No One's Chosen (9 page)

It wasn't ten minutes before she came to a stop in
front of the shop, wheezing in exhaustion. She hadn't been so
excited in as long as she could remember and she simply had to
share it with someone and the only someone she had was Teas.

"Teas!" She let fly a ragged bellow that scared off a
few of the marmar that lined the top of the shop. It was all she
could manage and she put her hands back to her knees to continue
catching her breath.

She had pulled in another breath in preparations for
another grand shout when Teas poked her head out. The breath seemed
to tumble out of her when it was decided she need not shout
again.

"Shhh!" Teas scolded her friend. "Have you no mind
for the other folk?"

"Come down! I've something to show you!"

Teas sighed. "Fine. Wait in the shop while I
dress."

It wasn't that Óraithe hated Teas's father, or even
the shop, or scrivenry or what-have-you, but he seemed to have no
overabundance of caring for her. This wasn't a particular surprise
to Óraithe as surely it had been she who was responsible for Teas's
change from a shy and quiet girl into something more… brash.

She walked into the shop hoping the owner would be in
the back. No such luck.

"Óraithe. Was that your lovely voice I heard
beckoning the neighborhood to greet the morning?"

Óraithe pretended she was absorbed in the scrolls and
bound books on the table at the front of the shop. She tried,
anyway. She could feel the eyes of Teas's father on her back.

"What am I? Some thief?" she thought. The look was
too much. She turned, figuring she ought to at least be cordial.
"How goes the shop?"

The stately northerner showed her a conflicted
expression. "Poorly, to have the truth of it. Words and their
accompaniment are not near so brisk a trade here as they were in
the north. I suppose that has always been the case, but, of late,
the situation has only worsened."

"Oh?" Óraithe was genuinely curious, sure. As the
shop went, so went Teas. Well, more or less, she figured.

"The hordes to the south have been making northward.
Word is that satyr scouting parties have been engaging raider bands
in the high desert, even. Though the High District makes their
assurances, folk still act as they will. And that means saving
money for food when the times get lean."

"Why do you suppose—" Óraithe was interrupted by the
sound of footsteps upon the stairs.

Teas had been mercifully brief in getting ready. As
soon as the girl was in arm's length, Óraithe grabbed her and made
for the door, bidding her father good day.

Teas was wearing awkward shoes. They were a strap
covered affair that were a size too large for her easily. They
slowed to a walk after there was some distance opened between the
two and the shop.

"Does my father scare you so much?" Teas seemed
somewhere between mocking and genuine concern.

"Not scare," Óraithe said. "It's more… jealousy, I
think."

"Jealousy?" Teas's face puzzled at the word.

"Well, you see Teas," Óraithe had the look of a
predator on her face, "you are a delicious morsel and I just can't
imagine sharing you with anyone."

Óraithe pounced on her friend and both went sprawling
to the ground, Teas letting out a yelp. Óraithe proceeded to bite
the poor girl on the arms and shoulders, poking at her ribs and
side. Teas was squealing and squirming under the attack.

"Haaahahahahah! Yield! Yield!" Teas was breathless
with laughter.

Óraithe seemed satisfied with that and climbed to her
feet. She held down a hand and pulled Teas up beside her.

Teas brushed the dirt from her clothes. "I'd rather
not be meat, if I'm honest."

"But you are meat! Delicious northern meat."

"So what was it you wanted me for? Father is sure
to—"

"Right! I have a something you simply have to see!
It's going to change everything."

Óraithe led Teas to the old, dirt-caked door and
presented it as though it were some succulent cut of mutton.

Teas stared at the door, waiting for some magic
perhaps. Waiting for something. Nothing happened, however. Well,
nothing other than Óraithe standing before a shoddy door grinning
like a fool.

"What does it do?"

Óraithe shrugged with her entire body, defeated.
"Sisters, Teas. It doesn't… just look!"

Óraithe pulled on the door and it wrenched open with
some effort. She came around the door and walked inside, motioning
to Teas to follow. "Come, come!" The inside was as dirty and dusty
and glorious as Óraithe had left it. "See?"

