One's Own Shadow (The Siúil Book 2)

by Randall P. Fitzgerald

  Socair pulled the rag gently over Práta’s light skin, tracing behind it with her fingers and staring absentmindedly at the lines her touch left in the rag’s path. “I do not know their rules nor how to play by them.”

  “Must you play by them?”

  She leaned forward, pushing her chest to Práta’s back and laid her hands on Práta’s breasts. Socair breathed deep of her lover’s faint scent and sighed deeply out. “Mustn’t everyone? Is that not the nature of their game?”

  Práta placed her hands on Socair’s and pulled the rag over the front of her own body and down her legs. “What is the purpose of rules to a game?”

  Socair let the rag fall and pulled her hand gently up against Práta’s crotch, pressing into her. “That it might be fair.”

  Práta arched in response and let the slightest hint of a moan escape. “And if you care nothing for fairness? Only to win?”

  Socair understood but she had had enough of words. She spun Práta and laid her on the bench, kissing her deeply. Práta gave no complaint and they lost themselves in passion for what felt like hours. She had needed it as much as Práta. So much time spent wound tight, they had each forgotten the other. The love they made was almost desperate, holding just a bit too tight and feeling it nearly too deeply when they came from the pleasure of the other.

  When they had exhausted themselves, they washed each other again, laughing at having wasted the time before. Socair went first into the large stone soaking tub and Práta followed, sliding up to her.

  “I am beginning to understand the appeal of these baths,” Socair said, smiling.

  “You will become spoiled at this rate.”

  “I may. Though, I will be sure to blame you for forcing it all on me. I’d have slept in the stables.”

  There was the creaking of a door from the main room. Práta had heard it as well and had given her room, so Socair leapt over the edge of the bath and made for the door. She flung it open to find the room empty. Nath had gone and the hallway door was standing open. Socair grabbed the closest thing to hand, a dry shift and thin pants that sat on the floor at the edge of the bed. Práta came to see what the noise had been.

  “Nath has gone. She can’t have got far.”

  Práta nodded and Socair bounded from the room and into the hallway. She ran down into the lobby as quickly as she could manage, looking left and right but not seeing the girl. The clothes were thin and quickly wet themselves against her body. In spite of it, she pushed herself out the door and found Nath there in the middle of the street, the doorman standing next to her, both looking up. Tiny flakes of white were falling from the heavens.

  Nath turned at the sound of the door and looked at Socair in wonder.

  “What is it?” Nath said the words and turned her eyes immediately back to the sky.

  “Snow,” the doorman said. “Spéir’s Rain. A sign that Bais has come upon us.”

  v

  Óraithe

  It had been hours in the bed to no avail and Óraithe was starting to become restless. Her habit of refusing sleep was one that it seemed could not be shaken by a near brush with death and so she was cursed to turn and roll and stare and begin again without meaning. Scaa had left her there to sleep, begging her to at least spend one more night resting, but the feel of the roughspun beneath her was grating ceaselessly on her mind. She stood up.

  There was the faintest sound of lapping water from through the window. Óraithe understood where she was— she had seen it on maps a dozen times— but she did not imagine they would be so close to water. She had never seen the sight of any bigger pool of water than the puddles after a Bais rain. Part of her wanted to run to it, but she settled for pacing about the room a bit. The occasional shuffling of papers from the other room told her Scaa was nearby. It calmed her. Her mind still played fits when she let it drift, telling her she would wake amid the sands of the White Wastes or that she was alone in this place. She waited, still, for the shuffling of paper and when it finally came the fear in her died back down.

  Curiosity finally overcame her and she opened the shuttered window over the end of the bed. The house she was in was up much higher than she had expected, the ground must have been fifteen feet below, perhaps more. It was hard to say in the dim light of near midnight. She could just make out a shimmer in the distance.

  “The sea…”

  She whispered the words near reverently. A word she barely even remembered. She had never understood Cosain’s attempts to describe it. A body of water whose edge could not be seen. It sounded like the ravings of a madman, something she often thought when Cosain would tell her of the world beyond the Bastion City. She wondered now about the other things he’d mentioned. White rain that piled on the ground and water made so hard it turned to glassy stone and green plains that stretched on and on. The Drow came to her mind. Another children’s story come to life. And she’d learned Fásach’s Gift from a satyr of all things. Her world had become something strange and unimaginable but it was only the sight of the sea that pushed the point home into her mind.

  “I thought I would never stop staring at it…”

  Óraithe whipped around instinctively feeling for earth beneath her in her mind but finding none. It registered that the voice had been Scaa’s and she exhaled abruptly. Scaa took a step forward, worry in her voice.

  “I did not mean…”

  Óraithe held up a hand. “No… you cannot apologize for my undue fears.” She walked to Scaa and hugged her as best she could with her body still as it was. She looked back to the window. “I wish to see it.”

  Scaa smiled and took her by the hand. The next room was lit well enough to see the papers on her desk. Scaa had been at them near as long as Óraithe could account for.

  “These…”

  “My work.” Scaa sounded exhausted to mention it. “Dull, but necessary.”

