One's Own Shadow (The Siúil Book 2)

by Randall P. Fitzgerald

Práta put her hand on Socair’s. “I’ll not be bought with sentiment and smiles. I expect a fine dinner and horribly mushy words you’d be embarrassed to say in earshot of anyone else. But now we have business.”

  “We do.”

  They continued down the street. It would have been impossible to not notice that the shops and homes had become more ragged and the speech more bawdy. Socair wondered if perhaps the servant at the keep had misspoken. From Práta’s face, it was clear that the sentiment was shared. It was an odd place for a Treorai no matter how one chose to see it. A man rounded the corner in front of them, going the other way speaking with another who seemed to be younger and less drunk.

  “… bloody Treorai, I swear to you. Had ‘er tits out, wavin’ ‘em around and were kissin’ folk.”

  Socair spun and grabbed the man by the shoulder. He whirled, throwing his fists up, ready for a fight, but stumbled backward a few steps before finding his balance.

  “Whassit with you, bloody oaf?! I’ll not have some bloke handlin’ me! C’mon then! C’mon!”

  “No, no! I don’t mean to fight. The Treorai, you’ve seen her?”

  “Can’t handle a bit o’ the rough? Girly-voiced shite, o’ course you can’t.”

  The man pulled back his fist and Socair took a step back. Before he could throw the punch his friend stepped in and grabbed him.

  “Oy, oy! Hold it now! She’s jus’ after the Treorai, ya dimpy git. Same as you was.”

  “On her side now are ye? Well ain’t this a bottle o’ piss.” The man was choking back tears now. “’Ow many years we known each other?”

  “Ah, Sisters,” the younger drunk mumbled. He shoved the older one to the dirt where he sat, bawling and complaining. “He jus’ come from the… well, you won’t know it. Up two streets, left, and then a right. You’ll hear it afore you see it, I reckon.”

  The older man’s sobbing quieted. “Or smell it.” He chuckled and sniffled. And then laughed. “Or smell it! A-ha-ha-ha-ha!” He pulled himself up from the dirt and clapped his friend on the shoulder and off they went.

  The directions were true enough. As soon as the left turn came, there was a racket echoing off the tightly packed walls of what could only be described as the city’s slums. They were a far sight better than what she had seen in Fásachbaile. When they’d rounded the final corner a small crowd was in the street outside of what must be an alehouse.

  Socair and Práta came to the back of the crowd, just outside the door. She could hardly think above the hooting and screams of wagers. They were betting, on what she could not make out.

  A shout came. “Four coppers on the skinny one! He’s the Treorai’s favorite!”

  Socair looked back at Práta as they edged through the mass of onlookers, she had heard it as well. They were at the right place, at least. The crowd was stuffed tight into the small room and ale splashed onto her from every angle. With great effort she had finally pulled herself to the spectacle that the patrons were so passionate about. Two naked men had been covered in oil and were taking part in something that fell between a fist-fight and wrestling. At the far side, a woman sat laughing and drinking deep from a large mug. She was dressed in clothes that seemed so out of place that Socair would have sworn there was a glow around her and the two women who flanked her. Práta joined Socair at the edge of the impromptu combat ring.

  “Is that her?” Socair asked, pointing.

  Práta nodded. “It is indeed. How very interesting.”

  “That is a word for it.”

  Socair stepped out into the ring and began to walk across. The crowd hushed and the fighting stopped.

  Socair spoke when she was halfway across the ring, still walking. “Treorai, I…”

  The short, cloaked girl at Rianaire’s side stepped forward. Something about her unsettled Socair immediately. She smiled eerily and her eyes were shut. Socair put her hand lightly on the hilt of her sword as a precaution.

  Rianaire stood, looking her over.

  “Be calm, Inney. Or rather, be reverent. A goddess has come among us.”

  v

  Óraithe

  Of all the ailments that had come from her march through the open desert, it was her lips that would not give her peace. They stuck to one another only to rip and bleed and sting when she pulled them apart. The rest of her pains faded into the background, a dull hum borne of the pressure in her mind.

