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.
He slipped free of Rascal's embrace, padded across the darkened room, opened the door and went into the hallway. Dyan's music echoed more clearly there, and he paused to listen until she stopped abruptly. Then he made his way down to Whisperstone's deepest level, snatching a lamp on his way, and opened the secret door to the strange cavern as he had seen Rascal do. At the cold, clear pools, among the crystal stalagmites, he bathed, and setting aside his vow for at least one more night, he danced.
The next few days passed much the same. Each morning, Vashni rode up to the walls and pranced arrogantly within bow-shot on his huge black horse. Minarik's soldiers grumbled and muttered, but Whisperstone's lord kept them under control and refused to answer the challenge. On the fourth day, some of the Witch's troops walked out of the forest to the edge of the burned field and watched Vashni's display. Their taunts and jeering laughter echoed sharply over the distance, and Minarik's soldiers grumbled louder.
"Let me answer his challenge," Taelyn asked his lord.
Veydon said, "Let me."
But Minarik gave no answer, just fixed his gaze beyond the forest, and everyone knew the black-armored figure below meant nothing to him. It was the Witch he was waiting for. It was as if he could see her when he gazed outward, and a haunted look stole into his eyes. He said nothing, but sometimes his lips moved and soundlessly shaped her name.
Each day, Innowen vowed he would not dance again, and each night he broke that vow. He spent less and less time on the wall and more time in his room listening to Dyan's piping. He never saw her. Minarik kept her locked away. Yet her music floated through the halls, filling the keep. It never ceased now. Day and night she-played on the doll-shaped flute, sometimes softly, sometimes with notes so crisp and crackling they threatened to shatter the stones of her prison.
On the seventh day, Innowen sat on the wall above the main gate beside his father. Vashni paced below, the crest of his helm stirring in the wind, sunlight glimmering on the bronze point of his lance. The Witch's troops no longer bothered to conceal themselves at the forest's edge. Closer and closer they came, kicking dust and ash with their sandaled heels, as they minced and danced and mocked Whisperstone's soldiers, who shifted uncomfortably and impatiently at their posts, like horses straining at the bit or dogs eager to begin the hunt.
Taelyn and Veydon stood apart from the others, whispering together in close counsel as they glared at the scene below.
"She has time on her side, Father," Innowen at last said quietly.
Minarik's gaze did not waver. "She will make the first move," he answered.
Innowen felt the frustration rising within him. He pointed toward Vashni. "This is her first move!" he hissed in a tight whisper.
Minarik's mouth set in a stubborn line as he gave a bare shake of his head.
Innowen clenched his fists in his lap and gave up. There was no reasoning with Minarik. But time was on the Wit
ch's side. The food supplies in Whisperstone would not last forever. And there were bodies piled in the stable—Kyrin's body, and the corpses of some soldiers who had not survived their wounds—that were beginning to stink for want of burial or burning. There were other factors, too. Minarik could not hide behind Whisperstone's walls and keep the respect of his men.
Innowen watched as Vashni launched his spear through the air. It thunked into the wooden gate and quivered among all the others he had placed there, one at the end of each day. My brother, Innowen thought to himself as Vashni rode away. My brother. Yet how different they were. Vashni had grown strong and powerful, arduously developed his body, and made himself a warrior. Innowen wondered if he might have had such a body had he not been born crippled and left in the road to die. My brother, he thought to himself again as Vashni disappeared into the forest, drawing his mother's troops after him.
He wondered if Minowee would ever attack.
Whisperstone's walls were strong, but if she had the patience, she only had to sit back and wait. Minarik's wells might hold plenty of water, but food was a different problem. With so many soldiers and villagers to feed, things would get tight very quickly.
When Vashni was gone, Minarik rose from his seat and left the wall. Razkili appeared at Innowen's side and offered to carry him away, also, but Innowen declined, preferring to watch the spectacular sunset and the great red ball that burned in the western sky. A warm wind blew a great cloud of swirling ash across the sun's waning face, and for an instant, the entire world shimmered. Innowen felt his breath catch in his throat. Then, as the wings of night folded over the earth, he lifted himself from his chair and walked away at Rascal's side.
Later, as they lay together in their rooms, they listened to the haunting music from Dyan's pipe. "I wonder if Minowee knows," Innowen whispered, "that Khoom has chosen a new priestess?"
Razkili answered in a similar whisper, the only voice they seemed to use anymore in the presence of Dyan's piping. "I wonder," Rascal said darkly, "if Khoom will answer when your mother tries to call him."
Innowen curled into the crook of Razkili's arm and twisted to look into his face. In the glow of the single lamp, Rascal's eyes gleamed. "You're thinking of Parendur," Innowen said.
