No ones chosen, p.25
No One's Chosen, page 25
His eye caught something that he fancied and he spun, chirping. "Scaa, Scaa!"
Before he could sound another letter, Scaa slapped him hard across the face. The dull boy grabbed his cheek, looking surprised and hurt. She did not speak, only held a finger to her lips. Bonn frowned and looked down, nodding.
They would not be able to take much. Only what they could carry. Óraithe had been in the place before and wondered what she ought to take. If not for the glass on the front of the building, she'd love to go and steal away with some of those old tomes. No doubt they held amazing stories and valuable teachings. She had not always cared about such things, but it had become her escape. Even if she spent the rest of her life unable to free herself from the Low District slums, she would have the stories and the knowledge of the books she'd read. They couldn't take it from her no matter how much they tried, it was a part of her. She wanted to nurture that part. Make it grow. There was power in knowledge, she felt, though she could not prove it.
Scaa poked around the furniture, running her free hand longingly across the fine wood of bed frames and chairs. Bonn was with her, looking for all the world like a scolded animal. Teas walked ahead of Óraithe. She had insisted she wanted nothing from the warehouse but her eyes continued to swing toward a rack of fur lined waistcoats. Óraithe nudged her toward them playfully. Teas turned to her to smile and then walked to the rack. There were no skirts to go with them, but they were truly beautiful. Ornate designs on the most beautifully colored silks and satins and lined with soft furs. Teas scanned over them, picking a few and taking them. Óraithe did not doubt she'd have liked to spend all day browsing over the gowns, but there wasn't time. Teas returned, smiling down at them guiltily. Óraithe wished she could have found the skirts to accompany them. Teas would have looked like a proper northern noble, she thought.
Óraithe walked to the rack which she knew had kept the books and stood at the end of the aisle. She walked casually down the row, looking at the titles. A History of the Bastion of Spéirbaile. The Temples of the North. Spéir and the Mountain. Cnoclean: The City that would not be Moved. They all must have had such a wealth of information about a world that seemed to Óraithe to exist only in words.
She had only managed to read the titles of the books when Scaa appeared at the end of the aisle with a plush looking bedroll under each arm. Bonn was beside her carrying a fair few cases of salted meats. Atop the cases sat a fat bottomed pair of wine bottles.
"We have been here long enough." Scaa's voice was calm but she looked around worriedly.
"True," Óraithe agreed. "Take Teas and go. I will set the fire."
Scaa dropped the flint and knife to the floor and slid them over. Teas left Óraithe's side, her steps hesitant and short. "Be safe," she said as they turned to leave Óraithe alone with her books.
She gave them a final glance over, choosing a few to take with her. Books about history, if the titles were any judge. She felt a wave of guilt wash over as she glance back up at the books she could not take. There was nothing to be done about it. No Low District elf would ever hold these books in their hands. They would continue to live as most did, seeing only the world directly in front of them.
Her anger grew as she scraped the knife along the length of the flint, flinging sparks onto the books she wished she could save. Every scrape became stronger and more filled with her anger. These books were not for anyone who could use them. The knife screamed against the flint. They were going to sit in this warehouse and collect dust. And again. Then they would grow tired of them and toss them away. And again! These precious words! She scraped again but that was not the only sound. She heard it. A door closing. Too small to be the warehouse door. She was not alone. She dropped the flint and picked up the lantern.
Óraithe stood silently, listening. There was no time. She flung the lantern down hard onto the books and it broke open spilling fire onto the papers and leather. They caught fire readily, drinking in the oil and burning so ferociously that she was nearly caught in the initial waft of flame. She ducked down, grabbing her books with her free hand, keeping the knife at the ready in the other. The small elf fled to the end of the aisle, heart beating wildly. She had to go. She would be seen.
The main aisle was clear. Had the sound been in her mind? She ran as she had in her youth, fleeing something she could not be sure was there. As she made to pass the final rack, an arm flew out from the edge of the shelves grabbing her. She shut her eyes tight out of fear and her speed pulled them both to the ground. Whoever had grabbed her was on top of her now. She smelled him first. Musky and wet with sweat of the hot night. There was a reek of alcohol as he breathed hot on her face. Óraithe opened an eye and saw him, the shop owner. The kind old man that had given her the books.
The white-haired elf's eyes narrowed, he had seen her before. When, finally, his drunken mind found the image, she could see his eyes fill with hurt. His mouth curled to a frown. "Why?" he seemed to beg her without a word. Óraithe opened her mouth as if to speak. Would she apologize? What could she say? It was then that she saw a turn in him. His sad eyes flashed with fire and rage twisted his features and she knew. This was her enemy.
With all the power her tiny frame could muster she pulled the knife to his throat and press it in as hard as she could manage. When she could push no more, she yanked. The blood fell out. If he made any sound she could not hear it over the roar of the fire and the pulse of her own heart. The old man rolled over, grasping fruitlessly at his throat. She grabbed up her books and ran for the door of the warehouse. Just outside she stopped and looked back at the man who had given her the book with a kind smile. Blood from the cut had pooled on the floor around his motionless body. Óraithe felt nothing to look at him.
