No One's Chosen (27 page)

The other two, she decided, were together. Perhaps
all three were. She had not been close enough to know anything of
value about the pair by the fireplace. This concerned her. If they
were to fall upon her that night, it would be a troublesome escape.
Aile rolled her head in the direction of the room's single window.
It did not open and was covered with a thin blue bit of burlap. The
exit was large enough for her to leap through if the need arose.
She'd rather not, in all honesty, but she would do what she
must.

Aile sighed as she stood from the bed. She had hoped
to rest well and have some measure of luxury, but it was not to be.
She went to the door first, pulling at it with some force. It was a
heavy door and the latch held tight. They may try for her, but they
would make considerable noise in doing so. She would have to sleep
in her leathers. It was not a welcome prospect, but the thin
blanket on the bed was not apt to keep her warm and dressing
quickly under threat of death was ill advised. She took off her
boots and cleaned them in the basin. The mud fell away and she
dried them with a crusty cloth that hung next to the water.

Her boots cleaned, she undressed, laying her wet
leathers on the floor. She pulled a fresh one out from her pack and
dressed. It was the most comfort she could likely afford herself.
The dry clothes were welcome but even as supple as it was, leather
did not make for comfortable bedclothes. The shift and breeches
were thick but pliable and had several sheaths for her various
daggers.

The preparations were complete. If they were coming,
let them. She would kill them and take their bedrolls. As Aile fell
into a cautious sleep, she smiled at the idea. If she just killed
them and stacked the cushions… what a wonderful thought. She hoped
she would dream of it.

Whatever benefits she had been granted by her raising
to Bearer of the Will, better food had not been among them. She sat
in the tented mess hall in front of a plate of what looked to be
mashed peas and a black mass that she guessed was either horse or
goat. The meats did not taste so much alike, but the stuff in front
of her had all been pounded so thin and charred so thoroughly that
she'd have hardly known it from leather. Her father had been no
sort of chef, but he knew how to roast a piece of meat well enough.
Doiléir had also cooked for her a pair of times. The food of the
desert elves had not been intricate, but they made bold use of the
peppers and dry brush spices that dotted the area around
Fásachbaile.

The din of the mess had left Socair alone with her
thoughts for the bulk of the meal. She sat at the head of the mess
tent with Doiléir and Silín across the table. They had been busy
flirting and laughing, feeding each other. It was nice to see them
smiling, Socair thought. They had strength together and she was
deeply thankful for that.

The camp had been on the move toward the west to set
up a more permanent base of operations for the region. It seemed
another curious move to Socair but she had no place to argue as
there was no place for her to speak. She was a tool of the Treorai
and that was that. She had overheard in the hall that Crosta seemed
to be insisting that the hippocamps would make their push up from
the Mire. At first Socair had thought it didn't ring true, but then
she remembered the ambush Glassruth and more recently at Scáthloch.
The occurrences were rare, but the hippocamps seemed capable of
occasional tactical forethought. Socair had studied not only the
nature of Centaur warfare but the culture that informed it.

What the elves so often called satyr scouting
parties, Socair knew to be something more akin to a brutal way to
gauge the forces they would employ. If the satyrs could take a
place by their own strength, so much the better, but only one among
the "scouting party" was marked as anything resembling a scout.
Usually the weakest and most junior. The satyr would be ordered to
attack a city to the last, and the scout would return to inform the
horde of their success or failure. If the centaur did not believe
the satyr fought fiercely enough, the scout was killed along with
any offspring and skinned for leather.

The satyr weren't willing members of this system, in
truth. Often their foals were taken as ransom and they paid with
their lives that their children might see better days. One of the
history books Socair had chanced upon even suggested that the satyr
had lived in peace with elves, keeping to the rocky plateaus in the
White Wastes and trading with early settlers in the Fásachbaile
province. Most books that spoke of that era had been substantially
edited when the manuscripts had been copied in the centuries after
the onset of the Endless War. They still spoke of the rise of the
centaur as the race which united the hippocamps but there was
little to be read about satyr and fauns and their culture before
the war. A few treatises could be found about the culture of the
satyr that still survived. They were monogamous and mated for life.
This tradition had held even under centaur rule. Socair found the
practice incredibly confusing. Love ought to be shared with any who
spoke to your soul. It was what the Sisters had taught, even the
Dark Sister had agreed.

