by R. Cooper
“Felt like you did.” Delf sleepily tried to waggle her eyebrows and got a small huffed laugh for it, and then Prityal’s hand landing gently over her hammermarks. Prityal absently pulled her shirt up to wipe her face while she traced the designs. Some had a feel to them and some did not, depending on the technique used.
“Gorse,” Delf explained before Prityal could ask. “A hardy, stubborn little scrub. Plain, except for the blooms.”
“Feed for the animals, even in the winter,” Prityal observed, as if she had already had the thought.
Delf nodded slowly and shivered as more of her marks were traced. “Protection.” The band around her right thigh was the most practical to get. “Clarity of vision.” The band around her left was more hopeful. Devotion, the third, the pattern at Delf’s ribs, Prityal had already remarked upon. “You have none, aside from your gender marks.” Delf left it for Prityal to answer or not answer. Some did not get more marks because they could never decide on any, though that did not seem a problem Prityal would have.
Prityal considered her, half-frowning, but then broke into a yawn before she could voice whatever thoughts had made her worry. Delf grabbed her arm to tug her down, and curled toward her once Prityal was again next to her on the blanket.
Prityal had some faint creases on her shoulder from the buckles, where they had pressed even through her padded armor. Delf rubbed one gently with her thumb and Prityal exhaled heavily and closed her eyes.
“I don’t like pain,” she said abruptly, then opened her eyes to glance at Delf. “I accept that it will happen. That is life. More so for our life, as warriors, but… I don’t like it. That’s why I have no other marks.”
“Ah,” Delf returned, as softly as she possibly could, because she had been given that knowledge and she would be careful with it. “No wonder I confuse you.” She sat up just enough to look Prityal in the eye. “I will never hurt you in bed. And if I do, even accidentally, tell me, please. I like it, you know that. But I wouldn’t ever do that to someone who didn’t want it. With you, I will keep on as I have done?” She waited for Prityal to nod, and smiled when it was followed with a relieved sigh. “I’ll be gentle,” she promised. “You do not have to be gentle with me, as you know, but sometimes… sometimes I do not want those things, either. And yet, at other times, I will want more.”
“Rougher?” Prityal asked with interest. Delf truly wondered what the others had told her and how long she had thought about it.
As always with Prityal, Delf answered honestly. “Sometimes I like to be destroyed.” That was easy to say. It was the rest that made her hesitate, and even with that she could not say all of what she wanted. “And then treated gently.”
Prityal stared at her, then off to the side in thought while biting her lip. A heartbeat after that, she had pushed Delf onto her back again and straddled her in one smooth motion. She studied Delf’s breathless reaction, then bent her head to level Delf with the full force of her battle face. “When you ask me to, I will destroy you. And then, I will wipe the tears from your eyes and kiss you, as softly as I can.”
As vows went, this one left Delf weak.
“Bonecrusher,” she said faintly before pulling Prityal down to her.
In another moment, or another place, their kisses might have led to more loving, or Prityal destroying her as requested, but they were both tired, and Prityal especially needed to sleep. The kisses began to slow, and Delf did not mind. They were sweeter for Prityal clinging to her, and sliding down to curve along her side and kiss her again.
Delf’s hair was mostly loose, now, after all the pulling, and her scalp tingled. But she didn’t object when Prityal began to idly comb it with her fingers and untwine the band that had tried to hold it in place.
“No braid today?” Prityal commented after some time of this, when Delf’s hair was as combed as it ever could be.
Delf, dozing pleasantly under these attentions, blinked herself back to awareness, and slowly turned to consider the hint of a smile at Prityal’s mouth. Her tone, as well as that smile, were almost smug.
“Are you…” Delf paused to clear her throat and debate her words so that her amazement would not upset the lovely creature toying with her hair. “It would be all right with me, if you spoke of your fears, or worries.” She said that first, and felt blessed by Restraint. Love, however, must have been taunting her. “If you wanted… if you want me all to yourself,” for however long she might. Delf left that unsaid, then did not know how to say the rest of it. But Prityal’s hands had gone still, so Delf forced more words out. “I have no interest in Bors.” That was easy to make plain, despite her disbelief that Prityal could have ever been jealous. Bors was young in experience, if not much younger in age than Delf, but even if she had been, Delf would not have been interested because everyone, including Bors, knew Delf only had eyes for Prityal. “But you might have said. I believed you were angry with me. I was worried.”
Prityal dropped her head to frown at Delf around one shining curl. “I don’t know how to… that is, I do not like to…” Her whisper was barely audible. “I cannot bare my heart as easily as you.”
Jealousy was not a matter of the heart, but to Prityal it might feel so. She had never liked to remove her armor, had told Delf as much.
Delf brushed the curl away. “And you were vulnerable because Bors, who is practically a child, not even a begley, did my hair?”
“Yes.” Prityal’s frown became a glower.
Delf parted her lips in astonishment. “You are a legend!”
Prityal pushed herself up onto one arm. “In this, I am the same as her!”
She appeared unhappily confused at Delf’s small surprised laugh, but Delf leaned in to kiss her before she could get hurt or offended.
