One's Own Shadow (The Siúil Book 2)

by Randall P. Fitzgerald

  The appearance of the Treorai elicited a wave of applause and whistling from the guests. Rather than be off put, Briste seemed to relish in it, posing and smiling. Guests began to move to her in a wave as the fanfare faded. Socair could hear bits and pieces of what they said. All compliments and extolments. There is little surprise in praise for a Treorai, but among a gathered lot of business owners and nobles, one could always expect some member to petition for a redress of some grievance. Perhaps things were done differently in Fásachbaile. Socair had never known nobles or business folk to be different, though her travels were admittedly few. Still, the pair that had approached her before had a very familiar way. Perhaps this was something different.

  Práta looked to Socair, motioning with her head toward Briste when she’d caught the tall elf’s attention.

  “No, not until they’ve thinned. Pathetic as our position may be here, I have no intention of competing with shopkeeps for attention.”

  Práta only gave a silent nod by way of a reply. Socair was glad to have her nearby. Perhaps Práta would know better how to deal with the odd nature of Briste and her Binse. Through her anger, Socair still wished to impress upon the woman that her people would be well-served by the accord Deifir offered.

  As the rabble began to clear, Socair decided there was not like to be a better moment in the evening for her business and so she moved for Briste. As she approached, the Treorai turned and spotted her.

  “Deifir’s messenger!”

  A fairly serious demotion from Binseman, Socair thought. Was it intentional? It was difficult to tell where the line lay in Briste between flippant and provocative. Socair intended on assuming the woman was far cleverer than she let on.

  “Treorai, with respect, I… would continue our discussion.”

  “Oh yes!” Her voice raised to address the room. “Esteemed guests, this rather large river elf has come to seek our aid.”

  “I have not!” Socair snapped the words out and Briste turned, feigning shock. A few among the audience gasped audibly. It was intentional, it must be. “As I said before, we mean to unite. To combine our strengths and be rid of the hippocamps…”

  “What strengths?” The words were huffed angrily out of a member of the Binse. A wiry specimen with sharp cheeks and narrow eyes. He stepped ahead. “Abhainnbaile and its Treorai”, he practically spat on her with the word, “have seen no more significant progress in these past seasons than in the history of this unending war. And we are here, having held their line at the White Wastes for ages. Not only that, they’ve recently taken to attacking you on separate fronts. Perhaps if you did not insult us with your dishonesty, we would agree to hear your plea for protection.”

  The room stirred with a few cheers and more than a few took to quietly tapping their glasses.

  Socair gritted her teeth, biting her cheek as hard as she could stand but there was nothing to stop the words.

  “You have nothing they want!” More gasps. “Sand and dirt and self-importance. If the plan for your lands is to hope that after they see to the end of Abhainnbaile, they simply forget the desert holds elves then I hope your deaths are at least swift.”

  The Binseman recoiled from her. “A brutish thing, indeed. Of Deifir’s own kind, no doubt.”

  Socair’s hand whipped to the sword at her side and she pulled but found Práta’s hand on the hilt when she looked down.

  “Best we go,” Práta whispered.

  “It’s no wonder the city sits quiet,” Socair said moving past the Treorai’s retinue and toward the door. “It will not be long before rebellion stirs in the streets if this is your way.”

  From behind her came a high shriek. “Stop her! What does she know?”

  The guards moved in front of the doors, standing firm. Socair moved in front of Práta to guard her. The sound of footsteps from behind in the silent hall had Socair spin and place Práta behind her again.

  “Rebellion? What do you know?” The face of the Treorai was twisted, near insane. “The urchin child… could she have… no…”

  This was a threat, something Socair understood much better than talk or diplomacy. She put a hand at her blade. Perhaps she had said too much, but they had driven her to it willfully. They expected her to stay silent and to leave.

  “I will say this plain, Treorai. I am Deifir of Abhainnbaile’s Binse of War. If you believe truly that your army can hold your walls, then leave your guards in place. But do not think my Treorai, my Deifir takes the lives of her Binse so lightly as you. And do not think that I will simply be escorted to whatever sick place you call a dungeon.”

  Briste said nothing, her ears flushed bright red, veins surfacing across her forehead and around her eyes.

  Socair turned, pulling Práta beside her before returning her hand to her sword. They stopped in front of the guards and eyed them. Behind she heard the sound of footsteps falling away across the room. The guards parted and, with Práta beside her, they made for Rionn and the carriage.

  As they passed the hallways, Práta said only one thing.

  “What of the girl?”

  v

  Óraithe

  She had counted the passing of eight days. Two weeks. There was a simple joy in being able to count the passing of time based on something other than when she slept. And useful it was, as sleep was something Óraithe had come to find was of less and less use to her. Her mind would force it on her and when she woke she would invariably be covered with a thin blanket, a small pile of food in front of her. There was never enough and what little fat remained on her had begun to disappear. Still, muscle formed almost against all logic. She was wiry now, and hard. The subtle form of what femininity she possessed had shrunken away except for the slight width to her hips.

