Práta looked to Socair, motioning with her head toward Briste when she’d caught the tall elf’s attention.
“No, not until they’ve thinned. Pathetic as our position may be here, I have no intention of competing with shopkeeps for attention.”
Práta only gave a silent nod by way of a reply. Socair was glad to have her nearby. Perhaps Práta would know better how to deal with the odd nature of Briste and her Binse. Through her anger, Socair still wished to impress upon the woman that her people would be well-served by the accord Deifir offered.
As the rabble began to clear, Socair decided there was not like to be a better moment in the evening for her business and so she moved for Briste. As she approached, the Treorai turned and spotted her.
“Deifir’s messenger!”
A fairly serious demotion from Binseman, Socair thought. Was it intentional? It was difficult to tell where the line lay in Briste between flippant and provocative. Socair intended on assuming the woman was far cleverer than she let on.
“Treorai, with respect, I… would continue our discussion.”
“Oh yes!” Her voice raised to address the room. “Esteemed guests, this rather large river elf has come to seek our aid.”
“I have not!” Socair snapped the words out and Briste turned, feigning shock. A few among the audience gasped audibly. It was intentional, it must be. “As I said before, we mean to unite. To combine our strengths and be rid of the hippocamps…”
“What strengths?” The words were huffed angrily out of a member of the Binse. A wiry specimen with sharp cheeks and narrow eyes. He stepped ahead. “Abhainnbaile and its Treorai”, he practically spat on her with the word, “have seen no more significant progress in these past seasons than in the history of this unending war. And we are here, having held their line at the White Wastes for ages. Not only that, they’ve recently taken to attacking you on separate fronts. Perhaps if you did not insult us with your dishonesty, we would agree to hear your plea for protection.”
The room stirred with a few cheers and more than a few took to quietly tapping their glasses.
Socair gritted her teeth, biting her cheek as hard as she could stand but there was nothing to stop the words.
“You have nothing they want!” More gasps. “Sand and dirt and self-importance. If the plan for your lands is to hope that after they see to the end of Abhainnbaile, they simply forget the desert holds elves then I hope your deaths are at least swift.”
The Binseman recoiled from her. “A brutish thing, indeed. Of Deifir’s own kind, no doubt.”
Socair’s hand whipped to the sword at her side and she pulled but found Práta’s hand on the hilt when she looked down.
“Best we go,” Práta whispered.
“It’s no wonder the city sits quiet,” Socair said moving past the Treorai’s retinue and toward the door. “It will not be long before rebellion stirs in the streets if this is your way.”
From behind her came a high shriek. “Stop her! What does she know?”
The guards moved in front of the doors, standing firm. Socair moved in front of Práta to guard her. The sound of footsteps from behind in the silent hall had Socair spin and place Práta behind her again.
“Rebellion? What do you know?” The face of the Treorai was twisted, near insane. “The urchin child… could she have… no…”
This was a threat, something Socair understood much better than talk or diplomacy. She put a hand at her blade. Perhaps she had said too much, but they had driven her to it willfully. They expected her to stay silent and to leave.
“I will say this plain, Treorai. I am Deifir of Abhainnbaile’s Binse of War. If you believe truly that your army can hold your walls, then leave your guards in place. But do not think my Treorai, my Deifir takes the lives of her Binse so lightly as you. And do not think that I will simply be escorted to whatever sick place you call a dungeon.”
Briste said nothing, her ears flushed bright red, veins surfacing across her forehead and around her eyes.
Socair turned, pulling Práta beside her before returning her hand to her sword. They stopped in front of the guards and eyed them. Behind she heard the sound of footsteps falling away across the room. The guards parted and, with Práta beside her, they made for Rionn and the carriage.
As they passed the hallways, Práta said only one thing.
“What of the girl?”
v
Óraithe
She had counted the passing of eight days. Two weeks. There was a simple joy in being able to count the passing of time based on something other than when she slept. And useful it was, as sleep was something Óraithe had come to find was of less and less use to her. Her mind would force it on her and when she woke she would invariably be covered with a thin blanket, a small pile of food in front of her. There was never enough and what little fat remained on her had begun to disappear. Still, muscle formed almost against all logic. She was wiry now, and hard. The subtle form of what femininity she possessed had shrunken away except for the slight width to her
