The Devotion of Delflenor

by R. Cooper

  As close as she was, she could see Prityal’s shoulders tighten. “I know you have.”

  Delf could not tread lightly enough. “That was not to dismiss your dreams, or to imply this is a different situation than what it is. I mean no insult.”

  Prityal twitched. “I didn’t think that. I know you… you have your choice of partners. They all seem willing. Some enough to return many times. They were not insulted.” She did not quite say she was not, however.

  Delf had no idea which part of her statement was making Prityal prickle. She remembered her promise to herself and the Three, and tried again. “If you have a nightmare, we will deal with it as we did then.”

  “It is fine that you have many friends, and many bed-friends,” Prityal insisted, as if they were having two different conversations.

  Delf frowned thoughtfully at Prityal’s pretty neck, corded with muscle and decorated with delicate markings. She did her best not to remember kissing it, but that may have been be the issue. Prityal was not used to lying with someone and might be worried about it.

  Delf considered and reconsidered what she should say. “I confess, I like to lie next to someone. I like it most when it is a friend, and the night is cold but we are warm together.” She gentled her voice. “Whether or not this friend and I have fucked doesn’t matter. Comfort is being offered, one knight to another. One friend to another. I want you to be happy, and to sleep well.”

  “And I you,” Prityal whispered, bringing a smile to Delf’s face though she could not see it.

  But a moment later, Delf bit her lip. “I think we will both be more comfortable with my arm around you. May I?”

  Prityal huffed a comment that Delf could not make out. “Yes,” she went on, more clearly, and then added a sharp, “I am not a skittish foal.”

  Delf nodded seriously though her heart was skipping in foolish excitement. “No, you are full-grown.”

  She snaked an arm around Prityal’s waist before she could think better of it, and nearly choked when Prityal inched back against her without any struggle or hesitation. Delf left her hand partly-clenched, her knuckles pressed to the ground. Her nose was against Prityal’s hood.

  “You are tense,” she observed, as though she was not. “Are your troubles with falling asleep because of your dreams? Or are they because of the worry we all share? Something else?”

  “Everything.” Prityal exhaled the word. “I’m sorry.”

  That would not do.

  “A suggestion?” Delf let that hang in the air, then, with what movement she was capable of with one arm still wedged between them, began to lightly scratch between Prityal’s shoulders. She cherished the soft noise of confusion Prityal made, and how, after a moment, she made it again before inching back into Delf’s hand.

  She likely could not feel much with her own padded armor between them. “You’re petting me?”

  Delf nearly bit her tongue at the question. Her other hand twitched against Prityal’s stomach. She inhaled. “Sleep,” she ordered shakily. “You need it.”

  She deepened her scratching, then used her palm to rub circles along Prityal’s spine. Prityal bowed her head and released a long breath. “Delflenor, you….” Her intended argument melted into another, longer sigh. “Oh, you… you lied. Throwing. Pft.” Her sleepy scoff was adorable.

  Delf was burning up. Her wrist would hurt soon. She did not stop. “You need sleep more than the rest of us and yet admit it less. Even those of us in the lower tiers know how to get the rest we need.”

  “Lower tiers.” Prityal shivered and Delf tightened her hold, only to regret it because it was so easy to imagine sliding her hand down between Prityal’s legs to let Prityal push against her palm. It would warm Prityal and tire her out at the same time, and Delf would not expect anything. Just hearing her would be enough.

  “What’s wrong with the lower tiers?” she asked, voice wavering.

  “You…” Prityal’s words were soft puffs. “You should have taken your place in the high circle some time ago.” Startled, Delf stopped. She resumed only when Prityal kept talking. “You should have claimed a room and given up some of your lesser duties in order to train the students. You already instruct them, but not regularly. Not as you should.”

  “You know that?” Delf was thrown. Although, to avoid any pouts, she continued to rub Prityal’s back.

  Prityal snorted. “People believe I am in charge.”

  “You are.” Delf wrinkled her nose. The outside of Prityal’s cloak was rough fabric.

