Shadowdance

by Robin W Bailey

  The attendants bowed their heads reverently toward Veydon, then looked at each other across Innowen, who was stretched between them like a banquet feast. One of them lifted a razor and ran a thumb along its edge. "Shave him," he said, passing the razor to the other attendant without so much as a glance at Innowen. "Shave everything."

  Innowen's eyes widened, and he heard Veydon's short laugh as the door closed suddenly.

  Alone with Innowen, the attendants chuckled lowly. Then they were on him. They shaved away his thick, stubbly beard, clucking to themselves as they took turns dragging the razor over his face and throat. Innowen breathed a sigh of relief when they stopped there and set the tool aside to take up the oil pots. Four hands massaged olive oil into his skin. It felt wonderful, and he slowly relaxed into a languid state as they worked on him. After a time, each attendant picked up a stone scraper and scraped the oil away with short, rapid strokes, shaking the excess from the blades and rinsing them in basins of water.

  When his front side was done, they flipped him over and repeated their cleansings on his other side. Not even the spaces between his toes were sacred to these two. Though they began every new movement or phase of their ministrations with an almost menacing roughness, the attendants were surprisingly gentle and thorough. When the oil was scraped away, they rubbed his flesh briskly with the towels until he tingled all over.

  One of them found the remains of Razkili's persimmon oil, and they used that to make his hair shine. Next, they bound his curly locks behind his neck with a thin gold cord.

  Innowen was sitting up on the table again while the two applied perfume when Veydon returned. "Look at this," he said with pride. He held up a bolt of the most beautiful blue cloth Innowen had ever seen.

  "Where did you get it?" he asked with awe as he ran his fingers over the soft material, noting with admiration the subtle interweaving of silver thread among the blue, which created a startling play of light on the fabric.

  "Kyrin's daughter overheard me questioning the slave who cares for Minarik's wardrobe," Veydon explained, "and she offered this." Veydon gave a little cough, and added in a lower voice, "She also sends her greeting and requests to see you at your convenience."

  Innowen bit his lip thoughtfully. He had brought back a gift for Dyan, one of the four dolls, which still lay in the bundles by the door. But first, he had business with Minarik.

  He wrapped his loins with a fresh loin cloth. Then, while the two attendants held him up, Veydon set about winding and draping the blue fabric over his body. Around Innowen's waist, he fastened a belt of large, linked gold circles so long that, once tight about him, a length of it still hung down across his lap to his knees. It jingled lightly every time it moved, and shimmered in the sunlight that came through the window.

  "I think you're ready now," Veydon said approvingly. He turned to the attendants. "Thank you, friends. I'll see you on the wall tonight."

  "Soldiers?" Innowen muttered as the two headed for the door. The two stopped, turned back toward him, looked at each other, and laughed again. Chuckling, they left without another word.

  "That shaving bit was pretty good, wasn't it?" Veydon said with a smirk. "I'll carry you down to the courtyard now." He picked Innowen up with little effort. "Then I'll go find Minarik."

  As they prepared to leave the room, Innowen remembered the bundles and their contents. "Wait," he said suddenly. "There's something I want."

  A short time later, Innowen was waiting alone in the gazebo. An oinochoe jug full of warm red wine and two deep skyphos bowls for drinking stood on a nearby table within his reach. The greenery that once had covered the gazebo had long since died. Only dry, brown vines draped its framework now. Innowen waved a hand to drive away a fly.

  It didn't take Veydon long to find the Lord of Whisperstone. When Minarik strode across the courtyard and stepped up into the gazebo, there was a look of irritation on his face. Before he said anything, though, his gaze fell on Innowen's lap and on the Witch's ruby-pommeled sword, which rested there. His jaw gaped. Then, slowly, he sank down in the seat opposite Innowen.

  Minarik let out a slow breath. "It's scorchingly hot," he said, gazing away briefly before his eyes returned to the sword. "I see you found her."

  Innowen regarded Minarik coolly, remembering the first time they had sat here together like this so many years ago. He twisted the bird-shaped ring on his finger, watching Minarik observe him as he did so. "I found Minowee," he answered matter-of-factly.

