Shadowdance (54 page)

"Gods forgive me," he murmured, shaking his head. "I should have realized before. I've been such a fool."

All of a sudden, Dyan pulled her hand free from Razkili. She leaned forward with the grace of a wounded bird, slipped her arms around Innowen and clung to him with all her might.

Innowen pressed his head into her neck and felt her tears fall on his head and face. "People change, Rascal," he said in a voice heavy with regret. "Desires change, too. These have been hard days and tumultuous times for us all. Who knows what thoughts have occupied her mind?"

Razkili stood and backed up a step. His sigh was audible. "Her thoughts have been of you," he said quietly. "She loves you, too. I haven't been unaware of it."

Innowen freed himself enough to look at Rascal over Dyan's shoulder. In a deep part of himself, he knew it was true. He had closed his eyes to it for a long time. But she must have seen him growing closer and closer to Rascal. How must she have felt?

"Look at her eye," Razkili directed.

Innowen eased Dyan back so that he could see her face. Without a lamp or candle, he hadn't noticed before. Her right eye was swollen and purple. "That must be why she veiled herself for the council this afternoon," Innowen muttered. "Only Kyrin would have dared this."

"You said something about Khoom," Razkili reminded him.

Dyan's tears had stopped. She sat on the chair limply, like a doll that some child had propped there and abandoned. Her gaze had fixed on a spot on the floor.

"I don't know," Innowen said, rubbing his eyes wearily as he rose to his feet. "I don't know. I just heard the music, and she started swaying, and all I could think about was the wind harp and my dancing." He shook his head and caressed Dyan's soft hair with the palm of his hand. "I just don't know anymore."

They were quiet for a long time. Innowen held Dyan's hand and stroked her hair while Razkili leaned against the side of the gazebo. Only the faint smell of smoke reminded him that there was another world beyond the courtyard, but he ignored it. Let others fight the fire and the Witch tonight. He had Dyan and Razkili to care for. Nothing was more important than that.

After a while, he held out one hand to Rascal. Razkili smiled weakly and interlaced his fingers with Innowen's. "Let's get her inside," Innowen whispered. "A sip of wine might help her, and some sleep. We could all use some sleep."

Together, they helped Dyan to her feet. She looked into both their faces and walked passively between them as they left the gazebo and started across the courtyard.

But suddenly, a door opened. Kyrin emerged with four of his followers. He paused when he saw them. His face contorted with anger. "Get away from her!" he ordered. He made a sharp gesture, and his men quickly surrounded them. Innowen saw Razkili glance toward the gazebo and realized he had left the sword there. They were unarmed.

"I said get away from her, damn you!" Kyrin crossed the short distance between them and drew the back of his hand across Innowen's cheek. Razkili shouted a deep-throated curse and leaped at Kyrin. Before he could strike, however, hands seized and wrestled him to the ground.

At the same time, Dyan screamed and threw herself against her father. He batted her aside with a growl, and she crumpled to the pavement. "You little bitch!" Kyrin raged. "I told you to stay away from him, but you disobeyed me!"

Innowen's face stung, but he could do nothing. He had only the doll-flute in his hand, and a sword hovered dangerously near his throat. He glanced, at Razkili. Three men had him down, and their swords were out, ready for use. They only waited for Kyrin's order.

Dyan rose stiffly to her feet and glared at her father. "Leave him alone," she warned. There was nothing demure in her voice. Her eyes narrowed as she clenched her fists.

Kyrin gave a low chuckle. "Leave him alone? I should have killed this
abathakati
bastard the first time I saw him." He turned to face Innowen. "You've mocked me once too often, boy. My uncle isn't here to protect you now." He drew his own sword and set the point of it against Innowen's chest. He had only to lean on it.

"Well, cousin," Innowen answered, putting on a contemptuous smile, meeting Kyrin's gaze unflinchingly. No matter what, he wouldn't grovel for this man's pleasure. "After Koryan, killing me should barely tweak your conscience."

