One's Own Shadow (The Siúil Book 2)

by Randall P. Fitzgerald

  He opened the door and left, but it did not shut behind him. Socair looked up, remembering the plates. She stood and turned to grab them. She heard the door come closed behind her.

  “Treorai is a mighty title for a dishmaid.”

  She spun, spilling one of the plates onto the ground. It shattered to large pieces but Socair did not hear them.

  “Práta…” She trotted in place, suddenly bursting with energy, unsure of what piece of her mind to listen to first. She needed to put the plates down, but she wished to rush to Práta’s side. Finally, she decided that the plates must go. She turned briskly, dropping them onto the table and then she spun, crunching over the broken plate at her feet to come to Práta.

  Práta smiled at her, wincing the slightest bit as she held forth a hand to stop Socair from wrapping her in ecstatic arms. “You will be scolded for leaving such a mess.”

  Socair’s eyes had already given to tears. She sniffled, already losing a battle for composure. “Práta, my love. They would tell me nothing.”

  Práta motioned to a chair and Socair walked at her side, holding her hand. “Then they told you as much as they told me. At least until one of Meirge’s lot let slip when he called you Treorai.” Práta groaned her way into a chair and Socair knelt at her side, coming to eye level. “I dragged the rest out of him with stern words and the official cadence of the Regent-in-Fact of Glassruth.” She spoke the latter half in a mocking tone of false nobility and smiled, pleased with herself.

  Socair laughed, in spite of the tears. “They could never be a match for you, love.” She put her head to Práta’s knee. “Sisters, I did nothing but fret.”

  “Nothing? It seems you ate.”

  Socair looked up at her, pouting. Práta laughed and put a hand on her head.

  “Alright, you ate and fretted. And fretted while you ate.”

  “What do the healers say?”

  Práta put on an awkward smile. “I’ve lived. Though, I… suppose that is obvious. They say I will not have children. Too much risk of rot after my innards spilled out to my gut when that little shriek put her knife in me.” She balled a fist and gritted her teeth, but flinched at the pain she’d caused herself. “But… I never much cared for the burden. A dozen years spent cooing over a thing. It doesn’t suit me, I don’t think. Besides, the past weeks have been enough of a taste of the worry it causes.”

  “I am sorry.” Socair’s voice had gone weak. “If I had left her…”

  “Then you would be some woman I do not know.” Práta ran her hands through Socair’s unkempt hair. It had still gone uncut and was beginning to trouble her, falling in front of her eyes at times. “You carry too much on your shoulders, love. I have watched you pile more and more, until you struggled even to move. You took the girl from a place of pain. You wept for the souls you could not save. Your heart is a beautiful thing but it cannot make beauty in the hearts of others.”

  They spoke of the war and of food and everything Socair had seen and felt. She was filled with nothing but worry that Práta would suddenly come to hate her and leave or that she was not so well as she pretended. It was a question asked nearly hourly, whether Práta was sure she was well. Her cheeks had not lost color and she had not complained, but Socair worried without end.

  The guards came as Meirge said they would and the two were shown to the galley exit. Deifir’s own carriage awaited them. Socair could not think of it as her own, even as she sat in it, called Treorai time and again as she passed guards in circuit. She was told to keep her head low as they left the city. There was some fun in it, a distraction from the mad world outside, as if she and Práta hid from it all. The ride was smooth and comfortable, even over the rougher pieces of road that led back to the Bastion City. Among the luggage atop the carriage was a long, wooden box. Deifir rode in it, Socair knew. It plagued her mind as the slow, quiet journey robbed her of ways to escape such thoughts. Práta slept and waking her would have been cruel. Socair knew so little of leading people. She had her instincts, and, as the Sisters were merciful, Práta, but no skills she felt would serve her in the work of a Treorai.

  A stop to change drivers shook Práta awake for a moment. She grumbled and rubbed at her stomach. “Stop crying, love.” The words were a barely coherent jumble, but Socair heard them. She laughed quietly, curious what Práta dreamt.

