One's Own Shadow (The Siúil Book 2)

by Randall P. Fitzgerald

  “More time? Before the horsefolk attacked?” Socair took the seat she had been offered.

  “You met with both Briste and Rianaire, did you?” Deifir ignored the question. Socair could see now that she was flushed red and drunk. “How did you find them? Were they all you’d imagined?”

  “They were…” Socair paused. Was it a diplomatic response Deifir was after? “Briste was… strange. And—”

  “Oh, come now Socair. Be honest with me.”

  “Briste may be insane. She is dangerous to her people and to anyone who comes near enough to catch her notice. And Rianaire… I respect her.”

  “Oh?” There was surprise in Deifir’s voice.

  “She is flippant and misled me intentionally, smiling in my face all the while. But I believe I understood her beneath it all.”

  Deifir stood and went to a small bar near them where an open wine bottle sat. “Did you win their support?”

  Socair looked at the floor. “I did not. I failed you. There is no other way of saying it.”

  The Treorai tapped a full wine glass against Socair’s hand. She grabbed it and Deifir returned to her seat, her own glass refilled. “No. If you had come here with a pledge from either of those women, I’d have named you a miracle worker or a witch.”

  “Then why was I sent?”

  Deifir took a deep drink of the wine. “I told you. I thought there would be more time. Drink.”

  Socair drank from the glass. The wine was dry but sweet. Not what she’d have wished for after her long ride, but it would do. She finished half the glass without noticing. “What is there not enough time for, Deifir? Will we not make a stand at Innecarnán?”

  “We will.” Deifir tilted the glass back and finished its contents. She looked at it a moment and all at once gritted her teeth and flung it against the wall. The glass shattered and shards flew off across the floor in several directions. Deifir stood, breathing heavy. “Do you know? We are connected to them, in a way. To the hippocamps. Or so the stories say. Old stories, from before the Sisters. Long, long ago, we were only horses. All of us.” Deifir paced around, running her hands along the back of Socair’s seat. “We roamed free and cared only for the wind and the water and the grassy plains. A creature, an old god, long forgotten, fell in love with the beauty of the horses but they were frightened when he came near. They ran. But still he loved them, he yearned to be among them.” Deifir walked to her bottle of wine and lifted it, inspecting the label as she talked. “He tainted the lake where the fairest of the horses drank with his essence and when they came to drink from it, the horses began to change. Their beautiful coats shed and their ears became rigid and their manes grew long. They came to look the way the creature did. The other horses were frightened and drove them north, across the land bridge. In time, they too would drink from the lake, only there was little left of the essence the god had left. They became corrupted creatures, each of them less like the god than the ones who drank before.” Deifir upturned the bottle and drank. When she finally pulled the wine away, she drew a long breath. “They no longer tell those stories among our people. Now we speak only of the Sisters. Had you heard that story before?”

  Socair shook her head and finished her glass of wine.

  “I am unsurprised. We share so much with the hippocamps if the story is true. So many of us would find it disgusting to consider. And no doubt the horsefolk feel the same. And so they kill us. They make gods of their most vicious and live for death.” Deifir sighed heavy. “It is too much for me to bear sometimes. If you were to live in my place, what would you do? How would you see us through this?”

  Socair looked at the window and tried to see the stars beyond it. She thought quietly for longer than she should have. “Whether my trip was a farce or not, I believe you had the right of it then. We must unify. We must come together and drive the horsefolk back to their place. And we must keep them there.”

  “Do you think it possible?”

  Socair huffed, resigned. “It must be.”

  Deifir stood, smiling, and grabbed Socair’s hand. “Undress for me.”

  Socair was pulled to the edge of the bed. It was not until she moved that she realized her mind was spinning. Perhaps she had been more dehydrated than she thought from the ride. Deifir kissed at her neck and stepped back.

  “Come now. If you act so shy, I will be embarrassed.”

