by R. Cooper
But now, Delf would be her shield.
Nine
the ruin
THEY RODE as fast as the goat would allow, heading roughly toward the sun. The woods thinned out not far from the spring, and then they were in low, rolling fields that might have once been farmland. Those took them to a road, the ground rutted from the wheels of so many carts that even countless rainy reasons had not washed them away. The tracks led to a ruin that had not had many visitors until recently. That meant the tracks as well as the ruin were ancient.
Delf wondered about them and worried over them, as well as the puzzle of Rosset, and, as always, Prityal.
She no longer believed Prityal had only been out to scratch a long-suffered itch, be it for Delf or for anyone. The itch had been there, might still be there, but it was not only that. Not for Prityal, who preferred to be direct, to attempt seduction.
Delf toyed with the end of her hair, which had been bound three times so that it hung in a thick rope down her back when she wasn’t tugging on it, and studied Prityal in furtive glances.
I will be your friend, Delf told her silently, and imagined telling her aloud when this mission of Rosset’s was over. I will be your bed-friend. I will be whatever you like. Delf did not mind any of those, though she might have wished for more—but only late at night, alone, after too much wine, when she was weak and dreams were harder to banish.
But she would speak of it, and ask, when this was done. They would have a long ride back, after all. And Prityal did not need Delf’s distractions now. She was tense again, her mind doubtlessly already considering what they might face when they met Rosset.
THEY REACHED tended lands in the early evening, while the sun was still visible on the horizon. Oryl Wood had reappeared in their line of sight, though at a distance, the dark outline of trees parallel to the road. Ahead of them, small at first, were distinctly human-created shapes against the hazy gray and orange light of sunset.
It quickly became apparent that was one of the shapes was of considerable size. Delf straightened in the saddle. Prityal’s lips parted. But whatever her immediate thoughts, she kept them to herself.
Delf was not certain of her own thoughts. A ruin of this size should be have known by more people. Even Oryl Wood would not have stopped people from finding it eventually. The locals had been so used to it they had stopped seeing it, and the cheves who periodically claimed this territory possessed no imagination. That was all Delf could think of to explain the oversight.
The smaller shapes around the largest one were probably the usual outbuildings in any settlement; stables, storage, a tannery, a smith, a place to make soap or do laundry. In a town, they might be some public houses, a sizable mill or a chandlery, perhaps a hall for professional weavers. Those buildings, Delf could make herself disregard. It was the largest shape that rendered both her and Prityal silent.
The biggest building, or collection of buildings, around the Seat was the barracks that housed the knights. What they called ‘the barracks’ was a complex of halls, dormitories, stables, and support buildings clustered around some courtyards.
The house on the hill above the Shrine of the Seat where the cheveteins and their families lived was only slightly bigger than a large farmhouse, and most of its additions were recent—if recent meant within the past few centuries. That building was of an old design, concentric circles of gardens and stone walls, some with faded paint or chipped tile, that spoke of past glories.
The chevetein’s house had its own well, straight from the spring at the base of the hill, and several of the rooms had ways to trap heat in the winter beyond simple hearths. The additions were square, and at odds with the rest of it, but were meant to house the chevetein, their family if they had one, and sometimes members of the previous chevetein’s family, as well as anyone else who lived around the Seat who needed a home and didn’t mind house or garden work in exchange for it.
Those were two of the largest structures still standing in the parts of Ainle that Delf had seen.
This ruin was larger than both.
As she and Prityal got closer, some movement was visible. No wind or water-powered turnings of a mill, but small, slower figures, like people. Delf kept her focus on the ruin. She remembered the wistful words of a priest she had once heard, and for the first time, agreed with them. There should be more study of ruins like the ancient shrines. There should be more to learn from than fantastic legends.
This ruin was not constructed like any of the others Delf had seen. It was made of gray and white stone, though it was green in some places where climbing plants had overtaken it. It was also taller than the oldest part of the barracks, which had an upper floor, main floor, and an underground structure, although it appeared that some of the ruin’s roof was missing. What remained of the pointed roof had been thatched, which was at odds with the rest of its style. In one section, toward the front, the roof had retained its sharp apex at the center, which, remarkably, seemed to be made of the same heavy stone as the walls. Along each side were lower structures, arches of stone, some half collapsed, others missing pieces, that stretched up toward the roof of the main structure or higher, as if there had once been something even taller. It also had an arch over its entranceway.
The chevetein’s home had one of those. This one, however, could fit several people walking side by side, and had wooden doors to keep it sealed. The wood of the doors was not aged, so it must have been replaced, possibly by Rosset. Near the back of the ruin were rectangular, smaller additions, attached to the main building and still old, but nonetheless out of place.
All of the smaller buildings were thatched, and built around the ruin so that she and Prityal looked to be entering a courtyard as they rode up. By then, the figures moving around had spotted them, and had either stopped to stare or begun to come forward to meet them.
“The abducted youth,” Delf jested, although it did not feel entirely untrue.