  They made the city walls as the sun found its mid-morning place in the sky. Socair had begun to leave the cart when they pulled into the stables at the walls, but was stopped by a guard.

  “We will see you to the Bastion. Please be comfortable, Treorai.”

  She nodded and sat. A half hour passed before they began again, moving through side streets that Socair knew well enough. Not a soul walked along them. They had been preparing a private route. With Deifir atop and Socair within, it must not have even been a question. There was much to protect within the carriage.

  Socair and Práta were both treated as though an assassin meant to do them in at any moment. They were hurried into the Bastion and taken to Socair’s quarters, put there under guard. Meirge came again and explained that she lived as all incoming Treorai did in the days of transitions. He stayed only a moment, assuring her that she would be free to move of her own will when all was settled. She and Práta were taken from the room for a meal in late afternoon. They were allowed a bath after.

  The guard returning them explained that they would be sleeping elsewhere from now on. Socair knew the Bastion fully and knew at the first turn where he meant. A hall with courtyards to either side of a large room. The place for the Treorai. Socair stood in front of the doors staring at them.

  “I cannot… What of her things?”

  “They have been removed, Treorai. All but the texts.”

  “I… no. I wish to be taken to my other quarters.”

  The guard hesitated. “Treorai… you… you have no other quarters. Your things have been moved here.”

  Socair’s expression was a pained one. For all the softness around her now, she felt as though she could not remember comfort. There was no fighting it. She thanked the guard and the doors were opened for her. When she was inside with Práta, closed away from the world again, she fell to the ground, exhausted, wishing to have a child’s tantrum.

  “Explain this madness to me, Práta. I am at the edge of my wits. What noble mind put me in this place?”

  Práta had moved to the shelves of books. Many in the old tongue, many more in languages unknown or lost. She scoffed when Socair finished her complaints. “Cursing nobles as a Treorai. You are not like to be taken for serious saying such things now.”

  Socair groaned. She went to sit herself up on the floor, using her injured arm without a thought and barking at the pain, scaring Práta.

  No more meals were allowed outside the room which featured a private bath. Socair tried her best to be patient, to not think of it as a cell, but she struggled with it. Práta was passive, saying time and again, when Socair complained, that such measures were common. A day passed, and another. The announcement of Deifir’s death had been made. Socair had not yet been named, but the word had spread among the Bastion. She heard voices in the hall often. One came in the middle of the night as the guards changed. Socair had slept little since the announcements and was not asleep to be woken by the noise. It was Deifir’s Binse of Quarter, Ataim.

  He pounded at the door, screaming obscenities and accusations. “How dare you sit where she sat! A bloody child! You’ll see us all ruined in a season, I know it!”

  His voice rang with the slurs of heavy drinking and he struggled against the guards who finally came to remove him but was taken away nonetheless.

  The days went quiet again and a week passed since Deifir had died. The songs had not stopped since the announcements. Thousands singing the old songs that she might find rest. Socair sang them quietly to herself when she could. She had started to
grow restless, the hole in her arm closing at a speed that seemed to upset the healers sent to see to her care. One called it unnatural, laughing that she did not know if Socair was cursed or blessed. Práta still moved awkwardly, and Socair had convinced Meirge that they be allowed to wander at least the halls near her room. He’d agreed, reluctantly, promising to arrange it.

  The morning came. Meirge had seen to his promise. The corridors were guarded and she could walk with Práta. The walk was slow, but it did the both of them good. The air was cool, but much fresher than what was in her room. A pair of guards kept behind them at all times. Socair would have laughed at the thought of keeping them nearby, but the wound that was through her main sword arm humbled the thought. They spoiled the mood somewhat, though Práta seemed not to mind so Socair held her tongue.

  They rounded a corner. The main hall was ahead of them and she could hear voices coming from it.

