Shadowdance

by Robin W Bailey

Three tall wooden posts stood in triangular formation in the center of the floor, perhaps ten paces from one to the other. Innowen knew they shouldn't be there. They had to have something to do with Rascal's gift then. He walked toward them curiously as Razkili climbed out of the opening to the tunnel. "Never close this," Rascal warned. "There's no ring on this side, no way to open it again. It's a long walk to Whisperstone from here."

  Innowen only half listened as he examined the mysterious posts. They had been freshly cut from trees and wedged into holes pounded through the stone tiles. Ten slender wires ran from each of the posts, each attached at different heights. They joined a metal cylinder that hung suspended in the air at the center of the triangle formed by the posts. Innowen rapped it with his knuckles, eliciting a dull thunk. It was thin copper. He tried to reach up and touch the wires, but they were too high. They gave the faintest hum when the wind brushed them, like a ship's rigging in a sea breeze.

  He turned slowly, examining the construction with a puzzled frown. "What is it?" he said at last.

  Razkili's smile threatened to split his face in half. He moved toward the cylinder, reached up inside it, and began to pull out old cloths and hides. As he did so, the vibrating wires began to sing louder and louder in the wind, and the cylinder captured and amplified their voices until the night filled with a wild, incredible chorus. Thirty wires, each of a different length, each at a different angle to the blowing wind, each shifting tones on a fantastic scale according to the wind's intensity—what a magnificent harp it made!

  He whirled toward Rascal, awash in the tumultuous sounds, the unbelievable power of the music. It tingled on his skin!

  "You can dance here," Rascal said, beaming with pride. "I cleared the ruins myself while you were gone and made this place for you."

  Chapter 22

  Innowen stood right under the copper cylinder where the notes of the vibrating wires converged. He could barely hear Razkili. The music rippled on his skin, raising gooseflesh, and he threw back his head and made a slow turn, filled with the wonder of it.

  He had no doubt: they could hear this wind harp in Whisperstone! He grinned slyly to himself, imagining the superstitious fear it must be causing in some of the people there. Strange music, wailing from the hills, riding the wind!

  Razkili joined him under the cylinder. "It's even louder than I expected!" he shouted, trying to make himself heard. "The harder the wind blows, the louder it gets!"

  "I noticed!" Innowen answered. Indeed, the wind was picking up, as if the music were summoning it. His hair snapped around his face. The wires screamed. He thought suddenly of the lantern, which Razkili had set on the ground. It was the only light they had by which to make their return through the tunnel. "Better set that inside the trap door," he suggested. Then, "Never mind, I'll do it."

  He picked up the lamp. The rising wind had not yet extinguished it, but the flame danced and fluttered dangerously. Innowen carefully shielded it with his cupped hand as he carried it to the open trap, bent down as low as he could, and set it on the highest stair. He pushed it as far into a corner as he could. The flame settled down to a mere flicker in the draft, but it would be safe enough from the wind. As an afterthought, he took the doll-shaped pipe out of his waistband. If he danced, it would be a hindrance.

  That brought up another question. What about Razkili? He didn't dare dance with Rascal so close. An irritated frown tugged the corners of his lips. Then a flash of anger shot through him as he realized that must have always been part of Rascal's plan. He had wanted for so long to see Innowen dance.

  He turned, disappointed that Rascal would try such an obvious trick, and saw that he was not wrong. Rascal refused to look at him. He stood, instead, with his back against one of the poles, utterly submissive in his posture, with his hands crossed around the pole. At his feet lay a coil of rope.

  "What are you doing?" Innowen raged, striding toward Razkili. He clenched his fists at his sides. "No! Stop that!"

  Razkili pulled a piece of black silken cloth from deep in his waistband and pressed it into Innowen's hands. It was warm with the heat of Rascal's body, damp with his sweat, rich with the smell of him. His face twisted with an intensity Innowen had never seen before. "Blindfold me!" he pleaded, thrusting his hands behind the pole again. "Then tie me! Don't send me away, Innocent!" He grabbed the cloth out of Innowen's hands and wrapped it over his own eyes, knotting it tight as he shouted. "Look!" he cried. "I can't see anything. I won't see you dance. But I'll be here. I'll be near you, part of whatever you do, part of the music!"

