“I—”
Before she could finish a knock came at the door.
“Come,” Rianaire said, raising an eyebrow at the interruption.
The waiters had not knocked. The door opened and Socair shifted in her seat to see a man with light brown hair breathing heavily. He wore colors she did not quite recognize at first. Pumpkin orange and sky blue. She placed them just before the man spoke. The colors of the Regent of Aostacroí in northern Abhainnbaile. A river elf.
“Treorai, Binseman Socair of Abhainnbaile, I beg a million pardons for my intrusion.”
Rianaire sat up in her seat. “No need of apologies. Speak.”
He nodded, looking to Socair. “Two large hordes have invaded the lower province. Cursíol and Dulsiar were on the brink of falling before I left and no doubt stand in ruins. Most there are dead.”
Socair’s blood ran cold. “What of Glascroí? Has there been word from Rún?”
He shook his head. “There was no word from them when I set out.”
She stood, her voice firm. “Go. Ride to where you are needed. I will be just behind you.” The man left and she turned to Rianaire. “I thank you for your hospitality. Let us conclude our business before I go. You had no intention of aiding us against the horsefolk, am I correct?”
A brief flash of surprise moved across Rianaire’s face, just for an instant. “I did not. Neither did Deifir expect it.”
“And now? Now that you know the threat I spoke of is real?”
“It has changed little for Spéirbaile. Too little for me to offer what you ask.”
There was a huff of anger as Socair struggled to keep herself in check. “Then may the lives of our children buy you the time you need to save your own.” She turned and walked from the room. Práta followed closely behind. “We must find proper horses and we must ride. We will not rest until we reach the Bastion.”
v
Óraithe
The entirety of the morning had been one strange thing after another for Óraithe. Scaa had woken with the sun and after they dressed, they left. It was the first she had been out in the sun since the White Wastes and it felt strange against her skin. Somehow, what should have been a comfort in the cold air made her uncomfortable from head to toe. She could barely resist the urge to insist on clothes to cover every inch of exposed skin.
Wide-eyed staring was the most subtle of the interactions she had as Scaa dragged her to wherever they would be having breakfast. A crowd had grown behind them and were following fairly closely, tittering any time Óraithe would look behind to see if they were still there. It was not a large group and most of them looked generally poorly clothed, though Óraithe could not say she knew any of the faces.
As they came to the square at the fork in the roads through the small town, she could see another pair of groups waited there. There were sixty elves in total, or thereabouts and all of them watched her every move. It was unnerving though she could not feel a sense of danger from the situation. Most smiled at her or cast nervous glances. A few even prayed.
Scaa walked her to the center of the square and when they arrived the husky voice at her side rang out loud.
“Everyone, I understand your excitement. I even share it. But Óraithe is still healing and we have much left to plan. She will not be able—”
Óraithe put a hand on Scaa’s shoulder. The people all gasped and looked at her as though she would burst into flame or sprout wings. She did not quite understand what the people thought of her or what they imagined her to be, but she knew that those who loved to follow loved grand gestures.
“I…” Her voice was hoarse and low, still. She coughed, hoping to clear it which brought only more gasps and sounds of concern. “I do not deserve all you offer me. But I will not turn away a soft touch when I have known only whips. And I will not turn away kindness when I have known only hate. I will do everything I can to repay you. I will—” Her throat caught, it was too much to try to speak so loud.
She doubled over from the pain in her throat. Scaa put a hand on her back and knelt down to see that she was alright. The crowd were silent until she stood and even as Scaa walked her to a rundown tavern at the edge of the square. Just before Scaa opened the door, she heard the first cheer. The others were quick to add to the call. Cheering and applause and whistling. For her. Óraithe did not understand it. Were embellished stories such powerful things? By the time Scaa had managed to get them inside and close the door, there was a ringing in Óraithe’s ears from the noise. Someone had struck up songs and the square outside turned into a lively place that she was glad to be free from.
Her eyes took a moment to adjust to the dim tavern room. There was not much to it. A large table with benches at either side and a chair at the head. Papers and maps were spread out across it as well as mugs and plates. A few elves had stood when she came in and now walked to meet her. She recognized two of them, the blacksmith and the stablemaster. To her surprise, another face seemed familiar, though she struggled to place it for a moment. It was when the woman spoke that memories of another long walk in the desert put themselves at the fore of Óraithe’s mind.
“You are a person I had not expected to see again, if I am honest. Though I said as much to Scaa when I found her outside of
