One's Own Shadow (The Siúil Book 2)

by Randall P. Fitzgerald

  The inn was pleasant and the room was large and, perhaps most importantly, the attendants kept to themselves. The bath was hot and refreshing, but the rags had been as disgusting a practice as she’d imagined when wiping away the dried blood that still remained in nearly every crevice of her body. Práta had thought to ask for some scented water. It helped remove the stink, she said, though Socair’s nose had ignored it after so long. The jasmine perfume of the water was not so easy to ignore and even as she dressed herself for dinner with Rianaire, Socair sniffed at herself.

  “It’s far too obvious. I smell like a damned garden.”

  Práta laughed. “Is that so bad?”

  Nath had helped her dress and it wasn’t until halfway through that Socair stopped her. She put a hand on Nath’s head.

  “You needn’t do anything for me, Nath. You are not a servant.”

  Nath put her hand on Socair’s and pulled it down to her chest, squeezing the hand against her body. “No. I wish to. I will do everything for you, Socair. I wish to be everything for you.”

  There was an intensity in Nath’s eyes when she looked up at Socair that stopped any reply. She only smiled and Práta interrupted, sending Nath back to her work buttoning Socair into another too-stiff coat.

  “The thought of heading farther north does not sit well with me.” Práta had finished dressing and was seeing to their bags. She had taken to keeping them always at the ready after Fásachbaile.

  “The snows?”

  “Very much the snows. They are light enough here, but I wonder if the Bastion City or Cnoclean aren’t far more covered. It will slow us bad enough as it is.”

  “Though it may make me sound a hypocrite, we were sent here with a purpose. We ought to see it out in good faith.”

  “You sound as though you’ve warmed to the woman.”

  Socair’s last buttons were seen to and she stretched her arms against the unyielding fabric. “She fought the satyr, Práta. Did not blink or shy from them or squeal like an infant. She is capable. And, at the very least, she seemed to be earnest when it mattered. As much as I could do without the rest of her, those things I respect.”

  A knock came at the door and Nath saw to it. Inney had come to fetch them. The walk through the town yielded no conversation, Inney offering none of her own and both Socair and Práta too unsure of what to say to a half-Drow to make the attempt. The restaurant was a fine one. Large to the point of excess with ceilings twenty feet high, red velvet chairs, at least a dozen chandeliers, and staff who seemed never to stop moving.

  When they arrived, they were escorted to a room at the back, away from the dining area proper. The door opened to find Rianaire nuzzling her stoic attendant. She smiled when her guests came and stood to greet them.

  “Nothing ends a strange day quite so well as a lavish meal,” Rianaire said as the wine glasses were filled. “Something with meat in it, I think. How better to celebrate avoiding death than with meat?”

  “The satyr were… a surprise. Though we had heard of the attacks, I did not expect one so far east.” Socair looked to Inney. “I am in your debt.”

  Rianaire laughed. “A fact she has hardly gone a moment without mentioning since we arrived.” Inney turned sharply to Rianaire but said nothing. The Treorai laughed all the more. “She is intimidated by you, Socair. Jealous, I think. Likely a height issue.”

  Socair could not bring herself to take part in the ribbing. “She is more talented than I could ever hope to be.”

  “So serious.” Rianaire rolled her eyes. “You two would make a droll pair. A good thing I have Síocháin to keep my spirits up.”

  The food interrupted the jest. A first course of small lamb chops crusted with herbs and a root vegetable puree. Rianaire spoke through the course at length about how she had been traveling to replace her Binse and the annoyance of her assassination attempt. She talked about it casually, a manner one could almost call light-hearted. It seemed strange to Socair that she was so unaffected by it.

  “Does it not bother you?”

  “Spárálaí’s treachery? Hardly. I am more troubled with the interruption to my life that has continued out from it. It is no small feat finding capable help. Again, a pity you will not come and kill people for me instead of Deifir.”

