No ones chosen, p.17
No One's Chosen, page 17
He must have caught a rush of energy. Doiléir sprang to his feet this time, wheeling 'round to Socair and throwing a quick series of jabs. Her brigandine took the blows harmlessly but Doiléir was undeterred. He backed, took a breath, and ducked in again. This time, he was not so lucky. Socair sent a hooked punch into the side of his head. Doiléir fell into a pile on the ground, groaning as he hit. A cheer went up around them and Socair rushed to grab him up, knowing she had put him unconscious. Silín helped and proved the more useful of the two as the height difference made carrying the elf with any dignity a hard thing to do.
The crowd dispersed more quickly than it had formed. There was dinner to be eaten and while a fight was ready enough excitement, once the business was done there was no reason to linger. Silín was silent during the entire return trip. Socair was not sure what to make of her facial expression. It was disappointed, she thought, but Silín would smile every so often, as if she were searching for some long ago time to prove it would all be fine.
Socair, for her part, was not angry, as such. She understood well that there was no place for Doiléir to point the anger he felt over what he had seen. And the disappointment in himself for having taken a bolt to the leg. Drink had sent it pouring out at the first thing that had presented itself to him. She supposed it was lucky she had been the one to confront him. It could have been much worse had it been one of the Binseman's riders or a ranking officer. He was an Attendant, to be sure, but that most likely meant only a change in who would be apologizing on his behalf.
They returned to Socair's tent at her insistence and laid Doiléir on her bed. Her Attendants had received their new tent and the accommodations were well enough, but Socair wanted them nearby. She wanted Silín at her side and to speak to Doiléir as soon as he rose from the slumber she had forced upon him.
The two women pulled chairs in front of the bed as though staring at Doiléir would somehow help. Socair looked over to Silín. She wore a loose shirt that allowed Socair to admire her shoulders and the curve of her breasts. She was not small, by any stretch, but she did not muscle the way Socair did. She was taut and sinewy in a way that suited her. Silín was the fastest of them though less able with a sword than Doiléir. They sat close enough that Socair could smell her. It was a sour scent, but not unpleasant. Silín must have had the time to bathe herself, but she had not. Silín hated filth and had always complained when Socair or Doiléir would lie on a bed unwashed or embrace her while covered in dirt. It gave her pause.
"You've not washed."
Silín gasped and put a hand over her chest to close the gap her shirt had left open. "Socair, please."
"No… it…" Socair blushed. She had not meant to say anything bad. "It's… fine. I like your scent." It was Silín's turn to blush now. "But… you hate filth. Why have you not bathed?"
Silín was quiet for a time. "I cannot bear to be seen. Not naked. Not by anyone. I…" She hesitated. "I do not feel things as you and Doiléir do. That much I have always known. I do not cry or burn with passion so brightly as you. And I do not drown myself in despair as Doiléir seems wont to do. I…"Silín could not seem to find the words to say what she felt so she began again. "It was terrible. All those bodies. I know it was terrible. But… I do not remember a single face. I can scarcely even picture the pile if I try. And when I do it is a muddled mass of bloodied clothes."
She shifted uncomfortably in her seat before continuing. "I can picture the face of every satyr perfectly. Their black eyes watching me. When… when we returned the first night, I made for the baths. I got as far as my smallclothes and I froze. I could feel their eyes on me. I've not been back since. I know it's mad. This is the first I've been without my armor since then…"
Silín fell silent.
"We'll go together next time. After everyone has gone."
"I…" Silín stopped and flashed the briefest of smiles at the floor. "Thank you."
It would be hours before Doiléir finally awoke. Silín fell asleep in the chair next to Socair. She was alone with her thoughts again, though they were different this time. Determined. Mistakes must not be made twice, she knew. If things went poorly again they would talk, properly. They would not leave each other. They would find strength in their bonds as she had with her brothers on their hunts.
