No ones chosen, p.31
No One's Chosen, page 31
The girl scoffed at the very idea. "There is no way," she said. "The hippocamps are simple and violent. That is all."
Doiléir and Silín both rode silently behind.
"They are simple, yes. But violence is the way of the centaur." Socair's voice was calm.
Práta did not seem to want to believe it. "But the satyr fight us, just as the centaur do."
"They wore clothes," Silín blurted as though she could not stand the pace of the conversation. "The satyr in the mire."
"Clothes?" Práta was silent a long time after she said the word.
Socair broke into the silence of the ride. "If the Treorai declared war against the desert elves, would Doiléir become our enemy? Would you slay him here and now?"
Práta looked back at Doiléir, who said nothing.
"An enemy is a strange thing. One is made with words and tempered by actions that may not belong to their own hand. And an enemy is unmade just as easily. Words and promises between the nobles and they become something else." Socair paused a moment but then offered a question. "If the war were to end tomorrow, would you kill every hippocamp who had borne a sword against us?"
"I would. Without question." Práta's answer was quick and sure.
"And the children? And the lame? And those who had never seen an elf in their lives?"
Práta was silent but her eyes looked back and forth at nothing in particular, searching for an answer. "I… No. There is no crime in their existence."
Socair breathed in deep. She felt as though she had been holding her breath and the girl's answer was a relief. "Good," she said. Looking behind, her eyes met Silín's. The smaller elf nodded and Doiléir did as well.
The ride carried on into the late afternoon, though it was more light hearted than it had been in the wake of Doiléir's question. Silín had explained the whole of it to him and he'd cursed… well, everyone he could think of. Crosta, the centaur, the scouts.
Socair judged that there were still a good few hours of sunlight left when Dulsiar came into view. There were no tall buildings save the keep which rose above the rest of the town bearing three great towers half again the height of the main building. The keep seemed to suck in all the light that touched it, leaving a hole of shadow in the sky where it stood. It was built of some dark black rock and stood in sharp contrast to the waxy lightness of the building in Abhainnbaile. Socair knew she had been to Dulsiar before, during her childhood, but she could not remember the Regent's home being so impressive.
The houses at the edge of the city had started to pass them by when Práta spoke. She had been riding astride Socair since their talk earlier but had mostly remained quiet.
"There is an inn I know of, if it please the Bearer." Práta said sheepishly.
"If it please the bearer," Doiléir immediately added in a mocking tone, though Socair could not say if the slight was meant for her or the girl.
"There is no need for formality. And yes. We should find an inn. If you know of one, so much the better." Socair tried to sound as genuine as she could manage. She had no mind for formality, not outside of her duties in the military anyway. There it made sense. People were needed to lead and others to follow. It kept people alive. In the world as it stood, there was no call for it. It stood only to separate people from one another.
As they grew nearer the keep, Doiléir expressed his admiration for the building. "It is an impressive building, no doubt. I can't say as I've ever seen stone so dark. Onyx, sure, but that is brittle and it shines."
"It is gabbro," Práta offered. "The cliffs overlooking the Darkshore to the west by the sea, they are rich with it. It is strong but occurs only there. The mining of it was outlawed thousands of years ago."
Doiléir was impressed with her knowledge and pressed her for more. The rest of the ride to the inn was full with information about the city. It had been a hub of trading for the fisheries of the south since the olden times. The city had seen a revolution four generations past to oust a noble who had placed a tax on every fish that passed the city. In the final battle of the rebellion, a drunken arbalester had fired without aiming and destroyed the rear upper fourth of one of the towers. It still stood as it had then, the top fourth a jagged spire of stone.
Before the story was finished, their destination found them. Práta insisted that she would arrange the rooms and sent them to store the horses. The inn was large and made of rich, dark wood for the top two storeys, the lower being stone and mortar. The shutters on the windows were painted a bright purple as was the door and the sign above it. The place bore no name that Socair could see, it only said "inn" on the sign.
