The Devotion of Delflenor

by R. Cooper

  Prityal had learned diplomacy and politics against her will, but she was brilliant at them, as she was in all things save household chores, when she found reason to be.

  “Ah.” Rosset seemed to think this as well. “You are right,” he agreed reluctantly. “I might have to return to the Seat then, perhaps with you, when you go.”

  “I am still not the chevetein.” A frown was in Prityal’s voice.

  “You are on this path with me.” An infuriating answer. Rosset really did sound more priest than knight.

  Prityal exhaled roughly. “Whoever the Three are, as you say, leading to the Seat… if they are accepted, and if they are worthy, I will fight for them, and support them, as is my duty. There will be no doubt… if the signs are there.”

  “And if the Hope and the Strength stands behind them,” Delf finished. Prityal’s support alone would accomplish much. In a way, she was another sign of the Wise’s favor. Which she would not like to admit aloud, but she did not argue against.

  Prityal huffed again. “But just as the chevetein cannot be accepted here, I cannot be the chevetein. Even if I offered again and the Three accepted me, I would look like another Tyrant. As if I had taken power, not been granted it.”

  Delf looked at her at last. Prityal was to the side of the door, in shadow, one hand resting on her belt. Her focus was on Rosset, who leaned heavily against the wall at his back, and looked pale in the dimmer light there.

  He briefly closed his eyes, then nodded, more frail and tired than he had at the start of their ride.

  Prityal turned to Delf, and Delf was too surprised to look away before their eyes met.

  “Do you think he is right? About the rest?”

  Delf thought Prityal would make a good chevetein. But Prityal did not want to be, and, furthermore, all her points against the idea were sound. Rosset’s ideas, however, were something else entirely.

  “It’s not inconceivable,” Delf allowed, speaking slowly. “It even has merit. They might want you present.” They might need her present, for whatever was coming, something Delf kept to herself. “They have always favored you, in Their way.”

  Prityal snorted. “Their favor has come with pain and suffering.”

  “No one ever said it wouldn’t.” Delf gestured to the skull’s empty eyes and wide grin. “Three means love and kindness and life, and also vengeance and strife and death. People like to forget that, and shun those priests, but they remain to remind us.” A shiver ran down her back. She turned away from Prityal’s wide eyes to address the air itself. “But They might target someone else for once,” she added sharply.

  Prityal was almost deliberately gentle, as though Delf was an anxious Frire. “Do not speak badly of Them in Their house.”

  “I will show my anger to Their faces.” Delf faced one empty doorway and then looked back at the skull. “And my tears. And everything else They have given me.” She did not raise her voice because she would have been heard even if she had said nothing. “So They have a plan, or at least, They want something to come to be. The choices are ours, but They give us lives and memories and friends that lead us where They want. If They told us the path, we would not walk it, because humans are stubborn fools, or cowards, or easily distracted. Instead, They lay the path over years, over centuries, and along it are horrible things and wonderful things, and we will never even see the end of it. But we are part of someone else’s journey. Someone who might.” She scraped her hair from her brow and impatiently retied it at her neck. The door on her other side was brighter with the rising sun.

  “Now we have been brought here, nudged along by sweets, and bribery, and, where that fails, pain, to discover our quest all along has been to find a chevetein. A chevetein of legend!” That was funny perhaps only to Delf. She smiled with some bitterness. “A chevetein who must be strong to face many challenges, and knowledgeable, and have the support of the barracks and the Hope herself, and all of this without the arrogance of the Tyrant or any grasping cheves. They must also have patience, and kindness.” She could have ticked each impossible point off on her fingers, except they were not impossible, not really. “What else might this creature of legend be? No seedling, that is certain. This will require experience. And yet, it seems this remarkable person does not want to be chevetein. Because the Seat has not moved, but they have not walked themselves to it.” Delf grimaced to herself, to the Three. “Or perhaps this person does not know their own greatness. So now, with many other duties waiting on her, Prityal is expected to locate the one to save us all and drag them to the Seat? Does she not have enough to do?”

