One's Own Shadow (The Siúil Book 2)

by Randall P. Fitzgerald

  “Dore Lai?” It was not a familiar term. Few were of late. “A satyr clan?”

  She spit angrily away from the chariot. “No, never. Filthy wordwitches. They are tiny, frail. But they have found their way into the ears of the centaur. You will see. Their banquets are pathetic. Tiny and pathetic.”

  Tiny? Aile thought hard about everything she’d come to know about the hippocamps, but there was no talk of tiny among the memories. She pushed the gold piece back into her pocket. This could become very interesting.

  Ilkea had lapsed back into her talk about satyr banquets. “The most cunning must always sit at the place of honor. In the olden times, this was always a male until the coming of High Priestess—”

  “How far?”

  “Far?”

  “To our destination.”

  “Ah.” She surveyed the sky and the mountains for only a brief second. “Before dark we will arrive.”

  There was not so much as a pause after the answer and the story of High Priestess Someone had outwitted Village Elder Someone Else. The day continued along and their progress was slow but steady, as it had ever been. Hour long silences were a welcome respite, but they were too few for Aile’s liking. The chariots themselves were not quite large enough to lay in, even as small as Aile was. Even had they been, the base was not padded and stopping to remove some padding from the pack meant having the full force of Ilkea’s voice in her ears for more time than was absolutely necessary.

  Aile had considered that there was some value in the information that the satyr had been offering so insistently. To a historian, perhaps, or a noble. She had almost managed to excite herself with the idea until she considered it more carefully. No elf was like to believe the stories of a Drow. Even if they might, she could not imagine that elven nobles thought very well of her after her fun in Spéirbaile. Thus, the noise that may have had value returned to noise that had none and Aile’s thoughts of pushing a blade into Ilkea’s skull returned as vivid as ever. Gold was gold, she reminded herself, and the satyr would lead her to gold.

  The sky had begun to dim when Ilkea stopped a sentence short and looked ahead of them.

  “There.”

  It was at the edge of her vision, but Aile saw what the girl saw. A small camp, tightly packed and with fires already lit. Aile felt a tingle run across her body. There were secrets here. Secrets that tended to be uncovered by having a centaur cock rammed into your stomach and an uncomfortable, slow death in the dirt covered with semen. Perhaps that was why they had carted her all this way. Aile ran her fingers across the hilts of a pair of blades sheathed at her side. Such a waste of her precious time would carry a very high price indeed.

  Part Two

  L

  Z

  Socair

  Light was starting to creep through the windows as Socair finished dressing. She had been able to insist upon a brigandine for her trip, at least. There was a familiar comfort in the stiff metal inside a well-fitted piece of fine linen. The garment itself was deep brown with a blood red stripe down the right breast. It marked her clearly enough as one of Deifir’s loyal and would likely be enough to avoid any more minor trouble she was apt to encounter. Somehow Socair felt bothered by that idea. One must earn something, not be given it for fear of reprisal. There was no good to be claimed in acting as one should only when the person in front of them had the power to require it.

  There was a knock at the door and no wait for a response before it opened. Práta entered, looking as though she had barely gotten out of bed in spite of having been awake for nearly two hours arranging supplies. She yawned and flopped into a chair by the door.

  “Deifir’s told the stable master not to let us leave on horseback. It is to be a carriage or we walk, he said.”

  Socair scoffed. “Nobles and decorum. Is it so unthinkable that we should ride horses?”

  Práta half smiled. “A member of the Binse complaining about nobles. There is something the slightest bit odd about that.”

  Socair moved to Práta and grabbed her hand.

  “I am far from noble. But I will do what is needed and sit in their ridiculous box. And you will sit with me and keep me company. And we will be miserable together.”

  Práta stood, hand in Socair’s and yawned again. “I am not so convinced that I will find the experience miserable. A plush seat and a shelter from the cold. It sounds nice.”

  “Nobles,” Socair said playfully. “You’re all as soft as sheep’s wool.”

  The walk from her quarters to the exit near the stables was one Socair had made more than a few times, but it felt unreasonably long today. She knew in the back of her mind this excursion was not likely to have anything resembling adventure, but it was hard to quell the anticipation. She would be free of the castle and the judging eyes and ears of the rest of the Binse. She would have a purpose other than the writing and reading of reports. Práta had never seemed bothered by the lifestyle, but it was one she was born into so Socair could hardly be surprised at that.

  In fact, Práta seemed suited to life in such a political setting. She spoke well and had a clarity to her delivery that made it hard for even the most obstinate to argue against her when she had the right of something. It was pure selfishness that kept them together. A selfishness they’d both discussed and agreed upon. A friend of her father’s had begged her to return to Glassruth, but it was not the time for that, she’d said. One day, surely, just not now.

  The door was open and waiting and the early morning’s cold wind was blowing in freely. Outside was a carriage of rich, dark wood waiting with a pair of guards that Socair recognized almost immediately. They belonged to Meirge. On the left was a tall, thin elf she’d only spoken to once, in passing, as she left one of the harvest banquets. He was called Rionn and beside him was a more squat, muscular elf with an unkempt beard, Vód. The shorter of the two was often with Meirge during his daily rounds of the city, she knew.

