In the hall, Nath had replaced the man. Socair walked past without so much as a look and stormed down the hall. Her long strides made it hard for the girl to keep pace. Lifting her skirt and adopting a half-skip, she kept just behind Socair.
“Is something the matter, Binseman?”
“It is none of your concern.”
Some part of her perked to tell her that she had been unduly rude to the girl, but was quickly burned away behind a seething anger. She needed to see Práta. She needed to see her immediately.
v
Óraithe
While sleep had come fairly easily, she had not done much of it. She figured she had not managed to sleep much more than two hours, but her body did not seem to mind for whatever reason. The aches were still there, but dull now. The blanket was still wrapped around her shoulders, though the wind was not so bad as the first night.
The old satyr had stirred at dusk and immediately turned himself to face the wall of the prison. He had been sitting with his head down for hours now without moving or making a sound.
The yard had gone quiet a few hours before. The echoes of conversations made it to her ears as did the wind, but that was all. It was strangely casual for a prison, Óraithe thought. She did not have much experience with them, but the one she had known at least did not encourage conversation.
The dark started to spread and the lights of tiny fires began to show themselves against the massive walls that surrounded them. A sound started behind her. A foreign sound, but fluid and constant. She realized quickly that it came from the satyr. He faced the wall, head now up and eyes closed. The sound was rhythmic, almost a chant though she knew none of the words. Óraithe could not bring herself to look away from him. The potent combination of fear that he was preparing to sacrifice her to some unknown god and the curiosity of it all insisted that she absorb every bit of it.
Nearly an hour had passed and she had begun to pick apart the chanting. There was an order to it, though the phrase was long. It took nearly ten minutes for a recitation of whatever the satyr spoke. She could just make out the syllables of his speech though she hadn’t a clue where the words broke, much less the sentences. He suddenly stopped and stood. Óraithe turned her head almost by instinct, wishing not to get caught staring so obviously. The satyr did not look at her, however. He looked to the door. Óraithe remembered the food then. She and the satyr were the closest to where he said they would drop it. There was only one corner, formed by a pair of turns the wall took before swooping around in a large circle and they were in it. No one seemed even to come within a dozen yards of them, even during the day. The corner was likely not a spot that was given easily considering the privacy that it offered and the proximity to the food.
“I will be only a moment,” he said.
A horn blew and she could hear the rapid duffs of items hitting the ground. The satyr set out toward them with a confident, steady pace. He turned to a vague silhouette after a dozen yards, bending down as he arrived at the food. Óraithe scanned the camp. Every elf who was awake watched the satyr. None of them moved, however. She could tell by the shape of the shadows that they had all turned to see him move.
He was only at the pile for a moment before he stood and began to make his way back to the corner. As he came close enough to be recognizable in the light of the Eyes, she could see that he carried a loaf of bread, a log of cured meat, and three skins.
“I took more than is my custom, but I do not think we will hear much over it.”
He threw down two of the skins in front of her and sat. Half the loaf of bread and half of the meat were handed over. She placed the food in her lap and immediately opened the skin. It was water. It may have been the best water she’d ever known. She pressed on the side of the skin to force the water down her throat as fast as she could manage. No sensation had ever been so pleasant.
She drew a long breath when the water was gone and looked around. The others in the yard were walking to the pile, all keeping a safe distance from one another, keeping to their small groups. A few looked at Óraithe curious about anything that drew the attention of the satyr. She stared back at them and ate eagerly of the food she’d been brought. The bread was dense and hard and amazing. The meat was far too heavily spiced but even the burn it left in her mouth failed to dull her body’s enjoyment.
Some past version of her might have been embarrassed to see how voraciously she went at the food, but now she could not find it in herself to be concerned over appearances. The satyr said nothing and only ate and watched the yard until the movement had settled. Only when relative quiet returned to the prison did he begin to eat his own take.
Óraithe finished her own food and stretched out, leaning back against the wall. The ache in her stomach was starting up like it had in the morning. It was bearable and entirely worth it. The satyr was still eating, taking his time and looking up at the Eyes.
“What were you chanting before?”
He ignored her and took another bite of his bread. He chewed it thoroughly, having a
