by R. Cooper
She jumped back to avoid frantically flapping wings and went to comfort Kee during the cacophony of screeching as that crow rejoined the others and the birds above them echoed the cries of pain or anger while feathers floated to the ground.
“You’re welcome,” Delf told them all sourly when some of the noise had quieted, and looked down at the quill in her hand, a bit of blood on one end. When she looked up, the crow, or another just like it, was once again on the saddle.
Delf did not jump, but she wanted to. A glance around told her she was still alone… or at least, there were no other humans.
“Oh,” she said aloud, because there could be no doubt, this time.
She had just challenged Them. She, Delflenor of the Seat, had in her way, challenged the Wise and demanded They answer her. She had asked Them many things but had raised her voice for one subject only.
Now she was stared at by a bird of war that had been stabbed in the side.
“Prityal,” Delf exhaled the name in a panic and all the birds took off into the sky, disappearing among the trees and shattering the stillness of the ancient wood.
Delf threw the quill to the ground and leapt onto Kee’s back.
WINDBLOWN and breathless, Delf left Kee with one of the begleys who had stopped, wide-eyed, to watch her ride in. She didn’t know this one’s name, but they had been one of those who had watched Delf with the icors. She shouted for them be careful and for Kee to behave, and then turned to the others to ask where Prityal was. When they stammered that they didn’t know, Delf fought to compose herself and tried again.
“Where is Rosset, then?” she demanded but was already moving toward the ruin before several of them pointed in that direction. Delf heard some of them follow her, but they stopped after only a few paces.
She hoped to find Prityal resting peacefully in her room, but worry had her tense. She could not be calm until she saw for herself, and ran up the steps and through the entrance, only to halt on the threshold.
Delf put her hand on the hilt of her sword as she scanned the hall for signs of Prityal or any disturbances. Except for Rosset in a chair before the fire at the other end of the vast space, the hall was unoccupied. The tables and bench seats and chairs for evening meals were all where Delf had last seen them. The fireplace at Delf’s end of the hall was dark, leaving the entranceway chilled, but nothing was out of place.
“There you are.” Rosset called out. Delf could not read his expression from so far away, but heard no strain or fear in his voice. “I was told you returned to the shrine. Did you have any particular purpose in mind?” He leaned back, glancing up to the high, high windows. “From here, the skies appear to be gray. Are they?“
“They are.” Delf came forward slowly, moving around the table. “Where is Prityal?”
“The Tyrant-slayer is making do with some more of my old armor.” Rosset had possibly been resting in that spot for hours. Delf still did not take her eyes off him. “I believe she is looking for something for you. She takes her Three-given tasks seriously. A quest to bring the chevetein to the Seat is no small thing. My part in the story of the chevetein and Ainle’s survival will not be much, but I will do what I can. Rosset the Broad no longer fits me in my old age; the pain has shriveled me like an apple in the sun. I’d like to be known for something else.”
“An epithet for helping find the chevetein?” Delf stopped for several moments, struck by the idea. Being known as someone who could choose leaders, leaders of legend, was power in itself. Rosset wished to be a cheve, after all, but one unlike any of the others. Delf resumed making her way up the length of the tables. “Perhaps you steered her in a better direction,” she admitted, “but it seems as if that glory is going to go to Prityal, as many glories do, and should.”
“And none for you?”
Delf stopped again.
Rosset was still leaning against the back of his seat, his posture easy or just tired. His question, however, said he was quite awake.
Delf raised her eyebrows and he smiled.
“I have not fooled you much, have I? I thought so before, but it hardly seemed to matter then.”
“When I was Delf of Nowhere?” Delf wondered, unoffended, and looked around for Prityal once again despite what Rosset had told her.
Unconcerned or unaware of Delf’s distraction, Rosset inclined his head. “I should have known after Brennus the Layabout not to judge a someone’s manner from their unconcern with rank, or torn clothing, or wild hair.”
