No One's Chosen (39 page)

The rain had given way not long after Rianaire and
Síocháin had left the hobbled old man to his fate at the hands of
the raiders. The moons lit the way for them, but the roads had
grown no more easily passable. Rianaire could not imagine how her
face must look. She could feel herself gritting her teeth from time
to time as visions of the day passed through her mind. Words like
anger and rage could not do justice to the black pit of hate that
had opened in her stomach.

As they rode, Rianaire said little, save to call
attention to deep divots. Síocháin said even less, keeping almost
entirely silent save the odd grunt or groan. The length of the day
wore on them both.

It was not long before they had happened across the
encampment they had slept at just the night before. Rianaire did
not dismount, but she did insist that they stop. They approached
the camp slowly, but it was quiet and void of any life. The elves
rode slowly through the wreckage, some of it still smoking from
long smothered fires. The bodies of Rianaire's guard were strewn
about the camp. They had been left where they fell for the most
part. Wolves had been at them, at least for a bit. Some were more
chewed than others but nearly all of them had at least had some
amount of flesh ripped from their naked limbs. There was no armor
left on any of them and wide holes where arrows had been coarsely
torn free of their bodies. Rianaire frowned as the horse carried
her through the camp.

It was at the far side of the camp that she saw his
face in the moonlight. Grod. She had all but watched him die, but
still a spike of pain ran through her heart to see him there. Even
he had not been safe from the hunger of the animals of the forest.
"And why would he be?" she thought, almost annoyed at having expect
him to somehow be, at least, dignified in death. It was not the
case. Grod's body lay in the indifferent mud staring up at nothing
through dead eyes. His legs had been ripped and torn from foot to
thigh, but they had left his face. Nothing below the waist was
readily recognizable. Even his cock had been turned into an
amorphous red lump. Rianaire forced herself to remember every inch
of his body.

As she passed Grod's corpse, there was a glint from
the burnt out husk of the carriage. Rianaire hopped down from her
horse and walked over to check it. Nearer the ground the small of
the camp had started to turn putrid from all the dead. She did her
best to ignore the stench and grabbed at the shiny metal hoping the
raiders might have missed the gold store kept under the seats of
the carriage. There was a single coin. They may have, Rianaire
reached into the ash and char to search for more.

Before she could find anything more, Síocháin rode up
next to her. "We have been here too long."

Rianaire only nodded and they pushed themselves back
onto the road. The old man in Ceird had not been wrong to call the
horses ill bred. They had heeded well enough for the first few
hours of their ride, but soon enough the horses made it plain that
they were happy to be neither ridden nor directed. Eventually,
Rianaire managed to her horse into a sort of acceptance. A short
break every hour or so made the ride bearable enough and kept the
horse compliant. She yearned for the destriers of the Bastion in a
way she had never guessed she would. That went double any time they
rode past an inn. Rianaire could not bring herself to complain, in
general. The pain of the ride and the lack of sleep did not trouble
her so much when they were under the light of the Eyes. There was
just something in the sight of an inn that pulled her body back to
reality. Her muscles groaned and begged that she might just lie
down. Just for a while. They had not been used so vigorously or for
such an extended period since her youth, she thought. Maybe there
had been some time. Some wild, forgotten sexual adventure with too
much wine and too many lovers but those at least offered comfort
and pleasure.

Rianaire had wanted to raise the question stopping at
some other town, or even heading north along one of the smaller
roads but she stopped herself. Síocháin was always her voice of
reason. Rianaire always knew better, but she preferred to be told
not to do a thing. It allowed her a sort of freedom, but it was
selfish. She could not bring herself to be selfish now. She could
not bring herself to force Síocháin to tell her that there may well
be outlaws lying in wait for them at every inn along the road to
Spéirbaile. Or that they needed to return to the Bastion as quickly
as they could manage. She knew those things well enough.

