Práta came beside her, as best as the horses allowed, and rode there quietly for a time. She looked over often, but turned her eyes away any time Socair took notice.
“Is there much danger? At the crossroads.” Práta’s voice was soft, nervous. She had become so stern in the Bastion that the sound sent a tingle down Socair’s back.
“There is, always. The hippocamps are strong if they want for cunning. Their strength is near enough to make up for the lack of the other.” Socair stared off, up the road, at nothing.
“How do we lose so much when we face them, then? Can we not out-think them?”
“The captain of a ship cannot out-think a storm, though he may survive it.” Her eyes turned up to the sky.
“But you have survived. You will survive.” Práta’s words were insistent.
Socair had no kind things to tell her. No soothing reassurance. She looked at Práta and smiled, though she knew her love would not believe such a half-hearted expression. The smile was sad and false and troubled. She wished she could have given Práta more, but there was nothing left inside to draw out what was silently asked.
For the silent moments that followed, Práta’s guilt must have torn at her. She forced a smile all at once and swatted at the air to draw Socair’s attention.
“You will come back to me. You will survive. Again and again.”
Socair huffed and gave a half-smile at the beaming Práta. The words were a welcome warmth and a dagger at once. A blessing and a curse. Silence came over the ride once again and Socair’s mind stuck with the words. She had survived. Again and again. Survived when Doiléir had not. When Silín had not. She looked to Práta, who was again fussing with the reins of her unsteady mount. Hers was the face of all Socair had left. The face that held up what remained of the world.
A few hours of riding calmed the horses somewhat, it seemed. They began to find a steadier pace, though Nath still struggled to move the horse confidently. It was a straight enough road and that eased things. The disquiet in Socair’s head came and went as they rode, testing her with a tiny voice. “Ride north,” it said. “Hide. Why fight? For who?” Her silent answers failed to shut the voice away.
“Ahead.”
Práta called out before Socair had noticed anything. She shook her mind clear and looked down the road. An oddly shaped silhouette was ambling down the road and they were coming closer to it steadily. Another five minutes ride gave some shape to the rider. A boxy elf sitting atop a mule, packed heavier than it ought to be. They came closer to him and he turned on the back of his mount to greet them.
“Hail! Praise be to the Treorai!” He was loud. Unreasonably loud. His voice was a raspy thing, as though a bellows pumped warm air over rough stone.
“Hail,” Socair replied, looking the man over.
He was middle-aged and more muscled than his figure would have allowed one to believe. Chestnut hair rimmed a bald head and he had a bushy beard. With him were the tools of a blacksmith and on his side he kept a warmaul larger than one need be.
“You head south, aye? Hahaa!” He threw up a fist. “To war!” He thundered the words and laughed again.
Práta and Nath kept behind. She heard a snicker from Práta that was quickly stifled.
“I do. Though not with such vigor.”
“Oh? Is it not a glorious thing?”
“War?”
“Aye, war.”
Socair sighed. “Have you seen it for yourself? What war brings? What it costs?”
The man laughed again and pulled his maul, looking at it. The sleeves he wore shifted, showing deep scars, thick at the wrist that must have traveled up.
“I’ve seen it, girl. Paid it six sons and two daughters. They died proud, at home in glory.”
“And did their mother not cry? Did you not?”
“Me? Hahaa!” He tapped the maul against his chest and it made the sound of rustling chain beneath his clothes. “Never once. The woman did.” He laughed and smiled as though lost in a memory for half a moment. “Every time. For weeks.”
Socair gritted her teeth, frustrated with the man whose name she had not even bothered to ask.
“To ask that… you’ve forgotten, girl. The scabbard tells me plain enough what you’ve seen.” He snorted, spitting a large gob onto the road away from them. The mule flapped its ears when he spit, as if it were prompted. “If it is so horrible, if there is so little meaning in it, why do you sit such a ragged horse now? If you do not understand the glory of war, the true glory, then why do you ride to one?”
She looked down at her mount. Something stirred in her heart every time he said the word glory. She had known the answers to his questions before, she knew. Only a season ago, if that. Perhaps only weeks.
Práta, from behind, spoke the words that plagued Socair. “This war is to survive. Killing and being killed are costs. You said as much yourself.”
He turned his head up to the sky to answer her. “Aye! As true as Bais is cold, I said it.” He brought his head back in line with the ground and looked over to Socair. “But we pay it gladly, do we not? For glory.” He nodded, sure of himself. “To protect our own, our land. To say, with our blood, of our own free will, that we value a thing so much more than our lives.”
Neither Socair nor Práta offered a response. There was not even a minute to the silence before the man laughed again.
“Quite a speech, ain’t it? My woman set it down on my head when I was lost in my own mind. She was better’n me, I always knew. We can only manage one out in the country.” He eyed over his shoulder at the two behind, making sure Socair saw. When Socair blushed, he laughed. “Good. Blood in the veins at least. I’m called Corrach. Smith, former, of the Third Company and current horseshoer for Dheasurdhún.” He nodded politely.
