by R. Cooper
“Don’t be a donkey,” an older one was quick to chide. “That’s the Tyrant-slayer.”
“Delflenor and I have both experienced battles, yes.” Prityal kept her voice even, but the older one quailed a little anyway.
Delf received a sharp, interested study from several of them, and a question from someone faceless at the back of the group. “Did you fight side by side?”
The very idea made Delf’s throat tight. Prityal didn’t answer, though it would have been easy enough to say no and explain that Delf was lower-tier.
Delf’s voice was inexplicably hoarse, although she gave Prityal an overly grand salute and bowed her head in recognition of Prityal’s greatness. “I am always there to assist her, in all things.”
Prityal’s touch was steady, despite so many eyes on them.
This apparently intrigued their audience. “Do you spar each other? Go into the contests and fight as a team?”
Delf was always obvious about Prityal, but she had forgotten that these farmers and fieldworkers were not begleys of the barracks, who knew better than to pry. The begleys of the barracks would also have known that Delf’s feelings did not make her and Prityal avowed lovers.
Prityal answered for her when Delf stayed quiet. “Delflenor does not participate in the contests.”
“Delf is fine for most,” Delf insisted weakly, glancing to the others, keeping her gaze safely away from Prityal’s.
The children, who were not actually children and so should have been wiser, turned to Prityal for explanation. “Why doesn’t she?”
Prityal made a thoughtful sound. “Because,” she began slowly, “if Delflenor comes for you, it will not be for play. She will mean it.”
Delf knew Prityal was looking at her, but couldn’t stop herself from lifting her head. Prityal’s stare was heavy and gentle and too many things for Delf to contemplate before so many others. It made her stomach tremble and her heart beat faster.
Oblivious to the rising warmth in Delf’s skin, the children had regained their interests in swordplay and the contests. “But you do?” one asked Prityal.
When Delf finally tore her gaze away from Prityal, three or four of those gathered in the stables were watching her with interest. The rest continued to be fascinated with their hero.
“May we see your sword please? Or is that not allowed?”
“Is that the one that—” the question was left unspoken, because the girl with the braids elbowed the asker in the chest.
“It’s a tool, and a danger.” Prityal’s tone was quelling and somber, but then, maybe because the crowd was so like the group of begleys back at the barracks, she stepped back before unstrapping her sword from Frire’s saddle, then pulled the sword from the sheath. More than one gasp came from her audience. Prityal’s sword was a beautiful creation, double-edged and lighter than it seemed. The hilt was made for her hand.
She swung it down to keep the point aimed at the ground. Then she looked to Delf before she raised her sword again, holding it before her face as though saluting her opponent in a contest.
Delf was hot to her fingertips.
She registered the sound of a shout and the shift in attention from the gathered crowd, but couldn’t move until the shout became louder and closer, and Prityal’s tiny, triumphant smile at having silenced her disappeared.
“Hail!” The shout was a word. A greeting. The sort of thing the older knights called out when peacefully approaching knights they did not know.
Prityal lowered her sword. Delf dropped the packs to the ground, wanting her hands free before she met the one hailing them, who could only be Rosset.
The stables were no place for this meeting. Prityal seemed to think so as well. She was quick to follow Delf when she stepped away from the icors, and once Prityal moved, their audience followed, some of them trickling out to stand in the more open courtyard.
Rosset came toward them with a smile, his hands empty.
The ruin was behind him, the doors opened as though he had come from inside. He was a towering figure, even with shoulders bent. His age was difficult to determine at a glance, because the lines on his face seemed more from pain.
A contemporary of Brennus could have meant anything, as Brennus had been elderly when they’d died. Rosset had hammermarks that had faded with time, as they did, more than the ones he’d chosen upon adulthood for a masculine soul, and he had white hair, bound up in a knot and tied with a long, red ribbon.
