Shadowdance

by Robin W Bailey

  "There's nothing you can do for me," Riloosa sighed as he lowered his sleeve. Still cradling his arm, he closed his eyes once more and sagged back against the tree.

  Innowen got to his feet and resumed his wandering through the encampment. Riloosa was a dead man, and it was Innowen's fault. Sure, the advisor had hated his employer, even wanted to kill him. But having a desire and acting on it were not the same. Riloosa might never have tried to harm Kyrin, no matter how he loathed him, if he hadn't seen the dance in the garden. But with sight, desire became deed. Innowen had made him attack the king as surely as if he had put the sword in his hand.

  He found Rascal awake when he returned to their little camp. Wordlessly, he sat down cross-legged and stared at the fog. Razkili didn't say anything. He just draped an arm around Innowen's shoulders and pulled him closer.

  Innowen began to shiver. In the swirling mists, vague shadows started to move, barely seen forms that flitted and slithered through the cool vapors, with faces too far away or too concealed to recognize, yet familiar. They whirled and leaped, floated or flew in the eddies and currents of the fog, dim creatures on the barest edge of his perception. But if he couldn't see their faces, he saw their hands plainly, dark-veined and bloated things that crooked their blackened fingers and beckoned to him.

  "Leave me alone," he whispered to them, trembling.

  "What's that?" Razkili said uncertainly.

  Innowen stared outward, watching the shadow-play. "Nothing," he said, wide-eyed. The fog, the mist, the vapor danced for him, a slow, shifting, sensuous dance that chilled and fascinated him. "Sometimes, I think I see things," he confessed to Razkili. "Maybe it's a side effect of the Witch's healing. But most of the time I think, maybe, I'm just going mad." He sagged back into Rascal's embrace, weary of the interminable rain and the fog and the darkness. For some reason, he thought of Dyan and what he had done with her in the mud and the rain. Then he pushed the thought from his mind.

  "Hold me," he begged softly, "hold me."

  Chapter 13

  The small village outside Whisperstone's walls had grown in the five years of Innowen's absence. Many people had moved closer, counting on Minarik's protection to save them from the raider bands and rebels that scoured the countryside, and hoping for his charity and the bounty of his stores to save them from starvation.

  There were crude cottages and tents along the road, and farther off lay broad fields, which showed the visible scars of failed attempts at cultivation. Unfortunately, those fields were silvery sheets of water now, and the few scraggly plants that still poked up their heads offered little hope for any real harvest.

  The villagers came out to watch as the troops rode past. They were a ragged lot, and hard times showed on their thin, gaunt bodies and threadbare clothing. Women and children turned up their faces, hunting for husbands and fathers that had joined Minarik's army for the few coins it paid and for the grain that service earned their families.

  A low moaning went up from some of the women, and from someone, a shriek. From others came cries of relieved greetings as some of the crowd began to run alongside the horses of loved ones who had come home. Atop the gate and along the wall, sentries began to shake their spears and cheer, and more soldiers joined them there, adding their voices as their lord at last returned. Innowen was too tired to care. He leaned back in Razkili's arms and watched as the massive gates cranked back. Ahead of him, Minarik and Kyrin were first to enter. Straight across the main grounds and to the steps that led to the keep's main doors they rode. Whisperstone's guards pressed around them, taking their reins as they dismounted, reaching up to bear Innowen down and to help Dyan from her horse. Then he was in Rascal's arms again and up those steps and through those great doors. With a muffled boom they closed.

  A tomblike quiet filled Whisperstone. A line of slaves and servants stood mutely, ready to take instruction. Innowen ,recognized none of them as he studied their aged and weather-worn faces. The servants were all old men, recruited, he guessed, from the villagers outside the walls. They had the looks of farmers and herdsmen and lacked the crisp formality of trained slaves or hired domestics.

  Still, they moved with swift efficiency as Minarik gave orders. One collected all their cloaks. Another led Kyrin and Dyan away to private chambers, while two others hurried ahead to prepare hot baths. One departed for the kitchens with instructions for the staff there. One led Razkili and Innowen to quarters, while another pair began to clean up the mess the arrivals had made in the entranceway.

