“And you have no proof to support that supposition?”
Socair bit her tongue in her mouth to keep the flash of annoyance from showing on her face. “I do not. Nothing beyond what I have seen for myself.”
Deifir was silent a moment. She looked to the window and narrowed her eyes. “I…” She looked at Socair. “I have something that I must ask of you Socair. As much as I am sure you will not like it, you are the only soul I can trust with the task.”
Socair stood. “Anything.” Her heart beat faster. The anticipation was too much. She might be a warrior again. It was what she was. She’d spent a season pushing it down, putting service ahead of her very nature. Sisters, she could feel the saliva welling in her mouth.
“I need you to undertake a mission to the other provinces. A diplomatic mission.”
Her heart felt as though it had stopped dead. Of course, she thought, this is my life now. A life of paper and words.
“I understand.” She said the words flatly.
Deifir showed a sorrowful, pitying smile. “I know it is not what you wish for yourself, but it is what I wish for you. It is what I need of you.”
Socair shook off the self-pity as best she could. “I am yours, Deifir. I belong to you and to Abhainnbaile.”
Deifir somehow looked all the more sad to hear her say that. “I know. It is that…” She stopped herself there, shaking her head. “This diplomatic mission is no small thing, Socair.”
Socair nodded.
“I believe that you are correct about the hippocamps. I do not have the intuition that you do when it comes to the nature of war, though I have watched over one for so long, but I am at least able to feel a stirring in the waters that I do not understand. You are the only among us who seems to feel it as well.”
Socair could feel Práta tense at that. They had spent hours nearly every night of the past season wondering how they could explain what they both knew to be true. And here were the words from the lips of the only mouth that mattered.
“Sadly, I am the Treorai. I cannot make claims so easily if they run counter to what the people see as wisdom. Not without proof. That is why I must send you after the aide of the other Treorai for the good of us all. None of us, alone, can stand to the might of the hordes.”
“The…”
Deifir nodded. “Rianaire in the north and Briste in the east. I know you have read the histories in these past weeks so you know they are a troublesome pair of women at the best of times. Neither will be happy with what you are being sent to ask, but you must ask it all the same. I know that you do not feel suited to words, but you must learn. If this quiet is more than only a quiet, your words may be the only thing that ensures we are prepared for what comes next.”
v
Óraithe
She sat staring at the door, teeth clenched and lips curled into a sour grimace. In some part of her mind, even Óraithe was surprised with how hot the hate still burned inside of her. It had been seventeen weeks and three days since she was thrown limp and bleeding into the cell.
There were not many others on the glorified cattle cart that took her deep into the heart of the White Wastes, a fate she would come to understand was especially unfortunate. The elves charged with transporting the prisoners into the Wastes were unshy and not hesitant in the least about making use of captors they knew would never be seen again. Some had the decency to at least drag their victims away from the cart to rape them, but it was not a rare thing to be dragged against the back wall of the cart and done there. Unwashed cunts were licked and unwashed cocks were sucked with dull, cheap blades pressed firmly against whatever part of her neck was nearest. She felt herself die a bit every time the hungry eyes of one of her escorts fell upon her.
It was a week of cruelty with neither a bite nor a drink. She took in more water from the piss of her captors being forced into her mouth than any source one might call potable. Things had changed when they arrived. The captain of the guard chastised the escorts for again bringing him half-dead prisoners. He was responsible for them, he had said. She wasn’t sure why she remembered the words when she couldn’t so much as remember the shape of the building she was carted into. She knew that she had been separated from the others at the gates and taken to a dark room.
For the first three weeks, she was alone with her pain. Bloody, wet shit and a womanhood that no longer seemed to offer even pain back to her. She touched the spot a time or two, pushed a finger in, but the only sensation was in her hands. She spent that night weeping and regretting having wondered. Very nearly regretting that she still lived. The days passed and the meager meals came into the dark room. She counted the passing of time by them. They were regular. There were no tricks here and none were needed. Óraithe cried so much as she could force herself to but in the passing of half a season, there was nothing left that she could bring herself to care for.
It was then that the rage started to grow. She pictured the faces of everyone she had seen after her life had ended. She saw them there in the dark. Briste. The torturers in their room beneath the Bastion. The guards who took her. The escorts. The captain of the guard. Her unkempt nails
