One's Own Shadow (The Siúil Book 2)

by Randall P. Fitzgerald

  One’s Own

  ShadoW

  One’s Own

  ShadoW

  Randall P. Fitzgerald

  One’s Own Shadow

  Copyright © 2016 by Randall P. Fitzgerald.

  All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  For information contact;

  www.randallfitzgerald.net

  Cover design by Randall P. Fitzgerald

  Cover art by Anna Dittmann

  ISBN: 153475072X

  ASIN:

  First Edition: June 2016

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  To Burger Buns

  Part One

  1

  Z

  Socair

  The clothes that had become her standard still felt foreign on her body. Uncomfortably angled in places that seemed to make no sense, though the tailors insisted they were to accentuate her femininity. There was no need for that, so far as Socair was concerned. Her breasts did it well enough as public display went and even that was a bit ostentatious by her reckoning. As wearying as the clothes tended to be, they were the least of her problems. A season had passed entirely and the cold season, Bais, was well set into the air.

  She sat now, though, in a well-warmed room listening to the stuffy ruminating of the gathered Binse. Deifir paid them close attention and so Socair did as well. The Binse of Lands was at his work, explaining the state of the harvests that had made it into Abhainnbaile before the end of the last season. The situation was not so bad, though the taking of Drocham had caused some damage to areas that were counted upon for rice production. The north, having remained free of molestation, would be more than enough. On and on he went, discussing the prospects for the Bais. They had not changed from his initial projections, but as the Binse was largely freshly appointed, every one of the new members sought to be thorough and useful and to draw as many distinctions from their predecessors as they could manage.

  Socair, for her part, felt as though she were joining a game that had already begun. Most of her free time was spent reading books. A few were treatises on the finer points of battlefield command and how to position large forces, but the bulk had been about the base aspects of society at large. Subjects ranging from economic theory to the tending of farms and even texts explaining the taxes levied against various sorts of commerce, including those done in service to the Treorai. She had never imagined she’d have need to understand the workings of businesses and taxes other than how to make purchases and count her change, but without the study she figured she would fail to fully understand her post and that her participation in Binse meetings would be largely worthless.

  The Binseman finished his projections. Nothing had changed. All was well in Abhainnbaile, city and province. Except the cities that had been destroyed in the previous seasons. But that was not his department. Something that Socair was reminded of duly when the eyes of the table fell upon her.

  Her short hair had grown a bit, not much, but it was shaggier now than it had been. The feel of it moving as she stood bothered her. She would cut it again, though she rather liked the look. As she rose, a familiar, unpleasant look spread across the faces of several members of the Binse. There was an immediate disapproval of Socair’s appointment to Binse of War. She had been named before any of the others were replaced, which seemed to do little to deter them from sneering any chance they got.

  “Little has changed in the south. The fort that Crosta had been tasked with completing has been finished and seems to be enough to police the area against the hippocamps. They have been oddly quiet in comparison to their brazen—”

  “I do beg pardon.”

  The interruption came from a waif of a woman, her face showing age and the nasal quality of her voice all too indicative of her manner. She was the Binse of Means, one of the most vocal among the new appointments, at least when it came to the strong criticism of Socair. She continued, seeing that Socair did not mean to rise to her interruption.

  “Should it not be obvious that the horsefolk have quieted? Bais has always been a time of little disruption from their kind.”

  “Traditionally,” Socair admitted, “that has been the case. Still, I have mentioned again and again that what has been the way of the hippocamps is not an idea we ought to rely upon. They have never been so quiet through the harvest season as this one. Never. Vigilance is—”

  “But,” a blustery, young male voice intruded, “are those aberrations not just that? Crosta and his cohorts merely directed them away from their typical patterns. With that lot gone, surely they will return to their previous ways.”

  Socair held back a sigh. Politeness was something the Treorai had tried to express to her. Diplomacy, she’d called it.

  “It is, indeed, a possibility. However, the recovered letters do not suggest as much and the hippocamps would have no reason to take such advice from an elf, no matter their arrangement. Even the arrangement itself is a departure from…”

  The nasal voice returned. “Or you are looking for another glory where there is none to be had. A glory that is sure to waste valuable resources over what is sure to be a harsh Bais.”

  Socair bristled. “Or you wish to pull more coin from the people so that you might come in here and try to impress us with how much you’ve taken from those in need.”

  The rehearsed gasps and disquieted muttering rolled around the room on cue. Deifir placed her hands upon the table and stood, prompting Socair to bow and take her seat. The Treorai spoke.

  “I believe that is enough from my honored Binse. We will convene again at midseason unless there is cause to meet earlier. I will speak with each of you as needed until then.”

  She smiled politely as the Binse stood to leave. Socair idled near her seat, hoping not to have to be within earshot of what was no doubt an impolite discussion about her disrespectful behavior. She let her eyes wander around the room. It was as plush as any other in the Bastion, lined with velvets and deep reds. Showy and unnecessary. It was as though the place were built to make her uncomfortable and she’d been locked in it now for an entire season.

