No One's Chosen (2 page)

"Certainly," Rún said, "there must be something for
which you fight?"

Socair thought on it for what felt to her like an
eternity. "When I was a child, my father took my brothers and I to
see what had remained of a horde encampment." She stared down at
her plate. "We were happy children, he'd said to us, but we must
understand what the world truly was. Inside the camp there was a
strange box covered with dirty canvas. When he pulled the canvas
away, there were bodies, emaciated and sickly grey. He told me
later that he had meant to ask us each how the sight made us
feel…"

"But?" Rún interrupted the dead silence of the dining
room.

"He tells me I drew my short sword and began to hack
at the door to the cage, crying and screaming. When he tried to
pull me off, I slashed him across the chest and returned to work on
the cage until I fainted."

"By the Sisters, is it true?" The meek voice of a
frail looking noblewoman was a mix of concern and disbelief.

Socair looked up, realizing the entire table was
staring at her, mouths agape. "Ah! Oh. I'm not sure. I remember
standing outside the camp that day… but I don't remember much else.
I was sick a while after that."

The gathered highborn just stared at her as if she
were on fire. Had she been too honest? Was it such an odd tale?
Surely they had seen the true horror of the war. Surely they
understood.

Mercifully, the next course arrived and broke the
silence. The mustachioed old elf at the end of the table began to
talk about his time in the war and the glory of fighting for
Abhainnbaile against the monstrous hippocamps. People seemed to
brighten up at that, which gave Socair some peace of mind. She
realized she hadn't finished the pheasant and the thought saddened
her but there was plenty left to eat.

The other courses passed uneventfully. The nobles
seemed to avoid conversation with Socair after her story. So much
the better, she thought. After all was said and done, the party
retired to a common room with a balcony. Socair could not have
found her way onto it more quickly.

Socair leaned on the railing and looked out across
the city. To the south some few houses were still on fire, sending
orange light and the ghosts of their wooden walls up into the air
to join the clouds that dotted the sky. The small, red moon was
full and bright in front of her sister's dim milky crescent and in
the north she could make out the fires of the First Company's
encampment. She thought of her vanguard and what they must be
doing. Toasting their victories with cheap spirits and reveling
their dead with the same.

Socair heard footsteps from behind her and turned
instinctively. Rún seemed unperturbed at the swiftness of the move.
She walked calmly past Socair and leaned on the railing
herself.

"I should apologize for putting you in that room for
my own selfishness. And I hope you'll pardon my guests." Rún's
voice was more solemn than Socair had expected. "They don't
understand the true horror of this war. Nor do they wish to. Even
those who have fought tell stories to which they have no claim.
Each of them, officers and politicians."

"Then why surround yourself with them?" Socair was,
perhaps, being impolite but she felt Rún was at least different
enough from her guests to speak to plainly.

"Ha! I've inherited this lot and their ilk." Rún
rolled her eyes. "It's a game, all of it. They will pretend to like
me so long as I am useful and I will do the same. At the very
least, I can bear with the ramblings of a few highborn to secure a
better life for those that weren't lucky enough to wriggle out of
some gilded cunt."

Socair laughed, the pain wasn't as bad now.
"Inherited friends, is it? Is that how high society works?"

"Sisters, yes." Rún scoffed. "Breaking the bonds of
noble blood," Rún put on a mocking tone, "oh, one simply mustn't.
It just won't do."

"So you aren't of noble blood?"

"I am, for whatever it's worth. My mother's mother
was the cousin of some soldier who was ascended to a knight under
some eastern Regent. She was granted a parcel of land and… ugh,
it's such a boring tale. One day, my father came to call on my
mother to marry. Mother died, father became a drunk, and a violent
drunk after that." Rún looked off into the distance at nothing in
particular.

"She fell ill?" Socair asked, not thinking much of
it. Highborn were sickly sorts.

Rún stood and looked at Socair. "You are not the only
little girl to see the inside of a horde cage."

