by R. Cooper
She fixed her gaze on Delf and the hushed conversation ceased.
Delf, unarmed unless she ran for the lances kept with her equipment in a storeroom, or reached for the mace and sword currently strapped to Kee’s saddle with the rest of her belongings and the tiny, practical knife in her belt, nodded in greeting, then turned quickly to Jareth who was shivering in her blanket. “A fine morning,” she offered, with the bitter humor that did not always come across to others.
Jareth certainly didn’t seem to notice it. “Delflenor. Thank you for this. It was kind of you to offer.”
Delf did not mean to frown, but she was tired and cold and rightfully anxious. “Kind? This is what any of us would have done, if more of us were able to.” That earned her another of Ran’s strange grins. “Many would have offered themselves last night, as you saw, despite this being likely a fool’s errand.”
Ran’s grin slipped. Jareth’s lips parted.
“You don’t agree that you should go?” Jareth’s question barely carried through the courtyard.
Delf closed her mouth and glanced around for a sign, any sign, from any of the Wise, and when none appeared, she sighed. “I think that I could go alone, and if something happened, my loss would be regrettable, but not nearly as devastating to us all as hers. I think you also think this.” If Prityal looked at her for that, Delf could not look back. “But she would never allow me or anyone else to go alone, either, and so here we are.”
Jareth exchanged a glance with her beloved. Prityal moved, a distractingly quick motion that made Delf tense until she realized it was Prityal hurrying to embrace her icor as a begley led him out for her.
Frire dwarfed even Kee. The icor had been bred for stamina, size, and strength; a mighty beast meant to carry a champion into battle. Kee was lighter and swifter, though still larger than the common icors used in the fields. Frire was brown and sparkling orange, almost a yellow, with a huge, curling horn that gleamed despite the lack of sunlight. Prit put her face to his neck and made pleased, soft noises that Delf could not help but think of as coos.
She stared, a moment too long, before remembering she was not alone.
When she swung back to the others, Ran was once again all teeth. “You’ll keep her safe?”
Delf imagined Prityal delicately scratching the neck of an icor that could crush them all. “Yes.” She tucked a wavy lock behind her ear once again. “Though I am not a champion.”
Ange would never know, and so could never mock her.
“You acquit yourself well that I have seen,” Ran observed, still grinning, but focused quickly on Jareth when her grip on his arm tightened and she leaned into him with clearly waning strength. “Silly petal,” he crooned, bracing her despite the lines of pain at the corner of his eyes.
Delf averted her gaze from the tender, private moment, found Prit doing the same, and quickly looked elsewhere when their eyes met.
“Delflenor,” Prityal said after a beat, apparently choosing to greet Delf as though they just encountered each other.
Delf dipped her head, then let go of Kee so she could fix her hair and try to keep it tied at her nape. Kee whuffed hot breath over her ear, destroying her initial efforts, and Delf planted an annoyed kiss on Kee’s muzzle before pushing her away. She finally got her mass of hair bundled at the back of her neck, though several stands instantly slipped free. Delf could see around them. It would do.
“No need for that, Prit. They are here to have your back,” Jareth called out, a touch strained, using the other form of address Delf answered to. They was a catch-all, of a sort. Some chose it. Others, like Delf, didn’t mind it, though she might choose something else again someday. She preferred to be thought handsome more than pretty, though she was not truly either, if she were being honest. She suited her and they suited her, and occasionally she wondered if he would do better, but was content with merely wondering, so she did not think so.
Prityal responded to Jareth, her mouth a thin line. “I am aware of why Delflenor is here.”
“There is not much said of me, but I have never shirked my duty, at least,” Delf quietly assured her, serious but trying to keep the moment light. It was difficult when one glance was enough to make her hands shake.
“There is more to this than duty,” Jareth broke in, frowning now.
