No One's Chosen (34 page)

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.

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?