  She could not help but smile at Deifir’s words. It was not often that they made love and Socair was never quite comfortable with it, but this night she felt a strange calm. She undid her brigandine and tossed it aside. Her shirt was unbuttoned and left hanging open. The air in the room was colder than she had realized but it felt good as it moved over her breasts. Socair had barely undone the button to her trousers when Deifir came to her and kissed her deeply. A hand, cold and nimble, slid down behind her small clothes. She was near taken by surprise to find she was wet already and her mind was so eager. Deifir’s finger pushed its way inside her and the world became a hazy blur. Her mind, some deep part of it, told her this was strange. She wanted to protest, but could not find the will or the voice.

  v

  Óraithe

  The packing was nearly done. By late afternoon at the worst, they would be prepared to set out toward the Bastion City. It had been two days of seemingly endless problems and worries. The organization of five hundred people and all of their needs had proved to be an exercise in extreme patience. Like tending to children. Scaa seemed born for it. Óraithe often found herself watching Scaa placate people and direct them one way or another, adopting a tone fit for the attitude of each of her charges. She thought of Bonn and regretted that Scaa had lost him. It was nearing noon now and the two of them walked around the city doing final checks in places that had said they were prepared. A train of wagons and carts ran into the square. Toward the middle there was a barouche that had been presented to her just after breakfast. The beaming pride of Callaire and Borr and a dozen others. It was found disused in a storehouse when they’d first arrived. They had worked to put it into better shape since before she’d appeared from the desert and gifting it to her seemed the obvious thing to do. It was quiet along the far end of town, a welcome break.

  “It is all strange,” Óraithe said, kicking idly at the dirt as they walked.

  Scaa stretched and let out a yawn. “Strange isn’t the half of it.”

  “I have thought of near nothing else since the first day I set foot outside of our little house. When we began, we were alone. We were naive and ignored and more a nuisance than anything. Are we not still that?”

  “Well,” Scaa sighed. “I cannot say I understand it myself. I feel as you do most days. Every single word I speak to give instruction or orders, I wait for a hand across the face or spittle and screaming. When they do not come, I feel almost as if something has gone wrong. That the world is no longer real.”

  “Best not to think over the hearts of others, I suppose. I doubt if I will ever be comfortable watching people bow to me. Elders, especially. I want to pull them up half the time and shake them.”

  “I doubt it would help. They would just feel blessed to have been shaken by Mistress Óraithe.” Scaa laughed and nudged her with an elbow.

  “If only I was so respected in private.” Óraithe rolled her eyes.

  They were nearing the end of their work and most of the doors to houses had been left open to signal that they had been emptied. A small house with a faded blue door still remained shut.

  “Ah, this one.” Scaa turned to it. “An old fishwife from the Bastion City.”

  “A fishwife?”

  “So she calls herself. Husband bought imported fish and fancied himself a sea captain’s more like it.”

  Scaa knocked at the door and an old woman called from behind it.

  “Comin’ ya bloody— Ach!”

  A loud thunk sounded a
nd some curses followed. The door swung open a second later. The woman was old, face well-marked with deep crevices and dark spots. One of her eyes had gone cloudy but her hair, white as it was, was full and beautiful. She brushed a thick stew from her apron.

  “Fires take that damned kettle. Near took my soddin’ foot clean off this time.” She finally looked up. “Scaa! And Mistress Óraithe. Oh Sisters be good to me, to see ya here is surely a touch divine. Come in the both of ye, I’ll insist on it, no gabbin’ back at me.”

  She practically dragged Scaa into the house and Óraithe followed. There was very little left in the place, only a few pieces of furniture sitting around and in the far room a table. A stewpot sat on the floor. It was large and cast iron. No doubt it was heavy.

  “I made a stew. Freshest fish I ever seen and it’s damn good to boot. Go an’ sit.” She pushed Scaa off toward the table in the far room and then turned to Óraithe. “Mistress, if ya could. It would do an old woman’s heart no end of happiness.”

  “Of course. I could never turn down a meal.” Óraithe laughed politely and the woman did the same, only louder and happier. “I will join Scaa.”

  “Yep, yep. I got a pair of little bowls ‘round here somewhere.”

