One's Own Shadow (The Siúil Book 2)

by Randall P. Fitzgerald

  “Fine,” Aile said, and when he did not understand she sighed again. “Yes.”

  He chittered high and bobbed his head. “Good, yes. Yes. Good. I make. You stand.”

  The satyr ran off and left Aile standing with Ilkea who looked over at her. “What has he said?”

  “I am to eat his special meal.” She almost gagged saying the words.

  “What is a special meal?”

  Aile chose not to answer the question and looked around the place they stood. The satyr passing her by paid curiously little notice to her. Even the elves of port cities were more enamored with her than the horsefolk that moved around her now. It was unnerving to an extent but seemed as though it could work to her advantage. The horses were gone now, as was the paper. There was nothing to check as she stood and waited. An hour passed before Ilkea took a seat in the dirt and began to push at it with her finger. The grass that surrounded the encampment had not survived the traffic of so many hoofed feet. A satyr came and looked to Ilkea, at the ground, and then to Aile. He pointed to her and spoke to Ilkea. The satyr girl nodded and the new satyr spoke again.

  “You are to go with him.”

  “Where?”

  She asked and he replied. “The meal.”

  It was a crossroads, but looking across the encampment stirred something deep in her. Aile motioned toward the camp and the satyr sent to guide her to this meal took the cue. The tent was not far from the edge of the camp, though it was large. Half the size of what centaur warlords tended to keep as quarters but not as tall. The guide pulled the tent open and Aile passed through.

  She stood a moment, staring around the room, even after the flap had closed behind her. The table was clearly made from redwood, old and thick, well-polished. Stone statues to the Drow Goddess sat in corners of the tent and beneath the harsh odor of heavy spice, she could smell fireweed and fir. A flap at the back side of the tent parted and Harekor came in. He wore a shift she recognized instantly. Deep purple and long, with yellow patterns that came up from the base. It was a holy robe. The Devout wore them. She noticed the small cauldron and watched as he placed it on the table.

  “The meal. Make. Maked. We eat!”

  He motioned to the chair across the table from him and then took a seat in his own. Aile came hesitantly to her place at the table and sat, watching her host but staying mindful of the exit. She could be through the side wall with a dagger, but the timing would be tight if he set upon her.

  He opened the pot and stared at her, smiling. She recognized the dish immediately. A hog’s trotter stew with mushrooms and root vegetables. It was peasant food of the Blackwood, but the smell was all wrong. The odor of copious spice rose from the cauldron and she could see specs of it across everything inside.

  “Stew.” He smiled and nodded down at the pot. “Stew.”

  “I know what it is.”

  He seemed to take the words as a compliment and clapped again, trotting in place. Harekor grabbed a spoon from the edge of the table and slopped a helping into her bowl before seeing to his own. He sat down and picked up the bowl before putting it back down hurriedly.

  “No!” He seemed to chastise himself and slapped at the table before calming and grabbing a spoon. He held it up to show her and nodded. “Ah?” He laughed to himself and put the spoon into the bowl, taking a large bite, and squawking a satisfied groan as he swallowed it. “Eat, eat! Most good!”

  She waited a moment with him staring. The goat did not seem to die from it. Whatever the flavor, it would be a change of pace. And warm food seemed a pleasant distraction from the abject nonsense of the entire scene around her. She filled the spoon and took a bite. The turnips were not so awful, but the soup itself had all the charm of a mouthful of pungent sand. It was, she had to admit, a far cry from the food she had forced down through the rest of her work with the horsefolk. The thought was a moot one, though, as the only redeeming features of the meal were a cause of its Drow origins. Harekor continued to make words at her while she ate the stew.

  “Turnip.” He held one up. “Strange ground meat.” He nodded to himself and ate it.

  “By what means did…”

  She realized she did not care how he had come to think of it as ground meat and left it there. Still, every word from her lips seemed to please him to the point that he had begun shifting in his seat and watching her as she ate. His breathing became heavy and long and Aile put a hand to the long blade at her back.

