Scaa was quiet, her brow furrowed. Óraithe did all she could to resist the urge to say more, wanting to hear Scaa’s thoughts before she carried on.
“I…” Scaa stopped immediately, unsure of herself, but shook her head after a short second and continued. “I think that there is value in being honest and direct. They will understand in time if they do not now. They will not hate you for being unsure of yourself at times.”
“You will not hate me. But you have known me in ways they never will. You have seen me low and you have brought me back up. Perhaps some will see me as you do, but what of those who cannot? They understand me through stories, embellished ones. And if we somehow survive to take the Low District? What of the rest? They have no reason to follow. They will call me a child and be done with me, even with the stories and with the people who follow now. I must show myself as something more. Grand and strong and unwavering in the face of things.”
“Would that not make you like so many nobles? Smiling and reassuring at the head while the hand takes.”
Óraithe frowned at the question. She truly was unsure of the answer herself. “There must be ground between. The hand does not need to take. The other provinces are not this way.”
“Or so your books say.” A stop was called from behind and Scaa immediately clicked her tongue in annoyance. “The season will be through before we come to the Bastion City as this rate.”
Óraithe put a hand to Scaa’s shoulder. “Exactly the sort of face I must pretend I’ve never made, as strange as it feels.” Borr was first down from the barouche. He started away without them. Óraithe’s face turned serious and she leaned in to Scaa’s ear, whispering. “They are tools. We both understand that. If it pains you to see me act like some noble creature, you must bear it with my apologies. There are things only for us, there are things to be shared with this circle you’ve chosen, and there are things for the rest. As you said, they wish to be led. We must do it well.”
Borr returned to the side of the barouche. “Are you not coming this time, Mistresses?”
Óraithe stood and put a hand on the awning for balance. “Always.”
The walk was more of what all her walks had been since coming back to an inhabited world. Stares and greetings and mumblings and blessings in turns as they walked down the train to find the errant wagon. She never wanted to let the feeling she had during those walks fade or change. The uneasiness, the desire to shout at them to stop looking at her with such eyes. She had done what she could to sear the feeling into her mind, to hold onto it, but it was like to be a futile effort in the end. Her reality would become normal no matter how awful it might be, or how pleasant.
She had adopted a polite bow and placid smile that she imagined painted her as humble. It had come fairly naturally as a way to keep pace when walking the city with Scaa. It worked, at least. People smiled and bowed in return often fairly deeply, something she had not expected. Bowing was not something she thought people did, even to nobles. It was kneeling, more often. A few still tried kneeling when she came near or spoke to them, but her insistence that people not included pulling them back to their feet. It had gotten the message through, and spread, if the trips up and down the train had been any indication.
They came to the wagon that had been the cause of the stop. Óraithe had mostly expected to see another problem with a wheel and while that was a part of what had happened, it was much worse. There was a rut dug at the edge of the road they’d been traveling. It was not something any half-competent driver would ever have run into as the road was more than double the width of most wagons in the train and they had kept toward the center of it for as long as they had been riding. A middle-aged man sat in the dirt, away from the wagon, his head in his hands. He was balding and had skin that spoke of a life spent under the sun. Borr asked who had been driving the wagon, a large covered ordeal that carried drink of all sorts, water and spirits and even some sealed fruit juices. The obvious answer was given. He had driven into the rut, though no one could see why and the man had ignored any questions from the small crowd.
As Óraithe approached the man with Borr and Scaa, he looked up to see what the commotion was. When he saw her, his voice shot out, a wailing noise.
“Mistress Óraithe!” He threw his arms up awkwardly and made a plaintive moan. “Oh, woe! Forgive this fool, I beg it!”
He went to hands and knees and began to crawl toward her. Óraithe recoiled instinctively and Borr moved in front of her, yelling for the man to stop there.
“Explain yourself,” Borr thundered. Óraithe did not think she had seen him so angry.
“Yes. Yes, I will.