They took the horses around the side of the building where there was a thin old man with a great beard waiting.
"Stayin' at the inn, then?" His voice was high for an old man, but still coarse.
"We are," Socair replied.
"They get fed and watered. I don't do no brushin'. Not unless you pay extra. You want 'em saddled, tell me an hour before they're needed or do it yourself." He opened stalls in the small stable as he spoke, then came and took the reins two at a time. When the horses had all been sorted, he turned to them and spat at the ground. "Go on, now. They'll be well kept and your things will be brought up after you pay."
The trio turned to leave the horses behind. As they rounded the corner Doiléir poked Silín in the ribs with his elbow. "I wonder if I'd told him you were a Bearer if he'd have shit himself on the spot." He laughed and so did Silín and Socair.
"More like, he'd have spat again and asked why you thought he might care," Socair said, laughing.
The purple door to the inn pulled open and the soldiers made their way inside. The room was extravagant, with a chandelier and fine wood furniture around the main seating area. From the outside, one would not have known that it was such a fine establishment. It was well kept, surely, but understated and the stableman left much to be desired, but the lobby reminded her of the keep in Glascroi where Rún had kissed her. It seemed like ages ago, now, but it had not been so long. This very season even. Only a few weeks past. Her mind drifted to Rún and that dinner at the keep.
Before she fell too deeply into her reminiscing, Práta came up holding a pair of keys. She handed them both to Socair.
"We are on the top floor. The rooms connect." Práta informed them and then turned to lead them to the stairs.
When they made the stairs, Doiléir whispered, "This place is obscene. We do not belong here. I should like to express my desire to never, ever leave."
Silín punched him in the shoulder and he was quiet for the rest of the climb. The stairs were a rich walnut, well kept and smooth even under the boot. They came to the landing of the third floor and stood. There were but four doors here.
"Only four rooms?" Silín said.
Práta spoke, her voice full with pride. "It is the finest inn in Dulsiar, I can attest to it myself. My father brought me here as a child as he was a close friend of the Regent."
A friend of a friend of a friend and there sat the Treorai. Socair knew it was the way of the world of nobles, but it still sat oddly with her. They did well enough, she figured. What was the danger of nepotism so long as the smallfolk did not suffer?
Socair handed one of her keys to Silín who made off down the hall, Doiléir following. Práta moved to join them but Socair put a hand on her shoulder.
"No need in crowding a room. And they connect so we ought use the space wisely."
Práta looked as though she were like to explode. She blushed a deep red and balled her hands over and over. "As… as it please you… Bear—" She stopped herself. "Socair."
Socair put the key in the door and opened it. The room was larger than any she had ever been allowed in. Even at the keep in Glascroí, the room had been smaller. Some off room in an unimportant castle meant to hold a guest of a guest. This was an entire other thing. A room made for highborn visitors. There was a great canopy bed with deep purple coverings and rich mahogany wood for the frame and posts. There were three couches sat around the room and in the corner nearest the windows there was a full tub with purple mats beneath to keep the oiled wood floor from becoming slippery with water. There were dressers and wardrobes and tables, all of the same make and matching finish. Even with all the furniture there'd have been enough room for a horse to turn unencumbered.
Práta walked past Socair into the room. Socair blinked. She did not know how long she had been staring into the empty room but now she felt half a fool. She could hear the muffled rantings of Doiléir on the far side of the door that connected the rooms. It was less than a minute before he began knocking at the door with no real tempo. There was a stopper of wood holding the door shut. Socair pulled it free and opened the door.
Doiléir was there, smiling like a child. "We are never leaving."
She scarcely had time to laugh at the foolish look on his face before a knock came at her door. Práta moved to see to the visitor. It was too early for supper, she knew. Perhaps their belongings, Socair thought. When Práta opened the door, a man in dark enamel plate stood at the door, an open-faced helm on his head.