“I didn’t think you were the fussing type,” Delf commented, but, judging from the two knights now regarding her with displeasure, this was the wrong answer. She inclined her head in appeasement. “She is your friend. You wish to be by her side, but you cannot be. And lowly Delflenor is all that can be spared.” Prityal made a sound, a polite objection perhaps. Delf shrugged. “I don’t blame you for your worry. But, as I said, I have never shirked my duty. I know it here.”
“We all value your skills, Delflenor.” Jareth cleared her throat. “Thank you.”
Delf gave her a quick salute, the kind of thing people on the road did when they spied the Knights of the Seat escorting a caravan or a group of priests. She pretended her face was not hot at the implied compliment, but spoke with a slight strain. “Delf is fine for most.”
“Delf,” Jareth agreed, almost warmly, before turning to Prityal. “Take care.”
Ran cackled, but when Prityal swept forward to embrace her friends one last time, he was all soft whispers.
Delf averted her eyes once again, moving around Kee to extend a hand to Frire, who investigated it without much interest. Delf didn’t blame him. She held no treats and he seemed to love only his knight. Delf didn’t blame him for that, either. “Very good fellow,” she praised him in a whisper, and stiffened when Prityal answered.
“Yes, he is,” Prityal said from close behind her. “We should go now, while it’s still early. Before we encounter delays.”
Delf twisted to look at her. She had to look down, though not by much.
Prityal raised her chin but dropped her gaze, her attention caught on something near Delf’s shoulder. Delf assumed it was her hair until Prityal added, with significance, “Unless you have someone you wish to bid farewell to.”
“Huh?” Delf wondered, slow to follow Prityal’s meaning, then vaguely embarrassed that Prityal would assume she had a long-term lover. The bite beneath Delf’s ear was from before two nights ago, when Delf had returned to the Seat. She wouldn’t have thought it even noticeable. “Ah. No. I’ve no one.”
She was at a loss as to why this would now make Prityal more uncomfortable, unless Delf’s tastes for some pain with her pleasure upset her. Perhaps it was guilt at the thought of this quest harming Delf’s romantic possibilities.
Delf blinked, startled for reasons she could not explain. “If you have someone, I can also wait.”
In truth, she would like to know who, and determine if Jareth and Ran deemed them acceptable. If they did, perhaps Delf would as well. Someday.
Ran clapped his hands together, a jarring, abrupt sound which Delf took as a sign that they should leave, all their goodbyes taken care of. She nodded to him, then to Jareth, before swinging herself up onto Kee’s back. She clicked her tongue for the goat, who was used to caravans and lazily made its way toward the icors. She adjusted her weapons, the packs behind the saddle, then turned to wait on the order from Prityal.
Because she, Delflenor, was going on a quest with Prityal, the Hope of Ainle.
Prityal seated herself gracefully on her giant icor, looking suddenly tiny, though no less impressive, and raised the hood on her cloak before giving her friends a smile. Her smile faded but did not disappear when she looked at Delf. Not until Delf gave her the same salute she’d given the others. Then it vanished, and Prityal turned from her and began to ride.
Delf did not look back toward the others and the barracks, though she likely had many days of Prityal’s disapproving silence ahead of her. She kept her gaze on the stiff line of Prityal’s back, as she and the goat followed her out of the courtyard, heading roughly toward the rising sun.
Two
star
ting out from the same place
THE SETTLEMENTS around the Seat were out of view by the time the sun was high. Prityal kept a slow, steady pace, perhaps mindful of the length of their journey and the stamina of the goat. Delf stayed close behind, her long night catching up with her and setting her thoughts adrift.
They were recognized as Knights of the Seat, from their icors, likely, and saluted the workers busy with harvest who stopped to acknowledge their passing.
The sound of Prityal’s voice roused Delf from her doze.
“You did not join us to discuss this last night.” Prityal had lowered her hood as the sun had grown higher in the sky, but she did not turn back to see if Delf had heard her.
Delf had been expecting more silence, at least until a few days into their quest, when even the most reticent of knights would be driven to some form of conversation.