Delf raised a hand to her hair, which the wind had pulled from the knot at the back of her head, but didn’t attempt to fix it. “I am still Delf of Nowhere, so if my surcoat is torn, it matters only to me.”
“To her, too, I think.” Rosset smiled again. “She was more than happy to tell me it was your surcoat she wears. That’s hers on you?” He clucked his tongue. “You couldn’t let her walk around in that. You have an eye for these things. For her dignity, at least. Her place. What of yours?”
Delf nearly rolled her eyes. “I’ve never cared much for dignity, and I am lower-tier—”
“Anyone who did what you did at Roselin should have been offered a place in the high circle long ago.” Rosset interrupted her without apology. “You didn’t take it.”
Everyone had decided to bother Delf about this subject, it seemed. “I was only made knight because there was a need for more after Til Din.”
Rosset’s smile slipped. “You’re very stubborn.”
“I am as They made me,” Delf answered mildly. “But there is nothing to be stubborn about. I chose a life of service long ago, to serve Ainle, as well as Ainle’s most revered knight. Where I sit is hardly an important concern for anyone.”
Rosset’s somewhat dour expression lifted, and he leaned forward. “Yes.” He said it halfway through Delf’s speech, as if his mind was on other things. “Yes, you serve with a devotion so keen you had it chiseled into your flesh. But what of you?”
Delf allowed herself a frown, both for hearing the question again and for Rosset’s strangely demanding tone. Any interest she had in this conversation was gone. “Is Prityal in her room?”
Rosset studied her, then leaned back once again. “It’s simple enough to summon her. You could do it if you ever thought to try. You could probably do nothing but crook your finger, in the same way you could walk up to the high circle and sit amongst them with no question of belonging. You could have a great name.” He shuddered in distaste. “Delflenor the Humble. Bah. Delflenor the Cowardly.”
It had been a very long time since anyone had tried to bait Delf into an argument, much less a fight, and yet she had the feeling a fight was what Rosset wanted. She rolled a shoulder though she had not taken her hand from her sword. “Fear is a sensible reaction to stress and danger.”
Rosset seemed to go still, then tipped his head to one side, curious. “You don’t care that I say it?”
Delf rolled her shoulder again. “You know it’s not true. And it doesn’t matter.”
“In this, it does,” he insisted.
The familiar sound of those words made Delf pause despite herself. It should not matter that Delf had no epithet, as it should not matter to Prityal that Bors might admire Delf. Yet it had. Delf could understand Prityal’s concerns, but Rosset did not know her, or care about her. He cared about the chevetein and his own name.
“You now think Prityal is fated to find the new chevetein and perhaps bring them to the Seat,” Delf stated carefully, trying to reason out Rosset’s aim. “I will accept that, if only because she does, and she will be in danger. So you are worried about her choice of...”
“She will be in danger?” Rosset echoed, pouncing on Delf’s words. “Do you know that?”
“Ainle is dangerous, especially now,” Delf told him, with a frown for the obvious. “And she is a bright, shining target to many.”
“Or a weapon, as I said,” Rosset returned, but with his distracted gaze on the wall. He turned back to Delf before she
could move away. “You still think of her. You would be in this danger, too. What if you found the chevetein? What would you do?”
“Me?” Delf asked with genuine surprise. But it was a fair question. It was just possible the Wise might direct her to the new chevetein. “I would persuade them to go to the Seat, if I could. Or try to determine why they haven’t already. But I wouldn’t force them,” since she was talking to Rosset, she added, “or trick them.”
He grinned as if he caught her meaning. “A push might be necessary.”
“Brennus went to the Seat on their own,” she countered.
It was Rosset’s turn to shrug. “We don’t know that.”
“I still would not force someone. The Three might, with all the tools at Their disposal. But I would not.” Of course, they were, all of them, all humans, the tools of the Three, but that was Delf’s point. “If I found the chevetein-to-be, I would persuade them. If that is what it required, then I will be the one. If more is needed, then it will be someone else.”
