One's Own Shadow (The Siúil Book 2)

by Randall P. Fitzgerald

  Rianaire smiled. “Life is odd. Sisters know, it seems more ridiculous at times than even the wildest stories. But we underestimate life, is all. We expect the bland and the boring and leave all the fun to dreams. It’s a waste, I say.”

  “Treorai!”

  The words were elated and husky. Rianaire looked over to a shop front they were passing to see a bulbous man and his bulbous wife waddling at them with two massive fish held aloft.

  “Treorai! Treorai! Oh! It is really you!”

  The fish were shaking rhythmically as the man ran, his wife behind repeating a hooting noise and moving between various gestures, most of which involved touching her face or hair and looking awestruck.

  “The sunset, ah, it makes you look radiant Treorai! Amazing! Beautiful!”

  “Yes,” the wife echoed. “So beautiful! To be in front of our shop!”

  “Oh! Our shop, you must, Treorai. You must take our fish!” He held them out to her and Rianaire looked at them, trying not to laugh.

  “Please! A gift!”

  “Of course!” Rianaire smiled wide and threw her arms open. “Such beautiful produce. Inney, please.”

  Inney grabbed the fish, each nearly half the size of her, and did her best to hold them aloft.

  “Oh, thank you Treorai. We did not mean to delay you! Please, we are sorry. But for all you have done.”

  “All you have done,” the wife echoed again.

  “There is no need to thank me.” Rianaire smiled and placed a hand on the fishmonger’s shoulder. He stared at it as though he were being touched by some anointed creature. “It is the work of you and your lovely wife that keeps our province prosperous and free. I thank you.”

  He was on the verge of tears. “Thank… oh… oh no, you… Treorai. Sisters bless you, Treorai.”

  “Sisters bless you… yes.” The wife could not compose herself, tears falling over fat, red cheeks.

  “We must be going. I thank you for this wonderful gift and for your kind words.”

  “Of course, Treorai. Bless you. Bless you.”

  They both repeated the words half a dozen more times as Rianaire and Inney walked away. Rianaire cut in at the first corner to be away from them. When she could no longer hear the sounds of the pair, she stopped.

  “You can leave those.”

  Inney looked at the fish she had been struggling to carry. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. What would we do with them?”

  Inney laid the fish on the ground carefully and as soon as the second was put down, Rianaire scooped her from her feet and lifted her up.

  “What—!”

  “What a bother.” Rianaire laughed. “Carrying something half your size. I can’t imagine why anyone would want to do it.”

  “You don’t mean to carry me like this, do you?”

  “I do. I very much do. All the way to the inn.”

  “It’s embarrassing!” Inney turned her head and pushed it against Rianaire’s breast.

  “For who?” She spun and Inney clung to her tightly. Rianaire felt a rush pulse through her. “This is how it ought to be, reality. Strange and inescapable.”

  U

  Aile

  The girl one was chittering something at the male one again and Aile could not decide whether the noise bothered her more than the sand whipping against her face. The chariots had ridden for hours now, and there was little indication that they intended on stopping soon.

  Ilkea’s attempts to talk to the old satyr went unanswered for what must have been the tenth time, but she seemed no less enthusiastic in the noises she barked at him.

  “Some did not believe Shahuor existed.” It dawned on Aile that the words must have been meant for her for whatever reason. “It has been nine hundred years and sixty seven more since his exile. I have told you of the pride of the Halushek, yes? Much of what we still hold today is in thanks of Shahuor. He rose up for us against the centaur. Led us to many victories. Even when we long were bent and broken, he made us stand.”

  Ilkea turned to Shahuor again and rambled on in her native tongue, pausing briefly from time to time to see if a response was forthcoming. He remained silent. The quiet was what drew Aile’s attention. She was not sure of the ways of satyr, but she had yet to meet one which wasn’t over-willing to prattle, even when it was clear the other party couldn’t understand. Perhaps the other satyr were so bewildered by his ability to keep quiet that they had simply raised him to living god status. If only things could be so simple. No, it was clear the creature was dangerous, she knew that without Ilkea’s prattle. For such an old beast, he was still sinewy and his muscles were hard.

