No One's Chosen (46 page)

"I have dispatched a dozen of my best men to see to
her capture and I ask that you do all that you can to keep her
there. While she is a dangerous creature, I have it on good
authority that she does not act without some monetary gain. Destroy
any weapons she may possess and I give you my assurances that you
and your daughter will come to no harm by the Drow.

"The justice of the Province now relies upon your
bravery. Do not fail us.

"By the Grace of Spéir and her Sisters,

"Spárálaí of Spéirbaile"

Aile folded the letter as it had been and returned it
to its place. She carefully slid the board back into place, closed
the wardrobe, and gathered up her leathers. She left the room as it
had been and closed the door. Her boots had not been in the
wardrobe along with her clothes, but she assumed they were
somewhere less hidden. Boots were boots, after all, and the
woodcutter had proven himself more than willing to show that he
meant her no harm, even if that had not been entirely true.

Back in the relative privacy of the room she had been
afforded, the Drow pulled on her leathers. They felt tight and her
wounds ached for the restriction the tight garb forced upon them.
It had taken her some time to dress but it was still not quite
midday and lunch was still an hour off by most standards. She had
hidden the poisons the woodcutter had been kind enough to deliver
to her. Something the elf no doubt did before the letter had
arrived. He probably cursed himself for having given her the
tinctures but retrieving them would have been suspicious and, after
all, she was dangerous. "At least when armed," she laughed to
herself. She pulled them from their hiding places and returned them
to their homes among her outfit's many pockets.

Aile left the room again, with stronger purpose this
time. She did not know when the lot of elves had been dispatched to
murder her, but it could not have been long. She needed to leave as
soon as she was able. The Drow made for the living room, assuming
there may have been a lot of shoes by the door. There were and hers
among them. She grabbed them up and moved to the uncomfortable
looking couch. There were a smaller set of shoes as well. It would
seem the girl was real enough.

The couch was as uncomfortable as it had looked. She
put her boots on with as much speed as she could manage. The wounds
on her leg and side twisted and complained but held. She stood and
made for the back door, rather than the front. She needed to be
seen leaving. She needed to know his intention.

The back door swung open and the bright sun on the
green grass felt almost oppressive. She had not been out in the
plain brightness of day in quite a while and her eyes did not
welcome the change from the comparatively dim interior of the
house. There was a path marked by run down, yellowed grass that ran
between the house and the sawmill. Aile had not seen it before, but
it would make for a good enough way to be noticed. The woodcutter
was at the top of the saw mill operating the saw crank. She made
sure to close the door loudly behind and made for the path.

Above, the sound of the mill stopped almost
immediately and he called to her. Aile did not stop or look above,
she simply walked as smoothly as she could manage down the path.
She did not want to seem weak or infirm, lest the elf get ideas.
Seeing that she was not stopping, he came down in something of a
hurry and headed her off.

"Feeling better, are you?" He trotted to a stop in
front of her smiling lightly.

Aile stopped as well. "I am."

"Ah, aye. Good. And you found your clothes. I'd meant
to return 'em when you were right to leave. Suppose you mean to
leave, then?"

"I do."

He looked over his shoulder and down the path, toward
the road. He turned back to Aile and smiled. "How about I treat you
to a supper by way of a celebration. And another night to heal your
leg surely wouldn't do you any harm. I'll even make you up a pack
for food and drink."

Aile ignored him and stepped to the side to go
around. He put a strong hand on her shoulder and looked down at her
with a serious face.

"You're sure you won't stay?"

The Drow pretending to consider this a moment.
"Another night should be of no harm."

She could hear the man sigh when she turned and made
for the house. He did not follow her or do much else to ensure she
would stay. He likely would have liked to see her go, but duty to
the realm was often a serious matter among the elves, she had
learned.

The hours until the meal passed slowly. Aile did not
move from the room. It would not be prudent to try the elf too
much. If he decided she might flee, a fight would not leave her
unscathed. If the man took a lunch, she did not hear it. The
sawmill sang its song of clacks and groans until the sun was at the
horizon. She had watched the road through her window every moment
until the sun dipped low. They may still make the cottage tonight,
but the likelihood was lower now at the least.

An hour later, a strong knock came at the door. It
was time for a curious game to begin. Aile stood and went to the
door, opening it to find the woodcutter there, smiling a practiced
smile.

"Supper's on. Stew of goat and a soda bread. It ain't
much but it's more'n we'd normally have."

"I am grateful."

He led out to the kitchen where the table had been
set but for the bread. A large pot sat in the middle of the table
and the girl she had not seen was on the far side of it bouncing in
her chair. Aile walked to the table and brushed her fingers across
the roughly made spoons at the two empty settings.

The woodcutter noticed her attention to the
silverware. "Ah, you'll forgive the cheap utensils, I hope. I can't
afford much better."

"It is no problem at all."

She sat herself across from the girl as the
woodcutter retrieved the bread from the oven. He placed it on a
wood board on the table and began serving the stew into hammered
metal bowls.

"Did you come from the Blackwood?" The girl's voice
was innocent and high.

"I did. But I have not been back there for a long,
long time."

"Why not? Is it because the Drow are so scary?"

"Glao! I taught you better manners." The woodcutter
was quick to chide the girl. She forced her hands into her lap and
shut her mouth tight. "The girl didn't mean nothing by it."

"It is no trouble. Many of my kin are frightful
indeed." She took the spoon and lifted some stew to her mouth,
blowing on it gently before taking the bite. The stew was awful.
"It is delicious."

The woodcutter let out a breath and tore at some
bread, handing a piece to the girl and then taking another for
himself. "I hear rumors, but it ain't right to judge folk from
stories. Even a Drow among the Sisters." He took a bite of the
bread and quickly followed it with a spoonful of the stew. "I
don't… don't…"

The words caught in his throat and he put his hands
on the table, his breathing labored and grew more difficult with
each pull of his lungs. He tried to speak but the air could not
pass through. The child had not yet noticed her father's struggle
and happily ate of the stew.

