The throbbing in her chest and shoulder seemed to rise as he said the words. She knew it all too well.
“I will sleep,” the satyr said, pulling the blanket around his shoulders. He sat rather than laying. “We will talk more when the night is come.”
Óraithe was not convinced she would be able to sleep so long, though there was a feeling of security she had not known in a long time. If the satyr meant ill for her, he had no need to hide it. She had been in the open for much of the night before and unconscious besides. At the very least, if he meant to kill her, she would have been warm for a time before she went.
The satyr was quick to sleep. She heard his breathing become rhythmic within the passing of only a few minutes. The warmth was quickly coaxing her toward sleep as well, but she was not so quick to welcome it.
The yard had started to come to life now that the sky was blue. The shapes of the dark night became men and women. Some moved to work at the rocks, though most stayed in their places by the wall, perhaps waiting for the sun to move above the high wall. There was maybe even a shift system in place. Óraithe wondered what her place in it was. What the protection of the satyr meant. They were not questions she would necessarily be able to ask. Neither could she ask how long he would protect her.
The world became a series of snapshots as exhaustion tried to move into her brain. She shook her head to buy another moment and pushed toward the edge of the wall, where light was just starting to creep over. She laid herself down with the rock at her back. The pain was slowly spreading across her body and dulling. It moved out toward the tips of her fingers and Óraithe stretched her hands to let the pain escape. She could feel the dried blood give some resistance. It was a satisfying feeling. It reminded her of the warmth of his blood in the cold air. It reminded her that the Treorai had wanted her dead but that she was still alive. Their sadism was failing them and now she had, for the time being, an ally. Perhaps ally was the wrong word, but whatever the satyr was to her, it would serve.
R
Rianaire
It was a cold morning in the meeting hall, the open colonnade at her back allowing the wind in freely. The room had only occasionally been used since she had retaken it and found Spárálaí’s corpse being attended by a Drow. She still remembered the smell and often she imagined she could see marks on the floor where the chair had been though no one else ever seemed to.
The hall was now filled with the heads of the colleges and each of the four seemed deeply confused as to what she could possibly need of them. The colleges had, since remembered history, been free of the influence of the outside world to practice their religion and their study in peace. The pure study of the Sisters and their gifts were of paramount priority to the colleges and had been a point of pride to all of Rianaire’s ancestors so far as she knew.
There was no lack of pageantry from the college heads, each of them dressed in their most regal, ridiculous garb to either show her some form of respect or to make clear how highly they thought of themselves. Her interactions with the heads had always been terse and somewhat frustrating. Their independence from the control of the Treorai, which had always been a courtesy extended to them, seemed to be viewed as some right that the Sisters had divinely granted them. It seemed to not bear considering that the colleges had not existed until the Sisters had been gone for nearly a thousand years. Well, they were here now. Each of them in curiously wide hats except for the representative of Tine’s school. She was covered from head to toe in black, as was their way, but where the standard garb was linen, hers was velvet and set with shimmering onyx along the arms. The other schools had stones in their clothes as well, though larger. Aquamarine with a pattern of unpolished benitoite just below for Abhainn’s school, a tiger’s eye encircled by dravite for Fásach’s, and a beautifully clear diamond set against a milky quartz for Spéir.
Rianaire sat quietly watching them as they all stared back, waiting to hear why they had been called away from whatever important thing it was that they had been doing. The carriages would not be prepared for another hour at least and there was little sense in rushing things. This was apt to turn into a long, spirited conversation. Rianaire closed her eyes a moment and let the chill of the room move around her. She took a breath and opened her eyes.
“As you well know, I am currently without a Binse due to a shortage of appropriate local candidates. If the province is to be run to a quality standard, especially under threat of attack from the hippocamps, I will need proper assistance. As such I intend to leave the city for a time in the interests of forming a Binse that is capable of meeting the needs of our people.”
A girlish voice came from the representative of Abhainn’s school. “With all due respect, we—”
“You are not invited to speak until I have finished.” Rianaire’s voice was cold and plainly annoyed. “I have left orders with the city guard and they will see to maintaining order. You four will be responsible for receiving the Binse and seeing to anything that they may need.”
A gravelly voice, deep and throaty. The Fásach school. “Treorai, we do not—”
She cut her eyes at him and