  Razkili waited for an answer, his lower lip trembling, his eyes bound shut. He pressed his head back against the pole, his body tensed, the veins in his neck, on his arms, livid and throbbing, his muscles taut. He looked like a man anticipating the lash or the ultimate pleasure of his life, unsure of which, fearing both.

  The wind rushed with sudden violence over the hilltop, and when it did, the harp sent a surge of music soaring, swirling, until the world seemed made of sound, nothing but sound. Innowen felt himself melting irresistibly into the music, diffusing into the night. His body shivered, became taut, vibrated like the wires. Whether he wished it or not, flesh and bone and muscle tuned themselves to the incredible instrument Razkili had created. His heart cried to dance. His body demanded it!

  Almost of their own will, his fingers loosened the belt that held his sword. The weapon slipped to the ground, the clatter drowned in the sheer power of the music.

  Innowen picked up the rope. "Damn you!" he screamed. Helpless to stop himself, he twisted a loop around Rascal's hands, drawing it tight until the cord dug cruelly into the flesh of the wrists. "Damn us both!" he screamed again. Tears poured abruptly from his eyes, angry tears, frightened tears. But he could not turn back now. With brutal knots, he bound Razkili's hands, then jerked his lover's elbows back savagely. Razkili gasped and bit his lip as the rope bit deeply into his biceps.

  His lips moved. "Dance!" he begged Innowen, though the wind harp drowned the words. Dance, dance...

  Innowen put a finger on those lips to still them. Then the finger trailed slowly, tremulously down Rascal's throat, down his chest, parting rivulets of sweat that shimmered in the fine hairs of his belly. His own lips brushed against Rascal's, and a hot wild heat seared his mouth.

  With a soft cry, Innowen spun away. Three swift pirouettes, arms flashing out and in, then he stopped with barely contained, explosive power and lifted his head slowly. He closed his eyes, rolled his head, and opened them again. A gasp tore from his throat, evoked by the horrible glory of the sight that greeted him.

  The full moon hung in the eastern blackness, full and red as a perfect drop of blood, like an eye that had opened suddenly in the heavens. It watched him coolly.

  Somehow it only fed the anger that fountained up within him. He whirled away from the moon, swinging a leg high in defiance, kicking at its solemn face. Then he pushed it from his thoughts and danced with a barbaric fury, the wind harp singing in his ears. Movement flowed from his body, strange movements he had never danced before. He surrendered himself and let the wind and music move him as it would.

  What have you created, Rascal! The thought flashed through his mind as he spun beneath the copper cylinder. He arched his back, bent his knees until his head nearly touched the ground. He stared up into the darkness inside the cylinder, a darkness alive and singing. It's made me a puppet, he thought as he straightened and leaped toward the wires, his arms spreading like wings. But who pulls the strings?

  He moved toward Razkili, finding a frightening beauty in the bound figure before him. Rascal's chest heaved and strained, and his breathing came in ragged, barely audible gasps. He faced Innowen, suddenly, as if, somehow, he could see through the blindfold, could see everything. Innowen felt a powerful fear, but he didn't stop. He touched Rascal, brushed his hands over Rascal's shoulders and down his arms. Rascal stiffened at the contact, the breath clutching in his throat. Innowen stared, mesmerized by the thin
lines of perspiration on Rascal's cheeks. He pressed closer, swaying. Their bellies touched, then their chests, and they shared sweat. Razkili began to sway against his bonds, matching his rhythm with Innowen's, and he let go a raw sigh that burned Innowen's flesh.

  The wind harp wailed like a beast in passion.

  Then Razkili's blindfold slipped. He had worked it loose by rubbing his head against the pole. It slithered wetly down over his face, past his chin, down to his neck. Their eyes met. Inside, Innowen screamed, but neither of them stopped.

  Rascal had schemed for this moment, hungered to see the dance. Now he became part of it. His dark eyes smoldered and flashed as Innowen put his hands on Rascal's hips and taught them how to move.

