No One's Chosen (8 page)

The man that had pulled her from the head of the
column said nothing of worth on their way to find the elf who led
the company, begging her pardon when she asked about why it had
been him sent to the head of the line instead of a member of the
scouting division. He didn't know. He had only been told that there
were a change of plans. But she had already heard that before.

Socair had walked the line back to Crosta's charabanc
before and she tended to dread it. She could smell the horse of the
rider beside her and it just added to the sick feeling in her gut.
Every elf stared and murmured as she made her way past. She was a
hero to them, at least she'd been told as much. A figure of the
power of the river elves, a savior. Words she had no use for. Words
which pushed her away from people, she thought.

She realized she had been holding her breath for some
time when they arrived in front of the charabanc that Crosta made
use of. It was a wide thing, with removable walls and ceilings.
Crosta insisted that riding with himself out in the open would
instill a sense of pride and confidence in the common soldiers.
Still, he covered his rolling command center when the weather
turned for the worst. The wood that the vehicle was made of was
smooth and inside it smelled as though it were rubbed with oils
near every day. Crosta was something of a paranoid man in many
regards. It was his way to wash his hands thoroughly after touching
most anything. Even gloves would not do and on the occasions he was
forced to wear them, he would change them quickly after touching
something. Socair had learned to ignore this particular quirk of
her commanding officer, still it made her wonder about him. Kept
him at a distance. Not unlike her own reputation, she mused.

He beckoned her onto the glorified hay cart and she
sat. Crosta was across from her and had a solemn look on his face.
He was annoyed. Again. It was no strange thing for Crosta to be in
a bad mood. Perhaps he yearned for the company of the Treorai and
knew he would not have it until he was called back.

Before her was a slotted table. It was a slab of
beautiful marbled blackwood. Old grown and larger than any she'd
seen in person, it must have come from the Blackwood proper. She
couldn't have guessed at the worth of the table alone. The table
was painted with a map of the Abhainnbaile province with pegs along
the midpoints of all roads and at each town, even the smaller ones.
The city that they had been marching for held no marker in the peg
hole. A curious thing, she thought, considering they meant to
arrive to protect it. Should he not have up to date
information?

Crosta began, "You have done much for the Treorai.
Your accolades honor us all and it is my duty to inform you that
you are officially relieved of your duties as Vanguard in Effect of
the First Armed Company of Abhainnbaile."

Socair slammed her hands on the table and stood. Her
mouth had opened to form the rudest words she could manage, but
before a sound could make it out, Crosta raised a hand.

Socair, somehow, found the patience to wait for the
highborn to explain himself.

He pulled a letter from below the table. It was on
fine paper and sealed with green wax and the seal of the
Treorai.

Crosta read from the letter. "'Vanguard Socair, I
regret that I am unable to present this information personally.
Sadly, the realm is in deep unrest and our people suffer every
moment I am not working toward a solution to the hippocamp menace
that has plagued our people since the first words graced the first
page. You have done a great many goods for our people, Socair. Not
only at Glassruth, but before then, and so many times after. As
Vanguard in Effect, you have led the First Armed Company to great
successes and driven the hippocamps back farther than we have seen
in a dozen years. I have no lack of confidence in your ability or
your honor, both as a warrior and as an elf of Abhainnbaile. It is
under these auspices and by right my power as Treorai of
Abhainnbaile and all its lands and people that I bestow upon you
the title of Bearer of the Will of Abhainnbaile.' It is signed, 'In
service of the realm, Treorai Deifir of Abhainnbaile.'"

Crosta hastily rolled the paper up and put it away.
Socair stood, staring. To be a Bearer was no small thing, she knew.
The people who bore the name were legends in their own time.
Surely, she was not to be counted among their number. She sat down,
feeling suddenly weak.