Kyrin's face contorted again, but then he, too, smiled. "Believe me, boy," he murmured, "that didn't tweak my conscience at all."

Razkili struggled on the ground until the point of a sword came to rest on his throat. "Minarik will have your head!" he shouted at Kyrin.

Kyrin only grinned. "I see no reason when I leave here," he said to Innowen, "that Minarik shouldn't suffer your same fate. I should have taken care of him long ago, and his lapdog, Taelyn, as well."

The man behind Innowen tensed, and Innowen felt the cold touch of steel under his chin. "Let's get it over with before someone comes along," said a voice near his ear.

"No, Father!" Dyan hurled herself at Kyrin's feet and flung her arms around his waist. "I beg you! Let them live! I'll obey you, I swear I will! I'll do anything!"

Kyrin bent over her, lifted her chin and smiled a cold, hateful smile. "Dearest daughter," he said.

"Dearest Father," she answered. There was no sweetness in it. Abruptly, she made a sharp thrusting motion with her right arm. The smile vanished immediately from Kyrin's face. His eyes widened, and his mouth twisted in pain. He gave a choked cry of despair and staggered back. Blood spurted between his fingers as he clutched his chest. An instant later, he fell.

Dyan stood up. Her father's blood stained the front of her dress. In her right hand, she grasped the incarnadined dagger she had snatched from his belt. Her eyes gleamed with a frightening excitement. "Dearest Father," she repeated.

Kyrin's followers stared at his body. Uncertainly, they released Innowen and Razkili and sidled away from them. For a moment they lingered, unsure of their course. Then, without a word, they ran from the courtyard.

Rascal scrambled up and dashed for the sword he'd left in the gazebo. Innowen went to Dyan's side. She stared at him, grinning darkly as he pried the small blade from her stubborn grip. Suddenly, she opened her hand, surrendering the weapon to him. At the same time, she snatched back the doll-flute and hugged it to her breasts.

A cold fear seized Innowen. He thought he had seen something, something that terrified him. He caught her right hand again and pried at her fingers. "Let me see!" he urged, struggling with her. "You can keep the flute. Keep it! Just let me see your hand."

Almost shyly, she opened her hand, and Innowen gave a cry of distress. A tiny black streak showed in the fleshy part of her palm, a splinter embedded just under the skin.

Razkili came to his side at once. "What is it, Innowen? What made you cry out?"

Razkili hadn't seen; he didn't know.

Innowen showed him Dyan's palm. "Khoom has had his sacrifice," he said slowly, nodding toward Kyrin's body. "Just as he said he would."

Dyan's gaze flickered over both their faces as she gathered her dress and began to wipe the blood from her hands and the bloody prints from the flute she held so delicately. "I'm not sorry, either," she said evenly. She rose to her feet and stood, lifting her head with dignity, her face enrapt. "Khoom is a wonderful musician. Can't you hear his piping?"

She put the doll-flute to her lips and blew a gentle riff, answering a music no one else could hear.

Chapter 23

As the sun came up, Minarik's forces waited tensely upon the high wall for an attack that never came. Above the gate, Innowen sat between Razkili and Veydon, who stood. Wisps of smoke curled up from charred timbers, all that remained of the village beyond the gate, and the wind filled the air with powdery ash. In the west, the drought-tortured forest continued to smolder and burn, but the wind had carried the flames away from Whisperstone. It would burn for a long time.

With the village gone and the few struggling crops consumed by the fire, a wide, blackened field was all that separated Whisperstone from the forest.

Taelyn paced around the rampart like a great cat, nervous, ready to fight, but lacking a foe. Minarik made sudden, brief appearances, muttered a few encouragements each time, and disappeared. His nephew's death had strangely distressed him, but the fact that the slayer had been Dyan, his niece, had distressed him more.

Among the soldiery, there was an almost tangible relief that Kyrin was dead. Most of his supporters had gone to Minarik at first light and offered him their loyalties. Taelyn had brought the crown from Kyrin's rooms, but Whisperstone's lord had pushed it aside.