  The wind danced wildly in the wires, and the harp sang with unimaginable harmonies. Innowen flung back his head and cried out, balanced on that fine line between ecstasy and pain. Unseen hands tugged at him, urged him back from Rascal, and spun him about. The music's volume sawed at his ears, compelling him to dance, driving his body wildly. Again and again, Razkili called his name, but he couldn't respond.

  He whirled once more and stopped, striking a pose with dramatic precision, his arms thrust high above his head. The red moon hung in the black heavens between his hands like a huge ball. The music spun him again, and again he stopped. There was the moon, its face turned toward him, watching intently. Yet again he whirled, pivoting on the ball of one foot, three swift tight turns and a sudden, crisp stop with his arms high.

  The moon began to diffuse. Red ribbons bled into the blackness of the sky, wafted eerily about in the night air, shifting slowly to the shining color of gold. The streamers swirled gracefully earthward, writhing and twisting, spiraling down to the music of the wind harp. They touched the wires, moved within and without the copper cylinder, danced on the wild wind like strips of fine silken fabric.

  Innowen began to spin again, slowly, with his arms held out, his chin tight against his left shoulder. The colors spun with him, faster and faster, whirling about the cylinder, above it, then under it, until they formed a vortex of shifting, blending shapes. Each time Innowen came around, the colors' pattern grew plainer.

  He tried to stop, but his legs were no longer his own. "Rascal!" he cried, and over the wind harp's surging harmonics he heard his own name in return. He tried to turn his eyes away from the thing that blossomed beneath the cylinder. Each time he turned, he looked instead to Razkili, and their frightened gazes briefly touched.

  A thousand times over the years he had imagined that he could hear on the wind the voice of the Witch or her strange god. But never, since that very first night, when the Witch had spoken with the voice of the storm, commanding him to dance, never had it been more than barely perceived whisperings and murmurings in the rattle of leaves, the shifting of grasses, a pale rush of the breeze in his ear.

  In the light of day and the calmer moments of the night, he had dismissed it all as the toys and tinkerings of his own romantic fancy.

  But now the wind had a clearer voice, and that voice was the gigantic harp Razkili had built.

  Dance with me, said the wind with words of fantastic music. Dance away the world!

  Innowen's senses melted. He could no longer see Rascal or the red, full moon. It was not dizziness from the turning that prevented him, for his step was sure and balanced when he lunged suddenly and drew his right arm upward in a graceful, sweeping arc that bowed his back and brought his head almost to his heel. He could not perceive even the hilltop or the temple ruins. There was only the wind and the wind harp and himself and a beautiful golden-skinned partner, who mirrored his movements with delicate perfection.

  They moved as one, Innowen and the shimmering being, every step exactly matched, every leap precisely measured, touching, pulling apart, coming together. Muscles and limbs extended, flesh and music made a consummate flow of lines and circles and angles. His partner lifted him on one powerful arm, and In nowen arched his body, aware of nothing but the music and the dance.

  From somewhere deep inside himself, though, he found the strength to whisper, "You are Minowee's god!"

  The wind surged and the harp crescendoed. Your god, his partner answered. They whirled toward each other, brushing chests and shoulders. The gleams of golden sweat droplets clung to Innowen, mingling with his own human sweat. I am Khoom.

  In Parendur, he had found the Witch. Now, at last, he had found her god, to whom he owed thanks for giving him his legs. For five long years he had searched for them, and it had all come to this. "You don't look like the Witch's idol!" he gasped.

  Her heart is not your heart. Khoom swept Innowen into his arms, and they whirled, faces close. A god's breath came sweet against his mouth, then a god's lips, softer than Innowen could have imagined. The light of full moons gleamed in Khoom's eyes. She sees me in one form, Khoom said. They spun apart until only their fingertips touched. You see me thus. This is the essence of your heart, Innowen, of your faith.

  Innowen hardly knew what to say. Khoom was beautiful, a matchless, graceful dancer. He flowed effortlessly from lyrical extensions to movements of breathtaking, explosive power, golden muscles rippling under golden flesh, sparks of light bursting from the droplets of his sweat as a sudden turn or gesture flung them off. Innowen followed him rapturously, pushing himself beyond all his known limitations, dancing as he had never danced.

  This is a dream, he thought to himself, a fever dream. That made him think of the Witch, and he remembered the question he had forgotten to ask her. "Why me?" he cried over the singing of the wind harp.