  The sound coming out of the other chariot had pointed itself back at her. “Shahuor is a savior to us. Some think he abandoned us. The same who hate me for what I am. They do not know. He was too clever for the centaur. Too wise. They were made angry by this. Swore to kill every of us. He exiled himself that we should survive.”

  Uninteresting as the story was, the faun being so willing to push gold on her made more sense. Perhaps it was even too small a price. Information had a way of revealing that about such work. Though, negotiations could always be had after the work was done.

  “Here.”

  The venerable Shahuor had spoken the first words since they left the prison and they were in the elven tongue, grating and snapped. Ilkea looked shocked and confused for half a moment before pulling the reigns and bringing the chariot to a stop. Shahuor stepped down and sniffed at the air.

  “A fire. Here. I will see to it. Young one, you will make our tents. Two hundred yards from here.”

  Ilkea began to speak in the satyr tongue and he clicked loudly.

  “No! The Drow cannot speak our words, nor hear them. You disrespect her presence.”

  “Yes, Shahuor. I will see to the tents.”

  Aile stepped down from the chariot to see the old goat raise a trio of rock seats from the ground and form a pit in the center. Ilkea was busying herself unstrapping the first of the three tents from the chariot. When it was free, she hurried off into the dark. Shahuor poked at the bags until he found one with wood. He untied it and pulled a few pieces, taking them to the pit he’d made.

  “You can light it?”

  Aile stared at the wood. If this was satyr humor, it was unimpressive. She ignored the question and went to her horse to check her supplies. Finding them in order, she pulled some dried meats, taking a bite before closing the pouch. The sight of the wine in her pack drew an annoyed huff. It would not do to loosen her wits in unfamiliar company. With meat in hand, she took a seat on the flat rock. Shahuor had started seeing to the fire, tearing a tuft of fur from his thigh and fashioning a wood drill to set it alight.

  Soon enough there was a fire going and the old satyr sat himself across from her.

  “She is a soft one and likely will be slow to her task.” He snorted and scratched himself, stretching on the rock. “I wish to know things.”

  Aile looked at him silently.

  Shahuor pursed his lips and made a sound, perhaps in frustration. “How came a Drow to be the hand of my rescue? None of mine would send one of yours for such a task.”

  “While I am sure there are satyr with a hand in the work, a faun put the task to me. And that faun delivers the gold.”

  “Gold!” He honked a dismissive laugh. “Leave it to the tiny ones to work with such useless metal.”

  “Useless when who’s taken the largest shit decides who leads, I suppose.”

  “A fair insult.” The satyr sat up and looked her over. “Then you were not sent by centaur? No. Too proud, aren’t they? A faun working for the centaur?”

  “There were no centaur at the camp.”

  “Hm.” He chuffed, frustrated. “Curious that they would have such freedom to make a deal unseen. Their nature may have served them in my
exile. Tiny fools sold ours and their own to gain favor. You would be wise to mistrust them.”

  “Wasted words to a killer, satyr.”

  He considered her words silently, studying her for what seemed like the first time. His eyes narrowed.

  “You know the way of the current time.”

  “I do.”

  “I would hear it. I will force more gold from the faun if you require.”

  “I do not take agreements in gold lightly.”

  “I understand.”

  “That is a statement which I thoroughly doubt. But I will collect what I am owed if you fail your word.”

  Shahuor gritted his teeth and spoke slowly, insistent. “I understand.”

  “So you say. The hordes mean to attack the elves. Where and when, I could not say. Their ways have changed of late. I expect the faun are responsible. Satyr are being sent well north, not just as scouting bands. The desert elves are careless and leave much of their province unwatched. The others are like to pay for this oversight.”

