One's Own Shadow (The Siúil Book 2)

by Randall P. Fitzgerald

  Ilkea began relaying the message and the smaller centaur began to bristle beside his warlord. In truth, she would prefer the elves to the horsefolk if only for the sake of her tongue. Perhaps the faun would take to cooking as a means of enriching themselves if the elves fell. They could likely be taught at least. The largest had become loud and was stamping the dirt as if to make a point of his upset.

  “‘The Battle will find black forest when the rest have gone,’ he says.”

  She laughed. “It seems you horsefolk assume that birth means loyalty. Burn the Blackwood for all I care. And if you mean to shackle me, then at least be sure to send something large enough that I recognize it as a centaur.”

  She looked hard at the smallest of the three and smiled wryly. He began shifting in place, moving his eyes from Aile to Ilkea and back waiting for the words to come. The sounds from the satyr had barely ceased when a roar was let out.

  Aile pulled her longest blade and a short plunging dagger from her hip, taking a few steps forward. The centaur had pulled an axe of his own and readied it. He was on her in seconds, the axe plunging toward her. He had swung shallow, though, used to fighting elves and she ducked the dull weapon neatly, pushing the short blade into the joint of her attacker’s left foreleg. A great wave of dirt pushed out away from the centaur as he crashed to the ground, his limbs locked in place. She heard the rustle of hooves behind her and turned to see. The woman had grown restless now.

  She stood at the belly of the beast, looking him up and down. There was a small shuddering through his body from time to time, but no movement otherwise. She buried her foot in the abdomen of his lower body, angered that the rush of the attack had already begun to fade. His eyes were locked to her, the only thing he could manage to move.

  “Your pride is so easily wounded is it?” She scoffed, pulling out the blade. “Perhaps I can help. You see, it is hard to wound pride when you have so little of it left.”

  Aile turned toward the hind end of the centaur and swiftly plunged her blade deep into the fold that held his cock. A shudder ran through him again and she pulled the blade, plunging it back. Deep red poured out in thick, throbbing streams. Another roar rang out, this one more feminine, but only just. She looked to see the female centaur rear to charge only to have her stopped by the warlord. He gave a guttural laugh and spoke. Ilkea gave her the words.

  “‘You are a worthy prey. I will take pleasure in your death, but now you have work.’”

  He spoke again and pointed. The female centaur began to move ahead.

  “They will collect him,” Ilkea explained.

  Aile took a few steps back as the female came forward and secured the hind legs of the other. She scowled at Aile as she did her work but turned when she was done and began to drag him away across the field. The warlord waited behind and spoke one last time to Aile.

  “He says ‘Drow. If you have not killed him, you are a cruel creature indeed. The Old must have made you for us.’”

  She knew just enough to understand what he had meant. A compliment, worthless as any other and self-service besides. If The Old, dead warlords who the centaur revered as gods, had made her for them, it was a wonder they had made a society where a loss to her was more shameful than death. It likely made enough sense to the centaur, though. God worship had that way about it, turning non-sense into sense for only the zealous.

  When the centaur had gone, Ilkea breathed a sigh of relief. She opened her mouth to speak but a glance from Aile quieted her before any words formed. The chariots were mounted and they began to move away from the mountains. Ilkea directed them nearly due west before pulling up aside Aile.

  “We go to the west. In the plains.”

  The word invasion had been in the air and Aile now assumed that Ilkea had been with a horde rather than a scouting party. She knew little of Ilkea’s status among them, though the camp she had delivered their hero to was not so fond of her. The gold had kept her from concerning herself overmuch with the particulars but with so much time ahead of her she felt that an examination would prove fruitful. The clearest thing was why they had sought her out. The faun had ideas beyond what the centaur meant for him and he meant to leverage the satyr to that end. Simple enough, they were easily manipulated from the sounds of things. It was Ilkea’s part that made her curious. She knew too little about the faun and what they were capable of to make a guess at things. To send the girl along would have been a mistake if he meant to use her involvement to rally more over. She was not above the faun having misplayed his hand, though two other options seemed possible in her mind. He had meant to prop the girl up, putting her forth as a sort of hero herself for having returned Shahuor. She would be more easily controlled than the old one. Failing that, she could simply have been a reviled creature among her own. Someone who would not be believed if she were to turn against him. Perhaps she was both of those things.

  Aile searched for fun among the work ahead of her. Things she would enjoy. Watching Ilkea unwittingly determine her own end would be something of a joy. Perhaps she already had been saved by a half-illiterate centaur. Any fights were apt to be too quick for any real satisfaction and the faun seemed a boring quarry. He had gold enough, though. Aile imagined the heft of it and took a satisfied breath.

  The sun had gone before she’d noticed and the chariots were drawn to a stop. Camp was made and a fire was set. Aile took her wine and some dried meat from her pack along with the tools she would need for the night. She started for her tent but Ilkea called after her.

  “I have questions,” she blurted.

  Aile turned to look at the girl but went no closer to the fire she’d made. “Well?”

  “You did not cower or flee. How?”

  The centaur she must have meant. “They are no threat to me. Not in those numbers.”

