No One's Chosen (75 page)

"No. It is again a blame that lies with me. I needed
to see to it that you understood my intent, but Crosta abused your
sense of duty to delay his undoing. You…" She smiled at Socair.
"You have made me very proud. It is an honor to have you as a
Bearer of the Will. Others may not have seen things as you did. You
have a tactical mind to rival Crosta's own."

"I… I am not worthy of the compliment, Treorai."

Deifir laughed. "You are too modest. I hope I might
cure you of it." She turned her head to the side, curious. "I
wonder, though. How is it you evaded my scouts for the whole of a
week? There is little that can elude them."

Socair told the story of the old healer and her trek
through the wood and Crosta's suicide. She handed over the papers
and explained that there were many more but that they had burned.
Deifir looked through them silently and placed them on the table.
She stood and Socair did the same.

"I… Treorai, if I might."

"Of course, my Bearer."

"There was a girl… Práta. I do not know…"

Deifir smiled kindly. "She is here. The girl is
clever. I will have her sent to your quarters."

"My…" Socair did not understand. Guests were not
permitted within the Bastion.

Before Socair could process what Deifir had said, a
hand pulled down on her shoulder. She snapped to her senses and
knelt before the fair elf. The hand stayed at her shoulder, a soft
finger brushing her neck.

"Socair of Abhainnbaile. You have served the province
with unerring dedication and skill. You stayed true to the nature
of your heart and you have seen the undoing of those who would
bring harm to our kin. Your skill and prowess in battle is
unmatched and you have a great mind for battle. It is for these
reasons and more that I, Deifir, Treorai of Abhainnbaile, would ask
that you give yourself to my service that I might name you to my
Binse."

Socair raised her head to see Deifir looking down at
her. When their eyes met, Deifir smiled.

"Will you accept?"

"I… I will."

Deifir leaned down and placed her soft lips to
Socair's. Her eyes closed as a warm feeling spread through her
entire body. The smell was sweet and there was a sound of the soft
brush of hair over Socair's ears.

The kiss was long and sweet and when Deifir stood,
Socair looked up at her. The Treorai offered a smooth, white
hand.

"Come. We have much to do."

The only light in the cell was from the torch in the
walk outside. She still had a cut across her face and considerable
swelling from where the guards had thrown her against the ground
just outside the Palisade. It had not been the impact that cause
the damage, but the boot that followed. The most Óraithe could
remember of the event was a searing pain and a red flash. She had
not seen whether the rich elves had come out to gawk at her as they
dragged her off to wherever she was. There was a small jail outside
of the Bastion and she assumed that was where she had been taken
but there was never enough light to tell the color of the walls and
she certainly could not see or hear the outside world. She may have
been underground.

For two weeks, she had scratched marks into the wall
when she woke from her sleep, but her sleep had become so irregular
that she decided there was little sense in the act anymore. She was
not sure that the measure of the eight days had been accurate,
even. It may have been no more than a week. It was impossible to
say how many hours had passed. The small stream of orange light
only came through the cracks in the door at the top and bottom and
around a small slat that they slid across to drop the food
through.

She had grown to live for the small burst of light
that flooded in. More than once she had clambered toward the light,
but it had only made her jailer shut the slat quickly and she got
no food. She did not dare sit next to the hole. She wanted to see
out but not so badly as to risk being grabbed. She had considered
sleeping next to the slat, but after the screams it no longer
seemed prudent.

It had happened across two meals. They came twice
each day, it seemed, and dropped old, tough meat through the hole.
Or rather, something that had the taste of meat but not the
texture. It was three days before she could stomach the stuff and
even now it was just enough that she could force it down. It was a
few days before that there had been a whimpering and crying sound
from the hall outside. Óraithe thought it had been a dream or her
mind breaking when she first heard the sounds. It wasn't until the
jailer helped and there was the clattering of a tray that she knew
there was another body in this dark void with her. She had tried to
whisper to whoever it was between the meals but there was no
response. Only the same whimpers and crying. When the next meal had
come, Óraithe's was dropped as usual, but the other… she heard the
slat open and then a girl's scream. There were a few thumps and the
screams died. And then nothing.

She was thankful when the whimpers stopped. They had
played havoc with her dreams. She slept so much now and most of
them were inky, black sleeps except when the girl whimpered and
cried. Then the dreams were of Teas and the girl's red, soggy face.
She apologized in the dreams, over and over until the words became
trenchant and the girl's face was a sneer. Sometimes Scaa would
appear when she closed her eyes. She would take Óraithe's hand and
smile sadly. When Óraithe tried to speak to her, she would walk off
into the fog that seemed to exist at the edge of the black space
that had become the stage for everything she saw, wake or
sleep.

When she had first awoken in the cell, she had walked
the bounds of the room to see how large it was. They had taken her
boots away when they had put her in the dark but she sought to
check the size of her prison in spite of the risk of walking about
blind. The smell was terrible and she found why in the far corner
of the small space. Her bare feet met a cold, soft pile and the
rancid stink it released told her what was there. She had come to
use the corner as her predecessor had. It was the most she could do
to keep her wits. There were days when it was hard to muster the
will to even move to the corner to piss, but she forced herself. It
was a scrap to cling to and she meant to cling.

Óraithe had not known what to feel the first days.
Had they killed her then, she may not have even noticed. There was
never fear but anger rolled through in the pitch black when there
was not even a torch to orient her. She had dragged her fist across
the door with a wild swing at nothing and found it to be unfinished
and splintered. She spent hours trying to ignore the pain and then
hours more pulling the wood from the back of her hand. The wounds
had healed, or at least it felt like it. There were still bumps and
she was not entirely sure if they were scabs or wood that was stuck
under the skin that she had not been able to pull free. But then,
the rage passed and Óraithe sat in the dark and the emptiness
rolled back over her heart.