"The horsefolk call it 'til.'" Aile pulled a small
vile of golden brown oil from her leathers. "It is a most curious
poison. Closes the throat entirely. It comes from a seed and is
utterly harmless to every creature but elves. I hear the satyr even
use it in their cooking." The girl looked up at Aile with a raised
eyebrow, not following the conversation. Aile nodded at the
woodcutter with her head.

His nails dug into the table and his face had
purpled, his eyes bulging and bloodshot. The girl leapt from her
chair and began pawing at his arm. "Papa? Papa, what is it? Papa!"
He looked down at her with a sorrowful expression, full with pain
and then to Aile. He swung at her with a tired arm but she slid her
chair back and his hand closed over nothing but air. The girl
followed him to the ground, pounding on his arm. He reached up
weakly and laid a hand gently across her cheek. Tears were
streaming down his swollen face.

The girl looked up at Aile. "Help him! Help Papa!
Please!"

Aile smiled, speaking slowly through the accent the
Blackwood had etched into her. "Have you forgotten child? Drow are
scary."

The girl's face flushed with terror as she came to
understand what was happening. She stood and ran for the back door,
throwing it open with a great slam. Aile stood and followed her at
a brisk pace.

The girl was nearly across, at the sawmill, by the
time Aile made the back door. Her tiny arms yanked on the door to
the storehouse under the mill and finally tore the door open. She
hurried inside and shut it behind.

Aile approached the door calmly and pulled it open
with ease. The child sat on the pile of hay that had played host to
a corpse just over a week prior. She held a pitchfork and wielded
it awkwardly at Aile.

The whelp did her best to suppress her sobbing and
sniffling. She did all that she could to look brave and scary like
the Drow. As Aile neared, the girl thrust the weapon at her. Aile
batted it away with her good arm and fell upon the girl, seizing
her tightly by the neck.

She squeezed into the flesh of the girl's throat.
Tiny hands clawed at her wrists and the backs of her hands. In the
dark of the storehouse, Aile's hands began to glow orange. The meat
under her hand began to sizzle and smoke. The child let go an
unearthly scream as the skin of her neck turned to flame. Aile
dropped her back onto the hay and within seconds, the small elf's
entire head was engulfed in flames. The screams were shrill and
pained. Aile turned and left the storehouse.

The smoke grew as she made her way down the path.

"Spéirbaile," she thought. "I shall need some new
blades."

The dining room of the Black Keep of Dulsiar was not
so different from the one in Glascroí. It was easily larger but
held the same stiff atmosphere that had put Socair off the other
dinner. She could not be upset overmuch, however, as she had been
allowed to bring her Attendants. She insisted that Práta be
included in the number though there had been no official decision
to call her an Attendant. Official things mattered little to Socair
and she wondered if there was even a need to worry over such
things. Drawing circles around things puts one at a distance from
those outside of the ring and Socair did not want any such distance
in her traveling group if she could manage it.

While the room was largely similar, Socair's
treatment could not have been more starkly different. While there
was some level of polite curiosity before, the tone of voice seemed
to carry a sort of nose-up superiority about what it must be like
to be such a lowborn brute of a woman come among nobles. Now, there
was open praise and glowing smiles. Socair could not help but feel
as though her new title had given her a pass to see behind the
curtain of feigned nobility. It only made them seem more strange to
her. They were not so different from the lowborn in truth, but
there seemed to be a need to force a separation of cultures. Socair
shook her head at the thought. More political workings that she had
no interest in understanding. Highborn elves were creatures of whim
after all.

There was a buffet setting before the meal with fine
meats and finger foods. Silín and Doiléir had made themselves more
than comfortable, though Socair noticed at least three highborn
pointing at the pair and making various faces from dismissal to
annoyance. She had told them to dress as they would and they had
worn their brigandines. Socair had as well, so there was little to
be said about it. It was how they were most comfortable and, to
have the truth of it, Socair was pleased that there was a sort of
bond in it. Several times throughout the night, she had felt the
discomfort of the room creep over her and each time she had run a
hand over the fabric of the chest covering. It had put her at
ease.

Práta had been the only one to dress more elegantly.
She wore a scarlet dress trimmed with embroidered purple waves. The
dress made her look more mature than she did in the Binseman's
drab. She was sultry in a way and confident. "She's a different
woman entirely," Socair thought. And it was true. She answered
questions eloquently and smiled politely. She was heir to what was
left of Glassruth, but had taken to Crosta's service while it was
being rebuilt. She had confided in Socair during their ride to
Dulsiar that she did not enjoy the military. Of course, she'd
immediately blustered an apology but the truth of it was there.
Socair almost wanted to protect the girl from it, looking at her
now. She was vibrant and calm, the opposite of Socair in the same
situation. Práta, so awkward in the day, was a true beauty among
the court. The girl's comfort made Socair feel sad and distant.

Before long the call for dinner sounded. Silín and
Doiléir sat to either side of her and there were the typical
questions. About Glassruth, about her feelings on being a Bearer,
who her Attendants were and why they were chosen. When she was
asked about her Attendants, she had included Práta as a matter of
course, to not seem rude. For whatever reason, it had quite
surprised the room and they had offered a round of congratulations
to the girl and then, perhaps remembering their manners, to the
other Attendants.

From there the talk turned to discussions of the
bounty of the area.

"Yes, Dulsiar is responsible for the nearly half the
trade in fish and the bulk of the cranberries in the province," the
Regent said proudly. He was a fit enough man, middle aged and
balding. A rim of hair circled his head and made his long ears
stand out all the more.