No One's Chosen (42 page)

Práta giggled at that.

"I stood up, meaning to fight but instead of readying
a blade or taking a fighting stance, he laughed. He laughed like
such a fool and then told me I had to sup with him and his 'skinny
northern friend.' That was Silín."

"She is a northerner?"

Socair shook her head. "Not in the least, no." She
laughed and Práta did as well.

Doiléir rode forward, having heard his name. "I'd
have won the fight, you know?"

"And then you'd have run out into battle without
Silín or I to keep you safe." Socair turned to Práta. "He'd have
been eaten near half a dozen times by centaur as it is."

Doiléir protested jokingly. "A kill's more satisfying
when your prey thinks to have a chance at victory." He changed his
tone. "Speaking of hippocamps, what of the scouting party Crosta
sent you after?"

The smile fled from Socair's face. "There were no
scouts."

"So much the better," he shrugged. "We can do without
those hoofed bastards in the Mire."

"They were refugees."

Doiléir's eyes opened in surprise, but it was Práta
who spoke. "Refugees? There's no such thing."

Doiléir said nothing but slowed his horse and fell
back in beside Silín. Socair could not fault the girl for her
opinion, especially not being the daughter of a Regent. It was
simply not discussed that there might be more to the hippocamp
hordes than a rolling wall of living death.

"What do you know of the culture of the satyr?"

The girl scoffed at the very idea. "There is no way,"
she said. "The hippocamps are simple and violent. That is all."

Doiléir and Silín both rode silently behind.

"They are simple, yes. But violence is the way of the
centaur." Socair's voice was calm.

Práta did not seem to want to believe it. "But the
satyr fight us, just as the centaur do."

"They wore clothes," Silín blurted as though she
could not stand the pace of the conversation. "The satyr in the
mire."

"Clothes?" Práta was silent a long time after she
said the word.

Socair broke into the silence of the ride. "If the
Treorai declared war against the desert elves, would Doiléir become
our enemy? Would you slay him here and now?"

Práta looked back at Doiléir, who said nothing.

"An enemy is a strange thing. One is made with words
and tempered by actions that may not belong to their own hand. And
an enemy is unmade just as easily. Words and promises between the
nobles and they become something else." Socair paused a moment but
then offered a question. "If the war were to end tomorrow, would
you kill every hippocamp who had borne a sword against us?"

"I would. Without question." Práta's answer was quick
and sure.

"And the children? And the lame? And those who had
never seen an elf in their lives?"

Práta was silent but her eyes looked back and forth
at nothing in particular, searching for an answer. "I… No. There is
no crime in their existence."

Socair breathed in deep. She felt as though she had
been holding her breath and the girl's answer was a relief. "Good,"
she said. Looking behind, her eyes met Silín's. The smaller elf
nodded and Doiléir did as well.

The ride carried on into the late afternoon, though
it was more light hearted than it had been in the wake of Doiléir's
question. Silín had explained the whole of it to him and he'd
cursed… well, everyone he could think of. Crosta, the centaur, the
scouts.

Socair judged that there were still a good few hours
of sunlight left when Dulsiar came into view. There were no tall
buildings save the keep which rose above the rest of the town
bearing three great towers half again the height of the main
building. The keep seemed to suck in all the light that touched it,
leaving a hole of shadow in the sky where it stood. It was built of
some dark black rock and stood in sharp contrast to the waxy
lightness of the building in Abhainnbaile. Socair knew she had been
to Dulsiar before, during her childhood, but she could not remember
the Regent's home being so impressive.

The houses at the edge of the city had started to
pass them by when Práta spoke. She had been riding astride Socair
since their talk earlier but had mostly remained quiet.

"There is an inn I know of, if it please the Bearer."
Práta said sheepishly.

"If it please the bearer," Doiléir immediately added
in a mocking tone, though Socair could not say if the slight was
meant for her or the girl.

