One's Own Shadow (The Siúil Book 2)

by Randall P. Fitzgerald

  The crossroads had been clearly visible when they’d crested a hill just north of the city. They exited the wood at the bottom of the hill and the small town was pulling ever closer. There was not much to it, maybe two dozen houses all told, a small tavern, and the various accompanying shops to serve the outlying farmlands. That the city was so small was something of a curiosity, as the crossroads fell a decent distance between Daingean and Casúr to the west and east, and was a half-day’s ride south of the Bastion in good weather. The well-kept road was likely at least partially to blame as it made for brisk travel.

  “Well, I’ve had nearly as much silence as I imagine I can stand for a lifetime. Inney, inform the driver we shall stop to water the horses at the crossroads.”

  Inney nodded and pulled the chain to sound the carriage bell twice and then returned to her pose, one that plainly imitated Síocháin’s but neither said anything about it. Perhaps they’d end up killing one another and she’d be forced to find new companions. That would be troublesome. As much as she liked to venture out into the world, there were very few elves alive that held her interest for very long. Though, certainly, that Drow who had done in Spárálaí seemed to have an interesting disposition.

  The carriage pulled to a comfortable stop just outside of an aged looking stablehouse. Rianaire looked out the window at the town proper and found that most of the houses were of the same look. Old, wooden, and not updated for some years. There was a charm to it that Rianaire found curious. The doors of the carriage opened and she made her way down into the cold, hard dirt of the street side.

  Music and singing seemed to radiate out from the tavern just down the street and so, without a word to anyone, Rianaire started off in that direction. Well before she had reached the tavern, Inney had rejoined Rianaire’s side. The small half-elf looked over her shoulder to see where Síocháin was and finding her nowhere near, decided to speak up.

  “Why have we stopped here?”

  “Because the two of you are insufferable children, Fires take you, and if I am to handle all of the talking myself, I should at least like to be drunk while I do it. Tell the guards to wait here. I don’t expect I’ll be long.”

  As they made the brown door of the tavern Síocháin caught up to them. Rianaire pulled the door open and a great gust of warm, moist air rolled out into her face. There was singing and shouting and every sound that a good tavern ought to have. The swapping of cold air for warm and the sudden light brought eyes onto them as they walked inside. Raucous shouts and jaunty singing turned to overloud whispers and blatant stares. The clamor rose as she found an empty table and took a seat. The few whispers she could make out wondered the obvious questions. She was a Treorai and it made no sense that she would be seen in a poorly seen to tavern in a small crossroads town. Perceptions of those in places of power would always be what they were, she supposed, no matter what stories of her might have spread.

  A doughy tavern girl made her way to the table dressed in a linen chemise over a plain brown skirt. In addition to the clothes, she wore a fair few pounds more than suited her frame, but her skin was fair as fresh milk with bright red hair and a slim, childish face.

  “Be… beggin’ yer pardon, miss… madam Treorai. It’s me… my… my great honor to welcome ye to our ‘umble tavern.”

  Rianaire was taken immediately with the poor girl’s awkward attempt at decorum. She was young and fidgeted terribly, practically worth the annoying ride just for the sight of her.

  “I am duly welcomed.” Rianaire reached out a hand and ran her fingers down the girl’s arm. She could feel the girl stiffen at the touch. “Sisters, your skin is beautiful. And soft.”

  The girl flushed bright red. “I… thank ye, madam Treorai. Is there—”

  “I insist you call me Rianaire.” She gripped the girl’s wrist and pulled her close. “This pair at the table with me have caused me no end of bother. I love them dearly, you see, but I fear they may not love one another.”

  Neither Síocháin nor Inney showed any expression at the jab. Rianaire put her arm around the girl’s waist and slid a hand down over her ample bottom. A small chirp escaped along with the startled hop.

  “It would please me unto the ends of this world if you would bring me some drink to put the petty quarrels of my loved ones out of mind. Do you have anything of the sort?”

  “We got corn liquor, strong. And a decent mead. Me father makes it.”

  “A family specialty! Wonderful. Bring a round for the table. Perhaps the problem is they’ve been too dry of late.”

  “Yes’m. As you like.”

  The girl scuttled off to the back. The interest in her seemed to have died at least in part. Rianaire looked across to Síocháin and Inney. In her mind, it was enough to have made clear to them that she was aware of their petty bickering. She was unsure if it was some sort of jealousy or who might even be the jealous one. Certainly they had each done what they could to avoid the other’s company though their distaste for a shared proximity had not been so blatant until the carriage ride.

  Before she had much time to work the idea over, the tavern girl returned with a trio of mugs and tiny bowls. She sat them down on the table and Rianaire pawed at her arm again.

  “A fine looking mead and… the liquor is in the bowls?”

  “Yes’m. We got no glasses, begging your pardons.”

  The girl glanced around the table with an apologetic look across her face.

  “There is no need to apologize. And they are unlikely to sweeten their sour faces even for as fine a creature as you.” Rianaire stood and gently moved her hand down the girl’s cheek to her neck. “Shall we make them jealous? I am sure we would both enjoy it.”