  It was midday, she thought. The shadows were new shapes upon a new wall. She had stared at them for days, or her mind told her she had. She had seen people come and go. Or the shapes of people. They were blurred, either by a failure of her eyes or of her memory. Today was the first she felt a clearing in the fog of her mind. It was the sound of birds whose call she had never known that seemed to pull her thoughts back into order. She had been awake a few hours now, watching the ceiling, watching the walls. The roof had been patched. It proved the existence of the people she half-remembered visiting the room.

  She could move, just. It pained her to even think of attempting it. Spikes of salty pain in waves so stark that she worried she would scream out. Óraithe tried as best she could to search in the pain for new wounds, something to tell her who it was that had her. Finding nothing, she returned her eyes to the shadows on the wall.

  A plan was needed, she knew, but the specifics of it would depend sorely on who it was that held her now. Though her ears were filled with a constant noise like rushing water, Óraithe listened as best she could to the sounds outside her room. The birds were the only sounds she found herself sure of. Voices, only occasionally, and the noise of steel on steel, but no screams. She swore she heard laughter but what sort of creature made it, she could not be sure.

  Instinct forced her to tense when a knock came at the door. Regret was too light a word. The searing pain ran up to her head and she forced the scream to die there. She lay as limp as she could and closed her eyes just enough that she could see whoever came. The door opened and an effete man in dirty roughspun came in carrying a tray.

  “Ah, still asleep yet, eh Mistress Óraithe?” He placed the tray on a table at the far side of the room, beyond where Óraithe was willing to turn her head. “So tired these days.” He moved to her side and looked her over. Óraithe shut her eyes to be safe. “We are all so worried for you. The children have been praying to the Sisters. They’ve made a ritual of it.” He giggled to himself. “It’s precious. Your heart would stir to see it, I’m sure.”

  The man pulled back the covers and looked her over. The breeze across her raw skin told her that she was naked beneath the covers. He sighed sadly and laid the thin blanket back over her.

  “Still so raw. It’s a wonder you can sleep at all, poor thing. But it’ll settle. Abhainn’s Gift has been a boon. I do not know where we would be without that woman.” He laughed to himself. “Though it hasn’t been without its trials. The people have been in my ear without end asking after you. Mistress Scaa as—”

  “Scaa…” Óraithe repeated the word almost instinctively.

  The man huffed a laugh. “If only you repeated other words.”

  He had said Scaa, she was sure of it. Óraithe forced her eyes open. “Where…” Her voice could not have even been a whisper. It burned heavy, like pushing words past hot sand. She gathered her strength. “Where is she?”

  The man’s eyes widened and he put his hand to his mouth but quickly gathered himself. “Mistress Óraithe… this… you are still weak. I assist the healer and see to you when Mistress Scaa is forced to be elsewhere.”

  “Where…”

  “Yes, yes. Mistress Scaa. She is away, seeing to things at a house three down from this one. There is food, if you can take it. Stew.” He looked at it. “It is nearly always stew, but it is nutritious.”

  As if summoned by the man’s words, the smell of the food hit her. Her mouth flooded with saliva and she swallowed w
ith great effort.

  “You… your name.”

  “Fonéal. Anything that you need, simply tell me and I will see to it.”

  “Thank you.” Her throat was calming, accepting the words more easily. “Please… leave me. I will eat.”

  “Yes, of course, Mistress.”

  He had taken on a very formal air as soon as she began speaking, not like when he thought she was asleep or aloof or whatever her state had been. He spun on his heel and made for the door, closing it behind him as he left. Óraithe laid still for a moment after he was gone, her mind swinging between food and Scaa. She gritted her teeth and pulled herself up on the bed, coughing from the pain when she had managed to sit. She closed her eyes and saw flashes of red and white, her body doing all it could to dim the pain behind her determination. She threw the covers away angrily, frustrated at the feel of them on her body.