They came for her the first time when she was
sleeping. She was pulled out into the hall and the dim light of the
torches had nearly blinded her. The small amount of light she was
allowed had done little to prepare her for a pair of torches. The
room outside was small, but she could still not tell the color of
the stone. The room was all orange to her eyes and there were two
other doors. She lived in the one on the left. One sat at the back
wall and another to the right. Panic set in as they took her up the
stairs. This was surely it, they would kill her. She felt so naive
now, thinking that at the time. Death was not so bad, she now knew.
Death… death was acceptable.

The rack was a jagged thing. She had been left in her
clothes when they tossed her in the cell, but her first trip away
from the darkness saw an end to that. Before she had even had the
breath to make a protest the fat man in dark leather slapped her
hard. The world spun and he tore at her clothes. Every move to
cover herself was met with another slap, more vicious than the
first. She had started to cry and another slap came. She was
grabbed up by the man and his helper, a scarred woman with a
missing eye and a thick neck. He wrapped leather tight around her
wrists. Too tight. Her hands went purple almost immediately as the
woman pulled her legs down and wrapped them the same as her
hands.

"Nawsty wit'le cunt." She could hardly understand the
pig of a man through his slurred words but she felt it well enough
when she slapped her tits the first time.

The shock ran through her body and she jerked. He
laughed and said something to the woman but she stayed silent,
watching with a sick smile. He leaned down and wrapped a pair of
greasy lips around her nipples. She wanted to retch but the pain
was too much. When she made no sound, he asked her what was wrong
and slapped at her tits again. She jerked and tears ran hot down
her face. If she made the sound of crying she did not hear it. He
put his mouth again to her breast but this time he bit. That was
the first time she screamed. It was not the last.

Blood ran down from the spot and she could feel the
warm liquid work its way to the middle of her back. Óraithe closed
her eyes to escape the sights at least, but the hand came across
her face again. She watched as the woman heated the flat of her
sword. She pressed it to Óraithe's slim stomach just under her
breasts. The girl did not know she could scream so loud. She prayed
now for the black of the cell. Prayers did not get answered, she
knew. Next was the inside of her thigh. And then the small of her
back. That was the burn that sent her unconscious.

She woke again in the cell. Her crotch ached horribly
so she reached down. The flesh was tender and she pulled away
something wet. She could not see what. She did not want to see. She
told herself it was blood. The burns had been covered with large
globs of salve that did nothing so far as she could tell. There was
nothing she could think to do so Óraithe curled into a ball and lay
on the floor, trying her best not to move. Moving hurt and the pain
reminded her of that terrible room.

The second time they took her, the piggish man left
her with the scarred woman. Óraithe watched as the woman busied
herself around the room moving metal implements from one place to
another. She could not help but flinch every time a metal clank
sounded. When her captor was satisfied with the preparations, she
turned to Óraithe. It was not just the scars that made the woman
terrible to look at. She looked as though she had been sewn
together from several other elves. Her skin was splotchy and
mismatched.

She moved to Óraithe's side and leaned down to her
ear. "Yer a… a… spuh… special one." The words seemed to jerk out of
her as if by fits and starts.

Her laugh was a breathy hiss that made Óraithe's skin
crawl. The woman licked her lips, showing a bifurcated tongue. She
moved to the bench where she had prepared things and donned a pair
of leather gloves. She picked up a large metal cylinder with a
rounded top.

"Th-This one…" She smiled, showing a mouthful of
black teeth. "It… s'for pleasure." The woman held it over a flame
and Óraithe could see the colors on the metal shift. "Not… your…
pleasure."

She cackled and pulled the cylinder near her face.
"Not… too hot… hah hah." She panted, almost salivated and pulled a
ratchet on the rack.

Óraithe's legs spread helplessly as the terrible
machine moved and her breathing sped up.

"Yes… just… like that." The woman touched herself
with her free hand.

She aimed the cylinder carefully and smiled again,
placing the free hand on Óraithe's thigh. The metal rod pushed into
her. There was no sizzle as you'd hear with meat on hot metal.
There was no sound at all except for Óraithe's screams and the
horny grunts of the woman between her legs. Black teeth pulled the
glove from the woman's free hand and she began to masturbate as she
forced the burning rod into Óraithe over and over. The small elf
could take no more and she pissed onto the rod as the world faded.
She heard the woman scream in ecstasy and nothing more until she
awoke in the cell.

It was another week before the swelling receded at
all, but she had not been taken back to the room. She only laid
curled up in the room with her eyes closed. She awoke to the sound
of the food falling and did not move for it. Something about the
sound of it struck her. It sounded like the sloshing of water. The
image of the warped bucket filled her mind and Óraithe started to
laugh. She did not know a time that she had ever laughed so hard in
her life. Outside they cursed her and told her to shut up. She did
not. The noise from the guard continued but Óraithe could not hear
his words and she did not care too. Did he not understand? The
bucket.

The door burst open and the room flooded with orange
light. He slapped her mercilessly and she fell to the floor, still
in hysterics. He lifted her and struck her again. She looked him
dead in the eyes and kept laughing. He struck her again and again
but the laughter persisted. Finally he gave in, kicking the strange
meat to the corner as he left, slamming the door behind.

She was not fed for two days after that, but it did
not matter to Óraithe. She understood now. She would waste no more
time, she had wasted enough. This place had walls and a floor, it
was enough. From the time she woke to the time she slept, she would
do what was needed. They fed her little, but it would suffice to
keep her alive. She had a purpose again. A purpose had saved her
when Cosain died. It did not matter if it saved her now. Death was
acceptable. But it would have to come and find her.