Shadowdance (12 page)

Minarik folded his arms across his chest as he regarded Innowen. "What about your guardian?"

Innowen looked away. "I guess I have to find him, too."

Minarik picked up his winecup, drained it, and set it back on the table. "Wait here," he instructed, as if forgetting how unlikely it was that Innowen would go anywhere. He left the gazebo without another word, crossed the courtyard, and disappeared inside.

Innowen folded his hands in his lap and stared at them. He hadn't told Minarik everything. He hadn't told him about the dancing, how he had to dance to keep the Witch's spell intact. That was as much dishonesty as lying, wasn't it? He had never lied before he met the Witch. Since then, he'd told many lies, and one lie just seemed to lead to another. Could it be true, as Drushen had tried to warn him? Could her dark magic corrupt him so easily?

He gazed upward. Through the gaps of the trellis that made the gazebo's roof, the sun shone down and warmed his face. He stared at the sky, and suddenly he hated its soft blue color. He wished for the blackness of night, wished for life to return to his legs. Why hadn't the Witch told him about the sun? Had she even known? So many questions plagued him.

And now to find that he and Minarik were rivals!

He looked at the table with its platters of food, the goblets, the oinochoe jug, and the bowl containing the cloth with which Minarik had washed his hands, and he gave it a shove. It fell over, spilling everything. Wine pumped from the jug, a rich red stream that spread over the floor and seeped between the cracks of the boards. Some of the meat cakes lay in the flow and sopped up the liquid. Very quickly, they looked like old clots from hideous wounds.

Drushen, you bastard!
Innowen slammed his fists on his unfeeling legs.
Why? Why
? He squeezed his eyes shut, but not to stop any tears. He was done with weeping. It was anger that filled him instead, burned him from the inside out, and when the fire was spent he leaned his head back wearily and sighed.

He didn't know how long Minarik was gone. But a shadow settled over him, and when he opened his eyes the Lord of Whisperstone stood there. "You fell asleep," Minarik said.

Innowen blinked as he righted himself in the chair. "I guess I did." He cast a glance at the mess on the gazebo floor. "I must have knocked the table over, too. Forgive me."

Minarik shrugged as he sat down. "The servants will take care of it." He looked askance for a moment, then faced Innowen again. "Do you have any idea at all who your parents were, boy, or what became of them?"

Innowen shook his head and answered with only a trace of bitterness. "Drushen found me on the forest road when I was a baby. My parents had left me there to die, rather than bear the shame of a less than perfect child."

There was an intensity in Minarik's face that made it hard to meet his gaze. "Now Drushen is gone," Minarik said, hesitating as if expecting some comment, but Innowen said nothing. "You say you want to search for the Witch. But how will you do that? You have no money, no one to look after you."

"I'll find a way," Innowen answered roughly. "You don't have to remind me that I'm crippled. I'm not! I'll walk by night to find her, and sleep by day. I'm not that much different from normal men. You live your life in the sunlight, but when night comes and you take to your bed, you might as well be crippled. The world doesn't begin and end with the sun."

Minarik gave him a hard look, and Innowen wondered if he had dared too much to speak with such anger. Yet he did not repent, nor did Minarik reproach him. "I have no son," the lord said slowly, "no children at all." His gaze never left Innowen as he took a ring from his finger. "I will adopt you, Innowen, if you agree."

Innowen's jaw dropped. Then he stuttered, "But I can't stay here! I have to find the Witch and Drushen!"

"I know," Minarik replied calmly, "and as my son, you'll have money, prestige, everything you need to help you. You'll have status and position. That will get you into places you could never go alone. You'll find my name is known in some lands even beyond Ispor." Minarik leaned back, bracing his hands on the arms of his chair as he smiled faintly. "Besides, I like you, and I sense that I can trust you."

Innowen looked at the ring in Minarik's palm as he considered such an unexpected proposal. He liked Minarik, too. There was a bond between them. He'd felt it from their first meeting. Was it because they both loved the Witch? Was she the thread that drew them together?