  The girl looked Rianaire in the eye, her mouth fell open, and the bright red color flushed her pale skin again.

  “I… I…”

  Before she could collect her words, the girl was yanked away, pulled up by the arm. The silence in the tavern was sudden and oppressive.

  “Lit’l muleborn whore. Treorai comes an’ says some pretty words, you get all flustered?”

  “M’sorry, Brúid. I weren’t thinkin’. I swear, I jus’—”

  “You will remove your hand from her skin or I will have that hand removed from your body.” Rianaire smiled politely at the man.

  He stared at her for a moment, half seeming to realize what it was he was doing. He dropped the girl’s arm and stood to face Rianaire. Inney stood at the table but did not move beyond that. The thick-necked elf didn’t notice the move. Rianaire figured words might be best if this was to end without a dead man in a local tavern.

  “There is no sense in punishing the girl when your trouble seemed to be with me. What is it that I have done to wrong you?”

  “You brung them things here.”

  “Things?”

  “The fuckin’ horsefolk! No sense playin’ dumb at it. Tell is you let ‘em into the Bastion even.”

  The eyes were on her again, but inquisitive this time. Stories were dangerous things, she knew well enough. A legend that brought fear or respect was also like to bring high expectations. And elves were stubborn at giving away the first story they’d heard.

  “What sense would there be in bringing horsefolk to Spéirbaile? Or do you mean to suggest I wish to fill my province with creatures who wish me dead?”

  He stared at her for a moment, red-faced and gawping. “Then what about all them stories you took horsefolk into the Bastion?”

  Rianaire wanted to sigh, but the staring faces could not be ignored or taken lightly.

  “There was one. A satyr named Gadaí. She led a group of mercenaries in my name to retake the city. She is through with her own people well enough, I believe that. And she knows little enough that if she is not done, then she is only one more body among the horde.”

  The elf righted himself and looked at her. “But
you trust ‘em?”

  “One of them.”

  “Might as well be all of ‘em, then.”

  There was some muttering at that. It was to be expected. She doubted that even the educated sorts in the Inner Crescent would understand her thinking but it was worth trying to explain at least.

  “Why should I not? If I am wronged by a person from Daingean, should I trust no one from Daingean? Or were the entire city to somehow mean me ill, would that mean no one there was different?”

  There were more murmurs around the room as the logic of it sunk in with the belligerent elf before her. She could see the confusion turning to indignation at curiously low speed on his face. He moved to speak and she knew there would be no end to it at this rate.

  “I—”

  “I am sick of this talk,” she interrupted, pointing at the man. “You! We’ll drink until one of us falls from the chair and the loser will be pissed on.”

  “Pissed… on?” The face he put on was more than Rianaire could have hoped for. A shocked look, confused and full of fear. He hardly got the words out before there were shouts from the gathered customers.

  “Drink!” Rianaire shouted over the growing cheers. “And drinks for everyone here!”

  She pulled a chair away from the table she’d been sat at with Síocháin and Inney and placed it in a clearing at the center of the tavern floor. Rianaire sat down and folded her arms in challenge to the large man.

  He came toward her, still wondering if there was some trick. Thinking he’d found one he said, “But I been drinking.”

  “And you’re twice her weight, thick-headed arse!” The reply was quick and the mocking only grew until he took a seat.

  The excitement in the tavern was infectious and Rianaire found herself caught up in the momentum of the ruckus she’d caused. She told herself that she wasn’t entirely to blame for this and that there was not much other choice, but it was hardly true.

  It wasn’t a minute before the tavern girl she’d been flirting with came to them with a tray of mugs. Rianaire hastily grabbed a mug and calls for her to chug the whole of it shot out from here and there. She tilted the mug back and the warm mead poured into her throat. It was thick and deeply spiced, a Bais drink if ever she’d had one. She had not quite been ready for the weight of the flavor but it would not do to embarrass herself now. She upended her cup and forced the drink down into her empty stomach. She slammed the emptied container onto the ground, smashing it in a grand gesture. The noise was almost too much but she couldn’t help but revel in it.

  The troublesome man finished his mug after she had smashed hers. There were boos from all sides. He was quick approaching the limit of his patience for this.

  “Bring the next round!” He roared the words, wiping his mouth when he’d finished them.

  The mugs came quickly and they drank them in large gulps. She had not eaten since the morning and it was true enough that he was twice her weight. Still, she held herself with dignity, face awash with flushed confidence. Six large mugs had come and gone and they both began to slow. She could feel the drink doing its work deep in her mind and her stomach was full in a way it had not been in as long as she could remember.

  She smiled across at Síocháin who remained at the table. Neither of them looked interested in the contest. She laughed aloud and pointed to them.

  “Those two love me.”

  The crowd cheered.

  “And I love them. So, for sake of their ride with me, I shall not be pissed upon today.”

  An uproar of laughter washed over the room. Rianaire looked to her competition. He was swaying.

  “More!” she shouted.