“You are stubborn, aren’t you?” Rosset grew thoughtful. “I think she might do it, in time. She might be the only one who could. But some force may still be necessary. Time is something we might not have.”
Once again, Rosset was talking to hear himself.
Delf turned away from him to look toward the doorway to the corridor. “Where is Prityal?”
“Since you won’t call her….” Rosset raised his head and called out in a voice that carried through the hall, “Hail, Prityal of Ters!”
The playful greeting loosened the knot between Delf’s shoulders. She turned toward the door to the corridor at the faint sound of approaching footsteps and then exhaled in relief when Prityal came into view.
Prityal must have been trying different pieces of Rosset’s collection of armor. If she had been searching for some for Delf, then putting them on her own body to consider the size and shape was not a bad idea. She and Delf were close in height, and they both had muscle, though in different places.
Prityal was in a new leather breast plate, not the one she worn that morning, one with straps but no back plate to attach. It was simpler and lighter looking than the last; Prityal must have been considering Delf’s tastes. The belt beneath it was Prityal’s own, as was her sword, which Delf was surprised to see Prityal wearing, especially since Prityal had not put her armor over her shoulders and upper arms. She had not bothered with her mail, either, though she had slipped on her padded doublet—likely because of the cold. Her boots were hers. The only protection for her arms was a set of leather vants-braces, which looked incredible on her, though Prityal had sets of her own, so these were likely also meant for Delf.
Delf sighed heavily in relief as she looked up, then frowned to see the helmet obscuring most of Prityal’s face. The helmet may have been sturdy, but it looked more like the sort of item purchased by a young, foolish, vain knight; untested, shining silver metal, etched with a pattern Delf did not recognize. It covered the top half of Prityal’s face, concealing her eyes.
“You chose that helmet!” Rosset exclaimed, also surprised. Tay would have loved that helmet, but the style was not to Prityal’s taste and definitely not to Delf’s. Rosset seemed to agree, even though the helmet was his. “That would not do for Delflenor.” He stopped, then turned to consider Delf for several long moments. He licked his bottom lip, an almost nervous gesture. “But… it might be useful now. Is this to be the path? She chose that and wore it, so it must be.”
Rosset pursed his lips. His gaze dipped to Delf’s waist, to the hand at her sword. Then he stood up. “This knight must be subdued.”
The statement rang through the hall. Delf tore her attention from Prityal to look to Rosset for an explanation.
“This is the danger that brought you here,” Rosset continued. “This knight betrays Ainle with every moment they do not act. They must be taken.”
Delf was not sure that Rosset had not been drinking. “What knight?” She turned to glance behind her in case a strange knight had entered the hall, but jerked back around at the sound of a sword being drawn.
She pulled in a breath before noting the length of the blade, the stirring of fabric, the first footfall upon stone. Then the footfall became another, and another, quick and purposeful, and Delf began to move backward without conscious thought.
“Prityal?” Her voice was too soft to carry more than an arm’s length in front of her, and it did not slow Prityal’s steps. “Prityal!” Delf tried again, certain she was mistaken, that a dangerous knight must be near. She couldn’t see Prityal’s eyes or the glint of her hair. Only her mouth, a hard line Delf had glimpsed during the contests.
Delf backed up a few more paces and held out a hand. “Will you—”
She turned and ducked in one motion, shivering at the rush of air far too close to her. Prityal’s sword. Prityal’s sword, swung at her, when even a blow from the flat side would have caused pain. If Delf had not watched so many of Prityal’s performances in the contests, she would not have even known the blow was coming.
“Yield.” Prityal made the offer with steel in her voice while advancing steadily.
“Prityal!” Delf panted, retreating with her gaze locked on Prityal’s hands, on her sword. She bumped into a chair and stumbled without falling. “What has been done to you? Tell me what the danger is and we will fight it together.”
“You are the danger.” Prityal did not stop sweeping forward. “Yield, or I will kill you.”