  Innowen could feel Razkili's fatigue in the way his friend carried him as they ascended a flight of stairs. They both needed rest. He couldn't remember ever feeling so weary or so depressed. He was hungry and dirty, but more than anything else he wanted a soft bed and a chance to close his eyes and forget everything for a while.

  They followed a servant, a gnarly old man with neatly cut hair and a white, well-groomed beard, as he led them through the corridors. Innowen half smiled, remembering how magical he had thought Whisperstone was when first he'd come here, how it had seemed more like a labyrinth, its passages dark and unknowable and other-worldly, how the very frescoes that lined the walls had appeared alive to him.

  Now, the place seemed dank and oppressive. The dust that covered the floor and hung in the air had a flavor and odor that irritated his senses, and he was acutely aware of the ponderous weight of stone above his head. Shutters that had been closed against the rain had not yet been thrown back, and the smell of stale oil and lamp smoke wafted thick and heavy.

  Maybe it had only been his innocence those five years ago that had made it seem such a wondrous place. After all, what had he ever seen of the world, then, but some woods and the four walls of a one-room cottage. He could easily remember the excitement and fear he'd felt that first night here. What a wide-eyed little boy he'd been, what a child.

  Or, perhaps, Whisperstone was still a special place. He bit his lip and considered dimly. Maybe his weariness prevented him from seeing it truly, from savoring its mystery. Maybe after some rest, it would once again fire his imagination and fill him with some sense of awe as it once had done. Maybe the tawdriness would melt away, and he would discover that the keep was just as magical as he had found it that first night in all his innocence.

  That word kept coming back to him. Innocence. Like a small voice inside his head, it mocked him, called his name. Innocence, Innocent. He mouthed it, moving his

  lips soundlessly, matching the cadence of Razkili's footsteps.

  He bit his lip again, then laid his head on Rascal's shoulder. He wanted so badly to sleep. He was too tired to think, too tired, so tired....

  * * *

  A faint, pitiful scream shattered Innowen's dreamless sleep. He sat straight up in bed, the hairs prickling on his neck. The sound came again, raking through Whisperstone's darkness like the edge of a blade on rock. Innowen flung back the sheets and swung his legs over the edge, barely aware that life had returned to his limbs. He stood and took a step with his hands out before him and kicked a stool with his unprotected toe. Damn, there was no light!

  He waited a moment for the scream to come again. His heart thundered in his chest, the blood pounded in his ears. He waited, listening. And waited. At last, he started again to feel his way through his quarters. His hands located the shutters of a window, and he threw them open. A welcome breeze danced over his bare chest, but little illumination spilled inside from the few watchfires that burned along Whisperstone's wall.

  "Rascal?" he whispered, turning slowly in the gloom. Where was his friend?

  He turned back to the window. Along the wall, the sentries stood in pairs as they kept watch. If there was danger from attack, surely there would be more activity on the wall. What was that scream, then? He leaned a little further out the window and looked as far as he could in all directions. A circle of guards had gathered in conversation near one of the watchfires, and a few others strolled lazily across the main yard, perhaps off duty.


  A pervasive quiet returned to Whisperstone, and his fear began to subside. If the sentries were unafraid, then he, too, could remain calm. He would wait for Razkili. Razkili would know what had happened.

  He stared beyond the wall. A few lights burned in the windows of some of the more distant cottages in the village. A few gray wisps of smoke curled upward into the night.

  Innowen's lips drew into a thin line. Whisperstone had changed forever. Never again would it be an isolated keep. The families that had built their homes in the shadow of its walls would stay, and their children would raise families here, and their children, too. The village would grow into a town, and the edge of the woods would be pushed farther back to make room for larger fields.

  He closed his eyes and listened. Yes, he could hear the rustle of the leaves as the wind shivered through the trees. He opened his eyes again. Hard to say if he could actually see the woods. It was so dark. But he could feel it there, old and patient and pervading, part of him, for he had grown up in its heart. He could smell the bark and the dry leaves and the moist earth, though the odors of the forge and the slop barrel mingled in the air, too, like a taint.