Scaa and Teas and Bonn waited for her on the other side of the Palisade. When Teas saw the blood on her clothes she ran up, checking her for wounds. Óraithe did not say a word, she only handed the bloodied knife back to Scaa and smiled at Teas as kindly as she could manage telling her friend that she was fine.
The highborn with their smiles and their kind words and their good intentions, they were not tricks. They were elves, just as she was. They had children and lovers and dreams and felt sadness and rage and cursed the Sisters for their misfortunes.
But they were her enemy. It was no more complicated than that.
Rianaire
The house the woman had led them to was not her own. She had told them it was abandoned and then begged to be allowed to return to her house and her children. There was no reason to refuse, as Rianaire saw it, so she did and the woman scattered off into the rain.
When they were inside, it was clear that the house was indeed abandoned, though it barely constituted a shelter. The roof was in dire need of patching and the leftover furniture had been stripped of anything that might've made it comfortable.
Rianaire found herself sitting across from Síocháin in one of the few dry areas that the house could afford them. They could not light lanterns or a fire. There were numbers enough among the raiders to have patrols until the morning. The light would make it even more difficult to leave the city unnoticed. Rianaire had been in silent thought since they had arrived. There were many things that bothered her about the situation aside from the unfortunate nature of it.
Síocháin finally spoke. "You are sure it was spellforged?"
Nothing made armor glow like that, Rianaire knew. Even some of the more exotic concoctions of the alchemists which were known to glow would have lost their shine in the rain. There were a few oils that may have survived the weather, but they did not glow in more than a single color and did not abide mixing. "I am sure," Rianaire said flatly.
"Then how?"
Rianaire turned the options in her head once more. She had thought through every option that she could manage but she knew that they would not work. A rogue armorer? There were laws against armoring for raiders in Spéirbaile that carried harsh punishments, but it was not unheard of for a smith to be taken as a hostage and held for such a reason. Still, the trade was valuable and it made little sense to smith for raiders unless you found yourself under duress. A smith who understood the arts of spellforging armor and blades was rare indeed. In point of fact, Rianaire knew only of four in the whole of the elven lands. Two held places in the Bastion. One as her master forger and the other as a lecturer in the art at the Temples. They had been in Spéirbaile when she left and would never have had time to create such an amount of armor even if they had been taken the absolute moment she left. The trade of the powders and steel with such low impurity was strictly regulated as well. It left her with only one option.
Rianaire spoke after too long a silence. "A coup."
Síocháin's face showed no emotion. It so rarely did anymore. "Spárálaí?" she said flatly.
"Surely not on his own, but he has the tools." Rianaire looked around the room. "Still, I doubt it was his intention that they follow us here. Word will spread of raiders in spellforged steel. Even had they done me in, he could not want that sort of thing circling in people's minds."
"We were meant to be in the carriage."
"Or somewhere close enough." Rianaire leaned back against the wall and closed her eyes. She wanted to sleep but there wasn't the time. Even the bath she had taken no more than a few hours before felt like an age ago. The damp had started to soak in again. It was not a welcome feeling.
Síocháin shifted. "He is going to be embarrassed when we arrive back in Spéirbaile without arrows in our breasts."
Rianaire smiled in spite of herself. "Well, we should meet him as soon as we are able." She stood, straightening out the bottom of her dress. "Did you happen to make note of any stables on the way in?"
Síocháin lifted herself from the floor and shook her head. They would need two horses, without a doubt. Two riders on a single horse was enough of a danger in the daylight without the threat of murderous brigands cutting them down.
"The inn is our best hope," Rianaire said with hesitance in her voice. It was not ideal to say the least. The raiders had set themselves up there and were likely thick in the area. She wanted Síocháin to balk and complain but her handmaid only offered a silent nod and turned to go.
In the den of the house, Síocháin overturned a small table and, with some effort, managed to tear free a leg. The thin elf had never learned to fight properly, nor had she practiced any of the four magics. Rianaire had tried to teach her the most basic parts when she was young, but the act was taxing in the beginning and painful. Rianaire assured her that the pain would shrink in time, like a muscle learning to bear weight. It had proved too painful for the young Síocháin and the topic had never again been broached.
Outside the clouds had thinned. The rain still fell but lighter now. The moons shone through more brightly. Rianaire looked up at the sky, pondering if the Sisters might actually wish her dead. The streets around them were empty and the lights in all the houses had been extinguished. Noise still poured out from the square where the raiders had gathered. Retracing their steps was easy enough but still time consuming. They could not afford to be seen. Even if they did not know her to see her, the guards were too numerous to elude in the small town. A line of trees sat just past the edge of the town to the north and Rianaire would have given anything to be able to hide in them but it would not allow any true escape. The nearest town to them was nearly twelve miles to the north through woods thick with bears and wolves. Even without the hostile fauna, there was little promise that the raiders hadn't sent a group north on the road. Maybe if she had her guard there was room to try to balance risk in hope of a reward, but that was not the case.