  “No driver? Only guards?”

  “We will handle the driving as well. Meirge made it clear that you would want as small a retinue as possible.”

  Perhaps Meirge was not so stiff as he tended to put forward. He had at least come to understand Socair, though they did not have much cause to speak for any great length. The city was his and he answered directly to Deifir. Still, it surprised her somewhat that he would give his own men for this trip. It was true that speaking with the other Treorai was an important event, but it was rare that the security of the city came second to anything. Deifir, perhaps. Her voice would be enough to have these two in front of her now.

  “Is everything in order?”

  “It is.” Rionn stepped forward and held out a brooch and a stack of papers. “Writs entitling you to free passage and room and board as needed.”

  Socair took them with a half-frown. “The carriage will slow us. I do not want to stop until late evening. No towns, no inns. Understood?”

  “Understood.”

  Vód opened the door of the carriage and Socair sighed before putting a foot on the step and climbing in. Práta followed and the door was shut.

  “This is strange.” The complaint was immediate.

  “Would it not be better to wait until we are underway to complain?”

  “Will it be less strange when the carriage is moving?”

  “I… somehow doubt it.”

  The carriage rolled forward and Socair huffed. It was pleasantly warm inside, at least. That was not likely to last too long once they were moving but it was nice enough for now. The seats were plush but not overstuffed. It was a deep grey interior with red accents.

  Socair wiped fog from the window to look at the city as they pulled through the gates of the Bastion.

  “There was no sword with my clothing,” Socair grumbled.

  “One was packed on top of the carriage.”

  “At least there’s
that.” She sighed again. “What am I meant to say to these women? Do they even have forces worth taking as aid? I’ve not read a single report from the past hundred seasons that suggests that either of them takes defense of their province particularly seriously.”

  “You know more than me, I fear. I was raised to understand regional politics. Outside of a few rote facts from my schooling, I know very little about the other provinces. Though, I could likely tell you every time the coast cities have failed to meet quotas.”

  Socair slumped in the seat. “This will be an adventure, then.”

  The road along their route was smooth enough and progress was faster than Socair had expected, more comfortable as well. There was no comfort to be found in the lack of vision around them. Blind to the front, back, and large swaths of both sides. Práta did her best to distract, asking about what she’d read and trying to formulate something of a strategy before they reached Fásachbaile, but with information on Briste being hard to come by, she was at a loss.

  They passed through Ciúinloch, a town along the northern shore of Abhainnbaile’s great lake, in the mid-afternoon. The streets were quiet and clear and the horses were not in need of water, so the city rolled away behind them without so much as a pause. Socair nearly held her breath from one end of the city to the other without realizing it. When she finally let it go, Práta laughed.

  “I wonder if the Treorai imagined you in such a state when she resolved to send you.”

  “She must have. She knows me well enough, I believe. I am not suited to being the voice of something, Práta. I know I must be and when I am in front of the Treorai of Fásachbaile, I will be, as best I can. It is my duty and I will see it through but…” A resigned breath escaped her and Socair shrugged.

  “I wonder, sometimes, whether you have the wrong idea about what it means to be the voice of a people. There is no more responsibility in it than when you were their sword. Only the weapon is different. You need not change the way you wield it.”

  “A poorly honed weapon.”

  “Would that stop you if it were a sword and people had need of you?”

  Socair knew the answer. The answer was why she was in the carriage. It was a few more hours before the sun began to dip. Socair knew it was early, but that was the way of the cold season. The carriage pulled off the road a bit farther than was entirely necessary and began to make camp. Socair insisted on helping, Práta as well.

  When the camp was set, Socair began to rummage through the packed supplies. There was a sword somewhere amongst the food and clothes and she meant to find it. It took more digging than she would have liked but she found the scabbard under a pile of clothes and pulled it free. Before she could check the blade, Práta called her for food. They had only had dry bread and cheese as they rode, but it was enough for Socair.

  Dinner was fire-cooked meat and boiled potatoes. It was satisfying and, most pleasingly, it was simple. She had not had such an uncomplicated meal in the whole of a season and she could not have enjoyed it more. Rionn had added some spice to the meat, just enough to enhance the flavor and there was butter for the potatoes.

  When dinner was finished, Socair and Práta retired to their tent, Rionn and Vód insisting that they would handle the watch. The tent was a smaller version of the marquees that were common at longer-term encampments. She had known many important elves took them along on simpler trips, even. There was a large down mattress laid over a wood frame and a pair of chairs on either side of a simple table. Even with camp set and dinner done, it was early.

  “I doubt if I could sleep,” Socair said looking idly at the roof of the tent.

  “Would you be able to even if you were tired?”

  “Doubtful. We’ll make Fásachbaile tomorrow evening at this rate.”

  They had stopped at the edge of the province where the hills gave way to green plains. Or they would have been green in any other season. Bais was turning them a yellow-brown. It seemed fitting for a land at the edge of a desert.