  Scaa escorted her outside. A street wound away from them and there were houses on stilts along the length of it, with fires not so far down. Only a few. The sand against her feet was a curious feeling. It riled her, brought fear to her mind, but the feel of Scaa’s skin against her own calmed her. She watched the street and the far fires until they had passed. The sound of tiny waves slapping the beach turned her head at last. Scaa took her arm and they stared out over the dull black expanse. It was different from the mirror that formed in the White Wastes. There was movement to it, life. A cool, wet wind blew across her bringing along with it smells like she had never known. Strange and wet but not fresh. She looked down to see where the water met the sand. The rhythm of it was hypnotic and the sound calmed her.

  “I must have spent weeks here, as we are now.” Scaa looked at her but she could not drag her eyes from the gentle motion of the water before her. She sat and Óraithe did the same. “I haven’t the words for how you could have come to be here. I barely understand how it is that I am here. When… when you were taken, I fled the city. I could think of nothing else to do. Nothing beyond violence. I kept near the wall at first, stealing from carts that were held for morning inspection and the like. I noticed a man came by day and did much the same as I had, only to steal away off into the flats somewhere east of the city. I followed him one night and found myself among a camp of outcasts with a knife to my throat. I offered what I had and they welcomed me.” She laughed. “I never slept so poorly in my life. I thought sure they’d have a knife in me the second both eyes closed, but no. They were simple about things, straightforward. In truth, we’d likely have stayed there if it weren’t for the disappearances.”

  Óraithe looked from the water to Scaa.

  “Horsefolk?”

  Scaa nodded. “Most like. I had told them of you from the moment I arrived, hoping that when… if you were hanged, I could at least know. That some person fleeing the Bastion City would have seen the act. None ever came, but they asked me time and again to tell t
he stories of what we’d done. Of Teas’s rescue and… and how she paid you back. Should I ever see the little bitch…” Scaa stopped herself. “I am sorry.”

  “You have no need for apologies. She put the scars on my skin and the wounds in my heart, not you.” Óraithe’s voice was devoid of emotion. “I will see her writhe if I find her.”

  “Then we agree.”

  Óraithe nodded and Scaa continued.

  “They looked to me for things after only a few weeks. And I helped them. Even when the disappearances began, they looked to me. Not just to think for them but to blame for the ills of their daily lives. They became distrustful of those who came to the camp anew, but I forced them to take in any who wished to stay.”

  The idea was near farcical to Óraithe, but she would have been blind to ignore the nature of others.

  Scaa continued. “I decided we could no longer stay in our camp. It had become too large and whether it was horsefolk or the city guard or patrols or bandits, we were suffering for it. So I took the people and we marched to this place with the idea it had been abandoned.”

  A quiet came and the sound of the water was all there was to hear. Scaa stood and offered her hand to Óraithe.

  “Come. See what we have made.”

  Óraithe took her hand and came to her feet. She was led back to the street by Scaa who spoke as they walked, pointing to things and explaining the time they had spent patching them, making them livable.

  “Much of it was beyond salvage and there are several families to a house in some places, but they have chosen what suits them.”

  Scaa’s raspy voice made the walk something comfortable and welcome. Óraithe let herself fall away in it, taking in what she could and simply trying to let the sound of a familiar, beloved voice soak deep into her mind.

  They were nearing the square when Óraithe remembered the face of Bonn, simple and innocent as he was.

  “Bonn is not with you?”

  Scaa stopped and looked at the ground. It was a stupid question, one Óraithe could have assumed the answer to.

  “He is not.” Scaa kicked at the dirt. “He was taken. I did not see it but he was hanged. One who came to us late described him perfectly. In fact, she said it is what drove her from the city. To hang such a child, she said… Briste must truly have gone mad.”

  “I am sorry, Scaa.”

  She shook her head at the apology. “I would have saved him from her if I could. Saved you both. But this is what we chose. We must stare at our horrors straight and accept that we welcomed them in.”

  Óraithe sighed. “We saw things so very differently then. Before, in that tiny room. You had the right of it then. And I lived in a child’s fantasy.”

  “A naive little twat.” Scaa laughed her scratchy, ragged laugh and Óraithe could not help but join her.

  The pain forced her to stop herself, but it was only a bit better holding back. “I was. Am still, I’m sure.”

  “Then it’s good you have me to tell you what you’ve got wrong.”

  “It is.” Óraithe nudged Scaa. “Vital, in fact.”

  Scaa trotted out in front of her. “There’s still much more to see. And you will need to see all of it.”

  The small town sprawled out from the square in three directions, including the one from which they’d approached. Scaa pointed to the healer’s, the blacksmith, and several seamstresses. She walked Óraithe down the street that led away from the water. A few homes had dim lights in them, but a large building toward the end of the street spilled light out more brightly than the others.

  “Our stables.” Scaa grinned wide and proud.

  A pair of men came walking out from the wide open door. The first of the two was dark-haired, broad, and tall. He turned a horseshoe over in his hands inspecting it. Beside him was a fair man, not quite so tall, clean-shaven, with blonde hair and the most elegant features Óraithe could remember seeing on an elf for some time.

  Scaa called out to them. “Callaire, Borr!”