He wore a tunic shirt, like a farmer, but tighter breeches, because he must still ride icors, even if his war beast had died. He carried a sheathed knife at one hip, no bigger than what many knights used for small tasks, and had gloves stuck in his belt.
His hammermarks were considerable. Knights did tend to love decoration and Rosset was no exception. Aside from the usual ones around his neck, he had roses on the backs of his hands that reached at least to his wrists. He had more marks curled around his masculine marks but mostly hidden by his tunic collar. Delf assumed they were magic work. Brennus had had some of those, too. The previous generations had not altogether forgotten the old ways.
These markings weren’t familiar to Delf, who had no reason to learn them all. This wasn’t the days of legend. Most of the older knights had been doing it as a link to an ancient era when the spirits were equally likely to challenge a knight to a quest as to be disguised as a knight alongside them on the same quest.
Well, if the stories were true.
Rosset walked with a limp, though Delf was looking for signs of the injury that had forced him from the barracks. The limp probably showed more when he was tired or the weather was bad. Because he seemed ready to fight now, whatever his age.
At less of a distance, he had eyes of pale violet, with wrinkles beside them and along his mouth. His skin was nearly the same shade as Delf’s, but thin. Rosset must be in pain quite a lot, though he kept his gait as even as possible.
He went directly to Prityal.
Delf put her hand on her belt, near her little work knife, and kept it there.
She also took the smallest step closer to Prityal. Friend of Brennus or not, Delf didn’t know him.
Rosset extended a hand and clasped Prityal’s arm when she offered hers in return after first moving her sword to her other hand. That did not make her less dangerous, though many might assume so.
“Rosset, formerly of Dant.” Rosset introduced himself in a friendly enough manner. “I used to be known as Rosset the Broad, but not by many.”
The epithet was still not a name Delf had heard. But Rosset had no reason to be known outside the barracks, in his day. A testament to how much more peaceful things had been during Brennus’s tenure.
“Hail,” Prityal returned formally. “We have come from the Seat.”
“Are you here in answer to my call?” Rosset released Prityal’s arm and glanced to Delf, probably assuming she was a squire like everyone else had. His attention should be on Prityal, who still had her sword drawn, and he acknowledged that with more calm and manners than most would have managed. “Beautiful weapon!”
It was. Many a smith had fought over the right to gift Prityal with one.
Rosset looked over their icors as well, then released a mournful sigh. “You are indeed from the Seat, with creatures like those.”
“The Seat answers all calls,” Prityal responded, even more formally, and sheathed her sword.
Delf was equal parts wonder and exasperation. Prityal was sincere, but hopefully some of that had been meant to impress their audience and disguise the reality of the barracks’ stretched resources.
“You see?” Rosset turned to gesture at the others watching that. “It’s exactly as I told you. The traditions stand firm.”
“We are standing among ruins. Traditions last only so long,” Delf couldn’t help but observe in a murmur, more to herself than to anyone else. Nonetheless, Prityal cut her a look before she returned her attention to Rosset.
“We understood the si
tuation was urgent.” Prityal’s tone did not quite accuse him of lying, but it did hold a question.
Rosset inclined his head deeply. “Yes. Yes. I must discuss it with you.” With that admission, he paused. “You got here quickly. It must have been a fast, exhausting ride. You’ll need to clean, eat, rest.”
“We’re happy to share your burden, if there is some task you need done,” Delf tried again.
Rosset addressed the crowd again. “Traditions,” he spoke proudly, “as I told you. Good knights are humble and diligent.” Most of those in the crowd nodded as though their instructor had spoken. Delf blinked and did not risk a look at Prityal. Rosset continued, facing Prityal again. “Tell me who has kindly ridden out in the midst of so much turmoil.”
“Has there been turmoil here?” Delf wanted to know, but the quiet question went unheard amid the chorus of voices naming Prityal as the Tyrant-slayer.
Rosset’s smile froze, then widened. His eyes fixed on Prityal with even more interest. Prityal was not going to like whatever he said next.
