No One's Chosen (41 page)

The latch to her door rattled and Aile instinctively
shot up in the bed. The speed of it caught up with her and her
muscles revolted. She grabbed the hole in her side. She had
loosened the scabbing last night and she was still nude. There was
little she would be able to do against a full grown elf without her
daggers and there was nothing to hand. The door opened and she saw
him for the first time.

The woodcutter was not unduly large but he was well
muscled and covered with light golden hair. A full beard, long,
unkempt hair, and arms full with the stuff. When he saw her sitting
up in the bed, top half naked, he averted his eyes.

"Ah! Beg pardon, miss. I didn't know you was awake so
soon." His voice was deep but genuine. "There's clothes on the
table there. I figured with the way you was last night you'd be
needin' 'em."

Aile did not move a muscle, only stared. She kept
unblinking black eyes on the elf. He stood for a moment in silence
with eyes averted, realizing she did not mean to dress.

"I'll… I'll just come back then." He retreated
without looking over and closed the door behind him.

With the woodcutter gone, Aile looked to her side and
saw there were indeed clothes there for her. She put her unsure
feet on the floor of the room. The cool of the wood felt as it
should. The room itself was hot in the Saol sun and she welcomed
the cool feeling under her feet. The pain in her body had started
to dull to a sort of background noise in the moments since she had
been startled awake and she was growing more accustomed to the pain
of smaller movements. She would be able to account for them soon
enough should she need to fight.

Aile put a hand on the headboard of the bed she'd
spent the past week and more in. She pulled herself up. The pain
shot through, manageable now that she knew what it would be, and
her head rushed. It did not take her legs from under her this time.
She turned to the bedside table to consider the clothes there. Her
bloodstained smallclothes were there. Braies and the linen shift
she had worn under her leathers. They had been washed and the stain
was now only a pale tan with a ring of strong brown at the
edges.

It took all of her concentration to coordinate her
muscles enough to don the braies. Her legs threatened to cramp with
every move, especially at the calf and the large tear in her arm
did little to aid her endeavor. When she had pointed her toes to
pull the cloth over her good leg, the lower half of the limb had
wrenched itself into an angry ball. Aile wanted nothing more than
to scream out and fall over and rub them, but she held. The other
leg was no easier and the hole in it made each move a strong
protest. Her body wanted nothing near the wound and made her hands
go weak as they passed the area. The shift had not been near so
problematic. Her arms balked at the work but complied readily
enough. It was her wrists that were the worst, threatening to
clench at most of the articulations of her hands.

Aside from her smallclothes there was a massive shift
of thicker fabric, dyed roughspun in a forest green. She pulled it
over her head, moving her torn arm as little as she could manage,
and nearly let go a laugh at the sight of it. It looked more a
dress than anything, and a poorly hemmed dress at that.

"The elf would have done better to cut a hole in a
sheet," she thought. It likely would have been less scratchy a
material as well.

When she had dressed, she looked around the room.
There was no sign of her leathers, nor her weapons. Before she
could move to inspect the room further, the door opened and the man
returned. He was carrying a few vials and crystals this time. She
recognized them immediately. They were from her leathers. Aile
moved to the far end of the bed as he approached.

"I don't know so much about Drow. Know even less
about Drow medicine, but I reckon these are apt to be for that sort
of thing." He placed her items on the bedside table. "I doubt as it
means much, but I don't mean you no harm." He stepped away to give
her room. "I know folks have their troubles and their business and
sometimes I don't agree with what they do or how they live, but the
Sisters say we ought to help and so… well… you just go when you're
ready. You're welcome to sup with me and my child if it please you.
Meantime, I got some bread and some cheese."

He did not linger after he had said what he meant to,
for that Aile was thankful. The elf was simple enough and seemed
sincere. There was luck in this. At least, she hoped there was. She
still had her life so he did not mean to kill her. Not while she
was without her wits anyway. It was five minutes or so before he
returned with a small platter. There was a hard yellow cheese and a
quarter of a round of bread. He left it on the table and turned to
leave.