"You will choose two to be Attendant to the Will."
Crosta began as though nothing had happened. The look on his face
was a sour as it had ever been. "They will accompany you on your
assignments. You will come to me—"

"I…" Socair interrupted, but with great trepidation.
"I apologize if I am speaking out of turn, but do Bearers not
report to the Treorai herself?"

Crosta straightened his greatcoat. "You have the
right of it. However, you will not answer to me, only use me as a
conduit through which to reach the Treorai. I will deliver her
assignments to you and, as one would expect, deliver any reports of
yours unto her. The Binse does not cease to be a part of our
governance simply because there is a Bearer in the realm."

"No, of… of course not. Apologies."

"No apology is necessary. Again, I am merely a
conduit to you. We are… peers." His mouth tightened nearly
imperceptibly at the word. "One hand helping the other for the good
of the head, you understand."

"Yes, Binseman."

"Very good then. You are dismissed."

She stood and started to step down but the empty peg
hole caught her eye. "Ah, Binseman! Why have we called a full halt?
Surely this could have waited."

"It could not. Such is the law."

"What of the city?"

"Our latest information suggests it has been razed
and its inhabitants killed or captured." There was no trace of
emotion in his voice. "You are dismissed from my service and my
command. I expect you will receive an assignment by evenfall. Be
prepared for it."

Socair stepped down from the charabanc. Her head was
a flurry of emotions. Elation, rage, confusion. She could not let
them show. Not on the line.

Óraithe had awoken early that morning in the hopes of
avoiding Cosain and his insufferable complaining. In truth, she had
hardly slept. Strong-willed as she was, when the truth fell upon
her she was not so quick to push it out for sake of her well-being.
It did not serve one, she thought, to ignore hard truths whatever
the subject. And the Drow had spoken truly. As had Cosain, fires
take him. She was weak and childish. Her head was brimming with
ideas of justice and grand speeches about respect and fairness, but
what had she done to truly move the world toward them?

The air was almost cold that morning, but still she
dressed lightly. Swings in temperature had never much bothered her
and, besides, it would be roasting hot again by the time the sun
met the top of the sky. She kept a fairly slow pace, wandering
aimlessly through the slums. She had no particular destination in
mind, but she figured she would want to meet up with Teas later in
the day. Teas's parents ran a small scrivening shop on the far side
of the Low District from Cosain's shop. Óraithe often went to the
far and forgotten corners of the slums in search of small hiding
places she could tuck herself into and just watch the bluster of
the city pass by without being noticed. The small, dark places
comforted her in a way. She could see everyone without being seen
herself. She was safe. Somehow, now, the thought left a bitter
taste in the back of her throat.

She still remembered the first time she'd run into
Teas. They had met quite by chance on what Óraithe would have
surely referred to, generously, as an "excursion." The northern elf
was two years Óraithe's senior, in spite of her childish
appearance. Óraithe was two at the time, short for her age and
convinced she would grow in the coming years. She wasn't entirely
incorrect. It wasn't uncommon for elves to be running about
unattended in the Low Districts even at one or two years old. Elves
were often full grown by the time they were ten or so, and sexually
mature between two and six years thereafter.

Even though she was quite young, Óraithe had a keen
interest in mischief. She met Teas whilst escaping from an older
elf she'd tried to pickpocket. Fairly certain she'd lost the man,
she gave one last look over her shoulder. It was pure chance that
Teas happened to be rounding the corner with an armful of scroll
casings. The two girls collided and the casings clattered
unceremoniously to the ground. Teas had been entirely caught off
guard and for some reason, her first instinct was to chastise the
young elf. "You ought watch where you're going!" She had been so
stern, Óraithe remembered. She laughed to think of it. It must have
taken so much courage for her skittish friend to chastise anyone.
Without a word, Óraithe grabbed Teas up and pulled the light-haired
girl along to one of her hiding spots. She had followed without
much resistance. Bleating protests but never pulling away.

"Sisters, it's a wonder she hasn't been sold off by
some black market slaver," Óraithe said to herself.