“Prityal of Ters.” It was little more than a whisper. “They sent you? I asked for the best, but I did not expect the Champion. Though perhaps I should have. How perfect. The Three smile upon me.”
“We answered the call.” Prityal had gone cool, though most wouldn’t notice or would think it was the posture of a hero. But she didn’t speak as honestly as she might once have and admit that there was no one else in the barracks able to answer the call. That was perhaps Jareth’s influence, but also Prityal leaving her armor on. “We will try to be the best you asked for.”
She’d used ‘we’ twice. Probably for that reason, Rosset finally addressed Delf, or, at least, mentioned her.
“If you are the Just, then this must be Ranalaut the Fierce?”
“Delflenor,” Delf introduced herself as Prityal had introduced her, “of the Seat.” Where orphans went. Where there was plenty and more hands were welcome, especially when the chevetein had no blood-family to help them. “Delf, if you like.”
No dismay crossed Rosset’s face at discovering that she was not another champion. But no interest, either.
“To ride with the Tyrant-slayer,” he said politely, “you must be honored.” His smile grew warm again. “I cannot believe they sent the Tyrant-slayer. I hope our meal tonight is suitable. I’ll have to see what we’re making.”
“Soup,” someone new announced as they joined the group, “and fish.”
“That’s fine.” Prityal gave one shake of her head. “There’s no need for anything special,” she added, plainly embarrassed now. “Delflenor and I will be content with anything.”
“We might have some candied fruit,” one of the others offered, someone definitely younger, treating the whole thing like a feast day.
Delf did enjoy candied fruit. However, she wasn’t here to use up their limited stores. “Oh, have you been setting some aside for the winter?” she asked innocently. Prityal, the Wise bless and protect her, snorted.
Rosset, if he understood Delf’s comment for what it was, didn’t react defensively. “Of course, of course,” he said, as though any of the people around him had only just arrived from their parents’ and neighbors’ fields. “The land is a gift from the Three. Protect it and it will protect us. They’ve been working very hard.”
“Someone has.” Prityal could be dry. Delf gave her a look of surprised delight. Prityal caught it and exhaled softly, but stayed focused on Rosset and the others. “We heard about this ruin, but were not expecting it to be in this condition. Are you living in it?”
“Ah.” Rosset turned to look up at the massive building. “It amazed me, too, when I first arrived here. Would you like to see it? No, I apologize. You must want to rest first, and tend to your lovely icors.”
Prityal lowered her head a fraction, then frowned. “We understood the situation was urgent, although your message did not say much.” Prityal had been in charge of the barracks for a while and it showed. She was respectful, but she was an instructor who was verging on disappointed at the behavior of the pupil in front of her. Delf nearly smirked.
Rosset turned back to Prityal, startled. “It is. But there is nothing to be done for it today. We can discuss it once you’ve rested. I’m sure my friends here have been pestering you with questions, but that can wait too. Or perhaps your squire can answer them.”
Prityal did not raise her head; a warning sign. “Delflenor is a Knight of the Seat.”
Delf shivered at the heat in Prityal’s voice. “I don’t mind questions,” she said quietly, looking at Rosset but brushing her fingers over Prityal’s arm. “But you must give me a chance to marvel at this ruin. How old do you think it is? Jareth would love to know.”
“Jareth the Protector?” Rosset brightened at the name, also familiar, apparently, even hidden behind their forest wall. “I am sorry if I offered insult,” he added, warming to Delf now that she had more champions for friends. “Not every knight earns a great name, it’s true.” His eyes twinkled as he said it, sharing a joke, Rosset of Dant to Delf of Nowhere. He clapped his hands together. “At least the Knights of the Seat are all family. Even those of us long time away from the barracks. Isn’t that so?”
He could not have chosen better words to calm Prityal or smooth the wrinkle from her brow. “You should visit, when the field work and the weather allows. There are many instructors or retired knights who still claim rooms, and they would enjoy your company.”