  She was breathing heavy, grunting. Her legs seemed almost not to be there until she willed them to move. The desire turned them to hot lead, heavy and painful and useless. She dragged them against their protests. First the left, letting it hang from the edge of the bed. It did not make the floor. Óraithe’s mind raced with curiosity, wondering what the floor would feel like. The soles of her feet were ruined. Her right leg came to the edge of the bed and she sucked in a breath and braced herself as she pulled it over.

  Her feet found ground. The wood floor was cold. It was Bais, her brain chose to remind her. She shifted herself forward, her rear at the edge of the bed. She was hesitant, pushing weight onto her feet. The cold pushed through to a warm tingle and past it into a painful heat. Her feet were raw, but neither wet nor broken. The healer, she thought. Five minutes had passed without a move from Óraithe. She would fall, she knew it. She would not stand when she tried. She was readying herself for it.

  There was nothing for it, Óraithe decided. She pushed herself up all at once, joints cracking and pain from every point in her body fighting for attention. She stood, such as it was, for near half a second before her shoulders moved too far forward. Her knees buckled and she landed hard on the floor. Óraithe yelped in the empty room. The rush of blood in her ears roared now. She began again, leaning onto her hands and pushing herself up. It was slower this time— a more awkward position for her broken body— but she stood. Steady, this time, against the near wall with one hand. Her steps were small and slow but she moved for the bowl, a wooden spoon sticking out of it.

  She lifted it and held up the stew to inspect it. Peas, meat, potatoes. She felt she must be dreaming. Not wanting to wake without tasting it, she shoved the spoon into her mouth. Óraithe closed her eyes and stood with her mouth agape for what felt like an hour. She put the spoon back into the bowl and pulled another bite, chewing it viciously, moaning involuntarily. She could not move as fast as her mind insisted. Her stomach screamed to be fed.

  When the bowl had been emptied, she leaned over the table, holding herself up. She was breathing heavy still, happy at the scent of stew on her breath. She stood herself, more confident in her balance now. Looking around the room, she began to think terrifying thoughts. Could she allow herself to smile? To laugh? To feel relief?

  A clean, white linen smock was draped over a chair in the corner of the room. Óraithe went to it and lifted it. The hurt shifted to the background of her mind again, though any motion that was novel seemed to bring it forward. Bringing the smock over her head was nigh unbearable especially as it came across her skin. The feel made her remember a tool Cosain had used to grate seeds and nuts.

  When she had dressed, Óraithe moved back to the bed and sat up in it. She was tired, more than she remembered being in the desert. Perhaps it was a matter of degrees, she thought. The window’s shutters were still closed. No part of her wanted to open them. Half-terrified there were no friendly creatures beyond the shutters, half-terrified of the opposite. She stared at them, trying to listen, but her ears were still unwilling to aid her. Her mind turned to the man. Had he told Scaa she was awake? Would she come if he had?

  Óraithe turned and put the thin straw-filled linens that had served as her pillows against the wall and leaned onto them. She heard a door open and close somewhere past the one to her room. Óraithe watched the door. She had tensed again. The handle at the door turned and opened.

  The breath went from her body. She felt her lips tighten and her brow knit. She felt cool tears run down her cheeks, stinging just the least bit.

  “Scaa…”

  She managed the words weakly, pitifully, broken.

  “Love.” Scaa’s voice was whole, not hollow. She ran across the room to Óraithe and stopped herself just short of leaping onto the bed. She put her hands gently at Óraithe’s face, weeping openly. “You… for so long, I had hoped. I only dreamed…”

  It was the first kiss she had known in so long. A kiss from a ghost she knew she would never see again. Pleasure she knew she would never feel again. Her lips stung so prickly sweet that she could hardly stand it.

  Scaa stood up and stomped the floor. “That useless shit of a man. Fires take him.” She leaned back down, putting her forehead against Óraithe’s. She spoke again, somewhere between laughing and crying. “He told me… he told me everything as he normally did. I shut him up before he was halfway done and told him to finish when I had seen to my work…”

  Scaa breathed heavy. She had run. The words played in Óraithe’s mind. She ran to me.

  “I missed you,” Óraithe said between choked-back sobs. “So much.”

