No One's Chosen (25 page)

"Circumstances?" Síocháin looked at her.

Rianaire said nothing but motioned her head to the
door.

Síocháin smiled awkwardly and said, in her way. "I
think this lot made you somewhat," she rubbed her shoulder and shut
her eyes, "more lively."

Rianaire decided not to rise to the suggestion as it
was apt to delay them and lead to more meals of butter cooked this
and grass-fed that with clotted cream and potatoes. Or more talk of
plans for expansion in the mining towns or whatever thing the local
opportunists felt would benefit them.

She turned and made for the door, Síocháin
followed.

When they came down into the antechamber that would
lead to the carriage, Tirim was awaiting them. She smiled her old,
nearly toothless smile and greeted them with more energy than was
appropriate for a woman of her age.

"Treorai! I trust you slept well?"

"I did." The lie was not without its underlying
truth. "Is there any news of Aerach?"

"None, Treorai. We sent a marmar to inform him of
your visit but I fear they are a bit slow with the weather as it
is. He may also be otherwise occupied."

"No need to explain, Tirim." Her tone was formal but
not unkind. Her plans had been dashed before she'd ever arrived but
that was life. "I thank you for your hospitality. Please inform the
Regent that I should like to hear from him at his earliest
convenience."

"As you bid, Treorai."

Rianaire turned without another word and made for the
door. The guards swung it open to reveal her carriage waiting under
an awning. She stepped outside and the sound of rain filled her
ears. It was loud. Loud enough that Grod had to raise his voice to
greet her and register his objection to their leaving in this
weather.

"Good morning, Treorai."

"Grod." Rianaire nodded. "I hear you have
complaints."

"The weather, milady. It will delay us."

"Delay is not a concern I hold particularly high at
the moment."

"I…" He had wanted to form a further protest, she
could tell, but he thought better of it. "Very well."

"And we have tents enough to shelter all the
riders?"

"We do."

"Good," she said as she moved past him and into the
carriage, "I shouldn't want anyone sleeping in the rain on my
account should we not make it to an inn.

Síocháin joined Rianaire in the carriage and shut the
door. The sound of the rain died as Grod walked to the front to
give instructions to his gathered men. She could see a few of them
slump their shoulders in disappointment. A few had been quartered
at the keep and the rest had no doubt made good use of the whore
houses in the surrounding city. "The food and conversation had
likely been better in the city than the keep," Rianaire thought a
half second before resolving to take a more positive outlook about
the whole trip. She was on the road now and the weather would no
doubt delay them.

The heavy drum of rain returned as the carriage
passed out of the protection of the awning. The sound was more
pleasing than it had been outside. The thick wood deadened the
sound nicely. Rianaire looked out the window at the grey day. She
did not hate the rain, but she preferred sun. Sun and revealing
clothing.

The going was slow indeed. Grod had ordered a slow
ride to help ensure that the carriage traveled without undue
swaying or perturbance. This was likely as much to do with their
tents being on the top of the carriage as with the occupants. There
had been a few short stops to fill holes before the carriage went
through, but otherwise progress was more or less steady. Síocháin
had managed to make off with a few books from the library in the
keep at Cnoclean. They were new volumes and Rianaire took one to
read, diving into it with great excitement. While many artists had
come to call their home, the way of art culture was generally
somewhat insular. It had been thus in Spéirbaile. Those from the
city had termed themselves arbiters of the form and began handing
down writs on what art was meant to be and how it was meant to
evolve. To Rianaire's eyes, all this had brought was stagnation and
sense of sameness to everything created under some student of a
student who trained with the masters. Rianaire felt that what was
needed was something more rebellious. Something that spoke of
change and the voice of youth. She would never tell the artists
that. It was no rulers place to suggest the path art might take,
she thought. It had certainly not always been the case, but then,
what good was the freedom if they meant to organize into a row of
imitators?

