Shadowdance

by Robin W Bailey

  He waited and waited. When he had nearly given up hope, another song began. This time it didn't stop. It settled upon him like a veil, obscuring his senses. The garden itself seemed to shiver. He set the bucket down and shut his eyes, slowly beginning to turn and turn as the piper wove music around him.

  When it stopped, he nearly fell down. He opened his eyes, but the garden continued to spin. He fought to steady himself until the dizziness passed. He drew a deep breath and let it out. A bead of sweat rolled into the corner of his mouth, and he tasted his own salt.

  Then he screamed inside and shot a glance toward the terrace outside his apartment. Razkili was not there, thank the gods, and all the other apartments were still dark, too.

  Innowen hugged himself, though the air was warm, and began to shiver. Rascal hadn't seen. No one had seen him. You fool! he cursed himself, and again, fool! He looked up at his apartment once more and bit his lower lip to still its trembling. If Rascal had seen him dancing... He squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his fists. How could you be that careless? Stupid fool!

  He ran from the garden back into the gloom of the palace. When he achieved his rooms, he rushed out onto the terrace and found Razkili curled asleep on one of the couches. He looked into the garden. Its beauty was gone; instead, it was a place of entrapment and danger. He glanced at Rascal again, and down at the garden, and at a bottle of wine on a table between the couches. He picked it up and drank while he paced.

  When he was quite drunk, he shook Razkili's shoulder. "Wake up," he said thickly. "Let's go to bed."

  "Innocent!" Razkili sputtered, rolling over quickly and sitting up. "I'm sorry, I fell asleep."

  "Shut up!" he snapped, heading for his bedchamber. "You don't know what you're talking about. You never make any sense. Why don't you ever make any sense?"

  He fell atop the coverlet, and the night lasted well into the next day.

  * * *

  It was late afternoon when he finally woke up. He felt stiff and sluggish. When he started to swing out of bed and discovered that his legs were useless, he called Razkili.

  Moments later, the Osiri appeared at the threshold.

  "About time, you drunken sot," Razkili said, grinning. He crossed the room and sat on the edge of Innowen's bed. "Minarik came by, but when he saw you lying there like a slug, he decided to come back later. He brought our packs and baggage, though. Do you want me to carry you to the terrace? There's bread and cheese if you're hungry. Wine, too, if you really want it."

  "No more wine," Innowen answered. He reached up and locked his arms around Rascal's neck and let himself be lifted from the bed and carried to one of the couches on the terrace. He settled back into the cushions and drew a thin sheet across his hips. It was a scorching day. The sun's brightness stung his eyes. Razkili brought a tray with dry bread and goat cheese and set it on the small table close at hand. There was also a pitcher with a beautiful urfirnis glaze full of water, and clean ceramic drinking cups.

  He heard the scrapings of hoes and shovels and rakes from the garden below as slaves continued their efforts to save the flowers and fruit trees from the drought. Razkili heard it, too. He peered over the side, watching them, and whispered to Innowen. "Have you noticed," he said, "that none of the slaves talk? They can't. Kyrin's had their tongues cut out."

  "How do you know that?" Innowen asked from the couch. His head ached, and he rubbed his temples.

  "I tried to question the one who brought me breakfast, and he showed me his mouth." Razkili leaned back against a pillar and sighed. "I asked Minarik about it, and he told me they were all mute, every slave in the palace."

  "That's sick," Innowen muttered. "Why'd Kyrin do it?"

  "No one knows. Your father thinks he's gone crazy."

  They sat on the terrace together. The bread and cheese went untouched, but Razkili brought the bottle of wine, and they mixed it with a lot of water. It proved refreshing, but not too potent, as they traded impressions of Ispor and Parendur and the people they had met.

  Slowly, an iodine fire spread across the sky. To the south, they could barely see the Akrotir Mountains over the palace rooftop. The peaks shimmered like flame in the sunset, flame that cooled and finally went out as twilight advanced.