She cleared her throat to speak politely. “I’m sure you all had it taken care of.”
That seemed adequate. Prityal was silent for long enough that Delf assumed their short talk was over. Then she realized too late that Frire had slowed his pace, drawing nearly alongside Kee.
Prityal spoke again, painfully deliberate. “Another voice is often appreciated.”
It was probably a struggle for her to temper her usual directness.
For that, Delf looked over and offered deeper honesty. “And I was sure you did not want my opinion, which I have stated.”
Prityal pursed her lips. “There can be many truths.” From the side, it was difficult to tell if she was frowning. In profile, her expression almost seemed a pout, but the Tyrant-slayer would never. “The viewpoints of an experienced knight are not dismissed among us.”
Delf just kept displeasing her. “Certainly,” she agreed quickly. “But I am not one of the high circle. I follow orders, if they are sensible, and I trust you and the others. You have unfairly borne the weight of leadership, you three, but you have borne it well.” She gnawed at her bottom lip for a moment, hearing the admiration plain in her voice and growing hesitant. She attempted a smile. “As long as they packed enough food, I am sure we’re fine.”
Prityal dismissed that by not addressing it. “You did not bring heavy armor.”
“Neither did you,” Delf responded helplessly, lifting a hand in confused question.
“Because this errand, as you called it, might require nothing more than diplomacy.” Diplomacy was not Prityal’s strongest skill by anyone’s view. She knew it, judging from her small grimace at the word. “It was part of our considerations last night, but you determined it on your own.” She paused, letting her point hit home, then continued, voice still soft. “You should have joined our council.”
Delf turned away, glancing into the fields. “Next time, then.” It was a promise unlikely to need fulfilling, unless the Seat remained empty of a chevetein and the situation grew worse.
Prityal turned toward her, but when Delf looked back, Prityal seemed to be gazing inward. “We planned on provisions for seven days to get there, though seven full days of travel should not be needed. We can resupply for the return journey once there. We will stay for a few days only—to either solve the problem or send for help from those who can. Then several days home. Jareth has planned for our absence for that amount of time. None of us hope it will take longer than that. We will take the roads until we reach the southernmost edge of Oryl Wood. Then we will travel through the Wood itself.” As if sensing Delf’s raised eyebrows, Prityal blinked and focused on her. “It may cut time from our journey, or add to it, if the trees are thick enough. But… the roads are not safe, these days, and we are but two. An abundance of caution was suggested.”
Delf feared her brows climbed to her hairline. Cheves playing power games amongst themselves had always been their way: petty raids and small, mocking thefts designed to irritate their rivals. But there were currently more ambitious cheves than peaceful, patient ones, and no one to rein them in. Villages used to count only a handful of warriors under the guidance of their cheves, and those warriors had been more farmers with some fight experience than true knights. Now, however, there were some who used the excuse of trouble at their borders to justify keeping more warriors about them, better equipped and better trained as well—and more inclined to seek out battles.
In the past, it was the Knights of the Seat who had guarded the borders at the direction of the chevetein. Delf could not blame those territories that faced outside countries for their fears and preparations, not when each day without a sign from the Three felt a little more desperate, a touch more hopeless. But for a knight of Ainle—the knight of Ainle—to express aloud a fear that she may be waylaid or assassinated, however distant that fear, gave strength to what even Delf had wanted to deny during her drunken worrying.
If the Three had truly forsaken them, then something new would rise up to replace the chevetein. The land would remain in strife, pleasing one Ladylord but leaving the other two dissatisfied and the world out of balance. The countries beyond Ainle’s borders might sweep through them at last. Ainle might become one of those lands with constant robbers and thieves along the roads, as other places were said to have. Delf did not know what they would steal—her weapons? The food? The goat? The padded armor doublets and surcoats the knights wore were generally sewn by the Knights of the Seat themselves, with donated materials. Their pieces of armor were gifts as well, usually from smiths wishing to make a name for themselves, or grateful for some service. The knights had no more to offer bandits than a farmer or a tanner.