  Minarik pursed his lips as he settled deeper into his chair. "So, you've learned her name, too." He steepled his fingers and peered at Innowen over the tips. "What else?"

  Innowen had played this over and over in his mind, always keeping his answers cool, his manner smug and superior. He had achieved what Minarik himself had never managed. He had found the Witch of Shanalane.

  Instead, a red rage boiled up unexpectedly inside of Innowen. He leaned forward in his chair. "You stone-hearted bastard!" he shouted with vehemence. "Why didn't you tell me you were my real father? Why this charade of adoption?" He pulled the ring suddenly from his finger and threw it with stinging force. A startled Minarik flung up his hands to guard his face. The ring struck him in the chest and clattered to the gazebo's wooden floor. Stunned, Minarik gazed down at the ring, but made no effort to retrieve it. He turned back to Innowen.

  "It seems you learned a lot in Parendur," he said quietly.

  "And more in Shanalane!" Innowen told him in a low, ugly voice as he fought for his self-control.

  Minarik looked away again, then closed his eyes. "Shanalane," he murmured as if to himself. "Gods, that was such a long time ago." He sagged sideways in his seat and cradled his head in the palm of one hand. He just sat there like that for a moment while Innowen seethed. At last, Minarik pulled himself erect again.

  "Minowee told me she was pregnant the same night she told me who she really was," Minarik explained. His moment of regret or sadness or whatever it was he had felt, had passed. Once more, he was Minarik, Lord of Whisperstone, and there was no apology in his voice. "I had been sleeping with the daughter of my brother." He pointed at the sword on Innowen's lap. "She had that ruby to prove her claim. She taunted me with the damned thing. But it was proof beyond doubt that she was Koryan's first-born."

  Minarik got up and poured himself a bowl of wine. Almost as an afterthought, he poured one for Innowen and pushed it toward him. "She knew what she had done. She'd known from the very beginning that I was her uncle. She laughed about it." He lifted his bowl and drank. "Sometimes, I swear I still hear her laughing." He took another quick drink. "I ran from her bedroom that night, and I never went back." He glared at Innowen, and his face was suddenly hard as stone, his words furious. "I never let myself go back, though I burned in my soul every night I was separated from her. She was my niece, yet I loved her." His lips curled back from his teeth and gums, and his hands clenched on the arms of his chair. "I loved her, Innowen!"

  For a moment, Minarik's eyes unfocused, as though some waking dream had seized him. Then he relaxed and settled back into his seat once more. He let go a deep sigh. "But I meant nothing to her. I was merely the first step in her revenge against the family she thought had so grievously wronged her."

  Innowen slammed his fist on his unfeeling thigh. "Thought had wronged her?" The dismissive tone of Minarik's final remark filled him with a red rage. "Koryan exposed her when she was born—his own child!— he left her in the open to die because she wasn't a male baby!"

  Minarik gave Innowen a look that bordered on scorn. "And she did the same to you, Innocent, because you were less than perfect." Minarik waited for his words to sink in before he bent down and picked up the ring Innowen had discarded.

  "When Drushen brought you here," he continued, "I couldn't face him. I was still too hurt, too angry. I had my own schemes to punish Minowee, to avenge myself on her." He waved a hand in a self-deprecating manner. "None of which I ever attempted to realize." His expression turned tho
ughtful for a moment. Finally, he shrugged. "I wish I could say that it wasn't so, Innowen, that I was a better man. But when I looked down at that little crippled baby in Drushen's arms, and remembered the cruel sound of her laughter, it was easy to convince myself that you weren't really my child at all."

  Innowen ran his hands over the sheepskin sheath and the hilt of the Witch's sword. "You just forgot about me? Just forgot I existed at all?"

  A small, wistful smile turned up the corners of Minarik's lips. "Not quite," he admitted. "When Drushen decided to stay here and raise you himself, I saw to it that the villagers in Shandisti bought their wood only from him. Didn't you ever wonder why there were no other woodcutters in these parts, why Drushen had no competition?" Minarik took a drink from his skyphos bowl. "I guaranteed his income, you might say. And though I continued to deny you were my son, I still kept an ear out in the village as to how you were doing."

