~ Chapter XIV ~
Shadowspectre

But to her great frustration, her desire for independence proved an inadequate guide through the mountain labyrinth. Fíohra thought she had fixed each turn in her memory. Far too late she realized that she had done so in the reverse order; the steps Maeleth had lead her down to the stables were opposite of the ones she needed to return. By the fifth wrong turning, Fíohra was hopelessly lost.

"Oh, bother it all," she muttered, staring up at the eleventh darkened stairway she had encountered. Fíohra heaved a sigh, wondering how much more time she would waste in un-losing herself. She had no desire to be late for her audience with Mórdúil. Neither did she wish to appear before the dragon in her sore and sweaty state. But now an unknown number of dark passages and stairways lay between her and her bath. She sighed once more and turned to retrace her steps.

"Is…this…a mortal voice I hear?"

Something had spoken out of the darkness. Fíohra darted away from the stairs, the blood forsaking her face. It was not the voice of a maeleachlainn.

"W-who's there?" she cried, unable to disguise the tremble in her voice.

"Fear? 'Tis strange to hear that." The speaker drew closer, and Fíohra tried with wild eyes to pierce the gloom of the unlit staircase. "It has been long since I heard any but the voices of the maeleachlainn in these halls."

"Who are you?" Fíohra repeated, willing her voice not to shake. A thousand monstrous images gave shape to the unseen speaker in her imagination, and she could hear Mórdúil's warning in her head. Fíohra fingered the knife at her belt and felt a little braver. Rehearsing in her mind's eye the thrusts that Maeleth had taught her, she readied herself for her enemy. "Show yourself!" she cried.

A low chuckle echoed from the stone passage, sending shivers down Fíohra's spine. "Very well, little brave one."

Fíohra drew her knife.

But no creature stepped out of the darkness to bare fearsome teeth and terrible claws. Instead—to Fíohra's great surprise—the darkness itself deepened and flowed out of the stairway. Fíohra fell back as it swirled and congealed into a vaguely man-like form, misty as a cloud around the edges but solid as night in the center. It had no features and no apparent gender, though the voice that spoke was feminine.

"Here I am, child," the dark shape said.

Fíohra struggled to find the words. "W-what are y-you?" she managed at last.

The creature shifted its insubstantial weight and drifted—like a bank of fog before a storm—towards the trembling girl. "Have you the knowledge in that little head to comprehend an answer I would give?"

"I d-don't know. What do you want?" she tried.

"I want nothing, for I am nothing."

Part of Fíohra felt that she should speed her exit, leaving the living shadow to speak its riddles alone. But a greater part was conquered by curiosity—and, she reasoned with herself, if she ran the creature might follow. It seemed wiser not to risk it. So she pressed deeper into conversation with her mysterious companion.

"What do you mean?"

The shadow-form shook and dissolved, melting into what looked like a puddle of liquid darkness on the stone floor. Then, after a moment in this state, it reared up and congealed again, this time in the shape of what looked to be a great hound. Fíohra stared, open-mouthed, as the hound's tail flicked up once, twice, three times—then broke off. The shard of darkness landed on the shadow-hound's back, and it seemed for a moment that it would be absorbed into the creature again. But it steadied and grew, emerging from shapelessness in the form of a night-black raven, with pinions stretching the full span of Fíohra's arm. When at last the transformation appeared complete, the creature spoke again—from both raven and hound's mouths.

"I am nothing, and I am everything. I am what is from what was forgotten; I am the spark in the darkness, and I am the darkness itself. I am a residue, a remnant. I am a scátha; I am a shade; I am a shadowspectre."

"A what?"

The raven's head lifted in Fíohra's direction, and its annoyance with her unimpressed reaction was clear. "A shadowspectre, child," it said again. "The very stones of this mountain echo with power. Just as the maeleachlainn were made of that stone, I was born of their shadows."

"Oh." Fíohra kept a good grip on her dagger, but she lowered the point so as to appear less threatening as she voiced her next question. "And…are you a friendly shadowspectre?" she asked, pronouncing the strange name with care.

The creature of darkness gave a sharp, barking laugh, and Fíohra felt her skin prickle. There was a strange coldness even in the shadowspectre's mirth. "There are those to whom I wish only ill, and there are those to whom I wish only good. I do not think that is what you would consider friendly though, little mortal."

Fíohra swallowed. "Do you wish me ill?" she tried after a moment.

The shadowspectre quivered like a leaf in an autumn breeze. Without answering, the raven's body melted into the head of the hound with its wings outstretched, and in one fluid motion the hound-section stood on its hind paws. Then, suddenly, the creature was human-shaped again. The hound-paws had become human legs, the outspread wings human arms. It was still as dark as starless night, but Fíohra could distinguish the unmistakable profile of her own kind. With a shuffling motion, the shadowy human form expanded and condensed again, draping what looked to be folds of inky cloth over its legs in an imitation of a skirt. Fíohra blinked as the shadowspectre drew a hood over its featureless face. The transformation was complete. In place of the raven-hound stood the living silhouette of a woman, cloaked and cowled in darkness.

"Why should I wish you ill, young one?" the newly-bodied creature asked. Its voice held traces of amusement, but Fíohra was not reassured.

"I…I don't know," she admitted after a pause. "Why would you?"