  “You… beautiful. As Aile…”

  The satyr did not mean her, she knew. He meant the Goddess. Had he known her name, she’d have like found herself pounced at once and the subject of fumbled attempts to rape her in a fit of moronic lust.

  “You are a disgusting mule.”

  He shuddered. She began to wonder if he didn’t understand her and simply enjoyed the insult.

  “I love Drow.” He was growing more excited. “Drow beautiful.” He stood and pushed the bowl from the table before lifting his extended cock, letting it fall onto the wood. It gave a meaty slap. “I want you.”

  Aile looked at the horse prick on the table and then up to the satyr. She stood quietly and pulled the longest blade from her back, holding it aloft between two fingers.

  Harekor looked at her and then to the knife and back again. His face twitched and he looked down at his penis, breathing heavy and unsteady. He was nervous.

  “But… But I… meal.”

  Aile said nothing but made a proper grip around the knife and stared hard at the satyr in front of her. He looked to his cock and then the knife and then her. He barked at her and said some satyr words and pulled his cock from the table, leaving a wet streak behind it where his excitement had dribbled from the tip.

  “Go. Be away.”

  He shooed her, face turning red even past the deep bronze that it was. The veins in his neck had begun to pulse. She would not like be given a second entreatment to leave on such terms and so Aile turned and left through the flap she’d used to enter. She walked briskly through the camp, leaving the sounds of barking and crashing pottery behind.

  Ilkea was not where Aile had left her, instead she was milling near one of the cookfires and seemed alarmed when she spotted Aile walking through the camp. The girl came running up.

  “What are you doing?”

  “We’re leaving.”

  Aile did not stop to answer and Ilkea hopped along, beside, looking back to the cookfire before giving up and walking normally.

  “I do not… where… we…” She composed herself and started again, trying to seem calm. “Then, to deliver the final orders.”

  “Rightly so. Where is the third camp from here?”

  “I… third. Yes. I do not know these lands well. So… a… my map. I must check it. South, I think.”

  They were nearing what was a stablemaster among the horsefolk when a cry rang out from across the camp.

  “Sister! Sister, please hear me!”

  The words were Drow, but the voice did not belong to Harekor. It was a ragged voice, male. Aile turned to see a Drow man hobbling toward her. He was covered with divots where flesh had been pulled from his bones, his penis had been split down its middle, and the bulk of the toes had been taken from his right foot. He reached for her as he drew near, two satyr close behind him. Aile moved aside and the man fell to the dirt below, giving a pained grunt as he landed.

  “Goddess be merciful, the mumblings were true. They are letting you leave? Tell them,” he became frantic and his face washed with tears. He came to his knees and clasped his hands together. “Tell them you will take me with you. Take me from this place, I beg of you. Take me to the Blackwood or kill me here, sister.”

  Aile turned to see the satyr. Both had stopped and watched her quietly. She knelt down in front of the man.

  “Stop your pathetic crying and listen.”

  Th
e man choked back his sobs and put his hands down. “Y-yes, sister. Anything. Please.”

  “Do you have coin? Or your family? Would they pay to have you back?”

  He began to shake, staring at her in horror. “I… I have nothing. No family, they were killed. Sister.”

  Aile stood and looked at Ilkea. “Come. I believe we have business to settle.”

  The Drow screamed at her, cursing her soul and her house with what ragged breath he could force out. She heard the sounds of flesh on flesh and the curses were no more. Her attention turned to the satyr at her side. They would rest tonight, she knew. And they would almost certainly have a talk. One which, at last, Aile was very much looking forward to.

  Part Nine

  x

  Z

  Socair

  It was not a comfortable ride after the satyr had mysteriously exploded across her. Socair had been covered in blood and entrails and her own sick and Sisters can only imagine what else. They had stopped at the crossroads and found Práta waiting there with Nath and Rionn. They were only allowed a brief chance to clean themselves before Rianaire insisted they be off again with Socair in her carriage.