  Socair took a bite of her food, hoping that chewing would give her time to think of a reply. She was willing to be forthright with Rianaire inasmuch as she could, but her mind was not always obedient, especially when it came to slights against Deifir. She swallowed the morsel and found that no words had bothered to arrange themselves in her head. She would have to speak anyway, lest the air in the room sour from the silence.

  “I—”

  Before she could finish a knock came at the door.

  “Come,” Rianaire said, raising an eyebrow at the interruption.

  The waiters had not knocked. The door opened and Socair shifted in her seat to see a man with light brown hair breathing heavily. He wore colors she did not quite recognize at first. Pumpkin orange and sky blue. She placed them just before the man spoke. The colors of the Regent of Aostacroí in northern Abhainnbaile. A river elf.

  “Treorai, Binseman Socair of Abhainnbaile, I beg a million pardons for my intrusion.”

  Rianaire sat up in her seat. “No need of apologies. Speak.”

  He nodded, looking to Socair. “Two large hordes have invaded the lower province. Cursíol and Dulsiar were on the brink of falling before I left and no doubt stand in ruins. Most there are dead.”

  Socair’s blood ran cold. “What of Glascroí? Has there been word from Rún?”

  He shook his head. “There was no word from them when I set out.”

  She stood, her voice firm. “Go. Ride to where you are needed. I will be just behind you.” The man left and she turned to Rianaire. “I thank you for your hospitality. Let us conclude our business before I go. You had no intention of aiding us against the horsefolk, am I correct?”

  A brief flash of surprise moved across Rianaire’s face, just for an instant. “I did not. Neither did Deifir expect it.”

  “And now? Now that you know the threat I spoke of is real?”

  “It has changed little for Spéirbaile. Too little for me to offer what you ask.”

  There was a huff of anger as Socair struggled to keep herself in check. “Then may the lives of our children buy you the time you need to save your own.” She turned and walked from the room. Práta followed closely behind. “We must find proper horses and we must ride. We will not rest until we reach the Bastion.”

  v

  Óraithe

  The entirety of the morning had been one strange thing after another for Óraithe. Scaa had woken with the sun and after they dressed, they left. It was the first she had been out in the sun since the White Wastes and it felt strange against her skin. Somehow, what should have been a comfort in the cold air made her uncomfortable from head to toe. She could barely resist the urge to insist on clothes to cover every inch of exposed skin.

  Wide-eyed staring was the most subtle of the interactions she had as Scaa dragged her to wherever they would be having breakfast. A crowd had grown behind them and were following fairly closely, tittering any time Óraithe would look behind to see if they were still there. It was not a large group and most of them looked generally poorly clothed, though Óraithe could not say she knew any of the faces.

  As they came to the square at the fork in the roads through the small town, she could see another pair of groups waited there. There were sixty elves in total, or thereabouts and all of them watched her every move. It was unnerving though she could not feel a sense of danger from the situation. Most smiled at her or cast nervous glances. A few even prayed.

  Scaa walked her to the center of the square and when they arrived the husky voice at her side rang out loud.

  “Everyone, I understand your e
xcitement. I even share it. But Óraithe is still healing and we have much left to plan. She will not be able—”

  Óraithe put a hand on Scaa’s shoulder. The people all gasped and looked at her as though she would burst into flame or sprout wings. She did not quite understand what the people thought of her or what they imagined her to be, but she knew that those who loved to follow loved grand gestures.

  “I…” Her voice was hoarse and low, still. She coughed, hoping to clear it which brought only more gasps and sounds of concern. “I do not deserve all you offer me. But I will not turn away a soft touch when I have known only whips. And I will not turn away kindness when I have known only hate. I will do everything I can to repay you. I will—” Her throat caught, it was too much to try to speak so loud.

  She doubled over from the pain in her throat. Scaa put a hand on her back and knelt down to see that she was alright. The crowd were silent until she stood and even as Scaa walked her to a rundown tavern at the edge of the square. Just before Scaa opened the door, she heard the first cheer. The others were quick to add to the call. Cheering and applause and whistling. For her. Óraithe did not understand it. Were embellished stories such powerful things? By the time Scaa had managed to get them inside and close the door, there was a ringing in Óraithe’s ears from the noise. Someone had struck up songs and the square outside turned into a lively place that she was glad to be free from.