It was as if Minarik knew his thoughts. "I don't blame you for loving her," he said gently. "She makes you love her. Not just you, either, but all men. It's like a power." He took the ring between his thumb and forefinger and held it out. "Take it," he urged. "Wear it, and be my son."

Son. Drushen had never called him that. Innowen repeated the word several times in his mind, trying it on. He had never called anyone father before, either. Drushen had been Drushen. Son. He liked the sound of it. He bit his lip, trembling with excitement as he extended his hand. Minarik took it and slipped the band on his finger. "Son," he said aloud.

The sunlight glinted brilliantly on the ring. It was gold and exquisitely worked, fashioned in the manner of a bird whose wings enwrapped his finger.
Father,
Innowen thought, trying that word out, but he couldn't quite bring himself to speak it.

"Wherever you go in Ispor, that ring will be recognized," Minarik said, "and in many of the surrounding nations the great nobles will know it. I ask only that you wear it with honor."

Innowen turned it on his finger, studying the careful workmanship, the detail of feathers, the textured breast, the tiny fierce eyes. Almost, it seemed to breathe upon his finger, and he felt its warmth.
But it's
only
metal,
he told himself,
and Minarik's warmth from wearing it.

"You'll find the Witch," the Lord of Whisperstone said, "then you'll come to me and tell me where she is." He hesitated, observing the stillness that suddenly filled Innowen, and the mistrustful expression that flickered over his face. "I would not hurt her," he added. "I promised you that. Trust me. But like you, I need to know."

Innowen thought for a long time, and Minarik did not break the silence. "I'll find her," he said at last, "for both of us. But first, you'll teach me things. I'll have to learn to ride, and you'll have to teach me at night. There are other things, too. There's much I have to learn about the world outside of Shandisti." He ran his palms over his thighs. "And my legs. Even at night I have trouble walking. These are sticks, twigs, but not legs. It's the Witch's magic that makes me walk, otherwise these wouldn't support me. Help me put some muscle on them."

Minarik grinned. "I think I'd better get used to sleeping days."

"You were used to it once," Innowen said, "when you rode from Whisperstone every night to meet your secret lady." He leaned suddenly forward. "You know her name, Minarik," he whispered intensely. "Tell me her name!"

A mask of stone would have betrayed more emotion. Minarik regarded him evenly, his face half in shadow as the sunlight streamed down through the latticed roof of the gazebo.

"We love the same woman!" Innowen insisted. "Give me a name to call her by!"

Minarik slowly rose. "Wear my ring with honor, Innowen, as my father wore it, and his father." He nudged one of the goblets with his sandaled toe. It rolled across the floor and stopped against a soggy meatcake. "I'll send for servants to return you to your room. You'll want to rest before we start your education." He turned his back and started to leave. Then he stopped. Without turning, he spoke once more to Innowen: "Taelyn talks too much."

There was pain in those last words, too much pain. Innowen relented and lowered his head. He didn't watch as Minarik left him, but twisted the ring around and around on his finger, and listened to the sound of retreating footsteps.

Chapter 5

A tepid night wind blew Innowen's long dark hair back over his bare shoulders. It played over his body, teased his berry-brown nipples. It caressed him with a lover's warmth, and he lifted his head higher as it kissed his throat, swirled down his chest and belly.

Pulling back on his reins, he brought his mount to a halt. Beside him, Razkili did the same. "What's wrong?" his companion asked, deep-voiced.

Innowen stared ahead into the rich darkness. The horizon formed a gently rolling shadow upon the yawning starlit sky. His gaze trailed upward through the moonless heavens until he found the Crown of the Gods, the brilliant milky band that stretched from one end of the nighted earth to the other. He closed his eyes and listened, expecting stillness. The wind made a delicate rush in his ears.

"Nothing," he answered Razkili. He drew a deep breath. The air smelled fresh, as it must have on the first night of the world. "I've missed Ispor."