  Khoom smiled as he danced. Why not? came the answer. It is delicious irony that you are Minowee's son, and she does not know it. A sound almost like laughter shivered through the wires and echoed away into the dark eternity.

  It was true, then, Innowen realized without faltering.

  The Witch was his mother. He wrapped his arms about himself and let the rolling motion of his head over his left shoulder lead the rest of his body into a slow spiral that took him down to the ground. He lay there for a brief moment, then arched his back and sat up. Khoom caught his extended hand.

  Your mother saw the future in a bowl of water, Khoom said, lifting Innowen to his feet, spinning him, bending him in his arms. You will dance away the world, my Innocent, as she foresaw. The laughter from the wind harp came again, more powerful than before. The copper cylinder shuddered, and the wires wailed. Khoom smiled again as he pulled Innowen's face close to his own. But not the world she thinks.

  "I don't understand!" Innowen shouted. He flung out his arms, leaping higher than should have been possible, and Khoom was there before him, eyes shining, arms wide, inviting.

  You will, the god answered, in time. You are a sweet tool, my Innocent, fashioned by my hand, and I will do fine work with you.

  Innowen felt a strange chill. "Tool?" he said, puzzled. For the first time, he faltered.

  Khoom gave him a look, then spun up into the sky, turning, turning, climbing higher where Innowen could not possibly follow. Until now, they had danced as partners together. Abruptly, that ended. Khoom hung in the air, turning slowly, gracefully, on the tip of one toe, saying nothing. The movement alone mocked Innowen by reminding him of his human limitations.

  A sudden pricking pain blossomed in the palm of his left hand. Innowen winced, squeezing his eyes shut briefly. When he opened them, the world he knew had returned. He found himself on the hilltop under the wind harp, standing on a marble floor with the temple ruins scattered around. He stared at his palm, at the black splinter embedded under the skin.

  Behind him, Razkili screamed his name. Innowen whirled around.

  Khoom stood between them. The dance was over. Innowen saw Rascal beyond Khoom's shoulder. He wanted to rush to his lover's side, but he hesitated, his gaze meeting, locking with the god's as the wind harp turned suddenly shrill.

  Your mother has been a faithful worshipper, the wind proclaimed. But a mortal cannot live forever. Even a god cann
ot change fate. You must take her place, Innocent. Become my priest and spread my name in this new land. My worshippers are few in Mikonos, where other gods hold sway. You will make them many here in Akkadi, and I will grow strong on their faith.

  Khoom took a step toward Innowen, but Innowen backed away, staring. What was that protrusion in the god's chest? Why had he not seen it before? There, there was another in his shoulder.

  Khoom stopped, but he beckoned to Innowen. For this, I will bestow a god's full favor upon you, Innocent. I will make you to walk in sunlight as well as in darkness, and we will dance together as we have this night. You will have power, power to beggar that which I have given the Witch, your mother.

  There was another protrusion in Khoom's right hand, and a cluster of shapes in his belly. The golden light that surrounded him began slowly to dim, making the shapes easier to see. Perhaps they had been there all along, and Innowen had been too blinded.

  I require only a sacrifice to seal our bond, Khoom said. He grasped one of the shapes in his belly, pulled it free, and offered it to Innowen. It was a copper spike. He gestured toward Razkili. There is your sacrifice, he said, all bound and ready to bleed. Give him to me, Innocent.

  The golden light died completely. Innowen gazed with horror at a black man-thing whose body glittered with thousands of copper nails and spikes, the embodied form of the Witch's private idol. To his utter revulsion, it lifted its arms and made a delicate pirouette, still graceful in its ugliness.

  "I am no one's tool!" Innowen screamed suddenly. "Not the Witch's, not Minarik's, not yours!" He ran around Khoom to Razkili's side. His fingers trembled like frightened birds as they flew to the knots of the ropes that held Rascal. "I reject you!" he shouted as he worked. "Take back your gift. Leave me crippled. I know you truly now. I'll never serve you!"

  His hands freed, Razkili snatched his sword from his sheath, but Innowen pushed his blade down before he could raise it and put himself between Rascal and Khoom.