It was another two hours, and well past when she’d have stopped for lunch, when Ilkea began to look around nervously and often. She had begun to ride ahead of Aile for only a few moments before sliding back into pace.
“Do you plan on riding into the city with me, then?”
The girl jumped at the sound of another voice before realizing it was Aile.
“I… hadn’t thought.”
“Go down the coast and I will find you when I am done.”
“You will find me?” There was skepticism in Ilkea’s voice.
“Stay to the coast.”
The silence returned then and remained until they made the road. Ilkea implored Aile to be quick and moved off south as quickly as she could. Aile waited where she was, watching Ilkea, so she might have something of an excuse if an elf happened into view but none did. She slapped the reins against her horse and the beast took off toward the elven town of Rinnbeag. The ride was not so far, but she thought better of taking a chariot-drawn horse into the city. Being Drow may have been enough to get away with it, but she was in no mood to be bothered with questions about where she’d gotten it.
Rinnbeag came into view in a little under twenty minutes. She pulled the chariot off of the main road and rode it nearly a quarter mile to the back of a small hill that rose out of the ground. There were no stakes or ropes on the creature to keep it still while she left but there was little choice. At the worst, she would return to town and procure a horse if it was needed. Rinnbeag was not a town she expected she would need to return to but it would be best to leave the place without any bodies in her wake.
Before leaving, Aile took the satchel of centaur piss water and dumped it on the ground, shattering a fair few of the stoppered pots. The horse took to it immediately and began to lap at it. She moved away from her mount, such as it was, and it did not try to follow, nor did it seem to wander on its own for the short time she could see it on her trek over the hill. The walk to Rinnbeag itself was an uneventful one.
The city was bright at every turn, painted colors rarely seen among the other elf towns. Vibrant blues, greens, and pinks on the buildings with music in the air even in the cool Bais afternoon. The stares were expected but tended not to linger so long on her as they did in the more populous cities. It was a curiosity, she thought, but perhaps folk from the Blackwood made their way down more often than she’d thought. The buildings were marked only occasionally though many of them seemed to be shops of some sort or another and it was quickly becoming clear that quiet roaming of the streets was not apt to find her the drink she needed.
An old man was moving toward her, a hodload of clams in each hand. He looked down at Aile and smiled as he came near. He would do as well as any she figured.
“Is there a winery or brewery in the city?”
The man seemed surprised she’d spoke to him. “Well met, Drow. There is. A brewery. Over n’ more’n two streets that way.” He motioned to his right. “Not much wine outside the fancy inn down near the water.”
“My thanks.”
“A pleasure.” He beamed a smile and carried on his way.
She turned and made her way over a pair of streets, being nodded at by elves as they passed. They were too friendly almost and the deeper into the city she went, the more they seemed pleased to see her there.
She found the brewery quickly enough. It was a small building for a brewing operation, and it did not instill much hope in her. The walls were painted a bright blue-green and there was a deep red curtain hanging over the doorway. She pushed it aside and moved inside.
A middle-aged elf man stood behind the counter and greeted her with a bright smile full of white teeth.
“Welcome! I heard there might well be a Drow paying a visit.”
Heard? She had hardly been in the city for a half hour. How had word traveled so quickly? And by whom? The man she’d asked would not have made such good time, not without her seeing, least ways. It was best if she did her business and left. Aile moved to the counter but did not say anything. The elf looked down at her, still smiling.
“No wine, I’m afraid. Though we got something you might well enjoy. Barley wine. Not sure if they serve it in the Blackwood.”
The brewer turned and pulled a small bowl from the shelf above a row of casks. He turned the wooden handle on one of the barrels and it gave a meaty squeak as a short stream of opaque black liquid fell down into the tasting bowl. He spun and handed it to Aile.
“Go on, taste.”
She tilted the bowl back and the flavors of earthy fruit rolled across her tongue and down her throat. Had the city not off put her so, she may have even allowed herself a satisfied sigh. The awful drink that the horsefolk thought was worth putting in their bellies was no longer something she would have to worry over.
“What do you think? We age it properly. Can’t have a poor product making the rounds in the world, you know?”
Aile did not answer him, only threw the satchel onto the counter.
“Fill it.”
He nodded, took her bag, and went to gather his wares. Aile pulled four of the gold cubes from a pouch and put them on the counter. She had coins, but this would prove an interesting test for the gold. These people had smiled at her enough and she was getting sick of the sight of teeth. Perhaps this would sour some attitudes at the very least.
The brewer returned with a rattling bag full of bottles. They were clear glass, dipped in red wax and pressed with the seal of the brewery. He looked at the cubes on the table and picked them up.
“Oh, ho. These are new. They from the Blackwood?” He turned the gold over in his hands. He noticed the markings. “These aren’t Drow, are they?”
“Is it a problem?”
He shrugged. “Gold is gold. Weight’s more than enough. I’ll need to weigh it to get your change though.”
“Keep it.”
