“Of course, you’re correct. But first we should eat, should we not?” Rianaire turned to Síocháin as she asked the question and back to Socair after. “Have you eaten?”
“I… have not.”
“Wonderful! Then let us go. The carriages can be seen to in the meanwhile.”
The small dining room was empty still and from the reaction of the innkeep, it seemed likely that the cook would have to be woken and dragged into the kitchen to do his work. Socair wore a look of guilt watching the innkeep scramble. It was a good look for a person of her position, one Rianaire saw far too frequently. For half a moment she even regretted that she was wasting the woman’s time.
Breakfast was made quick. Fish sausage with eggs and beans and toast as well. As they ate, Rianaire watched Socair closely. She ate quickly and with a peculiar sort of focus.
“I heard a story not so long ago,” Rianaire began. Socair sat upright and wiped her mouth, seeming to remember herself. “That you were in Drocham and were ambushed.”
Socair’s expression dropped and her eyes seemed to look off at nothing.
“Is it not a tale I should have mentioned? As I heard it you slew three satyr by yourself.”
“I did.” Socair’s voice wavered just the slightest bit. She cleared her throat and shook away the hollow look from her eyes. “I paid a terrible price for it. In truth, I ought to have died. I was saved by a man called Liath and the Sister’s grace.”
“Still,” Rianaire continued unabated. “I have not heard of an elf surviving such a thing since the old tales of my mother’s mother.”
Socair poked at her food. “Survival is only a part of living.”
The girl was young. Far too young for such a thought if her life had been as most were. Deifir was not a foolish woman, Rianaire knew this well enough, but her Binse were another story. The bulk of them had bought their way to Deifir’s notice and then to her bed. It could not be for this one. Rianaire laughed to herself, remembering something Spárálaí, of all people, was fond of saying.
“A blind man can still tell a change in the wind,” she mumbled to herself.
Socair looked at her but made no question as to what she had said. A quiet fell over the room as Rianaire turned over Socair’s place in Abhainnbaile and the purpose of her visit in her mind. There must have been more to it.
“Do you know how the satyr came to be in Spéirbaile?” For the first time, Socair looked direct across to her. A question about war was what it took to find her stomach it seemed.
Rianaire shrugged. “Briste is apt to be at fault for the bulk of things. You met her, did you not?”
Socair nodded. “An unstable child in charge of—” She caught herself and stammered. “I-I… I do not… I mean, she… I should have held my tongue.”
Rianaire laughed as hard as she had in weeks. “Held tongues and unstable children are why my forests are full with horsefolk. Now, tell me what you make of the woman.”
“I did not see her for longer than half an evening.” Socair was hesitant.
“More than enough to understand her, I can assure you. Even still, you know of her tactics against the hordes. A Binse of War ought to, anyway. Tell me, if not of her character, then of her mind for battle.”
Socair bit her lip and huffed a breath of resolve. “She does not have one, that I can see. She has no standing forces, her Bastion City is as well-protected as an open pantry, and she has not sent an armed soul south of her city in decades. I cannot dream she is aware that the society outside her Bastion is crumbling away.”
“She will be aware of it soon enough. Still, I find it hard to fathom that you spent only a day there.”
“A fool would not have needed more time to see it.”
“You give fools more credit than they deserve.”
Socair turned back to her meal, more aggressively than before. The thought of Fásachbaile troubled her visibly. Rianaire could see the wings on the Goddess before her, but what she was unsure of was whether Deifir had sent her to learn to use them or to have them clipped.
“I am after a new Binse of War, you know. You could abandon Deifir. Tell me, does she still force her Binse through those old ways? Does she bed you often?”
Socair blushed and looked at her plate. A series of conflicts played themselves out on her face before she looked up to Rianaire again. “She does not. Only occasionally.” The words came clear and unashamed.
There was a firmer woman behind the blushing, stammering face Socair had displayed since their meeting. Rianaire found herself eager to see it. She wondered how hard she must push to bring it out.
“Tell me…” Rianaire’s voice was cool. “How is Deifir as a lover? I have always wondered myself.”
Again silence from Socair. There was energy coursing through her, Rianaire could see it well enough. She wondered how it would come out. Would it fizzle away or boil over or could it be controlled?
“She is patient. Confident. She is in control.”
Rianaire sighed. “You’re describing book work, not love.”
“I do not disagree with you. It is that, very much. Almost ceremonial.”
No rebuke of an insult to her Treorai. Rianaire was suitably impressed. There was will in the girl.
“You do not sound pleased with it.”
Socair’s stiff shoulders relaxed just so and she leaned back against the chair. “I am not. It is… a formality made of something that should be a joy.”
Rianaire laughed. “We agree on that, I can assure you. I’ve done away with the practice here. Simply because the Sisters made a Binse from their lovers so long ago, we should follow them blindly? Too much ill has come from such thinking.”
“I…” Socair was hesitant again, though only for a second. She found her words again and spoke plain. “I disagree, Treorai.”
“Rianaire.”
