No One's Chosen (29 page)

Scaa returned, pulling her shift on as she did. It
was all she meant to wear if she would not be a part of anything
other than watching for the day and it showed her nipples plainly.
Óraithe felt jealousy creep into her mind again, this time over the
want of comfort. The dress did not breathe so good and the morning
was already hot.

Teas gave her hand one last squeeze and let it go.
She joined Scaa by the door. "We should return before dark." With
that, Óraithe and Scaa moved out into the bright sun of the
morning. Scaa picked at her teeth as they walked. She seemed
unconcerned again, but then, she would not be the one in the shop.
Óraithe did not figure there was an outright crime against entering
a shop and asking questions but she imagined the highborn could
find a crime for her to have committed. Misrepresenting herself to
a duly bonded company of the Treorai or something. As if wasting
someone's time were a capital offense.

She had gone over the notes a dozen times. The shop
opened shortly after dawn. There were three workers in the
warehouse who left just after sundown. Two additional workers in
the front. One was an older man who wore fine clothes. She
suspected he was the owner. The other was a woman, perhaps in her
middle age. A daughter, maybe. The woman had taken the morning
shift every morning that they had been at the watch. Óraithe hoped
the woman would be easier to deal with and less likely to suspect
her. It was a risk, of course. One could never know the truth of a
person from a distance and some were more likely to be suspicious
than others. Óraithe could not imagine many of the Low District
elves ever bothered with the warehouses. She repeated those
reassurances over and over in her mind. She was wearing clean
clothes made for highborn children. She was simply asking about
what sort of goods they kept. She had run over what she would say
at least fifty times now.

As they neared the warehouse, Scaa broke off from her
to find a vantage point. "Sisters help you," she said laughing and
clapped Óraithe on the back. It was not the words, but Scaa's
expression that spurred confidence in her. This would work. She was
not alone.

Óraithe stopped in the street just away from the
Spéirbaile warehouse. She took a deep breath and made for the
door.

The door pulled open easily enough, chiming a small
bell as it swung into motion. Óraithe froze a second. The older man
was working, not the woman. He was busy placing some books on the
shelves that dotted the front office. Should she come back? Before
she could decide, the man cast a glance in the direction of the
sound.

"Hello, child!" His voice was kinder than she
expected, almost cheerful. He was old and his hair had greyed, she
thought… or was it a dusty silver? His light skin meant he was of
Spéirbaile stock at least. "A moment, please. I am nearly
finished."

Óraithe let the door fall shut and stood where she
was, looking around. The door was flanked by two large windows
which bore the uninteresting name of the warehouse. The room was
filled with rich woods and the smell of oils. There was blue and
grey trim on nearly everything. The back and left side wall were
lined with bookshelves that had been loaded down with tomes of all
shapes and sizes. The right side wall was covered with art. There
was a single door at the back of the room on the right side. It led
to the warehouse no doubt.

The man finished arranging his books and turned to
face her. He was wearing a blue vest over a simple white shirt of
fine linen. His pants were simple black. He wore glasses and a
neatly trimmed mustache framed a thin-lipped mouth. "So child," he
began looking her over, "only… not a child. How old are you, if an
old man might be so bold?"

"Not at all, sir. I am twenty-four." she said. "The
colors mark innocence and my parents still hold to the Fuil ó Grá.
A child does not lose her innocence until her first bedding." The
Fuil ó Grá was nothing more than a few words of the Old Tongue, so
far as she knew. The old world was so fraught with ritual and ideas
that she often wondered how they kept track.

The old man scoffed. "Southron elves, I swear. I
doubt I will understand half the ways of your people before I am in
a grave." He took a seat at the desk. "I mean no offense, of
course." He motioned for her to sit.

Óraithe made for the chair. "Of course not." She sat
in the chair and nearly lost her composure. It was the most
comfortable surface she had ever sat upon. Plush and forgiving.

The shopkeep went on about her made up way of life.
"Do the boys wear pink as well?"

"No." She stated with as much conviction as she
could, shifting in the chair to feel the softness as much as she
could.

