Shadowdance

by Robin W Bailey

  "Are you tired?" Minarik asked.

  He shook his head.

  "Come with me, then. This is your chance to meet Ispor's new king." Minarik wiped a frown away with the back of his hand. "It's not the honor it should be, but young as you are, you may find some thrill in it."

  He didn't miss Minarik's doubtful tone, and if the noble hid his frown behind a hand, he couldn't hide the creases that lined his brow when he spoke of Koryan's son. But Kyrin was king now, and respect was his due. It was not right to speak as Minarik had.

  In their brief time together, though, Innowen had come to trust Minarik. If the Lord of Whisperstone disliked his new monarch there must be some reason. He, too, would be wary then, and form no quick judgment.

  He wished that he had better clothes, any clothes, in which to meet a king, but he had no chance to remark on it. Minarik had already started down the hall. Innowen clutched the corners of his cloak and hurried after him, his bare feet making dull slapping sounds on the cool marble.

  They turned into yet another corridor. Everywhere Innowen looked, weapons adorned the walls. Spears and leaf-shaped swords hung on pegs or stood paired in niches and alcoves. Lamplight gleamed on the bronze blades of crossed axes and on small, beautifully carved bows and flint-tipped arrows. There were weapons unknown to him, relics, he guessed, of another time or from far-off lands. A row of ceremonial shields lined one passage, each different in shape and ornamentation. He recognized few of the mythic creatures, nor any of the demonic faces beaten or painted upon their surfaces, but he thought they leered at him and followed him with their copper-glinting eyes.

  "Are there ghosts at Whisperstone?" he murmured softly, afraid that his voice might echo in the corridors and disturb things better left alone.

  Minarik didn't stop or answer, but his throaty chuckle did nothing to calm Innowen's fears. Innowen swallowed, took a deep breath, and walked a little faster in his host's footsteps.

  The corridors twisted and turned until he thought he would get dizzy and embarrass himself by falling again. Yet he walked on and did his best to keep the swift pace without stumbling. The ornate workings and furnishings of the keep nearly overwhelmed him. In his young life he had never seen such opulence. Where there were no weapons adorning the walls, there were sculptures. Where there were no sculptures, there were friezes and frescoes. Without asking, Innowen knew they were the works of master artisans. Each was flawless, exquisite even to his crude and uneducated sensibilities.

  A gentle music, the sweet high notes of a reed pipe, floated down the hall. It grew louder as they walked, and clearer. He listened to its enchanting purity. Each note was perfect. The tones rose and faded without wavering. Unthinking, he began to sway. He drew one arm gracefully up and over his head.

  With a jolt of realization, he stopped himself. Because he walked a little behind Minarik, the lord had not seen, and he was thankful for that. Still, the music was lovely. He could barely keep from dancing; that was what he longed to do, had longed to do all his life, to dance.

  He remembered where he was and put his desires aside. There would be a time to dance. This was not that time, though. He was in a great house with a great man, and on his way to meet a king. He lifted his chin and thrust out his chest, attempting to bear himself with proper dignity.

  As he drank in the music, he swore he heard his name in the next three notes.

  Minarik stopped abruptly, and Innowen ran into him. Inwardly, he cursed himself and started to apologize. But the Lord of Whisperstone had not even noticed. Instead, he stood stiffly, with fists clenched at his sides, and glared at four sentries who blocked a pair of oaken doors.

  Innowen studied the four, quickly noting the short red-sleeved tunics under the leather breastplates on two of the men, which set them apart from Minarik's men, who wore chitons of green with embroidered short sleeves under their armor. The pair in scarlet smiled with smug contempt, while the other two looked down at the floor in shame.

  A low, angry sound rumbled in Minarik's throat. Ignoring their spears, he grabbed the reds by their collars and hurled them away from the entrance. Innowen cringed away and flattened himself against a wall. Minarik's two men stepped back with stricken looks on their faces, uncertain of what to do. Minarik scowled at them, and they bowed apologetically out of his way.

  Minarik kicked open the thin, wooden doors; they rebounded on the inner walls with a crash, and Minarik smashed them back again as he stormed through.

  Innowen quickly followed, ducking under the arm of a sentry who dared to make a grab for him.

