One's Own Shadow (The Siúil Book 2)

by Randall P. Fitzgerald

  The gathered audience laughed and applauded, the sound returning to the room. A pair approached immediately, coming to Gadaí’s side with smiling faces. They were armorsmiths, shrewd elves the both of them. Commerce could not be so easily deterred by a satyr, it seemed. Some among the Bastion City sold to Drow, which seemed not so different in Rianaire’s mind. Not at open war, perhaps, but certainly in awkward relations.

  She smiled and walked from Gadaí, finding Mion leaned against a pillar. He wore a fine suit in deep green and was accompanied by only one small boy, who wore a dress and had long hair. She’d have thought him for a girl if not knowing Mion’s tastes would never allow it. The whoremonger’s face turned from serious to a smile in a moment.

  Rianaire spoke before he could. “You’re souring the air, Mion. Do you hate my Binseman so much?”

  “I do, but not the one you imagine.”

  She looked around the room. “Ah! Tola. You sent me after him, did you not?”

  He clicked his tongue. “A moment of whimsy. Since coming he’s been no end of trouble for me. After owed coin or some such. Ridiculous. You’d think having been inside someone for so many years, there would be certain allowances.”

  “You sent me after a former lover, then?”

  “He did not mention it?”

  “He mentioned very little about you,” she replied, covering a small laugh with her hand. “I should hope you get me the coin I’m owed.”

  “Bah!” He waved a dismissive hand at her, returning to his sour mood. “Such jests are beneath you. And surely a reprieve is in order for all I’ve done for you.”

  Síocháin wandered away, likely bored with the talk. She did not have much love for Mion, a thing she’d been plain enough about. Inney could likely say the same with more conviction, but stayed at her side as ever.

  “If I recall entirely correctly, you said the game was no fun when it was rigged to your favor.”

  “I wish you remembered less.” He shrugged. “But, perhaps there’s truth in it. Being so bothered does wonders for my passions.”

  Perhaps better that she have Tola leave Mion be, then. Helpful as it was at times, he was mischievous when he became too excited by a thing. A change of subject was worth forcing.

  “What do you make of my new Binse of War, then?”

  He looked over at Gadaí. “Well, I like the look of the elf girl more, but she seems she’d be interesting to bed.”

  “You’d bed her?”

  “Why not? And I find myself entirely shocked you seem to have not considered the idea.”

  “I fear that is a step too far for even me.”

  “A waste.” He slapped the young boy on the arse. “Wine.” The boy scampered away and Mion turned his attention back to Gadaí. “It seems at least that she will be capable. I have heard of the work she did against the satyr who came to the north. Brutal work, and vicious.”

  Mion’s ears heard all as usual. He had not made mention of Síocháin’s complaints or the colleges as yet, so there was at least some hope she’d not spend the evening hearing his thoughts on that decision. Perhaps, she thought, they would be short thoughts. He had as little love for the colleges and their fanatic devotion to the Sisters as she did.

  “A shame about the south,” he said, taking a wine cup from the boy as he returned. “I hear they’ve already sworn in a new—”

  A cup clattered against the floor and a roaring screech filled the room. All sound drained away as Rianaire whipped to see the commotion.

  Gadaí stood over Síocháin, eyes bright with madness and rage. She croaked words that Rianaire did not know, angry words. Inney bolted from Rianaire’s side as the satyr’s arm came back. The half-Drow shoved Síocháin away, planting herself before the blow. It came hard, spittle raining from Gadaí’s mouth. Inney doubled at the shoulder but kept her footing. More angry words in some strange tongue. Loud, whipping pops sounded against Gadaí’s legs and she buckled, coming to her knees and finally clutching at her throat, the hate in her eyes turning to desperation. She reached out at the air and Inney backed away. Rianaire began toward them, eyes moving from Gadaí, who lay dying on the floor to Síocháin who stood calmly, watching the life drain away.

  “What have you done?”

  The words were ghosts. Síocháin looked at her finally as Rianaire came over Gadaí’s body.

  “I have done what I must. For all of us.”

  Rianaire screamed, losing herself among it all. “What have you done, Síocháin?! Did I not make clear what she offered us? What if you have doomed us?” Her voice quieted and her eyes softened, tears coming to them, even with others in the room. “What if you have doomed me? Do you not care?”

  Síocháin said not a word. She only stood, quiet and emotionless to the world.

  “Guards…” The words came from her, crackly, wavering things, soaked in tears. Not an order from the lips of a Treorai. “Take her to a cell.”

  Inney pulled her from the hall and to her quarters. She’d not have moved under her own power so she was thankful for it being done. Rianaire could not bring a single thought to her mind. She sat on the bed, unable to will a muscle in her body to move. Síocháin, her love, the light among the dark days of her past… what had she done?

  Word came, hours into the night. The Binse of War had been poisoned. She had died only minutes after Rianaire was taken from the room. A day passed, and another. She ate nothing and drank nothing. She thought near as little. Only remembered Síocháin’s face, smiling and young and wondering what had driven her to it. Inney tried to speak with her, but Rianaire could not bring words to her face.

  The night was dark when she finally stood from the bed she’d lived in for so many hours. Inney began to move.