For now,
Innowen had thought.

The only excitement of the day came at noon. Vashni rode slowly out of the forest toward Whisperstone's gate. The sun gleamed on the black, lacquered finish of his breastplate and greaves, on the polished metal of the round shield he carried and on the tip of his lance. The horsehair crest of his helm shifted and stirred in the breeze. His white thighs flashed against the black body of his huge warhorse. Halfway across the ashen field, he stopped. For some time, he waited, staring at the men on Whisperstone's wall. After a while, he began to pace his mount back and forth in an arrogant display.

Above the gate, an archer raised his bow, but Minarik stayed the soldier's hand.

"It's a challenge," Taelyn muttered to Minarik. "Let me answer it."

Minarik shook his head as he folded his arms over his chest. "Not yet, old friend. The Witch seeks to worry our nerves a bit by withholding battle. Let us withhold this from her."

For half the afternoon, Vashni pranced below. He tailed nothing, shouted no words or insults. His presence was insult enough. Minarik stayed upon the wall as long as Vashni stayed below. He kept his soldiers quiet, refused to let them taunt or mock the solitary rider, denied the archers who might have brought Vashni down with a well-placed shot. He merely watched, his eyes dark and hard.

Finally, Vashni trotted closer. The worst archer on the wall might have slain him, had Minarik allowed it. He lifted his lance and hurled it with all his might. Through the air the shaft sped. It struck the gate and quivered there as Vashni insolently turned his back and rode away into the forest.

A collective sigh rose from the soldiers on the wall. "Post a regular watch," Minarik told Taelyn. "There will be no battle today." He left the wall.

"If that black warrior comes tomorrow," Veydon swore under his breath, "I'll take the challenge."

Razkili lifted Innowen and carried him back to their rooms. Neither had slept. Neither seemed inclined to sleep. A slave came shortly after them, bearing a tray of vegetables, some cheese, and a breadloaf. He set it wordlessly on the table and left again.

While Innowen and Razkili ate, the sound of piping floated faintly in the corridor. Minarik had locked Dyan in his own quarters. Innowen, though, privately doubted any lock could hold her. He knew the power of the god she had given herself to. He shivered and set aside the crust of bread he held, no longer hungry.

"I will not dance tonight," he said quietly without looking at Razkili. Beyond their lone window, the sun made its patient way toward the west, and the clouds of night began to gather.

Rascal and Innowen curled up together on the bed, front to back, the folds and bends of their bodies matching perfectly. Rascal's arm draped across Innowen's belly, and his breath warmed the back of Innowen's neck as it slowed and steadied.

Alone, Innowen watched the coming of night, aware of the exact moment when life returned to his legs. He didn't move them. He felt Rascal's knees behind his own, his thighs against his own thighs. He felt Rascal's warmth, the pressure of his touch.

Through the stillness, the sound of Dyan's flute drifted again, light and haunting, like a piece of ghost-music. He listened to it, recalling the first time he had heard her playing as he wandered the halls of the keep, and the first time he had seen her in the courtyard. A pang touched his heart, a regret for a way not taken, or for something that never could have been.

Intermittently, the music stopped, then started again. Stopped, then started.
As if,
he thought privately,
she were
holding
a conversation.
He stiffened and clenched one fist in the sheets.

How easy it would have been to give himself to Khoom. If only the god hadn't asked for Razkili.
If only.
How long would it have been before Khoom twisted and bent and blackened his soul as he had his mother's?

Innowen tried to imagine a woman named Minowee separate from a woman called the Witch of Shanalane. Sadly, he failed. The Witch was what she was. No fantasy of his would ever change her. His only part was to accept or resist her.

But he had already made that choice, hadn't he? She was on one side of Whisperstone's wall with her army. He was on the other with another. But
when
had he made the choice?
Why
had he made it?

Khoom had spoken of the Witch's fate. Innowen hated the word with all its implications of helplessness. Yet he feared that some power beyond his control was driving him inexorably to confront his mother.