Socair was struggling to make sense of the nature of
the attack they had suffered in Scáthloch when Doiléir caught her
eye. He motioned wordlessly toward the flap of the mess tent. A
hard-edged female wearing the Binseman's colors entered the room.
Her manner contrasted her stern look and she seemed off put by the
noise of the place, looking around nervously in spite of the
soldiers carrying on as normal. As she got closer, Socair could see
that she was quite pretty. She had fair skin and the lightest
freckles. Her dark black hair had been cut short and uneven. It was
rare to see such fair skin on a desert elf. Mixed seed generally
fell to one side or the other and rarely mixed attributes. The elf
approached the table, staring at Socair as though cheese were
running out of her ears.

Socair stared back for a bit, then looked to Doiléir
who shrugged. "Yes?"

The girl blinked and flushed red as she realized what
she was doing. "Oh, oh Sisters, I apologize. I've only just started
and Crosta… I mean, he… um, the Honorable Binseman Crosta has
received word from the Treorai and he wishes to see you."

Doiléir looked as though he couldn't help himself.
"And why should the Bearer of the Will be forced to go and meet
him?" She looked to Doiléir as though he had appeared from thin
air. Quickly, the young girl put together that he must be Socair's
Attendant. Her eyes widened with fear as Doiléir continued. "Are
you suggesting that the Right Honorable Bearer of the Will is so
unimportant as to be forced out into this weather?"

Silín and Socair both struggled to stifle laughs, not
that the girl was likely to notice even had they gotten up and
left. Neither did she seem to notice that the weather was fair
outside.

Crosta's messenger could only manage a stammer. "B-b…
but… I… he… I am not… p-please…"

How Doiléir kept his face straight, Socair could
never have known. She barked a laugh and waved her hand at him.
"That's enough, Doiléir. The poor girl is going to faint if you
carry on like that."

Doiléir looked at Socair and smiled. "Then I shall
have to nurse her back to good health." He grabbed the girl around
the waist and pulled her onto his lap. She let out a small yelp
when he first pulled her and stared now at Socair as if there was
some answer forthcoming to all the questions their interaction had
raised.

Socair tried to calm the girl as Silín began playing
with her hair. "I do apologize…" Socair raised an eyebrow, waiting
for the girl's name.

When no reply came, Silín leaned close and whispered
in her ear. "Your name."

"Ah," she looked to Silín for a second and back to
Socair, "I… I am called Práta."

Doiléir chimed in now. "Práta? That is a boys name,
is it not?"

"My grandfather," she said quickly and nervously.

"Práta is a good name," Socair said. "Now, as I was
saying, you will have to forgive my Attendants. They are unruly and
cause me no end of trouble. You said the Binseman has need of
me?"

"He does— eep!" She squeaked as Silín sniffed the
hair near her ear. "He, he does. A message from the Treorai. She
has need of you."

Socair finished the rest of her wine and placed the
goblet on the table. "Thank you, Práta. We will go see to it."

Silín looked up. "We?"

Socair ignored the statement, standing. "Práta, if
you would be so kind." She motioned toward the exit.

Práta stood and straighted her uniform hurriedly. She
was still flushed bright red from the ordeal. She led them out of
the mess tent with all the dignity she could muster. The walk to
Crosta's was less colorful than the mess had been. Doiléir and
Silín whispered the occasional exchange but it would not do to show
such behavior in front of the camp. Socair was the sword of the
Treorai and she must observe appropriate decorum when the situation
called for it.

They arrived at the marquee and Práta turned
awkwardly, nearly losing her footing. "We have arrived."

Socair smiled and gave a courteous nod of the head.
"Thank you, Práta."