  Delf scoffed a little, impudent but also tired and afraid and in love when there was risk in all directions.

  “Perhaps a hint, then?” she asked the Three, tongue-in-cheek, yet serious beneath. “Won’t you tell us where this wondrous person might be found?”

  She turned her head to view the sky and was blinded by the change in light and had to move to avoid it. The beam of sunlight was strong enough to cut through the clouds, to warm her hair and turn the tips of her eyelashes to gold. The floating dust seemed to sparkle, and Delf saw fire behind her eyelids when she blinked.

  Prityal exhaled softly. “Delflenor.”

  Delf squinted through the bursts of color in her vision until Prityal and Rosset were clearer, expecting to be chided for her odd humor again

  Prityal’s hands had fallen to her sides. Her gaze was open and bright, so beautiful that Delf offered silent praise to those who resided in the walls around them despite her anger moments ago. She stopped herself from stumbling toward Prityal out of habit, and the sudden recollection that Prityal had been mad at her, and then they were not alone.

  Rosset stood away from the wall.

  He met Delf’s eyes, and smiled.

  Thirteen

  Champion of the Champion

  THEIR ARRIVAL back at the ruin was greeted with one or two bashful hails and some newly practiced salutes, which Prityal and Delf returned. Rosset reached the stables moments before them despite his smaller icor, since Prityal had chosen to ride alongside Delf. Rosset looked tired, as if the ride had worn on him, or, more probably, Prityal’s response to his notions of choosing a chevetein.

  Delf half-expected someone to offer to care for Rosset’s icor for him, but, like a barracks knight, he did that himself, while Delf and Prityal did the same. Delf wondered if he’d had this much pride when he’d lived at the Seat, or if old age had made him more conscious of his reputation and accomplishments. Delf might be the same, if she lived to his age. She had no epithets, either, and would never have thought of something as bold as putting herself forward as the one to find a chevetein.

  A group of the younger ones—and they were only the younger ones, as if everyone was attending to chores or tasks or had already guiltily returned to their homes, were smacking each other’s practice shields with short wooden swords. Rosset or someone else had taught them the very basics, but not much else.

  Delf immediately wanted to intervene, if only because none of them even wore padding. Prityal was likely itching to go over and correct them. But Prityal was also in a strange, subdued mood. Delf assumed her lack of sleep was beginning to weigh her down.

  “I imagine all of that is being done with hope of an audience,” she commented nonetheless.

  Prityal studied the young ones for another moment, then slowly shook her head. “Later, perhaps.”

  Delf stopped herself from asking if Prityal was well, remembering Prityal’s worry over appearing weak. “I understand if you are not in the mood to give lessons,” she said instead, collecting her sword from her saddle and holding it loosely. “My thoughts are muddled after…” she waved to indicate Rosset, the shrine, the heavy, thoughtful silence on the ride back. “I could use some quiet for a while.”

  Prityal frowned, though without anger, then glanced to Rosset before answering. “You could rest,” she suggested quietly, and put her hand to Delf’s elbow as if intending to le
ad her to a bed that very moment.

  “I could,” Delf agreed, bemused. “I did not have a restful night.” She meant it to remind Prityal that she was also human and could also use some sleep. Prityal only continued to regard her, serious but hesitant. At least her earlier anger seemed to have disappeared. “My lady is also tired.” There, Delf paused, but Prityal’s eyes snapped to hers, wide and curious. “If you wished to nap, I could help you with the armor. If you like.”

  Prityal was more than capable of removing simple armor by herself. But Delf wanted to talk to her about that morning without an audience, without Rosset specifically.

  Prityal glanced to Rosset again as if having the same thought. But then she searched Delf’s face before she answered. Her voice was especially soft. “I wouldn’t ask you to serve me.”

  “It’s my pleasure to do it.” Delf had revealed more than that today. Prityal did not need to keep staring at her with confused hope.

  “For the Champion?” she wondered, still so quiet.

