by R. Cooper
Neither of them seemed to breathe for several moments, then Delf slowly nodded. “Ainle has many abandoned shrines,” she said, a whisper of comfort. “We always make new ones.”
“The Seat is a shrine,” Prityal answered gravely. In more light, Delf might have seen her tremble.
She took Prityal’s hand and said nothing while a few more begleys filed past them.
“So, this might not be a problem that requires a sword. We will manage.” Delf made herself sound sure of it, while wondering what had become of her that the Hope herself was looking to Delf for courage and resolve. “We will do what needs to be done, here, and elsewhere. This might be nothing at all. Rosset seems to like stories. Perhaps he has imagined himself in one. Maybe this is merely runaway knights from a neighboring cheve camping in the woods and disturbing the game. Or maybe it will be an adventure, and unusual beasts do still roam the Wood—it has been left to return to wilderness for a very long time.” Prityal tangled their fingers together. It was distracting, even in a heavy moment. “Although, if there are monsters or magic-users, the two of us will not do much good, even if one of us is the Tyrant-slayer.”
Prityal’s expression went stubborn. “You are a formidable opponent.”
For once, to make Prityal happier, or because of the memory of Roselin, Delf did not shrug that off. “Not against magic, or an army of legend, if that is what’s out there. Not even you could stand against that.”
“We aren’t going to fight them.” Prityal was now the one trying to offer comfort. “We are going to look. To scout.”
Delf made a sour face. “He’s had time to scout.”
“You don’t like him.” Prityal, perhaps absently, pulled Delf’s hand to her chest. “I thought you might, despite his assumptions. He was a friend of Brennus.”
“Friend? Or a mere comrade?” Delf argued in a whisper. “We know nothing of what they were to each other.”
She shivered when Prityal dropped her hand. “I suppose we do not.” Prityal stared at her from very close, her eyes still wide and bright until her attention fell on the braid curved over Delf’s shoulder. She exhaled roughly. “Be sure to be sharp in the morning,” she directed unevenly, and then looked even more unhappy. “Try to get some sleep, if you can.”
Delf was not the one who had trouble finding sleep. She lifted her eyebrows but kept her voice steady and teasing. “The drink did not relax you.”
She forgot Prityal was not used to being teased.
Prityal straightened up, her attitude growing even more prickly. “I’ve had only ale. You had more than three servings of wine. Or was that just an excuse to….” Prityal frowned, though it was not aimed at Delf, then stared at her boots. “I am feeling poorly and will retire for the night.”
“All right,” Delf agreed softly, pretending Prityal was not swaying from too much drink. She came closer in spite of the frown. “But… will you sleep?” she pressed delicately. The offer to hold Prityal through the night was on her tongue, but Prityal wrapped her arms around herself, so Delf swallowed it down. “Be careful,” she said instead. “Keep your sword near.”
Prityal snapped her head up. “I am always careful.”
The champion of many contests was heated and full of ale and slightly listing to the side. Delf gave her a smile that overflowed with affection. “You got pissed when the Tyrant threatened your friends, and you cut their head off, love.” Delf had said that word again, and it was no less fond this time. “You did it for all those reasons I told them over our dinner, but you also did it because all the people you cared about were in danger, and you were mad, so you risked yourself.” Delf had never heard any version of Roselin where Prityal had fought alongside anyone. Prityal had been alone, and furious, and in mortal danger because of her fury. “It was still honorable, still remarkable, even if you don’t like to speak of it. Rosset certainly seemed to want to hear of it.”
“There are some who do not think me foolish,” Prityal muttered, biting her lip again.
Delf stared at her, amazed and disbelieving. “You know I don’t. I admire you, always have. Did you think I volunteered to be here just to stretch Kee’s legs?”
She received a serious, if glassy, stare. “I don’t know why you’re here, Delflenor,” Prityal said softly. “I am not certain you know why you’re here. I will not force you to join us in the forest tomorrow. You can stay here, if you’d rather, spend time with your begleys. You clearly don’t trust him.”