Socair's eyes widened. She never thought… and
Sisters, wasn't that the problem? How could she be so thick? She
grabbed Rún and hugged her tight. Rún let out a gasp, clearly she
hadn't been expecting it. The hug tightened, Socair's nose filled
with Rún's scent and, for some reason, it made her want to cry.

Rún finally managed a word. "Uh… Socair, darling?"
She just managed to get the words out.

"OH! Ah! Fires take me, I'm sorry! I get… I just…"
Socair dropped the noblewoman.

"It's," She sucked in a big breath, "it's fine." Rún
laughed, still catching her breath. "You can't help it, can you?
What was it you said at dinner? Why does a sharpened edge cut? What
else could it do?"

Socair looked away, embarrassed. Rún teased her and
took a step closer. "Come now, Socair. You—"

"There you are, Vanguard!" The voice was Crosta's.
Socair went to attention almost instinctively. "I hope she's not
bothered you unduly, Lady Rún."

"Oh no, Crosta dear. Quite the opposite." Rún smiled
politely.

Crosta seemed unsure of what to make of the quip, but
either way his face showed displeasure. "Well, good. Still, we must
retire. There is some way to walk to the encampment and Socair yet
has a debriefing to issue."

"Very good, Binseman. But if you would go on ahead, I
should like to have one final word with your soldier."

"I…" He hadn't expected that, but what could he do?
"Very well, Lady Rún." He turned to Socair. "Vanguard Socair, you
are to return to camp immediately when Lady Rún dismisses you."

"Sir." Socair bowed and put four fingers across her
chest to salute.

Crosta left brusquely, his face betraying his
distaste for whatever secret talks he imagined were going on.

"Didn't I tell you? Insufferable." Rún laughed to
herself. "Don't worry, it's just one little thing." Socair turned
to face her.

Rún motioned for her to lean down. Socair did as she
was bid. Socair looked away as not to stare at Rún, expecting her
to whisper some tiny secret.

Socair felt hands on her face, her eyes shifted but
before she could react she felt Rún's lips against hers. The
warrior stumbled back, blushing hard. "I… I don't…" Socair couldn't
find the words.

Rún grinned, satisfied. "You are dismissed, Vanguard.
And thank you." The Regent turned and leaned back on the rail.

"But… I… B-by your leave, milady." Socair bowed and
made for the changing room as quickly as she could.

"It's not possible," Socair thought as she hurried to
return to the comfort of her armor. "I will never understand
nobles."

Óraithe nearly lost her footing as she rounded the
corner. The guards couldn't be far behind. Stupid as they were,
they were quick. Still, they didn't know the streets as she did.
The bastard lot spent their time standing idly by the fronts of
brothels and whatever eatery they happened be favoring that week.
The backstreets Óraithe called home were no place for law
enforcement, no matter how ineffective.

She rounded the next corner, more deftly this time,
and heard crashing and swearing in the alley she'd just left.
Still, she didn't slow up. Not yet. A few more bends and she saw
it, stained red and as welcome a sight as it ever was.

The curtain hung with as much dignity as any could in
the slums of Fásachbaile and bore the telltale sigil of an
alchemist, the silhouette of a lush tree with an up facing crescent
moon cut out of what would have been the leaves. The shop was quiet
before Óraithe burst through the curtain, knocking several
tinctures off of a nearby table as she arrived.

"Óraithe!! Damn it all, girl, you—" Cosain's voice
came gruff and tired. He looked up to better survey the damage
Óraithe had brought clattering in with her. Her eyes, flitting
between his face and the curtain, weren't so full of regret and
pleas for forgiveness as he'd hoped. "Into the back with you.
Now."

"Sorry. I'll pay—" Óraithe held her hands up to beg
forgiveness as she ran by but a dismissive wave of the hand from
Cosain sent her on her way.

The back room of the shop was spartan to say the
least. A tattered bedroll in the corner was the only thing among
the rows of supplies that could be called a luxury. Óraithe sat
clutching the bread that had been the reason she was running from
the guards. She took a large bite, deciding it was like to be the
last decent thing she'd have if the old man was less than
convincing. She moaned at the taste, the smell of it. Fresh bread
from the High District. It wasn't anything more than a trifle for
the highborn and their whelps. She'd enjoy it so much more than
they could ever know. Why shouldn't she have it?

