by R. Cooper
“You were right.” Prityal answered too seriously for one of Delf’s unfunny jests. “I did this to you,” she said again, softer.
“He did, my lady,” Delf argued as the world tilted. She kept herself upright, but only just, by clasping Prityal’s forearm tightly. She was unprepared to be dragged forward, but hiding her face against Prityal’s throat was no hardship.
“I could kill him.” Prityal was not suggesting it, despite how the others around them made startled noises. She had the right to kill him, for attacking her and for the trickery. Rosset had used her. No one could have faulted her for reacting more harshly. But she’d chosen not to, so in saying it now, she was trying to make a point. “Even if I do not, he will die as he is.”
“Someone should stop the bleeding,” Delf replied, because it was fair, and to Prityal likely it was just, and because Prityal wanted support for her decision from someone she trusted, and Jareth was not there to do it.
“We need to stop your bleeding.” Prityal held Delf tighter, which was painful, but for that Delf said nothing.
“I’ll live.” Delf raised her head. “We can speak to those at the Seat about him. The priests used to deal with the malicious magic-users. Let them handle it. You have enough to do. Are you sure you’re not hurt?”
“Why didn’t you stop me?” Prityal fixed Delf with a furious look that trapped any further words in Delf’s mouth. Prityal frowned, first at Delf and then down at the wound. “You could have. He was right about that.” Delf shook her head, but Prityal ignored it and looked around at the begleys. “If you want to save him, you have to act quickly!” she shouted at them. “Stop the bleeding. Keep him warm. Get him out of the dirt.”
Delf stared at her and did not speak until Prityal finally faced her again. “I am never going to fight you. I know you find that frustrating, but you have to understand why.”
“I do not have to do anything.” Prityal leaned in until their noses bumped. “You risk too much when you don’t step forward. You should have stopped me.”
Delf couldn’t think, which might have been blood loss or a result of being glared at from so close while also being held gently. “I did,” she finally answered, confused.
Prityal tipped her face away, then sighed before turning back. “You could have stopped me faster, if he… if Rosset is right.” She put her hand against Delf’s cheek and made a funny, bewildered sound when Delf closed her eyes and leaned into it. “But we must look after you now. There will be clean, hot water in the kitchen. Do you need me to carry you?”
Delf snorted. Prityal was strong, but Delf was hardly a feather. “I can walk yet.” Not for much longer. She did not quite feel steady on her feet, which meant she was bleeding more than she thought, or was simply exhausted. She opened her eyes. “Sweet of you to offer,” she added, meaning to tease, but Prityal’s gaze made her words quiet and serious.
“You risk too much.” Prityal’s voice shook again though she tried to flatten it. “But we will talk of it later.” Then she looped an arm around Delf’s waist, ungently, as if afraid Delf might fall or wander away, and began to steer her toward the kitchen.
THEY WERE followed by some of the others not long afterward. Delf leaned against a table, shivering, yet sweating from the heat of the kitchen. Prityal had sent someone to fetch their packs before they had even reached the building, and poured all of their powders meant to ease pain into a cup of wine and ordered Delf to drink it. That could have also been why Delf’s skin prickled and her thoughts wandered. Her surcoat and doublet had been pulled away. Prityal might have done it, might have been biting her lip and trying to be gentle and overly concerned that others would see Delf in a thin undershirt.
She had just severed a knight’s hand from his body. Delf loved her so fucking much.
“Delflenor is not a priest,” Prityal was explaining to someone for the second time as she added fuel to the fire. “And even if she were, she would not be one dedicated to healing. We’ll have to do this ourselves.”
There was a healer in the village who might have had some magic training. They had been sent for, for Rosset’s sake, but would not make it to the ruin before morning.
“What about you?” One of the others asked, which made Delf squint at Prityal again, but she could still not see any signs of injury. Rosset’s blade had not penetrated deep, if at all, according to Prityal. Though Delf was not in a position to force Prityal to take a moment to care for herself. In truth, Delf was sitting on the table more than leaning against it, and even that took effort.
