One's Own Shadow (The Siúil Book 2)

by Randall P. Fitzgerald

  “That we might be closer to the Sisters and their wisdom. That one day they will bless us with a deeper knowledge.”

  “That’s as likely as I’ll wake up tomorrow craving a centaur cock in my belly.”

  The four heads gasped at once.

  “But… Treorai…” The voice was smoky and faint, hidden behind a black veil. “What of piety?”

  “What of it? Has your experiment in wide-eyed waiting brought our people anything of value? Oh, will you assure me that the chants are much more effective now at boring the bulk of our people to sleep? A cure for insomnia! Your uses know no bounds.”

  “Our studies serve to remind all among us of the values of the Sisters. Of their teachings. Teachings which made us great.” The bearded man was doing his best to sound calm, but there was a tremor in his voice that grew as he spoke.

  Rianaire scoffed. “Perhaps we were taught different histories.” She looked to the old man. “Have they been amended since I was taught them? The ones in the Hall of Record? Not your flowery books of praise, the histories that tell of four women who could scarcely stand one another. Who grudgingly came together to force an obstinate foe back across some imagined line at the bottom of the desert. The histories that suggest the Gifts existed before the Sisters?”

  The old man slammed his hands on the table. “Treorai!” His voice broke and the sound must have caught him there. “What you are speaking of… those books were written by madmen. They exist only for their significant age, not for their voracity. The Sisters left the Gifts for elven kind as defense against our foes should we prove ourselves worthy in our worship. All of the oldest texts agree.”

  “All but those you dismiss.”

  “It still remains true that the strongest among the ranks of the colleges are the most pious. As it has always been.” The Abhainn representative spoke, her tiny voice wavering with fear and confusion.

  “Is it so? You all agree?”

  “We do,” said the old man of Spéir. The others nodded.

  Rianaire laughed a cold, haunting laugh. She stopped herself and smiled wryly. “Then try and kill me.”

  They all looked to her, shocked.

  The old man was the only one to speak. “I… Treorai… I beg your pardon?”

  “If you are so convinced of your piety, I would have you use your Gifts to try and kill me. Your impious Treorai who has not said an unmocking prayer since the day she left your colleges. Surely I would be overpowered in a moment’s time.”

  A gust of freezing wind blew into the chamber as Rianaire stood. Followed by another with every subtle move as she leaned her hands down onto the table.

  “Surely.”

  The heads sat slowly without another word. Rianaire stood upright and looked them over.

  “There are ways of seeing this that are not so dire,” she began. “After all, I have not banned your worship or your studies, only insisted that they be a requirement to neither pupil nor professor. That you separate your will to venerate the Sisters from your absolute writ, as I have decreed it, to exist for the betterment of elven kind through means of use of the Gifts. You will be helpful and you will be revered for your service to our people. You may choose to let your adherence to old ways stand in opposition to it, but I can promise that these changes will take place whether you wish for them or not. I have seen what the Gifts are capable of. Things that the teachings of the college never even dared to suppose and I believe I now understand why. Still, I would hear any arguments you may have left.”

  She waited silently. A minute passed, and then two. Surely the greatest minds on the subject would have objections worth hearing. Objections not related to their obsession with women who had either long since died or long since abandoned their people to a fifteen thousand year war against a brutal enemy. The quiet of the room had led to uncomfortable shifting once again and Rianaire understood that no complaint was forthcoming. No reasoned arguments against her orders.

  “Nothing? From any of you?” She paused. “Then you are all free to return to your colleges. I expect the changes to be implemented immediately and for recruiters to be chosen within the week. I doubt my business will keep me long, but it may be a fair few weeks before I return. I will say it now that you might understand. I expect progress.”

  She took a final look across their faces. There was anger and resentment among them. The youngest, Abhainn’s representative, looked at the edge of tears. “You are all dismissed. You will receive my expectations in detail by this evening.”

  They stood and bowed before filing out of the ornate door. The college heads had only been gone a moment when Inney entered, followed closely by Síocháin.

  Rianaire rolled her head back at the sight of them and sighed. “I am exhausted.”

  Inney walked to the end of the table as Síocháin moved to the door at the edge of the room. She walked through it to prepare tea.

  “I assume you’ve dealt with the guards?”

  Inney nodded, her mask still on though the room was empty. “The captains have all been told what you will expect across an array of potential situations. Contingency plans are in place as well, should something unforeseen happen. I have also told them to keep a special eye on the college.”

  Rianaire shifted forward as Síocháin returned with tea. “They didn’t wonder why you mentioned the college?”

  “If they did, they said nothing.”

  Síocháin sat a cup down in front of Rianaire. “And you went along with her?”

  Síocháin placed a cup in front of the nearest chair and sat. “It seemed preferable to being within earshot of you dismantling one of the eldest elven institutions.”

  “It was quieter than I had expected actually.”

  “I am not sure that breeds confidence.” Síocháin sipped her tea.

  “I am not sure what to make of it myself. I expect when we return I will have more to deal with than acclimating new Binseman to their positions. What of the carriages?”