The woodcutter stopped next to the door. "Dinner'll
be sometime after sundown. I'll bring a bowl and some bread."

The door closed behind him and Aile heard his
footsteps move away from the door. The sound of another door
closing at the far end of the house told her that he had left to
return to his work. Aile put a piece of the cheese on her tongue.
It was sharp and far from the best she'd ever had but her mouth
flooded with saliva in spite of that. She forced herself to eat
slowly. If she stuffed the food down, as her body wanted, she would
soon be looking at it half-digested on the floor.

The platter was cleared quickly and the Drow looked
to the items she had been given. She plucked a vial from the table
and rolled it across her fingers, the pain all but forgotten.

"Medicine," she chuckled to herself. "I ought to be
thankful to the elves for their ignorance."

They were poisons, each of them. She had never kept
medicine in her leathers. A few balms and the like in her pack, but
never on her body. A waste of space and a show of doubt in her own
ability. The elf had been kind enough to return the items since he
could not see them for their purpose, but Aile had no intention of
using them on the man or his child. Not unless she needed to. There
was no profit in it and she was not one to kill a creature that had
nursed her to health.

Aile stood and considered the room again. She moved
to the dresser nearest the bed and pulled open the top drawer. It
was half-full with tiny smallclothes. The child must be quite
young. The garments were even too small for Aile to fit. The rest
of the drawers held similar clothes and the cabinet was filled with
dull colored dresses of coarse linen. There was only one which was
of a size for a grown woman. A dress of pale green silk with deep
green sparrows embroidered around the bottom. She had not heard the
sound of a voice other than the woodcutter and he mentioned no
wife. The dress must've been hers, kept for the child.

There was little in the room that Aile could use. It
was less than ideal, but at the very least the room did not reek of
having been built to hold her. It was lived in, surely. She moved
to the door out of curiosity. Her thumb pulled down at the latch.
It was old and stuck a bit, but the latch moved and the door swung
open just the slightest bit before she pushed it back closed. She
was no prisoner, she thought, and if she was, the woodcutter was
confident he could keep her from escaping by other means. It would
not have been hard with her current state, she knew.

Aile moved back to the bed and sat again. The ache in
her muscles grew in volume, reminding her of the abuse they'd
suffered. She did not trust the man but he meant her no harm for
the moment, that was good enough. She would have his kindness with
caution and leave as soon as she was able. It should be no more
than a day. It had been too long already, she reminded herself. Her
employer had meant to have her killed and he had nearly succeeded.
That would need to be seen to.

The morning's food had been the rest of the meat from
the night before. It was not a glamorous meal but it would get them
to Dulsiar well enough and they could eat at any of the inns or
taverns within its limits.

Silín complained as they ate the food. "I don't see
any reason we shouldn't have been afford ourselves a small stew
kettle."

"The ride isn't long enough to be bothered," Socair
replied. "You ought to be thanking Práta. I'd not have brought more
than a bit of dried meat and hardtack to eat."

Práta spoke up. "Oh, no… It's nothing worth thanking
me over." She had seemed to loosen the slightest bit with the brief
passing of time.

Doiléir found the breath between mouthfuls to ask the
girl a question. "So you were in Abhainnbaile proper? In the
temples? You ever meet the Treorai?"

"At the temples, no." She took a dainty bite of the
meat and chewed thoroughly before swallowing it. The elegance of it
made the other three look utterly classless. "I met her in
Glassruth as a child, but I scarcely remember it. I did see her
walking around the Bastion fairly regularly."

"What sort of things did she wear?" Doiléir
blurted.

Silín and Socair laughed deeply at the question.
Práta seemed confused by the laughter. Her face turned to a look of
concern as if they might be laughing at her.

Silín shook her head and leaned toward Práta. "He
plans to marry the Treorai someday."

Práta gasped and recoiled. "Marriage? Like the
lowborn do?"

