“Etienne,” Delyth said, her voice low, “she deserves the entire story.”
The mage rubbed his chest. It was not a pleasant tale, and it did not paint him well, but Delyth was right. If Meirin was going to help them face Enyo, she deserved to know.
So, while they walked, Etienne spoke. He told Meirin of his friendship with Alphonse, how he had convinced the girl to help him with an ancient spell. How that spell had summoned a creature of fire that changed Alphonse in frightening ways. He told her of their journey to get rid of the shadow. Of meeting and traveling with a warrior priestess who was determined to protect Enyo’s vassal, of the struggles of dealing with the Goddess, of the joys of getting to know new companions. When he got to the part where they had met Tristan, he described the rogue as normal. Rude and lecherous. But not god-like.
Etienne didn’t even leave out the cave, for all that Delyth turned away, sunk into herself at the mention of it. He spared no detail of the fight with bandits or his own betrayal and subsequent flight to the temple. By the time he got to their battle on the mountaintop, he was hoarse, but Etienne plowed on, speaking of Delyth’s attempt to get the basin away, of Enyo’s cruelty and Alphonse’s kiss. He didn’t end until their arrival at the Mynydd Gwyllt so that she would know it all. His loss of magic. Their desperate race.
༄
Meirin had the gift of being able to listen. She didn’t interrupt, not once, and while she nodded or frowned from time to time, she kept her opinions to herself while Etienne spoke. Darkness was blooming by the time he was done with the tale, and Delyth busied herself with setting up camp. She had a bland soup boiling over the fire when Meirin sat down across from her and Etienne.
“That’s a good story. A few things are clear to me now. The only use you had, Etienne, was magic. You are not strong, you do not fight; in my clan’s terms, you are a coward. You fled and didn’t participate in the battle against the bandits. If we are to succeed against Enyo and Tristan, and I suppose Maoz now, you must change. If your magic is gone—” She flipped her hand, uncaring. There was nothing she could do about magic. Why worry about it? “Then you must learn other skills that make you valuable—fighting, or hunting, or perhaps scouting. Plenty of us live our entire lives without magic and manage just fine. You will too.”
Her dark eyes darted to Delyth now, her gaze appraising. “You, Delyth—I wonder if you should even be on this journey. You say you bound yourself to the Goddess on your last night together. What if we come upon her and she orders you to stand down. Or to turn and kill us instead? It seems risky. Of course, you could be useful against Maoz or Tristan, but they are with Enyo. I have heard you are an incredible warrior. I saw you train first hand, though it was some years ago. Should the Goddess make you attack me, I do not know how long I would withstand the onslaught.” Her honesty was brutal and concise.
Delyth looked up from the flames, her face dark and brooding. Her usual calm was fraying, but she kept a hand on the anger, trying to squash it back down, make it more manageable. It had become so much harder since the fight on the mountaintop.
“It takes a bold creature to walk into the lives of strangers and tell them what they ought to do,” she said, somehow managing to keep her voice bland. “Thankfully, Enyo cannot control me until she reaches her full power, something she cannot do while in the body of a mortal. You are safe from me unless she finds a way to get her old body back, which we don’t even know is possible. As for Etienne…”
Delyth looked at the mage, trying to remember that Alphonse had forgiven him, that she should forgive him, after the reminder of just how much of this was his fault.
He summoned Enyo. Abandoned Alphonse.
But they were working together now.
Delyth took a deep breath. “You’re right. He does need to learn to fight. That's what I got him the staff for. Perhaps you would like to teach him? Between that and the old magic, he should be able to learn to defend himself.”
“Of course, though, I would think you would be the better teacher. You already know him, and you have taught before.” Meirin grabbed the roughly made wooden bowls and started to fill them, seemingly unaffected by Delyth’s sharp words. Passing out each full bowl, she stirred her spoon around, watching the steam. The nights were tapering off, and winter would be setting in soon enough.
“Certainly,” Delyth said, “If you don’t mind me borrowing your spear. It’s rather difficult to teach staff fighting with a sword.”
Etienne looked between the two women, his brow furrowed. “Don’t I get a say in this? I am the one having to learn.”
Delyth just cocked an eyebrow at him. “Do you know anything about weapons training?”
⥣ ⥣ ⥣
Despite their considerable height difference, Meirin had no trouble whatsoever fending off Etienne’s “attack” with his staff. He was taller, had longer arms, and more reach, and yet he was clumsy with his grip and uncertain with his movements. Awkward and easily disarmed.
She thrust the butt of her spear between his legs, making him trip and drop his staff. She leveled her spear tip at his belly.
“Dead again, Etienne.” She smiled and pulled her weapon away. It was early morning, and the breezes were still chilly enough that Meirin was glad for the exercise, as it warmed her up. “You die a