  For the whole of the ride, Socair found herself drifting toward a focus on the small girl that rode inside with them now, Inney. It was not a name she had heard before and so much about her was strange. Her height, her face, her manner. Rianaire must have noticed her distraction at some point. She asked her rather pointedly whether she was curious about the girl and Socair had no reason to lie, rude though it may be. The explanation was so matter-of-fact that she could hardly believe it. A half-Drow with a strong ability with Spéir’s Gift. It explained enough, though Socair had never even read tall tales of such ability. There were no battlefield legends or campfire stories of it. She had heard tales, however, of extremely adept satyr and so she accepted the reality for what it was. Either the satyr had exploded of their own free will for some reason or the girl had done it.

  Socair could not help but develop a sort of respect for Rianaire after what had happened. Indeed, that the Treorai would fight when pressed by horsefolk of all things was beyond her imagination. She had done well in the fight even, as calm as any green soldier would have been on first brush with the satyr. It was the calm after the fight that she found truly confounding. Socair could hardly come through a fight without feeling flush and worn and tense and excited all at once, yet Rianaire seemed to return to her normal self. She could not make heads or tails of the woman’s demeanor except to assume that her life had been threatened so often that she could no longer muster the effort to care.

  They came to Theasín by early evening in spite of the delays. There was still blood in places Socair had not been able to wash and the thought of buckets and rags seemed less charming now. A cold river would be better. No need to stare at water as it went orange and filthy and then dip a rag into it once more. The crowding on the roads had thinned and there were very few who still bothered lining themselves up at the city gates to complain. Still, a small barricade had been erected in the interests of doing the work of keeping carriages and the like from coming through and so they came to a stop.

  Socair was the first to leave the carriage, moving to her own and seeing to Práta and Nath. Nath clung to her, as she had done at the crossroads before and Práta rolled her eyes looking forward at the blockade.

  “Suppose the Treorai will be able to pass his highness the gateman this time?”

  There was a deep annoyance in Práta’s voice and she seemed restless. Rianaire came from behind and placed a hand at Socair’s back.

  “Is anything the matter?” Her eyes went to Nath for a quick moment but she said nothing about the young girl’s presence.

  Socair turned and nodded her head toward the gate. “We had something of an unpleasant dealing with the guard when we arrived here previously.”

  Rianaire knit her brow. “And you told him what you had come for?”

  “I did. Showed my papers and proper markings and the like.”

  Rianaire frowned and walked on toward the gate. Socair kept in step with her as Práta stayed behind with Nath to see to the bags. The bearded guard who had sent her away came out to meet them. He tried to hide his emotion behind formality, but the wideness of his eyes as he looked in slight disbelief from Socair to his Treorai betrayed the worry in his mind.

  “Treorai, it is our grandest—”

  “Shut that hole in your head. Was it you who sent this woman away from your gates?”

  “I-I… yes, b-but at orders from the—”

  “The Regent is in charge of the warming rocks under his arse and nothing more. If one of my Binse had come to these gates would you have turned them away?”

  “No, no Treorai. I do not…”

  “Then why have you sent away the Binse of another Treorai who proved herself to be who she said? What if the town had been raided and she were killed by some horsefolk? Would your Regent be the one to deal with it? Or would your head be on a pike next to his when the news reached me?”

  The guard’s lip was quivering, he said nothing and his eyes struggled to find a thing to focus on. His mind seemed to insist he should look at her as she spoke, but some other part of it was terrified to do so.

  “Understand me now, oaf. And tell all your oaflings so they understand it as well. Your Regent rules at my pleasure. And these walls are not his. They are mine.” Rianaire turned half to Socair, still looking at the guard captain. “I have a feeling about this man. Did he treat you with respect, at least?”