  Apparently, the man lacked the courage to chase him. Or perhaps it was good sense that made him decide to remain at his post in the corridor.

  This new hall was yet another amazement in a night filled with wonders. It was larger than his entire cottage and far more splendid. And the music! It swirled around him, overwhelming his senses. He spotted its source, a young girl at the farthest end of the room. She sat on a pillow playing her pipe at the feet of a man who he knew could only be Ispor's new king.

  "You insult me, Kyrin!" Minarik's bellow rolled through the chamber. Startled by the force of Minarik's anger and awed that he would dare to address Kyrin so bluntly, Innowen forgot the girl and gave his attention back to his benefactor. "Do you fear my warriors, that you must add your own guards to my doors? Do you doubt my loyalty?"

  Kyrin sat on an ornate, cushioned chair, which was positioned on a low dais against the room's far wall. He half reclined in it, with one leg thrown casually over an arm of the chair, and he peered at them over the rim of a flat-bowled kylix. "No insult at all," he answered, wiping a trace of wine from his lip with one finger.

  To Innowen's surprise, Kyrin's voice carried with equal power, though he did not shout. The girl at his feet fluttered a note on her pipe suddenly, as if to draw his attention to the hall's nearly perfect acoustics. He looked at her, and their eyes met briefly before she glanced shyly away, lifted her instrument, and resumed her soft play.

  "Unless it is to me," Kyrin continued, straightening himself as he put both feet on the floor. "I ordered two of my men to stand duty so that yours could join the search for that cursed Witch."

  Innowen stiffened. Cautiously, he moved from behind Minarik and found a place near the lord's right hand. He took a harder look at this king. A scarlet cloak lay discarded in a heap on the floor near the chair. Several trays and vessels were also scattered about. Innowen studied the fine red robe that Kyrin wore, the mass of black braids that crowned his head, the richly oiled beard that hid the lower half of his face, the eyes that glittered darkly even over the length of the hall.

  Who are you, he thought with slowly growing bitterness, to speak of the Witch and to dare hunt her through rain and wind. Even if you were king of the world, you would pale beside her.

  "But they refused!" Kyrin rose from the chair, his hand clenching so tightly on the supporting base of the kylix that wine splashed over its rim. "As if your order took precedence over mine!" As suddenly as he had sprung up, he seemed to relax again, and he forced a smile. "Still, because it's your house, I spared their heads. This time." He took a sip from his cup and wiped his mouth again with the back of a hand. "Well, did you find her?"

  Minarik sighed and rubbed his eyes with a thumb and forefinger. "Except for the few who remain on watch, all my men are scouring the countryside. But I tell you, Kyrin, this damned storm has spoiled any sign of a trail. The gods alone know where she is by now."

  Anger flashed over Kyrin's face. With a visible effort, he mastered himself, bent down to the girl with the reed pipe, and placed a hand affectionately on her head as he whispered something in her ear. She put down her pipe and smiled up at him. He stroked her beautiful black hair and returned her smile. Slowly, she got to her feet, made a delicate curtsy to him and then to Minarik, hugged her instrument to her bosom and left the room.

  Innowen stared after her, painfully aware of the absence of her quiet piping. The room seemed col
d and still without her music. Even the air went stale, and what had seemed splendid before became plain.

  "I ordered you to find the Witch!" Once the child was gone, Kyrin's rage returned. "I ordered you!" He rose to his feet and shook a fist at Minarik. "You dare face me empty-handed ?"

  Minarik sneered. "You'll find soon enough, boy, that it's one thing to order men, and quite another to order fate! Are you such a great king? Go tell the storm to stop, and tell the rain to leave her tracks untouched! Go on, I'll wait here!"

  Kyrin purpled. With a shout, he flung his winecup at the Lord of Whisperstone. Innowen also gave a cry. Without thinking, he leaped in front of Minarik, The vessel struck him in the chest; red wine splashed his face.

  A hand closed on his shoulder and pulled him out of the way, but Minarik spared no glance or thanks. He turned toward the doors instead, and called to one of his men. "Take my young guest to Taelyn," he instructed the green-sleeved guard. "He's prepared a room. Make sure the boy and his guardian are comfortable."

  "Don't turn your back on me, Uncle!" Kyrin bellowed. "It's a mistake to turn your back on me!"