  For his part, the satyr spoke to her only when she asked something of him now. He watched mindfully and clearly provided for her but there was no word of praise. Óraithe wondered why, but thought that perhaps he was angry with her for pushing herself too hard. Or perhaps she was on the correct path and he felt no need to guide her. She thought on it during her rare interruptions to rest when her muscles gave out or the food was delivered. She had taken to procuring her own food when she was awake to make the attempt. The process had been more fierce than she expected and awkward as she still was with the Gift, she rarely made it clear with much to eat.

  “Why do you not take as much as you like?” She had asked the satyr this after one of his trips to the food drop.

  “I do.”

  “But there is barely enough for a child.”

  “And how does a full cup in the hands of another look to a man whose hands hold one empty? Or to ten men of empty cups?”

  Like opportunity, she thought. Like a reason to fight.

  “Beyond this, what do I gain with plenty that I have had because I caused others to have none? Fat? A fullness in my stomach? I do not need it.”

  She had wondered which of the reasons meant more to the satyr. Self-preservation or the preservation of honor. Or perhaps he had said something more profound. Perhaps the word “need” lay at the heart of what he had meant.

  The nights had become precious to her. A time to improve what she was. She knew the Gift would remain out of reach if she could not understand her body. When the camps slept, or mostly slept, she practiced striking her own shadow. Seeing where power lies in a punch or a kick, refining it as best she could. Then leaping any height she could find. Stacks of rocks, piles of disused wood and tools. And she climbed anything she could find to slide her fingers or toes into. She practiced with the dirt before and after and then worked again with her body. Even without the Gift, her training might prove useful.

  Beads of sweat rolled down her face as the world around began to creep from black to a dim purple. The day meant there was nothing to be done. Guards would not allow her climbing and the other prisoners would not hav
e her frolicking through the yard. It seemed to gall them that she had energy to spare and it was not worth drawing their ire outright. As she did every morning, Óraithe stood and started toward the corner of the yard she had come to use to relieve herself. It was well enough away as to not bother the satyr’s sensitive nose. The guards would be changing soon and they were the hours her protector slept and so she took her sleep as well.

  The ground where Óraithe had dug her trench was shadowed before the dawn. There was little true privacy in the yard and she often felt somewhat silly for wishing for it.

  She faced the wall, lowered her braies, and squatted over a fresh dug extension to her trench. She began to relieve herself and wondered if the seeds among the rotted fruits that sometimes made it into the food might grow in the soil of her trench. There was no spare water, though. Perhaps that was why she had never seen plants growing in other parts of the yard. And would the plants attract attention? The guards may frown on it. And the other prisoners would no doubt think to steal anything which grew there, likely before it was ripened.

  Óraithe felt something odd at her feet. Or in them. The sensation traveled up into her calves and the alarm made her stand. She looked around, nervous, to find three elves moving toward her in the pale of the morning. The shapes were not ones she would have forgotten so quickly.

  “Yer goat’s away, girl.”

  The voice struck her like the weight of a heavy blow. Her knees locked and her eyes darted across the shadow-hidden faces.

  “You’ll not have my clothes.”

  “Oh, ain’t clothes we’re after girl. Not no more.”

  She knew as much. Why she’d invited the clarification, or any sound from their mouths, she wasn’t sure. Óraithe gritted her teeth. There would be no running from this.

  “Then why not piss off back to your—”

  A linen-wrapped foot struck out at her as it had weeks before. She moved to the side as best she could, but it found her forearm in front of her ribs. The blow was strong, enough to send her to the ground. Trying to right herself made it worse. As much as she had put in, her body still did not work as her mind commanded it.

  The tumble left Óraithe on her side. Again the strange sensation moved through her, up into her arms and shins where they met the earth. The intensity grew in concert with the footsteps of the elf pounding toward her.

  She rolled to the side as he neared, not looking up to confirm what she felt. As he came past at speed, she sent her foot into his knee. There was no satisfying pop as she’d hoped, but it stumbled him. He cursed as he struggled to regain his footing.

  “Fuckin’ gut her.”

  The two smaller elves sprang into action moving directly at her. Óraithe strained, willing the earth and praying to the Sisters she had not dreamt her progress. Two spires of earth darted up. The lead attempt found nothing but air, its target moving faster than Óraithe had estimated. The second she could feel, as if in her hand. It was firmly planted in something. A howl of pain told her what. The trailing elf wailed loud, stopping the quicker in his tracks. He turned in time to see his friend fall, ripping the muscle free from the calf. She could hear the elf wretch as he hit the ground. The elf nearest her, his face now lit, showed a look of horror. His eyes turned to her and she willed herself up from the ground. She let go a war cry, shallow, hoarse, and unconvincing, but it did the trick. He backed from her.

  The victory was short-lived. A sweaty arm rounded her neck and she was pulled from the ground. She flailed immediately, hoping to catch the elf off guard but he was too sturdy, too well-fed for it to have any effect. She bit with all that she had, scraping with weak, flimsy nails at the arm, but it came to nothing save a trickle of blood. The arm tightened on her neck.

  Only what you need, she thought. A philosophy for highroads when she lived in the dirt.

