One's Own Shadow (The Siúil Book 2)

by Randall P. Fitzgerald

  The past few weeks, it had become her custom to sit when the food came, teeth gritted and body ready to do what it could. She had always been thin, but the watery stew that was served had taken her down to near nothing. Surprise, she thought, would aid in her attack, if only so much.

  Today, however, the food was late in coming. It was never late and Óraithe’s mind began to race almost immediately with what it could mean. There had been no meal left for her, so it could not be that she’d overslept. She never did anymore, anyway. Slept too little? It was possible, but she had become intensely aware of her own body in the dark. The sounds and the feel of the air around her and of how she felt when she woke after certain periods of time.

  Another hour passed. This was not right. The more the minutes passed, the more Óraithe became convinced that she was not wrong about the time. She stood, staring at the place she knew the door to be. Sensitive as she had grown, her eyes still could not find anything in the perfect dark of the cell. She took a cautious step toward it, half expecting to be bitten by some unseen creature. A world she had known for more than a season now seemed entirely foreign to her. It was fear that was welling up. Would this be how they made an end of her? Starving her in a black room in the desert? She took another step. The door was not far away now, just out of arm’s reach, she knew. Another step with bare feet in the dark. She placed her hand on the door. The steel was cool to the touch.

  Óraithe let her hand lay on the steel for a brief moment before pushing closer, pressing her long-since ruined clothes against the door. She was hesitant, staring at the black, trying to coax herself into placing an ear against the thick door. What if they came? What if they didn’t? She took a breath and put her ear against the metal. There was no sound. It was to be expected, she knew. Hearing through the thick steel was hard enough, but she could occasionally make out booted footsteps. She left her ear there, waiting for any sound. Minutes passed. Nothing.

  She pulled her ear from the door and looked at it, wanting for something. Wanting, perhaps, to pound on the steel. Was that what they wanted? Did they want an excuse to beat her? Or proof that she had broken? The noise in her head was growing. She closed her eyes, trying to think, trying to stop the noise.

  A metallic screech pierced the cell and the noise in her mind was split and silenced. It hit her all at once. The screech was not the meal slot. Óraithe stumbled back away from the door and lost her footing. Her bony frame landed hard against the stone, but she didn’t register the pain. Her eyes were locked on the rectangle she knew was there. The screech was followed by a low groan and her eyes burned. She instinctively looked away, shutting her eyes against the hard color. Her mind caught a half-heartbeat later and she forced her attention back to the light. A split arrow of orange ran up the room and over her body. It was open. They were opening the door.

  Óraithe forced herself onto unsteady feet and made ready for whatever opportunity showed itself. There were three, she could see from the shadows. The door swung wide, but they did not enter. Two of the three stood with swords drawn in front of the other.

  “Óraithe of Fásachbaile.”

  She was taken aback by the address. There had been not a word said in the season she had been locked in darkness. Her mind turned possibilities, but the swords were real enough. Why name her before killing her?

  “Who… I…”

  The sounds barely made it out of her. Her lungs were weak, her throat was weak.

  “You are to come with us quietly and of your own volition. If you attempt anything, you will be killed. There is no escape from this place.”

  The words landed in her brain but she struggled to make sense of them. She managed only a word.

  “Why?”

  “From this day onward, you are to serve yard duty until such time as you are dead.”

  Whether the man meant his reply as an answer or not was hard to tell. It was entirely likely, she considered, that he was reciting words he was meant to recite and that she had not managed to say anything at all.

  One of the guards ordered her forward. A raspy female voice. She could not make out any discernible female form through the armor, but what did it matter? Óraithe stumbled forward, eyes having become somewhat accustomed to the dim firelight of the hall. She was made to walk in front of the guards, the man who had spoken walked behind. No further words were exchanged.

  Óraithe forced herself to be alert. Her heart beat fast enough, but some crucial opportunity might pass her by. Yard duty. The words rattled in her mind. Outside. This could work. She had not given much thought to where she might be and now she cursed herself for it. As they rounded corner after corner, the light stone walls of the keep grew lighter and wider. It was all she could do to remember the path. It was near impossible to guess whether she might need to know the way, but it was at least something. A map, a bearing.

  It was something so sweet when it first hit her cheek that Óraithe almost gasped. A breeze. Moving air, not stale or fetid with the rank leavings of discarded elves. She breathed deep. Her lungs ached and protested but she held it in. She could have sworn she could taste a sweetness in the air. The breeze grew and she could hear a howling. The wind was pressing itself through a massive door somewhere not far off. She could hear it but there were some turns yet left before it would show itself.

  The turns passed and the door appeared. A mass of heavy, old wood. Not a sort that grew in Fásachbaile. It was dark and thicker than any tree Óraithe had ever put eyes to. A pair of women stood guard at the door. They looked her over and their noses curled in disgust almost in unison. The man who had spoken to her in the dungeon stepped forward and said a few muffled words to the guard nearest them. She looked at Óraithe and chuckled.

  He turned to face her.

  “Your garb is unfit to be worn in the presence of others and so the Treorai, in her mercy, grants you a change of clothes.”

  He threw a pair of thin, brown roughspun braies and a somehow thinner still shift onto the ground in front of her. Óraithe stood a moment, looking at him. It became clear they meant to have her change in front of them. She frowned.

  Her clothes were near black from the muck and filth that had accrued in the room. Not once in a season had it been cleaned. The door had never opened in such a way as to even let light in. She did her best in the early weeks to keep her stools to the farthest corner of the room, but it was little help. Soon enough the waste ran where it would. She slept in it more nights than not. It was her first time looking down, she realized.