It was well after midnight when Doiléir finally groaned and opened his eyes. A Saol storm had blown in from the Mire and boomed occasionally around them. The heavy patter of rain on canvas was soothing. Doiléir rubbed his head and looked over to see Socair sitting next to a sleeping Silín.
He smiled. "She drools, you know."
"I know," Socair replied softly. "I've woken to a hairful of the stuff more times than I wish to remember."
Doiléir looked at the roof of the tent and closed his eyes tight for a time. He opened them and continued looking skyward. "I'm sorry, love."
"I know." The words were all she gave.
He sighed and tried to laugh but the pain in his ribs turned them to an awkward cough.
"I should hope it hurts enough to bring you some sense." Socair's words were not unkind, almost playful in her subtle way.
Doiléir spoke. "I love nothing more than a heavy rain." The words seemed to be for no one in particular.
Socair knew the fight was done. He had apologized and she knew he meant it. She had made him mean it in the yard in front of half the soldiers in the camp. The rumors they were likely whispering already would be around longer than any anger she would be able to rally.
"You are a brazen man, Doiléir."
"It is no fault of mine. I fell out of my mother upside-down and I've had no end of trouble trying to keep shit pouring from the proper end."
Socair smiled briefly. Looking at Doiléir with concerned eyes, the smile faded. "Will you be alright?"
"I will, but I am not," he said plainly. "I would destroy them to the last cursed hoof that I could." Doiléir was silent for a moment. "I did not expect it, the corpses."
He sat up in the bed, groaning against the pain. "A young girl… in the pile… she was still alive."
"What? Why didn't you say something?"
"She was half buried and cut shallow across the throat. Blood was still pouring out of her. Slowly. I could see she was weak. I don't know." Doiléir put his face in his hands for a moment. "They'd put her eye out. It… just… hung there. She looked at me… the eye jerked. I know she died. She must've."
He said nothing else, just kept his face in his hands.
"We'll be alright," Socair said.
"We will," he agreed.
The morning came and they were forced to rise early so they might travel with the main column. None of them spoke, but Socair felt at ease that they were by her side. The rain dumped on the column from dawn until dusk when they halted the march. The progress had been slow and muddy and the camps would be set up hastily. Socair bathed with Silín as she had promised. They spoke of the walk and the welcome coolness of the rain and how much Silín hated the mud. Things seemed to be just the slightest bit better. Doiléir brought wine to the tent when their bath was through.
They had seen what the centaur and their minions were truly capable of. They would steel themselves against it. They had to. It would get no easier for them.
Óraithe
Finding a place in the High District that they could use to keep close watch on the warehouse had been harder than Óraithe had suspected. While there were four of them, true enough, it would certainly draw attention to have elves from the slums loitering in the area. At best they could expect to be questioned and told not to come back. At worst, they'd find themselves in chains for some imagined offense. Was loitering even against the law? It was not past the highborn to fabricate a crime entirely, so it likely didn't much matter.
The High District was not so convenient as the Low District for questionable activity. The roads were wider, the alleys were lit more thoroughly without the tall structures making shadows, and there were hardly any ladders at all.
It took nearly three hours to find a ladder and, even then, it was too far from the warehouse to be of immediate use. Worse than that, the steel ladder was built into the wall and held firm even with Scaa pulling at it with all her strength. They had even climbed to the thing to see if it offered an over-roof route to a useful vantage point but they made it no more than a few houses in any direction before they were foiled by either distance or too great a height difference between houses.
It was decided by Scaa and Óraithe that daytime information gathering would just have to be done at a distance. Óraithe found herself wishing that any among them were able to use magic. There was potential in all elves, she'd always been told, but that did little to help. She had heard that elves touched by Speir could pull words to their ears. It was idle wishing and she put it out of her brain. They would be doing their business in the dark, so a lack of information about their comings and goings before the sun had set would be of minimal use anyway.