  “No threat?” There was disbelief in her voice. She shook it away. “Because of your potions?”

  “Even without them.”

  “But your potions are strong.”

  Aile gave her no response which made the satyr shift uncomfortably.

  “I have not known of it, such a strong potion against centaurs. How do you have it? Please. The Halushek need—”

  “Need to be given salvation?” Aile narrowed her eyes. “I would sooner put tongue to your furred cunt than endeavor to teach you anything. And to be bold enough to ask such a thing without so much as gold scrap. What should I warm myself with when you’ve won your imagined rebellion with my potions? What is the worth of the gratitude of even a thousand thousand satyr? A mud statue amidst dirty huts? I’ve no need of it and worse I grow tired of your dim understanding of that.”

  She waited there a moment for a reply, then turned and pushed into her tent. There was no complaint from Ilkea, a fact which made Aile hate her all the more. No wonder they had been subjugated, she thought as she tended to her blades. There seemed only to be fight in them when they sense no threat. The centaur, stupid as they were, had even managed to understand it and turn the fact to their advantage. Enslave the lot of them and motivate them through threats. She could not imagine two races more made for one another.

  When the blades had been seen to, Aile drank. The wine had kept well enough through the rough days and the stink of horses and horsefolk had not fouled it. She let the hours pass until she heard the noise of Ilkea asleep in her tent. When she was confident the satyr was deep into her night’s rest, Aile left her tent and made for Ilkea’s horse. The light from the Eyes was dim, but she could see the papers well enough when she pulled them from the pack. It was still there, the paper with the extra lines.

  Aile replaced the papers and returned to her tent, a vague feeling of disappointment rising in her chest. Sadly, tonight she would sleep. And, come the morning, Ilkea would be allowed to wake.

  Part Eight

  K

  Z

  Socair

 
Práta waited until they were well clear of the alehouse to speak. Her voice seemed hesitant to Socair who had been deep in thought herself.

  “What did you make of her?”

  Socair let Práta’s question linger in the air for a moment, unsure of exactly how to answer. She decided that simply voicing her uncertainty was the best thing for it.

  “I do not know, exactly. She seems so flippant one moment but there is something to her beyond it in the next. To be frank,” Socair paused. “She is somewhat frightening.”

  Práta seemed surprised at the words. “She scares you?”

  “No,” Socair shook her head. “More… there is too much beneath the surface of the woman. An enemy is a simple enough thing. Even an adversary. But…” She stopped a moment, thinking of how to put the words. “I felt she did not see me as either. As though I existed beneath her concerns somewhere.”

  Práta gave her a look that said she did not understand but said nothing. Socair tried again to search her mind for the best way to say it.

  “I do not think she is as Briste was. It is less… less that she does not care what happens to Abhainnbaile and more that she sees it as simply unimportant compared to— I don’t know— maybe the fate of her people, maybe her next meal. If I knew the minds of nobles so well I doubt I would find myself so troubled each and every time I escape a conversation with one.”

  Práta considered that a moment. “Well, should it not be that way? Not about the meal, I mean. If she places what she imagines to be the welfare of her people ahead of ours, is it not what Deifir would do if you had not told her of the threat from the hippocamps?”

  It was certainly fair. Socair could not bring herself to hate that in the woman, and besides she had been given a chance to ride along and perhaps make her case. It was what she had been sent to do and certainly she would try her best at it. Her thoughts turned to Deifir and what good her trip would have been if she did not return with at least the hope of an alliance among one of the provinces. Briste and Fásachbaile seemed lost to her already. There was nothing which came to mind to solve against such a woman, but the north still held promise. She had been allowed to speak and she was thankful enough for that at least. The thought of meetings with the Binse crept in and she frowned. She had forgotten them for nearly the whole of her travels as worry allowed her to think of little else but addressing Treorai and officials and the like. The panel of old, pompous men and women would certainly let her hear no end of ridicule and derision should she come back empty handed. They had been insulting enough, and publicly so, before she had even left. Too young, inexperienced. She had been called a sort of prized bitch more times than she could count. They awaited her failure like slavering beasts awaited a sick foal.

  Her arm pulled back behind her, her sleeve being held. It dragged her mind into the present and she noticed that Práta had stopped in the street behind her. She was looking longingly into a bakery and tugged at Socair’s sleeve a bit harder before looking over.

  “Can’t we? Please?”

  Práta almost seemed to pout, so precious Socair could hardly keep herself composed. A street was hardly the place for bold romance though, and so she settled for a dopey smile and a response that was just a touch too loud.

  “Yes!”

  A few passersby stared at her and Práta covered a laugh, looking away. Socair blushed red, grabbing Práta by the hand and dragging her into the shop. The smell of the place was delightful, though the shop itself was modest. They had just come to the edge of what Socair thought to be the poorer part of the town. They were welcomed by a stout man with curly hair and a wide smile.

  “Let me know what it is you need and you’ll ‘ave it.”

  He gave a nod and went back to his work arranging the loaves on shelves that lacked for them and rearranging the ones that remained to be more presentable.

