Shadowdance

by Robin W Bailey

  A powerful thirst came upon him. He had neither wine nor water with him and had wet his mouth with nothing since that stolen sip from a soldier's bota in the palace courtyard. He steered his horse toward the river, cutting an angling course down the slope and hanging on with all his strength.

  Overhead, birds circled in greater numbers, drawn by the river. Unlike the pair he had observed earlier, these were silent in their flight, as if a call or a song was too great an expenditure of energy. He heard them, though, heard the beat of their pinions, heard the rush of the wind through their feathers, and he envied them, who had no fear of falling.

  He thought of her again, thought of the soldier's blood pumping onto her heaving, groaning body while Vashni rode her.

  Innowen pushed the image violently from his mind, cursed her, and cursed himself. He had to concentrate to keep his balance. His arms were tiring rapidly from supporting all his weight, and his shoulders ached. It would only take a little mistake, and he'd wind up on the ground, flat on his back. What then? The birds above him weren't vultures, but it was easy to imagine they were.

  The Kashoki River had dwindled to little more than a thin trickle. Innowen rode down an embankment onto a dry bed of sun-cracked mud. A swarm of gnats and flies buzzed up around his face suddenly. He waved a hand to drive them off. The silvery scaled remains of dead fish lay scattered about, half buried by the insects.

  The ground became muddy as he approached the narrow ribbon of water. The tracks of other animals were visible, some still relatively fresh. At dawn and sundown, no doubt, this place teemed with life. He watched particularly for wolf-prints or signs of other predators.

  The horse waded out into the river. It was only a stream now, barely deep enough to cover his fetlocks. The beast bent his head to drink, and Innowen nearly lost his seat again as the reins jerked in his hands. The horse didn't care. It was thirsty, and it lapped the water greedily.

  Innowen, however, was faced with a problem. He couldn't get down to drink unless he let himself fall. If he did that, he wouldn't be able to mount again. He could smell the water, so close and yet so far, and his tongue rubbed against the dry roof of his mouth. He thought about his kilt. If he unwound it and dangled an end in the stream, he could soak up some water and suck it from the cloth. He didn't think he could do that without losing his balance on the horse. His breech cloth was useless for the same reason. Besides, he discovered when he felt it with a hand that it was saturated with the horse's lather. Possibly, too, with his own urine.

  My belt, though, just might work. Holding the reins in one hand and leaning on his mount's withers, he carefully recovered the two gold cymorens he had thrust down between the belt and his skin. These he also shoved into the fist that held the reins. Then, one-handed, he worked at the laces over his belly that held the belt in place. It was ridiculously hard work, as he seemed to be constantly teetering in the air, ready to plunge off. At last, he got it free.

  He rested for a moment, putting his weight on both hands, before lowering himself slowly, cautiously forward until he was stretched out along the horse's neck. If the beast bucked up or tossed its head suddenly, it would unseat him for sure. But the smell of the water was too strong. He leaned down as far as he dared and dipped the end of his belt in the river and pulled it up.

  He clung to the horse for balance now, one arm wrapped nearly around its long throat, as he raised the end of the belt to his lips. The droplets ran into his mouth, and his tongue strained to catch them all. They brought with them a muddy taste and the slightly bitter tang of leather and tanner's dye, but to Innowen nothing ever tasted so sweet or so good. He dipped the belt a second time and drank again.

  It was a clumsy and arduous process, but he managed to refresh himself. At last, he pressed himself upright. He'd let the horse drink too much; he chided himself, as he struggled to wrap his belt around his waist. That only brought new frustration, for he couldn't do it with only one hand, not while the other had to hold the reins and the gold coins and keep his balance. Finally, muttering an oath, he tucked the belt between his thighs and the knot that tied the two bundles together. The coins he shoved down his breech cloth.

  He had to find a place to sleep, or at least a place to rest, and he couldn't put it off much longer. Sooner or later, the horse was bound to misstep and throw him, or his own fatigue and carelessness would undo him. Better, instead, to find a safe spot and wait for the sunset to bring life back to his limbs.