  “No.”

  It was the only word she had spoken since. Forming the sound pained her throat as she’d never known. She was swollen and ugly and ruined. Her muscles burned with each stair she descended. Not a word was spoken as she came to the cells beneath the Bastion. She stood before Síocháin in a loose gown, staring, the tears already in her eyes.

  “You have broken me, Síocháin… is that what you wished?”

  Síocháin was quiet, but her eyes were on Rianaire.

  Rianaire bit her lip hard, trying to keep her mind about her. “Is silence all I have earned? All my love has bought?” She waited again, frustration rising behind the sadness. Who was this woman? “I do not know what I can do, Síocháin. I have always known the weight of my loyalties… but now…” Rianaire looked away, unable to meet the empty gaze. “How can I do nothing?”

  “How could I?” Rianaire turned, her eyes meeting Síocháin’s. She sat still, at the edge of her simple bed. “How could I do nothing? Bringing a disgusting—”

  “Nothing?!” She began to lose her patience. “Is your hate so short-sighted as that, Síocháin? Do you understand so little?! How many will die without her? How many lives have you spent to hand me those words?!” Her anger turned to a sort of desperate mania, and she laughed. “Did I not explain it well enough to you? Did you not understand the strategy? How many hours at that door did I spit empty words to make you understand?”

  “I understand it all, love. More than you will ever allow yourself to believe. I understand that you had no need to sully the pride of our people with that animal’s name. I understand that it was a game to you. To make those you hate make faces you love. And to show them for fools.” Síocháin stood. “Your games have gone too far this time. I could no longer watch them be played. Already you brought that black-blooded woman into our bed. I bore it because my pride is my own to sell. But our people deserve better than this game of yours.”

  Rianaire winced at the words and pulled from them.

  The execution was ordered for the morning of the following day. Rianaire woke to it, dressed herself in black and fur. She heard there ha
d been singing in Abhainnbaile all through the night. Their new Treorai crowned. There would be no singing in Spéirbaile.

  The courtyard was full with bodies, all of them grim and joyless, as if her heart stretched out away from her and into frozen streets. Snow fell silent in weak wind. The guillotine had been built and put to its place. A solemn chair sat on the platform to look on the horrible thing. Rianaire walked through the cold and the hush to take her place in it and the unfortunate business began. Síocháin was brought out, dressed in simple white, her face the same as it had been for so many years. Even now.

  “For the most heinous crime of murder of the sitting Binse of War of Rianaire, Treorai of Spéirbaile, and for the treason which this act carries with it, Síocháin of Spéirbaile, you are hereby sentenced to know death for your crimes. Let this sentence be carried out when the condemned has spoken her last. So it is written.”

  The words echoed, carried on the wind. Rianaire’s eyes dry and red and swollen. She stared at the love she had known for so long, white gown rustling in the breeze.

  Síocháin turned to her. Each flat word tore at Rianaire’s heart.

  “I am sorry. I have made you cry.”

  The silence returned and masked men took Rianaire’s love by the shoulders, walking her to her death. It was quiet. Quiet enough to hear the sound of snowflakes. And then the level was pulled on a horrible machine. The snow went red and the light drained from Rianaire’s soul.

  She stood, and the wind died. The snow froze in the air. Tears moved down her face. She wept loudly as she walked from the stage. The echoes stung her ears. And for the first time in her life, she could not stand the cold.

  U

  Aile

  The elves were unbearable in their revelry. The songs were unending and they were drunk more often than usual and, worse, they all seemed to wish to explain to her why they were so elated. A new Treorai. She had heard stories of Socair, the Goddess of Glassruth no less than a dozen times now. Some stories stopped there, others told of her time in the Binse, a few mentioned she had fought the horsefolk even more recently. The common theme through them seemed to be that the woman was of unmatched prowess in a fight. It was a claim she had heard a thousand times in her life and found it wanting each and every time she’d bothered to test the legends. Even with so much disappointment in her life, she never grew tired of seeing the truth of such stories. And now the story belongs to a Treorai. It was almost a disappointment. Very rare for anyone to pay to see a Treorai put to the blade and not worth the risk without the coin to fit such a job.

  She had taken up at an inn at the far end of the city, having walked the streets before making the choice. It was as quiet as she could hope to find things, but still there was endless noise. Most had seemed unbothered by her presence, though that may have been a symptom of the continuous river of ale. The innkeep had refused her cubes, saying he had no need of Drow money. It was a frustrating outcome, but at least seemed to firm up what the elves thought to see the cubes themselves. Drow gold would be far more easily accepted than hippocamp gold in any event. She’d just given the man his coin, but figured she’d be able to barter the use of the other if a need arose.

  Having gotten herself clean, she’d slept for the bulk of a day and a half in spite of the noise. She drank all that was sat in front of her and ate even more. It’d somehow endeared the elves in the dining area of the inn to her. They cheered as she ordered more plates of food, but in truth she had not so much as noticed them at the time. Thinking of it later annoyed her. She wished to keep herself away from anyone’s notice for a time. There was no need in rushing for work and she could not stomach the thought of being forced to interact with another living thing. The innkeep, for his part, ignored her comings and goings. Perhaps he’d have cared more if not for the constant tide of people ebbing and flowing. The place was full most nights until dawn when they would shift back to the streets and then back again for the nights.