Bonn and Teas had been given the task of watching the warehouse and reporting their findings. Her father's shop had afforded her some clothes that would not look entirely out of place, especially in the less opulent parts of the High District. Teas had taken a liking to Bonn as well. She seemed almost motherly with him. It suited her, Óraithe knew. She had tried mothering Óraithe before the frustration of arguing with such obstinance became too much for her. Bonn seemed to like her as well. She had showed him what she knew about the proper way to drink tea in the north and was teaching him his letters. Teas had lectured Scaa for nearly an hour when she found out the boy did not know how to read or write. It wasn't entirely uncommon among the Low District to be unable to write, but reading was considered one of the great arts that separated the elves from the hippocamps. He had been a slow study but seemed to be coming to grips with the basics.
Óraithe couldn't stop her mind from drifting back to Teas and whether she was alright on her own as she walked the streets of the Low District with Scaa. Night was falling and the guards in the High District were not known for their gentle handling of young slum girls… or boys for that matter. Óraithe looked to Scaa. If the girl worried over Bonn, her face did not show even the slightest hint of it. They had their own work to do. Someone would need to see the layout of the warehouse from the inside. They could not expect to be efficient without an understanding of the place.
Scaa walked quickly and Óraithe had to occasionally skip to keep up. Night was falling around them as they made for a shop that sold second-hand clothes from the High District. There were at least a dozen like it that Óraithe knew of. The shops claimed to be selling leftover stock that had been bought from the traders in the High District. More often than not, the clothes were either stolen or found in piles of discarded goods behind High District shops. Even at the prices charged in the Low District, they could not afford to buy them outright so Scaa suggested they steal them.
Óraithe would be the one to visit the warehouse. She had wanted to balk at the idea but it was true they needed to understand the layout of the place and there was no one else. Bonn could not be trusted to actually lie, so he was right out. Teas was a strong choice and even suggested by Scaa but Teas was easily flustered around strangers. She still regarded Scaa with a strong suspicion though her time with Bonn had seemed to lower her guard somewhat. Aside from that, she was light-haired and that would at least attract questions she would find hard to answer. Scaa was unsuitable. She could pass for a boy with the right clothes and a casual enough glance, but that would not hold up and while she spoke well enough, she was a slow reader. Óraithe had been the choice. She was tan and clear-skinned. She could even read the old tongue and speak it a bit. She was short, but that was not something one was apt to mention to her face if they believed her to be of the High District. Even among the slums there were few who would mock her for her height. Drunken raiders, maybe, and some of the more crude among the black market traders.
The shop they meant to rob was somewhat shabby and sat along a quiet run of shophouses. Some were fabric shops, others were cobblers, but nearly all of them were something to do with clothing of some manner or other. It had not been quite time when they arrived so Óraithe and Scaa sat waiting in a nearby alley.
"What color dress are you thinking of, milady?" Scaa ribbed.
Óraithe rolled her eyes. "I'd just as soon walk in and set the place alight as wear a proper dress." She often wore longer skirts and dirty dresses for lack of anything else. She'd made alterations to most that allowed her to run with confidence in case she had need to flee, which she often did.
The conversation remained light which put Óraithe at ease. She had stolen things, but she had not broken into a shop proper. Worse, it was a shophouse and the owner would be just above them. Soon enough the candles and torches in the houses were snuffed and Scaa stood. They made for the front door. There was no other option as the cheap stucco building offered only a single window on the second floor. They could certainly find a ladder and enter through it, but they would be closer to the shop owner than they might like. Óraithe knew that being seen could be the end of things before they began. He would report it and the High District guards would assume she meant to steal some bread or cheese or perhaps one of the fish brought over by the river elves. Óraithe wondered what fish might taste like as Scaa examined the wooden slat door that had been slid in front of the opening curtain and barred from behind.
"You might be small enough," Scaa said to Óraithe, though her focus was on the door blocking their path.
"At least this height may be good for something," Óraithe replied. "What would you have me do?"