“And you think I’d trust him with you?” Delf huffed. “You don’t know my motives, but you think you know what’s in my thoughts?”
“Am I wrong?”
Delf huffed again, out of frustration more than anger, and flicked her braid back over her shoulder. “He has begleys like a cheve in need of force, and yet no one has asked him to be. Tili’s opinion of him was not high—though, granted, Tili was very tired from overwork. But… I can recall none of the older knights I know ever mentioning Rosset with any particular fondness. Perhaps they did, but I cannot recall it.” Delf paused before barreling on. “And he stares at you too much.”
She sounded jealous and was fully aware of it, even if Prityal was not. Her points, at least the rest of them, remained valid.
Prityal exhaled, then nodded. “It’s still our duty to offer aid. Do you believe that?”
“I think it’s risky,” Delf hedged. “Even if Rosset is without ambition, and only likes to disturb our thoughts with what is to come, we are still left to face whatever is out there with only his vague assurances. What is the threat? Who will report back if we…?” she faltered there, her argument vanishing as she had known it would. “It’s bullshit,” she insisted, for form’s sake. “But I will ride with you. You know I will.”
“Delflenor,” Prityal sighed her name and swayed forward, her hands brushing Delf’s arms, then settling at her wrists. She was soft and pliable as a warm candle. Drink made her so. Delf had nearly forgotten.
She tipped her face up despite that, ready to plead for Prityal to sleep, for Delf to be permitted to sleep near her, when brighter light and an intruding voice made Prityal pull away.
“Is everything all right?” Bors stood not far from them, a candle in her hand, obviously on her way to her bed. “Did you need anything?” She looked to Prityal first, then to Delf, smiling a little, probably at the moment she imagined she had interrupted between two lovers.
Prityal took another step back and shook her head. “I’ll see you in the morning,” she said, to Delf or to Bors, and disappeared into the room next to Delf’s.
“Good night,” Delf told Prityal quietly though Prityal wouldn’t hear, and then summoned a smile for the very confused Bors. “Are you and the others truly thinking of becoming knights?” She spoke quickly, before Bors could ask another thoughtless but well-meant question. Startled hesitation gave her an answer. “Here? Or elsewhere?” Delf pressed.
“I don’t know.” Bors shuffled in place, then met Delf’s gaze. “There’s talk the cheves on either side might cross the Wood. Will the harvest matter then?”
“Yes,” Delf replied without thinking. “Everyone still needs to eat.” So the tensions in the Seat carried even beyond the Wood, like ripples in a stream. Rosset was right, again. But her answer had not eased Bors’ worries. “Even defeated, people will need to eat to carry on. So the harvest matters, and storing food matters, and even making the pots to do that matters. Carrying on does not mean giving up. Things may change. Yet here we are, alive and well, in a place where those before us might have fretted over the same things. So you do the work. You do your best. And you stop to have some ale or a frolic in a pond once in a while.”
Bors was still except for her breathing. Then she blinked. “You are not what I thought knights would be, the two of you. Well…” Bors glanced around the darkened, empty corridor before waving toward the closed door to Prityal’s room “…she is, at first. And then… she’s just a person, isn’t she? It’s why you watch her s
o. You worry for her.”
Rendered speechless, Delf took a moment for herself, and smiled though Prityal would not see it. “You will do well, Bors,” she replied at last, “if you keep your sense about you.”
With a grin, as if Delf had somehow helped dispel her worries, Bors bobbed her head and began to walk away. “I’ll leave you to your rest, then.”
“Good night,” Delf told her as well, before she taking the nearest lit candle from its place in the wall and slipping into her own room.
SHE SPENT the night with her bag of bones and its lies, listening for sounds from Prityal’s room. But the walls were solid, or Prityal slept soundly, because Delf heard nothing, and finally fell asleep some time after the candle began to gutter.