  Aile began leaving during the nights and scouting the streets. The city had changed fairly thoroughly since the last she had spent any meaningful time in it. Where there had been slums, now there were shops and unassuming homes. Things were clean and lacked for the sense of danger that, say, the Low District of Fásachbaile carried in the air. The places she would need were not in short supply, many of them even open well into the night as the feverish ringing of hammer on steel filled the streets near blacksmiths and lights burned in so many others. She’d found three or four of the shops she’d need before returning to her inn.

  Though it was past midnight, the singing and the flow of ale continued unabated. She passed through the festive dining hall unmolested by drunkard elves and went quietly to her room. She did her best to sleep, but she had worked all the exhaustion from her body and now the noise kept her awake. She decided that seeing to her knives would be fine. They had not been tampered with by the mad cult of elves. The edges were still with them. It had not given her the distraction she’d hoped for. Lost for anything to do, she went down into the fracas and had a mug of drink brought and anything with meat they had on offer. She stood away from the elves as best she could while she waited for the things to be delivered. She had spent hours, already, watching them and listening for whatever information might be of value to her, but there was nothing. An elf woman approached her, busty and wearing a corset without anything more at her top.

  She came beside Aile and sighed. “It’s exhausting, eh?”

  Aile said nothing.

  “Stoic sort, then? S’fine. Done too much listenin’ tonight any case.” She took a swig from her mug and looked Aile over. “It’s pathetic, innit? All of ‘em. Drunk as anythin’, screamin’ songs to nobody. For what? A new one in charge? Seems a fool’s business. Free cups for me, mind, but what’s it change?” She shrugged. “Doubt if you care, though. Refreshing, seein’ that annoyance on your face. I like it. Burns like a fire, somehow. Somethin’ behind it, not like these lot.” The woman drank again from her mug. “You fuck elves?”

  Aile looked at her a moment, but said nothing.

  “Quiet if you like, sure, but I ain’t one to stop askin’ ‘til I have my answer.”

  “I do.”

  “Oh? Then maybe I—”

  “Unless you’ve a cock or a need to die screaming, you’ll not satisfy me, elf.”

  “Unf. You.” She shivered, running a hand down her own body. “I might find the need if you keep at me like that.”

  “I’ll say it polite as I may yet have business here.” Aile looked across the room. “Go seek your satisfaction where there is any to find. I’ve no use of you.”

  The woman moaned plaintively and walked away, looking back at Aile once before she disappeared into the crowd. When her food and drink were brought, Aile took them up to her room, regretting the choice to go among the elven rabble. Perhaps the disappearance of the slums had something to do with it all. Perhaps they were comfortable and saw no threat in her. Nice as the inn was, some part of her wished for slums. They had a way of making folk conscious of danger. She put it out of her mind and ate her food, managing to sleep when the noise faded near dawn.

  She woke a few hours later and left immediately. The streets were full with people buying and chatting away happily. Their will to sing had finally begun to die. The songs were unbearably repetitive and all had the same theme among them. Twenty minutes of droning to venerate some hero or one of their Goddesses, only to switch to another song that did the same. Aile had little love for Drow music, but at least it had meaning. Warnings, lessons. The elves knew only idol worship. She’d known this, but seeing the whole of a city rally around it only confirmed the worthlessness of the race for her.

  She took it in turns to visit the shops she’d sought out the night before. The herbalists and alchemists were well-stocked, though they lacked for some of the more potent ingredients, or at least claimed to. She did not believe t
hem entirely, but she had little need for such things among the elves. With the woods around, most were like to be found if she decided they could not be done without. The city was too orderly to expect she could simply kill a shopkeep and not become suspect. Whatever the mood of the people, they would come to expect she was the responsible party in nearly any curious deaths.

  The smiths and leather shops were not nearly so bright a star in her eye. Poorly forged metal with no care for detail, and where that wasn’t the case the cost was preposterous. Telling of the state of the city that only the broadest ends of the trades could make coin enough to warrant remaining. She’d known another leatherworker in Aostacroí. Talented and reasonable with his wares. It was too far a ride. The gear she’d received seemed to be fit enough for a time, but there was no excuse in being unprepared.

  The sign over the last bladesmith was curious as they went. Weapons was all it read. Not fine weapons or some elf’s weapons. Just the word, writ in simple letters. She walked into the store and before she managed to look around, she heard the voice of an old woman.

  “Don’t much like Drow.”

  She was a haggard thing, wrinkled and half bald. She kept an eye held tightly shut and Aile could not be sure if there was anything behind the lid. The store looked not much better. Only a small room for standing and a counter with nothing on it. There were no blades on display as in all the other shops.

  “Don’t much like elves.”

  The woman laughed at that. A cackle so rusted with age that she expected the woman to cough from the effort. Aile looked around the walls. They were unadorned.

  “Nothin’ to see. Waste of time, you lookin’. You need steel?”

  “Not at present.”

  “Then git.”