No One's Chosen (13 page)

"I am older than you by nearly thirty years," Doiléir
said proudly.

Silín looked to Socair. "Curious that he's so proud
of being nearest to death."

Socair laughed and Doiléir had to go along, for lack
of a comeback. The three would likely have finished the entire
bottle that Doiléir had brought to the tent, but there was a call
from the outside.

Socair parted the opening to see one of the
Binseman's lot, the same from before, standing at her tent. She had
expected him to be holding a sealed missive, but he had nothing.
"Bearer!" His voice was loud and drew the attention of several of
Socair's squad. Whispers began running around the camp at once.
"The Binseman would see you at your earliest convenience."

It wasn't an order, she noticed. It felt odd. She was
his peer now. No longer a soldier, as such. Socair somehow managed
to blurt a reply. "Ah, uh… yes. Tell Binseman Crosta that I shall
be there directly." The messenger snapped his salute and headed off
in the direction of Crosta's section of the field.

Socair closed the opening tight, breathing hard.

"Exhausted after only a walk to the door? Surely that
is unsightly for a bearer." Doiléir ribbed her and he and Silín
both laughed. Socair did not join them, instead she put on the
stern expression that told them that work was upon them. The
laughter died out. "Has the missive come?"

"We are to go to the Binseman."

There was no question past that. Doiléir and Silín
returned to their tents and dressed for the meeting as quickly as
they could manage. They met with Socair back at her tent. She dare
not step out without a destination in mind lest she invite myriad
questions she simply wasn't prepared to answer.

Her friends, now her Attendants, took up places on
either side of the tent's flaps. A crowd gathered, staring at them.
When Socair emerged, she was already at a brisk pace, but it did
not abate the cheering from the vanguard camp. They were loud
beyond reason and it just made Socair walk faster.

Crosta must have heard her coming as the wave of
cheers and applause stretched the length of the camp by the time
she arrived. He sat at a rosewood desk in the middle of a large,
multi-room marquee. It made her quarters look more a hovel than a
spacious luxury for an officer.

Socair stood at attention, her Attendants beside her.
Crosta was busying himself with his letters and seemed uninterested
in her arrival. He finished one and looked up.

"I do apologize. The work of the Binse does not care
if there is war or peace and the papers are endless." He stood. "I
see you have picked your Attendants. Good. I have received a
missive from the Treorai with instruction on your first expedition.
As per my suggestion, she has decided that you are to investigate
the situation at Scáthloch."

Socair raised an eyebrow. "Did you not say just this
afternoon that it had been overrun by hippocamp hordes?"

"It appears that the earlier scout was… mistaken. Our
latest intelligence reports that they merely sacked the town and
moved on." Crosta had his hands behind his back. "Not an uncommon
tactic for the hoofed bastards."

Socair had to agree. It seemed an odd thing that the
scouts would misread the lay of the field so drastically, but it
had been a long march and mistakes were a reality of tired
soldiers.

Crosta continued. "The latest reports also suggest
that there may be survivors within the city so a cursory scouting
won't do. If any nobles are found, it ought to go without saying
that they take priority. You are to undertake the task at your
leisure, but I suggest you go as soon as you are able for sake of
any survivors. Do you have any questions?"

"No questions." Socair answered in a formal voice.
"But my Attendants will require their own tent. I would not have
them bothered with such an important task ahead of them."

"I'm sure we can find a spare tent. It will be set up
at once." Crosta snapped at one of his guards, sending him dashing
out of the marquee. "I recommend that you sleep well and quickly.
Now if that is all, I am quite busy."

"Then, begging your pardon, Binseman."

"It need not be begged." He waved a hand toward the
exit, bidding Socair and her Attendants go. And so they did.

Socair was following Doiléir and Silín out when she
heard Crosta call out. She turned to face the Binseman.

"Bearer." Crosta's face was as emotionless as ever.
"Your death would be a grave embarrassment to the Treorai."