  He had planned the ride to Parendur with deliberate care, so there had always been a town or village or farm, someplace where he could rent a bed or beg a stable hayloft in which to sleep the day away. But he had fled Parendur in a panic. Only in the few brief moments he had spent atop a hill, watching the sun rise, feeling it warm his face as it chilled his legs, had he chosen a destination. No, not chosen. Realized. He'd realized where he'd been heading since leaving the Witch behind.

  It was as if fate, a mightier river than the Kashoki had ever been, had swept him up in a current and carried him along. As if the gods of Ispor had set their hands on him and turned him where they wanted him to go.

  But Innowen put little stock in fate or gods. If he wanted, he could turn his horse aside. He could choose another course and still find his way to Whisperstone.

  He followed the foothills northward because he wanted to. It was his own morbid desire that drove him, nothing to blame on fate or gods.

  He turned his left hand over and stared at the thin black streak just under the skin of his palm. The splinter no longer pained him unless he made a fist. It was an evil reminder, though, that a god had, in fact, touched him. What good was all his arrogance and disdain for the gods? He himself was proof of their power.

  Still, he lifted his head, and something of a sneer flickered across his lips. None of it mattered. Whether it was his will, or the will of the gods, he knew where he was going.

  * * *

  Night descended softly, splendidly, over Ispor. The Crown of the Gods made a milky blaze across the sky, and in the north, the Great Scythe carved a lazy swath. In the south, the Red Beast clawed its way into the heavens; its curling tail, however, anchored it forever to the earth; the harder it strove, the brighter burned the single, bright crimson star, which scholars called Antarios, that made its head. Directly overhead, the Great Swan kept watch over the poor people of the earth and brought them a peaceful summer night's sleep.

  Innowen felt some measure of that peace as he followed the Kashoki River northward. Life had returned to his legs again, and he had danced a slow and graceful dance high atop one of the Akrotir foothills as the earliest stars winked into view. It was for them he'd danced, and he'd called them by name, the ones he knew, conjuring them to appear, each in their proper places, to bejewel the night.

  He had not slept, though. Perhaps that explained the languid peace that filled him. Or perhaps it was the gentle, rolling motion of the horse that lulled him. Maybe it was the easy trickling of the Kashoki as it purled between its banks. This far north, where the river flowed among the foothills, it carried more water than farther out on the plain where he had first drunk from it.

  He had passed the afternoon in nervous watchfulness atop a high hill where he could see in all directions, afraid of wild animals, half afraid that the Witch might somehow find him. By now, she must know of her missing armor. She might have noticed the missing dolls. Perhaps she remembered the dream that had visited her in her sleep. Innowen had no clear idea of the extent of her powers, or if distance was any safeguard against her retaliation. He hadn't thought too much about it in the morning, when balancing on his horse without the benefit of his legs had taken most of his concentration. But in the afternoon, when he had hoped to rest, it had prevented him from ever closing his eyes.

  He had decided it was a fear born out of his vulnerability, for as the use of his legs had returned to him, the fear had melted away. Now he thought mostly about his hunger, about his destination, and about the sta
rs that burned so brilliantly, like lamps in the heavens to light his way, and he wished Razkili were at his side to see such stars.

  The Great Scythe disappeared as the river took a sudden bend and cut deeper into the foothills. The Kashoki was still little more than a stream. A few good strides would take him to the opposite bank. But it was cleaner, unsullied by the mud of the plains. He stopped, took a drink and let his horse drink, then mounted again and continued onward.

  The river led him into a shallow valley, and Innowen paused to study the village nestled there. Lamplights shone in the windows of some homes even at such a late hour, but most dwellings were utterly dark. He rode forward cautiously, nudging his horse with his heels, staying close to the river.

  An abandoned pier rose on the opposite bank, and the corpses of broken boats lay scattered about it, half buried in the mud. Once, the Kashoki had been large enough for small boats to navigate, and goods had been shipped up and down the waterway. The drought had put an end to that.