  Her eyes took a moment to adjust to the dim tavern room. There was not much to it. A large table with benches at either side and a chair at the head. Papers and maps were spread out across it as well as mugs and plates. A few elves had stood when she came in and now walked to meet her. She recognized two of them, the blacksmith and the stablemaster. To her surprise, another face seemed familiar, though she struggled to place it for a moment. It was when the woman spoke that memories of another long walk in the desert put themselves at the fore of Óraithe’s mind.

  “You are a person I had not expected to see again, if I am honest. Though I said as much to Scaa when I found her outside of Fásachbaile as well. I know your name well now, Óraithe, though I never introduced myself. I am Naí.”

  The healer. The one she had brought Teas to in a life she no longer recognized.

  “How are you here? You are a High District elf.”

  Naí half smiled. “Fásachbaile is a different place now. You will hear about it in more detail when we begin this meeting. I was sent out. Many were. Briste sent her guard into every home and shop in the High District after you had been sent off into the Wastes. Any who she decided were unsavory or strange or ugly or Sisters only know what else, they were exiled with nothing but the clothes they wore when they were taken. She has become paranoid. Insane, even. I expect the woman sees treason in every shadow these days.”

  Óraithe felt a sense of satisfaction rise just for a moment inside her but she would not let it linger. There was much to be done and she was many miles from the walls of the city where Briste still lived. Scaa nodded at Naí who returned to the table along with the others and Scaa saw Óraithe to the chair at the head of the table.

  “Things will move quickly now.” Scaa began without ceremony or introduction. “Óraithe is known to you all, but I will introduce the table to save her the time of having to ask after you if you speak.” Scaa looked to Óraithe for approval and she gave a nod to proceed. “Naí you know well enough. The same for Callaire and Borr.” The men both met Óraithe’s eyes and nodded. “The old man is Oiread. He mixes tinctures and potions and the like, as Cosain did.”

  The man spoke. “Though not so well as he. Cosain was a friend for many years. His loss was a deep pain to me. Not a day goes by I don’t regret it.”

  Óraithe looked closely at the man’s face. He looked genuinely upset to recall Cosain. “I appreciate that you care for him still. His memory drives me in so many ways.”

  Oiread bowed his head and Scaa continued.

  “The two women are teachers. Eilit—” The middle-aged woman at the far end of the table held up a hand. “—and Earráid.” The young woman across from her did the same. They did not seem related but both had lightly tan skin and raven black hair. “They teach needlework and dye making and basic subjects. Cook’s in the kitchen. We just call him Cook. He’s got no name as far as any of us can tell. Or at least no tongue to tell us. And he can’t write. He works slow so I doubt we’ll see any food before we’re done.” Scaa looked around the table. “That’s enough introducing, I think. There will be more than enough time for talking and greeting and whatever else when we’ve covered the business. We’ll start with word from the Bastion City.”

  Borr spoke first. “Word has gone damn near to a trickle of late, but it’s not much of a surprise considering what the word is. A woman came from Abhainnbaile to see Briste. Someone important. Rumor in the Low District says she kidnapped a girl right out of the Bastion and took off. Made Briste near lose her mind, apparently. She’s pulled near all the guard out of the Low District and the ones that are there get attacked near daily by mobs angry about one thing or another. No food, no business, no water.”

  Óraithe sat up in her chair. “Briste’s all but abandoned the Low District?”

  Borr nodded. “Yes, Mistress.”

  Óraithe was puzzled by it. Naí certainly had no reason to lie about the Treorai losing her mind but to think that she would lose control of the Low District. There would be no way to protect trade caravans bound for the High District. Even a fool would understand that. “What of the gates? The walls?”

  “Guarded as lightly as ever. Few dozen for the bulk of the front of the city at the most.”

