Ilkea seemed restless. She looked at Aile often, for only a second, then forced herself to look away.
“What is it, satyr?”
“Do… do you wish to hear about the elder we are meant to rescue?”
“No.” She imagined the old satyr would speak for himself. And the thought of a florid explanation of every past deed he had committed was nearly the last thing she wanted.
The girl did not seem to accept that and started to protest. “But he was—”
“If there is more than one satyr at this elf prison, I will have you point him out to me. Otherwise, I do not care.”
Ilkea was disappointed at that, but it had done the trick. Through the overspiced meat and the strange, honey-and-spice-caked carrots and turnips, she said nothing. The only words she spoke were to the satyr that had attended Salaar. The tent was ready. Aile took the opportunity to be rid of the terrible smell and the terrible food. Ilkea followed and kept herself quiet.
On the way to the tent, a pair of satyr men called at her and when they had spoken, she looked down, frowning and troubled.
“What did they say?”
“They said I would sleep in the men’s barracks tonight. It was a place of honor for a lord’s daughter.”
The implication was clear enough. Aile sighed.
“You will sleep in my tent.” Ilkea looked up, shocked. “No stories.” The satyr nodded, a smile spread wide across her face.
“It is… it is not easy to be the daughter of—”
“No stories.”
The tent was no more or less comfortable than the packed tent that the horse had carried. It was not worth complaining about, still better than most. The night passed by easily, though Aile chose to sleep in her leathers. A reputation was something that brought her pride but with pride often came trouble and challenges.
She awoke to shouting outside of her tent. Satyr shouting. There did not seem to be a second voice and so Aile rose in the tent and watched the flaps intently. Ilkea woke as well and dressed quickly, moving to the entrance as she did.
“What is she saying?”
Ilkea did not look back. “It is nothing. I will see to it.”
That was unlikely, Aile felt, and so she followed the young satyr out into the yard. A crowd had gathered, all in a half-circle watching a single female satyr scream at Aile’s tent. Ilkea was doing what seemed to be pleading with the woman.
No sooner than Aile had felt the sun on her skin in the cold morning did the irate satyr turn to her and begin her tirade anew. She said a fair few words, the meaning of which Aile did not need explained to her. The woman held a staff with a blade at the end, double edged and pointed. A wide knife on a stick. A lack of reaction from Aile only seemed to escalate the situation. The satyr was looking at Ilkea now, pointing to Aile, and shouting, such as it was.
Ilkea lowered her head and walked away from the woman.
“She says you are undeserving of your reputation and that she would have you prove yourself before you ever be allowed near Shahuor.”
“Shahuor?”
“In the prison.”
Aile could not even manage a sigh. This worthless posturing about honor and proving oneself. It was worse than the elves. “I have no intention of fighting your simple friend. If she moves at me, I will kill her.”
Ilkea grew nervous. “Such a statement would be seen as a challenge… I cannot…”
Aile began to walk away, toward the edge of the crowd. The woman barked some words at Ilkea and she responded. Ilkea had not finished her sentence when a sharp howl pierced the air. Aile managed a sigh this time.
The blade came down quick at her head. Aile made only a quarter turn and deflected the stick-knife with a dirk pulled from her side. With her free hand, she plucked a slim blade from a pocket just under her breast and flung up. There was a click followed by a decisive thunk as the blade tapped the satyr’s eye socket and lodged in her brain. A half-heartbeat after, another blade went soundlessly through the woman’s upturned chin, disappearing as the slit it had put in her skin snapped closed.
A small cloud of dust rose into the air as the satyr fell to her knees. There was no other sound but the soft scrub of the dirt under her. Not from the woman, not from the gathered crowd. Aile backed up a step to let her opponent fall. The crunching and shifting of the earth under the fallen satyr seemed to echo through the camp. Aile looked down and then to Ilkea.
“Tell Salaar I expect to be reimbursed for the blades.”
Part Three
N
Z
Socair
The dark came on quickly once the sun had started its way out of the sky. The red stone of the Bastion had not been easy to notice in the fading light outside, but as they passed through into the main hall, it was an intimidating sight. Socair wondered if that wasn’t by design. The Bastion in Abhainnbaile was no less imposing, after all. More familiar to her, perhaps, but still an impressive sight. The hall was brightly lit with torches at the sides and a trio of chandeliers running down the ceiling above a pale green carpet.
They had not moved very far into the main hall before turning left into one of the side halls and again just in front of an overwalk. Socair looked out across the small footbridge. There was not much light on the far side. Perhaps a place used for storage, she thought. It was not where they were bound so she didn’t give it another thought.
The girl in front of her, Nath, had been walking silently but at a brisk pace. She could not see the girl’s face, but there was a stiffness in the way she walked that Socair desperately wanted to comment on. The windows running alongside them gave over to more red rock and then to hallways of doors upon doors. More than the doors, Socair couldn’t help but notice the massive paintings. Each at least a dozen feet high, a banner in between in pale and forest green, the colors of the province. The figures on them were in regal dress, men and women both.