  She followed the old woman into the kitchen area. As the old lady saw to the bowls, Scaa shrugged and smiled wryly. Óraithe had sat when the bowls were placed in front of them and the kettle lugged back to the table. A few hefty ladlefuls filled the bowls near to the top and the woman implored them to eat. She sat at the end of the table and watched them.

  “It’s delicious,” Óraithe said, her mouth half full. It was true.

  “Course it is! I know fish. Scaa can tell ye. Used to cook every day for my little ones. My man up and died, y’see. Took our livelihood with ‘im. Wouldn’t do business with no wife. Not when there was others champin’ at the bit to take his place afore his body were even cold. Food ain’t so easy to come by in the Low District. Don’t know how it was the Sisters saw fit for an old crone to keep breathin’ but my beautiful boys ought not.” She gave a hacking fit of coughs and wheezed in a breath after they were done. “Don’t imagine it’ll be long now, though.” She laughed. “We all got our time, don’t we?” She stood and grabbed the kettle. “Still, ye’ve given me more to do than I can manage near ‘bout. I’m grateful for it. More than I know. I got children who need feedin’ now so I’ll be takin’ my leave.” She looked at Scaa. “I won’t hold up the train.” She smiled and turned, walking out the door.

  Óraithe tipped the bowl and ate a bit more of the stew. “I knew her. Before, in the city. I must have seen her nearly every day in the square.”

  Scaa was absorbed in the stew and gave no reply.

  “She did not know me. Her eyes, everything there was about her… it was as if she were sat at a table with nobles.”

  “Did you not expect it?”

  “I suppose I should come to. I had spoken with her before, even. Asked her about fish and where they came from because she seemed to like children and I thought she could give me a discount of some sort. What was her name?”

  “Margáil, I think it was. I should know it better, to be honest. I must’ve heard it a dozen times. She never failed to come volunteer when something was needed.”

  “All of them seem willing.”

  “They believe in something.”

  Óraithe scoffed. “In stories. Stories told by you, no less.”

  “Oh, it’ll be like that, then?” Scaa laughed. “I must’ve told them well to have courted so many. Though, I had my reasons for it.”

  “And what could those have been?”

  “Well, for a start, you told me to.”

  “I told you to gather people?”

  Scaa nodded and shoveled some fish into her mouth. “Told me to gather an army,” she said, chewing. “It may not be much of one, but I thought that any army would do, considering.”

  “Well, I may not remember saying so, but I do commend myself for a good idea.” Óraithe slid her bowl aside and climbed onto the table. She leaned across and kissed Scaa on the forehead, then retreated back to her seat. “You make me believe in all this, Scaa. That this can be more than just my suicidal vengeance.”

  “I always believed you would do more.” Scaa smiled and lifted the bowl to her mouth to hide her blushing. “The shit you drag out of me. Awful.”

  There was a minute of quiet before the thoughts in Óraithe’s mind turned the conversation to planning.

  “Do we know the skills of the ones we’re bringing back? Can they fight?”

  “Two dozen or so, actually. City guards who were exiled with their families when Briste decided they were against her. They have been training others as much as they can. We do lack for weapons and the materials to forge them so it is hard to say how many more will be of use. They will all fight. Or say they will. It remains to be seen how they will stand the sight of blood when faced with it. Or if they can put a blade through a man.”

  “If they cannot, others will finish it for them. We must believe that or else unload the train and be done with it.”

  “I expect even those less inclined to it may change their minds when they are again hearing the angry screams of uniformed men in Briste’s colors.”

  “Just the thought of it makes me wish for someone to stab.” Óraithe chuckled and pushed her bowl around idly. “Are… are there any who are touched by the Gifts?”

  “None,” Scaa said flatly. “Not a question I expected to hear out of you.”

  Óraithe gave an uneasy smile.

  “Oh, fuck off, you.” Scaa slapped playfully at the table and leaned forward, smiling. When Óraithe did not let the joke down, she stopped smiling. “You serious? How? When?”