  Innowen's jaw ached from gnashing his teeth. "And when did you decide to accept me?" His voice dripped with venom. He wanted to understand, but he didn't. He hurt. He hurt so much. And, gods help him, he wanted Minarik to hurt, too. "When you found out that night that I could stand on my legs like a man, that maybe you didn't have a crippled son, after all? Damn you, that next morning must have been as frightening to you as it was to me!"

  Minarik held up the ring between his fingers and looked at the sun through it. Calmly, he set it back on the table near Innowen's untouched bowl of wine. "Maybe I'm only accepting it now," he said quietly.

  Innowen's right hand clenched around the Witch's sword. "You're so damned regal about it," he hissed.

  Minarik gave him a look of genuine surprise. "What would you have me do, Innocent? Fall to my knees and beg forgiveness? Break down and blubber all over you, stain your pretty garment with my penitent tears? You want me to tell you how much I love you?" He shook his head wearily. "I don't know you well enough to love you," he admitted honestly, "but I'll tell you this. I respect you. I respect what you've done." He hesitated, meeting Innowen's gaze intently. "And, son, if my father had ever said that to me, nothing would ever have meant more."

  Innowen couldn't form an answer. He felt too confused, too angry. The word son burned in his ears. He grabbed his bowl of wine and took a drink, hoping it would somehow quench the fire of anger that yet burned in his heart.

  Minarik sighed. "We'll talk more," he said. "We've got a lot of talking to do, I think. But it can wait." He turned away from Innowen and stepped down from the gazebo. At the last instant, though, before he left, he stopped and turned back. His hand rested on the gazebo's framework, causing a fine brown shower of dust to fall from the dead vines.

  "Will you tell me," he said softly, and there was finally a note of apology in his voice, an embarrassment that suggested he had a heart after all. His gaze fell fearfully to the Witch's sword. "Is she well?"

  The breath hissed between Innowen's teeth as he jerked his head around to glare at his father. He knew exactly what Minarik meant, however subtly he tried to phrase his unsubtle question. Innowen felt the white-lacquered sheath under his hands and thought of the gleaming, sharp blade within. If he had had the use of his legs at that moment, he would have gotten up and used it to kill the monster he saw before him.

  "Quite well," he answered, trembling. "Why not? She has her kingdom now. That's all she ever wanted."

  A look of pain shot across Minarik's face, and Innowen knew he had drawn blood. Grimly, Minarik started to turn away. But Innowen stopped him. "Now you tell me," he shouted at his father's back. "When did you decide to use me as a weapon against my mother?"

  Minarik paused without turning around. Slowly, he raised one hand and pointed toward a high window overlooking the courtyard. "I remember precisely," he answered bluntly. "It came to me your second night at Whisperstone. I was leaning in that window, watching you dance for Drushen."

  Innowen paled, unable to say anything more as Minarik walked away, incapable of staunching the unexpected wound or stopping the blood that drained from his heart. He twisted in his chair and stared upward through the brown canopy of vines. So many windows in those soaring walls. How many eyes had seen him that terrible night? How many lives had he unknowingly warped with that one dance?

  He seized the oinochoe jug and dashed it to bits on the wooden floor. The red wine splashed up on his legs and feet. It spread over the boards, seeped through the cracks, and ran in a thick rivulet toward the chair where Minarik had sat.

  Innowen grabbed his father's ring from the table and locked it in a tight fist. With his other hand, he took up his mother's sword. He hugged them both to his chest, rocking back and forth while great sobs wracked him.

  After a while, the tears passed, and he sat still. A feeling of emptiness washed over him. He hadn't told Minarik about his other son, Vashni. He would have to do that. Perhaps that would in some part heal the rift he had just made between them. He slipped the ring back on his finger, and after a while, he wept again, but they were softer tears this time, cleansing tears.

  A cacophony of trumpets interrupted him. He sat up suddenly, wiped his eyes, and stared around. Those were the warning trumpets from Whisperstone's walls.