“These paintings,” Socair said cautiously, “they are of the Treorai and Binse?”
Nath looked back over her shoulder and then up at the paintings. “Ah, no. They are of the family and historical lines of our great Treorai.”
Socair had read only a bit of the history of Fásachbaile, but she had been fortunate enough to start at the beginning. For two thousand years, the role of Treorai had changed hands as it still did in Abhainnbaile, by appointment of the previous Treorai. That stopped when a family rose to prominence, claiming to have been descended of the blood of Fásach herself. They ruled capably enough as far as Socair had read, but this display was something altogether foreign to her. In Abhainnbaile there was a room that venerated the past Treorai, and she knew the Records kept the names of the Binse that worked alongside each of them, but there was nothing so brazenly celebratory. It made her feel as though she was expected to be reverent, somehow.
Nath turned in front of one of the blackened wood doors and opened it. The hinges squeaked briefly in protest of the work being forced out of them. The serving girl moved into the room and Socair followed. Práta walked past them and moved to look around the room.
Nath spoke. “I hope the room is to your liking.”
It was a room built to impress, which tended to do much the opposite for Socair. A bed too large for four grown elves. A hearth. Three full-sized writing desks, which seemed only to exist for sake of the cooing of elves who were taken with that sort of thing. What use could a room meant for two have of three writing desks?
Socair stared at them for longer than she had any right to and only came back to her senses when she heard Nath turn to leave.
“Wait, if you would.” Socair said the words before she’d turned to the girl.
Nath stopped where she was and turned on her heels. “Yes, Binseman?”
“I have some questions for you, if I might. I am not so familiar with Fásachbaile as I would like to be.”
Socair motioned to one of the fine wood chairs sat near a table she thought was likely meant for tea.
Nath smiled and took the seat on the side nearest the door and Socair took the other, resting her sword against the arm. The girl had stiffened more and her smile was pulled just too tight at the edges of her mouth.
Socair did not wait for an invitation to speak. “What do you think of the city?”
“The Bastion is lovely. I am honored that I was chosen to work within its walls.”
“I did not ask after your work or the Bastion. I asked about the city.”
“Ah, yes… forgive me.” She looked at Práta for a second and back to Socair. “The city is lovely. And so peaceful lately. The cold tends to keep people indoors, I think. And trade is so light in Bais.”
Nath laughed awkwardly and adjusted her dress.
Socair gave a moment to see if the girl was finished. “And the Treorai? I have read about her, but the texts were not terribly recent.”
“The Treorai is… is kind. And thoughtful.” If the girl meant to hide her nerves, she was exceedingly awful at it. “In fact, she has prepared a wonderful reception for you, such that you might meet with some of our most influential citizens.”
Socair was not sure what the etiquette was when someone was clearly perturbed. She was a member of the Binse of Abhainnbaile and something untoward would reflect upon the whole of the province. Would it matter if she said something out of place to a serving girl? She had no sense of the hierarchy of places such as this. She spoke to the servants at the Bastion in Abhainnbaile as she would a friend. Deifir was not so familiar but she was kind. She seemed so often to be a different sort of creature than those around her. Was Briste as refined? The thoughts struck her. Socair had not seen herself as any different than she had always been, but the title had come to this girl’s ears long before reality had. She found it hard to be mindful of that, even as the story of Glassruth had spread.
“I apologize,” Socair said. “I have put you out with awkward questions. I did not mean you any stress.”
“Oh no!” The girl went suddenly wide-eyed and stood, holding her hands out. “It is… I am to blame entirely. It would not be proper to have you apologize for my awkward nature. I had expected only to wait outside and see to you as was needed. I did not expect conversation.”
The words were desperate enough to be genuine, but what fueled her desperation? Was it the same thing that had strained her smile the moment before or fear of Socair’s potential offense?
“It is fine,” Socair said. “You may go now. I have a few things to discuss with my companion before I speak with the Treorai.”
The girl looked to Práta quickly and then bowed. “Yes. As you say.” She scuttled to the door and closed it softly behind as she left.
Socair stood and went to the window to join Práta. The freckled elf looked out across the dim flicker of the city.
“She was unsubtle,” Práta said, not turning from the window.
“She was.” Socair put her arms around Práta and looked out over the city. “And with what I have read of Briste, I fear this city is hiding some terrible things.”
“And are they any of your concern?” Práta put her hands over Socair’s.
Socair took in a deep breath and sighed. “They are not.”
“I know you do not like it, but we have very specific business here. Whatever worries you may have for the people of Fásachbaile, they belong to the people of this province.”
Socair squeezed Práta tightly. “I know. But I will not feel at ease so long as I am here.”
A sudden knock at the door caused Práta to jump in surprise, butting her head into Socair’s chin. Socair let slip a “buh” noise and grabbed her chin.
“Yes, what is it?” Práta answered trying not to laugh as she placed a hand on Socair’s back.
“There is news from the Treorai.”
Práta moved for the door, keeping a straight face with some effort. Socair straightened up, working her jaw lightly with her hand. The door opened and the man who had met them at the main doors to the Bastion was there. He looked at Práta, gave a curt smile, and turned to Socair.