“I would.” Delf swallowed dryly. “I would yield. But Prityal would not ask me to. She would not… she would not face me like this. What is wrong? Tell me. Please.”
“This knight would risk the Seat itself,” Rosset shouted, “out of cowardice!”
“Rosset!” Delf moved back even farther, nearly reaching the end of the tables. “She will kill me!”
“Not if you stop her.”
Part of Delf noted the strain in Rosset’s voice, the same part of her keeping track of him, and how he watched from his place by the fire. She could not reach him, and would not have known what to do if she did. There was nothing to do except run and leave Prityal with him, or fight.
“How could I?” Delf demanded hoarsely. “I’m no match for her!”
In the time it took her to shake her hair from her eyes, Prityal leapt forward. Delf jerked her sword free and swung it up, wincing at the impact when the blades met.
“Prityal, please!” she whispered, pushing to force Prityal to take a step back, then turning to jump onto a table and cross it. She landed hard on the other side, but on her feet, and twisted to watch Prityal with the limited safety of a table between them. “Prityal!”
Prityal would not, or could not, hear her. “Yield now, before I hurt you.”
Her tone was flat, without heat or anger. Unnatural from the fiery-tempered Tyrant-slayer. Wrong.
Magic-users. It was a whisper through Delf’s mind. They were not always priests. And in the old days, in the times of legend before the cheveteins, they could be as much a threat as outsiders, or creatures, or knights not bound to serve anyone.
She risked a glance to Rosset. “What did you do to her?”
She could not wait for a reply. Prityal jumped atop the table and Delf dashed in another direction, dragging a chair with her. She hefted it up high with one arm and swung it around with her as she turned to face Prityal’s sword.
The force of the hit made her bite down hard and grunt, but she kept her footing. A chair was not a shield, not a good one. She raised it again, her arm already straining, and caught Prityal’s blade between the chair’s legs.
With a cry, she pushed forward, knocking Prityal off-balance enough to put some space between them. Both of them were breathing hard. Rosset was far away, talking.
“Younger knights have forgotten how it was. She has no markings to help her. The Hope of Ainle was too arrogant for markings that might have saved her? Did the Three protect her this long?”
Del
f wanted to slap the scorn from his mouth but kept her focus on Prityal. “Prityal, it’s me, Delf. Please. You will hate yourself if you hurt me.”
“Then stop her,” Rosset suggested.
“I am no match for her,” Delf rasped. “I never have been.”
Prityal swung and Delf bit her lip at the shock of the blow, even blocked by the splintering chair. She would need a new shield, and one held in both hands, just to stand her ground. Prityal would strike to kill soon.
“I think you are, Delflenor the Humble.” Rosset’s voice carried. Delf wondered if knocking him down would end this, and if she could reach him before Prityal stopped her. “I think you could be. Do you know what the Tyrant-slayer speaks of when alone? Your virtues. I did not even have to ask.”
“Prityal,” Delf tried again, ignoring him.
“I said yield,” Prityal intoned where she should have shouted, and raised her sword.
Delf’s arm gave under the next stroke, and the chair shattered, sending splinters into her hair. She threw the broken chair and ran, this time for the fireplace near the entrance to the hall. The firedogs were too big and too heavy, but the fire iron could be grabbed and used to parry.
She raised it defensively as Prityal caught up with her. This time, Prityal watched her without striking, sizing up the new threat.
Delf tried to lock eyes with her. “You are more than a weapon.”
She did not expect Prityal to falter, to lower her sword a fraction as they both caught their breath.
Rosset’s voice cut across the hall. “If you are a threat to Ainle, then she is a weapon.”
“I am not a threat to Ainle!” Delf cried out.
Rosset seemed closer. “There is only one person who can convince her of that, besides me.”
“Prityal.” Delf kept the iron bar between them despite how her arm was shaking. She made her voice gentle. “He’s using magic. I am not what he says. I am Delf, the drunkard. Delf, who knows many beds. Delf, the failed priest. I am no threat to you or to Ainle.”
