Razkili wrenched Innowen's right arm free and locked his own left arm under Innowen's chin. Innowen sputtered and sobbed as the Osiri dragged him from the bed. With one hand still around Riloosa's chest, he refused to let go. But his grip slipped upward over the shoulder, the bicep, to Riloosa's wrist. Then, the old man slid over the edge of the bed, and his own weight finally broke the hold.
Razkili locked his arms around Innowen's chest and wrestled him toward the door. "We've got to get out of here!" he hissed. Achieving the corridor, he grasped Innowen's arm and ushered him along at a shambling run. Innowen no longer resisted, but let himself be guided. It didn't matter where Razkili was taking him. What was his friend saying in such strident whispers? That didn't matter, either. He stumbled up a flight of stairs. The corridors rushed past, long tunnels of light and dark. His eyes wouldn't focus, but he didn't care. He didn't care.
Only the most primitive kind of awareness told him he was back in his own room again. Like a wraith unable to touch the real world, he floated down upon his bed and sat there, numb.
"Innocent?" Razkili knelt before him and squeezed his hands. "Innocent?"
Rascal's words drifted to him across oceans of mist and fog. Innowen heard, but the effort to answer seemed just too great. He felt Razkili near, but couldn't see him, couldn't see anything but a vast gulf of fear and pain. Blackness rose up, chilling, and froze him. He wanted to return Rascal's squeeze, but he couldn't move, and it didn't matter, anyway. He stared into that gulf, mesmerized by the darkness, oblivious even when Rascal crawled up on the bed behind him and wrapped his arms and legs around him and began to rock him and shed tears, which trailed down Innowen's neck and back.
It was his fault. Riloosa's blood was on his hands, and he couldn't stand that. He saw Riloosa's body floating down in that dark gulf, tumbling, staring back at him. He saw the old man's face clearly, not angry, not accusing, but cold and still, composed in death. Innowen watched, screaming inside, unable to make a sound. He watched it tumble, watched it spin and whirl in that horrible, empty gulf, and soundlessly he screamed again, for he saw, understood, that it was not a random motion. Riloosa—the corpse that had been Riloosa—danced.
It danced for him, and Innowen watched with a dreadful fascination, as if it were his penance.
But his worst desire, whatever it was, stayed buried. Instead, the long darkness began slowly to lift. The gulf faded, and Riloosa faded, and it was only a wall that he was staring at so intently. His hand fell upon Razkili's thigh where it rested on his own, and he stroked it languidly. He didn't try to stop the rocking, but gave in to it, yielded to the soothing rhythm, and accepted consolation.
People envy you for something, never knowing how it eats you up inside. He formed the words in his mind, making them perfect, like a piece of poetry, and carved them in his heart. All his life he had wanted to dance, dance like the trees in the wind, like the birds that wheeled through the sky, like the clouds and the stars as they rolled across the night. Everything that lived danced, and everything that did not live was still caught up in the dance. And Innowen danced, too, and by dancing, became part of everything that was.
But the trees and the wind, the birds, and clouds, and stars, did they pay such a price?
He closed his eyes and ran his palm along Rascal's leg. The fine, soft hair tickled, and the smooth, powerful muscle pulsed with a heat.
"Innowen?" Razkili said softly over his shoulder. But Innowen wasn't ready to talk yet. He said nothing, and after a moment, Razkili laid his head back down against Innowen's shoulder without ever breaking the rhythm their rocking had established.
Innowen sucked his lower lip. He could continue to dance and destroy lives with his dancing, or he could stop... and never walk again. One night, that was all it would take. Tonight, just don't dance tonight. Then he would be free. He started at that, almost laughed. He wanted to laugh, but it wouldn't quite come. Free. He had thought that walking would make him free.
You are a fool, he told himself bitterly.
He reached back and gently stroked the top of Razkili's head. It was for Razkili most of all he feared, and he knew he should send him away, or drive him away, but he couldn't stand the thought of that, of being alone without him. Choose, his inner voice urged, dance and destroy, or be a cripple. But what of Razkili? Would he love an invalid?