  The tavern girl obliged. She lifted the mug and quaffed it in two large gulps. She let the mug fall to the floor as she gasped for air. The thick-neck across from her was working the viscous liquid down. He began to lean before the mug was emptied. She watched, wordlessly. The crowd did not see it, but she could. A smile moved across her face.

  He leaned too far and finally the bar saw it as well. The room quieted just as the sound of the chair legs shifting on the hard floor squeaked out into the room. There was a loud thud and a clatter as the man met the floor ahead of the chair. A silent second hung in the air. Horror washed over the red face.

  “No! It… the chair!”

  He tried to stand, but four large men moved to hold him still. Cheers and chanting came quick and loud as all eyes turned from the man, now pinned to the floor, to Rianaire. She stood, smiling. She took a step forward and the smile turned to an insane, drunken laugh. She moved to him.

  “I am quite full. I will not apologize for it.”

  She pulled her smallclothes down under her dress and pulled a single leg out of them. The room joined her maniacal laughing as she threw a leg over the man and hiked the skirt of her dress.

  “No! No! Fire’s take the lot—”

  His curse turned to sputtering coughing as the hot stream of piss found his mouth. Shouted cheers and the clapping of mugs on tables filled her ears as she felt the satisfaction of a swiftly emptying bladder. She could hear the man below groan and warm splatter splashed up onto her leg. He huffed and coughed trying to push the piss away from his nostrils as best he could.

  When she had finished soaking the man thoroughly, she pulled her leg back over and threw her hands into the air.

  “A towel!”

  The room laughed and cheered once again. The tavern girl brought a towel as she was bid. Rianaire wiped herself clean and tossed the cloth to the man on the floor who still lay in the pool of yellow water.

  “I do apologize, but I have business in Daingean. My Binse is in need of good people and I mean to find them that I might keep you all safe.”

  She stumbled for the door and nearly lost her feet. Inney caught her. The small girl was always at her side and Rianaire found herself feeling wistful in her drunkenness. She kissed Inney and was quickly reminded that a room full of drunkards was watching.

  “Let us go,” she said looking up at Síocháin. “I feel I will enjoy the company of both of you a bit more in this state. And I am hungry. Have the guards find us something delicious.”

  U

  Aile

  Ilkea had insisted that they leave the village in something of a hurry and Aile had no good cause to argue. The satyr may have been well enough in awe of her killing one of their own for the time being but it was not a feeling that was like to last. When it faded that feeling was apt to shift somewhere more malicious and it seemed a safe assumption that every satyr in the camp was better at steering a chariot than she was.

  Fresh horses were waiting, her horse from the previous day nowhere to be seen. These horses were sturdier looking than the pair they’d arrived on and were more heavily laden. She could see the fittings for a third tent attached to Ilkea’s steed. It also trailed a larger chariot. Aile checked her own horse over quickly and readied to leave. With a few words in the satyr tongue, Ilkea led out and Aile quickly fell in behind.

  They were not far out of the camp when Aile leaned forward and grabbed a bag that looked like it might hold provisions. She pulled it back into the chariot and began to rifle through it. She frowned. The leather satchel was full of nothing but centaur ale. She had learned of the awful taste of the stuff only a few days ago, but already she was sick of it in ways she had never been sick of a drink before. Skunky and stale and with all the salty bitterness of old piss, it was truly a disgusting drink that could not have been brewed with any sort of care.

  “Satyr,” Aile called out.

  Ilkea slowed and came up beside her as they bounced along over the only slightly uneven terrain.

  “I’d sooner die of thirst than choke down this swill again. We’ll make for the elven city south of here.”

  Ilkea looked at her with wide, dark eyes. “To… to an elven city?”

&n
bsp; “Yes.”

  Curiously the satyr did not offer any sort of complaint or resistance, but she did not move herself back toward the front of Aile’s wagon, choosing to stay at her side. She was not sure if the satyr was concerned she meant to run or some other thing but she did not care enough to ask.

  A pair of hours passed in relative silence. With the cushioned chariot, it was very nearly a comfortable trip. Loathe as she was to break the silence, Aile felt there was more to Ilkea’s lineage and their being together than had been said aloud.

  “You are a Regent’s daughter?”

  Ilkea looked over slowly, her face confused, eyes studying Aile. The question was far enough out of character that it made itself obvious, Aile knew. Either the girl would speak of it or she wouldn’t. There was no sure value in the information as it was.

  “I am. Only as much as the idea still is.”

  The idea? Of Regents? Of daughters?

  “How do you mean?”

  “The centaur only care for subjugation. But the Halushek are strong. We do not forget the order of things. Ours were the last to fall and so the others respect us. They listen. It has been a long history but we have kept our own stories.”

  Aile did not know nearly enough of the history between the centaur and the satyr but she knew well enough that the satyr were subservient. That would make this sort of talk very nearly revolutionary in tone. And she was meant to help free an old satyr from an elf prison somewhere in the middle of the desert. It was too foreign a world to know if she was right, but she doubted the next weeks would lack for interest. Payment seemed that it would be seen to as well. The newly forged stuff was properly mixed and she would find out soon enough if it would serve for trade.