He felt Minarik's hand and a soft cloth on the nape of his neck and closed his eyes while his father washed him. Then Razkili appeared before him with a cloth, too. The herb scent filled his nostrils, and the texture of the fabric against his skin seemed almost too much to bear. Gooseflesh rose on his arms, and the fine hairs stood on end. He listened, and the only sounds were their breaths and a gentle splashing of water. Even so, there was a music in it, and it reminded him that he must dance soon.
They wrung out their cloths and placed them in another basket beside the first. A second staircase at the pool's far end led out of the water and to a room beyond. Dripping, they passed over the threshold and closed another door.
The new room was brighter than the lustral chamber. Mirrors of copper metal mounted behind four wall lamps cast light into every corner. Five stone benches were the only furnishings. Upon one of them they found a stack of towels and clean white chitons. To Razkili's surprise, their sandals were also there.
"A slave brought them," Minarik told him. "There's a passage from the outer chamber to this one that bypasses the lustral pool. The same slave is at this moment burning your old clothes. They were filthy with dust and blood. I picked these for you."
Razkili thanked him as he slipped the soft, draping garment over his head and belted it.
But Minarik was the first dressed. "Take your time, Innocent," he said. "I want to test the temperature at the banquet table. I'll return for you."
"Are you expecting some trouble?" Innowen asked.
Minarik raised an eyebrow. "This is Kyrin's party," he answered. "You'd do well to stay light on your feet." He passed through one more door, and they were alone.
"Innowen?"
He turned back to Razkili. "Hmmm?"
"Considering how you looked forward to this reunion, your father seems somewhat reserved."
Innowen hugged his towel around his shoulders and sat down. "I failed him, Rascal," he said quietly. "My quest to find the Witch was his quest, as well. There's some history they share that even I don't completely understand. He expected me to find her."
"But you tried," Razkili reminded him, laying a hand consolingly on his shoulder.
"Trying doesn't ease his disappointment." He threw off the towel and reached for the remaining chiton and pulled it on. Then he laced up his sandals. Beneath one of the oil lamps was a small shelf mounted on the wall. Several grooming utensils rested there. Innowen picked up a pale shell comb, instructed his friend to sit, moved behind him, and began to pass it through Rascal's damp hair.
"I've been curious," Razkili began, changing the subject. "Where do you keep your women? I saw two on the terrace when we arrived, and they ran away like deer in a hunter's sights. I've seen none at all except those."
Innowen concentrated on the comb. "Oh, I'm sure you saw some in the crowd when we rode through the streets. And if you traveled through the farming villages you'd find them right beside their men." He drew a part in Rascal's short locks and worked the hair with his fingers. "But in the cities, women are treated differently, like a commodity, kept hidden. High-born women, once they reach a marriageable age, are seldom seen at all, except at prearranged audiences. There will be none at this banquet tonight."
Razkili nodded. "Yet I recall you speaking of Kyrin's daughter."
"Dyan," Innowen remembered. "Yes, but she was a child when I met her, and the rules are somewhat different for girl children. Five years have passed, though. She won't just be wandering around anymore. I wasn't allowed to see her the last time I was here. I doubt if I'll see her this time."
Razkili reached up and caught the comb. "Do you want to see her?"
Innowen looked thoughtful. "I've never forgotten her music," he confessed. "I bought a gift for her in Milas just before I met you. It's in our bags with the rest of my collection. Taelyn said everything would be brought to our rooms. If it hasn't been damaged, I'd still like the chance to give it to her."
Razkili sat Innowen down. It was his turn to work the comb. He slid it with ease through Innowen's straight long hair.
"Have I thanked you," Innowen said, "for taking care of me the way you do?"
"Don't," Razkili answered, giving his friend's hair a twist to wring the water from it, starting his combing again. "I prefer you as an ungrateful wretch."
Innowen changed his tone. "Don't twist so hard," he whined. "And watch the comb, you're raking my scalp. Can't you do anything right?" A sly grin spread over his face, and he resumed his normal voice. "Is that better."
Razkili bent low, wrapped his arms around Innowen, and hugged him. Straightening again, he rapped Innowen's head playfully with the comb.
