’ friends would ask. She wanted to tug at her hair, free it from the two braids it had been quickly bound into when the steam from the kitchens had undone Prityal’s work, but she did not want to offend Bors.

  She did wonder how Rosset could have these people here, and let them play at sparring and the life of knights, and not see the few who would serve him best if he did claim the title of cheve. If he did, he had not treated any one of them differently from any of the others, though he did know their names, and, as the meal progressed, discussed some of their skills with Prityal.

  As though there would be time for Prityal to stay here to teach them. Delf could not determine Rosset’s plan, or even if he had one. Maybe he simply longed for the company of a knight, or someone from the Seat. As best as Delf could tell, he had wandered into these ruins, studied them as much as he could, and the begleys had found him.

  There was something in that. She didn’t know what. But something. A sign of what might be done, or what should be done. A sign that the children of farmers were sometimes as bored as older, retired knights. A sign that the Three were not done with this place.

  Delf was not drunk or even a little wine-addled as she wondered if the Three planned everything, like a much-awaited midsummer feast, or if They merely used what material was on hand, like a meal made from whatever remained in a pantry, or if the planning was for humans, and the Three provided fields and fruit and game and waited to see what would be presented.

  It was the place making her question and speculate when she would not possibly receive answers. They would all have to stumble along like Laradoc had and hope for a happy ending to their tale.

  She reached for her wine but contented herself with a sip.

  Prityal took a drink from her cup as well. She tended to prefer ale to wine, but it might have been water in her cup for all Delf knew. She did not sip. Delf realized why when the end of Rosset’s question reached her.

  “…But won’t you tell us what truly happened?”

  Delf did not breathe.

  Those at the table seemed to go still and quiet in a slow progression, as if those who heard the request whispered it to those farther down the table, until the room was nearly silent except for the crackle of burning wood in the fireplaces and the soft thump of Prityal’s cup as she put it down.

  It was not that it was not done to speak of the Tyrant, or even of the slaying of the Tyrant. It was that no one in the barracks or the Seat needed to hear of it, and the begleys and squires would never have dared to ask Prityal to recount it.

  Delf had never heard Prityal tell the story, though no one would have objected to her right to do so. Knights of the Seat were meant to be diligent and humble, as Rosset had told everyone, but Prityal did not discuss her actions that day even in terms of her duty. She had her own reasons for that, and Delf and others had respected
them.

  “It is a straightforward tale. Dull, if you’re wanting adventure.” Prityal had her chin up but her gaze remained on the table for another few moments. “Mil—” She stopped before uttering the Tyrant’s name. “A cheve from Roselin decided four years without a chevetein was too long, or perhaps that the approval of the sky, the land, and the water, was not necessary. They told a lie, that the Three had accepted them, that they were now chevetein and anyone who did not witness the signs had misunderstood them. But there were no signs.”

  She said it without a trace of doubt in her voice and raised her eyes to consider everyone at the table.

  “The more orders they gave, the more things fell apart. Other cheves protested. Some wanted to take the Seat for themselves, and while the Knights of the Seat attended to that, the false chevetein tried to use the knights of Roselin on the defiant cheves.”

  A clean description for chaotic, frightening months filled with rising tensions and more and more spilled blood.

  “The Knights of the Seat, and others, objected. It was our duty to object. A chevetein would have known that, would have felt that. Instead, we were attacked while still weakened and away from the Seat.” Til Din. Where Delf had become a knight because so few knights were left. Where Prityal had screamed for hours when the arrowhead could not be removed.

  Prityal was distant. She seemed unaware of everyone’s eyes on her. Delf doubted that she was.

  “A foolish move,” Delf commented. She was quiet, but many startled at the sound of her voice. Prityal blinked. Delf gave her a small smile, then turned toward the others to explain. “Foolish of the Tyrant to essentially take on two battles with only one force they could count on. The remaining Knights of the Seat had now hardened against them, and many of the other cheves were not pleased.”

  With no eyes on her while Delf was speaking, Prityal take a deep breath, then released it. She glanced at Delf, gaze warm again, then away. She swallowed before speaking.

  “It took us some time to rest and heal and plan, and to finish subduing the cheves who also thought to name themselves leader. We had help. Some good cheves and their knights who rode with us back to the Seat, but the Tyrant had fled to Roselin. Roselin had ruins, not as great as this, but the Tyrant had made them into a stronghold. We had to be careful. The people of Roselin had committed no crimes against Ainle, and the false chevetein’s knights were everywhere. When we eventually reached the stronghold, I found them. It was chance only that I did. Any of the others would have done what I did, had they come upon the Tyrant first.”

  Delf had heard the pretender hadn’t even had a chance to use their sword. Knowing what Prityal was like when her blood was up and she had made a decision, she believed it.

  “It was the will of the Three.” Prityal made that addition softly, then took another drink. Delf was surprised until she noticed the fine tremors in Prityal’s hand. “The skies lit up, afterward. The way they say they do when a chevetein is accepted by Them.” Prityal licked her lips and turned sharply to Rosset. “Did they? Did the skies fill with colors when Brennus was accepted by the Three?”

  “Yes,” Rosset answered simply, his gaze lingering on Prityal before he abruptly smiled and raised his head to address everyone. “The sun came through the clouds and colors filled the sky, both in the clouds and stretching to the ground. It was a marvelous moment.”

  “This story.” Bors sighed with the weight of someone who has heard the same story many times. Yet she leaned forward as if eager to hear it again.

  “The previous chevetein had died. Rou had been a good leader, slow to act, some said, but decent, and caring. But he did not die of old age.” Rosset paused there, for no reason Delf could think save to make the story more interesting. “As happens sometimes. Nonetheless, some said it was a sign that he had failed in some way, or lost belief.”