"I'm sorry," Innowen whispered.
Razkili lifted his head and rested his chin on Innowen's shoulder. "Ummm? What?"
"I've been treating you like a servant," he said apologetically.
Razkili's fingers began to work in Innowen's shoulders, kneading away the tension. His thumbs pressed deep on either side of the spine where it joined the neck and crept up to the soft spot just at the base of the skull. Then they started back down again, slowly, languorously. Innowen's head rolled forward, and he let go a small moan.
"I left the damned lamp downstairs," Razkili said quietly. "Afraid we don't have any light at all."
"We'll have company soon." Innowen drew a deep breath and bit his lower lip. "If the guard didn't talk, the attendant surely did. Somebody must know by now that Riloosa is dead and that I killed him."
Razkili continued his massage. "You did what you had to do." His fingers worked into the soft spots behind Innowen's eats and down the sides of his neck. With a soft sigh, he slipped his arms around his friend and drew him into a gentle embrace. "Speaking of things you have to do, you have to dance. Dawn can't be long off."
I don't want to, Innowen thought, stiffening. Let the sun come up like this, in this quiet room with Rascal's arms around me. I'm afraid to go on with this curse!
But he was also afraid to go back, back to being crippled, to being alone and helpless. Vividly, he recalled the night he'd had to drag himself on hands and elbows through a storm and a muddy road to find aid for Drushen. How miserable he'd been, soaked and covered with filth, as he'd crawled along like a drowning worm. Drushen would have died that night if the Witch hadn't come along.
He felt Razkili's warmth curled around him, felt the heart beating deep in the Osiri's chest and the tender strength that pulsed in the arms that held him. He bit his lip again. What if Rascal needed him someday?
"All right," he answered slowly, uncertainly. A huge hand seemed to squeeze the blood from his heart, and he trembled at the decision he'd made. He untangled himself from Razkili's embrace and pushed forward to the edge of the bed. He planted his hands on the side, preparing to rise, then hesitated. A cold lump formed in his throat as he fought to shape words. At the same time, though, his face burned. "Do you love me, Rascal?"
A measureless silence hung over them, darker and deeper than the blackness that filled the room. Neither of them moved, neither of them touched the other. Even the sounds of their breathing stopped. Innowen listened and waited and waited, his fingers tightening in the bedsheet, until he thought he would scream to break the oppressive silence.
Razkili's hand settled lightly on his back. "I love you, Innocent."
Innowen shut his eyes, and his mouth drew into a taut, quivering line. What should have filled him with joy filled him also with a terrible, cloying fear as he pushed himself to stand. He turned, took Razkili's hand, and pulled him to his feet. So close, he felt his friend's feather-soft breath on his face as he inhaled the scent of him.
"Leave me alone in here," he told Razkili. "Stand guard at the door. Let no one enter until I tell you, but shout a warning if it's Minarik." He reached out and pulled Razkili to him. "Now go, and let me get on with it," before I change my mind, he added silently, fighting back a strange note of panic. "I won't be long this time."
"I wish I could watch," Razkili whispered.
The note of panic threatened to overwhelm Innowen. He rubbed his hands together as if trying to cleanse them of something. "Don't say that!" he snapped. Then, struggling to control himself, he added "Please, Rascal. Don't say it."
Innowen felt Razkili's hand brush his cheek, then heard his footsteps as he crossed t
he room, opened the door, and passed into the corridor beyond. Quietly, the door closed.
Alone. Innowen hated it, and he stood in the center of the chamber hugging himself. Alone. It was a word of power. It chilled him and made him tremble. The room's sudden emptiness closed in on him like the walls of a box growing menacingly smaller. He dashed to the only window. The shutter was still open, and he stared toward the wall and the flickering watchfires. Yes, a few men still walked their patrols, but they were far away, too far away to matter, just voiceless shadows moving in the night.
Shadows. Without quite knowing why, they reminded him of the Witch, and he clenched his fist. He had seen her close only once, did not even know her name, but she had haunted his life. In his moment of anger, he suddenly resented that. He had spent five years in a futile search for her, walked through many lands on the legs she had given him, and finally returned home, only to find her waiting. He could feel her now, so near, though Parendur was days away.