  “I arranged for them this morning,” Síocháin replied.

  Inney looked at the door and to the balcony. “There are nine guards in total, and a driver with his assistant.”

  “A small number if we meet a hippocamp horde. Though I expect the entire city guard would scarcely be enough to buy us time for an escape. Ah well. I am sure the Sisters are pleased with me at present and will bless our voyage.” She laughed and put the teacup on the table.

  Inney followed as Rianaire moved around behind Síocháin. She leaned down on one side of the chair and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “I know you worry. This trip will not be so stressful as our last.” She kissed Síocháin’s cheek again and once on her neck. “You may even have a bit of fun.”

  Rianaire gave way as Síocháin pushed her chair back and stood. “And you promise?”

  “I do. I swear it, even.”

  Síocháin quietly turned. “I suppose I shall be in your care during our trip then.” She stepped away toward the door.

  Rianaire laughed and followed. “I may have taken on too much, Inney.”

  “The pair of you are sickening.”

  At that, Rianaire laughed even harder. She followed Síocháin to the door with Inney close behind.

  “I am all alone in my struggles, then?” she said, still laughing. “I could weep.”

  U

  Aile

  The look of the camp was entirely familiar to Aile. There was no notion of design or beauty among the hippocamp hordes, the centaur saw to that. If Ilkea was to be believed, this was something that had been forced on them by the centaur and the satyr arts used to be glorious. Cooking was not among those arts, as near as Aile could tell, but she left it aside. The burlap of the tents blended readily into the desert and if one was not looking for a camp, it would be easy enough to ride past without noticing.

  When they
were inside a range Aile knew arrows could reach, a pair of satyr guards set out to meet them. They did not walk with much purpose and they met the chariots a bit more than a hundred yards from the edge of the camp. Aile pulled the chariot to a stop a bit more quickly than Ilkea who positioned herself at the front and yelled out to the satyr guards.

  They were dressed in light leather armor over loose roughspun breeches. A strange sight, though it only struck her a moment later that Ilkea had been clothed the entire time. As little thought as she had given to it, she realized she’d never seen a satyr clothed before. To be sure, most of her interactions with satyrs were with corpses, but none had even had hints of armor about them.

  A shrill sound made it to her ears. The tone was familiar but the sounds were not. Ilkea was speaking to the guards in her native tongue. She listened close for any words she might recognize as the talk went back and forth. It was all foreign except for her own name. It had sounded so strange in the satyr tongue that she almost thought it had been just another length in the string of incomprehensible noise, but the sounds were repeated by the guard as he looked past Ilkea to check her over. The conversation was mercifully short and they were waved past.

  For the first time in their travels together, Aile made sure to put herself next to Ilkea as they moved around the edge of the camp, presumably toward whatever passed for stables.

  “Since when have satyr worn armor? I have never seen one in it.”

  “It is… a recent change. The centaur have begun to understand the power of the Halushek. Still, it is crude armor compared to what we used to wear.”

  Aile shut her out at that point, expecting that she would ramble off into subjects that did not interest her. It was curious news, the centaur changing anything. They were not creatures who were wont to change their views for much of any reasons. Her companion’s willingness to trail off into useless subjects was one that limited Aile’s patience for her.

  They indeed arrived at the stables, though they were not stables, as such. More a set of troughs where there were no hitching posts or stalls. Aile stepped down out of her chariot when they came to a stop and an older female satyr took charge of her horse. She waited as Ilkea said a few words. The girl joined her and began to lead her into the camp.

  “Those were your stables?”

  “Stables? No, we do not have such a cruel thing. The horses stay as they would not forsake us just as we do not forsake our own brothers and sisters.”

  Oddly, that was all that Ilkea offered. She had gone quiet and her face seemed serious. As they entered the camp, the stares were blatant. The horsefolk made no qualms about openly speaking about her in unhushed voices. It annoyed her deeply that she did not know the words. Centaur was a language she had acquainted herself with so much as she could, and she knew a few words, enough to know if she was being insulted, but there were no satyr texts in the elf lands. If there were, they had been well-hidden and no one mentioned them, not even in passing.

  They approached a small burlap tent. Small even by elven standards, though just about the right size to be Drow. Aile looked on it with suspicion. There could not be a Drow here, it would be unheard of.

  Ilkea pulled the tent flap open and Aile stepped in. There was a strong, earthy smell, incense and the smoke of pipe herbs. Ilkea fell in behind her, crouching until she was away from the edge of the tent.

  Aile’s eyes took only a second to adjust to the dark and across the room she saw an odd, small shape. Like a satyr, but small, rotund. The creature got down from his seat and walked toward her. He was clad in rose colored velvet from head to toe and as he approached he spoke.

  “Aile the Cursebringer!” The voice was high and graveled. “It is rare that names of the north are spread among the hordes and yet yours is. One of only two. The other belongs to a female elf who I am told has slain more satyr than many warlords.”