The books from Cnoclean, on the other hand, were free
of such oversight as had formed in Spéirbaile. Spéirbaile's writing
had become overly introspective. Every book was some allegory on
the heart of the mind or some other such thing. The tales were
complex, sure, and thought provoking but they lacked excitement and
intrigue as almost a matter of course. The tome she had grabbed
away from Síocháin was delightfully ribald. It was the tale of a
handsome miner who drifted from town to town plying his trade and
bedding the daughters of locals and his flight from angry parents
the morning after. Eventually he was found sleeping in the woods by
a dozen angry women with boy children strapped to their backs. They
had tied him to a tree and taken it in turns to present to him the
bastards he had fathered and taken one of his belongings as
payment. The tale ended by suggesting that the boys had all left
home to make their lives as drifting miners.

Rianaire had related the tale to
Síocháin when she was done. Síocháin seemed amused enough at the
antics, quipping that had Rianaire been born with a cock, there'd
have been far more than a dozen angry women. Rianaire laughed and
they turned to discussing whether or not the drifter had really
done anything wrong. Síocháin argued that there ought to be
some
responsibility placed
on the one who spilled the seed but Rianaire was having none of it.
She reasoned that the boys were full grown soon enough and would be
valuable at earning income. Knowing they had a father might give
them ideas about running off and the mothers ought to keep them
around for the gold.

"I weep for your unborn," Síocháin said glibly.

The rain had not let up as the sky darkened around
them. Rianaire was still debating some light topic with Síocháin
when the wagons came to a stop.

"I suppose we'll be forced to make camp," Rianaire
said, looking out the window. "Oh, it would have just killed him to
stop before the sun fell that we might stay at an inn."

"It's no use pouting," Síocháin said.

They sat in the darkening carriage as the camp went
up in a small clearing off the side of the road. Fires were lit and
Síocháin took canvas cloaks from under her seat. When Grod opened
the carriage door to inform them that the camp was ready, they
donned the cloaks and jogged to the dry safety of the shelter. It
was not an overlarge tent but it was tall enough for them each to
stand upright for the first time all day. Síocháin stretched her
body out and rubbed at her legs. Rianaire rolled her shoulders and
looked around. She had not used the tent before, she realized. Her
old one had been deep green canvas with very little in the way of
amenities. She'd complained idly one time to Grod and she supposed
he must have seen fit to have a new one made. This tent stood a
good two feet taller than the old one with velvet designs sewn into
the deep red canvas walls. There was room for a large bed which was
made of a wooden frame that could be easily disassembled. On top of
the frame sat a large down mattress. Along the opposite wall were a
pair of chairs made to fold up to save space for travel. Each chair
had red velvet cushions tied so they sat over the seat and
backrest. There was also a large basin filled with water in the
corner.

They each made off with their muddy shoes by the door
and entered the tent. It was warmer than Rianaire had expected. She
noticed a hole at back of the tent which had a metal tube
surrounded by wood that connected to the canvas of the tent.
Rianaire reasoned there must be a fire at the other end of the
tube. Síocháin made for one of the chairs and sat down heavily.

"You ought to complain about your tents more often,"
Síocháin offered.

"I am inclined to agree. Though any more than this
and Grod is like to insist we figure out how to just haul the
Bastion around." Rianaire walked to the bed and fell onto it face
first. Her voice was muffled as it leaked out of the mattress. "I
am hungry."

"You should have eaten your breakfast."

Rianaire grunted into the pillow by way of a
complaint. She rolled over and looked at Síocháin. "I am hungry,"
she repeated, pouting.

The food eventually came. Grod had packed away some
of the lamb from the kitchens in Cnoclean which was served up
grilled with fire roasted parsnips. It was spiced just so and not
swimming in butter. Attributes which pleased Rianaire. She was not
opposed to butter but it had a time and place. She ate the whole of
her dinner and part of Síocháin's in spite of the handmaid's
protests. They shared the bed and fell asleep early.

The light of the morning brought a knock at the pole
separating the flaps of the tent. Rianaire groaned, wishing to
ignore it.