  “Believing that, people tell me what is going on at the barracks.” Prityal arched her back when Delf pressed harder between her shoulder blades. She did not moan, but a small pleased sound emerged from her that would linger in Delf’s dreams. “We’ve all watched you. Jareth and Ran and I. Tay, Ange, Ily, the others all delight in telling…” She stopped, stiffening up again and nearly undoing Delf’s work. “You have been invited to our discussions many times. Did you not realize this?” She protested when Delf froze, but didn’t ask her to keep going or turn around to face her. Prityal was quietly frustrated. “Why don’t you ever want to speak of your accomplishments?”

  “I suppose I am not used to them being noticed,” Delf mumbled into Prityal’s cloak. “I did not ask to be noticed.”

  “And yet you are.” Prityal was unbearably smug for someone who purred for a few back scratches.

  Delf resumed gently petting her, her hot face safely hidden from view. “Go to sleep.”

  “Bossy, for a lower-tier,” Prityal remarked. Delf should never have given her permission to tease.

  She would not give this up for anything.

  She breathed easier, relaxing her clenched hand, and stayed tucked against Prityal’s back. “Shut up,” she mumbled, much too late, and learned the sound of Prityal’s surprised laughter.

  Six

  in this meantime

  SKIES REMAINED gray in the morning, though the clouds looked too high and light for rain. They rode in the same direction as the day before, with drooping curls and unbound, tangled hair and smiles on their faces when their eyes happened to meet. Delf was almost embarrassed at herself, but did not think anyone who knew her would judge her for the silly joy in her heart. Though they might pointedly ask her if she planned to sleep with Prityal in her arms again, to keep the joy there.

  Before the sun was high, they saw the outline of buildings against the horizon, and not long after that, Prityal was the first to spot someone approaching them.

  The short, sturdy farmer wore a purple scarf around their close-cut, graying hair, and another scarf around his neck that nearly concealed his hammermarks. Like most farmers, he was in loose breeches and a simple tunic shirt, with a long apron over that to help keep his clothing clean.

  “Otili,” the farmer called out the moment he was close enough to be heard. “Tili, to most.” He looked them over critically with deep, gold eyes, and did not smile though the only lines in his dark skin were around his eyes, which indicated he smiled often. “Bit dirty, aren’t you? You didn’t take the main roads to get here.”

  “They would take too long,” Prityal answered. “They circle the wood that protects your territory, and we were under the impression there was some urgency. You called for us,” she added slowly, probably as confused as Delf was when Tili showed no reaction to that but surprise.

  “The knight who lives among you sent a message to the Seat,” Delf filled in, worry creeping back to the forefront of her thoughts.

  Tili glanced between them, clearly just as lost. “Rosset,” he pronounced the name doubtfully, “sent for Knights of the Seat? And that is you two? Only you two?”

  Prityal managed to sit up even straighter. “Rumpled, but here we are.” Her words were clipped.

  “Been a time since we had any of those. Well, besides Rosset.” Tili briefly dropped his attention to the icors. For that one moment, he had stars in his eyes. Then he looked at Delf and Prityal and frowned. “Usually, they
ride by on their way someplace else.”

  “Rosset’s message spoke of need,” Delf prompted, putting out a hand to silently calm Prityal.

  Tili snapped his gaze up. “There’s need all right. Need for work to be done in the fields. Roofs fixed. The last of the fruits and nuts gathered. Are you here to do that?”

  Delf opened her mouth but had no idea how to respond.

  Prityal, already spiky from the implication that the Knights of the Seat had too-often passed this region by, did not have that problem. “I don’t understand. Is there some illness? Some threat? Something that prevents the people from working? The food will be needed.”

  Tili, rather kindly, did not bark at Prityal for stating the obvious. He did, however, raise his voice a touch. “A useless, fool knight has put ideas into the heads of nearly every child old enough to hold a weapon.”

  Delf’s eyebrows went up. Prityal’s went down. “What?”

  Delf was not even sure which one of them asked.

