In the hall, Nath had replaced the man. Socair walked past without so much as a look and stormed down the hall. Her long strides made it hard for the girl to keep pace. Lifting her skirt and adopting a half-skip, she kept just behind Socair.
“Is something the matter, Binseman?”
“It is none of your concern.”
Some part of her perked to tell her that she had been unduly rude to the girl, but was quickly burned away behind a seething anger. She needed to see Práta. She needed to see her immediately.
v
Óraithe
While sleep had come fairly easily, she had not done much of it. She figured she had not managed to sleep much more than two hours, but her body did not seem to mind for whatever reason. The aches were still there, but dull now. The blanket was still wrapped around her shoulders, though the wind was not so bad as the first night.
The old satyr had stirred at dusk and immediately turned himself to face the wall of the prison. He had been sitting with his head down for hours now without moving or making a sound.
The yard had gone quiet a few hours before. The echoes of conversations made it to her ears as did the wind, but that was all. It was strangely casual for a prison, Óraithe thought. She did not have much experience with them, but the one she had known at least did not encourage conversation.
The dark started to spread and the lights of tiny fires began to show themselves against the massive walls that surrounded them. A sound started behind her. A foreign sound, but fluid and constant. She realized quickly that it came from the satyr. He faced the wall, head now up and eyes closed. The sound was rhythmic, almost a chant though she knew none of the words. Óraithe could not bring herself to look away from him. The potent combination of fear that he was preparing to sacrifice her to some unknown god and the curiosity of it all insisted that she absorb every bit of it.
Nearly an hour had passed and she had begun to pick apart the chanting. There was an order to it, though the phrase was long. It took nearly ten minutes for a recitation of whatever the satyr spoke. She could just make out the syllables of his speech though she hadn’t a clue where the words broke, much less the sentences. He suddenly stopped and stood. Óraithe turned her head almost by instinct, wishing not to get caught staring so obviously. The satyr did not look at her, however. He looked to the door. Óraithe remembered the food then. She and the satyr were the closest to where he said they would drop it. There was only one corner, formed by a pair of turns the wall took before swooping around in a large circle and they were in it. No one seemed even to come within a dozen yards of them, even during the day. The corner was likely not a spot that was given easily considering the privacy that it offered and the proximity to the food.
“I will be only a moment,” he said.
A horn blew and she could hear the rapid duffs of items hitting the ground. The satyr set out toward them with a confident, steady pace. He turned to a vague silhouette after a dozen yards, bending down as he arrived at the food. Óraithe scanned the camp. Every elf who was awake watched the satyr. None of them moved, however. She could tell by the shape of the shadows that they had all turned to see him move.
He was only at the pile for a moment before he stood and began to make his way back to the corner. As he came close enough to be recognizable in the light of the Eyes, she could see that he carried a loaf of bread, a log of cured meat, and three skins.
“I took more than is my custom, but I do not think we will hear much over it.”
He threw down two of the skins in front of her and sat. Half the loaf of bread and half of the meat were handed over. She placed the food in her lap and immediately opened the skin. It was water. It may have been the best water she’d ever known. She pressed on the side of the skin to force the water down her throat as fast as she could manage. No sensation had ever been so pleasant.
She drew a long breath when the water was gone and looked around. The others in the yard were walking to the pile, all keeping a safe distance from one another, keeping to their small groups. A few looked at Óraithe curious about anything that drew the attention of the satyr. She stared back at them and ate eagerly of the food she’d been brought. The bread was dense and hard and amazing. The meat was far too heavily spiced but even the burn it left in her mouth failed to dull her body’s enjoyment.
Some past version of her might have been embarrassed to see how voraciously she went at the food, but now she could not find it in herself to be concerned over appearances. The satyr said nothing and only ate and watched the yard until the movement had settled. Only when relative quiet returned to the prison did he begin to eat his own take.
Óraithe finished her own food and stretched out, leaning back against the wall. The ache in her stomach was starting up like it had in the morning. It was bearable and entirely worth it. The satyr was still eating, taking his time and looking up at the Eyes.
“What were you chanting before?”
He ignored her and took another bite of his bread. He chewed it thoroughly, having a bit of the meat and a drink of the water. Perhaps it was not a subject he wished to discuss. Or worse, she may have offended him. If he cast her out, or set upon her, she would not last long. She forced her mouth shut, not sure if she should apologize or just leave the silence.
“What do you know of my people?”
“The satyr?” She thought through the old texts Cosain had allowed her to read. Few of them mentioned the satyr. Or the centaur individually, for that matter. They talked of the hippocamps and their hordes and the horror of their crimes but little else.
“Nearly nothing,” she finally replied.
The satyr nodded. “That is not so strange. Much of what we are told about the elves is untrue. Or it lacks in detail. We know the shape of the thing, but not what makes it up. That allows the war to carry on.”
He took the remaining meat and stored it. The bread, he handed to Óraithe. She began to eat it without a second thought.
“Elves know of the old magicks, do they not?”
“The Gifts?”
“I have heard that word. Tell me what you know of your… Gifts.”