Teas was still reaching for understanding, based on
her look. "I…" she paused, again looking around as if trying to see
the room through the Óraithe's eyes. "No."

"Bah! It's perfect, Teas!"

"Perfect for what?"

"A smuggler's den!"

Teas's eyes shot open. "Smugglers? Then we shouldn't
be here! Óraithe, those people—"

Óraithe stopped her there. "No, no! Our smuggler's
den!"

"Our? What need do we have of such a place?"

Óraithe suddenly became serious. The shift was
drastic enough that it begged a question. "Óraithe, are you…
alright?"

"What do you think of me, Teas?" Óraithe's face was
grim.

"What do I think? Óraithe, you are as my own blood.
You are my sister."

"A brave sister? A fool? Weak?"

"No! You are—"

Óraithe turned her face to the musty table, the drags
of her fingers cutting a design in the thick dust. "I am weak Teas.
I run from place to place with a smile on. For you, especially. I
smile and I smile." Óraithe looked up to her friend. "But inside, I
am… I feel nothing but rage. This world… it is unfair. Not
unfortunate in the way of spilled milk. It is truly unfair. Those
above us, they have and they have and they take. Take from us."

Óraithe had shown this side of her to Teas before. It
was rare, but it had happened. Even the largest pot can brim over.
"Is this about your parents? Óraithe, there was nothing—"

"It's more than that!" Óraithe's hands slammed to the
table and sent dust flying into spires of light that crept in
through a small exhaust window on the top of the far wall.

"Then what? Explain it so I might understand."

Óraithe took a deep breath. "What would happen to you
if you were to dirty the clothes of a High District elf?"

"I would be flogged."

"And if a High District elf did the same to you?"

Teas narrowed her eyes as if trying to figure out the
trick. "I… nothing."

"Why? Does their blood make them something more? Some
exceptional things that can never come to harm? It makes no sense.
Why should we want that they might have?"

"Óraithe, the things you're saying… we could hear
them each night in each alehouse in the city."

Óraithe walked toward her friend, calmer now. She
looked Teas in the eyes. "Hearing them is no longer enough for me.
I must act. I must."

"Why?"

"I am weak. And I am safe. And I cannot bear it for
another second. But I am also scared. I need you, Teas."

"You plan to rebel? Truly?"

"I do." The words were punctuated and precise.

"And you need me?"

"I have no one else. And I would have no one
else."

Teas looked around the room. She pulled away from
Óraithe and walked to a chair sitting a beam of sunlight. She
rubbed her finger and turned to face Óraithe. The sun caught her
hair. The glow was almost unbearable.

Teas looked at her finger, smiling kindly. "We shall
have to clean."

It had been a long night, for Síocháin especially.
The walk back was, for the most part, a silent one, and uneventful.
A few kind smiles at the guards when passing through the two gates
as they returned to the keep was the whole of their interaction
with the people of Spéirbaile. It seemed they were earlier risers
than she was, even in the more raucous parts of the Inner Crescent.
Síocháin regained her wits somewhere near the halfway point of
their sojourn homeward. She seemed thankful for the quiet.

The sun was creeping above the horizon and they were
nearing the Bastion, Rianaire knew. She straightened her hair a
last time and put on a more regal face. The portcullis rolled up
and Rianaire bid good day to the guards as they took up positions
on either side of her. Funny that they insisted on such a thing
inside the walls of her keep but they let her leave every night
alone. There had been protests at first, from the Binsemen, but
they had long since accepted the proclivities of their Treorai.

Síocháin took her leave at the bottom of a winding
stair which led up to her work chambers. The guards followed her to
the top and took up a place on either side of the door. There was
an adjoining bath connecting the small office to her chambers and
Rianaire intended to make full use of it.