  Socair sighed and moved for the door. The Treorai had lingered there and put a hand on her shoulder as she passed.

  “It will be alright, Socair.”

  Socair forced a smile and thanked her. The dark, angular stone of the interior walls calmed her somewhat as she made her way to the quarters to which she had been assigned. That, at least, was not so different from how her life had been before Crosta. She’d hardly had time to convince herself that there was good reason to name her a Bearer and now she was a Binse. The responsibility made her sick some nights, though she wasn’t apt to admit as much to anyone.

  The door to her quarters was plain enough in the face of the excess of the rest of the castle. She pushed it open and felt a small bit of relief to see Práta writing at her desk on the far side of the room. It was more than spacious enough for the two of them. They had offered a private room to Práta but the idea had terrified Socair. She hadn’t spoken the feeling but it must have been plain enough as Práta refused. Or perhaps she wanted the same thing. It was a troubling way to be, Socair knew. She had never felt herself to be in need of attention but the lack of it was something that stirred a deep upset in her mind. She couldn’t say now whether she had always been that way. It seemed like she had, but when she brought forth memories of the time before Silín and Do
iléir had been taken from her, she recalled many nights spent alone when the situation required. Now the memories filled her with some non-specific sense of unease.

  The room contained only a pair of desks and a large bed. A thick pair of curtains in light grey were over the tall window at the far side of the room, but that was truly the end of the decoration. Práta rose at the sound of the door opening and came to greet Socair.

  “I trust they heard your concerns with open minds.” Práta’s soft voice and honest nature made her ill-suited to sarcasm, but Socair couldn’t help but smile at the attempt.

  Socair walked in and laid a hand on Práta’s stomach as she passed, unbuttoning the top of her stiff jacket with the other. Práta moved to the door after she passed and shut it gently.

  “They are as stubborn as the bunch that came before them. Not a one among them has seen so much as a written report of the things the hippocamps have done.” She sucked in a deep breath to calm herself. “But, it matters little. I will do what I must and prepare where I am able. Let the Sisters take their ledgers.”

  Práta held out a hand and Socair dropped the jacket into it. The smaller elf set about hanging and straightening the jacket. Socair sat herself on the bed.

  “Deifir is as passive as ever. She will not disparage the nobles any more than she will me, but neither will she support my claims.”

  Práta ran her hands down the jacket and turned.

  “The Treorai knows that you are the final word on those matters. You are the only one among the Binse that she allows that privilege and that speaks more loudly than any protest she might make.”

  Socair huffed. She knew it was true but it made the annoyance of the Binse and their complaints all the more frustrating. Práta moved to her and placed a cool hand across her cheek.

  There was a light knock at the door. Práta pulled her hand away and moved to answer it. She pulled the latch.

  “Oh!” Práta bowed quickly and pulled the door open.

  Deifir seemed to glide into the room. Socair wasn’t sure what to make of the woman’s elegance. She at once envied it and hated the idea of it. Was it something that showed her as incapable of force? Socair knew better than to believe that. She realized she had fixated on Deifir’s feet a bit too long when she saw the Treorai dip at the knee.

  Socair raised her eyes immediately and blushed when they caught Deifir’s. She had made the Treorai squat to catch her attention.

  “You worry a bit too much, Socair.” Deifir smiled politely.

  Práta closed the door and moved to Socair’s side, bowing again when she arrived.

  “Shall I give you privacy?” Práta asked.

  “No, this concerns you as well.”

  Socair raised an eyebrow at that. Práta? She had been officially considered an assistant to Socair but still held no title in the Bastion City. Deifir was curiously silent for a moment. It was a strange statement which begged information but Socair could not decide what question would even be the one to ask.

  “I have read each of the reports you have sent to me. I have read them more times than any of them required, thorough as they were.” She paused after the statement, but only briefly. “You are convinced that the horsefolk will not wait out the cold season as they have before?”

  Socair frowned at the directness of the statement. “I’m afraid I cannot say with any certainty what they will do, Deifir. There is much we do not know though the danger is real, as I’ve detailed in my writings. We are at our most vulnerable during Bais. It has been a blessing that the same seems to be true of the hippocamps but I fear this may not hold true much longer. Not with the things I have seen.”

  “And you have no proof to support that supposition?”

  Socair bit her tongue in her mouth to keep the flash of annoyance from showing on her face. “I do not. Nothing beyond what I have seen for myself.”

  Deifir was silent a moment. She looked to the window and narrowed her eyes. “I…” She looked at Socair. “I have something that I must ask of you Socair. As much as I am sure you will not like it, you are the only soul I can trust with the task.”

  Socair stood. “Anything.” Her heart beat faster. The anticipation was too much. She might be a warrior again. It was what she was. She’d spent a season pushing it down, putting service ahead of her very nature. Sisters, she could feel the saliva welling in her mouth.