“Not at all, love.” Delf kissed her above her warm eyes and on her nose and on her tiny scar. “Not at all,” she said again, smiling. “But in another way, yes, you are right. In these matters, everyone is the same.” She kissed Prityal’s pout until it softened and then was gone. “No Bors. No others. Just you. Which I would have said, had you but asked.”
She could not help being pointed.
“She calls you Delf,” Prityal complained in a quiet grumble. “You’ve never told me to call you Delf.”
“Ah.” Delf had brought this on herself. “I’ve never heard you say my name until mere days ago. But… I have not asked you to call me Delf, because I find I like the way you say Delflenor.”
Prityal’s widening eyes and then quick, victorious grin made Delf’s heart pound. So did the grave way Prityal whispered, “Then I will continue to call you as I have,” before lying back down and putting her head on Delf’s shoulder. If there was a way to lie down in triumph, Prityal did it. Delf was simultaneously awed into silence and shocked at the power one admission from her had on someone so incredible.
Delf wanted to ask her if she was cold, to cling so, but in the end, only arranged Prityal’s cloak over them. Under that cover, Prityal slid an arm around Delf’s waist and pulled her closer. Delf wriggled one hand out from underneath Prityal and left it at the small of her back.
“You’ll sleep?” she asked quietly, and only then realized that Prityal had trapped her so that Prityal was between Delf and the door.
Prityal shifted a little, getting more comfortable, and hummed. Delf assumed it meant she was happy as she was.
It was confusing, as well as more than Delf had ever dreamed.
“There is work to be done, Delflenor,” Prityal murmured to Delf’s shoulder, a trace of smugness in the sound of the name. “You must sleep, too.”
Delf could not argue that, so she did not. She closed her eyes to listen to the sound of Prityal’s breathing as it slowed.
Fourteen
a shield is also a weapon
SHE DID NOT sleep for long. The room was bright when she woke, though the light was gray, as if the sun shone from behind clouds once again. She was not sure what woke her. Prityal remained a
sleep, though she had turned at some point to sleep facing the doorway, her head pillowed on her arm. Delf attempted to go back to sleep, but something, the light in the room or the faint noise from outside, would not let her, so, at last, she got up.
She made sure Prityal was undisturbed and warm beneath her cloak before she dressed and took her sword and quietly went to her room to clean up as best as she could with the small basin of water. Her hair she put into its usual lazy bundle, and smiled as she did so.
Perhaps she continued to smile as she went in search of the source of the noise, but she did not think the Ladylord of Happiness would fault her for it. She was to be Prityal’s friend and bed-friend, and knew she was no hero because she thought there could be no finer epithet for her. It was certainly nobler than something achieved in battle, although Prityal might still consider this sparring.
Prityal had been preparing herself to learn to respond to Delf’s overtures, and Delf had failed her by not giving her any overtures to respond to. That was no way to treat a potential lover, especially not an avowed lover, as… as Prityal might like to be. Delf had no more experience in that than Prityal, but she would have to do better and make it up to her.
Delf mused on how to do that after she discovered the noise to be more of the begleys smashing each other with their practice swords and failing to use their shields properly.
She watched for a while, not paying the attention that she should for the sake of their eager faces. Rosset was not around. He was likely resting as well. The ride and the discussion at the shrine had sapped much of his strength, although Delf was sure Rosset was already thinking of ways to help find the chevetein and get his name forever linked to them. If he was not considering that, then he was pondering some other task, something perilous that Prityal would no doubt accept as her duty. He had resisted letting go of Prityal as his ideal chevetein for most of the ride, only to abruptly switch his position near the end.
He had seen something in the shrine that Delf had not. That’s what Delf had assumed during their ride back to the ruin. It had not been Prityal’s words alone, though it should have been.
“Your shields are not on your arms to look pretty!” she commented loudly, if absently, during a lull in the sparring. “One, you should be moving away from the weapon that might kill you. Two, if you cannot move away in time, and you are not in armor—as you are not—bring the shield up. Three, a shield is also a weapon, if you are in need of one.”
She sighed at their stunned expressions, displeased with whoever had taught them, but waved them on before snagging one of them by their shirt and asking them to inform Prityal that Delf was well if Prityal should wake up and venture out here. Then she returned to the stables.
She would have chosen a smaller icor for her mount to give Kee the rest, but Kee had reared back in offense when Delf had tried, so Delf saddled her up once again and headed out at a quick pace. She kept her sword with her, though she should have waited and put on more armor, if only to soothe Prityal’s worries. She did not like to ride with her sword at her hip, but nonetheless did so, perhaps because she was not as protected as Prityal would have wanted.
It was more than likely another fool’s errand she had given herself. But something had changed at the shrine, and, if nothing else, Delf should pay it a proper visit, although she would never be someone with an affinity for the woods.
Kee was as restless and anxious as Delf was, perhaps sensing her mood. Delf slowed for a while to calm her, and slowed even more once they were under the trees. Oryl Wood had many faces. This one, in the afternoon light, was hushed and still.
The shrine was different as well. The faint reddish glow changed the shape of the stones and turned the surface of the water a warm gold. Beams of sunlight were slim and faded, but illuminated two of the doors.