“Rianaire, then. I am not so sure of myself or of the world to question the Sisters or their wisdom. I think the fault lies in what the Bastions have become. They are filled with men and women who seek power of their own, not to assist their Treorai. They are not partners who would guide and support.”
She sat staring at Socair for a quiet moment. It was not a wrong way to see the world, Rianaire knew, but it would certainly take one who swung a sword to expect such an ideal.
“Kind and loving are all well and good, but they must still have the skill for their tasks. The world is not as it was when the Sisters were alive.”
Socair nodded. “It is not. And besides, they are not problems for me. It is wrong of me to speak on them.”
“Nonsense!”
Before she could continue the doors to the inn opened and the carriage driver appeared before them. He informed them that both carriages had been made ready. The walk to the stables was quiet except for when Rianaire could no longer contain her urge to prod Síocháin and Inney. When they arrived, the carriage bearing Deifir’s colors was ahead of her own.
“Socair, I insist you ride with me. I feel we are starting to know one another and I couldn’t stand to wait so long to continue our talks.”
If Deifir had sent her to Rianaire to be taught, it would not do to have the freckled girl so close at hand. She was clever, that one. A doting mother to a timid child. There was no complaint. Perhaps, Práta understood the situation as Rianaire did. She did not know the girl well enough to say.
Inney had sat herself at the front not wanting to be stuffed in beside a stranger. Her presence never failed to unnerve the drivers, but they would not complain even so. Soon enough they were away from Casúr and into the hills that led down to a wide forest.
As they rode, Socair asked her frank questions about the size of the forces they had and the state of things and for each question she answered, Rianaire asked another about some inane, private facet of the Binseman’s life. How many
lovers she had been with, if she had seen her father naked in her youth, how she trimmed the hair on her privates. The questions were fair enough, she figured, as she gave honest answers to the ones asked of her. Even when her answers were honest, they did not seem to satisfy Socair. “Not nearly enough” as an answer to the strength of her standing forces nearly drew a sigh even. It was a delightfully fun game and much better than coaxing talk from Inney and Síocháin for hours on end.
They had passed the edge of the forest by a half hour at least when the horses cried out and the carriage jerked. Socair moved to the door, placing her hand at the lever to open it and scanning the trees. Rianaire heard light footsteps on the top of the carriage. Inney was moving as well. She heard the driver call the horses to a stop and Socair opened the door, dropping to the ground. Rianaire joined her, looking ahead to see the other carriage stopped as well.
“What is it?” Rianaire scanned the trees but heard nothing, saw nothing.
Socair turned her ears to the wood, shifting back and forth slowly and smoothly. A look of recognition came to her face and her mouth fell open for a half second before she whipped to the side.
“Rionn!” She screamed at the man driving the carriage ahead of them. “Drive! Now! Don’t let up until you’ve cleared the trees!”
The front carriage driver slapped the reins on the backs of his charges and they tore off. The second hoof beat had hardly sounded on the road when a high pitch scream rang out. Rianaire’s eyes widened. Satyr.
“Back in the carriage, Treorai, go!” Socair put an arm out to direct her back, Rianaire slapped it away.
“I’d walk in the Fires before I let myself be killed by muleborn in a wood box.”
Rianaire took a step to the side and tore at the base of her dress. It was not so tight but she could not have it twist around her. At the very least the boots she wore would not likely impede her movement. Inney called from above, offering a sword to Socair from the stores atop the carriage.
“Have you fought them before?” Socair asked the question, a forcefulness to her voice that Rianaire found enthralling, even in the moment.
“No. I’ve read some.”
“It is nothing like books. I make it four of them. Two at the far side.”
“Then the song they write for us will not be a slow one.”
The horses behind them stirred again and bucked as the sound of hooves thumped against the floor of the forest. She saw them for only a second before it seemed they were upon them. The first lunged for Rianaire but had misjudged its own speed. It came past her wide and slammed sidelong into the carriage, smashing the glass window.
“They’re starved,” Socair called as she turned to face the one behind it who had come to a stop at the edge of the road, away from the trees.
The one that had made for Rianaire clattered to the ground, losing its footing among the snowy rocks that made the road. Rianaire formed a wedge of air as quickly as she could and plunged it at the side of the beast. The skin under the air buckled and popped, spilling blood onto the ground. It let out a terrible noise and writhed, swiping at her feet. One of its hands connected as she heard the sound of steel on steel just away from her where Socair had been. They were in it now and she would not have help. She felt the air around the satyr and pushed hard at it. The jerk pulled her leg free and she pushed the air again, harder now. Her attacker slid away, its head catching the wheel awkwardly, pushing its face into the rocks. The primal scream it had bellowed cut short with a grunt and turned to a sickly whine. It had already begun righting itself at Socair’s back. Rianaire scrambled to her feet and forced the air away from its mouth. She looked up briefly to find Inney and saw nothing. She had fled the top of the carriage, there was no time to find her now. Rianaire returned her attention to the satyr that had attacked her. It was swinging wildly, one of its eyes dangling from the socket. It was making for Socair as best it could and there was little more Rianaire could do but wait for it to fall. The struggling goat was almost at Socair’s back now.