  She shook her head and took care with her words. “Are you saying that Rosset has convinced the village youth to leave for the Seat? We… we would have heard. We would have seen.” There were not that many begleys that they wouldn’t have noticed a sudden surge in numbers.

  Tili tutted. “He has them at the ruin.”

  “Ruin?” Prityal echoed faintly. It was rare to find ruins that had not been dismantled so the blocks or timber could be reused elsewhere. Usually, they amounted to little more than a part of a wall, or dug-out places in a field where something unknown had once stood. Faded but potent reminders that Ainle had not always existed as it was, and that the will of the Three could change.

  Prityal was unlikely to be thinking of that. She was probably still stewing over “useless, fool knight.” The Lady of Hope was nothing if not loyal.

  “There is a house for Rosset near the village, but you will not find him there. He spends most of his time at the ruin, where the fields again become the woods. The woods are always reaching to take the land back. There was no one to stop them until he decided to.” Tili’s tone did not approve or disapprove of this. Nonetheless, Delf got the impression that Tili considered this a waste of time. Using the children and young people to do that while farm work needed to be done was likely the bigger crime, in Tili’s eyes. Delf didn’t disagree.

  “A ruin?” Prityal asked again. “Enough for him to live there?”

  Tili shrugged. “To the north. Near the old shrine, though that has not been taken by the trees. We have not neglected our visits.”

  “You have a shrine here?” Delf sat up with interest. The shrine might be of the same age as the ruin. “Who is it for?”

  Tili gave Delf the same slightly exasperated look that Prityal did, but answered. “We leave parts of the harvest there. And we have done well until recent years.” Delf took that to mean the shrine was so ancient that its original purpose had been forgotten, and that Anstha, Harvest, had moved in. Tili paused. “Wine, too,” he admitted, then scowled. “I suppose he offers them that as well. Though where will he get more with no one to harvest or crush the grapes for him? He’s not thought of that.”

  Prityal’s eyes were a little wide, probably wondering how to deal with a knight who had stolen a village’s youth and plied them with wine. If true, it was not a problem to be solved with a sword. But, if true, Rosset wouldn’t have sent the call for aid.

  “The best way to honor the harvest is to actually harvest, and plant again,” Delf interrupted, polite and suitably disappointed in anyone for shirking their duties.

  “Convince them of that.” Tili crossed his arms and pushed out a breath.

  “We will, if that is the problem,” Prityal added, and, when Delf gave her a startled look, offered her a tiny shake of her head in return. Then she refocused on Tili. “They are not there against their will?”

  “No.” Tili sighed and uncrossed his arms. “Not as far as I know. But several have said that their children have not returned despite the lateness of the season.”

  Prityal exchanged another glance with Delf. She opened and closed her mouth several times, obviously struggling to phrase her words diplomatically. “Is Rosset…. This land has no cheve.” Several would claim it to seem stronger, but to hold it they would have to cross Oryl Wood constantly, and none seem to feel it was worth the bother despite the rich farmland on the other side. “Have you decided to take Rosset as yours?”

  The snort and vehement shake of Tili’s head made his opinion of Rosset clear. But the question, or the idea of a cheve, made him pause thoughtfully. “But there have been more visitors of late. Much farther west, where the forest touches us again. More of those who call themselves knights, but they don’t look like you two, and their icors are not nearly so impressive.”

  Knights of the Seat were not always loved, but they were generally not regarded with scorn. Delf looked at Prityal again, then they both slid from the backs of their icors to stand on their feet and meet Tili on even ground.

  “Delflenor,” Delf introduced herself as Tili had done. “Delf, to most. This is…” she glanced to Prityal and caught her tense and resigned, with her chin up and her hands clenched at her sides. “Prit,” Delf finished as though she had never heard of Prityal the Tyrant-slayer. Prityal exhaled, then turned to her, her eyes warm like winter bonfires before she ducked her head in gratitude.

  Tili swept a look over each of them, stopping to frown at Prityal’s torn hem and then again at Delf’s bandage. Instead of disapproving, he dropped his shoulders and seemed slightly more at ease. “You’re really from the Seat? For us?”

