Shadowdance

by Robin W Bailey

  Beyond the open window, the sky segued from sweet autumn blue to somber twilight. A quiet wind blew into the room, touching him with the cool softness of a ghost's breath. He bit his lip and turned his face to the pillow. Drushen entered and worriedly brushed a hand along Innowen's cheek. When Innowen didn't respond, the old man lit a candle, set it on a bedside table, and left. Outside, darkness inundated the world.

  With a sob, the first sound he had made all day, Innowen clutched his coverlet and drew himself into a ball.

  A moment later, with a mingled sense of shock and excitement, he opened his eyes hesitantly and looked at his knees between his arms. He drew a sharp breath, then pressed his lips together, his tongue clenched between his teeth. His heart pounded. He lay utterly still, afraid to move, afraid it was only a dream, and in that moment he prayed to every god he knew. He straightened his right leg, sliding it slowly upon the smooth sheets, and knew he was not dreaming. He straightened the other. Carefully, he sat up. The soles of his feet touched the carpet. The sensation of the cool, plush weave on his skin reassured him, and he wiggled his toes experimentally. Every muscle in his body tensed as he pushed himself off the bed and stood erect. He squeezed his eyes shut, expecting to fall, and peeled them open when his limbs proved themselves.

  He moved cautiously toward the window, shuffling his feet, fearing to lift them too high. Something beyond the window called him. What was it? He leaned his hands on the sill and breathed deeply. Once more, the wind came to him out of the darkness like a chill, invisible serpent that twined over every part of his naked body. He felt it crawl over his face and chest, over his legs. He was alive again!

  A gasp and a clatter sounded from behind him. He turned. Drushen stared, ashen-faced, his jaw open. At his feet, a silver tray lay turned upside-down on the carpet. A few scraps of meat showed under the edge, and a cracked goblet rocked beside it in a spreading pool of water. His guardian took two steps toward him, then stopped uncertainly, staring with fear-widened eyes.

  "It's the night," Innowen said with barely controlled awe. He turned from Drushen and gazed past the sill again, out into the unknowable dark. No star burned in the heavens, no moon. There was only the void. "I don't think the Witch knows. But her god does."

  "What are you talking about?" Drushen whispered. Fear thickened the old man's voice, arid Innowen felt the distance between them like a wall. "What evil—"

  Innowen cut him off. "It's not evil, Drushen." He hugged himself as the wind fluttered over him. "It's the night. I understand now. The daytime is my enemy. Sunlight steals my legs from me. It makes them useless. But the nighttime is mine. I can walk from sundown until dawn. That is the gift of the Witch's god."

  The carpet rustled as Drushen took another step and stopped again. He managed to utter, "A child of darkness? Is that what you've become?"

  Innowen whirled. "I'm no child, Drushen. I'm tall as you, if not as strong. I've seen eighteen springs, and I'm no longer so helpless that I have to quietly suffer being called a child. I'm a man," He clenched his fists and turned away from his guardian to stare back through the window. It was another world out there, a world unlike his cottage prison, unlike this room in Whisperstone, totally different from the world of the daytime. "At least, I'm a man at night." He closed his eyes and opened them, then walked past Drushen into the outer chamber and toward the door.

  "Where are you going?" his guardian called, hurrying after him. He caught Innowen's arm and spun him around.

  Innowen started to snap, but stopped himself and sighed. He loved Drushen; the old woodcutter was the only family he'd ever known. He couldn't be blamed if he still treated Innowen like a cripple. In time, he would rejoice, too. "For a walk," Innowen said finally, laying a hand gently on the old man's shoulder. "I've never gone for a walk by myself before."

  Drushen managed a weak smile, though his face was lined with worry. "Well, you'd better put something on," he said. He turned toward the table, which, the night before, had been laden with food. Someone had placed a small pile of folded garments there. His guardian lifted a pale blue chiton from the top, shook it once, and held it out to him. "This isn't our home, and you can't run naked around a grand place like this."

  The fabric was an incredibly fine weave. Innowen had never seen its like. Drushen handed him another cloth of equal softness to wrap about his loins. Then he draped the chiton over Innowen's body, leaving the left shoulder bare, and fastened a small silver brooch that closed the right shoulder. The hem touched the middle of Innowen's thigh, but when he added a leather belt and laced it tight around his waist, it rose a bit higher.