Socair lingered a moment, not sure if he meant to say
more.

"That is all." He did not.

The marquee's flaps parted and the cool night air
welcomed Socair. Tomorrow, she would no longer walk with the weight
of the lives of the vanguard on her shoulders. She would walk with
the full weight of all Abhainnbaile. And she hoped it would not
crush her.

The room was far hotter than Óraithe had expected it
to be and it was making her restless. Teas seemed unperturbed by
the sweltering air that sat languid in the abandoned basement
space. The northern elf busied herself by cleaning and arranging
what little they had managed to bring from the shop. Teas insisted
that the room needed something which was not made entirely of
splinters and old wood. She had brought several pillows and a small
table her family no longer had use of. It meant sitting,
essentially, on the floor but it could have been worse. Óraithe
would have preferred she brought something useful. Notebooks and
papers and the like. If they were to truly rebel, they would need
to plan. Óraithe didn't feel particularly safe leaving notebooks
and such around in Cosain's. He was apt to go snooping through
anything that was left sitting out in the open and she couldn't
remember seeing a drawer in the shop go unused in all her time
there. He had what he needed and not a touch more so anything that
did not belong would surely be found out quickly.

For all his fastidiousness, however, Cosain had not
seemed to notice that Óraithe had stolen away tiny amounts of some
of his lesser used ingredients. Many of them were for making
poisons, she knew, so when she had stolen them she took extra care
not to touch any directly. The walk to the room had been an
extremely nerve wracking one. She wasn't sure how potent or useful
any of the gathered items were without being brewed or mashed or
eaten, but she did not intend to find out by being bowled over by
some thoughtless whelp. She'd made it to the den without issue but
it dawned on her as she arrived that she had failed to procure
anything in which to store the pilfered goods. She couldn't very
well go back now so they sat in a corner wrapped in bits of
cloth.

The makeshift pouches sat in front of her on the
table now and, with nothing else to do other than breath the dust
that Teas seemed intent on stirring up, she could think of no
better thing to do than stare at them thinking of things they might
be used for. She wanted change— she could say that with certainty—
but how to achieve such a thing eluded her. If she could just
poison the Treorai. But would it really change anything? The High
District elves would busy themselves appointing the same woman
again, with different skin and a different face. That wouldn't do
but she supposed not knowing where to start was a fairly common
thing. There had been so few recorded instances of uprisings
against Treorai in the past that there existed only a single scroll
on the matter. The scroll had been transcribed into books as they
became the more ready form of portable reading, but it did not make
the wording less ancient.

For some reason, Cosain had allowed Óraithe to read
it once. It had taken her the better part of a season to get
through and she spent the bulk of that time looking up the words
she did not know. Cosain had refused to explain any of it to her.
He reasoned that if she was so enamored of insurrection, she ought
to educate herself as to what it truly meant with her own power.
While nothing was won without the help of others, Cosain had said,
she would need to stand above them in her own way to be worthy of
the help. Óraithe had dug into the tome out of a bullheaded want to
prove to Cosain that she was able, but as she read the stories she
became disheartened. Tale after tale of jealous siblings or power
mad generals. It was no great inspiration. It was a farce played
out at the whims of those who already held the power or in the beds
of those wily enough to coax a Treorai.

Óraithe remembered well the night that she finally
became fed up with the dusty old tome. She had flung it on the
ground at Cosain's feet, cursing him for wasting her time with
tales of spoiled highborn and their squabbles. He told her that she
now understood the way of things and said the true gift of the tale
was that she could read much of the old tongue now. She still
resented him for it, even now. She felt it had been a trick of some
kind. In her frustration, she asked him, pointedly, if the lowborn
had ever risen up. Once, he told her. In the north. It had lasted
less than half a season in the end. The rebels were killed to the
last man.