She pulled the bag from the counter and put the strap over her shoulder. It was a week’s worth of drink, maybe two but it was hard to say in the desert. She did not look again at the grinning face of the man as she left the brewery and came back onto the bright street. There was a brisk rush of air up from the direction of the water. The wind brought delicious smells that made her consider delaying her reunion with the satyr. There had been no pleasant smells from the moment the wind had shifted near the satyr gathering near Scáthloch.
She took her time leaving the city, none the less. The smiles and nods had turned to outright greetings and beckonings from shop owners for her to stop in and give their food a taste. There were no real armor merchants that she could see and only a few swords hung on hips at all. The ones that she could see were of a poor make. These people would likely be dead before the season was out if she was right about the intentions of the horsefolk, but there was no telling with them. Certainly there were hordes moving about the elf lands, that much was clear.
The city fell into the background and the pleasant smells with it. Aile made her way back to the small hill where she had left the horse and chariot. She was half-expecting it to be missing as she made her way up the hill and was already deciding that a night in the town would at least bring a wash and some decent food. There was a short shot of disappointment when she found the horse where she had left it an hour and a half prior, still sniffing at the ground where the ale had fallen.
The animal chuffed at her as she loaded the satchel onto its back, stirring a bit in place. She decided to think of pleasant things. Gold and the comfortable-enough cot and cutting the goat whore’s tongue out if she bleated another word unbidden. Two of those things were guaranteed at least. She hoped there would be a chance at the last of them but business was what it was and if the elves were taking strange gold cubes without much concern, so much the better for her.
She got into her chariot and turned the horse toward the coast. The wind was cold off the water as
the sun moved into the lower half of the sky. She rode for two slow hours toward the south as the air cooled around her. The satyr girl was clearly terrified of being seen by an elf or having to deal with one. It was a curious sort of nervousness to Aile. Even if she was poorly trained in fighting, which Ilkea’s soft arms and stomach seemed to suggest, she could dispatch a few elves without any effort at all.
The occasionally rocky coast gave way to one of sand and yellowed grass. A fire came into view and the shape of the tent gave the camp away as Ilkea’s. That or another lone satyr had put up temporary residence in a very unlikely spot. The hoof beats attracted Ilkea’s attention soon enough and she stood to wave. She could almost see the smile from there. Whatever concerns had kept her quiet in the day were gone, Aile knew.
She thought of the satyr’s tongue again. A thin, pink thing. It would not offer much resistance to a blade. Aile felt truly sad that there was gold keeping it safely in place. At least for now.
Part Four
O
Z
Socair
The door to the room slammed open and Práta turned in surprise to see Socair standing there, seething.
“Práta, order our things prepared and tell Rionn to be set to leave at a moment’s notice.”
Práta stood and moved toward Socair. “It went poorly?”
“The word does not so much as approach how it went. Each and every one of them—”
“I thought you were to meet the Treorai?”
“And her Binse. They took it in turns to berate Deifir and the province and then me.”
Socair went directly for her sword and lifted it from the place she’d left it. She affixed it to her side with a great sense of purpose as Práta moved to the door to address Nath. Nath stepped into the room, stopping Práta, and spoke.
“Please.” The girl’s voice was smaller than it had been. Small and trembling. “Please, take me with you. They… they beat us. Not just when we make mistakes. Whenever they like. We are rarely fed but are accused of gaining weight and then starved.”
A silence fell over the room, Práta stared at Socair waiting to see what she might say.
“I don’t doubt a word of it, Nath… but I am here as the voice of Deifir. My actions are hers. I cannot—”
“Would your precious Deifir turn such a cold eye on us?!” Nath screamed the words, but slapped a hand over her mouth as soon as they were said. She winced and tears came.
The only sound to be heard was the muffled, awkward breathing of the servant girl holding back as much emotion as she could manage.
“Pack if you wish. I can promise you nothing.” Socair moved to Práta. “I expect this will go poorly. I also expect that this woman is ill used to having anything but her way. Take our things and wait with Rionn. I haven’t the least interest in playing political games. And… well, should I lose my temper I do not believe staying would benefit us. Something here is…”
Práta nodded and reached for Socair’s hand. She gave it a gentle squeeze. Socair closed her eyes, just for a second.
“I’ll dress for the meal.” Práta’s voice was calm. “Nath, you’ve heard what we need. If you could see to it, we would both be most grateful.”
Nath looked up at Práta. “Y… yes, mistress. At once.” She hurriedly left, closing the door behind.
Práta turned, moving to prepare her clothes. “What will you do with the girl?”
“You as well?”
“Oh, you needn’t act with me. You wish to save that girl.”
Socair sat back in one of the chairs, pulling her sword aside. A sigh dragged itself out of her. “What is this place, Práta? Is this truly a Bastion?”
“It has the shape of one.”
Socair was silent a moment. “What am I to do at this banquet?”
Práta held a moment, a green dress waiting at her freckled shoulder. She sighed.
“Smile. It’s what I always did. If they will not listen or treat your words with any weight, at least smiling seems to let the empty headed feel reassured.”