  Práta practically ran to the case of pastries at the front of the shop. The color and variety were as Socair had never seen. Bread was bread, as she understood it, and while she’d had sweet breads and sour alike, they had always been white at least and generally square and without mystery to speak of. The man approached, having noticed the two of them staring longingly into the case.

  “Yer new faces. Visitin’ Casúr?”

  “We are,” Socair said. “From Abhainnbaile.”

  “Haha! Wonderful. You’ve got that look about you, must say. And lovers too if I know my nose from a mew.”

  “We are!” Práta chirped, not looking up from the pastries.

  “I’ve an eye for love. And I’d find myself remiss if I let two lovers leave my shop unsatisfied. Tell you what. Anything you like, you’ll have a second for free.”

  “We couldn’t.” Socair began a protest but was waved off by the man.

  “I’ll not hear a word of it. Now! What is it that strikes your fancy?”

  “I have never seen the like of these, I fear I don’t know what to make of them.” Práta pointed to a deep purple roll. “What is this one?”

  “Ah, the Blackwood. Blackberry bread full with beetroot custard.”

  Práta pointed at a fair few others and he described them. Sweetbread topped with a crisp exterior and filled with macerated Bais fruits. A bread tinted deep red, full with divots of baked custard and dark jelly. Nearly a dozen of them in all and each of them may as well have been forged by some magic. Práta chose three to take with her and the shop owner placed six of them into a small bag made from paper. They paid and left. It was still a bit of a walk to the inn, so Práta immediately pulled one of the pastries from the bag and set about eating it.

  “You’ll be ruined for supper.” Socair said jokingly.

  Práta swallowed the bite she’d taken. “You’re welcome to some if that’s jealousy I hear in your voice.”

  “Jealousy? No, I will have the rest of them while you’re not looking.” Socair laughed and Práta playfully clutched the bag tight against her side.

  The walk back to the inn was not so bad, though the air was growing colder by the minute and the sky was well on its way to being full with clouds. Socair frowned at the turn in the weather. They would not be free of the north before the snows came at this rate. The doorman waved them down as they approached.

  “Welcome, again. The young girl, Nath, she took a meal and has been quiet in the room since so I did not knock for fear she may have taken a nap. Near end of the second floor.”

  “You have my thanks,” Socair said, nodding as she passed the man to enter the hotel.

  They entered and climbed the stairs for the second floor, coming to the end. Socair could not help but notice the distance from their door to the far wall of the hotel and she grew a bit nervous.

  “We have been given something audacious again, I fear.”

  Práta was looking in the bag of breads and seemed not to be bothered by it. “Would you prefer it to the treatment in Theasín?”

  Socair could not argue the point. She twisted the handle, finding the door unlocked. Nath had not locked it, it seemed, and the doorman had not seen fit to correct her mistake.

  The room was grand. Deep green with rosy wood all around and a four post bed large enough to sleep two families. Nath had fallen asleep dead in the middle of it and rolled to the side at the sound of the door closing. Práta sat her breads on a small table near the door and leaned to Socair, whispering.

  “Best not to wake her. A bath, perhaps?”

  Socair was reminded of the ale and noticed her own stink. She felt a pang of regret at having not noticed before entering the baker’s shop. He had been kind not to mention it and even more kind not to simply turn them out. A bath was well overdue.

  The room was not lacking in doors and it was only on the third attempt that they came into what Spéirbaile’s people called a bath. A large slate pool along one wall and black granite benches polished smooth along the
other with buckets and rags.

  “What are we meant to do with this?” Socair turned with her complaint and saw Práta undressing.

  She forgot often how beautiful a woman Práta was and cursed her mind for being so preoccupied with other things. It never ceased to stop her where she stood that she might admire the smoothness of her skin. Even her freckled shoulders had a unique elegance to them that Socair found alluring. The smell of ale fouled the wandering of her lusty mind and she looked back at the buckets before undressing herself.

  “I have heard the same complaints of visitors to Abhainnbaile,” Práta said. “We are meant to wash ourselves with the rags first.”

  Socair watched as she grabbed a bucket and filled it with water, taking it to the bench.

  “All this space for two? What is the purpose of it?”

  “It does seem a bit much,” Práta said, motioning Socair to the stone. “Come, I will wash you.”

  Socair sat and as Práta washed her a thousand objections ran through her mind. Did they not cycle the water often? Was she being bathed in the filth of some poxy old noble? She felt she should not bring the complaints to Práta, who seemed not to mind. She was worrying overmuch, no doubt, at a custom that simply seemed strange to her. For her time in the Bastion, Socair knew she had not truly come to understand the way of even the elves of her own city. She knew structure and order and very little else. It had meant a disastrous meeting with Briste and that Rianaire had gotten her way without Socair knowing what words could possibly push her into a corner. Lost battles.

  When Práta had finished washing her, she gave Socair a kiss on the neck. “Your brow is knit.”

  Socair sighed. “It is like to become permanent if I keep up as I have been.” She grabbed a rag from the bar along the wall and stood. “Your turn.”

  Práta sat on the stone and watched as Socair washed her. “What is it that bothers you so deeply about talking with politicians?”