They hid and talked and eventually Teas insisted she
had to go home. So Óraithe had taken her, practically bouncing all
the way. Thinking back on it, she had as much forced herself on
Teas as anything. The poor, timid girl could scarce have said
no.

Óraithe smiled to herself, thinking of the past. It
was a wonderful time, and simple. But life was simple for all
children, she thought. Free from the worries of a world where
finding food was more a part of a day as eating it. Her thoughts
darkened, remembering the truth of the world and the truth about
her. She was weak, after all.

She decided to run to clear her mind. The wind would
do her good and she loved the feel of sweat on her skin. With no
warning, Óraithe took off. She was a blur crossing on the major
thoroughfares. A startled older woman cursed after her but Óraithe
couldn't make out the words. She was lost now in the mindless joy
of sprinting through the back alleys that had always been hers.
Corner after corner she turned as she pleased, narrowly avoiding
the people who lived there. Here she was quick, she was in control,
she was strong.

She vaulted a stack of boxes and rounded another
bend, clipping the shoulder of a rickety old man in her haste. She
turned to make an apologetic plea with her hands, but he was
gone.

"Surely there had been an old man," she thought.

Óraithe's mind drifted for only a second but it was
enough. Her foot caught a snag and she found herself staggering.
For half a heartbeat, she thought she would find her footing but it
wasn't to be. She fell, bracing for impact. The unforgiving
hardness of stone hadn't come as she quick expected. A split-second
glance revealed a stair below her and that was the last thing she
saw.

Hours later, Óraithe sat up to find herself on a
stone landing at the bottom of a short set of stairs. Her back was
against a wooden door. It was an unremarkable thing, to be sure. It
didn't look to have been touched in ages, a crust of filth from the
streets above dried on the boards. The door wasn't one of the newer
handles that most shops had on their doors, it was an older,
ring-style handle. There was no apparent keyhole. No lock. Strange
to find that anywhere in the slums. Even the poorest among the
elves closely guarded what little they had. Whatever lie on the
other side of the door was abandoned, and had been for some
time.

Óraithe wanted to see. She gave a sharp pull at the
handle. Her fingers slipped from the ring and she fell onto the
stairs at her back with a weak thump. She cursed the handle and
stood, readying for a second try. This time she wrapped the bottom
of her dress around the handle to give her a firmer grip and
yanked.

Nothing.

She yanked again. There! It was faint, but she heard
it. A cracking sound. The door was barred shut but weakly.

Óraithe planted one foot and placed the other against
the stone wall beside the door. She pulled with all that she had,
hoping her meager weight would be enough. Before long, she heard
the sharp cracking of wood. It grew louder and more frequent until,
finally, the door swung free, sending her onto her bottom a second
time.

The job was done and Óraithe leapt to her feet to see
what prize she had won herself. She burst into the room with
unfettered excitement. As her eyes ran over the empty room, her
smile disappeared. There was nothing. A rotting old table and a few
dust ridden chairs which had seen better days, though just
barely.

For whatever reason, Cosain's cutting words crept
back into her mind.

"Childish, was it?" She laughed at herself.

Her eyes crawled slowly over the room, wondering what
she had expected. What use was a place such as this? She thought of
what Cosain would say. He was apt to chide her for forcing her way
in and then liken it to some smuggler's den.

Óraithe lit up. That was it. In a flash she was out
the door, stopping for just the briefest second to consider the bar
she had broken off. It was a weak thing, it would need replacing
with something much sturdier. And the hinges were in a terrible
state. But no matter!

She erupted from the stairwell and ran at a full
sprint the entire distance to the scrivening shop. Óraithe had
never quite understood how Teas's father managed to keep the shop
open. While many elves of even the Low District were more than
capable at their letters, most found the act of writing to be
burdensome and unwelcome. A waste of time better left to people
with cause to worry over words and the exchange thereof.