"Then what's the damn point?" he grumbled and finally
caught himself. "I… I'm sorry…" He waited for a name.

"Óraithe." There was no need to lie and her name fit
well enough.

"Óraithe, a beautiful name. Fit for the grandeur of
the Fásachbaile High District, surely." The irony of his compliment
struck her full in the gut and she forgot the chair. "Anyway,
Óraithe, I apologize. Fásachbaile is quite different from my home
in Spéirbaile."

"Why did you leave?" she asked but she could not say
why.

"Curious one, are you? My daughter would like you, I
think. The province was changing and I am an old man. Stuck in my
ways my daughter says." He laughed lightly. "She tells it true,
that one. I've not found a way to stop her. I couldn't tell you now
what it is I thought I would find here." He seemed to look past her
to the street for a moment before slapping the desk. The sound
startled Óraithe. "But you came here for something! What might I
help you with?" His smile had a warmth to it.

"I…" She feigned a nervous pause. "It is
embarrassing, but I do not know much about Spéirbaile and I wished
to… to buy a book."

He laughed and swept his arms wide. "Books, we have.
Rare of a highborn desert elf to wonder about our snowy pile of
rocks. Any subject in particular?"

The books in the room all looked quite old. Trophy
books for the libraries of rich elves. She needed something more
recent, something common. "The Treorai!" she blurted, almost
excited.

The old man scoffed, he clearly had a distaste for
the Treorai of Spéirbaile. "A shame you came when my daughter was
away. She'd have given you no end of stories about the woman. And
like to have handed you the books for free." He looked around the
room. "Don't believe we have anything in here."

He stood and walked to the door that led to the
warehouse, opening it. Óraithe nearly jumped up from the chair in
her excitement. He motioned through the door and she skipped in
more than walked.

The warehouse was not large, but it was full. A pair
of large doors on the near wall could be seen about halfway down.
The area they let out into was populated mostly by furniture made
in styles and woods she had never seen. It all looked so large and
plush that she wanted to just dive into them. After the beds and
seats, there were rows of tall racks. The first of them held
pottery and various household goods from what she could see. The
smell of lacquer was strong.

He led her to an area about three rows in. There were
columns of brown paper wrappings around loads of what Óraithe
assumed were books. Around midway of the rack, he stopped and
scanned up and down.

"Ought to be in here. You're good with your
letters?"

"I am," Óraithe replied without hesitation.

"Haha, and proud, I see."

He picked up the book and turned it
over to inspect the quality.
The Coming of
Age of Treorai Rianaire of Spéirbaile and Her First
Acts
. He read the title aloud. "No sense of
brevity, these political writers. Anyway it'll be, uh…" he thought
a minute, "One silver."

A silver?! That would buy her two nights above an
alehouse. Maybe three if she haggled. With room and board. She did
not have time to register surprise at the cost, she knew. She was
in the most crucial of positions now by her own reckoning. She
reached into a pocket that had been made into the dress just over
the stomach. She had to do this perfectly.

Óraithe's face dropped. Her eyes went wide. "Oh no!"
The man looked at her but she avoided his eyes, frantically looking
down at her dress, patting it all over. "My coin purse! I don't… I
must have left it!" She spun to leave as quickly as she could
manage. "Please let him believe it," she begged silently.

She had just completed her turn when she felt his
large, bony hand close around her arm. "Sisters, no!" Her mind
screamed out. It had been too much, hadn't it?

The shopkeep spun her around and spoke. "Now just
wait a second, girl." He stared down at her. Óraithe could not
imagine how her face must've looked. She was filled with terror and
it must've shown. The old man looked to her and back to the book.
He turned it once again in his hand and then did something Óraithe
would never have dreamt in all her years and more.

"Here," the old man heaved a defeated sigh and
offered up the book.

Óraithe took the leather bound tome into her hands.
It was supple and cool except for where the man had been holding
it. She did not understand. "I… I can't," she stammered. She truly
did not understand.

"My daughter. She'll not let me hear an end of it if
you leave without that book. And I said more than I ought to about
your clothes." He put on a kind smile and patted her head gently,
as Cosain had often done. "I'll thank you not to protest. I'm an
old man, stuck in his ways, you see?"

