v
Óraithe
A week had passed and the sun no longer seemed to give any warmth except for a few hours in the mid-morning. It was bright in her eyes then and she lacked for enough clothes to block it. With the nights growing frigid, she could not afford to rip any cloth away to cover her eyes.
Óraithe could feel that her face had become dry and blistered from the constant wind. The urge to touch her lips and cheeks was nigh unbearable, but she resisted. What little to drink she had managed to steal away had run dry the day before, and now a fifth day of restless walking lay ahead of her. The food still held, at least for now. It was hard to imagine what good it might do her, though, the things that she had taken being either dried or cured. Without water she would have only a few more passings of the sun before she fell to thirst. The idea had struck her to try her hand at bringing water up from the sand using the Gift, but the risk was too great, at least as she felt now. Later, she may lack the strength for it, she knew, but the balance in her mind leaned toward waiting so long as she could. At the very least, sweat seemed not to be a concern in the cool air.
It was not the water that concerned her, however. She had read stories in Cosain’s books of elves losing themselves to madness in the White Waste and she understood why now. There were so few hours of the day where she could even be sure the horizon existed that she found herself falling into the sand to assure herself it was still there. A haze came in with the sun and melted the white sand into the blue sky. When night fell, black met at the edge of the world and what little light the Eyes sent down in their late phases served to make it seem she was walking in a sea of stars. The second night it had been a thing of beauty, but the third and fourth, her lack of sleep made the sands seem to shift and her balance went if she did not focus. The focus had been more tiring than the walking. She was becoming used to the rhythm though and had learned to focus on the direction of the sun or her own shadow or a single star.
The sun had just passed over her head when she felt the urge to make water come over her. She squatted and pulled her braies down. Óraithe cupped her hands together and pissed into them, stopping the stream of liquid as best she could when they filled and drinking what she could. She gagged, coughing some out of her hands and onto the sand. Righting herself, she drank the rest and returned her hands to fill them again. When she was done, she wiped what wet remained on her hands across her face. It burned a moment but not so much as the wind itself. She had taken to the ritual the day before, cursing herself for having wasted precious drink for so long prior. It was hard to chide herself. She had known thirst but never been so far from a drink she could steal or trick into making her own. The desert offered up nothing, save sand and sky.
Her mind had begun playing tricks on the third day. The waves rising from the sand taking shapes strange and familiar both. First trees, then walls and buildings. At times, creatures seemed to swim across the distance. She was not fool enough to believe the pictures the desert showed her. She had read enough to know them for what they were. Lies told by sun on sand meant to fetch the lost from what remained of their path and drag them off into a hungry abyss. Óraithe knew well her enemies in this place. The sun and the dry and her mind and nothing else. Whenever she saw the shapes, she would look down at her shadow and count her steps, to a thousand and back down to nothing, before she allowed herself to look at the world again. Her mind fought her when she would count. It would scream at her to look away, to think of something other than numbers. She could not allow it. The numbers were her will over herself. An exercise for a mind which wished to grow weak and abandon her body to nature.
A day and a night passed, Óraithe again neither slept nor stopped her walk. She had slowed and her piss had become dense and dark and there was half as much. She forced it down as best she could, knowing that soon the liquid was like to do more harm than good. The light passed again and night bit at her. Tomorrow would be her seventh day. Nearly two weeks.
She closed her eyes for only a moment, she knew it could not have been long, but in that moment she heard a soft humming. Lyrical and patient and calm. She opened her eyes and the sound went and regret filled her mind. Óraithe shook the feeling loose and forced herself to count. There was no shadow to watch, so she stared up at the Eyes. They had waned almost to new and would not be in the sky soon, at least for a night. It would be dangerous for her to move without them.
The numbers had counted themselves away and almost immediately the humming returned. Óraithe kept her eyes pointed upward, almost scared of what she might see if she bothered to look. The sound began to dance around her ears, from one side to the next. She started to count again, gritting her teeth. She had barely made it to ten when she felt a warmth against her ear.
“Óraithe.”
She spun for the first time since she had left the prison and looked behind. There was nothing, no one. Óraithe pulled a breath and held it. She slapped herself hard across the face. The burn was deep and lasting, at least enough to remind her to walk. She must never stop.
“Why would you do that?”
The voice was coarse and familiar.
“I have no choice.” She had answered it, the thing in her mind pretending to be Scaa. She kept her eyes forward trying to ignore it.
“Won’t you look at me?”
“No.” She bit her lip, cursing herself for answering again.
“Come now, look.” A wavering image stepped happily around in front of her, walking backward. It was Scaa. “Isn’t that better?”
It was. She had lost her will to fight it now. But she would walk, she resolved. The image of Scaa kept at her side and by morning she seemed as solid as the grit at her feet.
“The leather is worn. Your feet will not last long in this sand.”
The ghost had the right of it. Her makeshift foot coverings were simply not enough against the rough sand that was the whole of her unending march.
“How long will you walk? You must rest at some point.”
The soreness in her legs flared at the apparition’s words. She ignored the pain and pressed on.
