“It almost upsets me that they should get to see you in this.”
Práta allowed herself a quiet laugh. “You mind them too much. This is what they want, you fretting and off-temper.”
“Seems I am always off-temper for nobles.”
There was a knock at the door just before Socair finished lacing the bodice of the dress. She tied the top quickly, eliciting a slight groan of protest from Práta at the tightness, and saw to the door. A gaunt boy stood on the other side, eyes and cheeks sunken. From his face, she’d have thought a street urchin had snuck in, but he wore the colors of the Treorai.
They were walked through the halls silently by the young desert elf. Arriving at a carved double door, the attendant knocked and took his leave. A moment later, the doors parted in tandem and a pair of well-muscled guards bowed, motioning them in.
The smell in the room was nearly overwhelming, dragged out through the open doors and into Socair’s unsuspecting nose. Spices and flowers swirled to a stink thick enough that she nearly gagged. It was enough that she had to will herself forward. Práta followed. The room was oddly arranged for how Socair understood these events to work. Rather than an ordered table or even a waiting area for pre-banquet talks, the room was lined with three large tables. Each of them was covered with trays piled obscenely high with more food than twice the gathered company could eat in a week. The flowers were no less abundant, with a gaudy centerpiece and a smaller, matching pair of end pieces on each table.
Socair realized she had been standing still when the eyes of people around the room began to fall upon her. A doughy woman in a frilled dress of some shiny fabric was making directly for her.
“Oh Sisters, what a delight! The room has been simply abuzz with word of when you might grace us!”
This… was a marked difference from her treatment in the meeting before.
“Th— My thanks for your kind words.”
“This is the river elf?” An effete male voice chirped from behind the woman.
“Yes, yes,” the doughy one said turning to greet a slender, balding man with saggy cheeks and baggy eyes. Like the woman, he was dressed in a way Socair would have called ostentatious if she were forced to be polite.
“The clothes are a bit shabby and, oh, ha! Oh my, a sword. How very singular!”
“The river elves are just so out of touch about these things, you understand. All that mud ruins the eye for fashion.”
“What about this one?” The man pulled his hand away from his chin to motion at Práta.
“Oh, something very interesting about her. A touch of the desert in her, I think. Soft though. No angles. And green. Ugh. Green in Bais. Had to be raised near a river.” The woman looked down at the plate she was carrying, finding it empty she immediately turned to leave. “Well, nothing for it. I expect to see the both of you at my shop when your business with Briste is done.”
The man followed her away and Socair looked to Práta.
“I apologize, Práta. I worry I no longer care if the people of Fásachbaile should live to see another season.”
Práta hooked her arm in Socair’s. “If all you knew of Abhainnbaile were the sort who attended gatherings at the Bastion, would you not say the same of our home?”
Without awaiting a reply, Práta pulled her off toward a table. The move seemed enough to cause the room to lose interest in the couple. The food was all foreign to Socair, though Práta pointed to a few things and explained what they were. The sauces were all thick and pungent, full of oranges and reds. It looked unnatural to her and smelled even moreso. There were meats as well, most crusted with nuts and herbs and again more aromatic than Socair felt any food needed to be.
She filled a plate and picked at a few things, scanning the room for the Treorai and finding her absent. Nearly an hour passed by with neither talk from other guests nor more than a few bites of any one dish entering her mouth. Socair began to shift impatiently and Práta noticed it.
“Shall we continue to wait?”
“This is for the good of us all,” Socair said.
The words were the best excuse she could find for herself to continue along such a fruitless road. The moments crept by again for another half hour, and Socair found herself fighting the urge to clench her fists. Impatience led her to remember the words that had been the reason she now wore her sword. The disrespect galled her with every raucous laugh and shouted toast. Insults to Deifir, herself, and, worst, Práta. She had borne them as best she could but the reasons for it were no longer so clear in her mind. She knew her duty but there was something wrong with this place. With these people.
“Do you remember when we arrived? The poorer area?”
Práta turned. “Hm?”
Socair shook her head. “No, it’s nothing.”
The music stopped abruptly and was replaced just as quick with a fanfare. Everyone looked to the doors of the red hall and so Socair did as well. The muscular elves who had let her in parted the doors and there stood Briste, flanked and followed by a selection of her Binse. She wore a shimmering gold dress with some manner of… collar? If there was a word for the towering adornment that rose from the Treorai’s shoulders to over her head, Socair did not know it. There were brick red jewels among the dress itself and at Briste’s ears and on her rings. It all seemed very tacky to Socair, but as she had been recently informed of her poor eye for fashion, she did not dwell on it. Her Binse were dressed to match in gold jute with brick red felt accents.
The appearance of the Treorai elicited a