  Práta looked behind at the guards. “I do not know that voice.” She started closer and Socair joined her.

  Socair listened for the voice Práta spoke of. It seemed a familiar one to her… but she could scarcely remember from where.

  “Where is she, damn it? I will not have some oafish guard tell me that I cannot so much as stand in a hallway. I’ve come a long way and done so at great discomfort and I have no intention of leaving.”

  “Regent, please, we cannot… there are orders.”

  The guards at the main hall turned, hearing footsteps behind them. When they saw it was Socair they became nervous, looking to each other, unsure what to do.

  “Treorai, we cannot…” They whispered.

  Práta would have none of it. “What are you whispering for? Is some woman meant to be able to be Socair’s killer? Who is that?”

  The voice from the main hall had heard the commotion and came walking closer. Socair just saw the face over heads and immediately her nerves went to jitters.

  “Socair! What ridiculous manner of guard are you running here? I swear, I’ve never met the like. You’d think they hadn’t heard the good news.”

  Hands came between the guards and parted them with some fussing and a few quickly forgotten protests.

  Her face beamed, clean and elegant.

  Socair did not know where to begin. “I… I… did not expect…”

  A hand was offered. “You must be Práta. I knew your father well, to my grand disgust.” Práta looked quietly at Socair as she took the hand in her own. “I am sure our lovely Treorai has failed to mention me.” The elf pulled her hand from Práta’s and moved to Socair’s side, smiling mischievously. “I am Rún. And I am here to help.”

  v

  Óraithe

  They had begun to settle into the Low District. Each day seeing fewer errant guards, all telling the same story. They’d been abandoned. Óraithe had meant to be patient with them, hearing their stories as they were found and letting them go as best she could. It would show her as kind and reasonable. One had killed a girl, raped her after. He had been caught in the act, cursing her low-birth. He was ripped limb from limb by a mob with her blessing. A mob, but they had come to her to see what she would allow.

  Each guard caught after the crime had been forced into cellars with heavy doors and kept there. The cellars were growing full, however, and even if they were not, something must be done. Óraithe felt the itch to be done with prisoners and prisons more than any of the others even.

  “They deserve death or they do not.”

  Scaa had been the only among them who had not stirred at the line for one reason or another. There was argument about it, discussion such as it went, but no one would offer a better solution. All permutations of the problem came to the fore. Killing them, exile, even allowing them a second chance. When the meeting was done Óraithe thanked them for seeing so many sides of the problem. She meant it, genuinely hoping that they could continue to do so where it was worth discussion. All of them seemed pleased at that. She had made them feel there was contribution to be made.

  The call came in the morning, rousing an annoyed Scaa to the door of the home above an alehouse they had taken as their own. It was abandoned, but clean enough. The most pleasant place either of them had ever slept. Óraithe could hardly stand it all, sleeping on the floor if she slept. Scaa mocked her but would often end up at her side naked on a thin blanket on a wood floor. In truth, the room disturbed her. She felt too far from the earth there. There was something warm about its presence.

  “Óraithe. They say we’re needed.”

  She still lay on the floor, staring at the ceiling above. “Oh? Where now?”

  “The square.”

  Óraithe sat up and looked at Scaa.

  “Why?”

  The boyish elf shrugged, walking to her clothes, yawning. Whoever had come calling had left the doorway. Óraithe dressed, wearing the cloak she’d used in the attack the first day. The cold had begun to creep into the light of day and she did not like the feel of the wind on her skin. It brought memories of the Wastes and darker things.

  They walked to the square without much talk. The city was still in the Bais morning. It lacked for life still, but there were sounds more often now at least. The gates were well-guarded and they had seen the first trade wagons from Rinnbeag. Fish and wine and sundries. They had welcomed the wagon and paid the man for the goods with coin taken from the guards and from abandoned homes. He found it all extremely odd, but seemed happy to have sold all he brought with little argument and little haggling. More came every day to their group, bringing skills and goods and silver or copper. Occasionally a gold or two were offered. Word must have traveled beyond the Palisade of their dealings with the trader as it was not a half day before an attack made its way down the wall’s overwalk, attempting to reclaim the gates. There was so little meaning in recovering the gatehouse that Óraithe wondered what Briste was playing at. A feeble, wasted move that saw four more of her guards captured.