“An abundance of caution,” Delf finally echoed. For all her gloomy forecasting while staring down cups of wine, Prityal and the others had been confronting what she had not dared, not completely.
“You do not seem as startled as some might have expected,” Prityal observed.
“I just came from a journey guarding priests of Aji,” Delf replied without thinking. “If those priests are not guaranteed safety, then no one is.” Devotees of physical pleasure and its instruction were generally welcomed with open arms, and legs, not swords or arrows. “But I do not like to think of…” She swallowed. Prityal would fight such a future to its bleak conclusion. “You could have brought your heavy armor,” she declared abruptly. “Kee could have helped with the burden. As would I.”
Prityal jerked her gaze away, suddenly tense in the saddle. “You have your own burdens, and I would not put undue stress on Frire.”
Frire flicked his ears at the sound of his name. He was meant to carry Prityal and her armor into relatively short battles. Not for days, and over uneven ground. Still, his size meant he likely would not have noticed the additional weight.
Delf would not have minded the burden, but bit her tongue to avoid saying so, since the subject seemed to upset Prityal. She stared at Kee’s neck. “I meant no insult. It would be a privilege to assist the Just. But I also wish no harm to come to Frire. That is, I have always meant to speak of his magnificence. You are right to be proud. He’s beautiful, and fearsome in battle. Even in the friendly contests, I do not know how the other icors dare to stand against him.”
She had a loose tongue around Prityal, it seemed. But at least she had constrained herself to matters of icors, and combat.
She was unprepared for this to get a response, much less one where Prityal did not seem any more pleased than she had been a moment ago.
“You don’t enter the contests.”
Delf realized she was staring at the play of Prityal’s hands over the horn of her saddle.
She looked up. “No?” It was nearly a question. “But I watch them. They remind me of how it was before, in times of legend. How the stories make it seem, at least.”
“But why don’t you enter the contests?” Prityal stilled her hands and fixed Delf with an intent, questioning look that demanded answers and made Delf flush hotly. “They are meant to hone skills, not to be taken seriously.”
“Says the Bonecrusher,” Delf replied though her mouth was dry. �
��Prityal takes no prisoners, even in a game.”
She meant that to tease. Prityal frowned instead of laughing and turned her face away.
“It can be difficult to forget a lifetime of training,” she declared stiffly.
“I meant no offense.” Delf apologized for the second time in one conversation, leaning slightly toward Frire and gentling her voice. “It’s exciting to watch you.”
Prityal turned toward her.
Delf straightened in her saddle. “No one who goes against you seems to mind when you destroy them.” Some even liked it. Delf’s voice had gone rough at the very thought. This quest of theirs was off to an embarrassing start. “We are all very proud of you,” she finished, which was true.
“I’m proud of everyone as well.” From anyone else, that might have seemed a polite response. Prityal’s tone was as tender and fond as Delf had only heard it be with her icor and her closest friends. She sighed forlornly for it, but was allowed no chance to press the sound close to her heart to think of later. Prityal’s frown had returned, the one that more firmly resembled a displeased pout the longer Delf considered it.
“You should join in the contests next time.” She did not quite make it an order, but Delf took it as one. Prityal’s gaze met hers. “It’s odd that I’ve never faced you.”
She had a stare like both the velvet-lined glove and the hawk upon it.
“Um,” Delf answered, brilliantly. Even the goat would have done better. “We did. When we were younger. I don’t blame you for not remembering. I was shorter then, of course. So were you. When I first served as begley, I had shaved my head because one of the older knights had, and I was convinced there could be no greater beauty.” She didn’t hope for a laugh, but Prityal’s stunned blinking was nearly as good. “I had different hammermarks then as well, though still new and raw and red as they were finished.” She coughed. “You were a year or two older. And I lost, as I recall. Swiftly and decisively.”
