One's Own Shadow (The Siúil Book 2)

by Randall P. Fitzgerald

  The horses were not the ones they had left Abhainnbaile with. Likely a good thing, as they would have tired short of Íobair, the small town north of Fásachbaile which was now their destination. Another thought Socair wished she could put down. The list of her crimes against a foreign province were growing, and they would be in that province for some time yet. Part of her assumed that the Treorai she had met would care more about the taken horses than Nath.

  Socair looked at Nath regularly, reminding herself that the choices were necessary or at least justifiable. If she would need to pay for them in some way, she would. There was information on the state of Fásachbaile in that girl and it would be crucial in understanding what they could expect from the desert elves as allies.

  A knock came at the wall behind Socair’s head. Rionn. He had driven through the night, asking to be left alone. Socair opened the door to the moving carriage and climbed out to join Rionn at the front. He said nothing, only nodded forward. A guard post sat at the edge of a small city. Íobair. It was understated and clean for a city that had grown from a plains outpost, though certainly it was easily defended. There was nothing within a few miles on either side of the place, unless brown grass was to be counted as a terrain feature.

  “Are they Briste’s men?”

  Rionn replied. “Couldn’t say. Not enough light to make out colors. Might be.”

  “Then I will ride with you until we know.”

  Socair had returned to her brigandine and felt at least a bit more at ease. The racing of her heart was more comfortable than the sort she always felt in large, stone rooms full of paper and blustery elves with soft stomachs. She knew well enough that a fight would make resting in Íobair an impossibility, but part of her still hoped for one. She brought her hand to the hilt of her sword casually as they closed on the guards. They did not wear the Treorai’s colors. Nor did they wear any sigils she recognized as belonging to the province.

  There were four guarding the entrance and only a small wooden gate to keep others out. No fence nor wall encircled the town. Was it a toll? Rionn seemed unsure of how to react as well. Two guards moved to the center of the road as they pulled to the gate and stood ready, though their hands did not move for a weapon. A plump, mustached elf came to Socair’s side of the carriage as the horses were pulled to a stop. He coughed into his hand and looked up at her, clearing his throat.

  “Travelers? Odd time to be coming into Íobair.”

  “I am Socair, Binseman to Deifir of Abhainnbaile.”

  “Hoho! A high title. Expect you’ve got coin to spend. You making north then? Stopping for supplies?”

  “We are.”

  “Music to the ears.” He turned to the guards at the front. “Open ‘er up.” As they saw to the gate, he turned again to Socair. “We got two inns. One’s more a tavern with cots. Expect you’ll find more comfort at The Dry Duck, not far from the gate here. They’ve a few rooms kept nice for merchant types. Not much for shops, though. Not for folk headed north. Innkeep might be able to see to your needs there. Point you the right way, I mean.”

  “You have my thanks.”

  “Hoh! No need, milady. Is a pleasure to have you.”

  The elf wiggled his mustache and smiled before returning to the small watch hut on her side of the road. They were waved through by one of the guards who had seen to the gate. She did not know whose men they were, but if they meant her party no trouble, she would not be one to question it.

  The city was as modern as the high streets of Abhainnbaile. Well-kept, freshly painted. There were high watch towers peeking up from the edges of the city, which were equally well-built of deep grey stone that could not have come from a place nearby. The streets were largely empty, save a few bodies walking quietly toward the center of town. Socair could see it in the dim light of the morning, not too far off. A trade center, to be sure, with permanent stalls in place. Rionn pulled the carriage aside at the front of The Dry Duck.

  Rionn sighed. “See to a room for me if you could. I’ll see to the carriage and horses. I expect you and Práta will have no end of talk with the serving girl. I prefer to sleep.”

  Socair nodded and left the front of the carriage. She woke Práta and Nath, who had slept much of the way. With their luggage gathered, Socair saw them inside.

  The opening of the door clearly woke the innkeep, a middle-aged woman with dark hair and light olive skin. She snorted and slapped her feet to the floor, but her voice was still groggy and her eyes half-shut. Socair walked to the desk with Práta behind. Nath stayed farther back, out of arm’s reach of Práta.

  “Welcome… welcome to the, eh… The Dry Duck! Welcome!” She rubbed at her eyes and stood. “Awful early to see travelers. Still, you’re welcome so long as your coin is real.”

  “It’s real. We need two rooms. On the larger side for at least one of them.”

  “Hm.” The woman turned and grabbed a pair of keys from the wall. “One’s down the hall, other’s up stairs.”

  “Which is the larger?”

  “The one down the hall.”

  “Then I’ll have the key for that one. Our fourth is attending to the horses. He’ll be along. Please give the key to him.”

  Socair placed two gold pieces on the counter. “We will only be here the night. Keep whatever extra. And please do bring any meals to the rooms.”

  The woman stared at the gold a moment before putting a key down beside it and then sliding the coins off into her hand. “As you like.”

  Socair handed the key to Práta and turned back to the woman as Práta left with Nath. “We need some provisions. We’re heading north into Spéirbaile.”

  “Hm, nasty business up that way.”

  “Nasty?”