Muffled voices from the front of the shop rent her
from her justifications. She tried, fruitlessly, to overhear the
tone of the conversation. Not that there would be much escape from
the back room. Maybe up the ladder and to Cosain's house proper? It
didn't bear thinking about, she figured. What's the worst they
could do but take the bread?

"Take… the bread?" she mumbled to herself staring
down at the pilfered meal. She wouldn't have it. She tore into the
bread, eating it as quickly as she could manage.

Not more than a few seconds after the muffled voices
had died out, Cosain whipped the curtain over the back room
open.

"BAH! Fires take you, girl! Just what do you mean
leading a pair of the fool's guard here?" She'd not seen him this
angry in a long time.

"Mrphh!! Mrph mnff!" The bread. She tried to choke it
down and succeeded only in choking.

"Chew properly, stupid child. What good is the work
I've done in sending off your friends if you're going to die on my
floor?" Cosain's expression softened and he made his way to his
work desk. He pulled the chair out and sat facing Óraithe. He
slumped. "What am I meant to do with you, child?"

Óraithe protested. "I'm no child! I'm 20 and a woman
grown! For four years now!"

"Then perhaps you should put away this childish
rebellion of yours." It was a line Cosain had repeated more times
than he could count.

"Perhaps you should stop letting rebels sleep in your
workshop, old man."

"If you persist in meddling with the High District
and its people, you'll find your face on posters soon enough. Would
that I was black enough of heart to send you out into the world
with no home to return to. This is not what your parents…" He
looked to her, realizing she must have understood what he meant to
bring up.

Óraithe stared silently down at the half-eaten bread
and frowned.

"Óraithe, I…" He had meant to apologize.

Óraithe threw the bread against the wall. The sight
of it disgusted her now. "You are not wrong, you know? My rebellion
is childish. I know that, I do. But small as it may be, my
rebellion is just." She stood and walked to the old man, placing a
hand on his shoulder.

"Besides…" She smiled down at the alchemist.
"Childish is a start."

The rest of the night passed in silence. Cosain
worked at his potions and Óraithe buried herself in a book. She
could tell he had finished what he meant to do for the day, but
what little light from the moons found its way to back room of the
shop was too dim to read by and he had only the one oil lamp. He
often pretended to continue his work for sake of her reading. It
was one of the few things she truly seemed to enjoy. When she found
a place to stop, she closed the book loudly and Cosain took his
lamp, bidding her good night. She slept easily with the smell of
the bread still wafting through the dark room.

When she woke, Óraithe pulled on a tattered dress.
She wished she'd had a pair of trousers to wear under it. It was
certainly out of step with the fashion of the day but it would be
all she could do to keep her legs protected when she might have to
run through Sisters knows what to avoid the guards. She'd have
taped her breasts down as well, she thought, if they were
substantial enough to warrant it. She had pulled the neck of the
dress out and was staring down at them when Cosain entered the
store-room.

He was carrying a small crate of some sort of herb
and almost didn't seem to notice her at all. At least that's what
she'd hoped. He placed the crate on a workbench and turned to
address her. "You're headed out, then? Even after yesterday?"

"Oh, you mean to make me a prisoner, old man?" She
hadn't meant to snap at him, in truth. She felt bad about it but
her pride demanded it.

The alchemist didn't rise to the jab. "The guards
do," he said plainly. "You ought not think you can play so close to
the fire and never feel the touch of the Black Sister."

Óraithe became annoyed. "And what should I do? Sit in
your shop and wither like your damned herbs?"

"It would be a better end than you're like to find
out there."

She spat at the ground and made for the curtain to
leave. "And that's why the world is as it is. Cowards and fools who
would rather shrivel and die with what they are given than claw
what they deserve from betters." The word was as much thrown at the
ground as spoken.

She was done. Óraithe grabbed a cloak from the wall
and wrapped it around herself as she left.