Cosain had been like a father to her. Not in the
wistful way one often likes to imagine, a wounded bird under a
comforting wing, but in the way of a true father. He scolded her,
pushed her to better herself, forced her to finish things she'd
begun. "And for what?" she thought. It had left her no better
off.

Óraithe lazily pushed the pouches aside and flopped
onto the table. Teas was startled out of the world of dust and
feathers she had been enjoying for so long. She let out a short
yelp and then cursed Óraithe for causing a racket for no reason.
Óraithe made a dismissive sound and rolled her head over to look
away from Teas.

"What's bothering you?" Teas went back to her dusting
as she spoke.

"Where do we begin?" Óraithe enjoyed the cold of the
table against her skin. The basement was unforgiving in its heat.
How could it not be bothering Teas? A northern elf of all things.
Surely she was weak to the heat.

"How do you mean?"

"Well, I… we mean to rebel, yes? But where do we
begin?"

Teas considered this for a moment, she turned and
spoke to Óraithe. "You stole that bread. Maybe something like
that?"

Óraithe sat up and looked at Teas. "No. That was
small. We need something that will truly hurt the highborn. Make
them take notice." Óraithe looked back to the table, considering
solutions to the problem.

"So something you can't do yourself, then?"

Óraithe leapt to her feet. "Yes." She ran to Teas and
hugged her. "Yes!" Óraithe made for the door. She stopped and
pointed to Teas. "We need members!"

Óraithe jumped up the stairs three at a time and
sprinted down one of the side alleys. If she ran fast enough the
hot air almost felt cool on the sweat that beaded her skin. The
thin alleyway gave way to a wider thoroughfare leading to the main
square. There were two such squares in Fásachbaile, one in the Low
District and one in the High. Óraithe had only caught glimpses of
the High District square. It was round, in spite of the term, but
she had never been close enough to get a proper look. She'd have
been thrown out if she were caught by one of the High District
guards. It was much quieter there, though. Not like the Low
District. She could hear it even with a fair few rows of houses
left before she would arrive.

While the High District square was a beautiful place
with fountains and green grass and trees, the Low District was a
cacophony of screaming vendors, crying children, and shouting
brawlers. It was a vibrant place, filled with all manner of goods
as the High District was restricted heavily. Óraithe had met elves
from all across the continent. She'd even seen a Drow or two. None
so close up as the last, but still they made her yearn to see so
much more of the world. The Low District square was also host to
more grim affairs. A permanent gallows stood at the north end of
the square. It was where the High District elves and their guards
made an example of any who had wronged them. It was where her
parents had been hanged when she was just a babe. In her readings,
she had learned that hanging had been outlawed as unduly cruel by
every other elven nation. Cosain had told her that the High
District elves who broke laws which demanded a life as repayment
were beheaded, as in other nations, rather than hanged.

Óraithe had seen more than enough death in this place
she called home. She could not even be bothered to recoil at the
sight of a corpse anymore. Starvation or a deal gone wrong or
whatever small thing. It all meant death in the Low District. The
hangings, though. They stayed with her. The bloated red faces, full
with blood. The was no quick release, only a slow strangle after
being stood on a pathetic stool.

She reached the square and slowed to a walk. There
was no covering of shadow here and the fetid stink of sweat and
piss and rot was overbearing. It wasn't always so bad, but today
was the last day of the week and fresh shipments would not come
until tomorrow. The square was rife with buyers, even with the
heat. While the slums were a large part of the Low District, they
were not the entirety of it. Some elves even managed to own houses
that were apart from their shops, though she doubted they
frequented the square for fear of pickpockets. Óraithe was there
for exactly that sort. How best to ensnare one was the
question.

By her reckoning, she would need someone younger than
herself. Any older and they were apt to ignore her. She had to lead
and she could think of no compelling reason for any to listen. It
would have to be age and empty promises. That was all she had to
offer. The thought of recruiting people who would go for such a
ploy distressed her, but she had to start somewhere.