One's Own Shadow (The Siúil Book 2)

by Randall P. Fitzgerald

  Socair pulled Nath away and went to her closet to fetch a new brigandine and the other things she would need. Nath stayed near her, offering to carry whatever she could. The girl dutifully placed the items in order on the bed and returned.

  “Are we leaving? Where will we go?”

  Socair stopped and knelt, her brow furrowed as she searched for the best way to speak. “Práta and I are going south after the Treorai. It is dangerous there and you cannot—”

  “No!” Nath screamed and yanked away, turning when she had put some distance between the two. “I will be taken while you are gone! They will beat me! And you should not be alone with Práta! She says things when you are not here. Cruel things. About you as well!”

  Socair took a slow breath and steadied her mind. “Nath, do not say such things. You are upset, I can see that, but you cannot be this way. Others may not be so patient. I will listen to you, Nath. You are a woman grown.”

  “I do not wish to be apart from you.”

  “There are times when that will be the case, Nath. I have duties where you cannot attend. And you are no fighter.”

  “I am not stupid, Socair. I know there are places I cannot follow. But can I not attend you in the south? Could I be of no use to you?” Nath’s eyes glistened with ready tears and Socair could see the desperation in the girl.

  “Fine. You may come south. But you must stay in the keeps or safe houses. If you will keep clear of trouble, you may accompany us.”

  “I will keep to your bunk and cause you no trouble I swear it.” Her mood had changed near instantly. The tears were gone and a bright smile had replaced any trace of sadness or fear.

  Socair frowned just the slightest bit, worried that she would delay the girl’s help any further. She knew well enough that she was not suited to the job herself. She was far too soft and could no more mend a broken mind than a broken leg. It took discipline in the face of pain and heartache, a thing Socair understood but lacked.

  There would be time enough for lamenting her missteps as they rode, she decided, and took to the bed to change. Nath came behind her and assisted Socair in untying the clothes she had bothered to wear out of Deifir’s room. As she dressed, Nath took the dirtied clothes away to a hamper. As it opened, Socair noticed some clothes in it that she did not recognize. They were a color that Práta never wore and seemed to have been ripped. Socair ignored them and dressed. It was unlikely that they would meet horsefolk along the roads, but she wore her brigandine and thick leather trousers anyway. A ride without them felt as though it somehow invited the unlikely.

  Práta came a few moments later with sausage and boiled potatoes. A simple lunch, but it would sit well in their stomachs and keep them sated for much of the ride. She had brought a portion for Nath as well.

  “We will need horses,” Socair said between bites.

  “The stable ought to have a couple left, even with the soldiers.”

  “Hopefully three that can make the trip without trouble.”

  “Three?” Práta’s voice shifted from curious to annoyed in the space of the word. She looked at Nath and back to Socair. “You cannot mean we are taking this child.”

  Nath made a noise that was more growl than whine. Socair held her hand up.

  “Enough, both of you. Práta, I have made my decision, I will be responsible for it. She needs no more antagonism. And she is no child.”

  Práta drew a deep breath, but held her tongue and went back to her meal. Nath watched her closely until Práta took the plates to remove them when the food was done.

  That was the end to their bickering, though it had been replaced by a strained silence that did no favors to Socair’s current state of mind. She could hardly concentrate as it was and now there were complications she saw no way of resolving. She wished that she could simply put them out of her mind but her thoughts still worked to find a solution to that and to the mysteries of Deifir’s actions. She had her path, that at least gave her a way forward and she was grateful to Práta for reminding her of it, but a path simply took her where she ought to go. It did not solve the problems that waited for her there.

  Nath and Práta saw to the rest of the packing. The wait saw Socair pacing in the room until Práta sent her to the hall, claiming she would go mad as well if she were forced to watch Socair do nothing but walk a rut in the floor. The quiet in the hall only stirred Socair’s agitation. She fought the urge to open the door to her quarters and check Práta had not disappeared as well.

  The two had finished preparing their clothes in what felt like an hour, but could not have been. Socair walked with purpose for the stables. It was not until Nath nearly tripped trying to keep pace that she realized how quickly she had been walking. Socair tried to be mindful of her speed, but the sun would not slow in its movement across the sky. The stables came into view, and the quiet of the Bastion continued there. She called at the main door for the stablemaster and got no reply so Socair saw herself into the stables proper. She found him tending a foal and grumbling to himself.

  “Róin.”

  At the call, a burly man, clean-shaven and bald, looked up and smiled, standing to greet her. “Socair! Curious. I’d not heard you was back from yer, eh… diplomatic… whatsits.”

  “I am in need of horses. Three. The fastest you have.”

  His smile faded, turning to a look of frustration. “Been a lot of that today. Even forced me to pull this’n off the tit. Sad as it is to say, you come too late, girly. Not a horse left even approachin’ on fast. Only thing in the yard worth sittin’ are the rounceys. They only been broke a year or so. Don’t take well to long rides.”

  “They are all that is left?”

  “Aye. Less you’re keen to find out how the carthorses take to being backed.”

  Socair gritted her teeth and looked around at the empty stalls. She sighed in resignation. “Please prepare them. And thank you.”