  The creature grabbed her hand and put a pair of wet lips to it. He was balding on the top of his head and his ears, pointy as any satyr’s or elf’s, were much shorter and close in.

  “Come and sit.” He motioned toward a plush chair set at an angle to his that still afforded a view of the tent.

  She followed him across the tent and took a place in the chair. It was a rare thing for a Drow in her situation to sit in a chair that fit her, and this one did. Though the creature before her was nearly a foot and a half shorter, he was as wide and seemed to enjoy a tall back to the chairs.

  “I trust everything has been satisfactory thus far?” He smiled a merchant’s smile as he asked the question.

  “No. The food has been disgusting and wanting for meat and the gold is poorly smelted with too much copper.”

  The creature frowned. “That is unacceptable and will be rectified at once.”

  He clapped and a satyr shuffled in quickly. The creature said a few words and left just as quickly as she had come.

  “The hippocamps, as you call us, are new to the ways of goldsmithing, as I’m sure you’d guessed. One of many things that has been a learning process for our smiths of late.”

  The satyr returned with wine on a silver tray and a small pouch that was almost entirely filled. The creature took the pouch and tested its weight a few times before tossing it to Aile.

  “Those are newly minted by our best smith. The hordes in the grasslands and swamps have older stock and for that I apologize.”

  Aile opened the purse. It was easily five times what she’d been given by the satyr when they’d met. Well-made, from the look of it. To be so loose with their gold meant either that they had it in ready supply or that they did not yet have a stable use for it among their scattered people.

  “What are you?”

  The creature laughed hard, sounding for all the world like a child. “Oh, gods preserve me. You are as direct as the rumors say. But I have been rude in my introduction. I am Salaar of the Faun. It seems we have slipped from the elven histories, if our prisoners are to be believed. Though, that is to be expected. The centaur have kept us across the strait for many thousands of years. And as you might have guessed,” he chuckled as he motioned to his body, “we are not well-suited to combat.”

  “Then what is it you do?”

  “You are currently a party to it. I prefer to say that we facilitate progress, though there are those who disagree. I am somewhat surprised. Given the satyr love of speech, I had expected Ilkea would have explained all about our people and our meeting.”

  Aile looked over at Ilkea. The look on her face was still stern, perturbed. It almost seemed disgusted. “That one only seems to talk about the past.”

  “Ah, yes. Not entirely a surprise. Ilkea is what the old elven tongue would call banphrionsa. A… hm.” He thought a second. “A Regent’s daughter. Though, it makes sense she did not mention her relations. The centaur did away with any hierarchy for the other races many thousands of years ago. Culture does not die so easily in the hearts of the conquered, though.”

  “So what work do you have for me? And why a Drow?”

  “Hm! Yes! The second question is a bit less simple an answer, but let us say that there is value in your cooperation. Take it on trust, though I doubt you will, that your death is not a part of my plans.” He took a deep drink of the wine. “The work is more simple. There is a satyr held in a prison in the White Wastes. He is of considerable value to our cause.”

  Ilkea’s head raised when she heard him say the words. She seemed not to notice Aile watching her but still pointed her eyes toward the floor.

  “He is old, but very capable. It is important that Ilkea be with you so that he understands that this is no trick. The pay, upon his safe arrival, will be ten such bags as that. And I will be glad for you to inspect the purity of each and every piece.”

  She had heard of the prison, even seen it from a distance in her dealings with some of the elven raider bands. It was an old Reg
ency seat that was built on an oasis. The groundwater had dried up thousands of years ago, but the keep still stood.

  The faun drank deep of his wine again and looked to Aile. “I have further information about the prison if you require…”

  “No. I know the place. We will leave in the morning.”

  “Then you will require a tent!” He clapped again and the satyr returned. A few more words and the satyr went to see to their needs. “It will not be more than an hour. There is meat roasting and root vegetables. You are welcome to them, though I cannot say that they will suit your taste. Sadly, the spices the elves use are discarded when they are captured and I have not yet been able to procure any for my private collection. Their wines, however, are more readily appreciated.”

  “I will manage.” Aile stood.

  Salaar stood as well and walked with her toward the door. “I appreciate the tales of the Cursebringer all the more having had the pleasure of your company, I must say. I hope you sleep well and I wish you the blessing of the gods in your business.”

  Aile left without a word and Ilkea was at her side again immediately.

  “He speaks the elven tongue quite well,” Aile noted aloud.

  She spat at the words as soon as Aile finished her sentence, her hate for the faun readily apparent. “He keeps prisoners and forces them to teach him their words. He has no honor. None of them do. Tiny worms.”

  Aile could not bring herself to hate the idea as a method of learning a language. Centaur were harder to tie down, though it may work with a satyr. It was the thought of captive horsefolk that brought her mind to realize that there had been no centaur in the camp. There was little around that a scout camp would find to be of value, and there were far too many satyr for scouting to be likely without centaur oversight. Though, it seemed there was much she did not know with regard to the current state of the hippocamps. An entire race had escaped the notice of the elves, even.