by R. Cooper
He turned to Prityal. Everyone did that. Delf had done that. For something Prityal thought of as her secret failure.
Delf raised her voice. “It’s not a role to be taken lightly.”
Rosset made a face as though Delf had interrupted him before he could say more. Delf hoped she had.
Prityal was watching, her expression shuttered.
Delf forced herself to look away, to Rosset, and then to the others. “The chevetein is the one who might be touched by all the spirits.” As opposed to most priests, who devoted themselves to one or two. “The one to live in service. To deal with troublesome cheves as well as those outside Ainle, and the Guilds and other craftspeople, the harvests. Brennus did all that and still took the time to care for….”
“There are some who already live in service,” Rosset cut off Delf just as she realized her voice was strained and embarrassingly high. He did not gesture at Prityal, but his meaning was clear. “The chevetein must solve some petty disputes, certainly. But I am speaking of someone capable of withstanding the attentions of the Three, someone strong enough to wield their power, if only for a while. The chevetein can make dry rivers flow and heal any wound, heal even the dying, for a time, if the Three grant it. The chevetein is Their hand, utterly human, but special.”
Delf closed her mouth and said nothing, though there were some who should have asked for the blessing of Restraint who clearly had not.
Brennus might have asked the Three for help and might have been able to wield Their power, perhaps in times of great trouble. But they had ruled wisely, and the Knights of the Seat had been happy to serve them, and there had been no great strife. That might have been skill, or the will of the Three, or chance alone.
Brennus had been good at things like predicting rain showers or guessing what someone really wanted when they came to the chevetein to make a complaint. But that might have been experience. Brennus had been chevetein for decades by then.
Delf would have died for Brennus in a similar, yet very different, way to how she knew could offer her life for Prityal’s. Brennus and Prityal both offered hope, and strength, and love to everyone they met. They were the best of Ainle. The new chevetein would have to equal that. It should be Prityal, but it was not. And Prityal did not want it to be.
If there was to be great strife…. Delf frowned at an empty cup, and then startled a little when Bors refilled it for her.
“Thank you,” Delf told her with a smile, “but I have no intention of having more.” Drinking as she worried was habit, but one easily left behind. She looked again to Prityal as Prityal turned toward Rosset.
“Is the lack of a chevetein connected to the reason you sent for us?” If Prityal made an attempt to gentle her tone, it was not much of an effort.
“Fuck,” Delf muttered under her breath. That was not patience or diplomacy. Which should at least convince Rosset that Prityal was no chevetein.
Rosset did not take offense, or seem at all deterred by Prityal’s bluntness. His happiness was explained with his next words. “I sent to the Seat for the best. I received knights. I received Prityal the Pure. If that is not the work of the Three, I don’t know what is.”
He was right.
Fuck. Delf said it to herself only this time and held very still with great effort. She needed to say something before Prityal would.
“May I ask,” Delf tried to sound only politely interested, yet also be loud enough to be heard down the table, “the youngsters here.” She gestured to Bors, the others. “Are you building a collection of knights in order to make yourself a cheve?”
Some of the youngsters, some of whom were older than Prityal, stirred.
Rosset shook his head, seemingly without regret. “At my age? No.”
“You are hale and sharp enough, if they want you to,” Prityal observed, as though just now remembering that she ought to be diplomatic or flattering. “An injury would not stop you, surely, if people needed you.”
Delf coughed. Not every knight was capable of Prityal’s determined greatness.
Prityal did not spare Delf a glance.
“But they do not need me,” Rosset replied mildly. Delf should have been calmed by that. She was calmed by that. But then she wondered how many people in all of Ainle would not at least consider the possibility of power if offered it. Rosset interrupted her disconcerted musing. “Look at this place. This area did well enough before I arrived, and has continued to do so. It’s the rest of Ainle that is facing a problem, and no one seems to have an answer.”
Prityal worked her jaw. “We have defended the Seat,” she said hotly. “At significant cost.”
“I am certain you have, Prityal of Ters.” Rosset slowly shook his head. “But there is still no one to occupy the chevetein’s home. No one with the backing of the Three to quell the ambitious, or make judgements the cheves would respect, to watch the borders. No one to even encourage more than simple production of that which we need.”
Prityal gave him a confused frown, but sat quietly, listening.
Rosset liked his own voice, it was true, but Delf was equally caught out by his strange words.
“There’s no one to question the ways of the priests, or to examine what we once built.” Rosset did not have to gesture at the hall around them. “When I came here… I was bored. Frequently. I was used to action, people, travel. When I felt well enough, I rode and rode until I came out here and found this and… thought again about the legends. We sing them, quote them. We trade stories, on a small scale, with those along the borders. But really, we know nothing. We don’t know what is beyond the wilderness, or if there are still creatures in the Wood. All of that was lost. But this stands, proof.”
The legends were stories grown fantastic over time. But the knights, the wanderers, even the creatures, must have been real once, in some way.
