One's Own Shadow (The Siúil Book 2)

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.

“Have you done? Can we eat?”

Práta stood and looked at her with eyes full of concern. She placed her hand on Nath’s head and gently pulled the girl back, kneeling before her.

“Práta and I will dine alone tonight, Nath.”

“No!” Her scream was shrill, nothing but a tantrum. “No, no, no! I waited so nicely, did I not? I waited here.”

Socair stood. “I will not treat you as a child, Nath. Práta is very special to me—”

“And I am not?” Nath teared up. “Is that it?”

She was so weary, from so many things. But she could not bring herself to be cruel by speaking the whole truth. “You are. But not as Práta is. Not yet.” The last was perhaps too far a thing, but Socair hoped it would at least quiet the girl for the time.

“Yet…” Nath whispered the word, so quiet that Socair barely heard. “Then… can I at least…”

“We will send the same food we have to the room for you. It will have to do. But you may sleep with us, as ever.”

Práta stirred at that, but said nothing. She would not have, not with a battle so close.