She entered the small, luxuriant bath and found it
fully prepared. Steam washed over her. The feeling was unpleasant.
The sticky dampness of humid air on dirt on skin. Rianaire put her
arms out in an unsuccessful bid to avoid touching herself, at least
until she was properly wet and not just awash in a newly
invigorated layer of filth. She removed her dress with some trouble
and sighed for the relief. The dirt and Sisters know what else were
a problem for the floor now. She made for the bath. It was spacious
and deep. She often liked to float in the thing to pass the hours.
Floating in hot water had a way of clearing the mind and washing
out the world that Rianaire relished.

The Treorai had placed a single foot in the bath,
wanting to savor the feel of the water, when a knock came at the
door. The disappointment that crashed onto her was so thick and
abundant, you could likely have drowned a child in it.

"If they need their Treorai so desperately," she
thought, "they shall have her."

Rianaire made for the door as she was. She ripped
open the bathroom door to find the face of a younger female elf
standing in front of her. Her breasts swung freely as the door's
weight pulled on the edge of her arm's reach.

"Treorai… I…" The elf blushed and averted her gaze.
"I beg your pardon, but we must talk."

"Be seated, Binseman."

Rianaire's Binseman of Defense turned sharply and
moved for a chair in front of the desk. Rianaire was less than
pleased to be thrust directly back into these discussions and she
intended to make that clear.

Rianaire's Binse was far from a traditional one. It
has long been the custom of the Treorai to make Binseman of her
closest and most trusted allies. Often, they were even lovers in
the way of the Harems of the Sisters. Rianaire had made a harem of
the world and saw the Binse as a means to some measure of freedom.
It hadn't worked out so well as she'd hoped. The Spéirbaile Binse
held an autonomy that was looked on with great suspicion by the
more orthodox among the northern elves. She cared little for their
protests, valuing the skill of the individual over compatibility
with her personality. They were tools to be used. She would lay out
the shape of the government and they would fill the space. If they
failed in their tasks or deviated from her dictate, they were
replaced.

While this methodology had led to what some
considered a golden age for Spéirbaile, it made for tense, often
outright hostile, policy discussions. The hostility wearied
Rianaire and, of late, seemed to be the only manner several of her
Binsemen were capable of adopting. Chief among them was the woman
before her now.

Stark naked, the Treorai of Spéirbaile made her way
across the room. Rianaire placed herself elegantly in an
understated chair before an understated desk. "What brings you to
my chambers, Binseman Armire?"

"Um, Treorai… your breasts."

Rianaire looked down at them. "Yes. Well spotted. It
was prudent of me to name you Binseman of Defense, I can tell."

"Please, you must dress. It isn't proper."

"And what do you find improper? Did your mother not
teach you about your own body? You wanted my time, you will have it
at my pleasure. And my pleasure does not currently involve
garments. Is this a problem or is my time only of use to you if you
can't see," she cupped her breasts, lifting them to emphasize the
point, "my breasts."

"No, I have spoken out of turn. I apologize. Treorai,
you honor me with your time. The hippocamps—"

"This again?" Rianaire rubbed her temples to relieve
the pressure that had made its way in so suddenly.

"Treorai, I must protest." The Binseman was pretty,
but tightly wound. The black hair of the southern lands pulled back
tight and braided into a bun. It made her sharp eyes all the more
alluring. Rianaire would have had her to bed if she weren't a
member of her Binse. The irony was not lost on her. "We have word
from the south of a horde trending northward."

"And that the horde appears to be making for towns
well west of Abhainnbaile? That they seem to be working around the
river elves? Is that the word you mean?" Rianaire crossed her legs
and put her chin in her hand. "Then certainly you have heard word
that the self-same horde recently lost their esteemed warlord, yes?
The horde will be a mess with infighting for a season at
least."

"I… how did you?" Armire seemed almost taken
aback.

Rianaire sat up straight. "Whatever you may think of
me, Armire, I am Treorai. The people of Spéirbaile, city and
province alike, are my very soul. Not a moment passes that I do not
think of them and their needs. My scope is simply not so narrow as
yours."

"But! You!" Armire stood abruptly, flushing red at
the accusation— with anger this time, rather than embarrassment. "A
delay is not a solution! They will come. We must act!" She slapped
her hands on the Treorai's desk with dramatic import to punctuate
the urgency of her plea.