  “For Prityal.” Delf ducked her head, flushed over two words.

  “The Champion of the Champion,” Rosset commented.

  Delf raised her head, not certain some magic didn’t exist that would have told Rosset Ange’s teasing words. Prityal tightened her hold on Delf’s elbow.

  Rosset unbuckled his armor as he came forward. “I do not believe I’ve heard any epithets for you, Delf.”

  “The Humble,” Prityal murmured before Delf could reply. Delf turned to her in disbelief. Prityal busied herself with grabbing her own sword, but her smile was slow.

  “The Humble?” Delf repeated, her throat dry.

  Prityal carried her sword down by her thigh and gazed warmly at Delf. She tipped her head toward Rosset. “She will never speak of her skills, only use them to help others, then take no credit for what she has done.”

  “That…” Delf’s voice was strangled. “That makes me sound nobler than I am,” she finally got out, stinging with embarrassment. She looked away before Prityal’s stare undid her completely.

  Rosset was still looking at her. “High praise from the Tyrant-slayer.” He raised his eyebrows. “But you are a knight and a priest.”

  “Former priest-in-training,” Delf corrected without thought.

  Rosset lowered his eyebrows. “You are deliberately avoiding what you are. If you will be serious…”

  Prityal coughed pointedly. Delf gave her a betrayed glance for bringing up that long-ago conversation, but Rosset was not one to be deterred by something so small.

  “Your speech in the shrine aside, why do you think someone would not want to be the chevetein if they were suited to and were able to do so?”

  Delf looked from Rosset to Prityal and then to Kee, as if at least the icor might be sensible. Prityal had not let her go, and her gaze was no easy thing to bear, and Rosset would persist with his questions.

  Delf finally shook her head and scoffed.

  “I know you drank with Brennus in your younger days, but were you with them for the rest?” Delf asked. “I remember them as tired, always tired, unless in their garden. And long hair, of all white, with not one strand of color left.” And smiles for Delf, it was true. They had still had smiles. “It was not restful, nor was it easy. I am not saying Brennus was not powerful. Or even that they were miserable. They were so skilled with people, knowing what they needed and offering them understanding. They were very good at that. But at the end of each day, they were also exhausted.”

  “You knew Brennus?” Rosset gave Delf an even sharper study.

  “When I was a child,” Delf replied, baffled and tired and slowly being pulled in another direction. She blinked at Prityal.

  “Delflenor,” Prityal said her name soothingly, coaxingly, as though once again Delf needed to be calmed. Delf stared at her with some confusion as well, but allowed herself to be gently tugged out of the stables.

  Rosset called after them. “Have you offered yourself to Them, Delflenor the Humble?”

  Prityal stiffened.

  Delf merely turned to give Rosset an incredulous glance. “A failed priest and a lower-tier knight? Don’t be ridiculous.”

  Then Prityal said her name again, soft and low, and that took all of Delf’s attention.

  PRITYAL DIDN’T SPEAK until she had closed the door to her room behind Delf and turned to face her.

  “It’s not ridiculous.”

  She was not joking. All the same, Delf huffed through her nose. She propped her sword in its scabbard against the wall to free her hands.

  “It’s not ridiculous,” she agreed mildly to keep the peace, then took a step forward and reached for the clasp of Prityal’s cloak. She stopped short of touching her, realizing just in time that Prityal might have seized upon this excuse for them to talk alone and likely had not expected or wanted Delf to serve as a helpful squire.

  Prityal caught her gaze, her eyes large. Seeing her curious and hesitant was enough to make Delf’s heart beat faster, but she kept her movements slow as she continued her chosen task. She was a little clumsy with the clasp, but did not think Prityal noticed. Prityal only released her breath when Delf stepped away to lay the cloak across the blanket spread over Prityal’s straw pallet.

  Delf’s chest and stomach were tight as well. It had been a strange morning, after a strange evening, and no one could be expected to be sensible with Prityal staring at them wide-eyed and wondering.