  Scaa piped up. “The gates have been shrinking as a concern of late. Sadly, they will be the least of our issues, I think.”

  Scaa slid a map to Óraithe. She picked it up to look it over. The map showed the Bastion City in the center and then the surrounding plains out to the mountains. The roads were filled with red X marks and a few circles were placed in areas far off the roads.

  “Bandits?” Óraithe said the words mostly in hopes of it not being what she thought.

  “Hordes. We don’t know the exact locations, but there are too many attacks and not nearly enough survivors.”

  “Fires take it all.” Óraithe put her chin in her hand and leaned closer to the map. “They’re on every side. Have they sieged the city?”

  Oiread shifted in his chair and spoke. “No. Though they’ve moved slowly and acted even more slowly. It is unlike anything I have heard or read in all my years.”

  The others at the table made noises of agreement as well. Óraithe knew very little about the horsefolk save the old man, but she had heard trader stories. Always straight forward attacks. Obvious ones with large numbers and no apparent direction or planning. There was no way to look at the positions they’d marked as anything else.

  “The hippocamps will siege the city.” Óraithe stated it plainly. “We must at least assume as much.”

  “They could not have picked a worse time for it.”

  “Worse for us,” Óraithe mumbled the words.

  “Then what will we do?” Oiread straightened himself in the chair. His voice was tired and worried. “Should we leave the Bastion City to the hordes? Should we stay and live out Bais in our makeshift city?”

  The table looked to Óraithe. She sat back in her chair, looking between the map and the people gathered there looking to her for answers to questions that seemed nearly farcical. The question was a large one, she realized. She was being asked if she would lead. And who would she lead? The people before her? The Low District elves? Who would they fight? What did she desire of them? She closed her eyes and without wishing to recalled herself in the dress standing before the High District shop. It had been too late since then, she knew. Too late to turn away from things no matter what they became. Scaa was beside her now, at least. The sound from the squa
re, the music, drifted into her ears. Óraithe wanted nothing more than to turn to Scaa and tell her that everything around them was absurd. Scaa would say it was useful nonetheless. And she was right.

  “The cold season is harsh for us at the best of times. When food is plentiful, the trade still trickles. If the horsefolk mean to use that vulnerable time, there is no reason we should not do the same against Briste. The Low District need an enemy. They have one in mind, even. It makes our task all the more simple. We have no more food or promises than Briste would, but we have their hate for her.”

  It was the younger teacher, Earráid, who stirred first when Óraithe had finished. Her voice barely a peep. “Is it not better for us all to wait? We can make a life here. Be safe here.”

  Scaa looked at Earráid. “For how long? You have seen the map. If the horsefolk do not find us before long, Briste’s guard may. It is not as though we keep ourselves secret. And if not Briste, then who will replace her? Some other devil in fine clothes.”

  Callaire spoke as well. “Even if they do not come, they may insist that Rinnbeag refuse to supply us. There is little usable soil nearby.”

  “It is why the place was abandoned,” Oiread added. “No, this place will not last us, pitiable as it is to say.”

  Earráid spoke up again. “Then we should starve or die in the Bastion City when the hordes come?”

  Óraithe stood and tossed the map onto the table. Eyes turned to her again. “The deaths will lower the number of mouths that need feeding.” Earráid narrowed her eyebrows. “That truth is cruel, but it is the truth. There is nothing pleasant about what I intend to do. Nothing pleasant will come to you for, perhaps, the rest of your life if you choose to follow me through it. There will be cruelty and pain. There will be suffering. I have known it every day that I have forced myself to keep living.” Óraithe put her hand out and Scaa took it. “As Briste took those things from me, she took them from you. And from our friends and lovers and families. Long before she took our home from us, she made it a place nearly unlivable for all but the ones that served to make her seem glamorous. And what little we asked for became such an insult that she killed us to stop the next hand from reaching out to her for help.” Óraithe looked around the table slowly, studying the faces there. “I intend to destroy that woman who sits in the Bastion and her Palisade and every creature who ever gained from our loss. And I do not intend to wait.”