The god laughed. Well are you called Innocent, little mortal! You have already served me, and your service continues still, though you know it not. I will have a sacrifice, and before the night is done.
As he spoke, Khoom's form began to waft away like streamers of black smoke. Still, the wind harp sang with his harsh words. A god does not break faith with his priestess, so as your mother implored that you would walk, so you will, by night, as I tempered her prayer, and so long as you dance. Reject me, Innocent. You know how to do that. You've known from the first. I will not make you a cripple again. That must be your choice. I will enjoy your suffering as you struggle to make it.
Nothing remained of Khoom's form. It was to the wind that Innowen shouted as he raised his fist. "All this misery!" he raged. "For what? Why, damn you?"
The wind screeched through the wires until the harp shuddered. The god has dropped from the sky, my Innocent, and answered all your questions, Khoom said scornfully. This pitiful little play is almost ended.
The wind died instantly. An utter stillness descended on the land, and the harp fell silent. Before Innowen could react or draw a breath, Razkili gave a wild cry and rushed at the copper cylinder. His sword smashed down with a terrible clangor, first denting, then breaching the thin metal. Again, he struck, dealing it another rent. With manic fury, he attacked the cylinder until Innowen pulled him away and wrapped him in his arms.
A random breeze skipped over the wires. Through the crushed cylinder, the wind harp made a plaintive sound, like a child mewling in the darkness.
Now Innowen had a new fear. Razkili had seen him dance. He pushed Rascal back at arm's length and looked at him closely.
Razkili drew a deep breath, folded his hands over his mouth and closed his eyes to calm himself. "It's all right," he said at last. "It's the philosopher in me, the one you're always making fun of."
"What's that?" Innowen asked softly, confused.
Razkili shook himself before he stepped back. "You're so easy to read sometimes, Innowen. I've known my darkest desire since the first moment we met." A wistful half smile parted his lips slightly. "It's you. I left my home for you. I left my family and Osirit for you. For you, I cast aside, not only my royal heritage, but the duties that I owed Osirit as my father's son." He swallowed, then clutched Innowen's shoulders, meeting his gaze intently. "And I don't regret any of it. I chose this. I chose you. I'd steal for you, kill for you, give you the last crumb of bread from my starving mouth. That's why I'm not afraid to watch you dance. I've faced my dark desire." He dragged Innowen closer and hugged him. "Hells, I embrace it every time I embrace you."
Innowen clung to Rascal. "I guess you're normal, all right," he whispered. "You never say a thing in three words if you can say it in thirty. I think we'd better get back to Whisperstone." But he didn't let go of Rascal. Not yet. He held him with all his might and looked up to see if there was a moon in the sky.
A pale, virginal light floated directly overhead without so much as a hint of the blood-red fashion it had worn closer to the horizon. In its glow, Innowen turned up the palm of his hand. He flexed it, made a fist, opened it.
The splinter was gone.
Yet before he could wonder at that, another light on the southern horizon caught his eye. He let go of Rascal and backed up. An odd, flickering glow, yellow-reddish, shimmered in the distance, and it grew as he watched.
"Whisperstone!" he shouted as fear clutched his heart. "It's burning!"
Razkili lifted his sword. The blade was badly bent and nicked from his attack on the cylinder. With a cry of rage, he flung it with all his might toward the glow. "I made this place for you!" he said quietly through tightly clenched teeth. "It was supposed to be a place of peace, a place where we could get away from all that madness!"
Innowen stared toward the flames, his heart racing. "It was beautiful, Rascal," Innowen told him urgently. "The wind harp was a work of art, genius, and we'll remake it someday." He backed toward the trap door in the tile floor, still watching the distant flames over Razkili's glistening bare shoulder. "But I've got to get back there. I've got to get home!"
He turned and ran to the open trap. Dropping down onto the first step, he reached for the lamp and froze. He picked up the light, shined it all around, bent lower and shined it on the next step below.
"What's wrong now?" Rascal said as he peered down through the trap. In his hand he held the sword Innowen had dropped and forgotten.
"Dyan's doll-flute," Innowen shouted back. "It's gone." He jumped down to the next step, crouched, and ran his hand along the stone surface. "Look!" he cried, pointing to a warm smear of melted tallow. "Someone was here with a candle!"
Rascal bent down from the step above him as he pulled the heavy marble tile back into place. "Well, whoever it was, they didn't come up through the trap," he said. "They must have gone back through the passage."
Innowen leaped down the steps with a renewed sense of urgency, and Razkili came swiftly after. At the bottom, he waited and gave the lamp to Rascal, who knew the way far better than he did. They exchanged few words but moved as briskly as they could, Rascal cupping one hand around the small flame to protect it.