  Behind him, the door opened, and lamplight suddenly brightened the room. Without leaving the sill, Innowen looked over his shoulder.

  "Innocent?" Razkili peered at him, the little flame he carried casting an upward light that limned his face with an eerie chiaroscuro. He moved halfway into the room and set the lamp on a small table. "You're awake," he said needlessly.

  "What was that screaming?" Innowen asked as Razkili came toward him. "Where've you been?"

  "You passed out as soon as you hit the bed," Razkili told him, "and I was afraid if I slept, too, we might both sleep through the night."

  Innowen bit his lip. He knew what that would have meant, and it touched him that Rascal had thought of it.

  "So I stayed awake," Razkili continued through Innowen's embrace. "It got kind of quiet, though, and I feared I'd nod off, so I took the lamp to explore for a bit."

  "But the screams," Innowen said, crossing to the middle of the room, "didn't you hear them?"

  "Of course I heard them." He hesitated, then swallowed. "It was Riloosa. They had to cut off his arm."

  Innowen's hands squeezed into fists, and he felt suddenly cold all over.

  "He was crazy with fever, and the infection had spread too far. Kyrin's got him in a room downstairs."

  Innowen dug his nails into his palms. "Kyrin ordered his arm cut off?"

  Razkili nodded as he sat down on the edge of Innowen's bed.

  Innowen paced back and forth. The cold he felt dissolved, and the slow fire of anger began to burn within him. He went to a chest where earlier a servant had placed some clothes for them, and he drew out a white chiton, pulled it over his head, not bothering with a loin cloth, and fastened on a belt.

  "Why do you care?" Razkili asked suddenly in a strained voice. "As I recall, you didn't much like the Syraean."

  Innowen didn't answer. He looked instead for his sandals, then remembered the same servant had taken them away to try to clean off the mud.

  He turned back to Razkili. "Show me where he is," he demanded.

  Razkili frowned but didn't get up. "What do you think you're doing, Innocent?"

  Innowen exploded, grabbing Razkili by the shoulder of his tunic and hauling him to his feet. "I said, show me where he is, gods damn it!" he shouted in his friend's face.

  Razkili wiped a bit of spittle from his cheek, and his eyes narrowed with anger. Then his shoulders slumped, and he shook his head slowly. "All right," he said with a calm born of weariness. "All right."

  Innowen led the way into the corridor, his jaw set, his fists clenched rigidly at his sides. Razkili snatched up the lamp from the table and followed. From behind one of the many doors in the corridor, voices issued, but Innowen didn't stop to listen or investigate. He stalked on at the very edge of the tiny flame's wavering illumination, his shadow slithering on the floor before him.

  The corridor ended in a descending flight of stairs. There, Innowen stopped. Mounted in brackets on the old stone wall was a large round shield whose bronze surface had been beaten into the semblance of a demonic face. On either side of it hung two beautifully wrought copper swords with matching daggers. Innowen slipped one of those daggers from its resting place and ran his finger along the edge. The razor-keen blade equaled half the length of his forearm. He stuck it in his belt and glared wordlessly at Razkili until the Osiri took the lead and continued on.

  Rascal guided him through a series of twists and turns. Whisperstone was still a labyrinth, that at least had not changed. They descended two more flights of stairs and entered a passage lit by oil lamps that had been suspended by thin chains from broad overhead beams. A faintly odorous smoke drifted in the poorly ventilated corridor.

  Just ahead, a sentry stood watch beside one of the many doors. He turned to look when he heard footsteps and watched warily as they approached. A frown flickered over the man's face, and he glanced down uncertainly before finally meeting Innowen's hard gaze.

  Innowen wondered if he was one of Minarik's men or one of Kyrin's. Kyrin's, he guessed, since it was Kyrin's prisoner he guarded. Innowen didn't give a damn. He glowered at the soldier, almost nose to nose. "Do you know me?" he asked, but his tone made the question irrelevant. His words were a pure threat.

