She paused, almost daring the heads to make a sound. None dared.
“Further, you are to immediately cease any required worship of the Sisters as a matter of course and piety will no longer be allowed as a measure of the value of a student, only their ability with the Gifts and their ingenuity. Pursuant to that, the writ of each college will be to develop a deeper understanding of the Gifts of the Sisters and to advance any practical applications to improving the lives and warfaring capabilities of our great people.”
There was not a voice raised in disagreement but the shuffling in the chairs was unending. She had succeeded in upsetting them, but she was not yet finished.
“Any among you who takes umbrage at this, I will be glad to discuss it with you but my decisions are firm and you are welcome to leave the employ of the college so long as you take nothing and no one with you. Should you attempt to take valuable texts or elven resources, you will be executed as a traitor.”
She took in a deep breath. “Now,” she said, crossing her legs, “I would be happy to hear what any of you have to say.”
All four of the heads predictably erupted with complaints, loudly and with faces that certainly were not the sort one would expect to see on the most learned and thoughtful that the elven world had to offer. It was piety and righteousness that had filled them with this attitude and Rianaire took a deep pleasure in watching their reddening faces.
“STOP!” called the booming, aged voice of the Spéir school. “She is willing to hear us, but it is for naught if we speak like children.”
There was the holy attitude, though only a second before he had been shouting with the others. She had known the old man when she was working to be named Údar of the Spéir school. He was easily provoked then, and violent. He had not mellowed in his age, but he knew that he must at least play at respect in front of her. He began again now that the others had quieted.
“Treorai, the colleges have long enjoyed an existence unencumbered by the burden of the outside world. It is that crucial separation that has been key in allowing our studies to continue so fruitfully.”
Rianaire looked him in the eye, her face stony and void of emotion. “Enjoyed is a word that seems to be most telling. You were given a gift many thousands of years ago on the promise of bettering the way of life for all elves. What have you given us in your own lifetime? Or the lifetime of ten of your predecessors?”
“The study of the Sisters and their Gifts—”
“Or is it only the study of the Sisters? The forms taught to me that I might be named Údar at each of your colleges are the same that were taught to my mother and to hers. You study nothing. You gain no knowledge, you simply pass generation after generation learning to recite the same stories and chants.”
“That we might be closer to the Sisters and their wisdom. That one day they will bless us with a deeper knowledge.”
“That’s as likely as I’ll wake up tomorrow craving a centaur cock in my belly.”
The four heads gasped at once.
“But… Treorai…” The voice was smoky and faint, hidden behind a black veil. “What of piety?”
“What of it? Has your experiment in wide-eyed waiting brought our people anything of value? Oh, will you assure me that the chants are much more effective now at boring the bulk of our people to sleep? A cure for insomnia! Your uses know no bounds.”
“Our studies serve to remind all among us of the values of the Sisters. Of their teachings. Teachings which made us great.” The bearded man was doing his best to sound calm, but there was a tremor in his voice that grew as he spoke.
Rianaire scoffed. “Perhaps we were taught different histories.” She looked to the old man. “Have they been amended since I was taught them? The ones in the Hall of Record? Not your flowery books of praise, the histories that tell of four women who could scarcely stand one another. Who grudgingly came together to force an obstinate foe back across some imagined line at the bottom of the desert. The histories that suggest the Gifts existed before the Sisters?”
The old man slammed his hands on the table. “Treorai!” His voice broke and the sound must have caught him there. “What you are speaking of… those books were written by madmen. They exist only for their significant age, not for their voracity. The Sisters left the Gifts for elven kind as defense against our foes should we prove ourselves worthy in our worship. All of the oldest texts agree.”
“All but those you dismiss.”
“It still remains true that the strongest among the ranks of the colleges are the most pious. As it has always been.” The Abhainn representative spoke, her tiny voice wavering with fear and confusion.
“Is it so? You all agree?”
“We do,” said the old man of Spéir. The others nodded.
Rianaire laughed a cold, haunting laugh. She stopped herself and smiled wryly. “Then try and kill me.”
They all looked to her, shocked.
The old man was the only one to speak. “I… Treorai… I beg your pardon?”
“If you are so