Socair moved to the door quickly and Doiléir followed, his face no longer smiling. Práta moved back and Socair took her place at the door, her head nearly butting the frame above. She looked down at the man.
"You are the Bearer of the Will?" His voice was clear and deep, official.
"I am."
"I come on behalf of the Regent of Dulsiar and all her attendant lands. The Regent wishes that you would do him the great honor of allowing him to host you and your friends for a fine supper."
Socair wanted to sigh and scream and hit the man all at once. She gathered herself and smiled politely. "We would be pleased to join the Regent."
"Very good. We will send a retinue to accompany you this evening." He snapped a tight bow and salute. "By your leave, Bearer." He had not waited for her leave, but she was not bothered by that.
Silín stood in the threshold of the two rooms. "Has someone died? Is it the rooms? Will we have to sell Práta to pay for them?"
Doiléir ran over to her. "We go to attend a feast! At the keep!"
"Sisters be good! I am like to wake soon, aren't I? I'll wake and we'll be in the tents on the road." Silín looked to Socair. "Truly, Socair? A reception at the keep?"
"Truly," Socair said and walked across the room to the over plush bed. She fell onto it face down and groaned.
Óraithe
Óraithe stood outside the door to the den, her fists clenched in a directionless rage. Cosain had abandoned her. That was the only way she could bring herself to see it. He had turned against her acts and called her a petty thief. She had given so much of herself to take a step forward and for what?
She wanted to scream, she wanted to flail, and she wanted to cry. Her anger had turned to sadness in the length of the walk back to her waiting friends. There was still anger, but it was tempered now by the sad truth of what had happened. The highborn had not even understood their intentions. Or if they had, they had turned it against them. It wasn't until that thought had crossed her mind that she understood that they were still alone. They had no allies.
She could not tell the others, she thought, her hand reaching out to open the door to the den. Or had they even considered that there might be more to it than just the act? Scaa, perhaps, but the other two were just pulling a cart they had not made. The door swung open and the smell that greeted Óraithe was so enticing that she entirely lost her train of thought.
Teas ran up to her as soon as the door opened. She was smiling big and bright. "Scaa found a whole loin of lamb!"
"Lamb?" Óraithe repeated the word, almost not believing.
Scaa spoke casually from across the room. "And a loin at that. A celebration ought to be special."
Lamb was more than rare in the Low District, it was nigh unheard of. A loin even more so. You could get off parts sometimes, eyes and feet and the like. The rest of it went right to the High District. Óraithe could not think of anyone she had ever met who had tasted lamb. They were simply not raised in the area except in small numbers in the north. The river elves had plenty of them, but they were stingy with their trade to the east. Goat was the meat of the desert. And horse if things became desperate enough. Where could Scaa have gotten it? There was nowhere but a trading caravan. The convoys meant for the High District did not leave the main road.
Teas stepped aside as Óraithe walked into the room. "It won't be a half hour now. Then we can eat," the cook said, smiling. She trotted gaily back over to her cookpot and stirred it gleefully.
Óraithe approached Scaa who was quietly watching Bonn as he spun an egg on the table.
"I trust your talk went well," Scaa said with no particular motive to her voice.
"Not as such," Óraithe replied. "The city guard has already—"
"The reward," Scaa interrupted, turning to face Óraithe. There was pride in her voice. "I saw them." She chuckled. "Sisters, it felt good to see those signs posted."
Óraithe wanted to agree, but she had read the words on them. "They have branded us thieves."
"Good."
The younger girl's reply had taken her almost off guard. What did she mean, good? This was not good. They were rebels, should they not be taken seriously? "How is it good?" The question was genuine, but came out a bit more sharply than Óraithe had intended.
Scaa seemed unperturbed by the tone, however, as she continued as before. "Thieves are common. Thieves are not sought and rooted out so fiercely as upstarts. The longer we are thieves, the longer we might be a grain of sand in the desert."
