No One's Chosen (72 page)

"May have been highborn, but those they led were not.
You are not so foolish a girl to think that a victory in battle
belongs solely to the general. Far too many of your predecessors
sat in the Bastion and wrote grand missives and plans for battles
that would never happen. Have I caused the city to fall?" Rianaire
feigned surprise. "Oh! No. I haven't. I took it. From you."

The girl pulled her rapier and charged the Treorai,
screaming. A gust of wind rose underneath her and pushed her back.
Armire nearly fell, but managed to keep her footing.

"I do not wish to kill you, Armire. You are not a bad
woman."

Armire looked at the ground huffing. She was clearly
distressed. "No. No, you have undone what we were. You have filled
the city with drunks and sex and bawdy songs. This is not the way
of the people of Spéirbaile."

"They seem to disagree with you, Armire."

The girl looked out the open gates of the Bastion
Wall. "No. They have just lost their way. Been tempted. Spárálaí
has the right of it. He must." She lifted the tip of her sword and
pointed it at Rianaire. "You should die with dignity. I will be
blamed. His plans can still come to be."

Rianaire frowned. This was not the girl she had
chosen to take a place in her Binse. That girl had been
enthusiastic, if a bit over serious. She had stood so proudly in
the hall of the Bastion. Spárálaí had done this. He had fed her
full of half stories about the glory of the Spéirbaile of old. Of
rigid adherence to tradition and to protocol. Of a time when order
was kept by a headsman rather than an idea of the common good. Or
perhaps Rianaire herself was to blame. She had kept her Binse at a
distance. She had allowed Spárálaí to carry on with his sedition
for all too long. She had let this poor girl get taken in by
embellished tales of stoic heroes and cold stone buildings.

Armire charged again and was once more thrown back by
Rianaire's wind. This time the Treorai put more force to it and the
young Binseman flew back, landing on her bottom and rolling across
the stones. She kept hold of her sword and leapt back to her feet
cursing.

"Bitch woman!" Her face was bright with anger. "Is
that all you mean to do? Use your damn magics?"

Rianaire smiled sadly. "I will lower my weapons when
you lower yours. I do not wish to fight you. Spárálaí has sold you
an idea of a world that did not exist. You are too young to see
it."

The angry elf slashed at the ground in frustration.
"Shut up, shut up! He has seen it with his own eyes! What need
would he have to lie?"

Rianaire sighed. "I have tried to save you, girl. I
have done what I could to explain. I do not have time to give you a
recounting of the history of the province. Perhaps if you'd read
fewer books about the glory of battle. Or even read a few by
authors who hailed from other provinces." Her words were not even
directed at the girl now. They were laments at the situation and at
her own poor handling of Spárálaí and his insubordination. "Do you
mean to fight me no matter the cost?"

Armire have no response, just looked at her with
angry eyes.

"Very well. I am responsible for this in my way. I
will do my best to make it painless for you."

"Spéir's Gift will not be enough to keep me away
forever. You will tire and I will have you."

Rianaire said nothing, only frowned. The girl charged
a third time. This time she grew closer than she had in her
previous rushes. She seemed half braced for the wind. It did not
come and she was within striking distance. Armire thrust her blade
at Rianaire. The Treorai stepped to the side and her attacker's
body went rigid. Her legs straightened and her arms locked to her
sides, the sword still clutched tight in fists that had been forced
closed. The Binseman fell to the ground as though she were a plank
of wood, the coarse surface of the Bastion yard scraping across her
face. She came to a rest some feet away, groaning and whimpering
but unable to move.

A shadow appeared on the ground over her. Rianaire
had moved slowly and carefully to the girl, her hands in two
distinct shapes. She rolled the girl over, not breaking the shape
of either hand and looked down at Armire with pity on her face.

"They no longer allow the teaching of this sort of
blood magic at Abhainn's Temple. It was too cruel and too
dangerous, they said. I wonder about that." She paused and let go a
low, painful breath. "It is quite a painful thing to use, I can
promise you that. Not for you, though. That is all I can do for
you. I am sorry I failed you."