"It's always good to come home," Razkili said with a nod. He glanced back at their pack horse, dismounted, and ran a quick check on the animal. Satisfied, he climbed upon the bare back of his own horse.

They rode on. Innowen eyed the darkness, leading the way with a sureness that would have amazed a day-dweller. That towering silhouette on his far left, that was Razor Mountain, so named for its sharp peaks and sheer walls. Passing it, they arrived at the bank of the River Semene, Ispor's longest river, which flowed from a spring in the more distant Akrotir Mountains. He smiled to himself as he steered his horse down a grassy slope and waded its shallow black waters.

Razkili spoke little as they rode, trusting Innowen unquestioningly to know the way. His gaze swept from side to side as he kept pace beside Innowen, but sometimes it turned upward to study the blaze of stars.

Just beyond the river at the edge of the Plain of Kenay, Innowen stopped again. He sniffed, rode forward a few more paces, stopped, and sniffed once more. Razkili came quietly up on his left, tightly gripping his reins and the packhorse's lead line. The look on his face was question enough.

"Blood," Innowen answered softly, warily.

"How can you smell blood?" his comrade asked, even as his right hand settled on the pommel of the sword he wore on his left hip.

"How can you not?" Innowen countered in a whisper as he searched the darkness ahead. "There's a lot of it."

They pushed on slowly. The night no longer seemed so friendly and welcoming. Despite the warmth of the wind, a chill crept up Innowen's spine. The smell of death hung in the air. Razkili, too, began to notice it, and he wrinkled his nose.

"Stop," Innowen said abruptly. Razkili obeyed without comment. Innowen's gaze swept the ground. He swung a leg over his horse's head and slid to the ground, but he clung to its reins, hesitant. He touched Razkili's right knee and passed them to him. Alone, he walked on.

He nearly tripped over the first body. Kneeling, he ran his hands over cold naked flesh, finding a sword still clenched in a lifeless fist. A few paces on, he found another body, then another, all naked. But the next one wore a breastplate of finely crafted leather, and upon its head was a helm of bronze.

Innowen straightened as Razkili rode up beside him, leading the horses. They exchanged looks, but no more. His friend dismounted, and side by side they wandered over the plain. Corpses and weapons littered the ground; In some places, the dead lay piled upon each other. Most were naked footmen, but here and there, they found an armored officer or nobleman.

Innowen picked up the shaft of a lance whose bronze point had broken away. Leaning upon it, he looked slowly around and let go a long sigh. Suddenly, he dropped the broken weapon and stared at his hands. A cold, black, viscous substance covered his palms. Blood, he knew, from some dead warrior. He wiped his hands on the front of his short kilt until they were white again. Yet the stickiness remained.

"Terrible," Innowen whispered.

"You've seen battle before," Razkili reminded curtly, his gaze sweeping the darkness.

It was true. There was little he hadn't seen in his travels, he sometimes thought. Small skirmishes, major conflicts, or tavern brawls and alley murders. Death came in many guises and for many reasons. He had learned that much. Still, this time it was different. This was his homeland. He rubbed his fingers together, wishing for water to wash them clean.

"Not in Ispor," he answered quietly. "These are my people." He bit his lip as he reclaimed the reins of his mount. Standing beside him, Razkili touched his shoulder in sympathy. "What's happened?" Innowen asked, unable to keep the note of pain from his voice.

He shook his head before he swung a leg up over his horse's back. Leaning on the animal's withers, he shook his head again. "I've been gone too long."

Razkili also mounted. "Or maybe you've come home too soon," he said with an air of foreboding.

"None of your Osiri philosophy, Rascal," Innowen muttered. "Not now."

Razkili shrugged and nudged his horse forward.

They left the battlefield behind and rode toward a range of hills. The wind fell silent. A strange stillness hung over the land. Even the steady clip-clop of their horses' hooves was muted by the thick grass and the soft dust. The smell of death, though, did not relent. It hovered in the air, clung to their hair and clothing like a cheap and sickly incense. Innowen fixed his gaze on the low, dark peaks ahead and tried to ignore it.