"Treorai, it is important." It was Grod.

Rianaire sat up in the bed and looked down at
Síocháin. "I swear you'd think we were in a race." The knock came
again at the wooden pole. "Sisters be good, I'm going to kill
him."

Rianaire stood and grabbed for one of the linen
blankets that laid around the foot of the bed. She wrapped it
around herself and went to the flap. She could still hear the rain
outside. It had lightened a bit but remained steady. She pulled the
flap aside. "Grod, we will be up and ready in due time so unless
you have—"

He didn't say a word, just turned aside. She looked
past the guard and saw it. She began laughing so hysterically that
she nearly dropped the blanket. Out in the yard, they had pulled
the carriage off into the clearing. The ground had turned out
softer than her guard expected and the carriage now sat with its
wheels half sunken into the ground, its belly sitting nestled
against the mud.

Síocháin had dressed herself and came to see the
commotion. Rianaire turned back, wiping away a tear the laughter
had brought out. She dropped the blanket and sat on the edge of the
bed. Síocháin sent Grod away and returned to attend her. When she
had dressed, Rianaire emerged from her tent covered in a cloak.
There were three soldiers at each wheel working on digging the cart
free with Grod yelling at them in between each shovelful of
mud.

She walked to Grod who turned to her. "I mean to go
for a walk."

"Into the woods? Treorai, I advise against it. We
have not scouted them since just after nightfall and even then not
deeply."

"It's fine," Rianaire said, smiling politely.
Motioning to her side, she added, "Should something horrible jump
out, I have Síocháin to protect me."

Rianaire turned and walked away before Grod could
manage a proper protest. She walked casually and Síocháin stayed in
step behind her. The noise of the rain and the nearness of the wood
put them out of sight and earshot quickly.

"I can never quite tell if he truly fears for my
safety or if he just wishes to avoid talks with Spárálaí so
fiercely as I do." Rianaire heaved a sigh. The rain had trouble
making it through the thick overgrowth of maples that dominated the
area.

"It could well be both," Síocháin suggested.
"Avoiding Spárálaí is more than enough cause for action for
most."

Rianaire had to laugh at that. "He is a horrible
creature, isn't he?" She went silent a brief moment. "I've
decided!" She said suddenly. "When we return, I will find his
replacement. I'm sure he has some place he'd like to retire to
before age takes him."

Síocháin spoke up, likely aware that it was futile.
"The harvest is nearly upon us. The transition could be—"

"There will always be a reason not to do a thing,
Síocháin. It is why he has been in place so long. But now he is
spreading dissent and lecturing people not under his control as
though he runs more than my finances."

"I cannot disagree."

"And if you did, I'm not like to listen." Rianaire
laughed lightheartedly and put a hand out to grab Síocháin's. She
was stopped dead by the faint sound of a scream from the direction
of the camp.

"A scream." Síocháin said with certainty.

Rianaire took off running for the camp as fast as she
could manage with her slick bottomed shoes in the wet of the storm.
Síocháin kept pace with her easily, but did not move ahead. They
had not walked far and were back on the camp in a matter of
minutes. Rianaire meant to rush into the camp but Síocháin grabbed
her by the arm and pulled her low.

Rianaire's head spun to look at Síocháin, her eyes
glowing with intensity. She calmed when she saw the face of her
handmaid. They did not know the circumstance and Síocháin had
stopped her from running clear of any cover. They crept near the
edge of the tree line and the sounds became clearer and clearer.
The sound of steel on steel, the screams and wails of the injured
and dying. The camp was engulfed in fighting, she knew before she
could see.

As they found the edge of the wood, the sight came
into view. Several tents burned bright in utter defiance of the
rain. Her own guard were fighting… she could not tell. They were
raiders from the look of them. Second hand armor for the most part
but something wasn't right. Their blades were new and well forged.
Some among them even wore high quality armors. They could not have
been outfitted in her province. It was forbidden and no smith would
be fool enough to try it. Even the poorest had their pride.