by R. Cooper
Delf slumped a little in her saddle, pulling her lower lip between her teeth as she reasoned. Ahead of her, Rosset was, as ever, talking.
“I am old. A ruin, in my way.” He carried on despite Prityal’s small objection. “If it is true that Ainle will no longer be bound to a chevetein, I will likely not live long enough to see what we become. But I do not believe that will happen. You, Delflenor,” he addressed Delf without turning, making Delf twitch and look up. “You mentioned last night that being chevetein was not something to be taken lightly. Ten years ago, perhaps the person we needed was not ready. Maybe five years ago, they were, though they have resisted, whatever their reasons. But they can’t avoid the path forever.”
As if he thought that either of them did not understand his meaning, he paused before adding pointedly, “I sent a message, and it was Prityal the Just who answered.”
“I am not the chevetein.” Prityal went right to the heart of the matter with one clean, decisive stroke. “I cannot be the chevetein. My offer was not accepted.”
Rosset barely took a moment. “But you made one?”
“It is not me,” Prityal said again. Delf did not imagine the waver in her voice. But Prityal lifted her chin, and then the waver vanished. “So, what would you have us do? Ask again? Send out word to remind people that everyone is welcome at the Seat to offer? Have some sort of… contest?” She said it as if there was no idea more ludicrous, although everyone in Ainle taking their turn in the Shrine was already a contest of sorts.
She wanted it to be ridiculous, to be the will of the spirits. To be out of her hands.
Delf stared hard at Rosset. “Why did we have to come to the Wood for this talk? Is this an ambush, Rosset?”
Rosset actually turned to look at her. “No!” He seemed honestly startled. “She is my hope. I would not risk her.”
“She is Ainle’s hope,” Delf corrected fiercely.
“She did not ask for a shield,” Prityal interrupted sharply.
Stung, Delf met her furious glare, then nodded before looking away.
Delf should not have assumed her concern was wanted, no matter how much she worried. Prityal liked her and had been kind to her, but she was back in the company of a true knight, not just lower-tier Delf. Delf of Nowhere, the failed priest-in-training.
The restless night and her worries were wearing on her. Prityal would not think that about anyone. Nonetheless, Delf should not have presumed.
Prityal was barely fighting back her temper now. “I am not the chevetein, and I am only the Hope because people needed something to hold to and I was there.”
“And you did it.” Rosset said what Delf only thought. “You became what they needed, and you did it despite your wishes and your discomfort. For them. That is why you are the Hope, Prityal of Ters. The Hope as well as the Strength.”
“But not anything else.” The fire and smoke disappeared from Prityal’s voice. She was quiet. “Not the chevetein. Not a cheve. Tyrant-slayer, yes. Instructor. Sweeper-of-floors,” she added, even quieter, drawing Delf’s eyes to her. “But I cannot be that. What else there is of me to give, I refuse to give it. I am a dagger, and only the Three, or the Hand of the Three, can direct me.”
In the distance were the sound of birdcalls, some lyrical and others harsh and low. Delf put a hand to her hilt just to hold something. She imagined Prityal’s hand tangled in Frire’s mane.
“Perhaps…” Rosset did not finish his thought. They rode in silence, Delf glancing from Prityal’s straight back to Rosset. He seemed to have shrunk in on himself. The ride must have pained him.
“Do you need to stop and rest?” Delf called out despite her dislike of him.
Prityal visibly startled, then leaned toward him. Rosset waved off her concern. “I would rather continue.”
“Since there is no immediate danger,” Prityal’s temper had returned, “you must mean to the shrine, the one abandoned for that pond.”
Rosset nodded. “I do. I imagine it fell out of use when much of the forest was cleared for farmland. It’s too far from the fields, and no one here worships the trees, or deer, or moss, which the shrine must have been for. The pond works because what is often done there pleases many spirits, and fertility and the harvest go hand in hand.” He was almost dismissive.
Prityal was no longer inclined to talk, more than likely embarrassed at her own memories of what was often done at the pond.