  The world blurred and dimmed and her legs and arms ceased the work she commanded of them. The warm feel of piss ran down her leg. She felt the ground, dry and cold, only dimly as her knees struck it, and then her face. She struggled against the fog in her brain but her body still would not respond. She could feel a tug at her braies and then her lower half in the cool air.

  “Wha’ the ‘ell is been done ‘ere? Looks like a fuckin’ wolf’s been at it.”

  “I fink I might be sick. Haw-haw.” The other agreed, laughing stupidly. He’d ignored the moans of his friend to spy a look at their prize.

  “Reckon it’ll be the arse then.”

  The largest propped her on her knees and she felt a warm gob of spit land on her lower back. He swabbed it toward her arsehole and she bucked with all she had to stop him.

  “’Old her down, fuck sake.”

  The smaller of the two moved to her head and ground her face into the dirt with his forearm. She heard the large elf spit again, but did not feel it. The feel before that had crept into her feet returned. She could see the lay of the two men in her mind. At least the parts of them that touched the earth. She felt the knob of the bastard’s dirty penis press against her and she screamed. A burn in her brain like a coal spread and the earth beside her roiled.

  “Go ahead, girlie—”

  The earth flew up in a jagged wedge and caught under the elf’s armpit. She could hear the flesh tear with a sickening wet sop. The bone and sinew gave so little resistance that Óraithe would have wondered if she missed had she not been able to hear the damage as the earth drove past her attacker’s shoulder, catching the elf’s ear and lodging in the side of his skull. He made a clicking noise over and over and shuddered, his half-erect penis twitching against the cheek of her arse. The arm landed next to her and sprayed blood across the naked lower half of her body. It was warm and viscous, but comforting. She let the dirt fall away when her head was released from under the other elf. He fled, screaming before she could clear her mind enough to act.

  The corpse of the leader had fallen to the dirt when Óraithe stood and turned to consider him. The side of his head was missing but the gormless look on his face seemed to gall her all the more because of it. She screamed again and began to stomp at his cock. It tore from his body at the fourth kick but she continued to crush the pitiful lump of meat, images of the year flashing across her mind and renewing her rage.

  She stopped when the lump beneath her feet was half-dry with dirt and stared at the corpse. She spit on his face and breathed deep. The air was putrid with blood and shit. She thought of the first time she’d smelled the two and she hated that naive girl she was.

  Óraithe moved to her braies, picked them up, dusted them clean, and wore them. She looked to the elf she had caught with the spike earlier, but he had crawled away, or limped. She did not know which, only that the blood was profuse and led away from her. The light of the morning was coming on now and the guards would soon be out to see what the night had left them.

  She sat down in a spot where the ground was dry and considered the dead elf in front of her. She had done it, barely, with her own strength. Óraithe looked at her hands. They were dirty and bloodstained. She would need extra water today to clean them.

  The morning light reflected off of the sweat on her enemy’s body. She looked again at her hands. Under her brittle, cracked nails was skin and blood. There was no amount of muscle she could put on to make herself the physical equal of a creature like the one she’d killed. Or like the old satyr. But was the Gift so reliable? The Drow came to her mind. She was smaller than Óraithe by nearly a head. Pear-shaped but taut like pulled string. She had to be, Óraithe figured.

  The young elf stood, looking to the guard posts. They would come soon and only ask questions if they had someone to ask. There was nothing to be done but drag herself back to the satyr and perhaps sleep a few days. Her body was heavier than she ever remembered it being and there was the feeling of a knot somewhere deep inside her head, throbbing and nagging her for the work she’d done. The feeling a
nnoyed her. Punished by her own body for refusing to become a semen soaked husk.

  The satyr sat facing the wall as was his way. The braies and her legs had dried in the morning air on the slow walk over. She dragged herself to her sleeping area and dropped to her knees before shifting to sit. Her mind raced to make use of what had happened, trying to remember the feel, to consider what she might have done differently, what she would do when next she awoke to make herself more capable. Her jaw began to ache and she realized it had been clenched at least since she’d began walking to her place in the yard. The satyr snorted and made a noise that Óraithe knew to be intentional, but couldn’t discern the meaning of. Approval? Disappointment?

  “You have… words for me… satyr?”

  He silently produced a leather wrap and tossed it to her. Óraithe opened it and found a hunk of lean meat inside.

  “You need more from today. Must take what you need. No more will trouble you now.”

  She sat looking at the meat, trying not to laugh.

  “A… a game? Or… a test?” She coughed and let the leather wrap fall to her side.

  He snorted sharply. “Neither. Both.”

  Óraithe watched a pair of guards enter the court with tired eyes. They walked purposefully toward the corpse she’d left for them and she chuckled weakly.

  “Why then? Why did you save me?”

  The satyr raised his head, looking at the wall with open eyes.

  “Hm.” He considered his words for a time. “The way the wind blew.”

  A whim, she thought.

  “And this morning? Why did you not help me?”

  “There was none for you to need. Nor will you need it again.”

  “Why?”

  “The color of the morning sky.”

  She’d have struck him if she had the strength for it. Fanciful garbage and philosophical tripe wrapped in metaphor. Games, always.