  “I need you to undertake a mission to the other provinces. A diplomatic mission.”

  Her heart felt as though it had stopped dead. Of course, she thought, this is my life now. A life of paper and words.

  “I understand.” She said the words flatly.

  Deifir showed a sorrowful, pitying smile. “I know it is not what you wish for yourself, but it is what I wish for you. It is what I need of you.”

  Socair shook off the self-pity as best she could. “I am yours, Deifir. I belong to you and to Abhainnbaile.”

  Deifir somehow looked all the more sad to hear her say that. “I know. It is that…” She stopped herself there, shaking her head. “This diplomatic mission is no small thing, Socair.”

  Socair nodded.

  “I believe that you are correct about the hippocamps. I do not have the intuition that you do when it comes to the nature of war, though I have watched over one for so long, but I am at least able to feel a stirring in the waters that I do not understand. You are the only among us who seems to feel it as well.”

  Socair could feel Práta tense at that. They had spent hours nearly every night of the past season wondering how they could explain what they both knew to be true. And here were the words from the lips of the only mouth that mattered.

  “Sadly, I am the Treorai. I cannot make claims so easily if they run counter to what the people see as wisdom. Not without proof. That is why I must send you after the aide of the other Treorai for the good of us all. None of us, alone, can stand to the might of the hordes.”

  “The…”

  Deifir nodded. “Rianaire in the north and Briste in the east. I know you have read the histories in these past weeks so you know they are a troublesome pair of women at the best of times. Neither will be happy with what you are being sent to ask, but you must ask it all the same. I know that you do not feel suited to words, but you must learn. If this quiet is more than only a quiet, your words may be the only thing that ensures we are prepared for what comes next.”

  v

  Óraithe

  She sat staring at the door, teeth clenched and lips curled into a sour grimace. In some part of her mind, even Óraithe was surprised with how hot the hate still burned inside of her. It had been seventeen weeks and three days since she was thrown limp and bleeding into the cell.

  There were not many others on the glorified cattle cart that took her deep into the heart of the White Wastes, a fate she would come to understand was especially unfortunate. The elves charged with transporting the prisoners into the Wastes were unshy and not hesitant in the least about making use of captors they knew would never be seen again. Some had the decency to at least drag their victims away from the cart to rape them, but it was not a rare thing to be dragged against the back wall of the cart and done there. Unwashed cunts were licked and unwashed cocks were sucked with dull, cheap blades pressed firmly against whatever part of her neck was nearest. She felt herself die a bit every time the hungry eyes of one of her escorts fell upon her.

  It was a week of cruelty with neither a bite nor a drink. She took in more water from the piss of her captors being forced into her mouth than any source one might call potable. Things had changed when they arrived. The captain of the guard chastised the escorts for again bringing him half-dead prisoners. He was responsible for them, he had said. She wasn’t sure why she remembered the words when she couldn’t so much as remember the shape of the building she was carted into. She knew that she had been separated from th
e others at the gates and taken to a dark room.

  For the first three weeks, she was alone with her pain. Bloody, wet shit and a womanhood that no longer seemed to offer even pain back to her. She touched the spot a time or two, pushed a finger in, but the only sensation was in her hands. She spent that night weeping and regretting having wondered. Very nearly regretting that she still lived. The days passed and the meager meals came into the dark room. She counted the passing of time by them. They were regular. There were no tricks here and none were needed. Óraithe cried so much as she could force herself to but in the passing of half a season, there was nothing left that she could bring herself to care for.

  It was then that the rage started to grow. She pictured the faces of everyone she had seen after her life had ended. She saw them there in the dark. Briste. The torturers in their room beneath the Bastion. The guards who took her. The escorts. The captain of the guard. Her unkempt nails dug into the flesh of her arm until she felt the skin pop underneath. The pain only served to brighten the color of her hate. To make it clearer in her mind.

  So it went for weeks. Eating what little she was given and strengthening what little resolve she had to live. Binding it tight. She had not thought of anything but murder and malice in so long that she woke with it. When she slept, it was there with her. A blanket that did not keep her warm, but reminded her of why she must live.

  It was a night where the cold had seeped into the deep stone of the windowless cell that there was the glimmer of another color. She was recounting the faces that she would see twisted in pain just before they died when Scaa’s appeared in her mind. A cool, blue light flushed through the red somewhere behind her eyes and it nearly destroyed her. She cried again for the first time in what felt like an age. Scaa had never lied, she remembered. Scaa had never betrayed or hurt. Óraithe wasn’t sure what to do with the thought. She tried to cast it away but her mind wouldn’t allow it. The boyish face, so stupid. She wanted to hate the image for being so vivid in her mind, for not leaving her to her hatred. It did not go, stubborn as the girl herself. Every thought of hate that boiled within her was tempered. Weeks again moved by in her lightless world, though now she knew that she must live, if only to see those who had taken precious things from her put to death.