  Delf frowned but held her tongue.

  Rosset continued. “I admit, there were some conflicts with Rou, but don’t recall the details of those. I was young and cared more about learning and fighting then politics.”

  A familiar attitude that had Delf looking fondly toward Prityal, only to find Prityal looking back at her. Prityal seemed just as startled to be caught staring. She parted her lips as if she had something to say, then firmed them and turned attentively toward Rosset. Her hand closed around her cup.

  “Months went by.” Rosset enjoyed the tale, that was clear. “A year. Everyone who was interested went to the Shrine to offer themselves. None were accepted. Then, Brennus, who liked to drink with the knights and the priests, but was a sort of…” Rosset’s eyes were almost gleaming “I would not say entirely a layabout—they were always working at something. But… Brennus had many interests, and no calling. And they were fond of stopping to enjoy a handful of ripe summer berries, or a good drink of ale. They were the child of a farmer, and were fairly knowledgeable of planting and the seasons despite having no love for it. They could scrap with us knights, cook, handle animals. Brennus did love to garden. Perhaps tending a kitchen garden suited them more than managing whole fields. They were also fond of making pots. Quite good ones. Very beautiful.” Rosset focused on the listening begleys, then again on Prityal. “So, it had been a year or nearly a year when Brennus started asking about the Shrine of the Seat. Were we sure the offers had to be made there? Was there a ritual? How did we know if it worked or if it was just a rainy day with rainbows in the sky? They pestered the priests, too, vexing them, I’m sure. Finally, the priest of the Three who had worked with Rou sent Brennus to the stream to see the Shrine for themselves and reminded them that anyone was welcome to go, even those not offering themselves as chevetein.”

  Rosset lowered his voice. “Lord of Fools, it did not occur me that the chevetein did not have to be a knight. Just as it did not occur to me then that magic-users do not have to be priests. We have forgotten what once was.” He inhaled, shaky and pained, before straightening his shoulders and offering a smile. “We all laughed and waited for Brennus’s return, certain there would be plenty of ale and more of Brennus’s questions.”

  “But the earth moved, the stream rose, and the skies lit with color,” Prityal finished.

  Rosset banged his fist against the table and nodded excitedly. “It was everything the stories say. The first time I began to truly believe the legends. I believed in the Three, you understand, but not the legends. Then Brennus walked out from the Shrine, through the town that makes up the Seat, changed, although their appearance was the same. The presence of the Three could be felt. Bowls rattled and fell from tables, shattering. Brennus stopped in one doorway and, within the home, someone felt the quickening of childbirth. The cats in the street circled their ankles, which startled them more than when an exhausted, stunned Brennus fell into the arms of an old friend, and a touch from Brennus pulled the pain from their friend’s joints.”

  Delf sucked in a breath. She had heard that, but had not thought it true.

  “Brennus could barely stand, so they sat in the dirt, with the sky still bright and the ground now wet, and held the hands of anyone with injuries, old or new, or with sickness, even something as small as a sniffle. Then, eventually, it stopped. All of it. And Brennus slept, right there, and woke the same Brennus, except now the chevetein. Even now, I am not certain why Brennus was compelled to go to the Shrine. Or why it took so long for them to do so. The Three do as They will. Though I wish They were a little clearer.”

  Delf unobtrusively drank to that. Prityal looked as if she wanted to as well. One of the begleys sighed.

  “Did you try?” Prityal asked her ale before giving Rosset a careful, sideways study.

  Bors snorted. Delf assumed that the answer was yes.

  “All the knights did.” Rosset said it with less pride than Delf had expected. “Got drunk first, usually. It…” he hesitated. “It seems a lark until you are there. Even when They do not speak, They are present.”

  Prityal gave him a shining smile of relief that
made Delf’s chest ache. “Shrines have that effect on me as well.”

  Delf put a hand to her heart and shook her head at both of them. Attended and loved shrines were always powerful, but the Shrine of the Seat was something else.

  Rosset spoke before Delf could. “Some shrines have more power, but the Three are everywhere. I’m so pleased you agree.”

  That was an opening, at least. The Ladylord of Restraint had no hold on Delf now. “We heard there is a shrine somewhere nearby, perhaps as old as this place and still in use? I’d love to visit if we have the chance.” She did her best to soften her intensity by adding, “My devotion is not much to offer, but if I can get even a small measure of Their favor, I like to try for it.”

  She was not expecting Rosset’s scowl. “Do you have no faith in the Wise? Even after what I have just told you?”

  “She does.” Prityal briefly put her hand over Rosset’s on the table. Her voice was gentle, but it carried. “Delflenor once trained to be a priest. She just has an odd sense of humor.”

  Someone else might have said she spoke with pride. Delf said nothing at all, her throat unexpectedly tight.

  Rosset nodded and seemed to lose whatever offense he had taken. He turned to Delf, considering, and then intrigued. “A priest? There are none in this area, save a follower of the Hunter who wanders through from time to time.”

  “Former priest-in-training,” Delf corrected quietly. “But do you really have no priests? Not even someone to help with your planting and harvests?” She cleared her throat, which made speaking somewhat easier. “No wonder times are getting trying.”

  Prityal shot her a look somewhere between chiding and stern.

  Delf raised her eyebrows innocently despite conflicting feelings about that look.

  Rosset, who did not know Delf, evidently took her seriously. “What do you think of the situation? Has Ainle been forsaken? One year’s absence gave us Brennus. Is this the end, or will a decade’s absence give us someone greater?”