  But Prityal’s sharp reminder was still fresh in her mind, so she reined in her tongue. She took Prityal’s sword, which was surrendered without any hesitation, and placed it gently over Prityal’s packs. Then she returned and gestured to Prityal’s borrowed armor. “Arms up, please.”

  That should have earned her some protest, not more staring followed by Prityal slowly doing as requested.

  Delf made a helpless noise but quickly bent her head to focus on the buckles between the breast and back plate.

  Prityal’s room was much like the one Delf had been given, although someone’s bags were still in one corner. Prityal’s packs were near her bed. Delf removed the armor and set it carefully down next to Prityal’s things.

  Her voice was husky. “I know you prefer a metal plate, but, ah, for feast days, you ought to consider leather. It is striking on you.”

  Prityal responded to the compliment as only Prityal would. “You should wear more armor, of any kind,” she answered, disapproving. “You take risks when you don’t.”

  Safely behind her while concentrating on the armor at Prityal’s shoulder, Delf smiled. “On a field of battle, I will,” she promised easily. “But I am no one’s main concern here.”

  Prityal set her hand over Delf’s and kept it there, holding Delf still. “You put yourself down too much."

  “It is more about being honest.” Delf slipped her hand free as she came around Prityal’s side. She focused on her work. “I am not Prityal of Ters, who was going to take on an army in the woods this morning if she found one, but is now committed to somehow finding our chevetein no matter where the path may lead.” Prityal bristled. Delf patted her shoulder before stepping around her to set down the armor. “There is no insult in my words. I have no doubt you would have taken on a whole army, or that you will now be the one to find to our new chevetein. You are special and always have been. But don’t pretend that isn’t what you and Rosset decided out there. ‘Take care of her’ your friends said to me. ‘Take care,’ they meant. Because Prityal gives all of herself to every decision instead of…” Delf heard her voice going higher and went silent. That was twice in one day she had raised her voice, something she rarely did. “Worry for you does terrible things to me.”

  Prityal closed her fingers around Delf’s wrist and tugged. Delf returned to her side obediently, but took her time lifting her head.

  When their eyes met, Prityal let go of her wrist. “I don’t understand how you have such confidence when it comes to making your many friends, but not in this.”

  “Ma
ny friends,” Delf echoed without thinking, amused, but then frowned. “In what?”

  Prityal gave her a frown in return, one Delf couldn’t read as anger or confusion. “Already, there are several here who admire you.”

  “They admire you,” Delf corrected gently.

  Prityal’s frown did not ease. “They admire the Tyrant-slayer. I meant that these begleys admire you. One in particular.” Prityal straightened her spine, then huffed a breath, all the while studying Delf.

  Delf resisted the urge to smooth the wrinkle in Prityal’s brow. “Did you get any sleep last night?” Prityal would not be the first to have trouble making sense after a sleepless night.

  “No.” The startled, then sulky expressions that crossed Prityal’s face were a true pleasure to behold. “And the morning light was too bright,” Prityal added in a complaint. She had drunk more ale than usual. “But you shouldn’t let it worry you.”

  “Will you rest?” Delf prompted. She did not want to offend or insist, but Rosset’s words were spinning through her mind, and she did not doubt that Prityal was in the same situation. “I could use some moments of quiet.”

  “Then you should stay.” It burst from Prityal in a rush. She stopped. “If it will not interfere with your plans.” Delf did not get a chance to ask what plans she was supposed to have. Prityal curled her fingers into her palms and added, “I’m sorry. I don’t know how to do this. You could stay. I slept well, with you.”

  Delf’s words stuck in her throat and her cheeks went hot the way someone might react to being told they were pretty. “I’m happy to help,” she replied honestly when her words returned. “My plans are to rest, and I would prefer to rest with you. It will give me less to worry over.”

  The comment earned her a confused pout, but no arguments. Delf was, apparently, allowed to worry in this way without causing offense. She grinned for it, and pretended her hands were steady as she unbuckled her belt and bent to remove her boots.