Minarik returned, closed the door, leaned against it for a moment, and pursed his lips. "The tension is thicker than the gravy," he said. "Kyrin is already seated. Taelyn's here, too, so I have to hurry back. He's my general, after all, though he's inclined to forget that at times," He hesitated, looked at Razkili, then at Innowen. "Anyway, my son, keep your friend close and mind his manners. This isn't a road tavern where you dine tonight, but the very heart and soul of Ispor."
Innowen's jaw dropped. He stared, stunned by his father's own bad manners, while Minarik opened the door for them. A warmth flooded his face as he felt himself blush with anger. He stepped beside his father, placed his hand against the door, and pushed it firmly shut again. "I know you're disappointed that I didn't find the Witch. Take that disappointment out on me, if you must, but you and everyone here will treat Razkili with courtesy." His expression softened somewhat, but a certain confusion lingered. "I've never heard you utter an unkindness, but that was unkind."
Minarik studied him for a long moment, but his stony face masked his thoughts. "I'm sorry," he answered at last. "I meant no offense, but this is a formal occasion. He is Osiri and not familiar with our customs." He pulled open the door again. "Now come. Already food is being served." He left ahead of them.
"Have you noticed," Razkili said off-handedly, "how softly everyone seems to talk around here? Almost in whispers?"
"Let's both fart loudly after the cheese course," Innowen said through clenched teeth.
The throne room was a huge, dark chamber lit by scores of oil lamps and braziers. Just as in the rest of the palace, the floor was a pebble mosaic, but the walls, too, were painted with elaborate sea frescoes, and the low ceiling was covered with stucco swirls and spirals made to resemble delicate shells. Time and smoke from the lamps had dimmed the once bright paint and blackened the tiniest recesses of the ceiling's artwork. Still, the room possessed an immense sense of grandeur.
The actual throne was a pink marble chair built as part of the east wall. Stone benches lined all the walls. Above those, set in deep niches, stood the shadowed sculptures which represented the various gods of Ispor.
"You said this was a temple as well as a throne room," Razkili whispered to Innowen. "I've never heard you talk much about your gods."
"Kyrin is as much a priest as a king," Innowen answered. "The city-dwellers, especially in Parendur, are ruled much more by the formalities of religion. But I grew up in the woods; a small village was the closest thing to a city. We didn't have a temple. With the day-to-day toils, we didn't have much time to carve statues, and sheep and cattle were far too valuable to waste as sacrifices." He cast his gaze over the cold stone figures in their gloomy niches, feeling no life in them at all. "I don't know the names of half of these," he confessed. "I've never had time for gods."
"Yet you searched hard for the Witch of Shanalane and for some trace of her god."
"That's different," Innowen said softly.
A long table with benches stood near the south wall. Kyrin was already seated. Five years had aged him, too, and it startled Innowen to note how strong a resemblance he bore to Minarik. His foster father and Taelyn and another officer stood in one corner talking among themselves. Riloosa maintained a place behind Kyrin and to his right. His eyes roamed everywhere, studied everything. There were oth
er men, perhaps twenty. City officials, priests and minor priests, garrison officers, Innowen figured. He didn't recognize any of them.
Already there was food on the table, but Innowen guided Razkili toward Minarik and Taelyn. There was not even time to introduce themselves to the third man there before Kyrin called them all to sit. At his order, ten slaves entered bearing silver bowls of water with clean cloths draped over their arms. They proceeded to wash the hands of every guest. Only then did they pour wine into each man's cup, and the dinner began.
Razkili lifted his own slender kylix and poured a dollop from it onto, the floor. "For those who've gone before," he uttered.
Innowen clenched his teeth, and felt his shoulders draw up. All eyes stared. Mouths fell open, then shut. No one said a word, but slowly they turned toward Kyrin. The king's face screwed up with anger and disgust.
Realizing he'd done something wrong, Razkili quietly lowered his vessel. He whispered to Innowen out of the corner of his mouth. "I thought you taught me..."
Innowen squeezed his friend's leg under the table to silence him.