  Socair looked at him and the captain stared back, his eyes pleading. “It nearly came to blows. ‘Fuck off,’ I believe were his words. More than once.”

  A whimper came from the mouth of the man and Rianaire turned back to him. “Does she speak true?”

  “Tre-Treorai, I…”

  “Answer the question, guard.”

  “Yes, Treorai.” His head sank and he tensed all over his body.

  “Leave.”

  He looked up. “Beg pardon, Tre—”

  “Pardon my tits, oaf. Leave. Take your things and your family and leave the walls of this city and this province and go live elsewhere.”

  He fell to his knees, face red and eyes welling with tears. “I cannot, Treorai. I cannot simply…”

  “You endangered my guest. You treated a diplomat sent specifically for an audience with me as though she were below the common rabble. You, oaf, fail to understand who it is you serve and what your station is. Your Regent as well. He will likely join you if I do not enjoy his excuses. Perhaps he will order you to mistreat the desert elves as well.” She looked up, past the former captain to the gathered men staring. “I will speak twice. Whoever leads the guard now, remove the barricade that my carriages can enter the city.”

  Rianaire turned and started back to the carriage. Socair lingered half a second looking at the man who was now all but laid in the dirt, jerking with sobs. She turned to follow the Treorai, not wanting to see what stares awaited her. No doubt she would receive blame for the guard captain’s situation. It was harsh, very much so, but there was a military nature to Rianaire’s decision and Socair could not ignore it. The books, she thought, certainly did not capture the woman.

  Socair stopped next to her own carriage as they passed. “Rianaire, I would ride to my lodging to… to better clean myself.”

  Rianaire chuckled at the words. “Yes, that is not a terrible idea. I regrettably have some sudden business with the Regent so it’s just as well. I will send Inney to fetch you for dinner, if it sounds agreeable.”

  “It does.” Socair gave a small bow. “I thank you for your concern over my treatment.”

  “Nonsense.” Rianaire motioned dismissively. “Your honor is mine when you are in my home. Then, until dinner.” She turned and went to her carriage.

  Socair did the same, findin
g Práta inside. Nath moved to Socair’s side as soon as she took a seat.

  “It seems there was a commotion.” Práta looked at Socair, more curious than concerned.

  “To say the least. A man was exiled.”

  “Exiled?” The words sort of sputtered out of Práta in disbelief.

  “The guard captain who turned us away.”

  “That is a bit much, is it not? He followed his orders. She is too impulsive.”

  Socair thought on it a minute. She did not feel the same, though certainly she felt for the man. “Should a soldier not think for himself?” The carriage started moving. They rolled slowly past the troubled stares of the guardsmen who had cleared away the barricade. “If they are ordered to strike down unarmed people, should they? Even if the nobles are truly in the wrong? My father, staunch as he was, taught me better when I was a child. The excuses of orders and duty give the callow a justification to step across lines of decency.”

  “And this man did that?”

  “It is not my place to say. Though how many did he send away? For how long? How many were found by satyr in the woods as we were?”

  Práta quieted and looked out the carriage at the city around them. Wood painted white with black accents made most of the houses and shops. When she spoke, it was not about the guard captain. “What of our business with Rianaire?”

  Socair grimaced at the question. “What else is there but to try again? Their Údar would be invaluable if the girl Inney is anything to guess from. How she can bear to have a half-Drow so close confounds me, though.”

  “The small one is half-Drow?” Práta shuddered. “There was something about her. Something odd. But she does not look it.”

  “Rianaire swears it’s Spéir’s Gift. Some strange form of it she uses as a mask. It sounded like so much nonsense to me, but then, I’d have said the same of exploded satyr this morning as well. She did not remove it in any case.”

  “I’ll be happy to see the end of our time here, I think.” The carriage came to a stop and Práta opened the door as she continued. “It’s far too cold and I’ve experienced more exotic curiosities than I can stomach.”