  The blackened shift made the sound of wet meat shifting as she pulled it over her head. She was not sure what she was meant to do with the garment.

  The man had lost whatever sense of decorum he’d had when reciting his lines. “Throw it away from us, idiot girl.”

  She did as she was bid. The braies followed and she was naked in front of them. The women at the door did nothing to hide their derisive laughter, but Óraithe could hardly hear it. She saw herself now for the first time and she felt sick. Every edge of bone, every knobby joint looked as though it was behind a sheet of wet paper. She had turned a pallid, sickly color. What she had called breasts were now bits of loose skin hanging in an awkward, sunken pouch against jutting ribs. Was she truly so weak? She had felt capable, even though she was alone. She had felt that she could attempt… something. Anything. The pain, the hurt returned but the tears that had been so ready to flow before did not join them. Perhaps that had broken her and she had simply not been able to accept it.

  “Dress now, muleborn, or go naked.”

  Óraithe forced herself into the clothes. They were loose beyond reason. The braies had a tie, at least, but it helped little. The laughter grew louder as she dressed. She stopped, staring at the floor. She could not think. What was this? Had they won? Why now? Why when she had been let out?

  The flat of a blade slapped her naked back hard, a
nd Óraithe screamed out. The laughed crescendoed. Her knees hit like plates of glass against the rock below. Pain. Sharp and uncaring. The hate began to boil again at the back of her mind. A hate she had let dull in her visions of Scaa and her dreams of a life where she had mattered to someone.

  Óraithe’s eyes widened and she stood. She pulled the shift over her head and down around a chest that disgusted her. She took in all of it. Her pathetic form, the laughter, the sting of thin skin. This was fine. There was time. All there was left to her was time.

  The man who had given her the little speech was done with the antics and ordered the doors opened. Outside the Bais wind was whipping. Óraithe looked dead ahead and walked through them into the cloudless day. The doors rumbled shut behind her and her life in the yard had begun. It was above ground, she reminded herself. It was an improvement. She had to live.

  She glanced around the yard. There were rocks piled in the center of a massive hard-packed sand yard. The walls that encircled the yard were almost comically high, built clearly in two sections, the newer on top. They had been plastered smooth to make climbing impossible. Behind them was the disused husk of what must have been a Regent’s keep. It was built of light yellow stone, just as the interior halls had been, but it was clearly no longer home to any sort of highborn.

  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 feel a bit like a caged animal. It was how she had felt when her mother was alive and, even with so many years between that time and now, she loathed the way the feeling pressed down on her.

  Trade from the south had dwindled with the change of the season, as it always did, and the harvest from the orchards in the central valleys had not been overwhelming. Information from the south suggested they would be of little help for food and every sign seemed ready to point toward a hard Bais, especially if it turned into a Bais where she would need fighters. The best information she had on the hippocamps were rumors and the occasional attack on a small band of travelers. If the rumors were true, a small party might be able to deal with them, but any reasonable number and the lack of a meaningful army in the north would prove a problem very quickly.

  Before she could rightly ponder what to do about her lack of forces, the three stood in front of Mion’s brothel. Subtle as ever for outward appearances. He insisted that he had names for all of his brothels but that he would never tell nor post any of them. “When the product is of a certain quality,” he was fond of saying, “people will seek it out.” His way of enforcing a sort of quality control, perhaps.

  They were greeted politely by a half-dressed girl who looked as though she’d barely reached adulthood. Her small breasts were pert to the point of seeming as though they wanted to escape the girl’s chest. For her youth, the girl was not shy in the slightest.

  “Treorai, I’ve looked forward to your arrival.” Her voice was bright and youthful, matching her look. “The Master will want to see you right away.”

  The Master. An affectation that suited Mion almost too well. It made Rianaire laugh nearly every time she’d heard it come from the mouth of one of his whores. Rianai
re nudged Inney and smiled.

  “Did he have you call him Master as well?”

  Inney scoffed at the suggestion and scanned the room. It was all Rianaire could do not to tease her further, but the girl motioned for them to follow and led them toward a blonde wood stair. The brothel was entirely well-lit as brothels went. Mion had a range of products, he always reminded her as much when she marveled at something or other during a visit. The more she thought of him the more she started to wonder if she wasn’t, perhaps, making something of a mistake. The light blue of the walls carried from the lowest floor up to the second and turned a deeper shade as they reached the top floor. A large double door sat at the landing. There was no knock, the girl who had greeted them simply opened the doors and stood off to the side inside the room. Rianaire entered first, running a hand softly under the girl’s breast as she passed.

  “There is work.” Síocháin’s voice was flat but the delivery was curt enough to make her point.

  Rianaire pouted but continued into the room, letting her hand slide away as naturally as if she had intended it in the first place. It was another opulent and unnecessarily plush ordeal. Deep blues and light greys made up the bulk of the color scheme with light wood floors. Mion may have offered a variety of services, but his taste was predictable. Rianaire found herself a spot on a small sedan across from a chair, figuring that would suffice for Mion whenever he decided to show up.

  “The Master will be with you shortly.” The girl bowed and excused herself.

  He loved to make people wait. Rianaire was sure it was a bad habit but the sensation that lingered on her fingers took her mind away from it. There was a reason she went to see him rather than calling him to the Bastion. Síocháin came and took Rianaire’s furs to place them in a closet near the double door they’d been let into. Inney wandered around inspecting pieces of furniture and whatever was hiding behind the blinds and curtains that hung around the room.