Prityal was setting aside the bandages and cleansing herbs from their packs. She fussed with them for several long moments before finally turning to Delf.
She had a grim expression, not her battle face, but close. “You’re bleeding too much. Would you like stitches or a burn to close the wound?”
“Fuck.” Delf met that unhappy stare. If she needed a burn, Rosset more than definitely did, if he had not already bled out. She wondered if he had. They had not brought him to the kitchen with her though his wound was far more serious.
“Delflenor,” Prityal prompted. Delf returned to the moment.
“A burn.” She wanted it over with and would deal with the pain afterward. And during, of course, but she would likely pass out in the middle of it. “Are you going to show them how?”
Prityal tightened her mouth and ignored the question. She might be planning to tend to Rosset herself.
Delf started to ask, but Prityal turned away, to Bors. Delf hadn’t realized Bors was there, or so close.
“You and the others will have to hold her down.” Prityal was giving instructions. “You will have to hold her down hard. Delflenor is very strong.”
Prityal’s skin was ashen and there were dots of sweat on her forehead. She was going to do this herself, because there was no one else, even though she would be sick at the thought. She had nightmares about this very thing, sometimes still shuddered from the smell of smoke. But she was worried for Delf, and there was no one else.
Prityal went to the fire, her movements slow, and checked the fuel again. Delf belatedly noticed the knife sticking out from the flames, probably placed there in anticipation of Delf’s answer.
“You know how I am about pain, love,” Delf joked in a voice she barely recognized as her own, “so not too much. We have an audience.”
The begleys nervously getting into position near her stopped.
Prityal looked over, disbelief in her eyes, and then something else. “Even now?” she whispered, and crossed to Delf in only a few strides to take Delf’s face in her hands. She petted Delf’s cheekbones as though they were in bed and Delf needed calming.
Delf closed her eyes. “Stitching will do. You don’t need to do this. I didn’t think. I’m sorry. I’m so sor—”
Prityal kissed her brow, fast and forceful, pulling back only to return for another, this one soft. “You are remarkable. Know that.”
Delf was slow to open her eyes. “Because I can bear some stitching?”
“You are a fool, too.” Prityal smiled and wiped her wet cheeks with the back of her hand before stepping away to go through the packs once again. She pulled out thread and a thick needle, and then turned to Bors, who had eyes full of stars again as she stared at the two of them. “I will need you to help hold her arm steady, and someone else will have to wipe away the blood as I work.” Bors made a sound in her throat, but exhaled and then nodded. Prityal smiled for that, too, though it was shaky. “The dagger you can use for him, if you will. I will tell you how.” She flexed her hand and then threaded the needle. “This is more Delf’s skill than mine, so you will have to hold her with all of your strength. But hold her gently…” Prityal’s ferocity was neither soft nor warm, but Delf sighed. Prityal caught her gaze and held it. “…For she is precious.”
Delf stared at her, her lips parted and her eyes wide, until Prityal gave her another cup of wine and asked her to drink that one as well.
Af
ter that, there was a great deal of pain.
Fifteen
more than a dagger
DELF DID NOT know how much time had passed, only that it was night when she opened her eyes, and the kitchen had grown quiet. She had been moved to a chair near the fire, and her arm throbbed in the distant way that injuries did while the senses were dulled. She was sticky and too hot and her throat was hoarse. Her upper arm was swathed in bandages. Her undershirt was brownish red. Prityal was gone.
Many of the others were gone as well. Delf had watched them leave, but while drugged and distracted with pain. As she was still, though awareness was returning at a steady rate.
Some of Rosset’s anxious and misled children were with her, either to eat, not that many ate much, or to watch her, or perhaps to be far from whatever healing efforts had been done to Rosset. Delf had thought that she’d heard screaming, and a wound burned closed would cause that, even in a once-great knight.