  There was some bustle in the square, bodies flooded even into the alleys, none bothering to look behind as she passed toward the northern side. The Palisade was not far from them there and so they avoided it, but there was no talk of archers from the watches they had set. The thought of Briste’s plans occupied much of Óraithe’s time. There seemed to be no reason in them. She doubted there was, but she would not allow herself to miss something. Not when she was so close to a war with the woman.

  They were met along an alley by Eilit. Her face was grave, not strange for a teacher in such circumstances. She and Earráid had largely busied themselves tending to children and mending clothes and whatever kept them from the reality of the bloody work around them. She turned as they approached to keep pace.

  “Mistress Óraithe, the townsfolk… they have come to witness your judgment.”

  “My judgment? I do not understand.”

  Eilit looked at her as if she’d said something strange. “Your judgment of the prisoners. Briste’s guardsmen. You said…”

  Óraithe nodded. “No, of course. I apologize. I have yet to shake the sleep from my mind.”

  In truth, she did not understand. Why would she judge them? Was that not a thing better suited to tribunals or gatherings? Her brain turned over the problem as quickly as she could manage, the square growing closer. Why? Why her? That seemed to be the correct question, she felt. Her. Punishments were meted out by leaders. It was the way of things to them. She began to understand the position she held, though she did not believe it. They did not wish for a new system. Had Scaa known this? Understood it? She did not seem to, or did not speak of it if she did. The people who had, for days on end, slaughtered guards in Briste’s employ simply sought to replace her with something they found more suitable. She had read the stories. They had even been the reason for her first steps down this path. With it around her so near, she had failed to notice.

  Her gut was knots upon knots when she
walked out to the gallows. The hanging post had been torn down, she did not know when. In the center of the platform sat a chair. Only one. A hush fell over the crowd as she climbed the stairs and walked to the chair. Scaa was behind her, breathing awkwardly fast. They were both nervous at least.

  Óraithe planted herself in the chair. Hard wood, well-made.

  “Bring the first.”

  Two burly elves in hoods dragged a man from the edge of the crowd to boos and hisses. He looked tired and did not struggle against the men. Borr stood forth when the man stood at the center of the stage, facing Óraithe.

  “An elf of Briste’s guard. He’s refused us his name. The others say he is Ordan, a highborn who has been with the guard for years. Cruel, and abandoned to the Low District for it by his own men.”

  She looked him over as the words were read. The man held his chin high as though that meant something in this place. Borr spoke for a few more moments, naming the elves who had complained against him. She leaned back in the chair, sitting upright when the reading was done.

  “What say you, Ordan?”

  His eyes came down on her when she asked the question. She could see the worthless pride of nobility in them. “It is a mockery that I should be judged by the likes of you. A scumchild, born to filth and playing at more.”

  The angry roar from the crowd was near deafening.

  Óraithe laughed at him, uncaring over his words. “A true guard of Fásachbaile’s City, aren’t you? I have missed your sort. Well then, let’s have you play your little part to the very end.” She looked at the men. “He dies.”

  The crowd roared again, but jubilant. He was dragged to a half-rotted barrel. When the smell of it hit him, the grave nature of his circumstance caused him to find a different sort of voice. A wild, panicked one.

  “You little cunt. Briste will see your end. The rest will bring your head to her on a platter, eyeless and tongueless.”

  His words ended when the blade came across his throat. They held him over the barrel until the clicks from his throat were quiet and his body no longer writhed against the life leaving it. The corpse was removed from the platform, but the crowd continued their cheers.