Shadowdance

by Robin W Bailey

  A stray moonbeam rippled along the bronze point of Minarik's javelin as he balanced it across his bare thighs and rested his helm carefully on the shaft. "Now, I've got some questions, boy, and be mindful of my kindness as you answer."

  Innowen licked his lips and nodded hesitantly, uncomfortably aware that he'd already lied to this man once. He was also aware of the veiled threat in Minarik's words. Of course, there had to be a reason why the Lord of Whisperstone was abroad on such a foul night.

  There was a scuffling behind him, and he turned. The two soldiers emerged from under the overhanging branch bearing Drushen by the heels and shoulders. The old man slept on, oblivious to everything. Even when they passed him up to one of the other riders, who draped him unceremoniously across the shoulders of his horse, he didn't stir.

  Lord Minarik drew Innowen's attention back.

  "We've been following two fugitives," he said. "A woman and her champion. But this wretched storm has made a ruin of the roads and their tracks. As near as we can tell, though, they came down this path." His gaze bore into Innowen as he leaned even lower. "Did you see them?"

  Innowen hugged the cloak around his shoulders and stared at Drushen, who hung limply across the horse between a soldier's thighs. He thought then of the warmth of Whisperstone's hearths and the safety of its walls, perhaps some food, and the bed his guardian certainly needed. And he thought of the Witch, who had healed his crippled legs.

  "What have they done?" he dared to ask, meeting Minarik's gaze as steadily as he could.

  "King Koryan was murdered two nights ago," Minarik answered sternly. "This woman and man are charged with the crime, and since they dwell within my borders I'm responsible for their apprehension." He straightened a bit, but his countenance was no less severe. "So tell me if they passed this way."

  Innowen tried to hide his trembling. He owed a debt to Minarik for the cloak and for the care and shelter he had promised. Yet he owed a debt also to Vashni and the Witch of Shanalane. She had saved Drushen from the serpent's venom, and she had made his legs whole again. Surely, that was the greater service, even if Minarik was the lord of this land.

  He stalled while his mind raced. "Then Kyrin sits on the throne of Ispor?"

  Minarik snorted. "Koryan's first-born sits safe and dry at my table in Whisperstone eating my larder bare while I hunt for his father's killers. But never fear, he assures us of the depth of his grief. Now answer my question."

  Innowen pulled the cloak tighter about himself to fight off a chill that had nothing to do with the weather. "How did great Koryan die?" he persisted. "You say it was two days ago?"

  Minarik shifted impatiently. "You're too inquisitive, boy." he grumbled. "Nobody knows how he died, but they say there was such a look of terror on his face—as if he'd seen into the Underworld itself—that only the Witch of Shanalane could've done the deed."

  Innowen gave no thought to his foolishness as he observed with an open scoff, "That's slight evidence, Lord."

  A hand seized him by the back of the neck and lifted him to the tips of his toes. He gave a half-strangled cry of pain before Minarik waved his hand, and he was released. He shot a fearful glance over his shoulder and stared into the face of one of the guards who had carried Drushen out from under the shelter.

  "You've seen her, haven't you, boy?" Minarik's gaze brooked no argument. Abruptly, Innowen felt a strange weakness in his knees and thought he would fall down. But the guard behind him settled a hand on his shoulder, steadying him, and Minarik spoke again. There was no anger in his voice, yet he was firm. "It's said that all who see her must love her." The barest hint of a sympathetic smile flickered on his lips. "And you have that look about you." The smile quickly vanished. "Nevertheless, you must tell me the truth."

  Innowen listened to the wind, hoping it would speak to him again, tell him what to do. But the air was silent, the night suddenly still, as if the world held its breath to see what he would do.

  At last, he nodded. "She saved Drushen," he admitted as the slow fire of shame warmed his face. Even as he betrayed the Witch, he tried to defend her. He clenched his fists in the fabric of the cloak and stepped up beside Minarik's knee. "Why would she murder King Koryan and then take time to spare an old woodcutter?" he said furiously. "Why would she do that?"

  Minarik brushed a finger over his lower lip and gazed at him intently. "You say she saved your guardian?"

