One's Own Shadow (The Siúil Book 2)

by Randall P. Fitzgerald

  “She’s sealed them. The feel. It will be strange, but no water, ale, blood… nothing will defile the seal so long as it is not cut or scraped.”

  She grabbed the leathers and held them aloft. Seams had not been sewn in the edges of the garment at a dozen spots in the top and bottom.

  “They are unfinished.”

  He nodded. “They are. She did not wish to presume your size and knew nothing of how Drow grow. She sought books on the matter but was rebuffed by the library’s keeper. I will finish them.”

  Aile had no reason to complain. She had come expecting to have things cut to size hurriedly as it was.

  “Undress.” He said the words in a different tone than he’d talked until then. A serious sound.

  Aile did as she was bid. The wraps around her breasts and crotch were stained red where the clothes she’d removed let her work through. The elf returned with a tape measure and told her to spread her legs and arms, throwing a pad of paper to the ground at her feet. He measured her quickly and put the numbers to paper, moving to her bottom half. He took the tape to the outside of her legs and the inside, placing the flat of his hand against her privates. She looked down at him and waited. He did not move.

  His voice came out a whisper. “Warm.”

  The slap was heavy and true. His ear crumpled under the force, giving a loud snap. The elf sprawled across the floor, grabbing at the side of his head and looking back to Aile as though she meant to kill him.

  “You’ve enough measurements. Do your work.”

  He stood, whimpering and clutching his ear but nodded and went to his work. Aile took to her old leathers and retrieved the daggers they held, arranging them along the desk. She’d only made a quick count, but there were more sheaths in the leathers than she had knives, at least by a few. All the better for her to be free of the desert before the sun came. An hour passed, through which Aile stood quietly, staring at the door and listening to the faint sounds of the leather being worked and sewn. Just shy of another was gone when the elf came, his ear swollen and red.

  “I have finished. She would be so pleased. She obsessed over them.”

  He held the work out to her and Aile took the clothes, looking them over. The stitches were indistinguishable from the ones that she knew had been in place when he had taken them back.

  “Good. Very good. I may return.”

  He scoffed. “That the shop should be here, you will be welcomed.”

  Aile raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

  “That damnable woman… she’s ruined everything you know?” He began to pace as he spoke, his voice growing irritated. “That… that… Goddess. Giant freak. She’s ruined everything, of course.”

  She dressed while he raved.

  “She is some hero to the river elves. I saw her at the banquet. Her insolence sent the Low District into a spiral. Of course, it would.” He threw his hands up. “Filthy muleborn, the lot of them. No culture to them. They will rise to anything. Some bulging river elf. And to call that a woman. Hah! If she hasn’t a cock, I’ll die of shock.”

  Her blades all had a place among the myriad sheaths. They slid in smoothly, but the pieces not in use lay flush against her. She’d have complimented the elf were he not so obsessed with his ranting.

  “They say she slays centaurs, you know? They say she can match them. No wonder from the sight of her. Probably sired by one.” He scoffed but the words caught Aile’s attention.

  “An elf who slays centaur? Alone?”

  He waved his hands dismissively. “So they say. River elves lie. All of them. A few even live in the High District. Unthinkable. Liars, all.”

  Aile dragged her old leathers up from the floor. “Her name?”

  “So… Socair? Terrible name.” He noticed the old leathers in her hands. “Oh! Might I have those? Mother will love them.”

  She looked at the garments. “Is she not dead?”

  He nodded, unphased. “She is. And?”

  There was no sense in inviting further conversation. The leathers were done and fit her as well as her own skin. She threw the old pieces to the elf.

  “There are thirty gold coins in them. Should you survive, I may return.”

  His eyes widened an amount, but he shook his expression clean and nodded. “Oh, it’s nothing so dire as that. Just some rabble among the peasants.”

  She said no more and left the shop, disappearing quickly into the alleys. He followed her into the street and bid her to return whenever she liked. She was right to move quick, expecting such a stupid gesture of the elf. Still, his presence and the gold were small prices in the face of the quality of the work she wore against her skin. She felt lighter and, with the littlest bit more luck, found that there was a guard change at the segment of the elf fence she first came to. She moved through it and then along the streets and alleys that would see her back to a meal.

  The dark was being chased from the night and the deep colors of the dawn were coming. She would eat and take her leave of the desert. She had grown tired of it and of horsefolk. There were more interesting things in her mind now. Giant elves who kill centaur. She licked her lips just imagining such a thing. Surely someone must want such a creature dead.

  Part Thirteen H

  Z

  Socair

  Inside the city walls, there was little of note beyond waves and waves of people, many soldiers, plenty not. The sight of it gave her hope they could hold against the horsefolk, even with the concern in her mind. They would need to be used properly, especially the inexperienced who had come hoping to be of use to the province. She was grateful to them, and understood their verve, but without guidance, they could prove to be fodder or, worse, a hindrance to the trained regiments. A few familiar faces called to her. Members of the First Company. They gave sarcastic bows and laughed, wishing her well. She smiled at them as best she could and asked after Deifir.

