No One's Chosen (10 page)

Rianaire maintained an icy composure. "And you would
have me do what? Send out our own to reinforce that fool Crosta and
his giantess? This Goddess of Glassruth is welcome to carry Crosta
into the hell he's prepared for himself. I would not weaken our
walls to tend to the whims of the south. When the hippocamps pass
the bloody gauntlet the river elves make for them, winter will be
upon us and their numbers will be reduced considerably. Do you
disagree?"

Armire's face was indignant as she considered what
her Treorai had said. "It…" The words were wet with bile and
frustration. "It is as you say, Treorai."

Rianaire uncrossed her legs and grabbed a pen.
"Wonderful. And you have leave to enact my writ as you see fit."
She scrawled a note summarizing her wishes, that her soldiers
remain vigilant and keep secure the lands inside the provincial
borders.

Rianaire handed the paper to the Binseman. "I hope
this satisfies, Binseman Armire. And if there is nothing else, you
are free to go."

Armire took the note, reading it over quickly,
frowning angrily. "Then, by your leave, Treorai." She mustered the
bare minimum of a bow and a salute and quickly made her way to the
door.

When Rianaire was satisfied the Binseman was clear of
earshot, she rolled her head back and groaned loudly. Less than a
minute had passed before Síocháin entered with tea.

Rianaire sighed heavily, relieved at the sight of her
friend. "I swear, Síocháin, I try. I give them all that they could
ever need to play their roles. Do they want to be led so
desperately?"

"Well, you do wish them to play their roles. And
their roles involve following their Treorai. Your choice of morning
ensemble is likely also more… progressive than they find
acceptable." Síocháin placed the tray on the desk.

"Your apt observations are less reassuring than I
would appreciate." Rianaire reached for a cup as Síocháin finished
filling it. "It wasn't always this way, was it?"

"No," Síocháin conceded, "but the province did not
run half so well as it does now."

"Then the system is a success for all involved, save
the Treorai. Maybe the orthodoxy is on to something." Rianaire took
a sip and closed her eyes to fully enjoy the respite.

"Or perhaps the orthodoxy just wishes they could lay
any shortcomings of the Binse on the head of the Treorai."

Rianaire nodded in agreement. "Wouldn't the crones
love that? They'd have had me exiled in a decade."

"It's never too late." Síocháin took a sip of her
tea.

"Sisters, I think I'd welcome it at this point."

A knock came at the door. Rianaire's next meeting.
Síocháin gathered the tray and made her exit. As she left, a
wire-thin elf with white hair and needle sharp features took her
place. As fiery as Armire had been, she would seem an ardent
supported before the Binseman of Finance. Spárálaí, a flowery old
name for a crotchety old man. He didn't look his age, but he was
nearing four-hundred by now. The years would come on soon enough,
Rianaire knew, and his face would finally start to match his
personality. Spárálaí had been among the Binse of her mother. Upon
her death, he promised to help in any way he could but when
Rianaire revealed her plans he made his disgust plain. He had
belonged to her mother, serving on the Binse of the daughter?
Sisters, it would be no better than incest, he'd said. Rianaire
still remembers the look of disbelief when she explained how she
meant to govern her people. Disbelief and anger. But an attendant
to the old ways of Spéirbaile would not betray their word once
given.

With the door shut and Síocháin gone, he hurried
through the pleasantries required of addressing the Treorai.
Rianaire took a perverse sort of pleasure in the discomfort she
knew her nudity must have caused him.

"Treorai, you… before we begin, I beseech you, please
clothe yourself."

"And, Spárálaí, if I had kept you among the Binse for
your opinions on my clothing, you'd likely have been replaced
within a week of taking the post."

It wasn't so much that her Binsemen were insolent.
Quite the opposite, the Binse were meant to be honest and
straightforward with their Treorai. This was an artifact of the
nature of the relationship that so many other Treorai had held to
since the days of the Sisters. They were to question and judge in a
way that those farther from the favor of the Treorai would not
dare. How else would hard decisions be made and inequities made
right? Rianaire remembered hearing years ago that the Treorai of
Fásachbaile had built her Binse of those that favored her thirst
for hedonism and finery. That explained the reports of growing
unrest in the region, she thought.