When one of the begleys noticed Delf was more alert, a cup was held to her lips so she could sip. And then someone barely more than a child, with feminine marks that had been started but not yet completed, put Delf’s hands in a bowl of water to clean them, and one of the others, an older woman with the shoulders and calluses of a smith, began to gently clean the blood from the rest of her.
The cooler water made Delf shiver helplessly, but she thanked them as they dried her off, and met their eyes, startling them both. “If you feel guilty, you shouldn’t. We were all tricked. If you act out of kindness, I’m sorry to be so much trouble. I thank you, either way. Where is Prityal?”
“Very near,” answered the older one after a moment, amused, but patted Delf’s arm a final time before moving away.
Delf nodded, then closed her eyes again. More time may have passed. But she felt as if she immediately opened her eyes at the cacophony of raised, excited voices and then Prityal’s stern, “Let her sleep.”
“I’m not sleeping.” The words emerged rough and slow, but Delf got them out, prepared to be stubborn although she possibly had been asleep and should sleep more. Prityal was already turned to her.
Delf swept a look over Prityal’s lovely form, significantly less straight and stiff than usual. Prityal was leaning against a wall, absently rubbing her side with one hand. Her glorious hair was dark with sweat around her forehead. Whatever had been done to Rosset, if it had been a burn, Prityal would likely have had to help. She might not have been in the room, but the sounds and smells would have disturbed her, possibly left her sick.
Delf struggled to sit up. “I’m sorry. I failed you. I could have been there. We could have tended to him first, and then me. I—”
“You’re better,” Prityal interrupted with a fast, tired grin. It quickly became a frown. “Are you in pain?”
“Am I?” Delf returned, genuinely, because she was, of course she was, but she would live, provided the stitching stayed clean and she could rest. But she moved her arm only to stop with a grimace. “Stitches hurt more than the initial wound.”
Prityal flattened her mouth. “That is only because my knife is sharp.”
“And your arm is swift,” Delf saluted her with her other hand, then winked. The effect would not be much, not with sweat on her face, her hair before her eyes. But bringing the smile back to Prityal’s face was imperative. She managed it, if only for a moment. Then Prityal’s lips turned down again. Delf watched Prityal rub a spot over her ribs and narrowed her eyes. “And you? We can see to you now? I can—”
“Sit down!”
Delf did not even realize she had started to push herself to her feet until Prityal’s crisp command.
Prityal gave a little twitch, as if she wanted to apologize. It must be confusing for her, to have to give orders to someone she had only that day claimed for a bed-friend. Delf raised her eyebrows, not arguing, and debated an invitation for Prityal to sit in her lap. Prityal would say no, but the offer might soothe her, and she so desperately looked in need of soothing, at least, to Delf’s eyes.
Prityal was breathing unevenly, and for several moments, it seemed as if the wall was the only thing keeping her upright.
Delf focused on that with every scrap of awareness that she currently possessed. Prityal was always conscious of her reputation and her image, especially around strangers or near-strangers. She did not lean. She did not rub her side or close her eyes or struggle to catch her breath.
“I am well,” Delf told her again, keeping her tone as neutral as she could. “Were you tended to?”
She felt as if she had been asking that over and over again, and remembered too late that Prityal would never admit to weakness, and none of the people who had followed Rosset would ever think to challenge her.
Delf pushed herself to her feet and this time, Prityal did not even seem to notice.
“I….” Prityal was slow to look over. “I do not think….”
“I don’t see bleeding,” Delf said, some of the calm slipping from her voice. She wobbled, but she did not fall, and glanced over the others in the kitchen. “Did anyone tend to you?”
Prityal’s skin was a strange color. Delf had thought it was from the stress of being near someone who had required a burn to stop their bleeding. Now, it sent a rush of panic through her. Prityal still had not managed an answer.
“Prityal!” Delf barked, moving forward on heavy legs. “Prityal, answer me. Tell me you are well.”
Prityal furrowed her brow and focused on Delf as if even that took an alarming amount of effort.