“This shrine is fairly close to the ruin.” Delf spoke up. “Are they the same age?”
The question briefly earned her Rosset’s distracted attention, though it was back on Prityal again within moments. “No idea. Perhaps.”
Delf put her head back, then frowned, then let her thoughts fall recklessly from her lips. “You cannot possibly have lured us from the Seat just for a slow ride through an old forest to look at an abandoned shrine you don’t care much about.”
Prityal’s attention was unexpected. She considered Delf and then focused her stare on Rosset.
“I was expecting priests,” Rosset reminded them.
It was not inconceivable that he was telling the truth.
Delf still kept her eyes on him. “Is there something about this shrine that troubles you?’
“You should see it for yourselves before I answer that.”
She sensed Prityal’s scowl even before Prityal turned to exchange a look with her. Delf glanced down and did not lift her head until Prityal turned away.
It was going to be a very long ride back to the Seat.
Whatever Rosset thought of the tension between Delf and Prityal, if anything, was not revealed in his tone or in his remarks. “Tell me, do many of the knights still keep little shrines and trinkets of their personal favorite spirits in their rooms?”
There was a pause, as if someone expected Delf to speak.
“Yes.” Prityal answered at last.
“And carry markings for them?” Rosset pressed. Prityal was probably irritated by the questions, but nodded all the same. “Some wear brooches to show their favorites. Do you?”
Prityal slowly shook her head. Her voice was soft. “I believe Delflenor does.”
Delf carried markings on her skin, in more private places than most wore them. She stared up toward the tops of the trees. “Scars are as much a sign of what you have been through as they are of what got you through it. Hammermarks are just scarring we choose.” Well, depending on the style of the work done, pricking needles or a chisel.
“And who does Delflenor favor?” Rosset wondered.
“The Three,” Prityal replied, over Delf’s low answer.
“Devotion.”
Prityal gasped quietly.
Delf watched gray light break through the canopy. “I am from nowhere. I have the Three, Ainle, the Seat, the barracks, and my friends, and…” she lowered her gaze to bright curls. “I love all of them, in all the meanings of the word.”
“Personal love, and familial love, and love of place, or people,” Rosset mused, and seemed approving, if surprised. “All of the Three and one of the Three. Most young knights just praise fucking, or wine, or war,” he added, a touch dryly.
Delf shrugged and petted Kee. “We haven’t been young knights. We were not permitted to be.”
The lull after that was not broken for some time.
Rosset finally nodded and apparently decided a change of topic was needed. “There is a local legend about this place. I hadn’t heard it until I came here. An older farmer, who lived on a small farm overflowing with family members and their loved ones, volunteered to go gather mushrooms in the Wood for some time to herself. But a storm blew over the Wood, and in the darkness, she got lost. Finally, after several days, when she was weak with hunger, a creature covered in fur and scales and feathers emerged from the trees. Terrified, the farmer ran in the opposite direction, until she was even more lost than before. But, when daylight came, she was in a clearing surrounded by thorny brambles full of ripe berries, and she ate her fill.
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br /> “That night, the creature appeared again, and, frightened, the woman tore through the trees until she could run no longer. When she woke, she was in a bower filled with pansies and honeysuckle and nasturtium, and again, she filled her empty stomach.
“After the sun had set, when the creature again appeared, the farmer ran and ran until her legs gave out. And when daylight came, she was on the banks of a spring of fresh water, beneath the bows of a walnut tree, and across from her was the creature, asleep. The farmer picked up a rock to kill it, only to realize that the creature had led her to safety and food each night, when it might not have, and trusted her enough to lie asleep and helpless near her. She used the rock to crack the walnut shells, and when the creature woke, she shared with it her store of walnuts, and became the woman who lived in these woods with the wild creatures, and learned their ways, and the people of the village came to her for the things they needed from the forest.”
“A pretty story,” Prityal said, in the tone of someone who wanted to strangle the storyteller.