Scaa put a hand on the door. "These are most often fairly thin. People neglect that wood bends." Scaa leaned down and pushed lightly against the door until she heard the wooden bar fix it self against the slots that held it. She then put some weight into the push. The door flexed and the wood crackled a bit, but held.
Scaa was right, there was enough room, if just. Óraithe crawled into the crack, looking around the shop before laying on her side and wriggling the rest of the way into the shop. She stood and lifted the bar as quietly as she could manage. It was heavy, she struggled to put it down quietly but managed somehow. She slid the door just the slightest bit to the side and Scaa joined her in the shop.
The shop was dimmer than the street outside and it took Óraithe a moment to adjust to the lack of light. The shop was larger than Cosain's. Not so tightly packed. The walls held racks and racks of dresses and fine shirts and doublets. She could not tell the colors of any of them properly in the dark. They were only light and dark and lighter and darker. Shades of grey. It did not matter, she supposed. She would wear it for a part of a day and then be done with it. Óraithe walked over and ran a hand across the fabric of the dresses. They were so incredibly soft. Velvets and silks and soft linens. A few were even lined by fur or made of heavy wool but Óraithe could not imagine what anyone would need with such a thing. Surely fur and wool were intensely hot. Maybe in the north such items made sense.
Scaa had moved to the back side of the shop where the shoes were kept. Óraithe could just make out her head slowly running across row after row of shoes. Óraithe didn't have a clue what sort of shoes went with dresses or what the High District elves thought was stylish, she doubted Scaa did either.
Óraithe could not help herself. She grabbed the skirt of a particularly soft dress and buried her face in it. Through the muffle of the fabric she thought she heard a footfall on the floor above them. She whipped her head out of the fabric and looked to Scaa, hoping she was imagining things. Scaa had ducked herself down, staring intently at the stairs. Óraithe could not take her eyes off of Scaa for some reason. When the younger elf crouched low, Óraithe did the same.
A light flickered down the stair to the living area above. Óraithe looked at it and back to Scaa. She was so close to the stair that there was not much she would be able to do if the shop owner were to come down and find her there. The light grew brighter. The shopkeep was coming down. Óraithe's eyes shot back and forth from the stair to Scaa. She was not moving. What was she doing? They had to go. They could come another night and try again. There could not be more than five stairs, maybe six. There was time, wasn't there? Scaa must know. Why wasn't she running?
Óraithe saw the shopkeeper's feet first. Old but dainty and frail. It was a woman. Very old, must have been past four hundred. She continued down and the slim, aged body of a grey-haired woman came into view. She was short and little more than bones. The old shopkeep squinted into the room, the light of the lantern still bright in her eyes. Óraithe knew she was well hidden for the moment. The lantern cast only a small glow out into the shop and she was well away. Scaa, however… Óraithe pulled her eyes from the light meant to reveal them both. Scaa… Scaa was standing. Why was she standing? Did she mean to confess or perhaps bowl the woman over and run for the door? An orange glint flashed in Óraithe's eyes. What was it? Óraithe squinted. A blade. Her eyes widened and she stood without thinking.
Scaa lurched forward with the rough iron dagger.
"NO!" The words flew from Óraithe with a high pitch and a tremendous volume. The old woman looked over in a start, she met Óraithe's eyes. The dagger plunged into her chest.
It was a sickening amalgam of sounds. The wet slick noise mixed with a screech of ragged iron piercing bone. The shopkeep's throat sounded a terrible gagging click over and over as she lay on the ground bleeding out. Scaa was breathing heavily over the dying clothier. Óraithe could not see what sort of face her compatriot had been making, she only heard her speak.
"The lamp! Go! Grab what you can!"
Óraithe wheeled, wrapped her arms around as many dresses as she could manage, and yanked. Most of the dresses pulled free easily enough, a few ripped, but she could not bother. Óraithe ran to the door with the clothing in hand and flipped the wooden covering onto the ground. The room was filling with orange flame when she turned to see where Scaa was. The younger elf was running toward her, dropping a shoe here and there as she did.
