Kyrin slammed an open palm on the arm of his chair. "Yet you came here to lick your wounds. Fool! You may have led my enemies right to me! Her scouts probably followed you!" Another rumble ran through the room and quickly, turned to shouts. Kyrin's officers pressed closer around Taelyn, but Taelyn's men pushed them back, and the room got very tense. Veydon moved to Innowen's side and put one hand on his sword. Dyan got to her feet and stood behind her father's chair.
Minarik stood up. "Stop it!" he ordered sternly, raising his fist. "Stop this bickering!" The room fell silent immediately, and everyone looked to the Lord of Whisperstone. Minarik turned angrily toward Kyrin.
"You're the fool here, if you think the Witch doesn't know exactly where you're hiding."
Kyrin bristled, but kept his seat. "You dare too much, Uncle," he warned, leaning on the chair arm, peering up at Minarik. "I am still king of Ispor."
"Akkadi," Innowen muttered, too softly for anyone to hear him. He glanced down at the sword on his lap. The ruby on its pommel glittered in the lamplight as it had glittered on Minowee's throat in the lightning that night so many years ago.
He felt another storm gathering now.
"You're king of nothing!" Taelyn exploded suddenly. "Without the consent of the noble families and the armies, no man can rule as Ispor's king!"
Kyrin leaped to his feet, but Taelyn was not yet done.
"Well, there are damned few of the noble families alive, and their armies, what's left of them, are out there!" He gestured beyond the room, toward the main grounds. "They fought with me to reach Whisperstone, because they knew this is where the best hope for Ispor's future lay."
Taelyn turned away from Kyrin to face Minarik. He held out his hand toward his lord. "We'll fight to save this dog's life if you ask us, Minarik. But we beg you! Take the crown yourself! Lead the armies. Ispor needs a great king, not this coward you call nephew!"
A thunder of voices filled the hall as some shouted approval and others screamed for Taelyn's head. Veydon's hand tightened on Innowen's shoulder, but Innowen's eyes were on the crowd. He noted the subtle shifting that took place as men loyal to Minarik and Taelyn surreptitiously surrounded Kyrin's officers. He gripped the hilt of the Witch's sword, ready to draw it if a fight broke out.
Minarik sat down slowly in his chair and rested his chin in his fist. That alone was enough to quiet the hall once more. The air was electric with danger. Everyone strained to hear his decision.
Kyrin spoke up, and though his voice was cold and harsh, it contained a note of desperation. "You wouldn't dare!" he challenged. "I am Koryan's son!"
Minarik looked at Kyrin with utter contempt. "Koryan!" he sneered. "Let me tell you something about my brother—your beloved father. He was little better than a pig, glutting himself on the treasures of Ispor while his people struggled to live. He cast off his first-born child because she was inconvenient, and after he finally had his son, he cast aside your mother when she dared to protest his rampant ruttings. Nothing with two legs was safe from Koryan, and no practice was beyond his appetites." Minarik shook his head as he scowled. "Don't invoke Koryan's name to me," he-said. "You'll win no points there."
Taelyn took a step closer to Minarik. "Then you'll be our king!" he cried triumphantly, and another shout went up from his supporters.
"No," Minarik answered calmly. He glanced briefly at Innowen. "Unfit as he is to rule, I am more unfit."
Taelyn backed up again, his expression turning to disappointment, then to anger as he prepared to argue with his lord.
Minarik stopped him. "Your report is incomplete, Commander," he said curtly, reminding Taelyn of his place as he reasserted his authority.
"What can be left?" Kyrin raged. "He's led the Witch to us!"
Taelyn glanced dumbly from Kyrin to Minarik. Minarik's refusal had put him off-stride. Even his anger deserted him, and the confusion that took its place was almost saddening.
Minarik righted himself in his chair. It was immediately obvious to everyone in the hall that it was he, not Kyrin, who was tacitly in charge, and they listened to what he said. "He didn't lead the Witch to us," he revealed coolly. "Why do you think I've been hoarding supplies? Why do you think our forges have been working day and night to turn out weapons?" He paused to let his meaning sink in. "Your sister is not the only one with scouts and spies. I've known for days of a large force gathering to the south of us, just a half-day's march away. I believe they're only waiting for the Witch to join them."