"There is no need for formality. And yes. We should
find an inn. If you know of one, so much the better." Socair tried
to sound as genuine as she could manage. She had no mind for
formality, not outside of her duties in the military anyway. There
it made sense. People were needed to lead and others to follow. It
kept people alive. In the world as it stood, there was no call for
it. It stood only to separate people from one another.

As they grew nearer the keep, Doiléir expressed his
admiration for the building. "It is an impressive building, no
doubt. I can't say as I've ever seen stone so dark. Onyx, sure, but
that is brittle and it shines."

"It is gabbro," Práta offered. "The cliffs
overlooking the Darkshore to the west by the sea, they are rich
with it. It is strong but occurs only there. The mining of it was
outlawed thousands of years ago."

Doiléir was impressed with her knowledge and pressed
her for more. The rest of the ride to the inn was full with
information about the city. It had been a hub of trading for the
fisheries of the south since the olden times. The city had seen a
revolution four generations past to oust a noble who had placed a
tax on every fish that passed the city. In the final battle of the
rebellion, a drunken arbalester had fired without aiming and
destroyed the rear upper fourth of one of the towers. It still
stood as it had then, the top fourth a jagged spire of stone.

Before the story was finished, their destination
found them. Práta insisted that she would arrange the rooms and
sent them to store the horses. The inn was large and made of rich,
dark wood for the top two storeys, the lower being stone and
mortar. The shutters on the windows were painted a bright purple as
was the door and the sign above it. The place bore no name that
Socair could see, it only said "inn" on the sign.

They took the horses around the side of the building
where there was a thin old man with a great beard waiting.

"Stayin' at the inn, then?" His voice was high for an
old man, but still coarse.

"We are," Socair replied.

"They get fed and watered. I don't do no brushin'.
Not unless you pay extra. You want 'em saddled, tell me an hour
before they're needed or do it yourself." He opened stalls in the
small stable as he spoke, then came and took the reins two at a
time. When the horses had all been sorted, he turned to them and
spat at the ground. "Go on, now. They'll be well kept and your
things will be brought up after you pay."

The trio turned to leave the horses behind. As they
rounded the corner Doiléir poked Silín in the ribs with his elbow.
"I wonder if I'd told him you were a Bearer if he'd have shit
himself on the spot." He laughed and so did Silín and Socair.

"More like, he'd have spat again and asked why you
thought he might care," Socair said, laughing.

The purple door to the inn pulled open and the
soldiers made their way inside. The room was extravagant, with a
chandelier and fine wood furniture around the main seating area.
From the outside, one would not have known that it was such a fine
establishment. It was well kept, surely, but understated and the
stableman left much to be desired, but the lobby reminded her of
the keep in Glascroi where Rún had kissed her. It seemed like ages
ago, now, but it had not been so long. This very season even. Only
a few weeks past. Her mind drifted to Rún and that dinner at the
keep.

Before she fell too deeply into her reminiscing,
Práta came up holding a pair of keys. She handed them both to
Socair.

"We are on the top floor. The rooms connect." Práta
informed them and then turned to lead them to the stairs.

When they made the stairs, Doiléir whispered, "This
place is obscene. We do not belong here. I should like to express
my desire to never, ever leave."

Silín punched him in the shoulder and he was quiet
for the rest of the climb. The stairs were a rich walnut, well kept
and smooth even under the boot. They came to the landing of the
third floor and stood. There were but four doors here.

"Only four rooms?" Silín said.

Práta spoke, her voice full with pride. "It is the
finest inn in Dulsiar, I can attest to it myself. My father brought
me here as a child as he was a close friend of the Regent."

A friend of a friend of a friend and there sat the
Treorai. Socair knew it was the way of the world of nobles, but it
still sat oddly with her. They did well enough, she figured. What
was the danger of nepotism so long as the smallfolk did not
suffer?

Socair handed one of her keys to Silín who made off
down the hall, Doiléir following. Práta moved to join them but
Socair put a hand on her shoulder.

