Óraithe stepped away from the door, the sun hard on her eyes. She tried to make out shapes. Small camps maybe? More like pilfered coverings tacked to walls and repurposed scraps of wood fashioned into lean-tos. The bodies she could make out were not nearly so bad off as hers. They were fed and muscled bodies. She began to understand the idea behind an elf as short as her on yard duty. They’d rape and kill her before the week was out. Or so someone had likely suggested. After all, she hadn’t had the good grace to die in the dark.
There needed to be a plan, she knew. Something that would keep a body between her and the others that meant to do her harm.
She was well into the open now and being watched. There was nothing for it. She would not do well to hide behind rocks like some sort of coward. That would only make her more the target. Still, she needed a place she could claim. Maybe near one of the more refined looking prisoners, if the Sisters were kind enough to have put such a being here. Óraithe’s eyes darted around, looking for some sign of a refuge.
The sound of sand grinding under a foot pulled her attention hard to her left. She spun to find a group of three elves. All male. Muscled and dark. They were of Fásachbaile province, at least. She planted herself and stared at the largest among them as he approached.
“Your sleeves.”
Óraithe cocked an eyebrow.
“Give us the sleeves from that ratty little shift and we’ll leave the rest of you be.”
The wind had been cold and constant since she’d stepped through the doors. The shift was wholly insufficient but she’d likely freeze to death the first night without as much fabric as she could manage. Her breathing sped. This was not wise, she knew that well enough.
“Never.” The words came, she knew she heard them. She clenched her fists.
The prisoner bristled, his face reddened so much as it could. “What did—”
“NEVER!” The sound crackled out with all the force her lungs could manage. Óraithe could swear she felt something give in her throat.
Every eye in the yard fell upon her. She stood up as best she could, as proud as she could make herself. He won’t kill me, she told herself. He won’t.
She breathed slowly and watched the man. He moved carefully and deliberately. A sour, spiteful look on his face, he sent a fist into her gut with more force than it would have taken to send her to the ground. Óraithe left her feet and twisted in the air. She landed well away from where she’d stood, her hip finding the hard sand first and then elbows, then cheeks. Her clothes filled with the tiny golden shards and she felt them tear at her papery skin. She rolled only twice but it felt as though she had been dragged across the unforgiving surface for an hour.
The men approached as Óraithe gasped and coughed on the ground. She somehow couldn’t think of anything other than what a waste of force it was to have brought three to rob her of her clothes. Three men for a girl who couldn’t have weighed half as much as the smallest of rocks in the yard.
She felt hands at her clothes. Then heard ripping. Her sleeves. The rough hands tore away the fabric quickly enough and left the rest. She heard a disgusted scoff as the men walked away.
The wind picked up again and she coughed what she would have said was a laugh. She was in the light of the day now. And she was alive. It was something.
R
Rianaire
Snow had not yet found its way to the ground in the north, though certainly it was easily cold enough. Rianaire was bundled in heavy furs with a dull silver dress underneath. It showed off as much of her breasts as reason would allow and there was good reason for the outfit. Síocháin was beside her, dressed much more modestly in a long-sleeved grey dress and a thin green coat. She had never had much patience for Mion and always seemed more than eager to complain about him as soon as they were out of his presence.
The Inner Crescent streets were bustling in spite of the cold. The weather was otherwise ideal, only a few clouds dotted the blue sky and the sun made the air seem bearable so long as the wind behaved itself. Inney was walking along in front of them, keeping silent as she tended to do when they were in public. It was a true curiosity to Rianaire how she had ended up with such a stoic pair when she loved conversation so much. Another brilliant display of the Sisters’ collective sense of humor. Síocháin had not always been so quiet, she reminded herself, but those were times better not remembered.
Mion’s brothel, or at least the one they meant to visit, was half the distance to the South Road’s gate in the Inner Crescent. Rianaire had wished it was a bit more of a walk, in truth. She had many things to consider and with no Binse to speak of, she was responsible for the lot of them on her own. Her Binse had always served as a bit of a work horse with no real power, but still they were useful in that capacity. With the gates to the city closed since the first hippocamps had set foot in the province, Rianaire was beginning to