Rosset had a gift for disregarding danger, or a willingness to face it for whatever he felt he needed to say. “A lesson about the uselessness of running out of fear, perhaps. Or in being granted several chances.”
“Your legendary farmer sounds like a priest,” Delf contributed absently. “The priest of the Wood, whether or not she used magic. If she hadn’t run, she wouldn’t have found the berries or the flowers, or shared her meal with the Three—the creature. That’s more a story about learning to understand than anything else.”
She looked up to the treetops again, surprised to see some sunlight attempting to pierce the clouds. The other two were silent. Oryl Wood, at least this part of it, was much different in the light of day. So different, Delf nearly did not mind the dozen or so black birds watching them from various branches above.
She followed one of the streams of dim autumn sunlight down to the forest floor, then smiled. “Is that it?” she asked, already urging Kee to go faster so she could reach what had to be the shrine.
It was a housed shrine. Sometimes, for whatever reason, someone long ago had decided to protect whatever place or object had been so loved it became holy. The housing could be made of wood, though wood rotted away, or bricks, or hardened mud, or stone. There was one Delf had never seen that was surrounded by a garden, though the garden was as much a part of that shrine by now as whatever was inside it. The Shrine of the Seat was enclosed by stone walls and a stone roof.
This was as well, but of a different design.
The shrine itself was probably also a spring. Delf thought of Rosset’s story, but if there had ever been a walnut tree nearby, it was likely long dead. The stone house for the shrine was on a circle of land surrounded by a ring of water, with a small stone bridge that led across it. The house was of a square shape, with a slightly sloped roof, and had open doorways on the three sides she could see, although only the one bridge. That door must be for Earth, she supposed. Water and Air would not need a bridge.
The design was not close to the sophistication of the ruin Rosset called home, but the building might have been painted once. It was plain gray now but for the moss on the roof.
It was wonderful. Delf could understand how busy villagers would choose the closer and more accessible pond, but, it was wonderful.
She stopped and dismounted, listening to the others do the same not far from her. She glanced up again, to clouds and treetops and sunbeams, then down to the forest floor and the tamped-down leaves that marked a path to the shrine.
“You might defend yourself instead of me,” Prityal remarked from behind her. She was quiet, apparently not wanting Rosset to hear.
Delf patted Kee without turning. “I’ve strength to spare when you have not. But you’re right; you did not ask. I should not have presumed it was wanted.”
“I have let you…” Prityal made a garbled sound. “I am not weak.”
Delf raised her eyebrows as she spun around. Prityal’s mouth was turned down and her hands were clenched. “No,” Delf answered plainly. “No, you are precious.” She had not one single concern for Rosset or anyone else who watched as she took Prityal’s hand in hers and held it up to kiss the sliver of visible skin on the inside of Prityal’s wrist. “To me.”
Her face burned. She was a child offering another child a sticky sweet as an offering of affection. But Prityal would have thought she meant to Ainle and Delf could not let that stand.
But her quick grin was nervous as she dropped Prityal’s hand, and she was grateful for the strands of her hair that fell over her eyes.
Prityal looked down at her hand, then back up. Her expression was unreadable, although her lips were soft. “You did not say you will stop.”
Delf had no wish to make her more uncomfortable, but, “I’ve strength to spare when you have not.” She said it again, purposefully, in a way that would have made Bors and the other begleys starry-eyed. Then, because Delf was too practical and ordinary to be anyone’s avowed lover, she stepped around Prityal to go to the shrine.
She passed Rosset without acknowledging him or what he had just witnessed.
The stones of the bridge held steady. The doorway was low. Delf had to duck her head to enter, as did the other two. The building was small, so she moved to give them room. There was a crack in the floor along the opposite wall, which had no door. A tiny bit of water bubbled up from it to trickle toward one of the walls and then back out through another fine crack.
The space was well-lit, although the light from sun was indirect at the moment. Delf turned, imagined the setting sun coming through one door and the rising through another. A simple idea, but a good one. But the light illuminated nothing else of interest, save a niche that had been carved into the wall above the tiny fountain. Someone had put a deer skull in that space. The follower of the Hunter, likely.