He turned her around and walked her toward the end of
the aisle. "Now let's off with you. I've got work that needs
attending."

At the door, she turned and looked up at the
grey-haired man. "Thank you."

"Thank me by coming back with your coin purse." He
smiled again and she left.

She moved heedlessly down the road outside the
warehouse, staring down at the book. Before she had realized it,
Scaa was walking along side her. She was sweaty and her smell was
sour and earthy. She had not realized it but the inside of the shop
had smelled so pleasant.

"He gave me this," she said, holding the book for
Scaa to see.

Scaa looked down at the book, unimpressed. She looked
forward again. "He gave a highborn girl in a child's dress that
book." The words were sharp.

"But… he…"

"He what?" Scaa's voice rose. "Do
you think all highborn are cackling plotters and villains? Is that
how you imagine it?
HAH!
" The laugh bit at her ears. "How old are you, truly? Or was
it the old man who raised you that made you so stupid?"

Óraithe gritted her teeth.

"I said I would follow you, and I intend to do that,
but I cannot abide your ignorance."

Óraithe looked away, not wanting to listen. Scaa
would have none of it. She grabbed Óraithe and slammed her against
the wall of a nearby house.

"You will listen, Óraithe! And you will understand!"
Scaa wrenched the book from her hands. Óraithe opened her mouth to
protest but Scaa would not have it. "You imagine these people are
sitting in these find homes on their fine beds thinking of how best
to ruin your life? My father," she nearly choked on the word, "He
taught me better than that. I chose to follow you because I dream
of a day where they care enough to hate us. I dream of a day where
we take enough from them that they are forced to look down and see
the ants rising up to claim the flesh." Scaa spit at the ground,
shoved the book back into Óraithe's hands, and walked away toward
the slums.

The short desert elf stood against the wall looking
at the book. Scaa was a horrid bitch, Óraithe thought, and she was
terrible and crass and filled with venom. But she was not
wrong.

The rain seemed colder than it had been before.
Rianaire sat on the wet husk of a fallen tree staring off into the
woods. Síocháin stood beside her. Their cloaks had long since
soaked through with rain but they had not moved from the spot for
more than an hour.

Síocháin's face remained impassive and she had held
her tongue since attack. She spoke in her flat voice. "Well, what
is it to be?"

Rianaire looked up into the rain, letting the drops
blind her. She had not stopped in the wood to mourn, though she had
loved Grod and she felt pain for the loss of her guard. She did not
even feel a particular anger. She was the Treorai of Spéirbaile.
Someone had done this and they would be found and she would have
her justice. She was too old now to dwell on what was lost.

"Ceird is closest," she said, finally. Rianaire
pushed herself up off of the fallen trunk and turned in the
direction of the small town. She began walking and Síocháin
followed.

They had passed Ceird the night before. It was some
miles behind them but also the largest of the cities within any
distance they might make. The selection had come down to whether or
not Rianaire suspected that the raiders would slink back to their
camps or carry on toward the trading town. Or perhaps they would
head in another direction entirely. Certainly after discovering who
they had attacked, they would make for the south. It would not keep
her from finding them, but they should at least try to run.

The woods were not so thick in the area. Sparse
logging meant the bulk of the tress along the main road were fairly
young growth and lacked for thick underbrush. It made their
progress along the route to the trade city mostly steady with the
occasional overturned tree requiring them to route around. Síocháin
had suggested checking the camps for horses as they would certainly
be of use. Rianaire had figured their horses were all either killed
or stolen by the raiders. It was not like a raiding group to leave
goods for the next to pass. There had been plenty to loot among the
camp. She considered it something of a blessing that their camp had
still been set up as the raiders weren't likely to bother breaking
it down properly and stealing off with it. Not along the main road,
at least. Travelers in weather like this were fairly rare in
general but were not unheard of and they could not chance being
spotted out or identified. Still, there was a considerable sum of
gold spread among the members of the camp. And the horses were well
bred. The guards each on destriers. They would fetch handsome sums.
Spilt milk, she supposed. That was what every loss became in the
end.