"No need in crowding a room. And they connect so we
ought use the space wisely."

Práta looked as though she were like to explode. She
blushed a deep red and balled her hands over and over. "As… as it
please you… Bear—" She stopped herself. "Socair."

Socair put the key in the door and opened it. The
room was larger than any she had ever been allowed in. Even at the
keep in Glascroí, the room had been smaller. Some off room in an
unimportant castle meant to hold a guest of a guest. This was an
entire other thing. A room made for highborn visitors. There was a
great canopy bed with deep purple coverings and rich mahogany wood
for the frame and posts. There were three couches sat around the
room and in the corner nearest the windows there was a full tub
with purple mats beneath to keep the oiled wood floor from becoming
slippery with water. There were dressers and wardrobes and tables,
all of the same make and matching finish. Even with all the
furniture there'd have been enough room for a horse to turn
unencumbered.

Práta walked past Socair into the room. Socair
blinked. She did not know how long she had been staring into the
empty room but now she felt half a fool. She could hear the muffled
rantings of Doiléir on the far side of the door that connected the
rooms. It was less than a minute before he began knocking at the
door with no real tempo. There was a stopper of wood holding the
door shut. Socair pulled it free and opened the door.

Doiléir was there, smiling like a child. "We are
never leaving."

She scarcely had time to laugh at the foolish look on
his face before a knock came at her door. Práta moved to see to the
visitor. It was too early for supper, she knew. Perhaps their
belongings, Socair thought. When Práta opened the door, a man in
dark enamel plate stood at the door, an open-faced helm on his
head.

Socair moved to the door quickly and Doiléir
followed, his face no longer smiling. Práta moved back and Socair
took her place at the door, her head nearly butting the frame
above. She looked down at the man.

"You are the Bearer of the Will?" His voice was clear
and deep, official.

"I am."

"I come on behalf of the Regent of Dulsiar and all
her attendant lands. The Regent wishes that you would do him the
great honor of allowing him to host you and your friends for a fine
supper."

Socair wanted to sigh and scream and hit the man all
at once. She gathered herself and smiled politely. "We would be
pleased to join the Regent."

"Very good. We will send a retinue to accompany you
this evening." He snapped a tight bow and salute. "By your leave,
Bearer." He had not waited for her leave, but she was not bothered
by that.

Silín stood in the threshold of the two rooms. "Has
someone died? Is it the rooms? Will we have to sell Práta to pay
for them?"

Doiléir ran over to her. "We go to attend a feast! At
the keep!"

"Sisters be good! I am like to wake soon, aren't I?
I'll wake and we'll be in the tents on the road." Silín looked to
Socair. "Truly, Socair? A reception at the keep?"

"Truly," Socair said and walked across the room to
the over plush bed. She fell onto it face down and groaned.

Óraithe stood outside the door to the den, her fists
clenched in a directionless rage. Cosain had abandoned her. That
was the only way she could bring herself to see it. He had turned
against her acts and called her a petty thief. She had given so
much of herself to take a step forward and for what?

She wanted to scream, she wanted to flail, and she
wanted to cry. Her anger had turned to sadness in the length of the
walk back to her waiting friends. There was still anger, but it was
tempered now by the sad truth of what had happened. The highborn
had not even understood their intentions. Or if they had, they had
turned it against them. It wasn't until that thought had crossed
her mind that she understood that they were still alone. They had
no allies.

She could not tell the others, she thought, her hand
reaching out to open the door to the den. Or had they even
considered that there might be more to it than just the act? Scaa,
perhaps, but the other two were just pulling a cart they had not
made. The door swung open and the smell that greeted Óraithe was so
enticing that she entirely lost her train of thought.

Teas ran up to her as soon as the door opened. She
was smiling big and bright. "Scaa found a whole loin of lamb!"

"Lamb?" Óraithe repeated the word, almost not
believing.