  “The satyr taught me. At least, he helped me understand the Gift somehow.”

  Scaa twisted her face at the answer. “A satyr? Why would it do that?”

  “I cannot say. He said something once which made me believe it was all to cure his boredom for a while. His escape is why I am here. A Drow came with another satyr and took him from the prison.”

  “I did not want to ask more about the place, but now I regret the choice.”

  Óraithe smiled. “Well, I said I had weapons now.”

  “Sisters, I thought you meant me, the camp.” Scaa paused and stared at the wall a moment with her mouth open. She turned to Óraithe and waved her hands away from the table. “Well, you must show me. Go on.”

  “I need to stand?”

  Scaa shook her head, incredulous. “Do you not? I haven’t any idea.”

  Óraithe stood and moved away from the table. She cast her eyes down to the floor, feeling with her mind to see what was beneath. The houses here were not on stilts, at least, so she would not risk being seen. Her body was still healing and the strain of party tricks to impress anyone who felt a need to test her would not do her any good. She tapped a spot with her foot.

  “Here.”

  All at once a square pillar of hardened sand and earth punched up through the wood in the floor. Scaa let out a yelp and jerked away so hard that she tipped over the bench. Óraithe could not control her laughter but paid for it in pain. Scaa stood, rubbing her head and laughing as well.

  “It’s what you deserve for laughing at the pain of others.” She came around to the sand pillar and looked at it. “Is it solid?”

  “It ought to be.”

  Scaa put her hands around it and pulled. The pillar did not give and so she pulled harder again until she was basically yanking at it with the whole of her weight. She finally let it go.

  “Well, it’s solid, then.”

  Óraithe grabbed it by the top and pulled. The pillar snapped off where it came through the floor and Scaa made an annoyed sound. Óraithe laughed and handed it to her. She held it, letting it roll from face to face in her hands. />
  “Does it stay like this?”

  “Only as long as I make it.”

  The staff returned to loose sand and dirt and fell to the ground, scattering at Scaa’s feet. She stared at it, pushing the loose bits around with her feet for a moment.

  “I was right to believe in you.”

  “Well, I am pleased you are suitably impressed. I hope it will help.”

  Scaa looked up and grabbed her by the shoulders. “How could it not?” Óraithe winced and she quickly pulled her hands away. “Ah, sorry. I… I forget.”

  “I do too. Somehow, I forget.” Óraithe laughed lightly.

  Scaa heard a sound from outside and turned. “Well, I would force you to show me more, but we have things left to do.”

  They took their bowls and left the house behind, checking the rest along the row and finding them all taken care of. They were nearing the square when an olive-skinned woman came running up to them. She helped tend the stables, Óraithe recalled.

  “Mistress Scaa, Mistress Óraithe.” She jogged to a stop in front of them, catching her breath. “It is time.”

  The group that were at their meeting days before were all waiting in the square when Scaa and Óraithe arrived. Scaa had jokingly called them Óraithe’s Binse. Each of them gave a report in turn and when they were done they looked to Óraithe. A few others had gathered from the rear of the train having seen Óraithe come to the square.

  “Good, we are prepared from the sounds of it. We have more than enough food for us all, even if we move slowly. And we will. I will not rush and I refuse to leave a single soul on abandoned roads. Not when home, our true home, is so close. We will make it, all of us. If problems arise, tell me at once that I might see to them. Every wagon and every cart is important to me, to us. Pass these words to those who did not hear them. Let us begin.”

  Several of the gathered folk clapped and shouted. Most called to her and gave well wishes as she walked up the train to her restored barouche. Scaa climbed in first and then offered Óraithe a hand. She was barely tall enough to make the step up and Scaa could not help but let out a snicker. The leather seat was plush and comfortable. She imagined she might fall asleep on it if left alone for too long. The outside had been painted green with silver trim and the leather of both the seat and the awning were a natural, rich brown. She pressed herself into the seat and felt butterflies rise in her stomach while they awaited Borr who would be their driver. Scaa took Óraithe’s hand in her own.