None of the cavern's mysteries or wonders delayed them. All Innowen thought about was the fire on the horizon, and the Witch of Shanalane, and Khoom's words, I will have a sacrifice, and before the night is done.
At the far end of the tunnel, Razkili gave the lamp to Innowen and bent to operate the mechanism that opened the hidden door. As it eased back, Innowen spied more droplets of melted tallow on the dusty floor, more proof that someone had followed them from Whisperstone to the temple ruins.
"Who else knew about this doorway?" Innowen called behind to Razkili.
Rascal stepped quickly into the hall as the door began to rumble closed again. "Minarik," he answered, "and Veydon, who helped me with some of the wind harp's construction."
Innowen bit his lip as he hurried through the corridors to the stairs that would carry them out of the keep's subterranean levels. When they reached lighted hallways, he began to run. The lamp's wick was quickly extinguished, either by the sloshing of the oil or by the wind of his passage. They encountered no one until they reached Whisperstone's great entrance hall, which was full of wounded soldiers on cots and cloth pallets and the people who attended them.
Here, the smell of smoke hung heavy in the air. There was no sign of fire, however, nor did the busy servants and slaves appear overly concerned. Innowen set down the lamp and pulled open one of the great doors.
A crackling curtain of fire shimmered against the black sky, sending smoke and sparking ash swirling upward into the heavens. It was almost beautiful in its fury. "It's the village," Innowen said with a sense of relief as Rascal pressed into the doorway to see. "The fields, too. The Witch has set fire to them."
Hundreds of soldiers lined the top of Whisperstone's wall, some with buckets of water close at hand. Above the massive gates, a squad of Minarik's men were hard at work maneuvering huge barrels of water, which they poured over the side to wet the doors and keep the flames from them.
A cloud of gray smoke blew across the grounds. Innowen closed the door before it drifted inside. A different sense of purpose filled him. His mouth set in a determined line as he turned to Rascal. "There's nothing we can do out there," he declared. "Let's go find that flute."
Razkili resisted. "Why's that so important now?" he demanded, smacking Innowen's sheathed sword against his palm. "They could use our help out there. Suppose some of those sparks blow over the wall?"
"There are plenty of men out there!" Innowen insisted, trying to keep his voice low. He eyed the wounded nearest him and a pair of servants within earshot. "Minarik and Veydon will be out on that wall. You know that! I want to search their rooms. I have to know which of them has it."
Innowen turned away, but Razkili caught his arm and started to protest. Angrily, Innowen pulled free. "Think, damn it!" he hissed, glaring. "Whoever took that f
lute probably saw me dance."
Razkili squeezed his eyes shut briefly as the import of Innowen's words sank in. "They might have it on them," he said, finally.
"Maybe," Innowen agreed, "but we can find that out after we search their rooms. I've got to know which of them has it." Who knows what I might have awakened, he thought fearfully. He knew Minarik's obsession. It was the Witch, of course. But what of Veydon? What was his darkest desire?
Innowen and Razkili rushed down a corridor and out into the courtyard. They were halfway across it, running for a door in the northwest corner, when a sound from the gazebo brought them up short. Another riff of music danced sweetly into the air and laughed at them.
The two men crept toward the vine-covered structure. Razkili wrapped one hand around the hilt of the sword as they peered inside.
Dyan sat motionless, unveiled, her eyes focused on something far away. The missing doll-flute at her lips, her fingers suddenly did a quick dance. Another flurry of notes issued forth. She paused again, unaware that she was observed. Suddenly, a rich music rushed out from her, and she began to sway sensuously without rising. Her loose dark hair swung over her shoulders as her eyes fluttered closed. Her piping climbed a wild scale and plummeted. The courtyard's peculiar construction caught the sound and magnified the echoes as they soared upward.
"Khoom!" Innowen cried. "He's here!" He leaped into the gazebo and snatched the pipe from Dyan's hands. Still, her fingers continued to dance, as if on an invisible instrument, while the echoes sang in time to her swaying. He caught her arms, forced them down to her sides as he called her name.
At last, her eyes snapped open. She stared into his face. Then she began to laugh. Frightened, Innowen beckoned to Razkili, who set his sword aside. They knelt down before her, each holding one of her hands as the laughter ebbed and tears started seeping from her eyes. Her dress was filthy, Innowen noted, and spots of tallow showed on the front of her hem.
"She's the one who followed us," Innowen whispered, full of concern. "She saw everything."
Razkili rubbed and patted the hand he held. "She's seen you dance before, though. You said it didn't affect her, that she didn't have any dark desires."
Innowen swallowed hard as he looked at Dyan. Her tears came in steady streams now. They rilled down her cheeks, dripped from her chin and dampened her bodice as she rocked ever so slightly and gave little shudders. She made no sound, however, none at all. Her gaze turned toward Innowen, and he saw her terrible pain.
"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.
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