“Óraithe. They say we’re needed.”
She still lay on the floor, staring at the ceiling above. “Oh? Where now?”
“The square.”
Óraithe sat up and looked at Scaa.
“Why?”
The boyish elf shrugged, walking to her clothes, yawning. Whoever had come calling had left the doorway. Óraithe dressed, wearing the cloak she’d used in the attack the first day. The cold had begun to creep into the light of day and she did not like the feel of the wind on her skin. It brought memories of the Wastes and darker things.
They walked to the square without much talk. The city was still in the Bais morning. It lacked for life still, but there were sounds more often now at least. The gates were well-guarded and they had seen the first trade wagons from Rinnbeag. Fish and wine and sundries. They had welcomed the wagon and paid the man for the goods with coin taken from the guards and from abandoned homes. He found it all extremely odd, but seemed happy to have sold all he brought with little argument and little haggling. More came every day to their group, bringing skills and goods and silver or copper. Occasionally a gold or two were offered. Word must have traveled beyond the Palisade of their dealings with the trader as it was not a half day before an attack made its way down the wall’s overwalk, attempting to reclaim the gates. There was so little meaning in recovering the gatehouse that Óraithe wondered what Briste was playing at. A feeble, wasted move that saw four more of her guards captured.
There was some bustle in the square, bodies flooded even into the alleys, none bothering to look behind as she passed toward the northern side. The Palisade was not far from them there and so they avoided it, but there was no talk of archers from the watches they had set. The thought of Briste’s plans occupied much of Óraithe’s time. There seemed to be no reason in them. She doubted there was, but she would not allow herself to miss something. Not when she was so close to a war with the woman.
They were met along an alley by Eilit. Her face was grave, not strange for a teacher in such circumstances. She and Earráid had largely busied themselves tending to children and mending clothes and whatever kept them from the reality of the bloody work around them. She turned as they approached to keep pace.
“Mistress Óraithe, the townsfolk… they have come to witness your judgment.”
“My judgment? I do not understand.”
Eilit looked at her as if she’d said something strange. “Your judgment of the prisoners. Briste’s guardsmen. You said…”
Óraithe nodded. “No, of course. I apologize. I have yet to shake the sleep from my mind.”
In truth, she did not understand. Why would she judge them? Was that not a thing better suited to tribunals or gatherings? Her brain turned over the problem as quickly as she could manage, the square growing closer. Why? Why her? That seemed to be the correct question, she felt. Her. Punishments were meted out by leaders. It was the way of things to them. She began to understand the position she held, though she did not believe it. They did not wish for a new system. Had Scaa known this? Understood it? She did not seem to, or did not speak of it if she did. The people who had, for days on end, slaughtered guards in Briste’s employ simply sought to replace her with something they found more suitable. She had read the stories. They had even been the reason for her first steps down this path. With it around her so near, she had failed to notice.
Her gut was knots upon knots when she walked out to the gallows. The hanging post had been torn down, she did not know when. In the center of the platform sat a chair. Only one. A hush fell over the crowd as she climbed the stairs and walked to the chair. Scaa was behind her, breathing awkwardly fast. They were both nervous at least.
Óraithe planted herself in the chair. Hard wood, well-made.
“Bring the first.”
Two burly elves in hoods dragged a man from the edge of the crowd to boos and hisses. He looked tired and did not struggle against the men. Borr stood forth when the man stood at the center of the stage, facing Óraithe.
“An elf of Briste’s guard. He’s refused us his name. The others say he is Ordan, a highborn who has been with the guard for years. Cruel, and abandoned to the Low District for it by his own men.”
She looked him over as the words were read. The man held his chin high as though that meant something in this place. Borr spoke for a few more moments, naming the elves who had complained against him. She leaned back in the chair, sitting upright when the reading was done.
“What say you, Ordan?”
His eyes came down on her when she asked the question. She could see the worthless pride of nobility in them. “It is a mockery that I should be judged by the likes of you. A scumchild, born to filth and playing at more.”
The angry roar from the crowd was near deafening.
Óraithe laughed at him, uncaring over his words. “A true guard of Fásachbaile’s City, aren’t you? I have missed your sort. Well then, let’s have you play your little part to the very end.” She looked at the men. “He dies.”
The crowd