  Scaa laughed once and fell to her knees at the edge of the bed. “Me as well.”

  They sat, Scaa’s hand wrapped around her own, until the shadows were far up the wall and fading. Scaa’s hair was so soft, her face more beautiful than Óraithe had ever remembered. The hours were so desperately slow. Óraithe was thankful for that. To be lost in that moment for all time would have suited her. When she had cried all she could stand, she wiped her face against the linen. She had been naked before. A bolt of shame ran through her heart. She frowned and gripped Scaa’s hand.

  “I’m sorry,” Óraithe said quietly. “They ruined me.”

  Scaa was quiet. Óraithe looked at the wall, guilt and pain and shame built inside her with every silent second.

  “I do not know the right words to answer that.” There was regret in Scaa’s voice. She was quiet again, just for a second. “I know that someone has hurt you. And that I will visit horrors upon them.” She took a breath and looked up at Óraithe. “I know that there is no scar that could ruin you for me. I know that all I am now is because of you.”

  Óraithe leaned over and pulled Scaa’s head to her chest. She said nothing. Another hour passed in quiet.

  “Scaa.” Óraithe looked at the dark where the shadows had been on the wall. “Where are we?”

  Scaa drew a breath and stood. “Brothaill. Or so it was called once.” She sat on the bed next to Óraithe and took her hand again. “Do you know it?”

  Óraithe nodded. The town had been a southern port. Cosain’s books had stories of it from the time before the land south of the White Wastes had been abandoned to the horsefolk. It was the town she had hoped to find.

  “I thought the watchman was lying when he said there was someone approaching from the desert. I nearly throttled him before he handed me the spyglass.” Scaa laughed. “I was inconsolable for days. I nearly beat… well, everyone half to death. Anyone who came to me. I…” She paused. “I wished you weren’t dead, but I never dreamed…”

  Óraithe chuckled, so much as she could. “If only.”

  Scaa frowned. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

  “No. There is no meaning in running from what was done to me. There are cells below the Bastion. I was kept there. Tortured to no end that I can think of. Only for Briste’s satisfaction.”

  Scaa balled her free hand to a fist. Óraithe could see she was holding he
r rage. “But… you came from the desert.”

  “There is a prison in the White Wastes. A place I was sent to be forgotten, I think. I lived in my own piss and filth in the dark. They put me in a yard.” Óraithe was dispassionate recounting the story. “I think they expected I would be raped and killed right away. It was nearly the case, but I was saved by a satyr.”

  Scaa narrowed her eyes at the word.

  “I know how it sounds.” Óraithe leaned her head back against the wall. “But I have weapons now, Scaa. I have so much that I lacked before.” She leaned her head forward and looked Scaa in the eyes. “And I will kill them.”

  There was anger in Scaa’s voice. “You will not do it alone.” She forced a breath and calmed herself. “But you must rest. At least for the night. Tomorrow I will show you what we have made.”

  Óraithe nodded. “Stay with me.”

  Scaa kissed her again. “Forever,” she said.

  Óraithe felt the word hang on her lips, prickly and sweet.

  R

  Rianaire

  What an absolutely delightful addition to her day. Rianaire had been well enough entertained by heavy drink and the oiled men, but to have the Goddess of Glassruth standing in a dirty pub was no end of delight. Surely, she was there on some business, but Rianaire could bring herself to forgive that.

  She stood as the impressively large woman came toward her. “Socair of Abhainnbaile. I had heard whispers that Deifir saw it fit to pull you from the fields of battle and lock you away in a Bastion full of politicians. Welcome to my province.”

  Socair bowed in front of her. “My thanks, Treorai. Deifir has blessed me with more than I deserve.”

  There was an edge to her voice. Socair was young yet, though she had accomplished much. Still impetuous and new enough to state affairs to be wary of every word out of the mouth of a noble. She had likely taken the words as an insult.

  “I’m very sure she has given you as much as she meant to, child. But there is an amount of cruelty in forcing a creature into a setting where it has no sense of itself.” Rianaire returned to her chair. “Please, do sit with me and let us discuss things.”