  "So I've heard," Minarik answered darkly, turning from Innowen and resuming his argument with Kyrin.

  Uncle! Innowen watched over his shoulder as the guard led him out. Minarik and Kyrin faced each other. Like giants, they seemed to him, ready to bite and claw. The guard led him through the doors and out into the corridor. Shouting followed them and echoed through the keep.

  "Is he really the king's uncle?" Innowen asked his guard. The soldier only grimaced and said nothing.

  Whisperstone was a maze. One corridor turned into another. They went up, down, and under stairways. They met no other servants, and all but a handful of soldiers were looking for the Witch and Vashni. The oppressive silence unsettled him. He found himself thinking of the girl with the pipe again and of her music.

  Ahead, a door eased open. Innowen recognized the servant who had met them earlier. "Oh, you're here, are you?" Taelyn said. "Well, good." He waved a hand impatiently at the guard. "Go back to your business," he said. "This young man is in my care now. Go on, I say." The guard departed, silent as ever.

  The servant beckoned Innowen into the room. A rush of pleasant warmth swept over him. A fire crackled in the fireplace, and oil lamps burned in each of the four corners. A sweet scent wafted on the air; he couldn't tell its source, but he inhaled deeply.

  "Over there," Taelyn said, "is a basin where you may wash." He indicated a low pedestal near the fire where a bowl and pitcher rested. "And here," he continued, leading him to a small table, "are fruits and strip-meats to eat and fresh water to drink. Your guardian is in the next room." Innowen followed him through a narrow archway into another chamber, "Your bed is also here."

  He had never seen such finery on a bed before. The idea of stretching his body upon it, weary as he was, almost appalled him. It was too fine! Only a single candle lit this room, but it was enough to tell the quality of the rich spread and the lush pillows, and the thick carpets that surrounded it all.

  Drushen slept quietly on another bed on the shadowed side of the room. Innowen crept toward him, ran a hand over the beautiful quilt that covered his old friend, and sat down gently beside him.

  The dim candlelight glimmered on the flecks of gray in Drushen's beard and dark hair. The old man's lids were pale and blue-veined. His face, though, had been washed and the filth combed out of his hair.

  "Did you do this?" he asked over his shoulder.

  Taelyn let go a too-loud sigh. "I couldn't very well have him soiling Minarik's sheets, and there was no one else to do it this time of night." He sighed again. "Or morning, I should say. Now, if you have no other needs, I'll wish you pleasant dreams and seek my own rest."

  "Wait," Innowen called softly. "My thanks for all you've done. I will remember you to Lord Minarik."

  That brought a chuckle. "Remember me to him? As if he could damn well run this household without me! You have much to learn, young man."

  Innowen frowned at such rudeness, but reminded himself that he was a guest in someone else's house. "Then, I'll bid goodnight to Minarik's very important servant," he said with mock-courtesy.

  Taelyn looked at him for a moment, then grinned, as if he actually appreciated Innowen's daring. "Servant?" he said, lifting an eyebrow as he pulled away the neck of his chiton to expose a narrow collar of black leather. "You honor a poor slave." Then he was through the archway and gone. In the other room, the door closed gently.

  When Taelyn was gone, Innowen gazed down at Drushen and brushed his fingers over the old man's brow. The skin was cool and soft, a wondrous contrast to the woodcutter's rough features, the sharp bone lines, the traceries around his eyes and mouth. He sought Drushen's hand beneath the quilt and squeezed it. Get well, he wished. Don't leave me alone.

  He rose from the bedside, went into the other room, and washed his body. When he was clean again, he took a fruit from the table and drank water. The air was warm, too warm. The only window was in the bedchamber, and the shutters were closed. Would Drushen get cold if he opened it? Perhaps he could risk just a crack. He crept over the carpets.

  "Innowen?"

  He turned away from the shutters at the sound of his name. His guardian stared at him from the pillow, smiling weakly.

  "Drushen!" he exclaimed, hurrying to the bedside. He hugged the old man and leaned his head on Drushen's chest. "I was afraid when you wouldn't wake up. But you're all right! This is a night of miracles!"

  Drushen's voice was barely audible. "Miracles?" he managed. Then he touched Innowen's leg. Though his eyes were filmed and bleary, they suddenly lit up with wonder.