  Innowen steered his mount across the river—the water barely came to the horse's knees at its deepest point—and up the other embankment. The horse's hooves clattered loudly as he rode across the land-anchored end of the pier. A few bundles were still piled there, but it was too dark to see what they were, and he had no interest at all in the spilled contents of a pair of shattered barrels.

  He followed the river, which flowed into the heart of the village. Empty warehouses rose up on his right side, their great doors open to any who cared to enter, or hanging crookedly on worn hinges. An arched stone bridge was a useless monument to the former greatness of the Kashoki. On his left, more boats lay piled up on the muddy shore, arranged neatly like the bodies of soldiers after a battle.

  Some of the homes he passed now were occupied. Windows were opened to catch the breeze. Sometimes, voices spilled out. An argument from this one. A laugh from that one. Once, a small child's face peered out and watched him pass.

  He arrived at another bridge and turned right, following the road of which it was part, away from the river. An old man came walking toward him, slouched forward under the weight of a sack he carried slung across one shoulder.

  Innowen pulled back on the reins, and his horse stopped. "Is this...?"

  The old man passed him by, refusing to answer or even to acknowledge him. Innowen twisted around to watch him disappear across the bridge. With a shrug, he rode onward until he found the village square.

  He approached the well that stood in the center of the town. Without dismounting, he looked around. A door slammed off to his left. A pair of voices rose in deep-throated laughter. Innowen observed the two men who stumbled toward the well. They were halfway across the square when they saw him and stopped.

  "Well, well, a traveler," said the taller of the two men, a black-haired, bearded fellow dressed in a leather kilt and a ragged tunic. Innowen noted the short dagger on the belt around his waist.

  "Who might ye be, comin' here so late in the middle o' the night, now?" The shorter, and obviously younger, man gave off a reek of beer that Innowen could smell as they came closer.

  He turned just enough to let them see the sword he wore—the soldier's sword, which Baktus had given him. The Witch's ruby-hilted blade remained wrapped in the bundle with her armor and his dolls. "What village is this?" Innowen asked evenly.

  "Shanalane," said the older man, eyeing the sword. "Why, don't ye know where ye're goin', or are ye jus' ridin' around the countryside for the fun of it?"

  Innowen ignored the question. "Was that an inn you just came from? I could use a drink and a bite to eat."

  "Couldn't we all, now," the younger man laughed drunkenly. "Ye like to buy us a drink, stranger?"

  Innowen considered. "Sorry," he said at last. "My poor coins will barely stretch for one meal tonight." He looked the older man in the eyes as he spoke the lie.

  The younger one took a half step forward and reached toward Innowen's foot. "That's not very friendly...."

  His older comrade caught his arm and yanked him back. "Ferget it, Chaddi," he said, still watching Innowen's eyes. "He's not worth the trouble." Quickly, he ushered a mumbling Chaddi away and down a side street.

  Innowen waited until they were gone, then rode toward the door the pair had emerged through. There was no sign or anything to declare if it was an inn or a tavern. Voices sounded loudly from inside, however. He dismounted slowly, keeping the reins of his horse in one hand. In his uncertainty, he thought of knocking on the door, but at last pulled it open.

  It was a tavern, all right. A dozen men sat around tables, pouring mugs of liquid down their throats, and holding conversations between gulps. Another half dozen stood in a group at the back of the tavern tossing knives at a painted block of wood. A large sweating man sat on a stool just inside the door. His head was shaved bald, and a small gold hoop gleamed in the drooping lobe of his left ear. He turned and regarded Innowen with a cool, even gaze. "In or out," he grumbled.

  Innowen hesitated, mindful of the reins in his hand. "Is there someplace close where I can stable my horse?" he said. "I've come a long way."

  The doorman with the earring eyed him again, noting his sword and clothing, peering around the door past Innowen for a look at the horse. "Wait," he answered, pushing Innowen back outside and closing the door in his face.

  Innowen frowned, but waited, twisting the reins around one hand as he idly stroked his horse's neck with the other. He didn't wait long. The door opened, and another man emerged, wearing an apron, which he wiped over both his hands. His hair was black and curly, and his grin reminded Innowen startlingly of Taelyn.