Spárálaí had not taken kindly the jab and narrowed
his pointed face to show his displeasure. Making that stupid, sour
expression seemed to be his favorite pastime some days. "Treorai, I
have implored you before and I must now again to consider trade
restrictions with the south."

Trade bored her most of all. The insurmountable spire
of numbers and the god awful business of moving coin from one hand
to the other. Spárálaí seemed to love it. Or so she was told.
Rianaire had never seen the man smile a day in his life. It was
more likely something to do with having fingers in pies. That
seemed more the Spárálaí that she had known. A man who took great
pleasure holding power over others and knowing things he ought
not.

Rianaire's mind drifted as he droned on. She looked
down at her breasts. They were ample and soft, but covered with
filth. It saddened her a bit. The flesh ought to be treated with
more care and concern than her Binse seemed to think it warranted.
Rianaire was only half listening to Spárálaí at the best of times.
She knew his proposals, she understood is politics and she agreed
with very little.

The Treorai stood and spoke. "Spárálaí, did I not
give you my writ at the last meeting of the Binse?"

"You did." He tensed, knowing what was to come
next.

"And have I not left you with sufficient power to
enact my writ?"

He gnashed his teeth, looking near ready to flog her.
"You have."

"Then, my dear Binseman, I have heard your good
counsel and I find that I have no particular interest in modifying
my writ. Good day."

"But—"

"Good day."

If anger had a face, surely it was the balled up face
of her displeased Binseman. He had flushed bright red and made for
the door with all haste. The door slammed shut with force and
Rianaire rolled her eyes.

It had been a short meeting, to the chagrin of
Spárálaí. And one that left her with a bad taste in her mouth.
Surely he sent the young girl in first to make it seem as though
this were just the course of the day, but she knew his allies when
she saw them. He was trying to annoy her or goad her into
something. What the old elf always failed to account for was that
Rianaire was still, in fact, the Treorai. She decided whether or
not she felt like playing his games and when the third knock came
at the door, she simply ignored it.

The bath was still hot when Rianaire slid her body
down into the water. She almost felt that she owed thanks to the
morning's gadflies. The warm water had been so much the sweeter
after the filth had really set in. A knock came at the bathroom,
from the way of her personal chambers this time.

"If anyone who is not named Síocháin opens that door,
I swear by the Sisters, I'll have you drawn and quartered."

Síocháin opened the door and came in. Rianaire let a
relieved sigh escape her body.

"I hear you've decided to withdraw your grace and wit
from the Binse. They are most disappointed."

"They think I am a true fool, Síocháin." Rianaire
splashed at the water absentmindedly.

"They do. And they refuse to see the world around
them as anything less than some wanton display of your hedonism
that is sure to damn them."

"I wouldn't begrudge them ignoring what we have
achieved, if they would just do it somewhere else."

"We?" Síocháin raised an eyebrow.

"I'd be lost without your tea, darling Síocháin."

"If the Binse found out that flavored water was all
that kept you, I fear I would find myself cast into some desolate
snow drift."

Rianaire smiled and huffed out a laugh. She watched
the steam rise from the tub for a while, appreciating the way the
wisps melted into the air.

Her fingers treaded on top of the water, leaving the
faintest of ripples to fade back into the water. "I've decided."
Her tone was thoughtful.

Rianaire stood up slowly and looked to Síocháin who
awaited instruction. "Have a carriage prepared. If Spéirbaile is
going to crumble without my constant permission to go on existing,
we might as well give it the chance."

There was a chill in the air when Aile dismounted her
horse some distance from the outer gates of Fásachbaile. She could
make out the flat of the mountain that had been carved away all
those ages ago to keep the Bastion of the northern capital
safe.