“We have faced one crisis already in the time since Brennus, and will likely face more, whether or not someone goes to the Seat and asks the Wise for Their favor.” Brennus had the room’s attention although the begleys must have heard similar ideas from him before. That was why they were here. They’d had dreams of being knights, or simply wanted to escape their lives for a while, yes, certainly, but they were also here because Rosset was talking about things that even priests rarely dared. “The question is, if we are granted the chevetein I believe we will be granted, is it to give us more quiet and comfort and something like calm? Or are times of legend ahead of us? Are we to be guided through a storm?”
Delf stopped herself from reaching for her wine. Much too far away from her, Prityal took a long drink from her cup.
“These are thoughts to give us nightmares—if we sleep,” Delf remarked, strain back in her voice.
Rosset nodded, though his expression did not change. “I also considered this: if the Three are everywhere, then what happens here matters just as much as the Seat.” Delf did not think Rosset had shared that sentiment before, because Bors stopped drinking, and many of those at the table had not begun to chatter amongst themselves as they had for Rosset’s other stories. “What happens here, even protected and hidden by the tangles of Oryl Wood, is a smaller version of what is happening around us. Even without cheves and their knights occasionally making displays on the other side of the Wood, trying to claim this land, there is trouble.”
“Is it that winter approaches, and your fields are not yet fully harvested, or replanted, and there are roofs in need of work before the rains?”
Delf did not realize she had spoken until Prityal said, “Delflenor,” as though Delf was the impolitic one.
“The work will get done,” Bors insisted. Delf looked at her rather than Prityal, not wanting to know if Prityal was turned from her still. Bors managed to seem both defiant and sheepish. “We know we’ve been here too much. I suppose we got carried away. Some are going to head back… once you two are gone.” She admitted to that without shame. Delf could not fault her or anyone of them for it. Naturally, they were cur
ious. “But knights are humble and diligent. They work hard, so we should as well.”
Delf forgave her for quoting Rosset, since it had helped her make her point. She gave Bors and the others a smile, and blinked in surprise at the warmth of the smiles she got in return. “Are some of you considering becoming knights, then?”
“When you hear a call, you should answer.” Rosset nearly sighed it. “I didn’t summon these young ones here. They came here on their own as I explored this ruin and pondered its meaning. They wanted meaning, too. And hope.”
An old Knight of the Seat in an isolated village, telling tales of past glory, underneath this incredible ceiling, and time away from work at home was what called most of these people here. But some might have also wanted meaning, wanted to know that things could and would go on.
“The danger.” Prityal broke into Delf’s worrying and Rosset’s pondering. She might worry and ponder on her own later, in fact, she likely would, but not until the threat had passed. “You truly did not expect knights?”
Rosset shrugged. “I thought perhaps priests. But I am not objecting to your presence, Prityal of Ters.” He sat back, satisfied, at the sound of the name. “It’s certain this was all meant to be. Whatever that is.” He stared at Prityal with the hungry attention of a child before an unattended platter of cakes, or a cat who had just seen a flicker in the dark.
Delf often stared at Prityal with hunger, though at least her gaze had held love and lust as well as worship. She did not trust Rosset with Prityal’s wellbeing any more than she had trusted the begleys in the barracks with it.
“Tomorrow,” Rosset announced in a final tone. “I will show Delflenor the shrine, and we will ride through the Wood. We can then discuss the problem here.”
Which was part of the problem in all of Ainle, according to him. It was frustrating that he might be right.
“We will need armor.” Prityal must have been clenching her teeth to hold in her impatience with this vague answer. “Are you suffering incursions from a neighboring cheve again? Or is it some magic, and priests would be better? Your message was not clear.”
Rosset refused to spar with Prityal as well, it seemed. He only smiled. “Some of my old armor may do, though it will not do you justice. We will ride out in the morning. I would like to see the Champion in action.”
He was about to see the Champion’s temper.
“What of your begleys here?” Delf butted in. “They may have come here on their own, but you did not have to train them. You could have sent them to the Seat.”
That caused more than a little commotion. It must not have occurred to anyone at the table that they could go to the Seat at any time. If they did not know that, then the Seat should send more merchants and artisans this way—though not through the Wood. It was luck only that had kept Delf and Prityal from encountering anything larger than a stag, and that the weather had made the sky light enough for them to see in the dense forest.
“No one has mentioned it to me, and I would only send those who truly wanted to go.” Rosset considered Delf with faint surprise. “But should I send them? Even here, we hear the rumors about the Seat. The skirmishes. The victories.” His tone sharpened. “The losses.”
Prityal visibly stiffened. “There is no chevetein.”
As if all it took was a sign of distress from Prityal, Rosset became a somewhat tired, strained figure once again, as though he could barely stay up in his seat. “The troubles have taken their toll on all of us. But you have had a wearying journey and there is no use discussing anything more tonight.”
Prityal stared at her cup, furious or blaming herself for failures for that were not her fault. But she was not a squire for Rosset to scold.
“Any rumors you hear about the Seat and its knights there are nothing to what it is,” she declared, holding her head up proudly.