She hesitated, taking another bite of bread to buy time before she would have to respond. It was clear that whatever she knew was likely wrong.
“It is explained to us that the Sisters, er… four powerful goddesses who were born into our realm, they left behind the Gifts after they ascended from our world.”
The satyr laughed. “It would likely kill you elves to think you didn’t gift everything to the world, I suspect. The old magicks are a part of this world.”
“But I thought the horsefolk could only move the plants and the earth.”
He frowned and looked up at the sky. “It is true. The other magicks are lost to us. It was not always this way. But still,” he looked to Óraithe, “a limitation is something that forces you to test the bounds. You elves and the centaur, you treat the magicks as something to be shoved into place. It is a child’s way.”
“I do not understand.”
A sharp spike of earth, thin and needle fine, rushed up under her chin. Óraithe forced her head back against the wall and moved to the side. The spike shifted and re-formed itself in front her. It fell away and she opened her mouth to speak. Bars shot up from the ground in front of her and above from the wall. They slammed together around her and fell away as quickly as the spike had.
She looked at the satyr, he had not moved a muscle that she could see. To move the earth was an act of brute strength, she knew that much. Or thought she knew. It was how the Gift was taught. It was a novice element.
“How?”
The earth underneath her began to shift and roll and it carried her around in front of the satyr who looked thoughtfully up at the sky. She waited a time but there was no reply forthcoming as the ground settled below her. She looked past him to th
e walls of the building.
“Why not escape if you are able to shift the stone so easily?”
“There is no reason for me to be any place other than this. There was once, but that time has passed and that home has gone.”
Óraithe was a bit disappointed at that. He may have been a means to escape, but clearly the old man had no will for it. It may have been dangerous even if he had helped. Would they travel together? The thought of it made her uneasy. The satyr may have been kept in check by the walls around him but who could say if they left. And certainly she was not near strong enough to manage the trip alone. An idea struck her.
“If the Gifts exist in all things… might I learn to use them?”
He looked down at her and considered her for a moment. “Any creature with a mind is capable of using the magicks if they have the will for it.” He paused there a moment, staring at her. “You are a strange elf. You would learn from a satyr?”
“There is no value in the source of a river. Only in whether the water is pure.”
The satyr laughed, warm but sharp, as so much about him was. “You are young to speak such wise words. Who taught you them?”
“My father,” she said plainly.
“You are fortunate. Few fathers are both wise and good enough to raise a girl to understand the value of knowledge over their own word.”
“You will teach me?”
The satyr looked back to the sky and thought a moment. “The night is too dangerous for a beginner. I will teach you when there is light. You should sleep until then. Let the night’s food become meat on your bones.”
She nodded and went to her bedding. It was clear to her as she pulled the blankets over that she would not be able to sleep even if she had wanted to. No child of the Low District who stayed in Fásachbaile had ever learned to control the Gifts. The books on them were policed and outsiders had never been willing to teach, at least none that Óraithe had heard of. She shut her eyes tight trying to force the hours to pass. The satyr may not have had a will to escape, but she very much did. She spent the night pondering how much she ought to learn and how much time she should spend waiting after she knew enough to leave.
The night moved by above her and the morning drew her out from the blankets and into the brisk air. The chill against her skin went by hardly noticed, swiftly pushed down under a wave of nervous excitement. The satyr looked over to her.
“You ought to have slept.”
“I slept enough in the cells.”
He huffed at her response and stood. “Then we will begin.”
The inhabitants of the yard were beginning to shift and stir even though the world had just begun to brighten. The satyr walked a few yards from her and turned. He pointed to the ground silently. Where his finger indicated, a flat chunk of earth raised in the tight form of a brick and fell away into loose dirt.
“That is your goal. I expect you should be able to form such a small bit of earth by midday.”
“But I do not—”
“Quiet.” The words were not angry, only an instruction. He drew a breath. “The elves teach the magicks as though they were a muscle. The idea is apt enough, but your people seem to forget that muscles move the fingers of a hand as much as they lift and kick and throw. Like any muscle, it must be known to you for you to exercise it. The place I have shown you. Without moving yourself, move the earth with every muscle in your body in turn. Come to me when you have done as I told you.”
The satyr walked to the place he always sat and did. He closed his eyes and said nothing more.
Óraithe wanted to protest. He did not seem the sort for japes or trickery. Was it really so simple? Or was simple just the shape of the words? There was nothing else but to do as she had been instructed.
She widened her stance. It seemed the right way though, in truth, she had no idea why. She stared at the spot and began to flex each muscle in turn, concentrating on the sand and willing it up with her mind as much as she could. Thighs, calves, forearms, shoulders. She made faces that were unfit to be seen in polite company.
An hour passed, and her muscles had begun throb and ache, but the ground had not even tumbled from its small pile by chance. The ache forced her on to other muscles, so much as she could think of them. Toes, fingers, her jaw, everything. She rolled over them again and again until another hour had passed and the sun was on her now. Óraithe would not move from the spot until the ground gave way at least.