  “Couldn’t take thanks for saddlin’ that lot. And, I expect you know better, but don’t take ‘em near to anything even smells like trouble. Do and you’ll be laid in the mud wonderin’ why your toes don’t wiggle.”

  He did not wait for a reply, only went off to see to his work. Práta caught Socair’s eye as she came back out to the yard at the front of the stables.

  “It seems a bit quiet in there.”

  “It is. Nearly every horse of speed or experience has been taken.”

  “Did Róin give a reason? They must have put nearly every elf leaving ahorse.”

  “He said nothing. I would never have allowed it. So many on horseback would move no faster than a slow march if they keep tight near Deifir. Forgetting the travel, what is the Bastion City to use if they fail? If they reinforce or…” Socair let her words trail away as she thought through the decision, looking for any redeeming value in it. “Fires take it all, what is she thinking? Or is it the Binse? Some remnant of Crosta?”

  “It could be,” Práta offered. “Or perhaps Deifir has chosen the crossroads as something of a first and final stand.”

  “Or she hopes to quell the horsefolk before they gather more power. Still, this is no way…”

  Nath grabbed at her sleeve and pointed toward the stable when she looked. The horses were saddled and ready. Nath was helped into her saddle first, with Práta and Socair just behind. The horses grew uneasy and shifted with the riders on their backs. Socair pulled at the bit and brought the horse into line. Answers awaited her in the south and the animal would take her to them even if she must wear the reins thin to see it done.

  v

  Óraithe

  To say that the first night of their journey had been raucous would fail to capture it. Young and old danced and sang and drank spirits. They had at least heeded warnings not to be careless with the food. Óraithe kept herself clear of the revelry as best she could, not wanting to be fussed over or praised for simply be
ing awake and present. She took the time to practice with Fásach’s Gift well away from any who might see. She had no direct intention of hiding her ability, only a wish to first use it in a situation which would be to the advantage of her standing among the people. It had been hard to find a place to sharpen her skills with so many awake and wandering. In truth, she had half expected a report come the morning that dozens had wandered into the Wastes or been snatched by bandits or horsefolk. To her surprise, the morning head check had come back counting the number they had set out with.

  The morning was orderly and they had made ready to go within an hour of sunup. No small feat with so many among them. Óraithe had marveled at the efficiency of the checks and morning preparations and Scaa explained that she had put the system in place long before the trip.

  “The city was run down when we found it, not that the state of it when we left was a point of pride.” Scaa had relaxed into her seat and leaned her head back, exhausted. “There was much that needed doing and people were injured often. Mild injuries, at most. A wrist here and a shoulder there. I could not see to them all, but they had become used to seeking me out since the camp. I sectioned the city and assigned those who seemed the most competent to the people in each area.”

  “The ones I met? The blacksmith?”

  “And stablemaster and on and on, yes. The same groups are in place for our train.”

  “You are becoming impressive. It is a smartly built system.”

  She scoffed, laughing sarcastically. “I am, it is true.” Scaa sat forward in her seat. She smiled at Óraithe. “It was something thrown together from necessity. It should likely take more thought than that.”

  Óraithe thought on things for a moment. “No, it will serve us well, even in the Bastion City, I think. They are more your Binse than mine, in spite of your jokes, but they work as I read the Binse does.”

  The day before had seen its share of stops and delays. The bulk of them to do with wheels coming loose or a spoke needing mending. Each time, as was promised, they stopped and saw to the issues. Óraithe had gone to as many of the broken wagons as she could manage, something that the people in the train seemed no end of happy about. She had not had a terribly long time to adjust to the way she was being treated, not when so much of the past seasons saw a new horror with each passing day, but had started to make sense of it. They had been under way for a few hours without issue, time Óraithe used to try to understand what her situation meant and how to use it to see Briste dead.

  “I have been thinking,” she started, bringing Scaa out of a vacant stare.

  “Of?”

  “Of how I should act when I present myself to people.”

  “When you… present yourself?” Scaa did not seem to understand the question wholly.

  Óraithe was unsure exactly how to explain herself. “The people, here. They do not see me as I am. The more I think on it, the more I feel that this is for the best.”

  “There is nothing wrong with what you are.”

  “To you. And it is a sweet sentiment, but if they would see me as more, then I should act as though I am more. We intend to fight. And we intend to ask those who are with us to fight as well. If I do not act the way they expect I should, what will they say at the first poor result? Or if we should lose some fight or when some woman’s son dies because I asked it of him? I cannot show myself to be unsure or selfish or hopeless. I must be something grand, at least when they are looking. I must have answers for them, answers that make them care more for what we must do than for what they have lost.”

  Scaa was quiet, her brow furrowed. Óraithe did all she could to resist the urge to say more, wanting to hear Scaa’s thoughts before she carried on.

  “I…” Scaa stopped immediately, unsure of herself, but shook her head after a short second and continued. “I think that there is value in being honest and direct. They will understand in time if they do not now. They will not hate you for being unsure of yourself at times.”