Dust floated through the air, but the ground held no plants. The corners held no birds’ nests or spiderwebs. “Have you cleaned it?” she wondered absently.
“Someone must have,” Rosset answered. “I encourage people to visit this place, and I ask their opinions of it. Most do not feel anything. The shrine is too old, and too forgotten. But a few might have returned beyond the initial visit. They must have felt the power that remains here.”
“It’s like the Seat, but much fainter.” Prityal was nearly whispering. “The pond did not feel like this.”
“It is like the Seat,” Rosset agreed with audible pleasure. “I believe that is deliberate. It’s why I send others here. I want to see who is affected. It’s a bit of a game to some of them now; come here and make a wish.”
“Are the wishes answered?” Prityal was closer to Delf now, but Delf kept her eyes on the skull and the water, and then Rosset, when he came into view.
He shrugged. “Who can say how the Three answer? Silence, a yes, an alternative… you have to be paying attention.”
“You sound like Delflenor again.”
Delf could not see Prityal’s expression for that, though her tone was warm… and confusing.
“When They want to be clear, They are clear,” Delf said abruptly. “Tell the begleys to leave the spiderwebs and nests alone. If a fox or a bear chooses this place for a home, then we will know it is no longer for us.”
Only after it was out did Delf realize she had made it an order.
She opened her mouth to offer some polite explanation, but Rosset inclined his head. “I will.” He sounded thoughtful.
Nonetheless, Delf was still embarrassed. She cleared her throat. “Is this what you wanted us to see before you spoke freely?”
“Yes.” But then Rosset paused. “Forgive me. I must consider my words, since I have never said this aloud—not to humans, that is.” He pulled back his bent shoulders and nodded once, firmly, to himself. “I have been looking for a chevetein.”
Delf turned to look at him directly.
Prityal said, “What,” in a flat voice that demanded exp
lanations.
Delf could barely raise her voice to be heard. “That’s… that’s not how it’s done.”
Rosset scoffed. “We don’t know how it’s done. Maybe someone spoke to Brennus to convince them to try. Maybe the Three came to Brennus in a dream. Maybe a creature chased them to the Seat.” Rosset paused again. “Maybe the Seat is not necessary. Maybe you can ask anywhere the Three are.”
The Three are everywhere. Delf thought it but did not say it. Prityal might have done the same.
“The Seat allows for the signs, and for those signs to be seen by many,” Rosset argued, in his strange, pointed way. “But skies are often filled with color after a rain. Near the mountains, the ground often shakes. This very spring will rise and flood after the snows thaw. There could be signs right now, following around our chevetein, and we haven’t seen them because of a question of location.”
Delf’s mouth fell open. She closed it, with effort, and turned back toward the skull, which perhaps had not been left by the follower of the Hunter. “So you let them play at being knights, and study your ruin, and encourage them all to come here?”
She imagined that Rosset shrugged again. “They’re good people. Some are sensible. Some are brave. Why not them?”
It was not the choice of people that Delf questioned.
“And you thought priests might take an interest and ask those ones to travel to the Seat with them?”
“Why not? If they did offer and their offers were ignored, no one would force them to stay in the Seat. But they could. Times of legend will need people of legend. Potters and builders and yes, knights and priests, too.” Rosset the Broad had become Rosset the Thinker. “I don’t have much time left. I’d like to see a new chevetein, and if it happens to be someone from here, or someone of my choosing, then all the better for me.”
The idea that he would be able to guess the new chevetein was bold, and perhaps self-serving, but Delf could not quite bring herself to call it scandalous.
Prityal surprised her with an objection. “If there is doubt—and after the Tyrant, there will be doubt—a new chevetein would have to be chosen at the Seat.” The gentleness in her voice somehow made her point stronger. “I believe you that it might be done here. But it cannot be done here, now, after ten years.”