  “Times are not so dire that the Knights of the Seat cannot answer a request for help,” Prityal told him gravely. Knowing that Prityal meant that, and truly would have come out here alone, almost made Delf comment, but she held it in.

  The tension returned to Tili’s shoulders. “Are things so dire? There is still no hint of a chevetein?”

  Delf suddenly could not meet his eyes.

  Prityal exhaled. “No. Still none.”

  “Shit,” Tili muttered. “So, even in the Seat itself, more work is left for those who remain while everyone else plays at glory?” Delf looked to him again just to give him a commiserating smile, which he returned before nodding and coming forward. “You two look exhausted, and no wonder. You want food? A place to better feed your beasts?” He stopped just out of reach of Kee. His eyes were shining bright. “These are real beauties. I don’t suppose I might…”

  Icors such as Frire could make anyone shy.

  Prityal smiled at Tili for it, but shook her head. “You may pet or feed Frire, if you like, and I am there with him, but I’m afraid he is particular about riders.”

  “Kee is less particular,” Delf chimed in. “As long as I am close by or she knows you.” Frire was no doubt particular, but the real danger was an untrained rider atop a giant war beast. Kee did not inspire as much awe as Frire, and was used to the giggling attention of begleys and squires.

  Having pleased their host, Delf continued slightly more formally. “If there are some chores around your home, we would be happy to help, though we have no skills for farming.”

  The words were more or less the same, any time help was offered.

  Tili spoke in a higher, freer voice. “Since I’ve been out helping neighbors in their fields, I’ve not had much time for chores of my own.”

  Prityal inclined her head to him. “We will be happy to share your burden.”

  Negotiations, such as they were, for food and lodging for the night now resolved, Tili wiped his hands on his apron and waved for them to follow him, wondering aloud if either of them could cook.

  THE THOUGHT OF a hot meal had tempted even Prityal into momentarily forgetting their quest. Or, at least, she did not speak of it, and would probably have argued that helping Tili was part of their mission if Delf had mentioned it. Luckily, Delf was too busy to do so, and Prityal was much too distracted to grow serious.

 
Whatever Prityal had learned as a child, whatever her tasks as a begley, she had forgotten them. More than once, Delf had paused to watch Prityal argue with chickens, peer curiously at a root vegetable, and glower at the cowshit she had stepped in.

  She had not appreciated Delf’s smiles over that last one.

  Delf had finally suggested Prityal go take care of Tili’s animals; a job Prityal had gone to do with an audible sigh of relief. When Delf had left the kitchen, she’d found a smiling Prityal surrounded by several happy herding dogs, two mousers from the barn, some geese, and their goat alongside Tili’s goats. The icors had been nearby as well, jealously observing Prityal’s new friends.

  At least the animals were cared for.

  Tili, who used she as well as he, but had neither the time nor the inclination to bother with more marks, the way some did not, had a decent kitchen. Delf had served everyone leftover porridge from one of the pots over the fire for their midday meal, then set to work on something else once Tili had left to attend to his fields. She started a stew, and some dough to bake later in the hearth embers, then went about cleaning up after herself.

  Without prompting, as if she recalled that much of kitchen work, Prityal brought Delf fresh water and more firewood. Tili had been so busy helping his neighbors that his woodpile was low, according to Prityal. He had hauled in some felled trees from the Wood, probably during the summer, but had not readied the pile for winter. The problem had been going on for longer than the harvest, then.

  Prityal wanting to help was admirable. But when she mentioned taking time in the morning to chop some of the wood, Delf stubbed her toe on a table leg and hissed under her breath. Prityal tried to help her with that, too, as well as the cooking. Delf shooed her away and asked her to sweep.

  “I can roast meat,” Prityal insisted, but was then compelled to be honest, “over a campfire.”

  “Your skills lie elsewhere,” Delf told her fondly. “No one said you couldn’t labor at things that are not icors or swordplay. But there are no stalls to muck here. No beds to make. Tell me, have you tried to help out in the barracks kitchen, only to be sent away?”