“Socair. Of—”
“Ha! Bearer and a Goddess, at that. I know that name. Sisters be good, I ought’ve known. Why in the Fires didn’t you stop an old man’s prattle?”
He was not old. Not so much as he seemed to want to believe. Perhaps twice Socair’s age, she could not imagine he was much older.
Corrach laughed before she could hope to answer. “Serves me right and proper, lettin’ off at the mouth to whoever rides by. I know you, by deed. And proud you do us all. It’s no wonder you ride south.”
Socair found the familiarity seemed to put her at a disadvantage. The man had an idea of her, one built on stories and little else. It had changed the way he spoke to her in an instant. The change troubled her, more so because he had understood her before or at least seemed to. Now, she wondered what he saw.
“There is no need of worry. I’m not so grand as the titles they seem to wish on me. Oh, with me are Práta and Nath.”
He turned to them and smiled. “A pleasure to be in such scenic company then. A ride should never be a lonely one, at least.”
Práta spoke up. “Why did you ride alone? And why do you ride south?”
“A fair question!” He turned his head to the sky again, to shout back. With his voice, there was no need in it. She’d likely had heard him half a field away. “Shoes all got horses on ‘em in Dheasurdhún. Might as well strike steel where it’s needed. And I ain’t the only one. Just the slowest. Hahahaa! Takes time to pack tools. Folk weren’t so keen to wait.”
The conversation turned away to stories swapped and questions asked. He was curious and kind and cleverer than he’d give himself credit over. Socair nearly forgot that he had made mention of others moving south until they came across the first of those resting. Small camps of people sat, eating and drinking. There was jubilation among the bulk of them, and Corrach saw himself to one of the small bands as they passed. He left them, laughing, saying he’d forge her something fit for a Goddess and that she’d have it when next they met.
Their mounts had settled somewhat, likely due to fatigue, but the nearnes
s of so many strange elves and other horses made their starts more of a bother, with Socair’s mount rearing once, nearly throwing her. They were forced to ride on, in spite of it all. At times, they were joined by riders who sang songs and drank as they rode, others were serious and spoke of their duty to the Treorai. There had been no militia that Socair knew of, and Práta had confirmed that there was no call made by Deifir to join her. These people, hundreds along the road and who knows how many more as word spread, came for reasons Socair had lost somewhere inside her own addled mind. Her time among them stirred her convictions, but it was not so easy to make them solid again. She felt guilt at the doubt that plagued her. She had remembered who she was, and what it was she believed, deep into the core of her soul. Nath was proof enough of it, riding just behind her this long while. Yet still, nothing made the pain leave her, even as the tents of the gathered thousands reached out from city walls to make their welcome.
The voice grew louder. “Run. Live.”
She rode on, still, finding herself amidst the growing camp and the crowding street. The walls were near enough and so she left the mount, as did Práta and Nath. She was glad to be rid of them, though the crowding gave its own problems. Nath clung to her as they drew closer and closer to the city walls. The girl did not do well in such situations even when among the people of a city. Around her were armed and armored elves. The sort that had beat her, no doubt. At some point, Socair realized that Nath was quietly weeping, her arms shaking and her eyes darting from place to place, bloodshot and terrified. There was little Socair could do to help her. They could move only so fast and nothing could shield her from the swarm of life around. Perhaps it was good, in a way. Or Socair hoped as much. Perhaps Nath would see that there was less to fear than she expected.
The city, Innecarnán, was beginning to show itself amid the tents. There were inns and taverns and homes along the main road outside the walls and little sprawl except a few thin wispy paths.
The walls of the city drew above them as they walked. Socair knew them, but not well. Geometric walls of light grey rock. They were brittle stones when compared to much of what the rest of the province knew and not nearly so tall as Socair would have liked. Airy and built for bandits, not hordes. They would have to do, she knew. A line of elves stretched back away from the open northern city gate and Socair stopped at the back of it, looking in at the small city.
A knot grew in her stomach and sat there, heavy. Práta put a hand at her back and Socair drew in a breath. Whatever she felt or whatever nagged at her, she could not simply stand and watch. Perhaps that was all there needed to be. She did not know, but there wasn’t time enough to worry over it. The Treorai was in Innecarnán. Socair would have to find her and, if not reasons, at least find answers.
v
Óraithe
Their train had come to its destination in the late morning of the fifth day since they had put Brothaill to their backs. There was nervous excitement in Óraithe, a constant tingling in her fingers, egged on by the revelry that had exploded around her. She could not remember a time she had seen so many people so happy to work with one another. It was something that had been true in their southern haven, but growing nearer to the Bastion City, it surprised her to find that the way about the people remained.
She had lived her life in the Low District, watching the people and the way about them. Sure enough, there were many thousands more of them inside the city walls, but it was rare even to find a single elf who was so willing to help another. They sang, now. Bowing at her as she passed and cheering when she bowed in return. Her tent was prepared first among them. It was large. Larger than any place she had been allowed. Scaa came in at her back a few moments after Óraithe had been shown in by a smiling group of five who had erected the thing. It was unfurnished, but they made promises to return with things.
“Speechless in front of people who built you such a lovely tent.”