  “Mm. Horsefolk. Small bands, if talk’s to be believed. Attacking carts and carriages alike. Never quite know when or where. What’s it you’re after? Food?”

  “Warm clothing.”

  “There’s a stall in the square. Old man. Tailor. He buys scraps off the traders and puts ‘em together. You might get lucky at one of the regular clothing stalls. Doubtful though.”

  “My thanks.” Socair left the woman at the desk.

  Horsefolk in the north. And Vód being taken. Socair thought of Abhainnbaile and how little sense her task seemed to make in the face of it. The information was of use, but surely field scouts and spies and friendly reports had already relayed this information to Deifir. Surely the hippocamps were planning something on a large scale. She must have been all over Fásachbaile as well. Briste had been less than useless when it came to information.

  Socair arrived at the room to find Nath standing dutifully beside the bed as Práta went around checking the state of things.

  “Nath, you needn’t stand. Rest. You’re no prisoner. You asked to be with us.”

  “I…” The girl started but paused and sat on the bed. “It is hard. And I am grateful, but…” She started to cry.

  “Práta, I will stay with her. There is a tailor in the square who should have ample coverings for the north. And there are clothes stalls as well. Buy her as much as you feel she will need.”

  “Right.” Práta walked past Socair and grabbed her hand, giving it a squeeze. “I will return soon.”

  Socair nodded and moved to the end of the bed. She looked around the room. It was simple. Nothing compared to the needless pageantry of the rooms in the Bastions she’d seen. It made her breathe a bit easier.

  “What do you think of this place?”

  Nath looked up at her, and then around at the room.

  “I don’t…”

  “I spent my life in rough places. Hard beds, if there were any to be had. Even this room makes me feel strange.”

  “I don’t belong here,” Nath said, wiping her eyes and nose. “I never dreamed you would take me. You’ll be killed I’m sure. It’s what she does.” />
  “Do you want I should take you back?”

  The girl’s eyes widened in horror.

  “As I thought. Then where is it you belong?”

  Nath lowered her eyes and said nothing.

  “Well, you are welcome to stay with us so long as you like. I fear I could do no more than take you and offer you a place with me. Deifir may be able to help beyond that.”

  Socair could see Nath’s jaw clench. The girl built her resolve and spoke.

  “People… they should know what Briste is. What she’s done.”

  It was all Socair could do to place a hand on the girl’s and sit next to her.

  “What has she done, Nath?”

  Nath pulled a deep breath and sat quiet a moment.

  “There are no words for the worst of it. Rape and beatings were the way of it for so long as I can remember. We heard stories of tortures. Whispers about a crooked faced man who we all saw around the castle, but none of us knew by name. But this past season…” Nath stopped there, tears returning. “She killed so many. Starved us. Sent the soldiers after us. The boys got the same. Something broke in her. After that girl…”

  Socair perked. “Girl?”

  Nath nodded. “A Low District girl we were forbidden to speak of. Nobles were forbidden to speak of it, even. She meant to rise up against Briste. But Briste had her killed. Tortured and worse before, I’m sure of it. No one spoke her name, but the stories were told. That she destroyed a private store of the Treorai’s by herself. And that she killed a half-dozen guards and spit in Briste’s face.”

  The silence in the city made an amount of sense now. Socair turned the situation over in her mind but there was nothing that could be done. Diplomacy was for trade disputes and high-minded political things, not the welfare of another province’s people. At best an awkward tool and at worst a useless one. Deifir could do little, Socair reasoned. Sanctions? A refusal to trade? What would it gain the people if the north still sent goods? And how would the people see it? As an attack on their ability to live. Abhainnbaile would become the enemy Briste used to free herself of blame. Sometimes the best action for a dying tree was to let it rot and plant something new in its place. There was no rushing such things.

  Socair sat for a moment in the silence of the room. She looked at Nath, who still fell to tears for brief moments before choking them back.

  Socair stood. “Well. It would be a terrible waste of a kidnapping for me to keep you in this room.”

  She moved to Práta’s things and found a simple dress that Práta sometimes wore to sleep. Socair handed it to Nath.

  “Wear this. We’re going out.”

  Nath looked at the dress and up to Socair and back down. She shook her head.

  “I… I cannot.”

  Socair put a hand on Nath’s head. The girl winced.

  “You are allowed to apologize and to cry and to think that you are allowed nothing. But what will have been the point, then, of asking that first thing? Did you summon the courage to escape your life only to live it the same in a different place?”

  Nath left Socair’s hand on her head.

  “You were a soldier?”

  “I will always be. Why?”

  “You do not seem like one.”

  Socair chuckled. “Words I doubt I will ever hear again. Now, change. There are things you should see. And taste. And hear.”

  Nath stood and Socair moved to a seat. The girl undressed slowly and awkwardly. She was nervous that Socair would see her. Socair could guess as much. Nath was covered with scars. Most of them burns. A chunk was gone from her thigh. It looked as though a dog had been at it. She was thinner than Socair had expected. Padding in the uniforms to keep them from seeming starved. It was hardly a surprise that Briste cared so much for appearances. When Nath had slipped the dress over her head, Socair grabbed a coat and wrapped her in it. The clothes were all two sizes too big, but they would do for now.