Taelyn hung his head. "We heard rumors," he admitted. "But we personally saw no sign of such a force."
"Not even the valiant Taelyn can fight in every corner of the land at once," Minarik offered generously. "But let's have no more talk of crowns. The simple fact is that Koryan's true first-born has made herself Ispor's ruler, whether we like it or not. At least for the moment. It's no crown, but right now we must fight for our lives." He turned his gaze on Kyrin and on Kyrin's officers, one by one. Then he added, "Let the survivors determine whose brow looks best in gold."
Kyrin clenched his hands at his sides and trembled with rage. Suddenly, he turned away from Minarik and stared out across the room, finding and fixing Innowen with his glare. "This is your fault!" he shouted.
The crowd moved back from Innowen and Veydon as all eyes turned his way. Innowen glanced uncertainly at his father, then lifted his head defiantly as he prepared to face Kyrin. Without a word, he reached up and gently pushed Veydon's hand from his shoulder.
Kyrin pointed a finger. "Look how he sits there with the Witch's sword in his lap!" he said, addressing the crowd. "He went to her in Parendur. That's where he's been. No doubt, he's the one who told her where we are. He's the one who betrayed us. Let him deny it!"
"I didn't have to tell her," Innowen answered calmly before the soldiers' mumblings could swell louder and force him to shout. "She could find you by the smell of your terror." The room grew deathly silent, except for a rude snort from Taelyn. "Yes, I saw her. But it concerned a matter strictly between us."
"You had the chance to kill her!" Kyrin charged. He waved a hand over those gathered in the hall. "You could have spared all our lives with a simple thrust of that blade. But you didn't! You didn't, because you're abathakati, like her! Look at you, a twisted little monster who only walks by night. You're not fit to sit in the company of decent men!"
Innowen kept his anger in check. He waited, letting the silence and the tension build, until he was sure everyone was looking at him. Then he spat on the floor near Kyrin's feet.
"Maybe I'm everything you say," he answered scornfully. "But I'm no coward. It's not their lives you're worried about. It's your own. You killed Koryan for his crown, and tried to blame the Witch. Now she's coming for you...." He glanced toward Taelyn, remembering something his old friend had said earlier, and a brief smile flickered over his lips. It faded as he gave his attention back to Kyrin:"...and you're pissing in your loincloth from fear."
Kyrin turned red as his rage boiled up within him. He took a step toward Innowen, raising his fists, but Taelyn made a subtle gesture, and two soldiers suddenly blocked their king's way.
Minarik rose to his feet, too, and stepped closer to Kyrin. "Innowen is my son," he said clearly for all to hear. "Not my adoptive son, but my true-born son, flesh of my flesh and blood of my blood." Minarik allowed himself a small grin at the gape-jawed expression that settled over Kyrin's face. "Yes, that makes him your nephew," Minarik added. "As you can see, he's inherited the family mouth."
Kyrin glared murderously, but it was obvious even to him that the mood of the room had turned against him. "This isn't over!" he hissed. He crooked a finger at his daughter, and she went timidly to his side, daring to cast a glance at Innowen, before her father grabbed her arm and dragged her through the crowd, which parted for them, across the room and out the door. Most of Kyrin's officers quickly followed, but a few remained nervously behind.
Minarik sat down again. "We have a battle to prepare for," he said
to his soldiers. "I want the wounded moved inside Whisperstone. When the beds are full, put them on pallets in the formal rooms and the hallways. But move them off the grounds; there's too much to do, and they'll only be in the way out there."
Innowen admitted grudgingly that he was watching a man who could rule Ispor as a king should. Minarik certainly looked the part, sitting in his high-backed chair, giving orders to his assembled warriors. His voice cracked with authority, and his gaze seemed to touch each man as it roamed about the hall. The mood of the soldiers changed noticeably. No one argued or grumbled. They listened with attentiveness, almost eagerly, to the Lord of Whisperstone. They were hungry men, starved for the leadership Kyrin had denied them.