  Socair had leaned the sword against the edge of the table and tapped at it idly. She wanted to unsheathe it and look at the blade, but there was no good reason to. She and Práta both made attempts at conversation but they went nowhere. The situation was distracting for them both. After an hour of effort, Socair gave in. The bed was the only thing for it.

  Slumber was slow in coming but her mind finally allowed her some rest. It would be short lived, though, as a scream in the night pulled her from what had already been a fitful sleep.

  “Vód!”

  The voice was Rionn’s. There was no need to call so loud unless something was amiss. Socair pulled herself up from the cot, donned a loose shift and her breeches. She grabbed the sword and pulled it from the scabbard.

  “Práta, dress but wait here.”

  She had felt her moving so she knew Práta had stirred. It was not worth risking her being in the open if they were being watched.

  Socair ripped the tent flap aside and hurried out into the camp.

  “Vód!” Rionn called again for the elf.

  “He is missing?” Socair moved to Rionn’s side, scanning the dimly lit plain. It was cold and clear which helped make the surroundings visible, but there was nothing stirring in the dark.

  “I woke and it was past time for my watch. Vód would not have slept or abandoned his post.”

  “Are there tracks?”

  “None that I could see.” Rionn scanned the empty field desperately.

  “Then he was taken when he stepped away from the camp.”

  “Not by raiders. He would have made more than enough noise to wake one of us.”

  Socair’s face fell. “Then not by elves, you mean. There is only one reason he would not have made a sound.”

  It was not uncommon for satyrs to snatch travelers, though they were well north of where that sort of thing tended to happen. It was unsettling to consider at the very least.

  “I will keep the watch with you until dawn. I can sleep in that damnable carriage as we ride. Gather your bedding and get what rest you can out here.”

  “Understood.”

  Rionn nodded and moved to collect his things. He set up his bed efficiently and as he was taking his place under the thick blankets, Práta came out of the tent.

  “Vód was taken?” There was no concern in Práta’s voice, only purpose. She had changed so much in only a season. Socair wondered if it was her influence.

  “It seems so. I will be keeping watch until morning. You should sleep if you can.”

  Práta nodded and returned to the tent. Socair sheathed the blade and laid it across her lap. She cursed her want of adventure as though it would be the thing that had cost Vód his life.

  The night passed without further incident and when the sun crept over the horizon, Socair tapped Rionn with the tip of her scabbard. He woke abruptly and looked around. There was a clear look of dismay on his face. Rionn said nothing as they packed the camp that morning. The feeling that it was her fault had crept in during her watch, but there was little to be done about it now. Vód was grown and knew the dangers. Dangers that would not have existed at an inn in Ciúinloch.

  With the carriage packed, she climbed in. Práta seemed to immediately see the worry on her face.

  “Satyrs have never taken someone this far north. Not in Abhainnbaile, at least.”

  Anything she could say would be something Socair had told herself the night before. Even the suggestions that he might still be alive. Socair curled onto the seat as best she could as they started away from the camp, placing a hand on Práta’s. She would sleep and when she woke, her problems would be new ones.

  Where she had expected the bouncing of the cabin would keep her awake, it helped her sleep and they passed through the small trade town Íobair without so much as a stir from Socair. It was when the carriage pulled to a stop at the gates o
f Fásachbaile that Socair finally woke.

  The exchange of papers was brief and Socair heard one of the guards mention that she had been expecting them tomorrow. The gates parted and they moved into the Low District. Though it was early evening now, Socair was struck by the relative quiet. Only a few dozen bodies moved through the streets as they passed by, all of them staring blatantly as her royal carriage passed. The looks could not be called friendly by any definition of the word. The Palisade came and went and the looks changed, though the quiet remained. Was this truly a Bastion City?

  The ride to the Bastion took no more than fifteen minutes, even encumbered as they were with a wide carriage and supplies. They were greeted at the main doors to the Bastion by a row of finely attired servants, all younger looking men. The door was opened and Socair stepped down from the carriage.

  “Binseman Socair of Abhainnbaile, welcome!” The chipper attendant had only said a few words to her, yet somehow he seemed pompous. She tried to shake the feeling. “The Treorai apologizes that she is unable to receive you herself, but you will have the pleasure of her company at the evening meal in just a few hours.”

  He looked past her, into the empty courtyard that had received them. “When can we expect the rest of your entourage?”

  “We are all that are coming.”

  “Oh, I see.” His voice seemed as confused as it was let down. He snapped his fingers. “Very well, Binseman. We will see to it that you are well-attended for as long as you are in our care.”

  He smiled wide and a young girl, shorter than Práta and deeply tan, came up beside him. She bowed her head quickly and the attendant placed a hand on her shoulder. “This is Nath. She will see to your every need.”

  He pushed the girl out in front of them and she smiled awkwardly. “Welcome to Fásachbaile.”

  v

  Óraithe

  A wind-blown piece of sand across her cheek was the thing that brought her back to her senses. Óraithe still lay where she had landed, though she had reflexively curled into a ball to shield herself from the wind. The cold that began to grip her body made her briefly wish for the empty surrender of unconsciousness. She rolled onto her stomach and pushed up from the ground. It took more effort than she’d hoped it would.