The shadowspectre drifted nearer. "Some might find your mortality offensive in these ancient halls. Your kind bears death in those fragile little bodies of yours. The reminder of its presence is unwelcome."

Fíohra felt a strange blush of shame rise to her cheeks. "I can't help that…that I'm human," she mumbled, feeling a need to defend her kind. But nothing came to mind.

"True, child. You cannot." The shadowspectre folded its hands. "That is why I am not one who thinks such things."

Relief descended on Fíohra, though questions continued to fill her mind. She lowered her knife further still. "Who does?" she asked, suddenly thinking of Mórdúil.

The shadowspectre tilted its hooded head as if studying the girl in front of it. When it spoke, it sounded intrigued. "Has not the edannathair taken you into the Túráthú? Have you not seen the great Watch-Rose?"

Fíohra frowned, remembering the dragon's injunction the night before. She had sworn never to enter the great pillar—the Túráthú or whatever it was. How then did this shadowspectre know of Mórdúil's secret? "N-no," Fíohra stammered at last. "I was told never to go there."

The shadow-shape scoffed. "This brings me no surprise. The edannathair does like his secrets."

Disconcerting though it was, Fíohra sought the place under the hood of shadow where the creature's eyes—if it had a face—would have been. She needed to think of it as human as possible; it was too strange otherwise. "Have you?" she countered.

"Been to the Seal? Trod the ceiling of Diabhalla? Tasted the antediluvian spring?" The hooded head shook once. "I am bound to the Upper Halls while the edannathair is master of Drún," it said, and Fíohra caught a trace of wistfulness in its preternatural voice. It puzzled her, but her attention was quickly absorbed by the strange names the shadowspectre pronounced. Diabhalla? Whatever is that? she wondered.

"Will he show me?" Fíohra tried, still a little uneasy in her companion's presence, despite its assurance that it bore her no ill will for being human.

Again the creature scoffed. "I do not pretend to know the mind of my maker, child. I cannot answer this."

"Oh." Fíohra shrugged, willing away the disappointment. The hope had flowered too quickly to take root in her heart, so she didn't feel its withering too keenly. But she did feel an urge to change the topic. "Do you know the way to the Westward Chamber, shadowspectre?" she asked, brightening. "Or…what's your name?"

The shadowspectre laughed. "How human of you, little mortal! Names, names, names. Your father's daughter, truly." Fíohra opened her mouth in astonishment, wondering how the creature knew of old Morogh. But she was not allowed the time to ask, for it continued to speak. "I am no more than what I have told you. But if you must call me by a name, call me scátha. It is easier to pronounce than shadowspectre."

"Oh…aye, then. Scátha," Fíohra repeated, still curious as to her companion's knowledge of her father. But the sudden flickering of a nearby torch reminded Fíohra of the late hour, and her curiosity was overshadowed by a desire for a hot bath and clean clothes. So she set her questions aside and asked the shadowspectre once more if it knew the way to her chambers.

Scátha's hooded head bent in assent. "I do, little mortal. Indeed, there are few passages within Drún with which I am not familiar."

"Would you show me the way back?"

"I will." The woman's shape of living shadow turned towards the stair by which Fíohra had entered the abandoned passageway. "It is this way."

"Thank you," Fíohra said in relief, and followed.

~o~

Fíohra didn't even realize how uneasy she felt in the shadowspectre's presence until they reached the door to her chambers. At the sight of the protective words worked into the wood, she breathed a silent sigh of relief. Though it had proved helpful, trailing Scátha's swirling skirts of pitch darkness through the empty corridors of the mountain was altogether unnerving.

To make matters worse, the shadowspectre had not said a word since it agreed to show Fíohra to the Westward. As Scátha threaded through the stone labyrinth, Fíohra did her best to keep up. The sound of her footsteps cut through the silence of the mountain halls, mimicking the thudding of her heart. After nearly a half-hour of following the shadowspectre, Fíohra began to wonder if she had been wise to enlist its help. Mórdúil's warning from the previous night echoed in her mind.

"There are many secrets hidden in the halls of Drún, and many dangers…My maeleachlainn will watch over you, but be on your guard nonetheless."

Fíohra had not seen any maeleachlainn, either around Scátha's haunt or nearer to her own rooms. In an effort to assuage her growing nervousness, Fíohra clutched the hilt of the wardrobe's dagger. She did not ease her grip until the entrance to the Westward was in sight.

Then she relaxed. "Thank you," she said again. Her lingering doubts as to the intentions of the shadowy creature faded. Shadowspectre or not, it got me that much closer to my bath, Fíohra thought happily.

"'Tis nothing, child," the shadowspectre replied. It stood with its back to its young charge, studying the characters above the door.

Or perhaps it's reading, Fíohra mused. When Scátha made no move to allow her past, Fíohra edged around her guide and put a hand on the door. "Open," she ordered, and the door complied. But before she entered, she turned once more to her silent companion, feeling a need to display a little more cordiality. "Er…goodbye, Scátha. Will…might I see you again sometime?"

The shadowspectre bowed slightly, its invisible gaze torn from the words of power. "I have no doubt of it, little mortal." Scátha then raised its head and looked—if, with its eyeless attention, it could be called looking—straight at Fíohra. "We shall indeed meet again."

And without another word, it left her to the comforts of her well-guarded chamber.