"That toast," Kyrin said coldly, "is for the outdoors, foreigner. Do you have any idea what it takes to clean the filth from a mosaic floor such as this?"
"Yes, Rascal," Taelyn interjected, seizing the earliest opportunity to make a verbal slash at Kyrin, "by all means, consider the knees of our poor slaves. You only helped save a city; you didn't conquer one."
That, at least, diverted Kyrin's attention from Razkili, and Innowen forced his shoulders back down, though he still ground his teeth.
"Ah, our guest of honor," Kyrin said, raising his kylix. "Let's drink to the city's newest hero and take a lesson from him, that a man may raise himself to a pinnacle even from so low a background as a common house slave."
Cups rose to lips, but hesitated as Taelyn spoke up. "If I have a lesson to teach, my lord, let it be phrased so: A good sword knows no nobility."
King and commander glared at each other over the rims of their wine vessels. Minarik let escape a small sigh and gazed wearily at his son. The rest of the guests looked as if they were considering a quiet slide under the table. It was going to be a long evening. Innowen exchanged glances with Rascal and did his best to relax.
On his right, the coals of a brazier flared suddenly, shooting a popping little flame into the air. Its sudden light faded quickly, and Innowen cast his gaze around the throne room. Lamps and braziers were everywhere, but they were not enough to hold back all the darkness. In the red flickering, he found his shadow on the wall, and Rascal's shadow, and all their shadows cavorting and twisting at the whims of the flames.
Shadows everywhere he looked, and all of them dancing.
Chapter 10
"I don't understand," Razkili said when they were alone in their quarters. "How can Taelyn and Minarik speak the way they do to Kyrin? He's their king."
Innowen paced on the terrace. Clouds raced across the night sky, obscuring the stars. The dark shapes of nocturnal birds rode the winds, wheeling and swooping without apparent purpose. In the garden below, the wind chimes sang.
"This is not Osirit," Innowen answered. "Kyrin has no divine right to the throne of Ispor. To rule, he must command the respect and obedience of his generals and the nobility. If he loses that respect, those generals might replace him with another member of the royal family, or more radically, with another general who would then become the first of a new royal family. There is a continuity of leadership Isporans traditionally follow, but if a king proves incompetent, then there are options."
Razkili came out onto the terrace. He leaned against a painted pillar and watched the birds with Innowen as he spoke. "But how can he command respect if Taelyn, or any of his generals, openly insult him before his other officers?"
"It takes a strong man," Innowen told him. "A king must rule by the strength of his character as much as by the strength of his arms. Otherwise, how shall his people regard him, as a king or as a tyrant?" He held up a hand before Razkili could interrupt. "I know, I know, Taelyn dares a lot to speak so rudely, and Minarik..." he hesitated, then wet his lips. "Minarik has changed in subtle ways. I don't know what's on his mind."
A moment of silence hung between them. The moon shone briefly through the clouds overhead, then disappeared again. "If Kyrin were deposed, your father would be a likely candidate for the throne."
Innowen thought about that and nodded slowly.
"Or if another general was chosen?"
Innowen straightened and hugged himself. The night wind was warm, yet he felt cool. "Taelyn is very popular right now." He started pacing again. "But that's all too simple. Minarik has always been content with his holdings at Whisperstone. It's not ambition that burdens his thoughts."
Razkili turned away and stared across the garden. "These are hard times for your land," he said gently. "Maybe your father thinks he can do better than Kyrin. That wouldn't be the same as ambition."
Innowen didn't respond. The questions were too complex, and he had been gone too long to form quick answers. He stopped his pacing and listened to the wind chimes. In the darkness, the garden appeared as beautiful as it once had, silvered with fleeting rays of moonlight, branches of fruit trees swaying rhythmically, the odor of eucalyptus wafting on the air. Gloom and shadow cloaked all evidence of blight and decay.
Perhaps that was why he loved the nighttime best, when darkness hid the ugliness of the world.
"You haven't danced," Razkili reminded him.
Innowen's mouth curled in a slight smile. Rascal wouldn't let him forget; the Osiri still took care of him. "I know, and those chimes are practically calling my name."