Inside it was empty, just as it had been, without even a spider web to show life. Delf walked the length of its walls and reconsidered her choices as she peered at the corners. This had been a fool’s errand. She was worrying too much. Rosset was a strange person, that was all. A retired dreamer with too much time on his hands.
Nonetheless, she hesitated at the doorway, glancing around again until her gaze stuck on the skull resting in its place of honor, with its two empty eyes and its gaping mouth.
She stared it down.
What the fuck, she thought first. She would be heard, voiced or not, but liked to believe her attempt to strain her thoughts into civility before speaking was appreciated. Using Rosset as a means to anything was questionable, though you may be the Wise.
“Whatever your plan is,” Delf said aloud, voice ringing through the space, “Prityal shouldn’t be tied to it.” She has given enough.
Delf inhaled, considered her words again. But they remained, hard and stubborn. Prityal has given enough.
“It’s not in your natures to only be cruel and distant, any more than it is to only be merciful and generous. And who is to say what would happen if we knew our fates before we lived them?” The skull did not blink, not even as a trick of the light. Delf could have asked this in her room at the ruin, or in the stables. She could have asked it among the trees or on Otili’s farm. But something in this place had surprised Rosset and made Prityal nervous. The entire ride back Prityal had stayed close to Delf’s side as though they were riding into danger.
Delf turned slowly to consider each doorway. “If times of legend are here, then I am terrified, as anyone sensible would be. But I am as you made me, and as prepared as anyone can be,” more, if Delf were honest. “Prityal has already guided us through troubles. You love Ainle, and she loves Ainle, and you should—” Delf cut herself off abruptly, startled to realize she had raised her voice again. Three times before the sun had even set. Prityal was forge fires and steel. But in Delf, anger was rare. Even Prityal had known it.
When Delflenor comes for you, she will mean it.
Delf flushed hot at the memory, and inclined her head to acknowledge her own bias.
“I admit, my devotion there is greater than you probably like. Greater than she would probably like, if she knew the depth of it. But that is also how you made me, and you had something in mind when you did it.” Delf had half-assumed it was her life for Prityal’s, and nothing had changed that assumption. She straightened her shoulders as Prityal often did. “So for you, for her, I will ask though I expect no answer: is it time for something new? Or is Rosset right, and you are waiting on some reluctant shepherd or seamster to come forward at last?” She had to take another deep breath to compose herself. “Is Prityal to find them and force them to the Seat? Rosset seems to have set himself up on that quest. Did you ask him to?”
She turned back to the skull.
“I’m very demanding for a lower-tier, I know.” The Wise might understand her humor, at least, and pity her for her heart’s longings. “Is she in danger?” she asked next, softly. “Will you answer that for me? I failed you as priest, but I have done my best as a knight. Is it danger than I can prevent? Because you know I will, however I can.”
The silence was only broken by her footfalls when she finally dropped her shoulders and turned to leave. The wind had shifted during her brief time inside, bringing more clouds and possibly rain although Delf did not think so. Not tonight, anyway.
She stopped once across the bridge.
“She’s already said no to you,” Delf offered. “There is nothing you could hold over her to convince her to do it… which seems beneath you. But then, I suppose you are the earth so nothing is beneath you. Or above you, for that matter, since you are also the sky.”
Delf tipped her head back to consider the distant shivering of the treetops, then lowered it at the sound of a squawk. Many crows, probably the ones she had seen that morning, were in the lower branches of the trees around her, with three perched on a log that some human must have dragged near the shrine for a place to sit.
Delf tried not to think of them as the birds of war waiting on the si
delines to feast on the dead, but knights were always wary of the foe with the hammermarks of a crow or a raven.
“If you are an omen, I could do with a better one,” she joked to the higher birds, then directed her bitter grin to the three near the ground. Her amusement vanished at the rush of wind and the frantic beating of black wings. In the time it took her to blink, one of the crows from the log landed on Kee’s saddle.
Kee’s ears flicked back and forth, but her training held and she did not move.
Delf took her hand from her hilt, where it had gone at the initial burst of movement. She did not step forward. She eyed the crow, a fairly large one, with sleek feathers and talons that could have made Kee bleed if the creature had not chosen to alight on thick leather.
Then it screamed.
Delf flinched. Kee stamped a foot anxiously, so Delf clicked her tongue to calm her, keeping her attention on the demanding bird. She saw now why it had screamed, and why it had approached her—a long, black quill stuck out from its plumage.
The sharp spine could have come from an animal the crow had tried to pick on, or eat, or from a plant Delf didn’t know. The other crows possibly didn’t have the strength to remove it if the end was barbed, though they were smart creatures who would have tried. They were also clever enough to approach humans if they needed to.
Delf stared into its beady eyes and took a few steps closer. “I don’t have gloves with me,” she said in the coaxing voice used with wild beasts. She inched closer. “If you peck me, you will have to solve your own quill problem.”
The crow merely watched her, fluttering its wings at its sides. Once Delf was within arm’s length of the creature, she stopped and raised one hand to the sky, and when the crow looked up to follow the gesture, Delf reached out to grab the quill and yank it free.