  “And the Blackwood.”

  “Couldn’t say. The Goddess can burn it all and I’d not bother to ask after the ashes.”

  “And if the centaur did just that?”

  “The trees would eat the corpses and centaur would either extinct themselves in the effort or tell the same stories the elves tell now.”

  She was done talking. The other one could tell him what he wanted. She was suspicious as to why he would want the information from her as it stood. Shahuor closed his eyes after watching her a bit more and remained still as Ilkea returned for the second tent.

  “Is there any trouble?” The female satyr looked expectant.

  No reply came. She dropped her head and moved off into the darkness to set up the tents. The thought of setting the camp away from the fire annoyed Aile. A pointless walk in an unpleasant place. There were no creatures that the fire would keep away. Nor would it attract any. Bandits might chance across them, but they were most often stupid and loud and rarely moved at night and more rarely traveled through the open expanses of the White Wastes. The towns farthest south were abandoned hundreds of years past and had long since been picked clean between the unwashed grandparents or great-grandparents of any elf stupid enough to venture down and the hordes which roamed the area unchecked in more recent times.

  The longer she looked over the old goat, the more she disliked him. And without much to busy her mind, she had begun to notice the inescapable smell of horsefolk. She stood and moved casually to her chariot, sitting in it and leaning against the side-wall. Docile as he seemed, she knew the difficulty of forming the seats as effortlessly as he had. Sitting on them was a risk. True enough, being on land was a risk with him nearby. At the very least the reinforced floor of the chariot would offer some resistance to any attack that might try to find her off guard.

  Calm wind, the distant noise of Ilkea at her work, and the occasional crackle of wood in the fire were the only sounds. The satyr did not move from his spot, nor did he seem to take much interest in Aile or why she’d moved. Ilkea returned in time and tugged the final tent from its binding. She did not ask any questions and took the pack away quickly. A few moments later the sounds of her work returned.

  In all, an hour and a half had passed when Ilkea returned and sat herself beside the fire. She announced that the work was done and asked after Aile but Shahuor did not stir to bother responding to either thing.

  Aile stood from the chariot and moved around to the horse at the head of it. She pulled a few bags from the pack and made her way toward the camp proper. The humble lodgings made themselves obvious once she was far enough from the fire. She chose the one nearest the horses and entered, cinching the flaps tight behind her.

  With any luck her night’s work was done, and so Aile set about removing her blades and laying them out on the floor of the tent. When each of them was arranged on the floor, Aile saw to one of the packs, pulling a pouch from it and laid the contents in front of her various daggers. A phial of oil, a sachet of white powder, cotton, and clean linen. With the linen, Aile wiped each of the blades. She then took the cotton and rubbed it in the powder before tapping it up one side of her first knife and down the other, repeating for each of the other fifteen. A calm came over her but was disturbed by a rustling at the flap of her tent. She put a hand to one of her daggers and waited silently.

  “Cursebringer?” The voice belonged to Ilkea. Aile clenched her jaw in annoyance but let her hand slide from the hilt of the dagger. “I have worries.”

  “What worries?”

  Her attention returned to the powdered blades as Ilkea began. She wiped them clean again and held each up to inspect the edge and length of it.

  “Shahuor… he is not as I expected. The stories told of charisma and fearlessness.”

  “Eight-hundred years changes many things.”

  “What if he is weak? What if he cannot save us?”

  Aile put a drop of oil at the base of the smaller knives and two on the larger, one at the base and another midway to the point. She wiped them firmly, spreading the oil thin across each blade before putting it gently back with the others.

  “He was to be our savior,” Ilkea continued when no answer came. “To lead us against the centaur. The faun agreed it was time. But what if he has lost his will for the fight? He sat with an elf girl, even. What of the Halushek?”

  “Your people,” Aile’s voice curdled with disgust. “Are indolent, disgusting, stupid, honor bound livestock. One goat slipping its chains is as apt to change the state of the others as a falling leaf changes the seasons.”