  "Look," Drushen said, crossing to the other smaller table where the water basin sat with an oinochoe jug. In his haste the night before, Innowen had not noticed the large copper mirror behind the basin. He stared at his own image.

  He had seen his face as a water reflection when Drushen had carried him to bathe in the stream near the cottage, but never had he seen himself standing erect. He turned slowly, viewing himself from every angle. It was not his image, but the reflection of his movement that fascinated him. He noted with wonder how the muscles in his side rippled if he leaned a certain way, how tilting his head back exposed the veins in his neck. His chest was too narrow, he quickly decided, and his arms too thin, yet there was a grace in his body that surprised and delighted him.

  "You'll become vain, boy," Drushen said from the center of the room. "You have the beauty for it."

  Innowen didn't turn, but their gazes met in the polished metal. "The power of movement is a magic all its own," he answered. "I see that now. You've had that magic all your life, so you don't appreciate it. You don't see what a miracle it is to lift your foot from here," he pointed to a spot on the floor, "and put it here. And this is an even greater miracle." He rose onto the ball of his left foot, pirouetted with perfect control, and faced himself in the mirror once more. "But it's a magic utterly new to me, and it makes me feel..." He hesitated, looked sad for a moment, then pirouetted again. "I don't know. I'm almost glad that I could never walk until now."

  "It's the Witch's power you feel," Drushen said darkly. "And nobody gives something for nothing."

  At that, Innowen faced his guardian. "Don't they, Drushen? You found me on the road when I was a newborn baby, and took me in. You fed me and took care of me, raised me and loved me. What do you want in return?"

  The hurt showed visibly in the old woodcutter's eyes, but he said nothing, only stared back silently.

  "I'm sorry," Innowen said, relenting. "Just don't speak ill of the Witch."

  Drushen hung his head. "Not if it upsets you," he agreed quietly. "But remember she is a witch. You know nothing about her, not even a name to call her by."

  "No one knows her name," Innowen countered. "But I owe her no less, and somehow 1 intend to find her." He swallowed as he tugged at the hem of the chiton and adjusted his belt. "Now I'm going for a walk. Coming?"

  Drushen smiled weakly again and looked askance. "I thought you wanted to go alone," he said. "You've never taken a walk by yourself, remember?"

  "I've never taken a walk with you, either," Innowen reminded him, and he poked his guardian in the ribs playfully with one finger. "Not without being carried, anyway." He took a step past Drushen and opened the door. "Coming?"

  Reluctantly, Drushen nodded.

  They went into the corridor together, and Drushen pointed to the left. "That way leads back toward the Great Hall," he said, and that was enough for Innowen. The stone floor was cold against his bare feet, so he set a brisk pace. His guardian, though, had no trouble keeping up. As he had noted before, Whisperstone was a maze, and they were quickly lost. He wished momentarily that he'd waited to invite Taelyn to join them, or perhaps even Minarik himself. But he was in no hurry. It was only just nightfall. He had until dawn to explore.

  Many of the corridors were dark, but some of them were lit with lanterns hanging on pegs, or by oil lamps suspended by small chains from beams in the cei
lings, Innowen thought about simply appropriating one of the lanterns, but after all, this wasn't their home, and their host might take it unkindly. Instead, they made their way carefully from one pool of light to the next.

  When they passed an occasional window, they stopped. Most were shuttered tight, but one or two were slender, open embrasures barely wide enough to stand in sideways. Innowen squeezed into one and looked out. On the wall far below, he could just discern the watchfires of the sentries. He wondered if they were Minarik's men or if Kyrin was still at Whisperstone, too. Except for Drushen and Taelyn and, briefly, Minarik, he'd seen no one all day. Where was everyone? Were they still hunting the Witch?

  A chill wind blew suddenly on his body, forcing him back inside.