“I will walk until my body fails me as my mind has.” She laughed. “Do you intend to stop me?”
“Only if you wish me to.”
The voice that came out of the vision was hollow in some way Óraithe could not quite place but the sound of it never failed to tear at her heart. She had forgotten Scaa for so long, lost in her own world and making excuses. As she walked she began to wonder.
“Are you a ghost?”
“A silly question.”
And no answer to it, she thought. Could Scaa have died? It may have been a sort of salvation if she had, though Óraithe could not bring herself to wish for it. And Scaa may have betrayed her as Teas did. There would have been little use in it, but Óraithe still wondered if she could forgive the act in Scaa. Teas, she knew, would suffer before her death if she could be found.
Her stomach growled for the latter half of the day but had given up its protest as night fell. It was becoming a daily occurrence, one that would not last much longer at her present rate of deterioration. She stumbled now, often and badly. Her steps had become feeble and slow, though she forced them to continue. It was midday at the end of her second week when she first fell to her knees.
“You should be dead, you know?” The vision of Scaa sat in front of her with her legs crossed. She was smiling wide. “You can die if you like.”
Óraithe’s breath was ragged. She ignored the ghost but did not move from the spot. The cool grit against her knees felt almost welcome and the burn that had lived in her legs for so long seemed to fall away if only the slightest bit. Dry breath dragged itself across her dry tongue and her caked teeth.
“Perhaps you should.” The vision leaned closer. “Should die, I mean.”
Óraithe swore she could smell breath on the wind, swe
et as summer berries. It leaned away again and looked up to the sky.
“It could be your apology to them all. The people you’ve killed or ruined.”
Óraithe clenched her jaw.
“Did you hope to forget them? Cosain? The old woman? The shopkeeper? Teas? For what? Your childish games?”
“No!” Óraithe screamed at what she knew was not there.
“What did you accomplish at such a cost? Stole a few items from a shopgirl and burned a store of goods which no more belong to Briste than to the people she’d done harm.”
“No!” Louder now, as though it would help shut the voice out. “No, no, no!”
“Why not die and give back to them what they are owed? The life of a pathetic, petty child who wished—”
Óraithe screamed, her voice cracking. The sound echoed away and blood trickled from her broken lips, stretched past what the dry skin would allow. She breathed deep and angry for half a minute. The vision had disappeared but she could see it starting to fade back into view. She spoke to it.
“You are not wrong. Of course not, you are me. You must be me because only one set of footsteps have ever drawn out long behind me. I know…” She paused. “I know where the guilt lives in me. And I have no use of it. I will pile it on and on and become a monster. A dark, evil thing. A mirror for the tyrannical and the evil to feel their own pricks and stabs turned back on them.” Óraithe rose to her feet and took a battered step forward. “I will take and take until the ones I hate have nothing left. Until they are as empty as they’ve made me. And then I will make them see the lives so little they failed to see them.”
The vision’s face was solemn, disappointed, and then it was gone.
“And it will be the last thing they see.”
Óraithe walked again, a hundred yards maybe, before her legs gave out. Her knees struck hard against the sand. She could see a shape form again in the distance. She forced herself to count. Her mind struggled against it. She screamed the numbers to the sky. One after the other.
“Hello?”
That voice again, only distant now. Coarse and familiar but not so hollow. She pulled a breath, shut her eyes tight, and screamed number after number. It was between numbers that she heard it. A sound the vision had never once made. The sound of sand shifting under foot. It was the last sound she heard.
R
Rianaire
There was something about the cold season sun that galled Rianaire to no end. She did not hate it in general, but somehow Bais seemed to bring some mirror-like quality to every single object that the light touched. It was too early for her liking and she’d not eaten nearly as much as she would like when she was pulled from the bed by Síocháin. Her vague memory of leaving such an instruction was the only thing which saved the inn’s guests from irate screams.
Still, regret was always an option and had she known the docks would smell so differently in the morning than they had the night before she may have just opted to have Tola brought to her. It had been her understanding until this moment that cold was meant to dull such smells. Perhaps Casúr had an especially filthy way of handling such shipments. Or perhaps, more likely even, it was her own sour mood that made the smell so unbearable. If that was the case, there would simply be nothing for it. Rianaire had decided when the harsh cold of the morning brushed against her face that she would be in a terrible mood for the whole of the day. If not during her business, then at least she could take her frustrations out on Síocháin and Inney, who accompanied her dutifully. Neither had much to say, though for the moment Rianaire would forgive it.
They had barely entered the area of the boardwalk when Rianaire heard a voice she had hoped a few blocks detour would help avoid.
“Treorai!” She looked to see a fat face beaming at her as it trotted over. “Treorai, a beautiful morning is it not?”
The fishmonger trotted to a stop in front of her, his face sweaty and his apron wet from the morning’s work.
“A wonderful morning! The sun is so bright I feel I could simply burst!” Her head, if not her eyes.
“Yes. The Sisters have blessed us truly with a blue sky and a bounteous catch. How did you find them?”
The subject shift was abrupt and took Rianaire quite by surprise. “Them? Oh, the fish.”
