Socair groaned. She went to sit herself up on the floor, using her injured arm without a thought and barking at the pain, scaring Práta.
No more meals were allowed outside the room which featured a private bath. Socair tried her best to be patient, to not think of it as a cell, but she struggled with it. Práta was passive, saying time and again, when Socair complained, that such measures were common. A day passed, and another. The announcement of Deifir’s death had been made. Socair had not yet been named, but the word had spread among the Bastion. She heard voices in the hall often. One came in the middle of the night as the guards changed. Socair had slept little since the announcements and was not asleep to be woken by the noise. It was Deifir’s Binse of Quarter, Ataim.
He pounded at the door, screaming obscenities and accusations. “How dare you sit where she sat! A bloody child! You’ll see us all ruined in a season, I know it!”
His voice rang with the slurs of heavy drinking and he struggled against the guards who finally came to remove him but was taken away nonetheless.
The days went quiet again and a week passed since Deifir had died. The songs had not stopped since the announcements. Thousands singing the old songs that she might find rest. Socair sang them quietly to herself when she could. She had started to grow restless, the hole in her arm closing at a speed that seemed to upset the healers sent to see to her care. One called it unnatural, laughing that she did not know if Socair was cursed or blessed. Práta still moved awkwardly, and Socair had convinced Meirge that they be allowed to wander at least the halls near her room. He’d agreed, reluctantly, promising to arrange it.
The morning came. Meirge had seen to his promise. The corridors were guarded and she could walk with Práta. The walk was slow, but it did the both of them good. The air was cool, but much fresher than what was in her room. A pair of guards kept behind them at all times. Socair would have laughed at the thought of keeping them nearby, but the wound that was through her main sword arm humbled the thought. They spoiled the mood somewhat, though Práta seemed not to mind so Socair held her tongue.
They rounded a corner. The main hall was ahead of them and she could hear voices coming from it.
Práta looked behind at the guards. “I do not know that voice.” She started closer and Socair joined her.
Socair listened for the voice Práta spoke of. It seemed a familiar one to her… but she could scarcely remember from where.
“Where is she, damn it? I will not have some oafish guard tell me that I cannot so much as stand in a hallway. I’ve come a long way and done so at great discomfort and I have no intention of leaving.”
“Regent, please, we cannot… there are orders.”
The guards at the main hall turned, hearing footsteps behind them. When they saw it was Socair they became nervous, looking to each other, unsure what to do.
“Treorai, we cannot…” They whispered.
Práta would have none of it. “What are you whispering for? Is some woman meant to be able to be Socair’s killer? Who is that?”
The voice from the main hall had heard the commotion and came walking closer. Socair just saw the face over heads and immediately her nerves went to jitters.
“Socair! What ridiculous manner of guard are you running here? I swear, I’ve never met the like. You’d think they hadn’t heard the good news.”
Hands came between the guards and parted them with some fussing and a few quickly forgotten protests.
Her face beamed, clean and elegant.
Socair did not know where to begin. “I… I… did not expect…”
A hand was offered. “You must be Práta. I knew your father well, to my grand disgust.” Práta looked quietly at Socair as she took the hand in her own. “I am sure our lovely Treorai has failed to mention me.” The elf pulled her hand from Práta’s and moved to Socair’s side, smiling mischievously. “I am Rún. And I am here to help.”
v
Óraithe
They had begun to settle into the Low District. Each day seeing fewer errant guards, all telling the same story. They’d been abandoned. Óraithe had meant to be patient with them, hearing their stories as they were found and letting them go as best she could. It would show her as kind and reasonable. One had killed a girl, raped her after. He had been caught in the act, cursing her low-birth. He was ripped limb from limb by a mob with her blessing. A mob, but they had come to her to see what she would allow.
Each guard caught after the crime had been forced into cellars with heavy doors and kept there. The cellars were growing full, however, and even if they were not, something must be done. Óraithe felt the itch to be done with prisoners and prisons more than any of the others even.
“They deserve death or they do not.”
Scaa had been the only among them who had not stirred at the line for one reason or another. There was argument about it, discussion such as it went, but no one would offer a better solution. All permutations of the problem came to the fore. Killing them, exile, even allowing them a second chance. When the meeting was done Óraithe thanked them for seeing so many sides of the problem. She meant it, genuinely hoping that they could continue to do so where it was worth discussion. All of them seemed pleased at that. She had made them feel there was contribution to be made.
The call came in the morning, rousing an annoyed Scaa to