  Innowen felt life return to his legs. First, it was just the sensation of the sheet across his hips. He curled his toes, flexed his knees. He bit his lip and sighed with relief and gratitude. It was always at this moment that his fear was greatest, that the sun might set and his limbs would still not move, that the magic, whatever it was, would be gone. But it was not gone. He sat up, eased the sheet back, swung his legs over the side of the couch, and stood up. Razkili stepped closer, and Innowen saw in his eyes the same dark fear and the same relief. They embraced wordlessly, laying their heads on each others' shoulders.

  A slave appeared from the outer corridor and waited to be recognized. Innowen saw him first and beckoned for him to enter, noting the small wax tablet box he carried in one hand. The slave passed it to him, bowed, and backed up three paces.

  Innowen opened the box and read the message his father had scrawled in the soft wax. "We're invited to dinner," he told Razkili, who remained on the terrace, "in Minarik's quarters." He turned back to the slave. "Tell him we'll..." he hesitated then, feeling a slight heat rise in his cheeks. "I'm sorry. You can't tell him anything, can you?"

  "Of course, I can." The slave looked him straight in the eye, all his apparent humility vanished.

  "You can talk!" Innowen said with some surprise. Razkili came in from the terrace, a look of confusion on his face. Innowen's brow furrowed. "But we thought—"

  "I'm not a slave," the man interrupted. "I'm one of your father's captains, his bodyguard if you will, at least while he's in Parendur. However, it would cause trouble if Kyrin knew how little Minarik trusts him, so I play the slave and keep my mouth shut so no one suspects."

  "And carry messages for him?" Innowen suggested. "And spy for him?"

  The captain arched an eyebrow and cocked his head at an angle. It was answer enough.

  "A man who does not speak hears much," Razkili said.

  "Another immortal gem of wisdom from the scholars of Osirit," Innowen noted. "Tell my father we'll join him shortly. As you can see, I'm not quite dressed for dining."

  The captain left, and they took time to share one more cup of wine while the evening was still quiet. Then they prepared themselves for supper and walked the empty corridors to Minarik's quarters. Taelyn was there, also.

  "How's Veydon?" Razkili asked.

  "Better," Taelyn answered, directing them to the table. "There's a woman with him constantly. She sewed the wound and treated his fever. Wouldn't take gold. For payment she wanted a stag, meat to feed her family. Five men hunted half the day. She made a broth from it, though, for Veydon, and makes him eat it, too."

  Minarik appeared from another chamber and joined them at the table. At his seat was a bowl of water and a cloth. He carried the bowl to each of his guests and washed their hands. It was a perfunctory gesture, however, performed quickly and without ceremony. He dropped the cloth Back in the water, splashing some on the table, as he set the bowl aside. With custom sufficiently observed, he sat, and they began to eat and talk.

  "Another army is gathering in the north," Minarik informed them. "I attended Kyrin's court today when his spies made their reports. They're camped where the River Semene flows down from the Akrotirs." He took a sip from his wine cup.

  "That close?" Innowen said in surprise.

  "Could they be part of the siege force we broke up?" Razkili asked.

  "More likely the siege force was part of this larger army," Taelyn answered. "In fact, the siege itself may have been a diversion to prevent Kyrin from noticing the greater threat that was crossing the mountains."

  "You think they came from the coast?" Innowen looked from Taelyn to Minarik and took a bite of bread.

  "The spies think they gathered there," Minarik answered. "They may
have been building their ranks for a long time. But the recruits seem to be from all over, even from lands beyond Ispor's borders."

  Innowen, Razkili, and Taelyn exchanged glances. "Exactly what my spies reported about the siege force before we attacked them. Could someone be gathering all the warring factions into one massive army?"

  Minarik shrugged as he looked at them one at a time.

  When the meal was over and their talk had dwindled to trivialities, Innowen rose, hugged his foster father, and said his goodnights. Razkili followed him back to their quarters. They exchanged no words in the corridors as they walked, and Innowen went straight to the terrace and looked down into the garden.

  "All right," Razkili said at last. "What is it?"