  "Yes!" Innowen laughed, springing up and spinning on his heel. "I can walk! The Witch made it possible. She healed you, too." He slapped his thighs. "Drushen, she's such a beautiful lady, and she made me a whole man!" Joyful tears began to leak down his face.

  Drushen struggled up onto one elbow and swung a leg over the side of the bed. Tears misted his eyes, too, as he rose and reached for Innowen. "The gods!" he cried. "Thank the gods!" He flung up his arms.

  But Innowen caught his old friend's arms and pulled them down to his sides and intertwined Drushen's fingers in his own. It startled him as he realized suddenly that he was as tall as Drushen, and he bit his lip. "Stop," he said. "It wasn't any of the gods we know. It was the Witch and some strange god from another land." He swallowed, abruptly fearful. What if the gods were listening? He knew little about Ispor's gods, but he knew all gods were jealous. Still, he dared to continue. "It is to that god I owe thanks, not to the gods of Ispor who made me lame."

  Drushen looked at him oddly. "Witch?" He shook his head slowly. "What are you ranting about, boy? I dreamed of fire in my veins and a cool storm. There were voices. But a witch? The Witch of Shanalane?" They regarded each other uncertainly, and Drushen's face clouded over. Abruptly, though, he brightened again and caught Innowen in a fierce embrace. "I don't understand, but it doesn't matter. You can walk! Praise whatever god for it!"

  They held each other for a long moment until Drushen sagged back onto the bed. Innowen remembered that the Witch had said he would be weak when he awoke. And hungry. He went into the other room and hurried back with the platters Taelyn had left.

  Drushen waved them away. "I'm too happy to eat," he said, his voice only a whisper. "Perhaps later. But throw back those shutters, child. It's nearly morning. Let me see the first light of day."

  Innowen obeyed, pushing open the shutters as far as they would go. The faintest hint of dawn colored the horizon. The sun promised to rise right in their window. They would watch it together.

  For the first time in my life, Innowen thought, I will greet the day on my feet.

  Slowly, the sun climbed over the edge of the world, spreading its brilliant fire. Never had it seemed brighter or lovelier. Higher and higher it floated. Drushen reached out, caught Innowen's hand, and gave it an affectionate squeeze.

  The sun
sailed higher, chasing away the last vestiges of night. It bathed Innowen's face with a fine warmth that spread like a rich wave over his naked chest, down his stomach, down to his legs.

  Suddenly, Innowen folded like a broken puppet, striking his head sharply on the floor. With a small, despairing cry he blinked away the red starflashes that filled his vision. He tried to get up.

  "No!" he screamed when his legs refused to move.

  Drushen dropped down beside him, placing his arms around the boy. The fear in his gaze mirrored Innowen's own. His lower lip trembled as he tried to pull Innowen to his feet.

  "They won't move, Drushen!" Innowen whispered, staring in horror at his useless limbs. "I can't move them."

  Taelyn rushed into the room in his nightshirt. Minarik appeared moments later still in his wet riding garments. Together, they helped Drushen lift him onto his own bed.

  "What happened to the boy?" Minarik asked, getting no answer from Drushen. Taelyn only shrugged. Innowen clutched at Drushen's arm and pulled him closer, wide-eyed. "Don't leave me," he begged. "Please, don't leave me alone!"

  "I'm right here," Drushen assured him. The old man crawled onto the bed and curled his body protectively around Innowen. "I'll always be here. I'll always take care of you." Weeping silent tears, he kissed the boy's cheek and brushed a hand over Innowen's hair.

  Minarik and Taelyn stood uncertainly at the foot of the bed, casting troubled looks at each other, muttering words that Innowen didn't understand. He didn't care. He shivered against Drushen and stared at the window.

  The beautiful sun sat perched on the sill, and he could hear it laughing at him.

  Chapter 3

  Innowen stayed in bed all day. Drushen brought him food, but he ate little. Minarik came to visit and sat with him, but he was clearly puzzled by Innowen's unexplained paralysis and sullen silence. Taelyn hovered around like a worried mother. Innowen refused to talk to any of them. He wanted only to be left alone, and when he was alone he cried slow, soundless tears and rubbed his unfeeling legs.