“Then tell us about it. Please. Tell them.” Rosset nodded toward the rest of the table. “They are tired of my stories and could use something new. Show them what the Seat means.”
Prityal had not thawed. “I am not good at storytelling.”
“What about the battle in Roselin? The Battle for the Seat?”
Delf turned to look, but could not determine who had asked the question. “Is that what they call it?” she wondered, only half-serious. In the barracks, it was referred to simply as Roselin. Like with Til Din, that was all that was necessary. Delf gave the room a mocking grin. “My job was clearing buildings around the stronghold, making sure the people inside were safe and stayed in. I also was tasked with removing any of the Tyrant’s knights and allies who happened to be about. They generally did not want to be removed.” They had hidden in barns and cellars, behind doorways, sometimes in the homes of their families.
Prityal met Delf’s eyes. “Horrible work,” she offered softly.
Delf did not pretend otherwise. “But necessary to help a champion reach her foe.” She turned to Bors, some of the others who did not understand. “It is not done on the back of an icor. It is not arrows or spears. It is leather armor and mail if you are fortunate enough to claim some, and it is knives and hands and… very close.” She gave them another grin, this one slightly less false. “Most of the people of Roselin were happy to help us. A tyrant has tyrannical friends, you see. But… if you are after a story, a better one is the tale of the Champion, the Just, who did not slay the false chevetein in order to take the Seat for herself, or even as revenge although a knight serving the false chevetein had caused her pain. The spring was too long in coming. The sun did not shine. Seeds could not be planted, and flowers failed to bloom, giving the bees nothing and leaving the fruit trees bare come autumn. Or they would have, if the Tyrant had remained. The people would be hungry. They would turn cruel. There would be more fighting. Because one person chose not to do as Prityal did when given the same choice.”
“She did it because there was no one else who could do it, and she served the Seat, so it was her duty.” Delf’s voice was hoarse as though she had been speaking for hours. Memory made her sound rough. “And the Seat, as Rosset has said, is everywhere. In your fields and in that pond of yours in the Wood, and in this ruin, too. There is good in working hard in the fields to provide food—unless you don’t like it, in which case, find something you do like and do that, like Brennus did. Bathing in that pond—and whatever else you all do there—is also good. Admire this place, wonder how it was made, try to make something like it, if you can. These are all powerful acts. They are giving, even when they are selfish. I cannot imagine the Three would object. But if you become a knight or a cheve for adventure and glory, you may end up like the Tyrant, and those who served them.”
Delf looked away from every stunned, startled face and frowned thoughtfully at her forgotten soup. “I appear to have had too much wine,” she lied, letting the moment pass.
“You barely had any,” Bors corrected, but did not give her more.
“There is nothing remarkable in what I did.” Prityal might have looked toward her, but Delf did not risk a glance up.
“That you truly believe so is what makes it remarkable,” Delf told her. Just her, and no one else.
“Can we build something like this place?” One of the begleys asked from farther down the table, and several people began to eagerly debate the idea, leaving Delf to stare at her bowl and her cup of wine, and wonder if she would need to discuss her feelings with Prityal, after this, or if she had just made them clear.
Eleven
meaning
A BAD SLEEP the night before and too many thoughts in her head had Delf retiring early, although still after many of the begleys had started to slink from the great hall toward wherever they had made their beds. She offered to assist with clearing up, but was shooed away like a visiting guest instead of a knight, and was too tired to argue the point again. She had spent the rest of her meal in silence, listening to Prityal’s quiet murmurs to Rosset and excited talk of the future from the others.
&nb
sp; She didn’t realize Prityal was following her from the room until she was in the corridor, struggling by the light of only a few thick candles to recall which little cell had been given to her.
Delf turned around to face her, barely aware of the one or two begleys who nodded awkwardly at them as they passed.
Prityal’s lips were pushed out and her brow was wrinkled, and she stopped not far from Delf.
Delf kept her voice low. “You seem upset, my lady.”
The pout became an outright frown. “He’s being vague. And I’ve no mind for waxings about legends.”
Delf unexpectedly wanted to smile. She contained the urge, but only barely. “You managed well enough.” Prityal did not seem appeased, but also did not deepen her frown, so Delf stepped in closer. “Most of these children and farmers and would-be begleys will go home once we are gone and they realize better how their families are struggling. But some will think of traveling to the Seat, to study with the stonemasons or the textile workers or yes, to go to the barracks. They might have already if they had known they could. We shouldn’t have ignored this place. The people here should know they matter to the Seat as much as the people anywhere else.”
Prityal studied Delf with wide eyes, then bit her lip and glanced away. “His words… that what is happening here is the same as it is in the Seat. Do you also think so? That people are wondering if we can go on and are looking for meaning?”
“I don’t know,” Delf told her honestly. “I think they look for strength and hope, as always. That’s why they turn to you. For anything else, faith or happiness or adoration, I don’t know where they will turn.” But she did not want to add to Prityal’s distress, so she tried to lighten her tone. “Are you now bothered as well?”
Prityal raised her head, her gaze warm and worried. “We are standing in a place that once mattered and then was forgotten.”