Socair laughed, in spite of the tears. “They could never be a match for you, love.” She put her head to Práta’s knee. “Sisters, I did nothing but fret.”
“Nothing? It seems you ate.”
Socair looked up at her, pouting. Práta laughed and put a hand on her head.
“Alright, you ate and fretted. And fretted while you ate.”
“What do the healers say?”
Práta put on an awkward smile. “I’ve lived. Though, I… suppose that is obvious. They say I will not have children. Too much risk of rot after my innards spilled out to my gut when that little shriek put her knife in me.” She balled a fist and gritted her teeth, but flinched at the pain she’d caused herself. “But… I never much cared for the burden. A dozen years spent cooing over a thing. It doesn’t suit me, I don’t think. Besides, the past weeks have been enough of a taste of the worry it causes.”
“I am sorry.” Socair’s voice had gone weak. “If I had left her…”
“Then you would be some woman I do not know.” Práta ran her hands through Socair’s unkempt hair. It had still gone uncut and was beginning to trouble her, falling in front of her eyes at times. “You carry too much on your shoulders, love. I have watched you pile more and more, until you struggled even to move. You took the girl from a place of pain. You wept for the souls you could not save. Your heart is a beautiful thing but it cannot make beauty in the hearts of others.”
They spoke of the war and of food and everything Socair had seen and felt. She was filled with nothing but worry that Práta would suddenly come to hate her and leave or that she was not so well as she pretended. It was a question asked nearly hourly, whether Práta was sure she was well. Her cheeks had not lost color and she had not complained, but Socair worried without end.
The guards came as Meirge said they would and the two were shown to the galley exit. Deifir’s own carriage awaited them. Socair could not think of it as her own, even as she sat in it, called Treorai time and again as she passed guards in circuit. She was told to keep her head low as they left the city. There was some fun in it, a distraction from the mad world outside, as if she and Práta hid from it all. The ride was smooth and comfortable, even over the rougher pieces of road that led back to the Bastion City. Among the luggage atop the carriage was a long, wooden box. Deifir rode in it, Socair knew. It plagued her mind as the slow, quiet journey robbed her of ways to escape such thoughts. Práta slept and waking her would have been cruel. Socair knew so little of leading people. She had her instincts, and, as the Sisters were merciful, Práta, but no skills she felt would serve her in the work of a Treorai.
A stop to change drivers shook Práta awake for a moment. She grumbled and rubbed at her stomach. “Stop crying, love.” The words were a barely coherent jumble, but Socair heard them. She laughed quietly, curious what Práta dreamt.
They made the city walls as the sun found its mid-morning place in the sky. Socair had begun to leave the cart when they pulled into the stables at the walls, but was stopped by a guard.
“We will see you to the Bastion. Please be comfortable, Treorai.”
She nodded and sat. A half hour passed before they began again, moving through side streets that Socair knew well enough. Not a soul walked along them. They had been preparing a private route. With Deifir atop and Socair within, it must not have even been a question. There was much to protect within the carriage.
Socair and Práta were both treated as though an assassin meant to do them in at any moment. They were hurried into the Bastion and taken to Socair’s quarters, put there under guard. Meirge came again and explained that she lived as all incoming Treorai did in the days of transitions. He stayed only a moment, assuring her that she would be free to move of her own will when all was settled. She and Práta were taken from the room for a meal in late afternoon. They were allowed a bath after.
The guard returning them explained that they would be sleeping elsewhere from now on. Socair knew the Bastion fully and knew at the first turn where he meant. A hall with courtyards to either side of a large room. The place for the Treorai. Socair stood in front of the doors staring at them.
“I cannot… What of her things?”
“They have been removed, Treorai. All but the texts.”
“I… no. I wish to be taken to my other quarters.”
The guard hesitated. “Treorai… you… you have no other quarters. Your things have been moved here.”
Socair’s expression was a pained one. For all the softness around her now, she felt as though she could not remember comfort. There was no fighting it. She thanked the guard and the doors were opened for her. When she was inside with Práta, closed away from the world again, she fell to the ground, exhausted, wishing to have a child’s tantrum.
“Explain this madness to me, Práta. I am at the edge of my wits. What noble mind put me in this place?”
Práta had moved to the shelves of books. Many in the old tongue, many more in languages