Minarik beckoned to Taelyn, and his captain stepped closer. "The villagers know and respect you," he said to Taelyn. "Tell them the village is not safe. Tell them to come inside the gates, those who will. Those who won't come should flee while they can. The young men who come must be ready to fight, and tell the women they'll have to work. We'll be cramped, but we'll find room behind our walls for as many as we can."
"What about supplies?" Taelyn asked, frowning, considering. "Can we feed everyone through a siege?"
"That will be the hard part of your task, my friend," Minarik answered. "Whether they come or not, you'll have to confiscate anything you think will be useful to us. Food, grain, any stores of water, any weapons. Those who refuse to come inside may keep one skin of water to see them on their way. No more. Take a squad of soldiers you trust to back you up."
Taelyn nodded.
Minarik looked toward Veydon. "Your job is to organize the supplies we already have and the ones Taelyn sends in. Take an inventory. I want a list and your report by morning."
One of Kyrin's officers stepped forward. "We'll need oil and wood for the watchfires," he said.
Minarik scratched his chin. "Oil is in short supply," he answered, eyeing the officer. "What is your name?"
"Sireos," the officer replied. "If I may volunteer, I'll take another squad into the village and dismantle the homes of those who leave. We might also send a couple of wagons on a quick trip into the forest."
Minarik studied Sireos coolly, taking his time to form a judgment about the man. "Wait until morning before you dismantle anything. Those are homes, not warehouses, and some people will be attached to them. Wait until the owners are clearly gone. You needn't wait on the wagons, though. Choose volunteers from among the villagers who join us; they know the forest best." He inclined his head toward Sireos without ever breaking eye contact. "Yours is a valuable suggestion. I thank you."
Sireos gave a grunt and grinned. "Hells, it looks like my neck's on the line, too."
There was a general laugh from the soldiers at that. Then other suggestions began to fly about the room. Minarik handled them one at a time, giving each one equal consideration. Some men left immediately to begin important tasks. Taelyn was among those, but first he slipped through the crowd and came to Innowen.
He bent down and hugged Innowen about the shoulders. "Good to see you again, Innocent," he said quickly. There was a heavy weariness in his eyes where a deep tracery of lines had formed in the corners. Yet the gleam of excitement also burned there. "And you, too, Veydon. I hope we find time to talk later." He straightened, clapped Veydon's arm, and departed.
Veydon leaned forward and whispered in Innowen's ear. "I'd better take you to your room," he said. "I've got a job, too, and I'd better get started."
"Not my room," Innowen said quietly. It bothered him that there was nothing he could do to help. Not until nightfall, anyway. He put those feelings aside, however. Now was not the time to think of himself. The best he could do was keep out of the way. "Take me to the gazebo. I'll wait for Rascal there."
Veydon agreed and picked Innowen up in his arms. They made it halfway to the door, moving around the edges of the assembly, before Minarik stopped them.
"Where do you think you're going, Innowen?" Minarik called firmly, and Veydon turned so that Innowen could face his father. "My son will carry his share of the load around here, like everyone else. You may not be able to walk, but there's nothing wrong with your eyes. You'll take a shift at watch on the wall." He looked to Veydon. "See that a chair is placed at a proper post for him."
Innowen peered at his father, stunned by the pronouncement, as he attempted to read that inscrutable face. Minarik, though, had already turned his attention to another man.
"He honors you," Veydon murmured as he carried Innowen out of the room. "It elevates you in the soldiers' eyes if he treats you no differently from anyone else. Minarik knows this."
Innowen hugged his mother's sword to his chest with one hand. "I don't object," he answered. "I'm merely surprised."
They encountered a household slave who hurried past them with a sloshing bowl of bloody water. Veydon attempted to stop him, but Innowen interrupted. "Let him go," he said. "If he's seeing after the wounded, that work is more important." They found another slave a few moments later who agreed to come after them with a suitable chair, and Innowen spent the rest of the afternoon on the wall above the main gate, where he could watch the chaos in the village, or turn and watch the slightly more organized chaos on Whisperstone's grounds.