He shook his head. He knew he had to see her, and he feared. He remembered her voice, the sound of her whisper and her laughter on the wind. He had never forgotten it. Some nights, he still listened for her in the rustle of the leaves or the rush of the clouds across the sky.
He squeezed his eyes tightly shut and covered his ears with his hands. Even when she didn't call him, she called.
The breeze blew through the window, kissed his cheek, whispered with a soothing susurrus. Almost against his will, Innowen opened his eyes and listened.
Abruptly, he jumped back and slammed the shutter tight. No! he shouted silently at the wind. I don't want your music tonight!
Maybe, he thought when the shutters were closed tight, it was the Witch he shouted at.
He backed into the center of the room. There wasn't much space for dancing, and it was dark. He might kick something, or knock something over. Yet there was a kind of grim satisfaction in the thought of a bruised shin or a broken toe. He deserved that and more.
Chapter 14
Innowen leaned his back against the cool stone of Parendur's high wall and waited for the dawn. By the faint light of the moon he could make out the fine gray ribbon that was the road through the main gate. It stretched across the plain and broke apart, sending smaller roads onward into the valley beyond and into the foothills on either side.
He stared at the gate again and thought of Taelyn. A pang stabbed his heart. Not one of the soldiers in Taelyn's last command had been seen or heard from. No doubt all were dead; theirs had been a suicide assignment.
Cursing silently, he let his head sag forward onto his knees as he drew a few deep, dust-filled breaths. The drought had reasserted itself. The last few days had been scorching, and all evidence of any rain had vanished. Only night brought the slightest relief from the crushing heat. Even so, a fine sheen of sweat dampened his skin.
From high atop the wall came a scuffling and the murmur of low voices. Innowen listened to the changing of the watch guards. Soon enough, the night was quiet again. He stretched one leg out before him, rested one hand on his bent knee, and waited.
The Crown of the Heavens cut a pale swath across the black sky. In the north, the Great Scythe turned slowly, its seven stars blazing. He had known the names of those stars once. Drushen had taught him. In the handle, Shalaka, Bandal, Paros. The others eluded him now, though he tried to remember.
Voices came to him again, from above. Snatches of a conversation drifted down from the wall, then faded into silence once more.
He brushed a hand over a small ceramic bowl, where it lay in the dirt beside his outstretched leg, and moved it a little closer. His finger moved idly in the dust. With a start and a pang of guilt, he realized he'd written Razkili's name.
Leaning his head against the wall, he shut his eyes and called up Razkili's features. It was so easy to remember the smell of him, his touch. Razkili had filled his thoughts in the time since he'd left Whisperstone. For five years they'd ridden together. Five days without him had been almost unbearable.
What must Rascal have thought when he read the single word that Innowen had left carved in the wax tablet? Wait. That had been the entirety of his message, and then he had contrived to slip away on a pretext, made his way to the stables, left a second message for Minarik with a slave there, and departed his father's keep.
The second message would assure that Razkili was in no way responsible for Riloosa's death. It also promised that he, Innowen, would return to face Kyrin's wrath. He was not running away. There was, however, something he had to do that could no longer be put off. Something he had to do alone.
He turned his gaze up toward the moon again. It was well over half-full. Some nocturnal bird flitted briefly across its face, a dark silhouette, then something more beautiful as it climbed away with the silver light limning its wings.
Please, Rascal, he prayed silently as he watched the bird disappear. Understand.
Another sound drew his attention back to the road. The uneven creaking of dry axles and the steady plod of an ox's hooves echoed out of the darkness. It was a few more moments before he made out the dim outline of an approaching cart. It pulled up before the sealed gates and stopped.
Innowen surreptitiously pushed his legs out before him and lifted the small bowl in one hand. "Selats?" he said quietly, "a few coppers for an unfortunate cripple?"