"They make nice music," Razkili agreed. "But it wouldn't be safe in the garden."
Innowen's gaze swept around the upper terrace above the garden, scanning the darkened apartments. He and Rascal seemed to be the only ones awake. He couldn't count on that, though, and he wouldn't risk being seen. There was trouble enough already in Parendur.
"I know a place," he said at last. He turned away from the terrace and went back inside, crossed their quarters, and headed for the outer corridor. "I'll wait for you," he heard Razkili say as he moved into the hall.
He made his way back to the lustral chamber without encountering anyone. The entire palace seemed to be asleep. He bathed in the pool and toweled himself, then gathered his garments and entered the throne room. It was vast and silent. Only a few lamps continued to burn.
The eyes of Ispor's gods stared down upon him. Slowly, he crept around the huge chamber, wondering if he had done wrong never to learn all their names, never to pay them proper homage. Oh, some he knew, of course. Tremyrin, who ruled the forests. The harvest god, Celet. Shokastis, the god of the hunt. He stood before each of these in turn and bowed his head. But they were only a handful, and many were the deities in Ispor's pantheon. He looked up into the stony faces of those he didn't know and offered a silent apology for his ignorance.
He found his shadow upon the wall. It's for them we dance tonight, he told it wordlessly. He looked back to the statues. And if we dance well enough, maybe you gods will lift whatever curse it is that plagues this land.
There was no wind to be his music, yet somehow he could feel it blowing, trying to get in. He could hear its moan as it swept through the Akrotirs, and the chimes in the garden were as loud in his ears as they had been when he stood on his terrace. How they tinkled and rang so sweetly. It was impossible, and yet he heard. He embraced his shadow, cast away all thought, and melted into motion.
The gods stood unmoving in their gloomy niches where the light of the lamps barely touched them. When Innowen finished, he looked up into each of their faces one by one. Nothing showed in their carefully sculpted expressions. If he had pleased them, he couldn't tell.
He left the throne room through the same lustral chamber and washed the sweat from his body and from his hair. Dressed, he wandered through the lower level of the palace. An occasional lamp burned he
re and there to light his way. The pithoi jars loomed like hulking monsters in the darker corners, and the sea patterns in the floor seemed to shift and waver in the dim flickering glow. He found the state room, where Kyrin conducted the day-to-day business of his office, and the kitchens, which were now dark and empty, though warm from ovens that never went cold.
Eventually, he wandered out into the garden. The wind kissed him and rumpled his damp locks. He looked up and turned slowly around. Razkili was not on the terrace. He considered calling to him, then thought better of it. He might awaken others. There was little enough peace in Parendur; he wouldn't be the one to disturb it.
He drifted along the cobbled path. The slender moon was bright now with only a few clouds to diminish it. It touched the flowers like a healing balm and bathed the fruit trees. At the very center of the garden stood a small well. He lowered the wooden bucket. Deeper and deeper it went, and still deeper, until the rope was almost at an end and Innowen feared that perhaps it had dried up in the long drought. But at last he felt a buoyancy and a sudden weight as it began to fill, and he cranked it back up.
He set the bucket on the side and cupped cool water in his hands. The moon reflected there like a beautiful jewel and gradually vanished as the water sieved between his. fingers. He cupped more water and captured the moon once more. Then a third time, and this time he drank the moon. It was an amusing, wonderful marvel he'd discovered, that he could actually hold the moon. He looked down into the bucket, and the moon was there, too, so he picked the bucket up under one arm and with a shake of his hand began to sprinkle its liquid light on the parched flowers.
Abruptly, he stopped. A soft flurry of notes quivered on the wind. Innowen wasn't at all sure he'd actually heard them. He listened. There was only the dripping of water beads as they fell back into the bucket from his motionless hand. Then they came again, a gently muffled crescendo that made the wind chimes' music seem like the clacking of sticks.
Dyan. It was her pipes he heard, he knew it. But where was she, where did the music come from? He turned and turned. No lights burned in any of the apartments except his own. A fragment of a song floated down into the garden, and he turned again. Where could she be?
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