Socair nodded. “Then, Spéirbaile.”
“Never been. Hoped to never go. Can’t stand Bais as it is. And to be surrounded by stuffed-up ghosts and snow.” Rionn scoffed.
“And Rianaire, then? You know nothing of her?”
“Only what nobles say. Loose tongues around any creature they’re used to seeing in the Bastion.”
“So long as they’re wearing the right coverings?”
Rionn allowed a short, stark laugh. “Too right.”
He moved to the far side and Socair followed. “Then what of Rianaire?”
“Many a word. None of them kind. Petulant. Foolish. Childish. Whorish. Stupid.”
Depending on the author, the books had been only slightly more kind. It made Socair wonder at the way of things. Deifir was, to say it politely, the most diplomatic of the three elves who ruled the provinces. The texts agreed with this, some in flowery language, others more as an accusation. Having seen Deifir so close now for even just a season, she came to understand that texts left much to be desired. Nuance and an understanding of motivation that could not be seen in results or decrees. Briste, however, had been far worse than any text had described her, even those written by historians who had fled Fásachbaile under persecution. She worried what Rianaire might be.
Rionn looked up at Socair as she was lost in thought. “Spéirbaile is waxing at least. They’ve done well under the woman and shown no sign of stopping.”
He spoke the thought she had been working herself toward. Was it the people? Her Binse? One of the texts suggested she refused to lay with her Binse. A curiosity.
“What do you make of it? A place run by a childish fool that has done naught but flourish for years upon years?”
Rionn stood and clapped some dirt from his hands. “I make that nobles are fools and books are only as honest as their authors. I expect the woman is clever at the least. And though I lack for them, I would gather every wit I could manage if I was to be in a room with her.”
“And I am to be in a room with her. Possibly more than twice this time through.”
The sound of feet running on packed dirt came into the stable.
“Socair!”
The voice was Nath’s. Socair turned in time for the girl to jump at her and grasp her around the waist, hugging her tight and pressing her face into Socair’s breast. Nath pulled back and grabbed Socair’s hand, moving to her side.
“I hardly expected you up so early.”
“Práta woke me. Said we would be wise to have an early start.”
“And Práta?”
“Oh! She must be behind me. I ran when I spied the light. I could hardly wait to see you!” The girl squeezed herself against Socair’s arm.
“Well, why don’t you see yourself into the carriage? It won’t be a—”
“No!” The words were sharp, panicked almost. “No. I… I will stay with you.”
Socair put a hand on the girl’s head. “Very well.”
Práta’s feet scuffed in the dirt at the doorway and she dropped their bags. “She’s faster than I had expected.”
Nath stayed at her side as they loaded the carriage and the three took seats inside when the work was done. Rionn took his place and pulled the carriage out onto the road. They moved clear of the city and made for Slíard, a town just across the Abhainnbaile border into Fásachbaile. Away from the rough roads of the desert and into the flat grasslands, the horses made tremendous pace. A stop in Slíard just before midday allowed them time for a short meal as the horses were fed and watered. The city played host to a half-dozen large windmills and tended to bustle with trade as it sat near the borders of all three provinces along the only major road north. It was well seen to and fed Fásachbaile’s Bastion the bulk of its coin, or so Socair’d read.
Socair wished to make Theasín as long before nightfall as they could manage. She had been warned no less than twice in Slíard of the hippocamp incursions into the north. There was scant information, only that the province had seen attacks and that trade had trickled. The warnings gave way to conversation among the locals, half-remembered stories about caravans being overrun by centaur and there being an active siege on Theasín. There had been hardly any communication with Spéirbaile that Socair had heard of, but she was assured that was entirely normal. The Treorai did not meddle with one another as something of an unspoken rule. This had extended in recent years to a virtual end to all information passing through trade or diplomats or nobles who had gone to live in other provinces but still had ties to the Bastion. It had been near unthinkable in the past fifty years that a Treorai would bother to visit another.
In spite of Nath’s complaints, Socair joined Rionn when they set out for Theasín. “I expect you heard of the horsefolk from the stablemaster.”
Rionn nodded, chewing at some lean salt pork. “Talked about it like some bedtime story.”
“I expect it is to them. I was warned off the north entirely at the mill’s cookhouse, but no sooner than they’d warned me, it turned to gossip. None among them had seen a hippocamp. Wondered at their size. One wondered if they could be tamed.”
Rionn huffed. “If only.”
“What do you think? Theasín, I mean.”
“Is this not talk meant more for your woman?”
“Práta?”
Rionn nodded.
“Nath, the girl we took on, she is fragile. The talk would only unsettle her worse than her life in that Bastion has.”
“Girl’s trouble.”
Socair said nothing. She did not disagree, but the girl was broken. It was plain that she needed to be shown a world that was not the insanity