  “Scaa? Up late again? Maith’ll have your ear off if she hears.”

  “Then she best not hear. And if she does, I’ll know full well where she did.”

  The men laughed and came close. Scaa introduced them. The blonde was Borr and he saw to the stables. Callaire, the taller, was their blacksmith. He’d apprenticed in making just about anything that could be wrought from metal and he did the work well.

  The men bowed deeply after they’d been introduced.

  “We owe you,” Callaire said, his face pointed at the ground. “Without so much as knowin’ it, you sacrificed for us. We’ll do you proud.”

  Óraithe was confused. “I… do not…” She looked to Scaa who began to shoo the men away.

  “She’s been awake less than a day. She doesn’t need to be bowed at by strange men.”

  The men looked at each other and laughed.

  “Only payin’ respects,” Borr offered before turning. He grabbed Callaire by the sleeve and pulled him along. “Trust we’ll see you come the morning anyway.”

  “You will,” Scaa confirmed. “Both of us.”

  When the men had gone Óraithe looked at Scaa, waiting.

  “I…” The square-faced girl hesitated. “The stories have become something rather curious.” She laughed awkwardly. “I have done what I can to temper expectation, but then you came walking from the White Wastes like Fásach come to life or some damned thing.”

  “What is it you’re saying?”

  “They… the people think you are special.”

  “Special?”

  “Putting it lightly, yes.”

  Óraithe could not be sure if the news would be trouble or something else entirely. She could not begin to imagine faces looking to her and thinking of her as anything but a half-dead girl run ragged by her own mistakes. Still, there was use in them if what Scaa said was true. The comfort Scaa took in talking to the two men sat ill with her somehow. It may have been just jealousy, but it nagged at her all the same.

  “I must ask now. Do you mean to live here?” Óraithe looked solemnly past her into the night.

  Scaa laughed. “It is tempting, but no. I know what we were. What we began. It was work no one was willing to do, Óraithe. Still, they are not willing. But they can be led.”

  Óraithe shook her head. “I worried, you know. That I would be alone. That I would walk myself to the Bastion and die there full of swords with nothing left. I prepared for it. Dreamed of it.” She stopped there. “Have I changed?” Óraithe’s voice was quiet. She worried what the answer might be.

  Scaa looked at her for a while and then shook her head. “No. Not in the way you mean, I think. Your eyes are deeper now, but they tell me the same story as I heard in that Low District alley. Things must change and I believe you are the one for it. Now more than ever.”

  Óraithe looked back to the city. She could not hear the water from where they stood. “How many do we have?”

  “Five hundred. Less who can fight.”

  Enough to come past the gates if the walls were guarded as they had been not so long ago.

  Scaa yawned. “I have shown you what I can tonight. Tomorrow will be very interesting. Will you sleep?”

  “No,” Óraithe said, taking Scaa by the hand and starting back toward the house they now shared. “Almost never anymore.”

  And even if she did, Óraithe thought, how could she now?

  R

  Rianaire

  Rianaire found that she was being shaken from a perfectly good sleep. She opened her eyes to find Síocháin standing over her already dressed.

  “Surely the inn is aflame and we are minutes from death.”

  “Would it hasten your rising from the bed?” Síocháin’s flat response only served to make the bed seem more inviting.

  “Unlikely.” Rianaire sat
up groggily and looked to the window. The sun was not up nearly high enough to warrant her being pulled from bed, there must’ve been something. “Why am I awake?”

  “It is the Binseman from the south. Socair. She has come to travel with us to Theasín as you instructed.”

  Rianaire groaned, remembering she had said such a thing.

  “Should I send her away?”

  “No. We cannot make ourselves enemies of the south any more than we can leave horsefolk in our woods.”

  It was not worth complaining any further to Síocháin as she’d brought the early morning upon herself. She stood and pulled on a dark blue dress which was more covering than she liked, but it clung to her hips well and was warm. With the snows falling, the temperature would be quick behind it and the carriage had nothing beyond its own insulation. Rianaire did not hate the cold but, like so many things in her life, it seemed an unnecessary discomfort. She had called on a local carrosserie to see to the problem, but it was to no avail. Shielding the wood from the heat of coals proved a problem for most of the proposals and others involved the coach lanterns, but either failed against the chill of the season or required oil beyond reasonable measure.

  She had been lost in thought over carriages for so long that Síocháin had finished seeing to her buttons. Síocháin went first to the door with Rianaire behind. Inney was waiting there for the two of them, her false face passive and eyes closed. Rianaire placed a hand on her head and ruffled her hair as she passed.

  Síocháin opened the door to Socair waiting in the hall. She seemed to stand a bit taller than yesterday. Her brigandine had been cleaned and polished and her hair was in much better order than it had been the day before. The alehouse had made a mess of her but Rianaire could not help but see how legends came to be about such a creature.

  “A morning sight to stir the loins.” Rianaire looked up at her and smiled. “I trust you found us with no trouble.”

  Socair nodded stiffly. “No, there was no trouble. I, er, expected that if we were to reach Theasín with time enough for anything, an early start was in order. I apologize if I woke you.”