Prityal ignored the humor, as she was right to. “If they are all simply bored farmers, why send to the Seat for help?” She was also right to ask that. “If Rosset wants to be a cheve, why draw the attention of the Seat before that role has been secured?” Her tone was vexed. But then, she had just dealt with the problems created by an overly ambitious cheve.
The two of them slowed their pace once they were near enough to make out details of their observers. Most of them were barely adults, or on the verge of being so. But some were older than Prityal. Many were still in their long farming aprons and loose breeches. Others wore tighter breeches, as knights or travelers might, although there were only a few smaller icors around unless more were in the stables.
“Is that a space for sparring?” Prityal asked, careful to not be heard by others, and nodded toward one building, which indeed had a cleared place in front of it, the dirt flat and tamped down, and on the side of the building hung an array of wooden swords and shields.
That was the kind of thing a cheve might have near the main village in their territory. But that would be full of established knights and very few in training. And not a large number, until recent times. A cheve building an army used to draw attention.
Over a dozen younger folk were gathered around them now, as well as a handful of older people. There were likely more locals who visited the ruin, and Rosset, even if they weren’t around now. If they all trained, the number of knights here would be somewhere between what they would have reasonably been, if Rosset had been chosen to lead and wanted several knights near, and what they would have been if someone wanted to raise a force to rival the one at the Seat.
Somehow, Delf did not think the excited people around them had plans to replace the Knights of the Seat. They looked like giddy begleys or squires, their attention darting from the icors to Prityal and back again, with an occasional glance to Delf.
None appeared to be mistreated. None were in rags, or drastically injured. One leaned on a walking stick, but that would have been just as likely in any gro
up of people. None of them cried out for rescue.
Prityal halted Frire and offered the strange gathering of farmers and would-be knights a salute. Delf and Kee stopped next to her. Only the older ones saluted Prityal back, which meant it was age and experience telling them what to do, and not deliberate rudeness on the part of the younger ones who likely did not understand the gesture.
Anyway, the children, as Delf could not help but think of all of them, were busy gazing at Prityal in wonder. Prityal was tall and straight-backed, her cloak over one shoulder, her curls aflame in the light of the setting sun.
“Your icors are incredible!” one of the children exclaimed before Prityal could speak, and then all of them were exclaiming. Delf could make out a few of the individual voices. “I thought only the Seat had icors like that! Like from a story! Are you Knights of the Seat?”
“Yes,” Prityal answered simply, which was met with brief silence and then a deluge of questions as the children pressed closer but wisely did not risk crowding the icors.
“Are you really?”
“How long do you train there before you can have one?”
“There was an icor like that years ago, but she was too old to be bred.”
“I only remember glimpsing her. Have you come to visit Rosset?”
That was a marvelous opening, but Prityal was cut off again.
“Will you be staying with us?”
Prityal finally raised a hand. That plus the power of her presence was enough to silence them at last.
“Thank you for your kind words,” she said politely but firmly. “Frire and Kee appreciate them, but please admire Frire from a distance until he knows you.” She looked over the assembly, but if Rosset was nearby, there was no sign. “Is there a place where we might rest the icors while we talk?”
The request had the potential begleys and squires falling over themselves to lead Prityal and Delf farther into the courtyard to the stables, where two small, working icors poked their heads out to watch their approach.
Prityal and Delf dismounted, staying with their icors, although the goat continued on until it reached a pile of straw, which it started to eat, unconcerned. Prityal leaned against Frire for a moment, whispering in his ear. She was probably telling him to behave.
Delf looked to Kee. “Some new friends for you.”
Kee waited until Delf had turned to start nosing the end of her bound hair, although she abandoned that when one of the others asked if the icors would like some food. At the word, Kee practically trotted over to treat herself to a nibble. Frire, his attitude begrudging, did the same.
“Thank you.” Prityal paused at the sight of the goat’s little wagging tail, then cleared her throat as though she was going to attempt delicacy. “Is this… Do all of you live here?”
Several of them exchanged glances. One finally spoke. “For the moment.”
Which was no answer, but Prityal turned to consider the speaker, a stout figure with neatly braided hair and feminine marks at her throat. The marks were not more than a few years old.
Delf decided to just address her, since she’d been the boldest. “If you have any work that needs doing, we’re happy to share the burden.”
The offer went unnoticed, even by those in the crowd who were older. One of them was back to questioning Prityal. “I’d like to know some of how you raise and train those beasts. The size of them… The colors….”
Delf closed her mouth. Prityal glanced at her, her eyebrows raised. Delf shrugged.
Prityal faced the others again. “There is no farming work or chores that need another hand, if we are to stay?”
“Everything here is mostly handled,” the girl answered, frowning slightly. “We wouldn’t make Knights of the Seat do chores.”
“But you should?” Prityal was audibly befuddled. “Of course, you should.”
“Oh,” several of the children said in unison.
“Rosset did say so,” one of the older ones added, making the others nod. “That it was to keep them humble, and simple, and not beholden to anyone.”