Twelve
a door bright with sunrise
DELF HAD WOKEN to a polite tap on her door and stumbled off her pallet to hastily comb her hair and tie it in its usual lazy knot at her nape. After straightening her clothing as much as she could, she had strapped on her short sword and wished for a hot breakfast she would not be getting. Then she’d emerged into the cold, damp air of just before dawn.
She should have stopped for more than a quickly grabbed oatcake, she reflected absently. She had instead lingered outside Prityal’s room, but the door had been open and Prityal had not been inside.
Now, still hungry, still tired, Delf sighed and patted Kee, who was patiently following Frire and the small icor Rosset was riding.
The Wood had begun to close around them not long ago, although this part of the forest was not as closely grown together and tangled as the places she and Prityal had ridden through to reach this territory. The trees were also taller, and the path they were on was wider and had seen more travelers in recent years.
Rosset, who liked to talk more than a drunken squire, was engaged in quiet conversation with Prityal. Delf made no attempt to join in. She was fine where she was, close enough to act yet far back enough to keep an eye on both of them.
Prityal was tired, or possibly stewing, though it was not in her nature to stew for long. Her need to help and her temper were in conflict. As best as Delf could figure, Prityal did not trust Rosset completely any more than Delf did, but was angry at Delf because Delf had said so. Although, at her first glimpse of Prityal that morning, Delf had assumed Prityal’s irritation had passed.
Delf’s stomach had been an anxious storm until she had seen Prityal, safe, her curls wild and bright against a gray sky, her form tall and proud in an unfamiliar studded leather breast and back plate, her cloak hanging off one shoulder. She wore her padded doublet but not her mail.
Prityal’s eyes had found Delf immediately, and she had released a breath, but no words. Delf had greeted with her a nod. Having Prityal look at her, even with a frown, had seemed enough, at the time.
She wondered if the ale had left Prityal with an aching head, but was wise and did not ask. The ale was not what had put her in a foul mood, so it hardly mattered.
Rosset had put on some armor to join them on their journey into the Wood. It still fit him well, though it weighed on him. His limp had been more pronounced, but he had mounted his small icor without assistance. Delf was not sure if she should offer any. Prityal certainly had not, though she had introduced herself to the icor while Rosset had politely offered Delf the use of a metal breastplate. Delf had declined, disliking the feel of unfamiliar armor, and Prityal’s friendly expression for the icor had turned into a scowl. Rosset had merely remarked on the slash in Delf’s doublet, and said the armor would be waiting in his room if she changed her mind.
Delf, glancing to Prityal, had thanked him again and complimented the designs embossed on the leather of his and Prityal’s armor. She made a note to ask about them later, if they had meaning or were more knightly vanity… if Prityal hadn’t killed Rosset by then.
“Do you mean to say that you called us here to tell us of the danger at the Seat?” Prityal had asked that twice now. “We know of the danger around the Seat. We live it. Every day.”
She was actually containing her anger more than Rosset deserved. Delf could only guess at why. Perhaps the same reason Delf rode behind them to keep her eyes on both of them yet had not interrupted them. No one, not even the priests who were supposed to counsel the chevetein, spoke like Rosset did.
He had only begun talking, really talking, once the ruin was far behind them and the trees began to press closer. There was only the three of them.
Rosset, so far, had not shown any surprise at Prityal’s fury—or any fear of it.
“You are concerned with protecting the knights as well as the people who ask for help.” Rosset had yet to even raise his voice. “But things are worse than we know if my simple message brought you here. Why, in the name of the Lords of Order, Disorder, and Unpredictability, would the most famous knight, the most known name in Ainle, come here, with only a lower-tier knight for a companion?”
Prityal’s tone could have sparked a fire. “Delflenor is—"
“Delflenor’s experience was made evident last night,” Rosset interrupted without apology or a glance back at Delf. Delf kept her attention on Prityal. “There is no shame in it. I have no doubt that, if I had been at Roselin, I would been one of those left to the brutal, dirty fights that do not make heroes of legend.”
A statement that finally made Delf speak. “You were not a lower-tier.”