  “You will not hate me. But you have known me in ways they never will. You have seen me low and you have brought me back up. Perhaps some will see me as you do, but what of those who cannot? They understand me through stories, embellished ones. And if we somehow survive to take the Low District? What of the rest? They have no reason to follow. They will call me a child and be done with me, even with the stories and with the people who follow now. I must show myself as something more. Grand and strong and unwavering in the face of things.”

  “Would that not make you like so many nobles? Smiling and reassuring at the head while the hand takes.”

  Óraithe frowned at the question. She truly was unsure of the answer herself. “There must be ground between. The hand does not need to take. The other provinces are not this way.”

  “Or so your books say.” A stop was called from behind and Scaa immediately clicked her tongue in annoyance. “The season will be through before we come to the Bastion City as this rate.”

  Óraithe put a hand to Scaa’s shoulder. “Exactly the sort of face I must pretend I’ve never made, as strange as it feels.” Borr was first down from the barouche. He started away without them. Óraithe’s face turned serious and she leaned in to Scaa’s ear, whispering. “They are tools. We both understand that. If it pains you to see me act like some noble creature, you must bear it with my apologies. There are things only for us, there are things to be shared with this circle you’ve chosen, and there are things for the rest. As you said, they wish to be led. We must do it well.”

  Borr returned to the side of the barouche. “Are you not coming this time, Mistresses?”

  Óraithe stood and put a hand on the awning for balance. “Always.”

  The walk was more of what all her walks had been since coming back to an inhabited world. Stares and greetings and mumblings and blessings in turns as they walked down the train to find the errant wagon. She never wanted to let the feeling she had during those walks fade or change. The uneasiness, the desire to shout at them to stop looking at her with such eyes. She had done what she could to sear the feeling into her mind, to hold onto it, but it was like to be a futile effort in the end. Her reality would become normal no matter how awful it might be, or how pleasant.

  She had adopted a polite bow and placid smile that she imagined painted her as humble. It had come fairly naturally as a way to keep pace when walking the city with Scaa. It worked, at least. People smiled and bowed in return often fairly deeply, something she had not expected. Bowing was not something she thought people did, even to nobles. It was kneeling, more often. A few still tried kneeling when she came near or spoke to them, but her insistence that people not included pulling them back to their feet. It had gotten the message through, and spread, if the trips up and down the train had been any indication.

  They came to the wagon that had been the cause of the stop. Óraithe had mostly expected to see another problem with a wheel and while that was a part of what had happened, it was much worse. There was a rut dug at the edge of the road they’d been traveling. It was not something any half-competent driver would ever have run into as the road was more than double the width of most wagons in the train and they had kept toward the center of it for as long as they had been riding. A middle-aged man sat in the dirt, away from the wagon, his head in his hands. He was balding and had skin that spoke of a life spent under the sun. Borr asked who had been driving the wagon, a large covered ordeal that carried drink of all sorts, water and spirits and even some sealed fruit juices. The obvious answer was given. He had driven into the rut, though no one could see why and the man had ignored any questions from the small crowd.

  As Óraithe approached the man with Borr and Scaa, he looked up to see what the commotion was. When he saw her, his voice shot out, a wailing noise.

  “Mistress Óraithe!” He threw his arms up awkwardly and made a plaintive moan. “Oh, woe! Forgive this fool, I beg it!�
��

  He went to hands and knees and began to crawl toward her. Óraithe recoiled instinctively and Borr moved in front of her, yelling for the man to stop there.

  “Explain yourself,” Borr thundered. Óraithe did not think she had seen him so angry.

  “Yes. Yes, I will. It was such a long night, you see.” He looked past Borr, to Óraithe. “The revelry went nearly until dawn! Sleep took me while I drove. I could not help it, I swear.”

  Borr sighed and rubbed his temples. Before he spoke, Óraithe came forward and put a hand on his shoulder.

  “It is nothing so terrible. Have him placed in one of the carts with room and find another driver.”

  “Yes, Mistress. You are kinder than he deserves.”

  Óraithe simply nodded and Borr dragged the man by his collar and walked off to deal with finding a new body capable of driving the wagon. It ought to be easy enough, Óraithe told herself. It was the wagon itself that seemed to have attracted the bulk of the attention. A younger man stood at the head of the wagon, shaking his head and speaking with a few others who had come to see what help they could be.

  “…nothing for it. S’buckled under.” He noticed Scaa and Óraithe approaching. He turned and bowed deep. “I am sorry for my father. He’s a drunk, much as he likes to pretend otherwise. We have caused the whole train trouble.”

  He must have been three times Óraithe’s age but apologized sincerely. It would have been unthinkable in her wildest imaginations with the typical love of elders among her people.

  “Things happen,” Óraithe said with her polite smile and her slight bow. “What is the state of the wagon?”

  She thought to ask about the horses that drew it, but a few were unhitched and being attended just off the road.

  The younger man groaned and walked around toward the rut, motioning for them to follow. He nodded at the damage when they came around the far side. He stood silent and Óraithe could see why. It was not simply a thrown wheel. The edge of the axle had been snapped and the wheel was wedged beneath the leading edge of the wagon itself. It would need to be lifted and set to be mended.