“I thought… I don’t know what I thought,” the girl remarked. “I suppose you would at least take care of your own icors.” She blinked, then focused midnight black eyes on Prityal. “Will you stay? We can make room, and find something for you to do so you won’t be insulted.”
Of all of them, this one seemed to be paying attention and asking questions, and yet she still did not understand. But it was not the time to educate her, and Prityal must have thought so too.
“Rosset sent for us, and it was a journey of several days to reach here. We would like to stay at least one night, if that is possible. Isn’t that so, Delflenor?” Prityal turned to look at Delf, a wrinkle at her brow that could have been for anything, but which Delf suspected was aimed at her for being quiet. Delf nodded. It did not make the wrinkle go away.
“We’ll have to make room.” The girl began a discussion with some of the others, working out details. Their stay somewhat arranged, Delf walked over to the goat to remove the packs and give its flank a brief scratch. She hefted the packs over her shoulder, then carried on to Kee to untie her packs as well. For whatever reason, this got her some startled attention.
Prityal came up next to her. “I’ll need to tend to Frire. He can’t be left alone in their care.”
She had not finished speaking when someone gasped so loudly that Delf spun around.
“Frire?” One of the younger ones now had round eyes. “You’ve been… that’s Frire?” What they’d missed in their initial excitement, they were apparently realizing now. Frire would be a name known to them for one reason. “Are you Prityal of Ters?”
Prityal’s smile grew strained. “Yes. I am.”
For the first time since they had arrived, the stables and courtyard were nearly silent. Every person’s attention was trained on one still, stiff figure.
Delf coughed to cut the tension and gave Prityal’s audience a grin. “And last night she slept in a barn. She’ll do so again, and happily. There’s no need to disrupt the household.”
“But she’s the Tyrant-slayer,” one of them explained in a hush, as though Delf didn’t know that or know Prityal personally. From someone who had probably been practically a babe when it had happened.
“Otili’s barn was quite pleasant,” Prityal agreed, her gaze momentarily on Delf and warm again at last.
“Tili?” a few of them echoed, with so much guilt that Delf forced herself to turn away from Prityal. The children all looked like new begleys who had suddenly remembered the tasks they had been supposed to do the day before.
Which was amusing, and yet also implied that whatever was happening here was not serious enough to require a message to the Seat. They looked guilty, not afraid.
Prityal touched Delf’s arm and Delf nodded to indicate she had noticed their strange attitude as well.
“You can’t stay in a barn!” the girl, after being prodded by one of the others, spoke again. Though she did glance over the torn hem of Delf’s surcoat, or perhaps at Delf’s lack of obvious armor, then frowned. “You are Knights of the Seat! We can take care of your things, and your goat.”
“Oh good,” Delf answered her merrily. “I’ve some linen here that I must clean as well. It needs washing before we return it to Otili.” She dropped the name just to make them all look abashed and guilty again.
“Otili the Obstinate,” one of them whispered. Now there was some fear.
Delf pretended she did not hear it. “Show me where to go, and if there’s anything that needs doing there, I’m familiar enough to get it done.”
“Are you Prityal’s squire?”
It was not a surprising question, not to Delf. Prityal, however, had drawn herself up in offense before Delf could think of a witty answer.
“No.” Prityal’s voice was no longer friendly. “This is Delflenor of the Seat.”
Delf had no epithets, had no place to claim except the Seat, and yet would never have
attached her name so firmly to the Seat as Prityal had just done. She stayed quiet and felt her cheeks sting.
“They’re a knight, too?”
Delf didn’t see which one asked, but had to speak before Prityal became even more outraged on her behalf.
“They are indeed,” Delf responded lightly, smile in place. “A Knight of the Seat for nigh six years now. You will find that most of us are not as known as Prityal of Ters. The life of the average knight is not remarkable, and even those with glory attached to their names often wish there was not. The glory comes at a cost, you see.”
She looked down at Prityal’s hand at her elbow. She did not think she could look up to Prityal’s face without embarrassing herself, so she turned to Rosset’s possible-begleys instead. They seemed surprised, perhaps that Delf was so eloquent. It had been a surprise to Delf, too. But more likely, they were realizing at last what ‘knight’ meant outside of a story.
Prityal and Delf were both armed, and no one could pretend not to know that at least Prityal’s sword had been bloodied.
It should have taken the stars from their eyes for longer than a few moments. But the stars returned, and Delf tensed, expecting another flood of questions, this time about battles.
“I suppose I thought only of the contests,” the girl with the braided hair admitted. She and her friends were more subdued than before, although their excitement was slowly returning. “There were no battles here. Not in anyone’s lifetime. Rosset only says you have to train so that you can learn to act without thinking. Were we rude?”
A pleasant surprise. Prityal inclined her head graciously in forgiveness, and Delf was momentarily struck by how patient Prityal could be when she was dealing with innocent and curious students instead of foolish, arrogant cheves—or Delf.
The one next to the girl, a short, hardy figure in an apron, was tentative. “Have you both ridden into battle, then?”