Práta blushed and bowed and rushed off. Socair
entered the marquee with Silín and Doiléir in close behind her.
They took up her flanks as she came to rest in front of Crosta's
desk. It was stacked with papers as usual, but this time he was not
lost among them when Socair arrived.

Crosta stood, putting his hands behind his back. "I
have informed the Treorai of a satyr encampment in The Mire and she
wishes you to seek them out and remove the threat." He grabbed a
scroll from his desk and handed it to her. "Here is a map of their
location. Expect the resistance to be fairly light. Scouting
reports suggest they are likely poorly trained and number six at
most."

Socair wanted to balk and remind him of the quality
of his scouting and what it had almost cost her. She held her
tongue. Butting against Crosta was not the path to understanding.
If he valued her life, he had never shown it and pressing him was
not likely to change that.

"The Mire is impassable at night," he said. "It would
be best if you waited for the morning."

"Understood."

"Good. Then that is all."

Socair turned and left without another word. The less
said to Crosta the better. She remained silent for nearly the
entire walk back to her quarters, only speaking to inform Doiléir
and Silín that she would have them join her to discuss the mission
they were to be sent on.

Finally, when she was in the relative privacy of her
quarters, Socair sat on her bed and spoke her mind.

"I do not like it. I do not like him," she said.

"Well thank the Sisters you waited until we were
inside to say so. The Binseman is so terribly popular among the
soldiery." Doiléir made clear his desire for the truth of
things.

Socair looked at the floor, deep in thought.
"Something is not right with all of this." She looked up to Silín
and Doiléir. "A satyr scouting party is ten. Never less than eight.
Six is unheard of."

Silín offered a possibility. "The Mire is hard enough
for hippocamps as it is, perhaps they sent a smaller party so they
might move more easily."

"The centaur do not change tactics for terrain."

Doiléir spoke up as he and Silín took a seat. "And
what of the keep in Scáthloch? And Glassruth?"

Socair had no answer. "I do not know." She pounded
the bed "Damn it all."

Silín put a hand on her shoulder. "They are strange,
to be sure. But they are bound to happen across a novel idea
occasionally." She looked at Doiléir for support.

"True enough. Five thousand years of war, they have
to stumble into a win or two. Perhaps that is even your purpose as
Bearer. The Treorai wants you to report on this aberration."

But that was the problem. Five thousand years and the
ways of their war machine had not changed, only become more
ingrained and dogmatic. Still, Socair was not so convinced that
they were wrong. A sort of dumb luck.

"You may be right," Socair said, though she did not
fully think so herself. She was quiet for a time, deep in thought
over what to do. She wished for more resources but her conclusion
was unavoidable. "Doiléir, you will remain here tomorrow."

"What?" His voice was outraged and confused and
hurt.

"Silín is better in adverse terrain. She knows it.
And she is good with a bow. You are good with your words. And I
need that sorely now."

"I do not like this, Socair."

"There is little choice left to me. I cannot delay if
the satyr are truly in the Mire. And I need to know the truth of
things. I would have you speak to the scouting legion. See what
their reports say for yourself."

"Fine." Doiléir crossed his arms in a huff.

"Thank you. I know how I must seem."

Silín stood. "You seem like yourself. And that woman
has done more for us than either of us deserve." She patted Doiléir
patronizingly on his shoulder. "Isn't that right, Doiléir?"

He stood and threw his arms, complaining as he walked
away. "Fine, I said. Yes. We love you. Sisters damn the both of
you." Socair could still hear his ranting as he walked away.

Silín leaned down and kissed her on the forehead.
"Then, until the morning." She left and the tent fell quiet.

Socair undressed and wiped down her skin with water
from the basin. She unrolled the map that Crosta had given over to
see where the morrow would take her. It was not so bad. With fast
horses and an early start, they would be there before midday. The
map only brought more questions to her mind, however. The satyr
camp was well off of any roads. Surely they would hide themselves
when they camped outside the protection of the horde, but this was
more than a mile from the nearest road of any kind.