  “You talk ill of our greatest hero?” There was the slightest quiver to Ilkea’s squawking. Aile pulled a phial of light green liquid from her leathers.

  “Heroes serve only to make idealists less afraid of death.”

  She put a green drop to the linen and wiped it down her blades before returning the phial.

  “Heroes give hope.”

  “Hope.” Aile scoffed. “Is it hope, or do the pathetic and fearful simply become bold seeing the success of another and imagine it for themselves? They unite behind diminished risk, not surging hope. Hope becomes a justification for the cowardice that kept them docile before.”

  Aile replaced each of the blades in her leathers and returned her supplies to the pack before pulling some small bits of food and sitting back on the tent floor. Both satyr had annoyed her into talking more than she preferred and so she was done. It seemed Ilkea was as well. The disgruntled chuff at her tent’s flaps and the light sound of hoofed feet moving away were welcome.

  The forced conversation made the salty provisions all the more displeasing. And wine would not serve her well. Not with a creature like Shahuor so close. Sleep could neither be allowed.

  There was nothing to do now but let the hours slowly creep past, pondering over why a faun would have a Drow free a satyr who hates faun. Perhaps her employer did not know. Or something deeper was at play. A trade with the centaur, maybe. Or a peace offering. Or simply exploiting the naive satyr like Ilkea to have them lead an uprising.

  The politically-minded never seemed to value leaving those who did their work alive. Aile thought of the gold and warm baths and hot food. A faun, however ambitious, was a small problem in so many ways.

  Part Six

  T

  Z

  Socair

  Socair woke before the others and well before the dawn. She dressed quietly and left to see to Rionn. He had been quiet and withdrawn since Vód was taken. She barely knew him, but the change in personality had been a sharp one and the loss still nagged at Socair as well. She was responsible for him, whether anyone would agree or not. Vód’s loss tore at her, as did the mission and the forced decorum. Had she simply ridden with Práta, there would have been no loss.

  She walked the halls of the inn and left, br
eathing out a warm fog into the cold air of the pre-dawn desert. Práta may well have been the one taken, she allowed herself to think. Her mission would have fallen to the wayside then, so why not for Vód? There was so much that she had been forced to take on in spite of her discomfort at it. Political games and enemies she could not even see, much less fight. Worse, enemies she could see but against whom she could use no steel. Words, she thought. Always words. An undying nag in the back of her mind told her the truth. She made light of the weapon politicians used because it was a weakness for her. But they were weapons. Strong ones. They could calm the enraged or sow unrest. Destroy lives or make them. If she did not learn to use them, she would be useless to Deifir and to Abhainnbaile.

  A light poured into the empty streets from the stables. She rounded the corner and found Rionn seeing to the carriage. She looked it over and drew a weary breath. Rionn gave her a nod as she came close.

  “I loathe that thing,” she said. “I would rather find myself walking than be seen in it.”

  Rionn kept to his work. “Carriages for nobles, is it? But you’re not noble, eh Bearer?”

  She had not been called Bearer for nearly the full of the season since she’d been given the title. Even Práta seemed to have forgotten about it.

  “It stirs my heart to hear that title, though I fear I no longer deserve it.”

  “It’s worth more than the other they’ve saddled you with.” Rionn wiped clean the door he was attending and turned to her. “I know why you have come. Vód was my friend. He was your responsibility, yes. But also mine. And also his own. I respect the title and all who have held it. My father fed me with the stories until I was sick of them.” He looked down at his hands. “We are warriors, Bearer. I slept as lightly as you that night. Neither of us heard him taken.”

  “I should have.”

  Rionn turned from her and moved to check the wheels at the front. “That pain on your face is enough. It’s more a funeral a warrior deserves. To have those beside us remember us. Regret our loss. Now, I’ll not hear another word about Vód, if you would allow it. I wish to grieve him silently, as a warrior should.”