  They continued on, up and down staircases, through corridors both narrow and wide, lit and unlit, and at last found themselves in the entrance hall before Whisperstone's great doors. There, lamps blazed in mirrored niches, casting a rich, warm glow. Innowen considered the several passages that branched from the entrance hall and chose the one he thought he'd walked with Minarik the night before. It occurred to him that he might find his benefactor if he retraced the steps they had taken together.

  But as he started that way, a few sweet notes of music touched his ears. He stopped, and the music stopped. He'd heard that ethereal piping before, and he remembered the girl at Kyrin's feet. Another flurry of notes played on the air and faded. Innowen listened expectantly to the silence.

  "It's beautiful," Drushen said when it started and stopped again. "Can you tell where it's coming from?"

  Innowen shook his head, listening, hoping for more. "No, but I met the piper last night. She's as pretty as her song."

  A cascade of music suddenly filled the hall. Innowen looked at Drushen, and the old man's face lit up. It didn't stop so quickly this time, either. The sound flowed around them in a joyful rush. "Beautiful," Drushen repeated, his voice a reverent whisper.

  "This way," Innowen said, choosing the passage from which the music seemed to originate. He could feel it on his skin like a warm watery wave. His step lightened as he went; he could barely keep from dancing. The Witch had told him he had to dance to walk. But he held himself back, resisting each insistent note. When he found the piper, then he would dance.

  After a series of turns, the passage led them to a half-opened door. A cool breeze blew inside, carrying the music with it. Just beyond, they found an inner courtyard. The walls of Whisperstone rose up on all sides, but the stars shone brightly overhead in a narrow patch of sky.

  The piper sat in a small gazebo in the courtyard's center. Wrapped in a white feathered cloak to keep out the chill, she held her instrument to her lips and played, oblivious to everything as she swayed in time to her pipings. In the flickering light of the gazebo's two lamps, Innowen thought for a moment that he saw the very notes as they fluttered like tiny butterflies through the air. He blinked, and they were gone, just another odd hallucination inspired by her music.

  It was the same girl he'd seen the night before at Kyrin's feet, but he still didn't know her name. She was lovely, though, and he guessed her age to be about twelve or fourteen. He watched as she played with her eyes softly closed. Two lamps, suspended on thin chains, swayed lightly in the breeze and cast a wonderful play of orange and red upon her features and upon her ivory fingers as she worked the holes of her pipe. Tresses of dark hair spilled from under her ample hood. She was small and slender, and as Innowen looked at her cloak of feathers, he could not help but think of her as a delicate bird.

  Suddenly, she opened her eyes and saw them. The music stopped, though the pipe remained frozen at her lips. Slowly, she lowered it to her lap and turned her gaze shyly downward.

  Her mouth, even in the lamplight, was a dark flower that gleamed with sweet dew.

  "Our apologies," Drushen said, bowing. "We didn't mean to interrupt. But we heard you playing."

  She said nothing, but Innowen saw the smile that so subtly parted her lips.

  He walked closer and leaned on the gazebo's ornate wooden latticework. A leafy vine brushed his face, and he pushed it aside. The girl kept her attention fixed on her pipe and refused to look at him. Nervously, she turned the instrument over and over in her hands, then, realizing that she did it, stopped and gripped it tightly.

  Innowen grinned. "Scholars say the world was created by music, that the stars and the sun and the moon were mothered in a grand symphony, that the trees and the river, the wind, the seasons are all expressions of a tender cosmic ballad." He hesitated. She was beautiful, this child, and her shyness touched him strangely. "If so," he continued, "then I think you were surely that musician."

  She looked up slowly. Her lips formed the tiny hint of a smile as she regarded him from the corners of her eyes. "Do I look so old to you?" It was only a whisper, but her voice was as pure as her music and as sweet.

  "The tune you play is the breath of the world," Innowen answered. "Stop playing, and we die."

  Drushen nudged him in the arm. "Ispor's gods, boy, where did you ever learn this kind of talk?" To the girl, he said apologetically, "It's not my fault, that's for sure." He leaned closer to Innowen again and muttered, "It's a different kind of spell you're under now...."

  Innowen didn't look at his guardian, but unobtrusively found the old man's toe with his heel and put his weight on it. Drushen yelped and pulled his foot free. "Forgive him," Innowen said, giving his attention to the girl again. "He's only an old man."