“Did you know? This thing… it’s large. Audacious even.”
“You hate it?” Scaa frowned and came to her.
“I…” Óraithe looked to Scaa and then back around at the covering. “I do not know.”
“Well, there is nothing wrong with space, is there? Borr calls it a marquee. It was abandoned by horsefolk.”
Óraithe ran her eyes around the expanse she was to sleep in. The high ceilings snapped a picture of the Hall where Briste had taunted her into sharp focus. She flinched and looked away, closing her eyes. Scaa grabbed her arm and pulled her around. She knew Scaa had meant it as a comfort but the pull was too hard and awkward at that. Óraithe could not help but smile at it. She still worried she would wake in a cell at times. Such awkward truths in Scaa’s way were never things she’d have dreamed.
“I will find us another place,” Scaa said with worried purpose. “There are plenty. I—”
Óraithe put a hand to Scaa’s cheek and quieted her. “Do not make trouble. If this is where they wish me to be, I will be here. We will. And besides…” She breathed slow and long to steady her nerves. “I will not be owned by those things.”
Scaa kissed her suddenly, hard and without any delicacy. A hand at her neck pulled Óraithe’s head against Scaa’s lips all the harder. A rush flowed through her body from the sensation. Scaa pulled her lips away, putting her forehead to Óraithe’s.
“Is something the matter?” Óraithe breathed the words heavy. There was an illicit feel to their intimacy still and it swept her at every touch or kiss. She stared at Scaa’s lips waiting for a reply.
“The-there… I…” Scaa twisted her mouth in frustration. “Fires burn it all, where are my words? I worry. About you, I mean. Always. More… More every hour I wish to protect you. To keep you near me. I did not know what you were when you were taken from me… I dreamt of you. Time and again. Strange, sad dreams that gnawed at me.” Scaa kissed her again, softer this time. “I told them your stories… to keep-”
“Mistresses!” A voice called from just outside the heavy flaps on the marquee. “We’ve come with… things. Bedding and things.” The voices were chipper, the ones from before.
Scaa spun, keeping Óraithe’s hand held in her own. “Come.”
Óraithe felt her cheeks flush. She squeezed Scaa’s hand and was answered in kind. A few hastily constructed pieces of bedding and seating were brought in. Rough, but as good as most things Óraithe had ever seen in bars and the like.
A man, not old, not young, stopped and smiled. “Carpenter swears he’ll make something fit for you soon as he’s back at his shop.” He looked at Scaa after. “And Callaire’s calling. Says there’s something you need to see to.”
Scaa nodded wordlessly and the man went to join the others. He whistled suggestively and the others laughed. When they stepped outside, Óraithe saw why. Scaa was flushed bright red. It was all Óraithe could do to not tease her for it, though she wondered if she’d looked any different a few moments before. Óraithe nudged her, deciding to leave it at that.
“Cock it all,” Scaa kicked at the dirt. “I finally… and they come just then?” She was complaining to herself as she walked away from the tent with Óraithe in tow.
“Where is Callaire?” Óraithe considered that taking her mind off their moment might be a favor of sorts.
Scaa stopped at the question and oriented herself. “This way. South side toward the road.”
Óraithe kept with her in spite of Scaa’s brisk pace. Her body was well mostly enough for it and had even started to take something of a familiar shape. The scars would not fade, neither the divots in her flesh, but it was something. The sensation had returned in her lips as they healed and her breasts were sensitive as they’d never been, Scaa was fond of reminding her with pinches and pokes. Those seemed the only places meant for pleasure that worked as they should.
It could not be helped that Óraithe’s thoughts had turned to sex and pleasure. There had been little
privacy but still her hunger for Scaa and Scaa’s hunger for her had led to long nights with little sleep. It bothered Óraithe little. She hardly knew sleep anymore and the thought of wasting so much time annoyed her. Scaa had struggled, however. She slept little with her work in Brothaill and poorly in the barouche.
Callaire turned when he saw them. A family was with him. A child, no more than four, and three grown— a man and two women— who looked to be the same age. In their fifties, perhaps. Young, though not by comparison to the two whom they had called out. The adults bowed as she came near.
“Mistress Óraithe.” Each of them said it, poorly timed.
She did not know their faces but did her bow just the same. Her eyes moved to Callaire, hoping an explanation was forthcoming. Scaa could not be bothered to wait.
“What is it? Who are these people?”
Scaa did not know them either. Óraithe could not decide if that was reassuring or a cause for concern. Callaire spoke to answer.
“You were at the middle of the train, so you must not have seen. There were families here. Dozens, maybe near a hundred.”
One of the women stepped forward. She was thin and pale. A river elf, if Óraithe were forced to guess. She had not seen so many of the other elves to be sure of the subtle differences among them.
“We came to pay our respects to you, Mistress Óraithe. And to tell you what we can.”
Óraithe was still unsure. There was danger about this, or at least uncertainty. “You know of me?”
The woman nodded. “We do. And that you returned. The whole of the Low District knows.”
One's Own Shadow (The Siúil Book 2) Page 36