The sun was well into the sky when they came across a
sign telling them they were nearing Spéirbaile. The sign was well
known to Rianaire. In the frequent trips to Cnoclean in her youth,
she would always watch the road for the sign. It meant they were no
more than an hour's ride from home and she would be free of the
boredom of their stately procession. The road had dried sometime in
the night and their pace had increased. Rianaire could not seem to
remember exactly where it was that the roads smoothed but she knew
it had been some time in what she considered a long forgotten past.
Every passing out seemed an eternity to her. A constant struggle to
stay awake should there be danger had made forming strong memories
a luxury. With the memories of her ride had gone a firm grasp on
the passage of time. Rianaire felt sure that Síocháin would tell
her they'd ridden two days or more. She would not be able to argue
were it the case but the road was nearly at an end and the cool
breeze of home felt fresh upon her face.

They rode on for another forty-five minutes. The
horses they had taken from Ceird had proven fit enough for the task
though they had begun to complain in the last few miles. Rianaire
called to Síocháin and suggested they stop. The stoic elf nodded
her agreement and they slowed the horses and pushed to the side of
the road.

"It is good to be so near home," Rianaire said,
allowing herself a smile for the first time in what felt like an
age.

Síocháin stepped down and offered a flat reply. "I
worry it will not be so simple as that."

Rianaire could imagine what she meant. "If Spárálaí
has had his way, you may be right. Surely by now he has heard we
are still alive. It is not worth assuming he thinks otherwise. We
cannot know if the guards are with him or if the word has been
spread to the populace." The Treorai began walking toward the city,
her handmaid in tow.

"I worry more over the former. It will make his
conspirators desperate. It could harm the city or we may simply
find ourselves murdered in the Bastion. They would have little to
lose from such an action if their primary concern is removing you
from your position."

That was the truth of it, surely. Rianaire was a bit
surprised to find that the idea annoyed her more than filled her
with rage or indignation. This had been exactly the sort of thing
she'd wanted to avoid. Her Binsemen would require greater scrutiny
in the future. Perhaps less focus on merit and a bit more on how
well they understood the ideal she hoped to achieve. It was early
for that sort of thought, true, but solutions needed to be
considered as early as one was able such that they might
mature.

All the roads outside of Spéirbaile had their little
villages. The main road boasted the most fruitful among them with
dozens of shops and inns. They were often bustling as well. Aside
from the folk who just meant to leave in the shadow of the city and
try to profit from it, there were those that had been denied entry
for whatever reason or those who were told they must wait to enter.
It made for a reasonable business and there were inns around
Spéirbaile that were, in a few cases much nicer than the ones even
in the Outer Crescent. The gold she had found in the carriage would
be more than enough to afford them a room.

As they approached the town, Rianaire pulled her
cloak's hood up over her head. The rain had kept the main road to
Cnoclean mercifully clear and they had been able to ride the night
without worry of being spotted out, but the Spéirbaile outskirts
would not afford them much in the way of privacy. The highborn
women made their way down the main road. The buildings grew more
frequent as they neared the wall and the street itself filled with
life. People shopping and seeing to their lives. Rianaire could not
help but feel like she would be recognized at any moment but people
tended to see things only if they took their proper shape and were
in their proper place. Seeing the Treorai in this place in ruined
clothes and smelling of shit and mud and sweat was like to be
unthinkable, even had her face been showing plainly.

Síocháin tapped her on the shoulder and pointed to an
appropriately decent looking inn. It was a humble place, small and
built up two storeys. It was formed of a stone and mortar base with
wood slats above and a green shingled roof. The door was light and
opened easily as if welcoming them home. Rianaire felt at ease when
she stepped inside. Síocháin was just behind her and closed the
door lightly. Again, none of the elves who sat about in the lobby
seemed to pay them particular mind. Rianaire took the gold coin she
had salvaged and pushed it into Síocháin's hand. The handmaid took
the coin and made for the desk to the far side of the lobby.