“No,” Rosset admitted, “but there were also no Roselins, no Til Dins, when I was in the barracks. The times make the heroes. Heroes do not make the times. Brennus must have delayed these events as long as they could. Yet they are upon us, and more is required.” Retirement had given Rosset too much time to think. Prityal made a frustrated noise. Rosset patted the air between them as if to calm her. “Most knights stay in the barracks to teach when they no longer ride out. Some do as I did, although not out here. Brennus suggested I come here, did you know that?” Prityal had not known that any more than Delf had. It was an uncomfortable thought; Brennus sending this knight to this place. It could have meant nothing or everything. “I thought at the time he wanted a cheve in this remote place, and my pride was stroked. I forgot that I am no leader.”
“What are you then, a priest?” Delf wondered, with only a small amount of sarcasm.
Prityal turned long enough to glance at her.
“What use are priests, who keep secrets and decline to use magic for anything bigger than a blessing, for reasons they do not share?” Rosset looked to Prityal as if expecting her to agree, which she may have. “Being a priest must be like focusing on one aspect, say, a tree, and not the forest itself. Retirement has given me the space to think over what I wanted in my younger days. I was trapped in a bed for weeks at a time, weakened by past service. What else is there to do? Besides, what is a priest except a magic-user bound by rules? Are they even necessary if the spirits are with all of us?”
Prityal shook her head and threw up one of her hands as though frustrated, but then turned to share a look with Delf. “He sounds like you now. Next, he will ask what the outsiders around Ainle think of the Three.”
Delf chose not to respond. She looked around for spirits or eavesdropping kestrels and Prityal turned back with a soft huff.
“The old knights,” Rosset continued. Delf would have said he had not noticed her exchange with Prityal, except that he must have, because he addressed her. “In the stories. They used magic. Some still do, do they not, Delf?”
“Aye,” Delf answered with some wariness. A few still did, though not much, or with any real intent beyond amusement or defense. The time required to learn kept most from trying, and not all had a talent for it.
But, apparently satisfied with Delf’s agreement, Rosset’s attention had returned to Prityal and the point he was trying to make.
“Perhaps the old knights were priests as well, or there was less of a distinction. I wonder why that changed, but I am unlikely to learn the answer. Does that upset you?” he asked Prityal, either bec
ause she didn’t speak or because her expression changed. “It is an idea that is troublesome, like so many ideas. We are trained to react, to fight, not to think or puzzle over answerless questions. We are more or less daggers,” he added. Delf looked at Prityal’s tense, straight shoulders. Prityal still did not speak. Rosset gentled his tone. “I should give you more time to adjust to these ideas. I had years. But I don’t believe you will be granted that. Or, maybe you were. It has been a decade. That is long enough.”
If he thought to position himself as the one to advise the future chevetein, which he clearly believed was Prityal, then he should start by learning to read the future chevetein’s moods.
But Prityal remained quiet. Delf remembered Prityal’s guilt for not wanting to lead Ainle, and cleared her throat before slicing through the moment.
“You didn’t need to bring us here to tell us this.”
Prityal’s shoulders inched down. “Would anyone in the Seat have listened to a message that said these things?”
“Said what things?” Delf scoffed and gestured loosely around them although no one watched her. “That a delay of a year gave us Brennus the Kind, Brennus Who Was Like the Wise, so a delay of ten years must mean a chevetein of legend? Which means we are in times of legend?” She stopped abruptly at the sound of those words. They carried in the stillness of the Wood. She swallowed. “Maybe it means no chevetein,” she pointed out, which was also terrifying, but easier to say.
They would go on, with or without a chevetein, if it was what was meant to be. They could. People had chosen to follow Prityal without one. People had chosen their cheves. Which had brought with it some chaos, but there was always some chaos, in everything.
Someone, several someones, might lead. And if not even Prityal would obey an unjust chevetein, chosen by the Three or not, then there was hope that others would feel the same about anyone who ruled from the Seat or anywhere else.