“Delflenor,” Prityal whispered, hardly audible, “I do not believe his dagger was a normal one.”
She collapsed before the last word was out.
THE NEXT MOMENTS were stuttered, stark images that burned behind Delf’s eyes when she blinked. Prityal limp on the floor. Delf’s hands tearing at buckles and laces and a surcoat stained red-brown. Blood seeping from a small, shallow wound. Streaks of dark purple, much like how veins showed on much paler skin, extending outward across Prityal’s ribs and stomach.
Delf put her hand over them as if that would stop their progress. Her own voice reached her ears, though she didn’t recognize a single word she said. She might have prayed; a foolish thing to do when the spirits were already watching and had allowed this to happen. But Delf did not know healing magic. She prayed, or begged, and shouted for someone to find the knife. To bring it to her and then to fetch dyes for hammermarks or for clothing, or ash from a firepit if that was all that could be found.
The wound had not bled enough to cause swooning, and it was too early for this to be fever from a dirty blade. Delf pressed around the broken skin to push more blood out, hoping to expel the poison, if any, stopping when Prityal stirred. Then she kissed Prityal’s brow while whispering apologies for what pain was to come, and put her hand beneath Prityal’s head to cushion it while she waited for the others to return.
She mixed the blue dye they gave her with oil and water and painted lines for protection over Prityal’s stomach and hips, working the only magic she knew until her shaky hands forced her to stop.
DELF SPENT the night awake, swallowing some cold porridge because she knew she would need her strength, watching Prityal for signs of improvement. She held Rosset’s enchanted knife in her hand, trying to determine what made it different from any other blade before finally putting it away for the priests at the Seat to examine. She was there whenever Prityal woke, and there when she slept, and left her only to bark orders at frightened begleys and farmers who had just seen the Hope collapse and were afraid for the future.
Delf’s hands did not stop shaking.
She went to see Rosset shortly before dawn. He lived, and slept, a rest he did not deserve but was doubtless the work of medicinal herbs because Delf could not wake him. No longer armored and hidden behind magic, he was a small bag of bones in a knight’s clothing, left to shiver in front of the fireplace of his ruined hall.
Less than a handful of his begleys had stayed in the room
with him. Delf did not spare them more than a sliver of her attention. The others were packing supplies for her or had already ridden off toward the village. There, some would find the ravenmaster who had sent Rosset’s original message to the Seat and send another that Delf had given them. Rosset would likely be alive when other Knights of the Seat came for him. But his eventual fate was not on Delf’s mind.
Sunrise approached.
Rosset had mentioned sunset, and in the way of the old stories, that meant something. But he was not able to answer questions and they did not have time to wait. He would get what he wanted, whyever he had wanted it; Prityal would return to the Seat, as fast as Delf could get her there.
The burn in Delf’s arm was barely noticeable next to the cold sickness in her chest. Prityal crumbling to the floor was at the forefront of her mind.
“They gave her to us and you saw her as a means to an end.” The begleys jumped at the sound of Delf’s voice. Delf left them to their guilt and sorrow. She watched Rosset’s face tighten. The truth could not be evaded, not even in sleep, not in echoing ruins. She made a fist. “Not everything is a sign that you are on the right path, only that you are on a path. If They used your pride to do Their bidding, I could not have stopped Them—but you could have. That is the point. She would not have, even if the Three Themselves had walked her to a victim and handed her the blade. But your pride meant this was your answer. Your fucking pride, as though They would not have found another way. They might even have presented you with another path, but you decided upon this one. You think this makes you special. But you will not be rewarded for this. There will be no glory attached to the name Rosset.” The world was spinning around Delf, but she made her voice firm. “If you are remembered at all, it will be for this crime.”
She would need the helmet Prityal had worn as well, as evidence, or to help the priests at the Seat understand the magic Rosset had used. She regretted not staying with the priests longer to have learned more, but knew she would have not been here now to help Prityal if she had.