It felt like forever had passed when the window they had fled came into view once again. The stables were along the far side of the inn. Rianaire led, creeping out from behind the shop that had covered their approach. She glanced to the side to check the square, moving as quietly as she could manage. The rain still fell, but it would not cover a splash or fall. The rain soaked Treorai made it to the backside of the inn safely and was joined by Síocháin not long after. They slid down the back side of the building. The sound of raucous laughter came almost entirely muffled through the thick wooden walls beside them. A pang of guilt ran through Rianaire. If only she had her guards, her subjects might be protected, at least some of them. No doubt the attendant in the inn had been killed. If not, she reasoned he soon would be. She wanted to end them all right now, but power such as hers was nothing to outlaws. The power of a Treorai was an agreement and nothing more. It was a lesson she had learned in her youth in countless stories of proud nobles facing death for their own hubris. Even with her magic, there was nothing she could do. She could kill a few dozen, maybe more, but it would tear her apart. And what good was that when they wanted her dead? The surest way to hurt them was to live. And she intended to do just that.
Rianaire rounded the corner first, pushing into the small stable beside the inn. She stood, wordless, just inside the covering. Síocháin followed her in, nearly running into her. Síocháin made the slightest start to a question, but her eyes told her why Rianaire had stopped. The stable was littered with dead horses. Maybe a half dozen, all bled out onto the ground. A few still kicked and made weak protests at their approaching death, but it was done. None could be saved, and even then, no horse that had been freshly cut was like to accept a rider.
There was a door midway down the stable that led into the inn. The handle on it creaked. Síocháin grabbed Rianaire and pulled her outside. Retreating behind the inn would not do. Síocháin let go as Rianaire spun and they broke into a full run. There was a wide opening between in the inn and the building next to it. Rianaire suspected it was a library but she could not say for sure. She had stayed in the town at least a dozen times, but she did not know the place. Not truly. She cursed herself for not having taken the time, but who could have imagined that her visit would come to this?
The elves pressed in behind the edge of the building, both panting. The length of the day biting again at them.
"Did they see us?" Síocháin whispered.
"I cannot say. We should act as if they had." Rianaire said the words and turned to move along the back of the library as quickly as she could manage. Síocháin followed closely.
The gap from the library was another large one, but beyond was a small line of houses. They were close-set, all with darkened windows. The word had spread and none among the town would be so foolish as to invite the curiosity of the invading raiders. Another wash of anger flowed through Rianaire. If this had been Spárálaí's work, she would not let him die easy. Even if he meant to have her killed, he likely did not expect this. That would not remove the weight of it from his neck.
They passed the gap quickly and came in behind the houses. The yards were small behind the wooden houses, some fenced in. They passed the first, and the second. It would not be far now and they would be on the southern side of the town, nearer the main road. As they came to the third, the door beside them opened with a squeak. Rianaire wheeled, ready to throw whatever she might at the person but the voice that came was old and tired.
"Treorai." His voice was graveled and high, but still spoke of urgency. "Treorai, this way. Quickly."
There were few other choices if they had indeed been seen. She ran to him, Síocháin just behind, cudgel at the ready. The women rushed inside and the door shut behind them.
The old man spoke. "Treorai. I had heard you were here. I did not think…"
She stopped the old man there. "Who are you?"
"I'm no one, Treorai. I haul lumber down from the north for trade. You met my younger son at the inn. He stole away to tell me of your arrival. He was as excited as I'd ever seen him." The old man looked at the floor as if he wanted to weep.
"I am sorry." Rianaire meant the words, truly. They may have come whether she was here or not, but it did not matter.
"No, I'm sure he delayed them. He would not betray you for something so simple as his life. His mother and I taught him better than that." He turned and started toward the front door of the small house.
Rianaire followed. "Then I am in your debt."
"Not at all, Treorai. We are loyal folk and you've done right by us. We all see it." He pulled the door open. "Come, we haven't the time. I've a few horses at my storehouse. It isn't far."
They followed the old man out into the street. The rain had turned to a mild drizzle and would not hide them from much. The man went as quick as he could but one of his legs did not move so good and his movement was an awkward skip. Rianaire and Síocháin kept pace with a brisk walk.
He motioned ahead. "S'not far, just at the corner there."
The storehouse was well maintained to see it from the outside and they had made it without being seen. The old man pulled keys from his cloak and shoved them into the door. They jingled as he twisted and the door swung open. The three elves hurried in.
Inside was pitch black. There were no windows to the place, though she could hear the faint sound of horses. The smell was more apparent. The old man moved deftly even in the dark. He pulled a match along the wall and dim light flooded in. He quickly lit a lantern.
"The light'll draw them, no doubt. Not much we can do in the dark though." He pulled the lantern down and carried it to the far side of the room.
The light shifted and Rianaire could make out four horses in stalls at the far end of the barn. The woodseller hobbled around the room as quickly as he could manage, grabbing paddings to throw over the horses. He tossed them to Rianaire.
"I'd ready them for you, but my leg'll just slow it."
Síocháin took the paddings and made for the stalls. The old man motioned Rianaire over. "Saddles." She grabbed one and made for Síocháin. The man followed her with the other.