  The soldier blinked with timid consternation as he glanced at Innowen's long dagger. "I know you," he managed.

  "Then go back to your barracks," Innowen told him sharply. When the man hesitated, Innowen repeated, his voice an angry hiss, "Go back to your barracks, soldier!"

  The soldier shrugged. "This is none of my affair," he muttered. "Me, I got a family I've not seen in months, and fields all gone to hell. The sooner you great lords get to killing each other off, the sooner the rest of us can get back to more important concerns." He made a curt mockery of a bow, then shoved between them and disappeared down the corridor.

  "Quite a speech," Razkili said, cocking an eyebrow.

  "Quite," Innowen agreed. "See that he gets a bag of coins tomorrow for his honesty."

  Innowen turned toward the door and pushed it open. His anger was gone, lost in the surprising encounter with the guard. Yet he was no less determined as he stepped into the room. The stench of burned flesh and hot pitch hung in the air. Not even the opened window had been able to leech it out. Several lamps provided light, and an unseasonable fire crackled in the small hearth, making an oven of the room.

  A bare-chested, leather-collared slave hurried to block their entrance. From the assortment of bandages, steaming pots and bloodied cloths, Innowen guessed he had some responsibility as a healer. It didn't matter. He gently but firmly pushed the older man into the corridor, ignoring his protests, and closed the door again.

  Riloosa's ankles had been bound to the end posts of his bed. The sheets upon which he lay were a mess of blood and foul matter and sticky pitch. His clothes had been cut away. He looked frail and withered in his nakedness, not at all the calculating, hard-willed court advisor Innowen had known before. His gray hair seemed thinner, and those darkly glazed eyes seemed barely able to focus as he looked up at Innowen. His lips parted slightly, but no sound came from him. Weakly, his head rolled to the side, and he looked away.

  Innowen forced himself to look at the stump where Riloosa's right arm had been. They had taken it just below the shoulder. Black pitch covered the cauterized flesh, but burns were plainly visible on the shoulder and along the right side, caused by whatever they had used for the cauterization, probably a hot torch or a brand from the fireplace.

  Innowen pulled the dagger from his belt. He had brought Riloosa to this with his dancing, and he felt the weight of that guilt like a huge stone around his neck. He had not liked the Syraean, but no man deserved this. He touched Riloosa's forehead; the skin was searing hot with fever. Amputating the arm would not save his life. The infection had eaten far too deeply. Greater agon
y was all that awaited the advisor, from the poison in his blood and from Kyrin's unforgiving hands.

  He had no intention of allowing that. He brushed a finger over Riloosa's cheek, and the old man turned his head to look once more at him. His gaze fastened for an instant on the dagger, then he closed his eyes. His mouth opened slackly, and he let go either a sigh or a little moan.

  Innowen fancied it was a sigh of gratitude. He cut the ropes that bound Riloosa's ankles, then sat down on the bed, gathered the old man in one arm, and hugged him close to his chest. Those weary eyes never opened as Innowen pressed his face to the top of the Syraean's balding head. The mouth never tried to speak.

  Innowen set the point of the copper dagger to Riloosa's heart and slipped it deep. Another sigh fled the old man's lips, the softest of sounds, like a tiny zephyr that stirred among fallen leaves. For an instant, the Syraean stiffened, then he completely relaxed.

  Warm blood spread over Innowen's hand as he pulled the dagger free and dropped it on the floor. Still, he clung to the old man and hugged him closer, as a child might a broken doll, and he set his cheek next to the old man's cheek as tears started to seep from the corners of his eyes. Suddenly, he gave a great sob and buried his face against Riloosa's neck.

  Razkili's hands settled on Innowen's shoulders, and Innowen felt himself pulled away. He refused, though, and clutched at Riloosa's body, twisting away from his friend. "Get out, Rascal!" he cried despairingly. "Get out before someone comes!"

  Razkili continued to pull at him, working strength against strength to unwrap his arms from around the counselor's body. "Come on, Innocent!" The urgently whispered words echoed in his ears. "Come on, I'm not leaving you here. He's dead. Let go of him!"