Rianaire kept herself by the door in case something
went amiss. She did not expect it to, not this close to Spéirbaile,
but the unease that had weighed on her since the previous morning
had not left. The wait was a short one. Síocháin returned and
jingled seven silvers at her before nodding in the direction of the
room.

They were up a flight of stairs and away from the
rabble. When they had ascended half the staircase, Síocháin spoke.
"It is the room farthest from prying eyes. That is what the innkeep
told me." They topped the stairs and Síocháin turned, heading to
the end of a narrow hall. "She winked at me. Repeatedly. And she
made regular mention of Abhainnbaile. She may imagine we have come
from the south."

"So much the better," Rianaire said as they
approached the door to the room. Síocháin pulled out a bronze key
and pushed it into the lock. It twisted easily and opened the room
to them. The pair walked casually into the rented space and closed
the door behind.

Rianaire basically ripped the cloak from her body
when they entered the room. She began working at the clothes as
well. Síocháin was less frantic about disrobing. She placed her own
cloak on a chair on the far side of the room and returned to help
Rianaire. The Treorai forced herself to calm down as Síocháin
worked the buttons of her clothes.

"I apologize. I have been in clothes for too many of
the past hours." Rianaire looked down to see Síocháin smile and
then turned her eyes to the ceiling and closed them a moment.

There was a soothing ache in the closing of the lids
over her tired eyes. A sort of smooth, dull ache that sort of
melted down into a comfort that was hard to describe. Like bending
a joint that doesn't want to pop but finally gives way. A
satisfying hurt that held the promise of comfort when it faded.

Rianaire felt the dress fall away from her body and
she pulled in a relieved breath as deep as she could manage. She
opened her eyes grudgingly and looked around the room. Síocháin was
back by the chair that bore her cloak undressing herself. There was
a wash basin next to the door they had come in. It was filled with
clean water and looked properly enticing. Other than the basin
there was a small writing desk with a chair and a pair of windows
on either wall of the corner room. There was also a bed sized for
two against the wall just to the left of the door. The bed could
wait. Rianaire doffed her smallclothes and took up a cloth. She
dipped it into the cool water of the basin and rubbed it over her
body. No doubt she made sounds unbefitting a ruler as the cool
water made its course over her curves but she could not bring
herself to care. When she had finished she left the cloth on the
side of the basin and fell onto the bed.

She had been on more comfortable beds, she knew that
just from the look of the thing, but her body would not have
believed her if she told it so. There was a thick down mattress on
top of a pine frame. It was simple but comfortable and sank amply
when she fell onto it. The mattress and the blankets over it
wrapped over the edges of her naked arms and felt cool down her
back. She wanted to fall asleep there and never get up again.

Síocháin finished washing herself at the basin and
shook out her smallclothes to put them back on. Rianaire forced
herself to sit up in the bed.

"You mean to go out already?" she asked, a bit
sad.

Síocháin's voice was even as she considered her small
clothes. "I do not trust myself to sleep as briefly as we need. We
will both require fresh clothes and I do not intend to wait for the
inn to feed me. It would also be prudent to gather some information
about the situation here."

Rianaire stood slowly and walked to the writing desk.
"Well if they've all been told I'm dead, I am disappointed by the
reception. I'd hoped for weeping in the streets at the least." She
scribbled a short note and rolled it up. There was some wax and
blank sealing stamp beside her. The wax was soft enough from the
heat of the day that Rianaire needed only press the stamp across
the edge and it pulled free enough of the stuff to seal the writ.
"You remember Mion, do you not?" she said, offering the scroll over
to Síocháin.

"The brothel owner."

Rianaire nodded. He was much more than that and he
would be of great use in this situation. Even if the whole of the
Binse had been turned against her and the guard, there was no way
the strict propriety of Spárálaí would allow him to consort with
whoremongers. "He has dirty fingers with a long reach," she said
plainly. "He will get us beyond the first wall at the least. And he
will know the state of things. Any courier will do. I cannot
imagine Spárálaí has stooped so low as to read the private letters
of citizens."