Síocháin said not a word. She only stood, quiet and emotionless to the world.
“Guards…” The words came from her, crackly, wavering things, soaked in tears. Not an order from the lips of a Treorai. “Take her to a cell.”
Inney pulled her from the hall and to her quarters. She’d not have moved under her own power so she was thankful for it being done. Rianaire could not bring a single thought to her mind. She sat on the bed, unable to will a muscle in her body to move. Síocháin, her love, the light among the dark days of her past… what had she done?
Word came, hours into the night. The Binse of War had been poisoned. She had died only minutes after Rianaire was taken from the room. A day passed, and another. She ate nothing and drank nothing. She thought near as little. Only remembered Síocháin’s face, smiling and young and wondering what had driven her to it. Inney tried to speak with her, but Rianaire could not bring words to her face.
The night was dark when she finally stood from the bed she’d lived in for so many hours. Inney began to move.
“No.”
It was the only word she had spoken since. Forming the sound pained her throat as she’d never known. She was swollen and ugly and ruined. Her muscles burned with each stair she descended. Not a word was spoken as she came to the cells beneath the Bastion. She stood before Síocháin in a loose gown, staring, the tears already in her eyes.
“You have broken me, Síocháin… is that what you wished?”
Síocháin was quiet, but her eyes were on Rianaire.
Rianaire bit her lip hard, trying to keep her mind about her. “Is silence all I have earned? All my love has bought?” She waited again, frustration rising behind the sadness. Who was this woman? “I do not know what I can do, Síocháin. I have always known the weight of my loyalties… but now…” Rianaire looked away, unable to meet the empty gaze. “How can I do nothing?”
“How could I?” Rianaire turned, her eyes meeting Síocháin’s. She sat still, at the edge of her simple bed. “How could I do nothing? Bringing a disgusting—”
“Nothing?!” She began to lose her patience. “Is your hate so short-sighted as that, Síocháin? Do you understand so little?! How many will die without her? How many lives have you spent to hand me those words?!” Her anger turned to a sort of desperate mania, and she laughed. “Did I not explain it well enough to you? Did you not understand the strategy? How many hours at that door did I spit empty words to make you understand?”
“I understand it all, love. More than you will ever allow yourself to believe. I understand that you had no need to sully the pride of our people with that animal’s name. I understand that it was a game to you. To make those you hate make faces you love. And to show them for fools.” Síocháin stood. “Your games have gone too far this time. I could no longer watch them be played. Already you brought that black-blooded woman into our bed. I bore it because my pride is my own to sell. But our people deserve better than this game of yours.”
Rianaire winced at the words and pulled from them.
The execution was ordered for the morning of the following day. Rianaire woke to it, dressed herself in black and fur. She heard there had been singing in Abhainnbaile all through the night. Their new Treorai crowned. There would be no singing in Spéirbaile.
The courtyard was full with bodies, all of them grim and joyless, as if her heart stretched out away from her and into frozen streets. Snow fell silent in weak wind. The guillotine had been built and put to its place. A solemn chair sat on the platform to look on the horrible thing. Rianaire walked through the cold and the hush to take her place in it and the unfortunate business began. Síocháin was brought out, dressed in simple white, her face the same as it had been for so many years. Even now.
“For the most heinous crime of murder of the sitting Binse of War of Rianaire, Treorai of Spéirbaile, and for the treason which this act carries with it, Síocháin of Spéirbaile, you are hereby sentenced to know death for your crimes. Let this sentence be carried out when the condemned has spoken her last. So it is written.”
The words echoed, carried on the wind. Rianaire’s eyes dry and red and swollen. She stared at the love she had known for so long, white gown rustling in the breeze.
Síocháin turned to her. Each flat word tore at Rianaire’s heart.
“I am sorry. I have made you cry.”
The silence returned and masked men took Rianaire’s love by the shoulders, walking her to her death. It was quiet. Quiet enough to hear the sound of snowflakes. And then the level was pulled on a horrible machine. The snow went red and the light drained from Rianaire’s soul.
She stood, and the wind died. The snow froze in the air. Tears moved down her face. She wept loudly as she walked from the stage. The echoes stung her ears. And for the first time in her life, she could not stand the cold.
U
Aile
The elves were unbearable in their revelry. The songs were unending and they were drunk more often than usual and, worse, they all seemed to wish to explain to her why they were so elated. A new Treorai. She had heard stories of Socair, the Goddess of Glassruth no less than a dozen times now. Some stories stopped there, others told of her time in