  When they stepped out of the door into the cool light of the morning sun, Nath grabbed tight to Socair’s arm. She was trembling. Socair smiled down at her.

  “It’s alright now. Hard as your mind will fight it, it’s the truth.”

  Socair could smell food from the square ahead of them and so she walked toward it, slowly to not rush Nath. The first stall they happened across was selling meat on sticks. Lamb. It smelled heavily of spices. Socair asked for four and they were placed in wax paper and handed over. She paid him with a silver and took Nath to a nearby bench.

  “Have you had this before? I must admit, I know very little about Fásachbaile food.”

  Nath shook her head. “I was raised in the Bastion. We were allowed only scraps. Peelings, rinds of fat, and the like.”

  Socair held a stick out to her. “Then we shall experience it together.”

  Nath took the meat and stared at it cautiously.

  “Nothing will happen if you eat it. Except you will eventually become full.”

  Socair took a bite of one of her own pieces of lamb and chewed it a moment before letting out an exasperated breath.

  “Haah. So much spice. Is everything in this province covered in it? The meat is good, at least.”

  Socair nudged her and Nath leaned close to the meat, her mouth moving to hold back its watering. She took a bite and closed her eyes as she chewed. Tears began to roll down Nath’s face.

  “Delicious.”

  v

  Óraithe

  The fire had caused a ruckus in the yard. Sounds of distant arguments and curious murmurs flowed in from every direction. Óraithe did what she could to ignore them by tapping away at the bone in her leg with a light cylinder of rock she’d formed and broken off. The old satyr had laughed at her when she began the practice a week before, calling it foolishness. He’d asked her why, at least.

  Cosain had explained it to her years ago, though she forgot the reasons. “The body adapts,” he was fond of saying. She’d tried her best to explain to the satyr but she could not remember it well enough.

  “Fighters have denser bones than desk clerks,” she’d said.

  “Only if they are born to it,” came the reply.

  Nevertheless, she trusted Cosain on matters of the body more than a hippocamp, no matter how versed he might be in Fásach’s Gift. And so she tapped at her bones. Arms, legs, shoulders, collarbone. Everything she could manage to strike lightly. An hour at the beginning of the day and again whenever she grew bored. The feel and rhythm took her mind from the yard and let her escape into the task.

  Wounds were annoying but at the very least, they came from learning. The old satyr would not spar with her and there was not much else for ways to learn to defend herself. She wondered at why but could not settle on a reason. He may have been scared of her, but it seemed unlikely. Maybe he wanted to keep from needing to be scared of her. Or perhaps he had simply lost interest in a plaything that had outlived its novelty. She would tell herself the reasons did not matter and force the thoughts from her brain only to have them circle around again whenever she had spare moments.

  Still, a real fight was something of great value and the lack of it made Óraithe wary. Causing trouble with the others in the yard would likely bring repercussions and even if they did not, she had no way of knowing what sort of fight she would find if she went spoiling. There was a dangerous edge on either side of the problem. Without fighting she would be useless, find herself flailing at the best of times. If she picked the wrong fight too soon, she would be dead. Then there were the guards. She had no way of knowing how many there were, but faces rotated regularly. She felt there was something odd about their constant changing, but the keep was large and she knew precious little about the place. She knew, at least, that making assumptions was unwise.

  The satyr had not stirred from his place when the fire began. He’d looked at the smoke, sniffed at the
air, then sat and closed his eyes. He had not moved since except to smell the air from time to time and so Óraithe had taken her cue from him. If there was nothing to be done, he would do nothing, she figured. At the very least, there was no threat she could see or hear aside from the fire and the yard was large enough that keeping away from it would not prove a concern if it spread.

  There was increased movement at the far side of the yard. She did her best to ignore it until the satyr beside her stood suddenly. A second later she heard the crunch of dirt behind her. Not a hoof, but a boot, and from the wrong side at that. Óraithe spun and stood holding the rock out in front of her.

  “You…” She barely whispered the words. It was the Drow from what seemed like a lifetime ago. It took Óraithe a moment to realize she was not alone. A satyr stood beside the Drow. Young, it seemed, and female. The Drow looked at her for half a second before looking to the old satyr. She did not remember her.

  Óraithe felt a pain inside. Something like jealousy or bitterness. She almost laughed at herself. It was pathetic, she knew, wanting to be remembered for some childish self-indulgence.

  “This the one?” The Drow lazily waved her hand at the old satyr.

  The young female satyr ignored the question and immediately went to one knee. She spoke a language that Óraithe did not know. The old satyr replied in kind, though his way seemed terse compared to the female. He pulled her up. She wriggled free of him and bowed again immediately.

  “They have come for you?” Óraithe tried to hide the concern in her voice.

  The old satyr turned to her, his voice grating as ever. “They have. This young thing has plans for me, she thinks.”

  The Drow had wandered to their camp and kicked at some of Óraithe’s bedding. She was covered in blood, though it was hard to see.

  “This talk is needless and the locals are becoming curious.”