One's Own Shadow (The Siúil Book 2)

by Randall P. Fitzgerald

  The footsteps were too light to be heard, but a loose step gave away the movement as the flicker of a candle came into view. Aile watched intently. Awin. The foolish thing had come bearing keys. She beamed from behind the pale light.

  “I have come, Dhone! We will go, won’t we? To the Blackwood…”

  Aile nodded. “We will. We will only stop to sleep and to eat. My father will be so pleased he may make you a princess as well!”

  The words drew a visible jitter of excitement and the girl rushed to her cell door. Aile crouched as she fumbled with the keys, lifting the sharpened pestle and putting it behind her back. The girl opened the door and stepped in.

  “Oh Dhone, I am so excited. Should I have packed any clothes?”

  “No,” she said, letting her voice free of the vacuous tone she’d given the girl for too long. “You will not need them.”

  “Dhone?”

  The rock pushed through the girl’s throat as a stake pushed into hard earth. It did not wish to go, but Aile had enough strength now to force it. Awin, the false Drow child, flailed at her. She grasped the empty air, her face a mess of terrified confusion. No sound came from her mouth, only a sickly scrape as the pestle was pulled about by the muscles in her throat. Aile moved past the dying elf to the door, pulling it shut behind as she went. She heard frantic scratching at the floor as she opened the crate. Enough moonlight came into the cellar to show that it held her blades and her leathers. She dressed, not wishing to stay any longer than she must. If the girl had minders or slept with others, they might notice her missing.

  She came up the stair, standing in the open field at the top. She saw the clearing for the first time with clear eyes. The field was circled by trees and houses had been built there. Simple ones. Only one was larger than the others. Tramman’s no doubt. She went to it and opened the door. It had no lock. As the door closed she heard a voice from the far corner of the room. One she had heard before, in the cellar.

  “Inre, the child… have you killed her?”

  She looked and saw a man there. He was past middle age for an elf, his hair starting to silver. He stood from his chair and lit an oil lamp.

  “I have.”

  He did not sigh or complain. His voice did not change in the least.

  “And you have come to kill me?”

  “I have.”

  A sigh now. “Good.” She said nothing but the man began to speak. “She was born blue, that girl. Took her mother as she came. She didn’t speak a word until twenty years had come and gone. And then, Drow. She’d seen one in town. Became obsessed. Learned to read to learn about them.” He stood and moved to a chest of drawers, pulling open a large one. “Took to calling me Tramman, asking after Drow things. I built this for her. All of it.” He pulled a large sack from the drawer and turned toward Aile. “This is all you had. I’d have used it to take more of them. To build this Kingdom for her.” He threw it at Aile’s feet and returned to the oil lamp. “Thank you.”

  He tipped the lamp from the counter and it shattered at his feet, spilling flame across the floor. Aile hurriedly snatched the bag up, feeling the heft of the gold in it. It was more than her own. Bag in hand, she looked back up at the man, flames moving up his clothes. He made no sound as the skin on his neck began to melt and drip, only stared at her with empty eyes.

  She left the house, flames hurrying through the work of destroying everything within it. There must have been horses, at least a few. None so useful as the one they took from her, but anything that moved her away from that wretched field would be good enough.

  Part Sixteen S

  Z

  Socair

  Rún had made her presence in the Bastion felt immediately, insisting on quarters. Meirge showed his annoyance with her and each of the demands she made of his guard members. There was a seemingly unending of complaints from her about every piece of security that had been put into place, the bulk of them argued on Socair’s behalf. She drilled angry words into his ears even now, when he had come to her room to apprise her of the preparations for the day’s ceremony.

  “She is the Goddess of Glassruth! What do you imagine will happen to her? I have seen her kill a dozen of those disgusting horsefolk without so much as sweating. And did she not save this entire realm from Crosta’s treachery? I heard of it. You’re being unreasonable. She is miserable here. Though she would never tell you, so it falls to me.”

  Meirge rubbed his temples, exhausted. “If you would mind your flapping gums for half a minute, you’d have heard that Socair will be free to move as she likes as soon as the words are said. I will not let your prattle stir me from my duties, Rún. Now, would you be kind enough to let me say what I have come to say?”

  Rún looked at Socair who smiled awkwardly. Rún sighed and left, sitting herself in a chair under a window, looking out at the sky. Práta was at Socair’s side and kept quiet, though Socair could imagine she had many things to say.

  Meirge continued. “The hippocamps have moved back to Glascroí. They hold there for now.”

  Socair nodded. “I doubt they will make it a permanent home. They could not abide it. If it were a proper retreat, it would be full. They regroup in the south.”

  “To make for Innecarnán again?”

  “It is possible, but I have my doubts. If they acted as they had before, I would expect it, but even their retreat from the crossroads as it stands is strange by those standards. I would guess they mean to make for Ciúnasmaidin.”

  “Trouble if you are wrong.”

  Socair sighed. “Any decision would be. They mean to kill us all. What of the recalled soldiery from the northern cities?”

  “Deployed across the Rith.”

  “Split them as best we can. More to Ciúnasmaidin, less to Innecarnán. But keep some back.” She leaned back on the plush couch, finding it hard to make herself comfortable.