  They repeated after her, laughing and giving flourished salutes, curtsied to one another. “Deifir, oh. Deifir, of course. At your will.” They repeated their joke over and over, more ridiculous each time, until they saw that the smile had faded from her face and been replaced with one somewhere between concern and impatience.

  “The mayor’s place. Big one, two streets over, green walls.” The one that answered pointed past her. “Should be there.” She started to turn. “Bearer.” The word stopped her. “I know you’ll see us through this.” He nodded to her and she took her leave of them.

  “If I’m allowed,” she muttered to herself, motioning to Práta and Nath to follow.

  The mayor’s place was not what she had expected. She had even stopped a passing soldier to confirm it was the building she’d been sent for. It looked, for all purposes, to be a dance hall. Certainly, it was the largest of the buildings she’d seen in the city but it was no house. The doors were guarded, but that had been true of a half dozen other nondescript sheds and carriage houses through the city. They were often used for storage. The lack of a Regent meant a keep was less likely, but the city was at least walled. There was no point in thinking over it further, and so Socair approached the guards, who had not taken notice of her.

  “Ah! Binseman. You’re expected.”

  They parted with no trouble and opened the doors. Socair stood a moment, looking at the opened doors and the guards who held them. She was not sure what she’d expected. Perhaps she had made more of it in her own mind than there was. Worry could do that in the absence of any explanations. She stepped into the building and the guards held a hand out behind her, stopping Práta and Nath.

  “Pardons, Regent.” The guard was firm in his tone. “Only Binse allowed in. I’m sorry.”

  Práta looked to Socair and tightened the corners of her mouth in small frustration. It was a thing she was used to by now, but her eyes said she did not wish to leave Socair’s side.

  “Very
well. We shall find an inn, then.”

  “No need,” the guard chimed. “Binseman Socair, if you mean to keep with her, will be quartered at the Grand River inn. Same as the Treorai and the rest.”

  Práta nodded. “Then we will see you there when you’ve finished.” She pushed at Nath’s shoulders. The girl protested a moment, staring at Socair, but gave in and the two left. The doors were closed behind her and she was by herself in a quiet entryway. It branched around either side of a separating wall to keep the sound at bay. A deep breath did not calm her so she took another and another beyond it. Familiar voices floated to her ears, muffled and unaware she was there. It made things all the more awkward. Whatever confidence her time in the Bastion had given her with nobles was gone now, behind clouds of doubt. If she thought of it as a fight, at least she could muster the will. And so she did.

  Socair came around the corner to find Deifir and several of the Binse arguing casually over a large table. They did not notice her immediately, their minds and words focused on the blocks sitting atop a map. They were planning the battle to come, none of them qualified to even begin to try, except perhaps Deifir in some small way.

  It was her Treorai who first looked up to notice her. She smiled large and held out her arms.

  “Socair! I had wondered when you would arrive. We’ve been desperate without you.” She walked to Socair and hugged her tightly. It was not an uncommon thing, though Socair nearly forgot to return the gesture in her confusion. Deifir broke away and returned to the table.

  “Punctuality fails you, does it?” The nasal voice was one she had heard in protest many times. Circín, the waifish Binse of the People. “And when you would finally have some use.” Her words were sharp and blatant.

  “Now, Circín, there is little reason for such a tone.” Deifir chided her as a doting mother might correct a child who had forgotten a please or a thank you. “Socair had an arduous ride from the north. She was due her rest.”

  Socair’s eyes narrowed just the slightest and shot to Deifir who was smiling politely at Circín. It could hardly be expected that she would say plainly that the rest was forced. A drugged wine cup and orders to leave her sleeping. What was this?

  Deifir looked at Socair and tapped her fingers lightly on the wide oaken table. A map of the city and surrounding lands covered one end and a wider map of the province was at the other.

  “Now that we have you, we should set about plans. Our scouts say the horde marches now. It will be no more than a day and a half at their pace, even should they stop. A day is more likely.” Deifir looked to her and the gathered Binse did as well.

  Socair rolled her eyes over the maps. She had stood at maps enough times before, but rarely directed them. There was no sense to the blocks on the board. The soldiers had not been delineated by their assignments as near as she could tell. All were painted green at the top. No flank had been proposed. She saw heavy artillery set behind the walls. A good enough place for them.

  “Are these the blocks we have? Only green?”

  “Does it matter?” A churlish man at her side chimed. Bodach, the Binse of Coin. Her patience never wore so thin as in the presence of such elves.

  “It does.”

  He scoffed but said nothing more.

  Deifir shook her head. “They were made in haste.”

  Made. Socair wished to scream. There were proper sets in the Bastion. Half a dozen, at least. And the First Company likely had far more suitably constructed pieces for map planning. There was no time for it.

  “Tell me our numbers.” Socair picked up four of the green blocks, putting them together. She slammed them against the roughest place in the table she could feel and rubbed them back and forth to curious stares.

  “Four thousand in the soldiery and more among the militia that has gathered.” Deifir seemed pleased with the numbers. It was not even a third of the standing forces. “The Companies are spread across the province but they march as we speak.”