The Binseman's ragged breathing suddenly stopped
sounding. She opened and closed her mouth but, try as she might,
the girl could not draw in a breath. Her face began to blue and her
struggle became more desperate. Tears streamed down her face. If
Armire regretted her choice now, it was far too late. Rianaire
stared down at her the entire time with an unchanging expression.
Her face was a mix of pity and disappointment. Armire looked to the
frown in her last moment and then closed her eyes tight. It must
have pained the warrior so much to be looked upon with pity in her
last moments. It had never been a fight. The girl had forced her
own execution when offered another way.

It took no more than a few minutes before the girl's
face relaxed and the blue of her face spread away. Rianaire
released her hold with a gasp and ran a hand across the girl's
face. She stood and clenched a fist, facing the Bastion.

This was Spárálaí's doing. The lout ought to have
been grateful that Rianaire had not put him out to pasture. Or had
than been the way of it? She thought back. While the other Binsemen
that had been in place under her mother had written graceful
letters and taken their leave freely, Spárálaí had insisted on
staying by her side for a time to help with the transition. She had
been too young to see it then and now this was the state of
things.

The smooth white rock of the Bastion tended to make
Rianaire feel ill at ease when she approached it. Her history with
the building and the temples attached to it were conflicted. She
had tried so hard to make them into something that she could
stomach. Why, then, had she kept Spárálaí around? A thoughtful
daughter's tribute to her mother? Maybe as a way to placate the
traditionalists? This is what her thoughtless kindness had bought
her.

The doors of the Bastion had been swung open and from
time to time a body would come scurrying out and rush toward the
edges of the yard as though she were some sort of great beast come
for their flesh. More and more gathered by the door as she came
closer. The stairs to the main hall had never been quite so painful
to climb before and she went short of breath as she climbed. Armire
had forced more from her than she would have liked. At the top of
the stairs, a small group came out to see to her. She waved them
back.

"I will state it plain. I do not know which if you
are with Spárálaí and so if you come near me I will kill you." She
forced a smile. "I trust you all find that acceptable."

Most of the small group nodded and bowed, others
simply backed away as quickly as they could.

"Where might I find my Binseman?"

Several of the elves pointed silently into the main
hall.

"T-The meeting hall, your Grace."

She thanked the man and bowed politely. The hall was
quiet even in midday. She had reveled in the mornings at the
Bastion when she was by herself. Often when the Binse were busy she
would have very little to deal with in the hours before her lunch
came. It was a beautiful hall, carved in one piece from the
mountain's stone and it was ribboned with all manner of rock.
Granite at the base and up the west wall. The east wall and
ceilings were of mostly marble that had been deep in the mountain.
The room played host to wonderful galas and assemblies of her
Regency and the like.

It was strange, Rianaire thought, that she was so
lost in whimsical remembrance of the place. Perhaps she did not
hate it so much as she often insisted to herself. Spárálaí had been
a thorn in her side and she had wished he would go away but had
made no attempt to pluck him from under her skin. She had allowed
him to remain in a place of power and influence. She would rectify
that. And she would burn out all traces of his influence from her
Bastion. It was her Bastion now, she realized. Not her mother's,
not Spárálaí's. It was not the place full of wrist slapping crones
and old men she could not understand. It was time she began to act
like it.

As she neared the steps that lead up to the meeting
hall, she saw a corpse on the ground, face down. She rolled the
body over with her foot. No one she recognized. One of Spárálaí's,
and good riddance. She started up the stairs. She almost wanted to
laugh as she climbed the stairs to the hall. Spárálaí had a
penchant for this sort of grandeur. It was a bad habit of the old
ways. Everything must be fraught with symbolism and deep meaning
and poetic subtext. It was another bit of pomp. The glorification
of every single mundane bit of life. All it had ever done was waste
time, as it wasted Rianaire's now. He could not stand in a fight
against her. He was nearly double her age and had never been a deft
hand at battle.