  Innowen turned a little and leaned against a column. He wore a frown as he folded his arms over his chest and said softly, "We've had two lavish meals since we arrived here, Kyrin's feast last night, and supper with my father just now." He nodded toward the table between the couches. It still held the dried remains of their lunch. "And the servants have kept us well fed on bread and cheese and wine." He looked back at the garden, and suddenly its beauty seemed false and artificial, preserved only by the back-breaking labor of tongueless slaves, who toiled in the sweltering heat of the day. "But I was thinking of the rest of the people in Parendur and Ispor. What did they have to eat tonight? Did they eat at all?"

  Razkili leaned against the wall and interlocked his fingers. "Is that why you stopped halfway through the meal?" His voice was little more than a whisper.

  "When they brought the meat course," he answered. "It was pork, but the only thing I could think about was the woman caring for Veydon. All she wanted was a stag to feed her family."

  Wind chimes whimpered in the trees below. Leaves rustled dryly. Lights flickered dimly in the windows of a few apartments around the garden. Here and there, shadows stirred, causing small eclipses. In the farthest apartment, the lights went out entirely.

  Innowen sighed and started back inside, but Razkili caught him and hugged him close. "Thinking of others, my Innocent?" He rumpled Innowen's hair playfully.

  He sighed again, but with great drama. "I know, it's not one of my usual habits." He dug his fingers in Razkili's ribs and jumped away. "Be patient. It's a mood that'll pass. Come on, let's light our own lamps."

  "Just one or two," Razkili suggested. "Maybe I've been around you too long, but I'm tired of so much light, and you're going to go off to dance anyway."

  * * *

  Rascal knew him too well, Innowen thought later as he made his way to the lustral chamber and the throne room. The palace was quiet, and he encountered no one along the way. As he stripped and washed himself, he reflected on his first visit to Parendur. The palace had bustled with staff and dignitaries and visitors. Now it seemed deserted by comparison. There weren't even any guards; they had all been assigned to the city walls or to street duty, except for a handful who patrolled the palace grounds. They never ventured inside, though.

  He walked to the center of the chamber. It was darker even than the night before. Only four oil lamps suspended from the ceiling provided any illumination, a weak and diffuse light that puddled in the gloom. The banquet table, he noted, was gone, as were the benches for guests. He stared at the empty throne and at the silent gods in their private niches. Again, standing before Tremyrin, Celet, and Shokastis, he made obeisance. To the others, he offered hasty prayers.

  If the gods of Ispor heard him, they gave no sign.

  He began to dance. The floor was cool against his feet, and he moved mechanically with an unaccustomed detachment. Strangely, there was no music in his head. He neither heard the wind, nor felt it near. Yet he danced. He studied himself, the flow of an arm, the shape of a hand as he drew it slowly through the air, the extension of one leg. It surprised him to feel so little. It was an exercise, he thought, not a dance.

  He turned his thoughts inward, away from his limbs, away from the lines and angles he created. Instead, he listened for the beat of his heart, the throb of blood pounding through his body. A warmth spread inexorably through his muscles, a delicious sensation.

  There was his dance, deep inside, waiting for him to find it. It wasn't outside; it wasn't his arms and legs, the steps he made or the patterns he weaved upon the floor and through the air. They were only the outward expressions of what lay within.

  The choreography of soul. The thought flashed through his head, and suddenly there were whisperings that echoed in every hidden corner of the chamber, whisperings and mutterings that rose and fell with the flickering of the lamps, words that darted by his ears and faded maddeningly before he clearly heard them.

  A single, sharp musical note from out of nowhere cut through the whisperings straight to his heart. He flung back his head, and his muscles stood out like strings drawn too tightly around his bones. He held back, though, completely still, waiting for the riff he somehow knew would follow. When it did, he whirled across the floor from one side of the room to the other. Sweat quickly beaded on his chest, on his arms and brow, and began to trickle down. It streamed along his sides, down his groin. As he spun, he flung off a rain that splashed on the floor and the pillars and the walls. He leaped and, at the apex of it, brought his hands together like a crack of thunder.