The answer was as depressing as it was earnest. Práta knew the sort far better than she did, a fact which sent a brief rush of pity through her mind. She shook the thought away and looked over at Práta. She would need help with the dress. Socair moved to her and began tightening the lacing at the back.
“It almost upsets me that they should get to see you in this.”
Práta allowed herself a quiet laugh. “You mind them too much. This is what they want, you fretting and off-temper.”
“Seems I am always off-temper for nobles.”
There was a knock at the door just before Socair finished lacing the bodice of the dress. She tied the top quickly, eliciting a slight groan of protest from Práta at the tightness, and saw to the door. A gaunt boy stood on the other side, eyes and cheeks sunken. From his face, she’d have thought a street urchin had snuck in, but he wore the colors of the Treorai.
They were walked through the halls silently by the young desert elf. Arriving at a carved double door, the attendant knocked and took his leave. A moment later, the doors parted in tandem and a pair of well-muscled guards bowed, motioning them in.
The smell in the room was nearly overwhelming, dragged out through the open doors and into Socair’s unsuspecting nose. Spices and flowers swirled to a stink thick enough that she nearly gagged. It was enough that she had to will herself forward. Práta followed. The room was oddly arranged for how Socair understood these events to work. Rather than an ordered table or even a waiting area for pre-banquet talks, the room was lined with three large tables. Each of them was covered with trays piled obscenely high with more food than twice the gathered company could eat in a week. The flowers were no less abundant, with a gaudy centerpiece and a smaller, matching pair of end pieces on each table.
Socair realized she had been standing still when the eyes of people around the room began to fall upon her. A doughy woman in a frilled dress of some shiny fabric was making directly for her.
“Oh Sisters, what a delight! The room has been simply abuzz with word of when you might grace us!”
This… was a marked difference from her treatment in the meeting before.
“Th— My thanks for your kind words.”
“This is the river elf?” An effete male voice chirped from behind the woman.
“Yes, yes,” the doughy one said turning to greet a slender, balding man with saggy cheeks and baggy eyes. Like the woman, he was dressed in a way Socair would have called ostentatious if she were forced to be polite.
“The clothes are a bit shabby and, oh, ha! Oh my, a sword. How very singular!”
“The river elves are just so out of touch about these things, you understand. All that mud ruins the eye for fashion.”
“What about this one?” The man pulled his hand away from his chin to motion at Práta.
“Oh, something very interesting about her. A touch of the desert in her, I think. Soft though. No angles. And green. Ugh. Green in Bais. Had to be raised near a river.” The woman looked down at the plate she was carrying, finding it empty she immediately turned to leave. “Well, nothing for it. I expect to see the both of you at my shop when your business with Briste is done.”
The man followed her away and Socair looked to Práta.
“I apologize, Práta. I worry I no longer care if the people of Fásachbaile should live to see another season.”
Práta hooked her arm in Socair’s. “If all you knew of Abhainnbaile were the sort who attended gatherings at the Bastion, would you not say the same of our home?”
Without awaiting a reply, Práta pulled her off toward a table. The move seemed enough to cause the room to lose interest in the couple. The food was all foreign to Socair, though Práta pointed to a few things and explained what they were. The sauces were all thick and pungent, full of oranges
and reds. It looked unnatural to her and smelled even moreso. There were meats as well, most crusted with nuts and herbs and again more aromatic than Socair felt any food needed to be.
She filled a plate and picked at a few things, scanning the room for the Treorai and finding her absent. Nearly an hour passed by with neither talk from other guests nor more than a few bites of any one dish entering her mouth. Socair began to shift impatiently and Práta noticed it.
“Shall we continue to wait?”
“This is for the good of us all,” Socair said.
The words were the best excuse she could find for herself to continue along such a fruitless road. The moments crept by again for another half hour, and Socair found herself fighting the urge to clench her fists. Impatience led her to remember the words that had been the reason she now wore her sword. The disrespect galled her with every raucous laugh and shouted toast. Insults to Deifir, herself, and, worst, Práta. She had borne them as best she could but the reasons for it were no longer so clear in her mind. She knew her duty but there was something wrong with this place. With these people.
“Do you remember when we arrived? The poorer area?”
Práta turned. “Hm?”
Socair shook her head. “No, it’s nothing.”
The music stopped abruptly and was replaced just as quick with a fanfare. Everyone looked to the doors of the red hall and so Socair did as well. The muscular elves who had let her in parted the doors and there stood Briste, flanked and followed by a selection of her Binse. She wore a shimmering gold dress with some manner of… collar? If there was a word for the towering adornment that rose from the Treorai’s shoulders to over her head, Socair did not know it. There were brick red jewels among the dress itself and at Briste’s ears and on her rings. It all seemed very tacky to Socair, but as she had been recently informed of her poor eye for fashion, she did not dwell on it. Her Binse were dressed to match in gold jute with brick red felt accents.
One's Own Shadow (The Siúil Book 2) Page 10