“I do apologize for interrupting, but I have wonderful news. The Treorai has finished with her business sooner than expected and she should like to meet you before the dinner.”
“I…” Socair looked to Práta. “Neither of us has had a chance to clean ourselves and—”
“Ah, the Treorai certainly understands that you have only just arrived. As to your esteemed companion, I do apologize, but the Treorai has specified that she should like the pleasure of your company privately.”
“Oh.” Socair looked at Práta with concern. She had acted as a sort of buffer when dealing with the Binse in Abhainnbaile. “I understand. Then, please.”
Socair followed the elf from the room and out into the hall where the serving girl sat, staring silently at the floor. All of the servants wore garb of pale and forest green, even the man ahead of her now. The hallway followed around to what must have been the area behind the main hall. He stopped in front of a large pair of double doors, carved with crests Socair remembered seeing on the myriad paintings. He knocked firmly at one of the doors and waited. There was a quiet response from the other side and he pushed the door open.
The servant waited by the edge of the door as Socair entered and closed the door quickly behind her. The room was vast with a dome ceiling. The Treorai and her Binse were arranged on a raised stage, looking down at her as she moved to the center of the room.
Alone indeed, she thought. The Binse all seemed to share features with the Treorai in one way or another, and most looked well older than the woman. Briste spoke first.
“I hear that Deifir has sent you without a proper entourage. I do hope that there is not so much need for able bodies in Abhainnbaile that you were sent unattended. Oh, but how is Deifir? I have not seen her in such a long time.”
“She is well.”
With a large, sweeping motion Briste expressed her relief. “Wonderful news. Simply wonderful. I have missed her, you know? She is my favorite of the other Treorai by far.” Briste cackled at a joke that seemed only to exist to her, though her Binse joined her quickly enough.
“Now,” Briste continued, “I know you have been sent on important work. I fear that it may not have made appropriate banquet conversation, so please…”
“Thank you, Treorai.” Socair took in a breath. “There is cause to believe that the hippocamps may not leave our provinces unperturbed this Bais. There have been irregular patterns in their behavior for more than a year now. It is Deifir’s belief that careful preparation and a unified front will be key should the hippocamps attack en masse. We are at our weakest in the cold season, this year especially.”
“For Abhainnbaile, you mean,” grumbled one of Briste’s Binsemen.
The comment took Socair aback. Her nerves had been held at bay due primarily to the hundred times she had gone through the explanation in her head. She had expected questions, even dissent, but to murmur complaints before she had even finished?
“I…” She struggled to remember what she meant to tell them. Her eyes went to the floor and she thought of Práta. She brought her eyes back up to face the Treorai. “As we slow trade and remain close to home for the winter, we risk having little warning of—”
“Oh just say it plainly, girl.” An old man spit the words. “Your Treorai sent you to beg our help because you’ve run yourselves out of food. With Drocham and half your southeastern cities awash in horseflesh, you’ve not got enough for the season. The attacks weakened you and you wish our people to have less so that you might see the season in comfort.”
The rest of the Binse mumbled their agreement as Briste looked them over and then looked to Socair for a response.
She hardly knew where to begin. There
was no sense in what they had said. The most fertile of their lands laid along the Rith and their coastal cities in the west had gone entirely untouched.
“I am not…” Socair started and looked frantically across the grim faces looking down at her. “We have no need of food. We wish to coordinate our forces. To share resources as needed, whatever they might be.”
“So you want our able-bodied soldiers to trot off to Abhainnbaile to die?”
Socair looked away and balled her fists. “If you even have soldiers, I would—”
A pair of hands slammed the table to her left. “You would dare insult our forces while you ask for our help?”
The murmur at the table had begun to grow into voices of discontent. Socair bit the inside of her cheek and took a deep breath. She would need to measure her words.
“Now, now.” Briste spoke. Socair raised her eyes immediately. “All of you should calm yourselves. Clearly the girl is stupid in such matters. Deifir has sent her here because she is deeply concerned for our wellbeing.”
Stupid? Stupid?
Socair could not bring herself to believe she had not misheard the woman who ruled an entire province. She was not sure where to look or what she could even do. Her mind ached to reach for the hilt of a sword, but it was not there, she knew. It was in the room with Práta and sweet salvation from these people.
The Binse quieted, but their faces were no less sour. Briste looked them over and then smiled politely down at Socair.
“Now, I do apologize. I am very interested in what Deifir needs of us.”
We need nothing of you, she wanted to scream. We would protect you! Help you!
“Sadly,” Briste continued, “I must go and make myself ready for the banquet. It will be just wonderful and we will talk then in, perhaps, a setting where you find yourself more able to express what it is that you mean.” She smiled again. “You may go and make ready as well.”
Socair turned without another word and made for the door as quickly as she could manage. She swung the heavy door open with more force than was needed and it slapped loudly against the stone wall before rebounding and shutting heavily behind her.
One's Own Shadow (The Siúil Book 2) Page 7