“Yes, the finest in our shop for some time. My wife could hardly sleep.”
“Well, I am humbled, truly. And the fish were delicious. In fact, I should say I’ve never known better! The inn’s chef fried them just so in butter and the slightest hint of parsley. I dare say anything more would have spoiled them, such was their flavor.”
The man clasped his hands together, his eyes absolutely sparkling. “Oh, Treorai, I have not known such happiness in my life. That I could feed you and… and… oh. Thank you, Treorai for your kind words.” His mouth curled at the edge and his eyes welled with tears. “My wife… she will be so happy.”
“It was my pleasure, I assure you. Ah!” She pretended to remember, snapping her fingers. “I am in search of a man who oversees these docks. Tola.”
“Tola?” The man frowned and knit his brow. “That man… I hope that your business with him is more pleasant than mine, Treorai, I hope very much. He is too stern for this work! In the game of fish, there is always some room, you understand?”
“In all business, I should expect.”
“Yes, yes! I knew the Treorai would understand. He is simply not suited to such a subtle work, I think. Have you come to remove him?”
“I have only come to discuss some business with him.”
He nodded. “Yes. Business. The man there,” he pointed across to an elf with a full head of black hair and a patch over one of his eyes. There was a gathered crowd who trickled in and out as he spoke, coming and leaving in small groups. “He calls the numbers. Slip numbers, you see. Ought to know which Tola is at this time of morning.”
“My many thanks. For your knowledge and your fish.”
“No, I could not accept it. You have done us so well. So well.” He seemed to need to echo for his wife. “I will cherish these days until the Sisters take me.”
Rianaire nodded and the fishmonger went back to his work, screaming at a young boy who was carrying a crate away. She was happy to see the back of him and made her way for the elf in the eyepatch who was in the midst of delivering a speech to some gathered deck hands.
“… Tine’s Bounty is third up, slip sixteen. Don’t care who takes it, dried fruit and linens. Breaker’s Breach, on nine. She’s clear and needs movin’ down to the markets.” He spotted Rianaire as she moved to the edge of the boxes he stood on. “Treorai. I’d heard rumors. A million pardons, but I’ve to send these boys off.”
“As you were.”
“Drow ship due in afore lunch. No word on cargo, expect they’ll want seasoned hands. Fight among yourselves if ye want rights on tryin’ to polish their shiny arses for some coin. They pay well. Sturdy March on twelve’s been marked delinquent by Tola. Tryin’ to pass rotted cargo and lyin’ about two barrels of porter. Ever who scraps rot, gets half the porter. Now begone and get your coin.”
There was a clamor as the gathered dockmen shuffled off to find their work. The black-haired man hopped down from his boxes, slapping some papers against his hand as he turned to Rianaire.
“Aistrím. I…”
“You call the numbers, I’d heard.”
She looked him over. A muscular elf, tan by Spéirbaile standards. His chin was square and his hair slicked back. The patch suited him and the stark blue eye that remained made him a vision. He was fit for the work, something from one of the stories she often heard being read in brothels.
“That I am,” he continued. “Tola’s been frettin’ your arrival, not that he’d admit it. Said he got a very terse note, an unsigned one, delivered by the Regent’s man all special. Said you’d come and talk to him,
didn’t say why.”
Mion. Helpful to say the least. Though perhaps Tola was worried over complaints. Or that she had meant to come and adjust how he does his business. It was a situation that could be to her benefit if the man’s disposition was what Mion had said.
“I have indeed come to see him. I have something of an offer for work.”
Aistrím bellowed a deep, hearty laugh. “Sisters be good. He’s been near shitting himself thinking you’d come on some sinister business.” He let out an elated sigh. “Shame I won’t be there to see his face.”
A small group was milling nearby and caught Aistrím’s eye. He walked to them, motioning for Rianaire to follow. She did.
“Done?” He asked the group.
“Yessir. Empty on ten.”
“Good, good.” He began to write in his pad but before he could finish a girl came running up.
“Aistrím, we got problems on two.”
He sighed and tore the paper clear, handing it to the man at the front of the group. “There you go.” He turned to the girl, must’ve been fifty or so. Young, with silver hair tied in tight buns on the side of her head. “Now, what’s the problem on two?”
“Some captain… won’t submit to checks. Gettin’ real mouthy with Clois.”
“Where’s Tola?”
“Clois sent for him already.”
“Right.” Aistrím turned to Rianaire. “Sad to say it, this’ll be your best bet a holdin’ Tola in one place for more than a minute. Clois runs the top slips. One through four. This girl here…” He placed a hand on the girl’s head. “She’ll show you to Clois. Tola ought to be along shortly if he ain’t there already.”
“My thanks, Aistrím.”
“No need,” he said before turning to shout after some workers who were idling around.
“Then, we’re in your care.”
“Y… yes. Of… of course.” The girl was stiff, terrified. It never failed to make Rianaire’s heart sing to see young, comely girls and boys flustered by her presence.
One's Own Shadow (The Siúil Book 2) Page 18