More than the muscles, her mind began to ache and burn from the strain of shifting from one thing to the next over and over. There was a numbness growing as she ran through each group of muscles in turn, adding any she thought she might be able to flex as she could. The rotation went by time and again, but nothing. The numbness in her mind smoothed over until there was just a line of nothing running through. She forgot the world around her and stared only at the dirt in front of her. As much as she wanted for it to, it would not mock her or judge. Over and over and over she walked the numb line through her mind. Again and again it was the same.
She felt it just once and her breath caught in her throat. A dip in the numb in her mind. A hollow place she had never felt before. She ran her sequence again and it was there. She could barely feel the space of it. Some muscle she’d never known. The only way to it was the sequence, so again she flexed through each of her muscles. When she came to the hollow, she reached for it in her mind and a pain shot through her. It burned in her brain where the numb had been. The burn flared and she felt as though her mind had been branded. Óraithe dropped to her knees and grabbed her head.
It wasn’t more than a handful of seconds before the pain passed but she was left breathing hard and dripping with sweat. Her eyes shot over to the satyr, but he sat passively, eyes closed. She stood, determined to try again.
The circuit began and when she came to the hollow, she pushed. The burning lit again in her mind and she dropped to her knees, falling on her hands to keep herself from landing face down in the dirt. Was this it? Her eyes shot to the tiny mound of dirt the satyr had left for her. There was a divot pressed into the side. A divot that had not been there before.
Óraithe forced herself up. She would not fall to her knees again. It took too long. She came to the hollow again and pushed against whatever lay in there unwilling to move. Her body shook as the pain shot down to her feet, but she stood. Her eyes had closed, she realized. She had a new goal. She would see the dirt move herself. It was something, a step forward.
The sequence passed and the pain came time after time, but her body had begun to accept it. It was dulling. She was winning. The sun was fully above the edge of the high wall when she opened her eyes through the pain the first time. She just saw it, a few pieces of dirt pushing out of place. It was all she could do to keep from jumping into the air and shouting with joy. Had the Gifts always been so nearby?
She looked down at her hands. They were shaking uncontrollably and she felt the pain of her muscles begin to creep back in. Was that it? The pain kept people from it? The pain and perhaps not knowing where to begin. Pain was not so bad. Not now, anyway. She would never have put herself through it before.
Óraithe looked up at the sun. There were a few hours yet until midday. There was no way she would be able to form the earth as he had by then. Or to force it up out of the ground. That would not stop her from trying. She had been shown something wonderful.
The hours passed almost too quickly and before she knew it, the sun was high overhead, threatening as best as it could to turn the cold day warm. The satyr opened his eyes and stood. She was on the ground, sprawled and sweating.
“Well you certainly wear the color of having worked. What is there to show for it?”
She pulled herself up from the dirt and turned to the small pile she had spent the hours shifting and pressing. Óraithe gritted her teeth and focused hard on the pile. The satyr watched her w
ith a grin. The pain welled up fast and she was beyond exhausted. She could not move the dirt, not as he had, but she would show him her resolve. As the dirt began to shift, a pained grunt escaped Óraithe’s mouth and the satyr wrinkled his brow. For the first time he looked to the dirt. Her grunt turned to a scream and her legs began to shake under her, but the dirt moved. Slowly, it compacted itself into a tiny cube just at the top of the mound. The satyr’s eyes widened and he crouched to look.
It was her limit. Óraithe fell again to her knees and slumped backward. The cube fell away, leaving a small mound of packed earth behind. The old satyr ran his hands through the dirt, his mouth open but speechless.
“You are something very curious, elf child.”
She barely heard the words, only looked up at the blue of the sky. She was tired, but she would not sleep. A wonderful door had been opened and she wished to see everything on the other side.
R
Rianaire
Though they had moved south and were not so high in the mountains, the weather had not decided to warm at all. The road south from the Bastion City was so often full of carts that Rianaire had been foolish enough to look forward to the ride. There were so many unexpected treats and interesting meetings along the road in the other seasons, but Bais was different. She had known it well enough, though her trips out into the province were few, but somehow it had slipped her mind in the joy of escaping the unending mountain of papers and meetings that awaited her.
As it was, the ride was long, somewhat bumpy, and unceremoniously quiet. There was no tension in the air, just the cool quiet of her stoic bedmates. It had become the case, over the past season, that Síocháin kept to herself and let Inney hold the bulk of the conversation. Even though it was not so odd for Síocháin to keep to herself, she generally did not lack for words in private. Inney had noticed it quickly enough and the two of them seemed now to be in a sort of competition whose goal, it seemed to Rianaire, was aimed at finding out who could bore her to death most effectively. It had occurred to her for a moment that there might be better conversation with the carriage driver or his young assistant, but their faces were so plain she thought that conversation might be worse than the silence. He was one among the hundreds who attended the Bastion whose names she had never bothered to learn and she genuinely had no interest now. There was something utterly boring to her about the sort of people who would make lives of tending to others. She chuckled to herself, having thought it and realized that she tended to people in a way.
One's Own Shadow (The Siúil Book 2) Page 8