  Music filled him at last. And the gods! The gods seemed to dance around him as he danced. They made a ring, spinning as crazily and wildly as he, never leaving their niches, but dancing just the same.

  Gradually, the music diminished, and the gods became just statues again. The last impossible note quavered and faded, and Innowen ended his dance in a gracefully controlled collapse. Tears burned in the corners of his eyes as he lay there, his chest heaving. Whatever the power was that had moved him, whatever the magic, he had never felt it so strongly.

  "That was beautiful!"

  Innowen sat bolt-upright. That was no muffled whisper, no ghostly muttering. He peered into the gloom toward the throne. In the poor light, it was hard to see. But some shadow-form crept up on the wall beside the great stone chair. The sweat on his body made him suddenly chill. "Who's there?"

  She rose languidly from the throne. Her shadow stretched up the wall, arched across the ceiling. In the elongated fingers of her silhouette, he saw the pipe and caught his breath.

  "Dyan!" he said as she stepped into the light.

  "Hello, Innocent!" She put her instrument to her lips and blew a light riff. Smiling, she came toward him.

  Innowen scrambled to his feet and backed away quickly. "No, no!" he moaned. "Not you, it can't be you!" He dug his fingers into his closed eyes, then opened them again. It wasn't a dream. Kyrin's daughter came closer, reaching for him. What had he done? What had he awakened in her? He felt the wall at his back and cringed. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"

  "For what?" she said reasonably, laying a hand on his shoulder. "Innocent, what's wrong? I thought you'd be happy to see me."

  Slowly, he looked at her, afraid of what he might find lurking in her face. But there was only concern there, and confusion. He straightened. Her confusion mirrored his own, and he studied her strangely. "Are you all right?" he whispered. He took her hand from his shoulder, squeezed it. A full head taller, he gazed down into the sparkling dark eyes he remembered so well. "How do you feel? What do you want to do?"

  She gave an uncertain little laugh. "So many odd questions! Of course I feel fine. How should I feel? I just wanted to see you!"

  "In the middle of the night?" He moved back out of the lampglow into the gloom, hoping to hide the shivering that seized him. No matter what she said, how normal she acted, he feared her. In fact, she terrified him. There was nothing twisted in her face, nothing threatening in her demeanor. Yet she had seen him dance, and he waited for her darkest desire to take form.

  "My father doesn't want me to see you," she told him, brushing strands of black hair back from her face as she glanced demurely at the floor. "That's why he sent me to Milas on the other side of th
e mountains the last time you came to Parendur." She looked up at him again, rolling her pipe nervously between her hands. "I don't know why he didn't this time. But I happened to be on the terrace with my nurse when I saw you and Taelyn arrive with your escort. Of course, she ushered me inside before I could attract your attention. I'm practically her prisoner, you know."

  Despite his fears, Innowen smiled. She spoke as crisply as she played her pipe, and her features moved with amusing animation, a lift of an eyebrow to accent one word, a tilt of the head to stress another, a frown, a conspiratorial grin. She had grown taller in five years, and her body had blossomed. The loose layers of her sleeveless linen gown revealed a woman's grace beneath. Her long black hair spilled down her back and draped her form like a natural cloak. And yet, inside that woman he still saw and heard the child he had met five years before.

  His trembling had passed, and he stepped back into the light. "I don't understand," he muttered to himself. Then to her, "You shouldn't have followed me down here. You don't know the danger."

  "But I wanted to see you," she repeated almost petulantly. "And I had to sneak out as it is. I thought my poor nurse would never fall asleep, and I think she's supposed to keep me in my quarters while you're here. Usually, I can go anywhere in the palace as long as I don't leave the grounds. But I wanted to see you dance again. You're beautiful, you know?"

  Innowen's heart skipped a beat. "Again?" He swallowed hard, then caught her arm. "You mean you've seen me dance before? When? Where?"

  She looked at his hand where he gripped her. "That hurts, Innocent." She said it sweetly, without any animosity or fear, a statement of fact that made him feel like a bully or a fool, and he let her go. "At Whisperstone that first night we met in the courtyard. I watched you from an upper window in the corridor outside my room."