  "That's unkind," she answered, her voice stronger than before. "He's no older than my father or Lord Minarik." She turned her smile on Drushen. "I think he's very handsome, and obviously quite strong. I've never seen such arms before."

  Drushen blushed and bowed very low.

  "Recipe for a woodcutter," Innowen mumbled. "Two strong arms, one weak mind."

  "Recipe for an Innowen," Drushen countered, straightening. "One mouth, two broken sticks."

  Innowen whirled, heat rushing into his face. Then, remembering they were not alone, he calmed himself. He didn't want to make a fool of himself in front of her, and he'd asked for that, after all. Back in the cottage, he and Drushen had always poked and jibed at each other. Mouth games, they'd called it. To their rare visitor it had sounded pretty vicious sometimes. But it had just been their way with each other, no holds ever barred and no harm ever meant.

  Still, that one had stung him.

  The girl glanced away again and rose to her feet. "I should go," she said.

  Was that regret in her voice? Innowen turned away from Drushen. "Stay," he said. "Please."

  She looked at the pipe in her hands, then at last met his gaze. Her eyes were large and dark, and they sparkled with reflected lamplight.

  "What's your name?" he asked.

  She lowered her gaze again as she answered. "Dyan."

  "Dyan," he repeated. "Two more notes of beautiful music."

  Drushen made a strangled noise, then covered his mouth and feigned a coughing fit.

  "Your name is Innocent," she said. "I overheard Minarik and Taelyn talking today. They said you were ill." She looked up once more.

  He loved her eyes. "A passing thing," he answered. "I'm better now. In fact, I feel like dancing. Would you play for me?"

  "Dyan!"

  Her face went pale. Innowen spun around to see who dared to shout at her. Then he stiffened. Drushen shot a glance at him, his brow furrowing in question and confusion, and Innowen reminded himself his guardian had not yet met Kyrin. Ispor's new king marched across the courtyard toward them, his face full of rage. He thrust a finger at Dyan. "Get to your room, girl!"

  Dyan fled, her feathered cloak rustling, the hood slipping from her head and her dark hair flying as she hurried over the smooth paving stones, through the door and into the depths of Whisperstone. Angrily, Innowen watched her go.

  "You are Minarik's guests," Kyrin said with barely controlled menace. "But stay away from my daughter. You may have fooled my Uncle, but
I know your kind. I know what you want." He gripped the hilt of his sword and exposed a portion of its bronze length. The lamplight rippled on its edge. "If you touch her, if you even talk to her again, I'll cut off your hands."

  Drushen stepped between them, his hands clenching into huge fists, but Innowen caught his shoulder and tried to pull him back as the two men regarded each other, Drushen breathing rapidly, Kyrin's eyes burning with anger and challenge.

  Finally, Kyrin sheathed his blade, though his anger did not abate. He backed off a step. "Your son has saved your life," he said arrogantly.

  "My son," Drushen sneered, "has saved your teeth."

  "Drushen, shut up!" Innowen pushed his guardian away and positioned himself between the two men. To Kyrin he said, "I didn't know she was your daughter. I heard her playing, that's all, and we exchanged a greeting. I meant no offense."

  Kyrin's gaze burned into him. "Make sure you understand me, then. Stay away from her. She is uncorrupted, and I mean to keep her that way." He looked at Drushen, then back to Innowen. "This time I'll forgive his insult. It wouldn't be polite to sully my uncle's fine courtyard with common blood for so little reason."

  He retreated a few more steps before he turned his back to them and set after his daughter.

  Drushen gripped Innowen's shoulder. "You should have let me bend his spine a little, boy. Not too much, mind you, just enough to make him squeal."

  Innowen embraced his guardian, knowing full well that Drushen could have carried out such a threat. But he loved this old man. It didn't escape his notice that Drushen had stepped between him and Kyrin. And now that he thought of it, his chest swelled with pride that he had done the same thing when Kyrin turned on Drushen. He could never have done that before when his legs were useless twigs. Now, though, he could walk, and he could stand beside his friends. He had the Witch of Shanalane to thank for that.

  That reminded him. To walk, she had said, you must dance. He had not yet danced, and the night was passing.