She reached the ornately carved doors and grabbed the
handles. The doors bore a picture of Spéir and her first Binse. A
tribute to tradition on the first room she had ever taken for her
own in the Binse. The first place she had forced to change. She
smiled. A bit of poetic subtext might serve every now and
again.

Rianaire pulled the doors open and the light flooded
in, blinding her for a moment. When her eyes cleared, she saw,
instead of Spárálaí, a charred corpse tied to a chair. And just
past the corpse, a woman with shimmering grey skin posed in a
defensive stance.

The Treorai narrowed her eyes. "Who are you?"

"Who are you?"

The question hung in the air as Aile looked over the
elf that had entered the room. She was dressed in a ridiculous
light blue dress that looked to have armor weaved into it. She
could not fathom what good armor would do flopping around on a
dress, but elves were a strange lot. The dress was of a quality
make and the woman carried herself with authority, however.

"You are the Treorai?"

Aile sheathed the daggers she had drawn. The elf was
not armed that she could see and if it came down to magics, she had
no interest in a fight either way.

"I am. I am called Rianaire."

"I know your name."

Rianaire was calm as she answered the question. Aile
stepped away from the chair and into the open stretch of floor. The
Fire was of little concern to her, but the others could be
especially obnoxious. A good, speedy run was generally enough to
buy time unless the practitioner was good enough at guessing where
to place the thing.

The elf stepped to the side of the chair where she
had burned her employer and ran a hand over the charred wood. She
looked at the corpse silently for a time.

"This was Spárálaí? Did he employ you?"

"It was. He did."

"And you killed him?"

"He failed to provide the coin he promised. I have no
intention of fighting you, Treorai. It is not my way to take up
fights where I do not profit."

Rianaire considered Aile for a moment and turned to
Spárálaí. She looked back to the Drow as though she were trying to
work out the full of what had happened. The elf opened her mouth as
if to ask a question but then shut it without a sound. Rianaire
took a deep breath.

"Fine. Go. You have done something I meant to do
myself."

Aile would not wait for a second invitation to leave
the Bastion in one piece. She had not intended to die there but
neither did she expect she would live to escape. She left the room
and was halfway to the bottom of the stair when she heard a chair
above clatter over and muffled shouting from behind the closed
doors. The prey went to the ablest predator. Even if Aile had felt
some sense of guilt, there was no changing the timing. Nor would
she have. Whatever the elf had suffered was minor. Just to look at
her outfit Aile could imagine she was pampered all the while. Fine
quarters and an attendant. There was a respect owed in spite of
that, however. The woman had meant to end her enemy with her own
hands.

When she had descended the stair, she stepped over
the body of the elf she had killed and moved toward the open doors
at the far end of the hall. When she reached them the late Saol sun
shined down onto her leathers, heating them through and making her
thoroughly sick of the season. There were a fair few shadows
scurrying along the side of the yard, but the fighting had drawn
close now and were more apt to be hiding from the battle than a
Drow so she paid them little mind. When she reached the ground of
the main yard she saw a corpse across the way.

She approached the dead elf and looked down at her.
She had not been killed by any weapon. Aile looked back up at the
colonnade where she saw Rianaire standing, looking out over the
city. The Treorai was adept at magic it seemed. She patted the
sheaths on her leathers to reassure herself that her weapons were
handy. She kicked at the elf lightly to see if anything made noise.
A rapier shifted in the dirt beside her but there was no coin to be
had. That limited options a bit.

Aile exited the Bastion yard and saw the plumes of
dust and smoke down each of the three roads. None of the ways
looked particularly promising but then an idea occurred to her. She
started onto the west road and followed it a bit. The shouting and
clanging of steel grew louder as she walked but before it reached
her, she turned down one of the side streets. Over a few blocks she
saw the front face of a familiar inn. The fighting had not yet
reached it and so she walked into the place. The lobby was empty
and the halls were quiet. It was ideal, really. She was not there
to rent a room but to visit one. She moved to the end of the hall
and climbed the stairs to the next floor. She poked out of the
stairwell and find an old, familiar door.