The thought made sense enough for Óraithe. Cosain loved her, she knew, but advice from one who objects to the very way of life you seek to pursue is of little use. He loved her, but Scaa understood her. The dark voiced girl had been reliable in more ways than Óraithe felt she deserved. She was distant and cautious but kind in her way. Óraithe wanted to praise herself for noticing where others may have not.
The den was warm and welcoming that night and Óraithe felt she was among family. Cosain had been her father in effect for as long as she had been alive but he was inflexible. Unwilling to accept what she wanted for herself over what he wished for her.
"He has lost much," Teas told her once when they spoke of her concerns. "He fears he will lose more."
Óraithe thought on that again as she sat herself before the table where they would have dinner. She could not bring herself to understand the way Cosain saw things. If you had lost much, what was a bit more? And it was her life, besides. His fear of loss should not take from her.
Teas sat herself at the table to mix Bonn's egg and some other things with flour to make the flatbread. Bonn was sad to lose his egg even though Teas explained that he would have bread, which he liked very much, so she sang him a song. Bonn joined in the song halfway. It was a ridiculous song about a pair of horses who turned into elves so that they might steal all the greens from the other horses without getting caught. The songs continued, Bonn and Teas singing at one another in turn even through the meal.
The loin of lamb was so tender and delicious that Óraithe nearly wept to eat it. The broth had been thickened beautifully and Teas had even brought some saffron and spices. Even the bread seemed better for sake of the lamb. The meal quieted the singing for a few moments, but then Bonn decided that the meal had needed a good song. Óraithe could not argue. She could scarce remember a night she had smiled so often or so genuinely. If there had been one, it had been long ago in her youth. The day she met Teas, perhaps. The food was perfect, or as close as they would ever get. Scaa suggested that the lamb stew might do for a bit of cream and they agreed and dreamed of even more amazing meals. Scaa had even mockingly admitted that she was beginning to understand why the highborn were so reluctant to share. Óraithe laughed at that, but she felt a bit guilty for having done so. Or perhaps she felt guilty for agreeing in some part of her mind.
Either way the thought did not linger long. Neither did her squabble with Cosain earlier in the day. The merriment of the den seemed to push it all away and she wished as hard as she could that the Sisters might let her live the night for the rest of her life. The dinner came to an end and Teas immediately set to braiding Bonn's hair. Scaa complained again, but Bonn pouted and insisted he wanted to dress up. She could do nothing in the face of such an innocent wish, so she scoffed and tromped out the door for a bit of air.
Óraithe followed Scaa out and stood beside her in the cool, arid night. The alley was dark and the stars seemed to burn as bright as they could manage against the dim light of the Eyes.
"We are more than thieves." Scaa's words pierced the silence of the alley. As scratchy and deep as her voice tended to be, the words seemed clear to Óraithe in that moment. "I know that being branded a thief is safer. I know it. But I do not want it. I want them to know what we are. I want them to hate us. To fear us."
Óraithe said nothing. She took a step closer to Scaa and put her arms around the girl. The short elf's arms slipped around Scaa's mid-section just under her breasts.
"Ah!" Scaa let go a surprised sound. "What… what are you?"
Óraithe could not have given her an answer. She did not know herself. Why was she hugging Scaa? Scaa was… crass… and… and rude. She scratched herself and acted more than her age. She was a brute and a thief and indelicate. And yet, she was soft. She felt so nice.
She should not be doing this. The thought flooded her mind. She should pull away. Yes, pull away and just not speak of it. Óraithe told her arms to let go, but as she did, she felt a pair of arms wrap around her.
Óraithe looked up. Scaa was looking down at her. She'd not felt so short in a long time, looking up at dusky eyes. The far off hum of the slums was not enough to drown the sound of Scaa's breath. The girl leaned down and Óraithe closed her eyes. Scaa's lips were thin and rough and dry but Óraithe wanted to feel them more. She pushed her own lips hard against Scaa's. Too hard, most like, but she did not know about such things, nor did she care.