  Meirge made notes of her orders and when he was done looked at her. “There are only a few hours left.”

  “Please… I would rather think of it as little as I can.”

  He laughed and stood. “The entire yard is filled. They chant your name.”

  Socair groaned at the thought of it. “Enough. Please.”

  The door closed behind Meirge and Socair was left in a quiet room. There was little she could do to keep the coming ceremony from her mind. With Rún’s coming to the Bastion, Meirge had finally decided that she ought to know the state of things fully. There had been four official petitions to have her appointment to Treorai thrown out. Two came from other Binse members and the other two each came from Ataim. When the first had been declined, he immediately filed another. Meirge had brought her a copy of the second. It was an insane document, rambling about how she had likely killed the Treorai herself after tricking her. She had been accused of leaving, in his words, “a slug-trail of her cunt’s fetid slime across Deifir’s heart.” Práta had suggested that the imagery was actually rather beautiful in a way, but she had not found agreement from any of the others in the room. She cursed them for tactless and dismissed herself to the privy in a huff.

  Rún had offered a torrent of advice from the moment the guards gave up trying to drag her off. She kept to Socair’s quarters, leaving to sleep, but appearing again at sun up. Práta seemed put off by her presence and kept mostly to herself. She had complained before they slept that Rún had essentially invited herself through and could not be trusted. Socair failed to see it that way, but the words seemed to do little to dissuade Práta. They clashed hourly it seemed. Práta calling Rún an obnoxious cow in the worst of them, prompting Rún to pull her breasts out and shake them around, screaming obscenities.

  All of it existed as strange, hollow background noise in Socair’s mind. The only time she felt in control of her thoughts were the times Meirge came to her to point at maps and ask how they ought to fight against the hippocamps. She had not p
repared a speech, it occurred to her. All the words that came to her mind were apologies for events the people would have known nothing about. And if the Binse learned that a girl in Socair’s charge had done the work, Meirge said there’d be no end to the complaints. Even without that knowledge they had made a dozen attempts to come and speak their minds of her appointment. Meirge assured her that the paperwork had all been in order. Deifir had been careful to see to it all.

  Práta put a hand on her shoulder and stood from the couch. They exchanged soft smiles and Socair retreated back into her own mind. She had spent only a little time with Deifir. There must be some core things which made a Treorai. Something which made the decisions easier or more plain. The Binse seemed to do little more but quibble and fight over the slightest deviations to what they felt was best, even if it would serve the realm. That very thing had put the hippocamps at Innecarnán, rather than held along the edges of the province. Or slowed, at least. Perhaps that was her own wishful thinking.

  Rún came and sat across from Socair as her mind struggled through the maze of her future life.

  “You do not need to wear such a face for this work.” Rún’s words seemed to be built of the concerns in Socair’s mind.

  “What face?”

  “There is no need to be so coy. Your love there will not say it, but I lack for tact. Besides, if I am to make a place in your heart beside her, I must do the work.” She laughed. Somewhere behind, Práta let out an annoyed huff. “She does not like me, you know. Yet.” Rún smiled wide. “I like her though. Very much. She is all that her father was not. But you will need more.” She looked past Socair to Práta. “I mean no offense in that, I should say.” She looked again at Socair. “But it is true. I know this life. Not from the periphery. It does not change so much, no matter the heights of one’s title.”

  Socair was not sure what to make of Rún. She had not been before. Their encounter had been such a brief thing that it was hard now to understand why she had come.

  “You’re wondering why I am even here, are you not?”

  “I do not like how easily you do that.”

  “Your face is a book, Socair. One with very large print. I was helpless against it. I fell in love.” She laughed again. “And that is why I am here. You are special. Deifir knew it, our dear Práta knows it. I knew it before either of them.” Práta came back and sat on the couch, sliding close to Socair. Rún smiled, leaning forward in her seat. “She is jealous. But I want her as well.” She leaned back. “But, no… I fear I am being distracted by the both of you.” She straightened in the chair. “Have you thought of what you will say? Jokes and fun are all well and good, but one must be prepared.”

  “I have not.”

  “Hm. Well, what would you say if the speech were this very moment?”

  “I… I have not thought of it.”

  “Yes, I know. But if you had to speak, just now, what would you say?”

  Socair shook her head.

  “Well… not something you can learn in a day, I suppose. It’s fine. If it’s you, I have no doubt you’ll find the words in the moment. Don’t you agree, Práta?”

  “I do, in fact. And if you acted as you do now, I would not find you so hard to bear.” Práta gave a pointed smile.

  “And if you kept people below Socair’s station from speaking over her, I would act as you like more.”

  Práta raised her voice, leaning toward Rún. “She can speak for herself. You should not presume that she wishes you to nag at everyone who needs something of her.”

  Rún came to her feet, yelling again and Práta did the same. “She must learn that if she allows them to take from her at their leisure, she will have nothing left.”

  The bickering pair fell again into the background of Socair’s mind. She stood, ignoring them, and went for the door. They asked after her, each blaming the other for her decision. There had been enough talk, she decided. There were things she wished to see.