  Innowen bowed his head and drew a deep breath. If he could do nothing more, perhaps he could gain time for the Witch by talking. "He was stung by a serpent, but she drew out the poison. She bandaged him, too, and her man made a stew in the fireplace. What sense does that make if she murdered Koryan?"

  The Lord of Whisperstone scratched his chin. Then he crooked a finger again. A soldier rode up on his right side and wordlessly accepted Minarik's javelin and helm. Unburdened, Minarik threw a leg over the neck of his horse and slid to the ground. Folding his arms across his armored chest, he paced toward the ruins of the cottage. Innowen followed.

  When Minarik spoke, it was half to himself. "Kyrin said she fled when he sent his men to question her."

  "Question her?" Innowen sneered, "or apprehend her?" At once, he clapped a hand over his mouth. He had dared too much, to use such a tone of voice with such a great man. He flung himself at Minarik's feet. "Please, I beg you! Do her no harm!" He set his forehead on the toe of Minarik's muddy sandal and grasped his ankle in both hands. "You've shown me kindness, Lord," he cried, "with this gift of your cloak and your offer of shelter. But she saved my guardian's life. The Witch of Shanalane can't be guilty of Kyrin's charge!"

  Minarik bent down, gripped Innowen's arm gently and pulled him up. "You have seen her, then, as I thought," he said. "And perhaps you do love her even at your tender age." He let go of Innowen, turned, and walked back to his horse. "Well, it no longer matters. We'll not catch them tonight." He glanced up at the sky and wiped the drizzle from his forehead with the back of his arm. "Dawn can't be far off. My men are tired, and the rain has washed away any tracks." He took his reins, climbed astride his huge gray, and settled himself upon the animal's bare back. The soldier at his right side held out the javelin and helmet. Minarik took them and set the helmet on his head. "We'll return to Whisperstone and face Kyrin's wrath," he announced, beckoning to Innowen. "Come, you'll ride with me. What's your name?"

  "Innocent," he answered without thinking, taking the lord's hand, allowing himself to be hauled upward. Minarik was strong indeed. He balanced Innowen between his thighs and wrapped an arm around his middle. Working the reins with one hand, he steered his horse around to face his soldiers.

  "Forget what you've heard here," he told them. "We found these two in the storm, that's all. The Witch and her man are lost to us. If anyone questions you, shrug and blame it on her magic." He glanced at the racing clouds overhead and again wiped the damp mist from his brow. "I'm half-convinced she's responsible for this murk, anyway. Now, who's for food and a crackling fire?"

  His four men grumbled agreement, and with Minarik taking the lead, they started back up the narrow path to the main road. Low branches swatted them smartly, and wet leaves licked their faces. Innowen shuddered, remembering how strangely different it had seemed when he rode this way with Vashni. But then he'd been slung over the horse like a piece of baggage. Maybe that was really why the limbs hadn't struck him, why the forest had seemed to shy away as they passed.

  He sighed and shivered and tried to adjust himself more comfortably on the horse's wet hide. Minarik's arm tightened about him, and he leaned back against his benefactor. There was warmth in the older man, and Innowen had been cold too long.

  * * *

  He had never been so far from home or so far down the forest road. To every tree and boulder there was a wonderful sense of newness that not even the darkness could hide. When the road began to widen, Innowen leaned forward eagerly. Despite the hour, he was not tired. He looked about with excitement.

  The clouds parted b
riefly. A slender moon and a few broken stars lit up the world ahead.

  Innowen caught his breath. Slowly, he raised a finger to his mouth and chewed the tip as he stared at the dark, magnificent shape ahead. While he had never seen Minarik's keep before, he had heard tales among the villagers in Shandisti. None of those tales had prepared him for such a sight.

  Whisperstone reared defiantly against the heavens, hugging the moon's light to keep the night at bay. Dim candles arid lamps bent to the same task, oozing dull amber radiance through the open shutters of the highest windows. Turrets and towers loomed like jagged teeth. Shadows shifted in the crenellations and among the battlements of its fantastic walls where small watchfires burned. Behind it, as if to provide an appropriate backdrop, rose the blacker bulk of a huge, rounded hill.