The sun went down almost too quickly. The watchfires were lit, and when Innowen's shift was done, he walked away from his post. Even after nightfall, the preparations continued. The grounds bustled with activity. Huge, eight-foot-tall torches were planted in the earth to add light to the dozens of campfires that burned. Groups of soldiers cleaned and prepared weapons and armor. Other soldiers, working right alongside villagers, made hasty trips back and forth through the gates, hauling anything that might be useful. Innowen weaved among them, eventually made his way inside the great keep, and went to his room.
There was no indication at all that Rascal had returned. The room was exactly as Innowen had left it.
He set down his mother's sword, which he had carried all day. Then, with a sigh, he went to the window and stared outward at the flicker of the watchfires and torches and tried not to worry. Rascal could take care of himself. So what if there was an army massing out there?
He should have been hungry, but he wasn't. He poured a little of the wine that remained from the night before into a kylix and carried it back to the window without drinking. There he leaned against the sill.
He stood like that for some time, watching the scurryings of the people below, waiting for Rascal to return. Finally, he grew tired of the darkness, and he realized, too, that the kylix he held was the same one Rascal and he had shared last night. No slave had come to take it away, and no one had come around to light the lamps.
He picked up his oil lamp from where it sat on a small desk in the corner of the room and went into the hall. The lamps there blazed brilliantly. Careful not to spill the contents, he held his lamp up to one of the flames and took fire from its burning wick.
Back in his room, he placed the lamp down on the table by the bed, climbed onto the soft mattress, and leaned his back against the wall where he could see the door when it opened. Then, by the door, he noticed the two forgotten bundles where he had left them. He got up and carried them to the bed, sat down cross-legged in the middle of the mattress, and began to undo them. Each contained half of the Witch's armor and two of his dolls. He rolled the armor back up in the Witch's white cloak and pushed that bundle under the bed.
One of the dolls, a small ceramic male figurine, had broken under the weight of the breastplate. When Innowen picked it up, its carefully painted head teetered back, fell to the sheets, and rolled down between his legs. He gave a small moan as he picked it up and tried to fit it back onto the doll's body, but the break was too severe, and anyway there was another crack across the doll's left arm. Frowning, he laid the pieces carefully back on the bed and called up good memories of Shaktar, a city-state far to the east where he had bought the doll.
A wan smile parted his lips as he remembe
red. It seemed fitting somehow that it was the one to break. The doll was an image of Hopit, a minor spirit who was supposed to bring good luck to travelers. Innowen had had precious little good luck lately.
Fortunately, his two favorites remained undamaged. He picked them up, one in each hand, and his smile widened. They were incredibly ugly little creatures to look at, with their naked rag bodies made lumpy with hard bean stuffing. Their arms and legs hung limp and much too long for their small shapes, and their fingers and toes were fashioned from oddly-weighted lead pellets. Careful stitches had been sewn into the faces to cause wrinkles and folds around features which had been fashioned from cracked seeds.
The dolls had been made ugly deliberately, and as if to add insult to insult, thin bronze poles had been shoved up their tiny anuses.
Yet Innowen loved them best of all. No other dolls he had seen or collected in all his travels had fascinated him as these had. He held them up to the light.
"What in hell are those things?"
Innowen jerked around to see Rascal standing by the door, apparently healthy, not a scratch on him. There'd been no need to worry about him at all. Therefore, Innowen decided to be mad. "Well, they're not dead rats," he snapped, "so you needn't frown as if they are. Where have you been?"
Razkili grinned and grabbed a towel from the stack Veydon's soldier-friends had left behind earlier. He rubbed his chest and armpits briskly, and the towel came away damp and filthy. He tossed it in a corner. "Preparing a present for you," he explained. "By the way, I've asked for some food to be sent up. I ran into Veydon, and he explained what's been going on." He came closer and rumpled Innowen's hair. "Can't I leave you alone for a little while without things turning crazy?"
"It's my curse," Innowen answered sarcastically, brushing the offending hand away. It was so like Rascal, Innowen thought. He worries the hell out of me by disappearing, then tells me it's because he was making me a present! Well, Innowen wasn't going to feel guilty about being mad. He wrinkled his nose. "Gods, you smell!"
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