She had finished her evening meal when a knock came at the door a bit earlier than she’d expected. They were fastidious about taking the dishes she left, but usually gave her more time. Socair had already tidied them on the table that sat in front of the room’s lavish couch. The entire room, beautiful as it was, held no comfort for her. Only, in the absence of distraction or conversation, reminded her of Silín and Doiléir and what they might’ve said in such a place.
The door opened and the pleasant, familiar faces skipped away to some other place. She looked up, meaning to make small talk about the plates with whoever had come to take them, but instead found Meirge standing upright. When she met his eyes, he nodded to the guards at the door and stepped fully inside the room. They were left alone there.
“Treorai, I—”
“I wish you would not call me that, Meirge. I… I do not wish for some strange familiarity, but it causes me such discomfort… More than any other title.”
“You will warm to it in time.” He nodded, satisfied with his response. His voice was calm, mature. It soothed her somehow. “May I sit?”
“Of course.”
She motioned to a chair and Meirge took it. A ridiculous question. Why would he not be allowed to sit? The thought was followed near as quickly by the memory of her asking the same of Deifir so many times. And of others doing the same. It was how one comported themselves to those who held authority over them.
“I have come to provide an outlay of the days to come and to apologize for how this has been seen to. Deifir had concerns over your appointment. Specifically, how her Binse would react upon the news. It has been kept secret and the only word spread is that you took a grave wound in her defense. Come midnight we will ride from this place for the Bastion City.”
“Práta—”
“Will accompany us.” Meirge leaned forward in the chair. “I have not been so blind in my time in the Bastion as to think you would leave without her. Neither am I so cruel as to wish it.”
“What will happen?”
Meirge sighed, leaning back again. “Very little, at first. When you arrive at the Bastion, we will assume guard over you. Some days hence, you will be publicly avowed by the extant Binse, affirming they are completing Deifir’s will. Speeches, parties, and endless pieces of paper to put your name upon. And then a war.”
“War… They have retreated, yes? How far? To where?”
“Our scouts report a small contingent making south for Dulsiar. The bulk have broken east, moving for Glascroí, perhaps, or some other city beyond. We expect there are forces still in Drocham, or bound for it by sea.”
“The winds will take some of them, if they mean to cross the water. Bais is no time for sails.”
“We should hope. The bulk will come from the east, I should think. Though some wish to trumpet this a thorough victory and hail an end to the war.”
“Glasta?”
“And others.”
“Fools, the lot of them.”
“We all were, Socair. You must remember that. We looked at you with unbelieving eyes and entire cities have paid the cost. Thousands have died because we waited to hear your wisdom. Even Deifir said it, when no other ears could hear. ‘She has conviction,’ she said. ‘But is it something more, or the burning fires of youth?’”
Socair said nothing at that, only mulled the words. She had long understood what the cost of her youth was among those above her. Doubts that had moved from their minds to hers and clouded her judgment. Let her be led to places that had nothing to do with the threats that she saw so clearly before. Seventy and five years were not enough spent alive to know the shape of war, so went the common wisdoms so often offered to her.
Another knock and Meirge stood. “You must not forget such truths, Socair. Had you led us, so many more would still live. And this war may have failed before it began.” He stopped at the door, talking over his shoulder. “You’ve a few hours until we ride, Treorai. Use them to ready yourself.”
He opened the door and left, but it did not shut behind him. Socair looked up, remembering the plates. She stood and turned to grab them. She heard the door come closed behind her.
“Treorai is a mighty title for a dishmaid.”
She spun, spilling one of the plates onto the ground. It shattered to large pieces but Socair did not hear them.
“Práta…” She trotted in place, suddenly bursting with energy, unsure of what piece of her mind to listen to first. She needed to put the plates down, but she wished to rush to Práta’s side. Finally, she decided that the plates must go. She turned briskly, dropping them onto the table and then she spun, crunching over the broken plate at her feet to come to Práta.
Práta smiled at her, wincing the slightest bit as she held forth a hand to stop Socair from wrapping her in ecstatic arms. “You will be scolded for leaving such a mess.”
Socair’s eyes had already given to tears. She sniffled, already losing a battle for composure. “Práta, my love. They would tell me nothing.”
Práta motioned to a chair and Socair walked at her side, holding her hand. “Then they told you