“Behind!” Rianaire called the words and Socair twisted to see the satyr behind her. The move gave the one with a blade enough leverage to topple her and the other dropped to its knees.
Had she not been so frantic, she might have noticed it. The snow stopped dead in the air, just for a moment and Inney walked from behind the carriage covered in blood. A horrible squealing sound began to play in the air, like a pipe blown far too hard. The horses bolted, dragging the carriage along with it. A half second later, the satyrs ceased their struggles as a wide smile came over Inney’s mask. The whistling ceased. And they popped. Each of the two that remained, as if bubbles full of blood and bone.
Socair rolled herself onto her stomach and immediately gave up the breakfast they’d eaten a few hours before. She stammered, confused, and began to pull herself to her feet.
Rianaire looked at the tiny thing before her and then to the loose piles of skin and meat and fur and the legend of story and song who was loosing the contents of her stomach as fast as she could.
Rianaire smiled first and then laughed, uncontrollably. “I suppose we should go and find our carriage, then.”
U
Aile
The ride across the plains had worn on her and Aile was beginning to grow tired of travel by chariot. There was no possible way of sitting or standing that could be counted as comfortable. With nothing to lean against or rest upon the reality of the ride was hours spent standing, having her bones crack against one another at even the smallest pit or bump. She was sturdy enough that it had not worn on her before and among the sands of the White Wastes, there was little to complain about aside from grit and wind and boredom. But now the ground was cold and hard and the gross inefficiencies of satyr construction were making themselves painfully apparent.
The smoke from the horde was significant and was plain from a distance. Aile was curious to have seen it from so far out and when the camp came into view, she saw why. She could not know exact numbers but there must have been hundreds swarming around campfires spread over the area liberally, with space to spare between them. A chariot left the camp riding quickly directly at them and the horses slowed of their own accord bringing Aile and Ilkea to a stop amid dying grass.
A woman satyr had been sent to see to them, well-muscled and scarred across her entire body. She looked at Aile once and spit before turning to Ilkea. It was satyr tongue. She was annoyed to be reliant on only body language. It was often straightforward enough with satyr but trusting the past to prove out the future was how the ground gathered its meals. She seemed to chastise at first until Ilkea pulled one of the papers from her pack and said some words. Aile could not see the letters clearly from where she sat, so a calm hand slid to her hip and the hilt of a small dagger. The woman refused the paper and pointed toward the camp before riding off back to where she’d come.
“She says we must deliver it there.” Ilkea pointed to the camp.
A warm tingle ran through her at the thought of it and Aile rubbed a hand against her crotch. Ilkea set out ahead of her and the chariot followed. She was curious, though. Her minder had not hesitated at all. Perhaps she was taking to the idea of seeing her dead. The edge of the camp was a curious place for it, but she was close enough now that flight would require more than just turning the horse and being on her way.
Aile kept her quiet as they came to the edge of the camp. When the chariots had been taken, the satyr who saw to the horses pointed across the yard at a waiting man. Curiously light on fur for a satyr and much more well-groomed than she had ever seen. They approached and all the while Aile kept her hands casually over a weapon.
As Ilkea reached the man she hurriedly handed him the paper which he read over carefully before frowning as though something about it disappointed him. He spoke to Ilkea in the satyr tongue again. If they were questions, they were pointed, almost annoyed.
“You, hello.” The words were thick and awkward and slowly remembered, but they were not elftongue. It was Drow that he spoke. She could barely understand it through the harsh throat of a satyr. “I am pleased. You come. Very happy.”
He spoke as a child might and the curiousness of it made Aile all the more wary. She had heard her native language only rarely in the time since she left the Blackwood and she had not expected to hear it among a horde near the border of the river elf lands. She looked around the camp, unsure of what to make of things. The marquees that denoted the presence of centaur were certainly around but she had been brought into the camp. And now a satyr spoke to her in a language he could not have come by easily.
“I… I… do make sense?”
She was loathe to reply to him in Drow, so she tried elf words. “You make enough sense, yes.”
He cocked his head to the side and looked to Ilkea who spoke back at him, using centaur words instead of her own. He clicked at her, annoyed, and said something in satyr. It was a curious circle of languages that had begun to wear on her nerves.
“He does know the elf words, he says.” Ilkea looked at her a moment and the man spoke again.
“I… am Harekor. My pleasure… to see you.” He bowed.
Aile watched the spectacle still and wary. He stared at her expectant and smiling, clearly pleased with himself. She sighed deeply.
“You disgust me.” She said the words in Drow and stared at him.
He knew the words were of the language he wanted, but could not place them. She could see the search for meaning on his face and could only guess he had decided that whatever it meant, she had spoken to him in Drow. He laughed like young elf girls laughed when young elf boys fondled them in the dark and trotted in place, clapping stupidly and smiling moreso.
“A meal. You…” He pointed to her as though she was the one who didn’t know the language. “Eat?” He motioned to his mouth and she thought of cutting his throat. “Special. Special meal.” He nodded enthusiastically.
One's Own Shadow (The Siúil Book 2) Page 25