The laughter picked up again, and louder. Doiléir
blushed and put on a crooked smile, trying to go along with the
jape. Socair nudged him on the shoulder. "If anyone could bring a
Treorai to marriage, it'd be Doiléir." She gasped between laughs.
"Or so he imagines."

Doiléir stood. "I'd please her so well as I please
the two of you." He had meant it to settle the matter but it only
served to send the women into a deeper fit of laughter. Doiléir
turned in a huff and made for his tent.

The young elf in the Binseman's colors was the only
one to seem particularly concerned at his parting. She looked over
at his tent with a furrowed brow.

"It is not worth worrying over Doiléir and his
wounded pride." Socair said calmly.

Silín added, "He is a capable enough lover." She
looked to Socair who nodded her agreement. "Doiléir simply suffers
from a problem of too much confidence in himself."

"If he went unchecked, I wouldn't be surprised to see
him at the doors to the Bastion wailing desert elf poetry."

"And then you'd see him a head shorter for his
troubles." Silín said laughing. When the laughter subsided, Silín
stood and kicked dirt over the cook fire to ensure it died out
properly.

The packing did not take long and they rejoined the
road well before midday. They might have been on the move a bit
earlier but Socair had decided to take a bit more time that morning
and slept an extra hour. Life had been hectic enough of late and
confusing besides. It had been enough to make her wish she could
return to her place as Vanguard. At least that had been easy enough
to understand. There were few surprises and the ones she
encountered could be met with proper force.

As she saddled and mounted her horse, her mind
drifted to the ways which people tended to die when there was
political intrigue involved. They were stale and vulgar deaths,
often enough. A dagger in the back during some nighttime walk or
poison or some other ignoble thing. She resolved to put the
thoughts into some far corner of her mind where they could no
longer be a bother, at least for now. The Treorai had sent her to
Dulsiar to be of assistance to the people and she meant to perform
her duty. The chief scout would alert her to any curious
happenings, she felt sure of that.

The others were ready and waiting when she trotted to
the edge of the road. Socair led out. Dulsiar sat a little more
than half a day's ride to the west from where they had camped.
Socair found that she was in no particular rush to arrive. The road
was pleasantly warm today, rather than hot, with a constant cool
breeze that made the ride refreshing. The road widened as the hours
passed and they likely could have ridden four abreast if they were
so inclined. Instead, Socair kept the front, with Doiléir and Silín
just behind and Práta taking up the rear as she seemed intent on
doing.

After an hour or so, Práta rode to the front,
unbidden, and came in beside Socair. She had a serious look on her
face.

"I…" she hesitated. "I would like to apologize. For…
for being strange."

Socair wanted to laugh. The girl was shy, surely, but
strange? That was certainly a stretch. "Strange?" she said, by way
of a reply.

"I am… bad. In social situations, I mean. My father
chided me for it regularly when I was young. He said I was my
mother's child and that I ought to be bolder. That I did not suit
the nature of a future Regent of Glassruth."

"He had no other children?"

"His… seed was not strong. He had many lovers but my
mother was the only with whom the seed took. She was frail and did
not survive the birth but I am told she looked much like me."

"Then she must have been beautiful." Socair was half
teasing the girl, though she was indeed quite striking.

Práta blushed at the compliment but seemed to steel
herself to continue. "I have never been quick of wit or tongue. I
think my father meant for Abhainnbaile to force an improvement of
my disposition but… well, the Temple was very insular. There was
little reason to leave and the crones rewarded study. I know I
misunderstand jokes and I rarely can keep up with the wit of any of
you. I just do not wish to be a hindrance."

Her speech was so sincere that Socair could not begin
to imagine the girl as an agent of Crosta's. "There is no need for
an apology," Socair said plainly, looking ahead. "I understand what
it is to feel out of place and uncomfortable. In truth, Doiléir
approached me out of the blue. He called me a freak and said that
he would duel me if I did not cease to be so tall in his
presence."