  “And the hordes?”

  “They number seven thousand at the least.”

  Socair frowned. A look at the map gave some hope. With the cold and the wood to their side they would have some luck. There were centaur among them. That was likely to keep the satyr to the main road. A few would find their way to the trees but it would be in essence a straight-forward attack. She hoped, at least. The horsefolk had grown curiously conscious of their tactics of late. This was no ambush, however. It was a forward fight. Everything she had seen of the centaur told her that they would insist on a bullish rush toward the heart of their enemy. She slapped the scrapped blocks on the table.

  “These are the militia.” She spread them across the front line, behind wedges. “I expect these are front fortifications?”

  Deifir nodded. “Mobile walls, spiked. And marcscarra between them at distance. They had been prepared by the first soldiery to arrive. They are sturdy, we’re told.” She glanced among the Binse, all of whom nodded in agreement. It was a reasonable front line. Marcscarra were little more than sharpened spikes laid in a row but the centaur avoided them unless desperate.

  “The militia? At the front? Is that not the most precious place? Surely we must protect it.” Glasta, Binse of Lands. A farmer now had opinions on ways to conduct a war.

  “I am not soliciting opinions, Glasta.” She snapped her head at him and stared. The words had left her near involuntarily. “If any of you but Deifir have opinions, I would suggest you take up a sword and enact them as you wish.” When her words left and the room sat quiet, a rush of nervous fear came. She expected barked complaints and haughty disgust but there was only silence.

  She laid her plan before them, as best she could figure, explaining what she expected of the horsefolk but promising that those expectations would be defied once the battle began. Their most seasoned would flank from the trees. The militia would hold the mid-line. They were fodder, it was the only place for them. It had saddened her to say as much, but the weight of a sword is more than the steel and leather in it. It was a lesson they must know or learn. The militia would be commanded by the most senior of the First Company and would be supported at the edges by small contingents of proper soldiers. Bodach began to balk when she said the trebuchets that sat behind the walls were not to be used unless the lines were broken and the gates imperiled. Bais had been dry for Innecarnán and Socair had no interest in seeing good elves burned alive to ease the minds in the room with her now. She made plans and secondary plans as precautions and explained them all as best she could. She would review them doubly with Práta before they slept. It was Práta who she’d insisted take her place if anything should call her away. None at the table seemed to have a problem with it. She expected they rather wished she would go missing in the night.

  It must have been well after dark when she finally came to an end of her plans. The Binse took their leave quickly when they were allowed, likely as hungry as they were sick of being forced into a position where they could not make light of her. None had apologized for their doubt of her. None for their skepticism. Any such apology would likely be led by Deifir as it stood. Socair sighed and looked over the maps again, wondering if there was anything in the blocks that would truly give her insight into the coming battle. None of it did. They were only wooden hopes.

  Deifir’s voice called to her from near the wall that led out of the dance hall. “Would you walk with me, Socair?”

  She could feel the wash of nerves spread over her every inch. She stood and turned to answer. “Of course, Deifir.”

  “Wonderful.”

  The cold air bit at Socair, even through the armor and underclothes she wore. Deifir handled the weather with an almost unnatural poise. She spoke of it as they walked.

  “I have never hated Bais, you know? Many do. There is something about the cold which I cannot bring myself to dislike. It is bitter to us, though it could not know. And
necessary, though we hate to admit it. And always it ends in a celebration.” Deifir held up her hand and looked at the back of it. A sullen darkness fell over her eyes, her smile faded. “I should hope my death is the same.”

  Socair flinched to hear the words. “Deifir?”

  The smile and the light in her eyes returned. “You have many questions. I must thank you for not asking them. Abhainn has shown me the course of the waters. We will survive this. By her hand. I hope that, in time, you will understand. There are things you can do that I cannot. Things that you must.”

  She could only watch the Treorai as she smiled and put a hand to her cheek. There was no meaning in her words, though she said them with a steady, quiet resolve. Socair could not think of the words to speak, though they all screamed to be said.

  “The battle tomorrow will be dangerous. But you will survive. Still… you should be with your love. To keep you from her would be a crime I could not live with.”

  Deifir left her there. She walked away, calm as a slow river coursing through uncaring trees. Socair watched her until the bustle of the street took her from sight. She cursed herself when finally she gathered her wits. There must have been some question. But Deifir’s words made her own so hard to speak. They felt as though they were an order as much as her thanks.

  She found the inn with the help of a local man who sat sharpening a pitchfork. He wished her good hunting and she did the same, but it all felt hollow somehow. Deifir had not questioned her decisions regarding the battle. She had not scolded Socair for her own harsh words toward the others. And now… cryptic words with an ominous air. Her brain was nothing more than a mire. She could take no step closer to understanding without sticking some new place. It made the revelry of the inn’s dining hall uncomfortable at the least.

  The room was a sizable one. It was unsurprising given the quality of the building itself. Brick and old wood. It was a sturdy place. Nath would be safe there during the fighting. Socair pushed the door open and Nath ran to her immediately, clinging to her waist.