She had heard myriad tales of how the mountain came
to be flat on its southern face. Some said it was the work of the
Sister, Spéir. She had split the mountain with the very air and
wrought the Bastion of the North from the stones that fell.
Certainly, the Bastion was made from the same stone that it was
nestled beside but that didn't preclude that some magic broke the
mountain. The Drow insisted that the only of the Four Sisters to
ascend to glory was their own, the Goddess Aile, for whom Aile was
named. She was known as Tine to the elves. Drow legend says that
Spéir was a cruel queen of the icy wastes of the North and she
stole away Drow to make slaves of them. It was these slaves who
broke the mountain and built her fortress and the Great Crescent
Walls. Aile had always scoffed at that idea as it seemed to her
that the Drow were made slaves by nearly every passing noble. If it
were the case, the elves had done a wonderful job of covering it
up. And the only pale fools she'd met who were dumb enough to try
to have her for a slave were considered the vilest of outlaws among
the more populated areas.

She imagined none would ever truly know what had seen
the mountain split in half, but the story she liked best was one
she heard from a particularly angry old man who insisted upon
calling her Keeir for whatever reason. He had said that it was just
the way of the stones. They ran deep into the earth and they moved
sometimes of their own accord. The mountain at Spéirbaile had
merely climbed up above the rest, he said. He had been to the vast,
frozen wastes in the far north and seen as many split mountains as
you can count. She quite liked that. No goddesses, no divine writs.
Just the rocks doing as they were wont to do. It was simple.

Aile took a few moments to check over her provisions
a last time. She had no knowledge of the state of the gates of
Spéirbaile even though she had been any number of times before.
While it was often easy enough to enter the city, there were
exceptions. If the city was hosting one of its ridiculous tourneys,
if the guard didn't like the look of her, if she had ridden up
without enough money to satisfy that she wasn't a beggar in
elaborate disguise with horse and leather clothing. She had plenty
of gold but it was the pouch containing the writ from the noble
that had drawn her attention. There were three main gates into the
city, but the ride between them was generally unpleasant. If one
could secure passage through the first door they approached, so
much the better. Or, for all she knew, it could be some nobleman's
trap. Perhaps when she showed the writ, she would be dragged from
her horse and imprisoned. Seems an awful waste of gold, she
thought. And too roundabout. She would try it and hope for the
best, she figured.

Aile tucked the writ into one of the leather pockets
on her doublet then secured the bags she had been inspecting. She
tugged at each of her weapons to insure they were in good order.
The horse at her side shook its head as she grabbed hold of the
bridle and flipped it over to lead the thing on foot. Drow on horse
were generally less well received than Drow on foot and she
intended to give the guards no cause to be alarmed outside of what
could not be avoided.

Even at a fair distance, Aile could make out the
nervous glances being exchanged between the gate guards. Even the
most seasoned rarely knew how to comport themselves when a Drow
appeared asking for entry and they were no doubt preparing
themselves for such an eventuality. Perhaps it might prove
entertaining to show them the writ after all.

The Drow, easily a foot and a half shorter than
either of the gate guards, approached at a steady pace. She was
well out of striking distance when the call came.

"Halt there, Drow." A pudgy male elf with a nasal
voice called out, taking a step forward with a hand raised.

Aile stopped as she was bid and said nothing.

"What is your business?"

"I mean to enter the city. Or has the use of gates
changed since last I was in Spéirbaile? Mayhaps your good Treorai
has deemed them only fit for use in carnal acts."

The younger and thinner of the two gate guards rose
to the insult against his liege. "How dare you, darkling! You will
not insult the Treorai!"

She was playing a bit of a dangerous game here, but
the excitement had risen up in her now. "I will do as I please,
elf." The word was not used much, except by Drow. What need does a
people have of reminding themselves what they are in casual
conversation? Still, it never failed to stir something in those
with unquieted disposition.

The younger guard pulled his sword and took a large
stride toward the grey-skinned provocateur. The doughy superior
officer held up a hand. "Hold, fool."