  An instant later, Veydon came running into the courtyard. His face was sweating and excited. Without asking permission, he seized Innowen up in his arms.

  "What's happening?" Innowen cried. He locked his arms around Veydon's neck and nearly dropped the Witch's sword as his friend bore him away from the gazebo at a fast walk. On the walls, the trumpets sounded again.

  "Minarik said to bring you!" Veydon answered through ragged breaths as they entered Whisperstone and made their way toward the front hall and entrance. "Someone's coming. Someone you'll want to see."

  They passed outside again and stopped on the top step in the shadow of the great doorway. The grounds were alive with scurrying soldiers who rushed to clear a space among the tents and stacks of supplies. The massive gates creaked as teams of men pushed them wide open. Villagers lined the street beyond, not cheering, but staring dumbly, uncertain of what was happening or if it concerned them, as companies of ragged soldiers rode or walked toward Whisperstone.

  On the walls, the trumpets sounded again, and the soldiers there set up a cheer that spread all through the grounds. Innowen, though, saw little to cheer about. The men he saw were a pitiful looking lot. They'd been cut to pieces in some recent battle. They limped and stumbled and helped each other toward the gate, used their lances for walking sticks. The relief on their faces as they filed through the gates was marred by obvious weariness and pain. Numbers of them collapsed as soon as they were within Whisperstone's walls, and Minarik's troops rushed to their aid.

  Even the slaves and servants of Whisperstone worked alongside Minarik's soldiers, clearing space, making pallets of blankets, which they had stripped from Whisperstone's beds, for the injured. Innowen spied his father working furiously among them, shouting directions, pushing barrels aside with his own hands, lending his shoulder to move a grain cart.

  More and more soldiers poured through the gates, and still Innowen could not see the end of their line as it wound through the village. He wondered how Whisperstone could possibly hold them all. There were supplies, yes, but for so many? And what of water?

  "Look," Veydon said suddenly. "There he is!"

  Riding through the gate on a huge black horse, bearing a wounded young soldier in his arms, came Taelyn.

  Chapter 21

  Whisperstone's Great Hall was filled to overflowing. Minarik and Kyrin sat on huge wooden chairs at one end of the room, while Taelyn and his captains crowded close together before them. Dyan sat at her father's feet, pale and subdued, a thin saffron veil covering her entire head. Also present were the captains of Minarik's personal guard and officers from those soldiers loyal to Kyrin, who had escaped with him from Parendur.

  Veydon had moved quickly enough to find a chair for Innowen, and the young soldier had taken up a position just behind
it. He kept a protective hand on Innowen's shoulder, and his scowl warned away any in the crowd who threatened to block Innowen's view. There were no windows in the hall, and oil lamps had to be lit. The room, already too warm, became hotter still with the presence of so many bodies, and the smell of sweat rapidly fouled the air.

  Kyrin glowered, purple-faced with anger. He was not happy to see Taelyn alive. "I ordered you to hold the gate at Parendur!" he railed. "The fact that you stand before us alive is proof of your desertion!"

  A general shout went up from Taelyn's officers, but Taelyn himself quieted them with a gesture. He glared with open defiance at his king. "You ordered me to hold the gate until you got away," he reminded everyone with a sneer. "Well, you got away, didn't you? And I fought in the front lines—that was your order, too. I survived, though, and got most of my men clear, as well. That's the real reason you're sitting there pissing in your loincloth!"

  Minarik interceded, attempting to bring some order to the charged proceedings. He raised his hand, and the hall fell silent. "Finish your report," he said to his commander.

  Taelyn raised the back of a hand to wipe away a stream of sweat that ran down his left cheek. "We held the Witch's mercenaries long enough for you to get beyond their sight," he explained gruffly to Minarik. "Then, we lured them in a different direction, fighting as we retreated. After we got away, I did as you instructed me—gathered the remains of the Third Army and all other armies still loyal to that." He tilted his head toward Kyrin, pointedly refusing to acknowledge him with a look. "We've fought three battles in eight days. Some of these soldiers have fought with wounds that would've killed lesser men. When their lances and swords broke, they used rocks and clubs, or they used their hands. Most of us haven't eaten in days."