It was a kind offer, though Delf wondered if the older, injured knight would enjoy a long, uncomfortable journey—or a shorter, even more uncomfortable journey, if he passed through the Wood instead of around it.
“We could carry messages back for you when our mission here is ended,” Prityal continued, more personable when it came to the barracks and the knights there. “I’m sure you must have friends at the Seat who’d like to hear from you.”
Delf turned to the watching farmers and would-be begleys. She focused on the girl with the braids, who seemed to be splitting her attention between Prityal and Delf, and slipped around Prityal to speak with her.
The girl looked up, nowhere near Delf’s height, as did several of the others.
Delf smiled at them all. “I can see to the icors—even Frire, if I am polite. But I want to remind you all to give him a wide berth, and to be cautious around Kee. He is particular. She is friendlier, but generally only when I, or someone she is familiar with, is near.” Delf found herself falling into the voice and manner of an instructor. She couldn’t help it; it was their wide eyes. “This is part of their training, so that no one may try to steal one in battle if their rider is knocked from the saddle or is fighting on foot. But it’s also just their personalities.” These ones, the three absorbing her every word about barracks icors, were eager begleys, most certainly. They had probably run to Rosset, not the other way around.
But they might be loyal to him for that reason, so Delf held in her questions about him for the present.
“I’m not sure about our packs,” she confessed. The girl had seemed sensible enough and might have answers. “Is there place to sleep out here, or do you return to your homes every night?”
“We sleep here most of the time, when we visit. The travel home would take too long. But I’m sure he will find you rooms. Someone will give up a room for Prityal—and of course you.” The girl glanced to the side, then back to Delf. Delf looked over out of curiosity, and only saw Prityal, still talking with Rosset, feigning to not notice all the eyes on her. The girl continued, ravenously curious. “Or will you be staying with her?”
“Ah.” A wise person would have remembered that even begleys had brains and knew how to use them. Delf had no answer to the question. She had not expected to be separated. She had deliberately not thought of what might or might not happen if they lay together again, but she had still assumed their bedrolls would be close. “A pile of straw will do for me,” she answered at last. “Or a clean patch of ground near
a fire, if you have one.”
“You’re a Knight of the Seat,” a young individual with very bright, and likely barely healed, hammermarks protested in shock.
That, at least, brought Delf back to her senses and allowed some of her odd, bitter humor to return. “Are you basing this on the old songs and stories? If you think on those carefully, you will realize those knights were not stopping to sleep in beds while on their quests.”
There was a collective “Oh” from her audience of three.
Delf glanced to Prityal again, found her turned away. She cleared her throat. “A clean patch of ground will do,” she repeated. “You,” she addressed the girl with the neat braids. She had a round face, tanned from outside work, with sunny tones beneath the warm brown. Delf called her a girl but she was about the age Delf had been when Til Din had drawn her into battle. “What’s your name?”
“Bors.” Bors belatedly offered Delf a salute. She did so with a grin. Delf saluted her back, and abruptly felt very old at the sight of that grin. She was six years and several kills away from a grin like that.
“Bors.” Delf inclined her head in respectful greeting. “Once I have settled the icors and Prityal’s goat friend, what can I do to help with tonight’s meal?” Again, they all looked surprised, and again, Delf felt years and years older than them when she truly was not. Still, she quirked a smile. “Did you really think knights did no work? Who would run the barracks, then? There is always work, no matter what profession you choose, or what house you make.” She stopped there, growing serious. “But Prityal and I are here to help, if you need us.”
“With what?” Bors wondered, confused. “I thought the Seat had the problems.”
Delf looked back at Prityal, her heartbeat quickening to find Prityal’s eyes on her. She swallowed, but nodded toward the stables to indicate her intent, and waited until Prityal frowned before she headed back inside.
She left the packs where they were for the moment, so she could better to tend to two watchful war beasts and one greedy goat. The three young humans followed her, fascinated with the icors, likely, or curious about how knights went about with their work.