  Impossibly, Whisperstone seemed to grow clearer to Innowen's vision as he gaped. He could make out the individual blocks of stone in the great defensive wall, the crumbling mortar, cracks that had become home to moss and lichen. He knew he couldn't possibly see so clearly in the darkness, yet the illusion persisted.

  Then clouds obscured the moon once more, and Whisperstone seemed to fade. Only the pitiful lights in the windows and the watchfires remained like pale, inscrutable eyes that measured their approach.

  Innowen trembled.

  "Cold?" Minarik asked, his voice breaking the silence as gently as if it were an egg. "We'll be there soon. Dry clothes and hot food will chase away the chills."

  Innowen didn't answer. Not all the chills, he thought, hugging himself. Whisperstone frightened and fascinated him. He stared ahead, both hoping for and dreading another glimpse of their destination. The clouds granted his wish. The moon lit up the keep once more with an icy white light, but only briefly before closing in again.

  The night teased him like that. Several more times, the moon shone through only to be swallowed by the clouds. Each time, Whisperstone brightened and faded, as if it were not quite part of this world, but on a misty boundary between earth and unreality.

  The road grew wider still. They passed a house set back among the trees, then another with a small forge in a shed beside it; the coals still glowed with dull red heat and exuded thin wisps of smoke. A little further along, several houses stood clustered together. There was a barn and a corral full of horses. The animals stood quietly and unmoving, disinterested as the soldiers rode by.

  Innowen required no moonlight now to see Whisperstone. The road led straight ahead through its mighty, massive gates. On either side of it, small shops and cottages stood darkly silent. Innowen peered at the doorways and shutters for any sleepy faces that might peek out. But the village was still. No one and nothing stirred.

  The immense gates stood open. A pair of guards kept watch at the entrance, clutching long, wooden-shafted spears with glistening copper leaf-shaped points. They looked thoroughly miserable in sodden cloaks, yet they pulled themselves to attention and saluted properly as their lord approached.

  Minarik's small company passed through the gates and rode across a muddy expanse. It was more than a mere courtyard. It might have been a huge training ground or a vast common area. A few outbuildings, barely visible, nestled in the shadow of the great wall.

  One of the gate sentries walked alongside Minarik's horse, lighting the way to the keep's entrance with a single oil lantern. Innowen caught his breath again when the dirty glow illumined a brief cascade of wide marble stairs that rose up between two huge, ancient, fluted columns. Just beyond the columns, a pair of ponderous doors stood shut. Hideous bronze visages peered back at him through the gleam, immense masks, he realized, hammered and embossed into the metal plating that strengthened and reinforced those doors.

  And there was more. Demons danced and wild spirits writhed obscenely in relief around the masks, as if the artist had sought to depict some hellish orgy. In the lamp's flickering the figures seemed to move, and Innowen clapped a hand to his mouth.

  Minarik gave a low chuckle and squeezed the boy's shoulder. "Nothing to hurt you, son," he said. "Whisperstone was built in another age, long before my father's fathers came to own it. Men were superstitious in those days, and our home reflects many of the old beliefs. Those were made to frighten away intruders, but they're only the imaginings of a skillful artisan, nothing more." He squeezed Innowen's arm again. "You're much too frail and delicate for your age, boy." It was a soldier's appraisal, and Innowen squirmed. "You need some muscle and meat on you."

  Innowen drew his shoulders up around his ears and gathered the cloak tighter around his throat.

  Minarik scratched his bearded chin. "I'd heard that your woodcutter lived with a crippled lad. Drushen, you said his name was? How did that rumor get started?"

  Innowen only shrugged. How could he explain his newfound ability to walk? It was easier to let the Lord of Whisperstone wonder. Rumors were only rumors, and in time, Minarik would surely dismiss the story.

  "You've turned sullen," Minarik observed. He waited, as if expecting Innowen to answer. When Innowen volunteered nothing, he continued. "I've shut myself within these walls too long. I barely know the people who dwell in my corner of Ispor anymore."

  Innowen twisted on the horse's bare back to see Minarik's face. The regretful tone of Minarik's remark surprised him, and his mouth fell open. He thought of his lonely cottage in the woods and the years spent with only Drushen for company. Except for the rare times when he accompanied his guardian to Shandisti to sell wood, that had been his world. But he'd been an invalid and a cripple. How could a man like Minarik, vigorous and full of a man's strength, how could he hide inside his walls when the whole world sprawled at his feet?