An old man peered down at him from his seat on the cart, then slowly lifted his bulk and stepped down with a grunt. "Early for a beggar, you are," he answered finally, offering no coins. "I'm usually the first one here." He reached over the side of his cart and began to unload, pulling down a stool and a potter's wheel, which reeked of strong-smelling clay. He set them by the roadside near Innowen's feet and went back to his cart again. "What's your name, beggar?" he asked as he lifted out a bundle of blankets and spread them on the ground.
"Petroklos," Innowen lied easily, careful to keep his legs still.
The old potter began to place various pots and vessels upon the blankets, knowing even without benefit of a lamp or torch just how he wanted each piece displayed. "Well, Petroklos," he said as he worked. "You're in my spot, now, and if you were another merchant I'd give you a sound drubbing and drive you right off for your impertinence." He turned to Innowen with an oinochoe jug in one hand and shook it at him. "But seeing as how you're a poor miserable cripple, you can beg there and I won't bother you. Mind, though, you don't annoy my customers. What are you doing outside the gates, anyway?"
"Waiting for them to open," Innowen answered truthfully. "Your spot, you say? You're here every morning?"
"Unless it rains, or there's war," the old potter affirmed as he unrolled a small tent and began to erect it near the blankets. "There's been some of both lately, but now the sun's out again as hot as ever, and if the fighting's settled down for a bit, this poor man's back in the business of providing for his family." He flashed a showy grin, pleased with his own speech. "Waiting to get in, lad? Where'd you come from?"
"Kabari," Innowen answered, naming the nearby village where he'd left his horse and the few belongings he'd brought on his journey. He felt inside the rag he wore as a tunic to reassure himself his purse was safe, and the thin dagger he had secreted was still there. "Are things already so normal, with Parendur full of invaders, that you feel secure doing business in the shadow of the city gates?"
The old man used a mallet to drive four metal rods into the ground at the corners of his encampment. That done, he ran a rope through loops at the tops of each rod, and his shop was complete. He paused to survey his work and gave a satisfied sigh. The sound of wheels and voices made him turn—more merchants coming up the road bringing their wares from the countryside. The potter led his wagon around to the back of his tent, unhitched the ox, and tethered the beast to the rearmost rod.
"Normal?" he answered, finally resuming the conversation. He shrugged as he bent to adjust the positioning on his blanket of a tall rhyton, whose urfirnis glaze caught the glint of the moonlight.
It was the centerpiece of his display. "All I care about is, is it peaceful? Right now, it's calm enough, so I come here, set up my shop, sell a few pots, and go home. Wife gets fed, children get fed. That's my only worry."
Innowen's brow furrowed as he watched the man rearrange his wares and rearrange them again. "You don't care that King Kyrin is in hiding, and an invader sits on his throne?"
The old potter shrugged again and grunted as he moved the tall rhyton aside to put a huge skyphos bowl in its place. "What's that to me?" he said bluntly. "Kings' business is kings' business, but a poor man's got to look out for himself. You live as long as I have, you'll learn that. It's hard enough, especially in these times, for a man to get by and feed his family. If somebody can keep things peaceable, then let him be king. Don't matter to me what his name is. Kings come and go, but the common people got to make a living." He gave Innowen a long look. "Besides, everybody knows Kyrin got the throne by poisoning old Koryan. Took the crown by murder, he did. Now someone else has taken it from him and made himself king." He wagged a finger at Innowen. "And there'll be someone come along later to take it again."
"It's a woman," Innowen muttered.
The potter looked at him with a show of surprise before he plopped down heavily on his stool behind the wheel. "Hmmmph. Well, the gods will deal with a bitch for not knowing her place. It's still not my worry."
Innowen planted his hands on the ground and pushed up to brace his back more comfortably against the wall. He was careful not to move his legs. That made him grin, however. He hadn't counted on company out here so early. It was hard not to move, and the irony was not lost on him that he had to pretend to be crippled—at least until sunrise, which couldn't be far away.
Another merchant had pulled up near the gate and begun to unload his wagon on the opposite side of the road. He marked off the boundaries of his shop with a rope just as the old potter had done. In one corner, he arranged his cobbler's tools and a selection of sandals. In another, he placed a rack of brooms, the handicraft, probably, of a wife trying to help with the family income.
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