  Outside the door, far on the south side of the Bastion as it was, she could hear the noise of the city as never before. They sang and chanted. A river of sound that coursed through the halls, making its way to her. Socair followed it as if in a trance.

  She came to the main hall. The former Binse were there, watching her with cold eyes. They whispered between themselves, but Socair could not bring herself to care. She watched the main doors, mouthing the words to the song that came from the other side. Meirge came to her.

  “We are not due—”

  “We will begin now.” She did not look at him, but she saw that he bowed his head and went about his work.

  Socair stayed where she had come to stand, in the middle of the grand hall, the dark grey around her alive with sound. The doors opened and the Binse saw themselves out. The singing continued. Songs that stirred her heart. Songs of her home. Práta put a hand on her shoulder and Socair smiled back at her. She walked for the doors.

  When she passed through them the song died in a wave, replaced by wild cheers and shouted words that drowned the other. More faces than she had ever seen spread away from her, through the whole of the main courtyard and on down the length of the streets as far as she could see. They smiled, eyes fixed on her. Her mind swam and time passed before her. The Binse, in turn, affirmed that she was the object of Deifir’s will. The crowd cheered with each proclamation, ignoring the grudging tone that came with the words.

  They all had finished and the eyes turned again to her. She stepped forward, Práta and Rún keeping their place. The quiet came and her mind filled with words, with apologies, with regret. Those words were not the ones that came out.

  “I am not Deifir. I can never be. She was kind and gentle and wise. She was a comfort to us all, as a mother’s bosom. I will never be those things. I will never be soft nor am I as kind as I could ever wish to be. I am not gentle and I doubt if I will ever be wise.” She swallowed hard, the feel of a million expectant eyes tearing at the edges of her composure. “I am not a Goddess, though I have been given the name. I am young. Young and stupid and full with hate for an enemy I barely know. My mouth turns bitter with every mention of them. With every thought they pollute. Whatever I do not know, I am sure of that. I will drive the hippocamps from this land. For those of us they have killed… for my loves and for yours, I swear to you… to all of you.” Silín and Doiléir showed their faces somewhere behind her eyes. She could not stop the tears. “So long as I breathe, they will not know peace. There will be no borders to save them. I will drag their corpses back across the strait and lock them there forever.”

  Somehow the noise was louder than it had been. She heard some of the words now. “Sister!” “Goddess!” “Treorai!” She turned away from the courtyard and Meirge eyed her toward the Bastion. The screams died as she took her leave of them, replaced with song again. A song about Abhainn. In it she brought the Bastion up from the Rith itself and put walls around the land, bringing the river elves their only sanctuary from the horsefolk so many thousands of years before.

  When she passed the doors, she heard Práta and Rún behind her.

  “I told you she would find the words.” Rún sounded satisfied at that.

  Práta gave a labored sigh. “I did not doubt it. Must you be this way?”

  “How else would I be?”

  The Binse dispersed when they came to the grand hall. Meirge had told her before that they would no longer be allowed in the Bastion. None said a word to her as they took their leave to empty the rooms they had occupied. The Binse of Quarter stayed behind, a look of utter contempt on his face. He came to her.

  “Socair—”

  “You will call her Treorai, ungrateful little—” Rún took a step forward, Socair put out an arm to stop her.

  “Preposterous harpy, you dare…” He caught himself, remembering that Socair was his target. “You… I do not know what spell you cast on Deifir, but I
will never acknowledge you beyond what tradition demands. Know that. You have said it yourself in your pathetic appeals to those yowling fools outside. You are young and you are stupid. And for me, that is the end of it.”

  Rún began to speak again but Socair again raised a hand.

  “I am uncomfortable in this place, in this title, Ataim.” Socair’s voice was calm and steady. She stepped closer to the former Binseman and looked down at him. “But I know of hierarchy. The soldiery taught it to me well. And I know well enough my place in it. Do not misunderstand that.” She drew a breath, her eyes intense. A quiver came at the mouthy elf’s lip as she towered over him. “Those things said, I will say this. Should the corpulent sack of waste you call a body ever darken these halls again, I will remove those greasy lips from your face with my own two hands. Your things will be sent, so leave. And if you choose to speak another word in doing so, make them ‘Yes, Treorai’ and ‘Thank you, Treorai.’”

  He huffed as though he meant to be the first elf to die of feelings of indigence, muttering a few half words but deciding his battle was lost. He stomped away, licking his hand to slick the thin hair over his scalp. Guards came to his side having heard the words exchanged.

  Rún spoke as soon as he had been seen out a side door, flanked by guards.

  “I am not sure what I witnessed.”

  Práta smiled. “You’ve underestimated your Treorai, Rún.”

  “I’ve fallen in love all over again.”

  Práta took Socair’s hand in her own, coming to her side, the noise of singing from outside echoing around them. “What will we do, then? You have made a bold proclamation, love.”

  “When I was a girl, my father took me to a river, I’d thought to fish. He lifted me from the ground, walked me to the end of a small dock, and threw me into the current.” Socair looked across the vast room, at its dark walls, the tops showing drops of milky white, and at the subtle beauty of the throne in the center of the far wall. “I expect this will not be so different.”