  He saw something suddenly in the older man's eyes, just a brief flash, something deep and sad. A memory, perhaps, or an old hurt. Innowen bit his lip and turned away, knowing with a strange certainty that some mystery surrounded Minarik, something that haunted his heart and soul. He wished he had not seen it, that he had not looked in those eyes. It disturbed Innowen, filled him with an odd disquiet.

  He jerked his head up suddenly and frowned. His imagination was running away with him. How could he know such a thing? Who was he to judge this man who had treated him so kindly? It was time to get a grip on his senses, on his reason.

  He clenched his eyes shut and opened them, then he gazed again at Whisperstone, his lips forming a taut line. The keep was huge; he felt dwarfed and cold in its shadow. But it was only a keep, he told himself, an ancestral home for a long line of noblemen. In the darkness, it seemed to breathe with a palpable life. In the light of day, though, he knew it would be just a pile of stones.

  Minarik eased himself back onto the rump of his horse and slid down to the ground. Then he held his arms out to help Innowen dismount. As soon as his feet touched the muddy earth, Innowen pitched backward, overbalanced. The horse started to bolt, but Minarik caught its reins and jerked hard with a low shout. The beast stilled at once, and he reached down and lifted Innowen from the mud.

  "You're a clumsy boy," he said with a grin, "but, I think, a likable one."

  Innowen's cheeks burned with embarrassment, and he looked despairingly at his fine cloak now splattered with filth.

  "Don't worry," the lord said, laying a hand on Innowen's shoulder. He passed the reins of his horse to the sentry who carried the lantern and guided his young guest up the steps toward the pair of doors. Two of his soldiers surrendered their reins to the same guard and followed, bearing Drushen's unconscious form between them. "Gently," Minarik cautioned them.

  The Lord of Whisperstone pushed open the doors and led the way inside. Innowen blinked as light spilled around him. The inner hall blazed with a brilliance provided by mirror-enhanced lamps. Behind each sconce a plate of burnished copper hung, intensifying and reflecting the lamps' fireglow. Innowen had heard of such a thing, but never seen it.

  Minarik beckoned. "Come in, Innocent."

  He frowned and hesitated. His feet were muddy and his cloak dripped. Whisperstone's
floor was made of beautiful marble tiles. Minarik had left tracks, but then, it was his floor.

  The lord shook his head with undisguised mirth. He dragged the sole of his sandal on the floor, leaving a thick smear. "I have many slaves and hired servants," he said. "Now come along."

  Innowen swallowed, then stepped inside. The stone was cold beneath his bare feet. A small grin blossomed on his face. He'd never felt such a sensation against his feet before! Or any sensation until tonight. All the terror of Whisperstone fled before this unexpected reminder that his body was whole, that he had feeling where none had ever been, that he could walk. He wiggled his bare toes on the marble, unable to hide his delight.

  "You're a strange one," Minarik said wonderingly, and Innowen noticed the curious expression his host wore.

  He made a hasty excuse for his behavior as he went to Minarik's side. ''I've never stood on such a fine floor." At least it was not a lie. He didn't want to lie to this man again. "We had a dirt floor in the cottage."

  They walked down a long hall and turned into. another. A huge, powerful-looking servant clad in a robe of white homespun hurried to meet them and to gather their wet garments. Innowen cowered away, rather than surrender his cloak. He was naked underneath; he didn't want to stand bare and dirty in this place where great men lived. The servant tried to snatch it, anyway.

  Minarik saved him. "Taelyn, let him be," he ordered with a patient voice. "I gave him the cloak. Go, and prepare a room for him and his guardian. The old man is ill, so light a good fire, and get food and drink ready for them."

  Taelyn shot a baleful glare at Innowen but bowed and hurried to obey. The two soldiers followed after him, bearing Drushen between them by heels and shoulders, as if he were a sack of vegetables. Innowen started to protest, but then he caught a quick glimpse of his guardian's face; it was composed in utter peace.

  Innowen turned uncertainly toward Minarik. Was he supposed to go with Drushen or stay with his host?