  "Hot tonight, isn't it?" the man remarked casually, extending his hand to clasp Innowen's forearm. There was power in his grip, and Innowen liked him at once, finding him a pleasant change from the first four souls he'd met in this village.

  "All the nights are hot," Innowen answered. "I'm Petroklos, a traveler."

  "And I'm Moryn."

  Innowen's head tilted to one side as he studied the man with renewed interest. "That's a Mureibet name," he said.

  Moryn's left brow elevated, and he, too, gave Innowen a closer look. "You must be well-traveled, indeed. My father was from Mureibet, but he settled here with my Isporan mother." His grin broadened. "People who know me around here call me Mourn."

  The two finally let go of each other's forearms. "Merit said you needed your horse looked after," Mourn remarked, taking the reins from Innowen's hand. "Let me see to him. I'm friends with the owner of the only stable still open on this side of the river, and I'll get you a good price. It's not far. You go on in and have a drink. There'll be food when I get back."

  "My thanks," Innowen said, pleased by such hospitality. "Do you have rooms? I haven't slept for some time."

  "No rooms, I'm afraid," Mourn answered, biting a corner of his lip. "Shanalane hasn't been able to support an inn for quite a while. Few travelers come this way since the river dried up." He paused, then the corners of his mouth turned up in a renewed smile. "If you like, though, you can sleep with me. I've plenty of room. The bed is soft and big enough, and I won't disturb you."

  Innowen hesitated. "That's a generous offer to make to a stranger."

  Mourn shrugged. "Anyone who's been to Mureibet must have stories to tell. Me, I've never left this village in my life, except to sail upriver to Kharkus, which doesn't count. Don't worry, Petroklos. You'll earn a night's keep with tale-telling. Now go inside while I get fresh straw and oats for your horse."

  Innowen collected his two bundles from around the horse's shoulders, and Mourn led the animal away. Innowen went into the tavern. Choosing a table near the door, he sat down and looked around.

  The giant by the door—Mourn had called him Merit—never took his eyes off Innowen. After a few moments, a young girl separated from the group of knife-throwers and approached him. At first, he assumed she was a prostitute. Why else would she be in such a place? But she only asked his preference, "Beer, ale, or wine."


  "Wine," he told her, and shortly she brought it to him in the same heavy earthen mug used for beer or ale. Innowen put one of his gold cymorens on the table. The girl's eyes widened at sight of it, but before she could make a move, Merit waved her away and shook his head. The girl retreated instantly.

  The giant raised his bulk from the stool and ambled over. He covered the shining coin with one meaty hand and pushed it toward Innowen with a frown. "Don't show that around here," he said gruffly. "We don't need no trouble." He turned and took up his perch on the stool, and never looked Innowen's way again.

  Innowen sighed and slipped the coin back into his belt. As he raised his mug of wine and sipped, he glanced around the room, wondering why he had come here, what he had hoped to find. Shanalane was something of a disappointment, only an old fishing and shipping town, dried up like the river, which had been its livelihood.

  Still, somewhere in the hills close by was the Witch's keep. He didn't understand it, but he wanted to see where Minarik and Minowee had trysted and where Vashni must have been born. Innowen had had time to think on the road here, time to lay their faces one upon the other in his mind, and he had no doubt that Vashni was Minarik's son.

  He took a gulp of his wine. The pieces of a great puzzle were, at last, coming together. Yet the picture they would form when all were joined still eluded him.

  * * *

  When Innowen woke up, Mourn's bedroom was utterly dark. He had slept the day away, then, and he smiled to himself, for he had not quite figured out what he would say if his newfound friend discovered his unusual problem.

  When he tried to slide out of bed, however, his legs refused to cooperate. His pulse quickened for an instant, and he knew a moment of cold fear. If it was night, then he should be whole again. He forced himself to be calm. It must not be night, he told himself. He felt around. Mourn was not in bed, and his place on the sheets next to the wall was cold.