Scaa breathed heavy. She had run. The words played in Óraithe’s mind. She ran to me.
“I missed you,” Óraithe said between choked-back sobs. “So much.”
Scaa laughed once and fell to her knees at the edge of the bed. “Me as well.”
They sat, Scaa’s hand wrapped around her own, until the shadows were far up the wall and fading. Scaa’s hair was so soft, her face more beautiful than Óraithe had ever remembered. The hours were so desperately slow. Óraithe was thankful for that. To be lost in that moment for all time would have suited her. When she had cried all she could stand, she wiped her face against the linen. She had been naked before. A bolt of shame ran through her heart. She frowned and gripped Scaa’s hand.
“I’m sorry,” Óraithe said quietly. “They ruined me.”
Scaa was quiet. Óraithe looked at the wall, guilt and pain and shame built inside her with every silent second.
“I do not know the right words to answer that.” There was regret in Scaa’s voice. She was quiet again, just for a second. “I know that someone has hurt you. And that I will visit horrors upon them.” She took a breath and looked up at Óraithe. “I know that there is no scar that could ruin you for me. I know that all I am now is because of you.”
Óraithe leaned over and pulled Scaa’s head to her chest. She said nothing. Another hour passed in quiet.
“Scaa.” Óraithe looked at the dark where the shadows had been on the wall. “Where are we?”
Scaa drew a breath and stood. “Brothaill. Or so it was called once.” She sat on the bed next to Óraithe and took her hand again. “Do you know it?”
Óraithe nodded. The town had been a southern port. Cosain’s books had stories of it from the time before the land south of the White Wastes had been abandoned to the horsefolk. It was the town she had hoped to find.
“I thought the watchman was lying when he said there was someone approaching from the desert. I nearly throttled him before he handed me the spyglass.” Scaa laughed. “I was inconsolable for days. I nearly beat… well, everyone half to death. Anyone who came to me. I…” She paused. “I wished you weren’t dead, but I never dreamed…”
Óraithe chuckled, so much as she could. “If only.”
Scaa frowned. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…”
“No. There is no meaning in running from what was done to me. There are cells below the Bastion. I was kept there. Tortured to no end that I can think of. Only for Briste’s satisfaction.”
Scaa balled her free hand to a fist. Óraithe could see she was holding her rage. “But… you came from the desert.”
“There is a prison in the White Wastes. A place I was sent to be forgotten, I think. I lived in my own piss and filth in the dark. They put me in a yard.” Óraithe was dispassionate recounting the story. “I think they expected I would be raped and killed right away. It was nearly the case, but I was saved by a satyr.”
Scaa narrowed her eyes at the word.
“I know how it sounds.” Óraithe leaned her head back against the wall. “But I have weapons now, Scaa. I have so much that I lacked before.” She leaned her head forward and looked Scaa in the eyes. “And I will kill them.”
There was anger in Scaa’s voice. “You will not do it alone.” She forced a breath and calmed herself. “But you must rest. At least for the night. Tomorrow I will show you what we have made.”
Óraithe nodded. “Stay with me.”
Scaa kissed her again. “Forever,” she said.
Óraithe felt the word hang on her lips, prickly and sweet.
R
Rianaire
What an absolutely delightful addition to her day. Rianaire had been well enough entertained by heavy drink and the oiled men, but to have the Goddess of Glassruth standing in a dirty pub was no end of delight. Surely, she was there on some business, but Rianaire could bring herself to forgive that.
She stood as the impressively large woman came toward her. “Socair of Abhainnbaile. I had heard whispers that Deifir saw it fit to pull you from the fields of battle and lock you away in a Bastion full of politicians. Welcome to my province.”
Socair bowed in front of her. “My thanks, Treorai. Deifir has blessed me with more than I deserve.”
There was an edge to her voice. Socair was young yet, though she had accomplished much. Still impetuous and new enough to state affairs to be wary of every word out of the mouth of a noble. She had likely taken the words as an insult.
“I’m very sure she has given you as much as she meant to, child. But there is an amount of cruelty in forcing a creature into a setting where it has no sense of itself.” Rianaire returned to her chair. “Please, do sit with me and let us discuss things.”
Socair seemed hesitant, but took the offer.
Rianaire turned to the crowd. “Now! Where were we?”
The crowd erupted and the two men went back to the slippery row. Rianaire looked at her visitor and smiled.
“I’ve promised the winner a bit of gold. Now, you are an expert at battle—”
“I—”
Rianaire brushed aside the interruption. “No, no. I have read of you. And heard songs. And, Sisters, I’ve seen enough of you. For a time, you were near as popular a subject for the painters of the Bastion City as I was. Curiously obsessed creatures, painters. I doubt if I will ever understand them. Perverts, as well. Each and every one of them. And yet… almost exclusively awful in bed. They do not lack for passion, mind you, nor for enthusiasm. But those, I find, seem to be mistaken for positives where sex is concerned. And to mention it, you are a striking thing, Socair of Abhainnbaile. Would you fuck