Razkili dug his fingers playfully into Innowen's ribs, evoking a squeal, which made them both stop and lay still. They listened. The music continued from Minarik's chamber. They hadn't disturbed it, then, but they lowered their voices another notch, anyway.
"It's annoying when you know my thoughts," Razkili told Innowen as he drew him closer. "I was thinking of Parendur. She didn't hesitate to attack or use her magic to smash those walls. What's she waiting for?"
Innowen shrugged. He'd pondered the same question. "Maybe she knows a siege will work."
Razkili made a rude, low-throated sound. "That's not her way."
Innowen didn't answer. He waited until Razkili fell asleep, then he slipped away to dance.
Sunrise found them on the wall again at their usual watch above the gate. Minarik's eyes were ringed with dark circles. Obviously, he hadn't slept. A handful of grain and a few crusts of bread were served to them, along with mugs of watered wine. Along the wall, the soldiers were more restless than usual. Innowen noticed it at once. Something in their bearing alerted him, and when they glanced Minarik's way, it was with a thinly veiled hostility. When Veydon appeared on the wall, he kept his distance.
"Where's Taelyn?" Minarik asked suddenly. Louder, he called the same question. "Where's Taelyn?"
No one answered Minarik. Veydon shrugged, pursed his lips, and approached his lord. "Sleeping," he said, and though he tried to hide it, a harsh note lurked just beneath the surface of his words. "He walked the watch all night."
Innowen knew at once it was a lie. He glanced at his friend, but Veydon withheld his gaze and returned to his former place without further comment. At Innowen's right side, Razkili shifted uneasily and leaned on the lance he carried.
In midmorning, Vashni rode out of the forest on his black steed. A fresh wind whipped the horsehair crest of his helm, and the sun glinted on his armor's polished finish. His lance rested casually upon his thighs as he approached. Again, Innowen tried to feel some bond of kinship as he stared down at Vashni. There was only the faintest of tugs at his heart, and he distrusted that.
Why, he wondered silently, had he not yet told Minarik that Vashni, too, was his son? Why was he withholding that? Was he protecting Minarik somehow? Or was he protecting himself? Since their conversation in the gazebo, there had been so little chance to talk with his father. At least that was an easy excuse.
At the edge of the forest, the Witch's soldiers began to appear. They sauntered out onto the field in Vashni's wake, but unlike the night-armored warrior, they stopped safely beyond bow range. Their jeering shouts, however, crossed the distance quite clearly as they brandished their swords and beat their lances against their shields.
A movement on Veydon's part caught Innowen's eye. His friend from Shandisti had drifted close again, but he bent a little at the waist as if straining to see over the wall's edge without being obvious about it. Innowen turned his attention to all the other troops lining the top of the wall. They were too quiet, their sudden tension plain to see. Minarik sensed it, too. The Lord of Whisperstone rose to his feet.
Innowen leaned forward as Vashni brought his mount to a halt. The black-armored warrior stared upward. It seemed to Innowen that Vashni looked straight at him, that even through the slitted helm, their gazes touched.
A sound shivered through the stone beneath Innowen's feet. The great beam that barred the gate scraped suddenly back. The gate swung open briefly and boomed shut. Its vibration traveled up through the stones, through his chair and into his arms on the armrests.
Minarik leaped to his feet as a tremendous cheer went up from the troops along the wall. Below, a rider raced outward from the gate, resplendent in gold helm and breastplate, on a huge white stallion. Innowen recognized that armor. He had seen it once before on Razkili.
He caught Rascal's sleeve. "Get me up!" he said. "Get me up!" Razkili bent down and encircled his waist with an arm and swept him up as if he were a baby.
Taelyn jerked hard on the reins he held in one hand. The stallion thundered to a stop, its hooves kicking clouds of dust as it tossed its head and shook its shining mane. Then it stood absolutely still.
A hush settled suddenly upon the field. Neither Minarik's troops nor the Witch's army at the forest's edge dared to utter a sound. Taelyn and Vashni faced each other over a distance of twenty paces. No breath of wind stirred, and even the sun seemed to wait upon them as they eyed each other.
Suddenly, Taelyn raised his lance high and gave a terrible shout. Vashni did the same and beat his heels against his horse's flanks to drive it forward. The two warriors charged at each other, and when the space between them was halved, Taelyn flung his lance. It flashed through the air, missing Vashni's head. At the same instant, Vashni let fly his own lance. The point narrowly missed Taelyn's head, but the heavy shaft caught him a glancing blow on the shoulder, knocking him sideways. Taelyn threw out a hand, struggling to catch his balance on the horse's bare back, but he fell anyway, crashing to the ground, and rolled frantically out of the way as Vashni rushed by.
It took a moment for Vashni to turn his mount. Taelyn leaped to his feet and ran for his lance, which jutted from the earth at a shallow angle: Vashni bore down on him, the black horse's hooves pounding furiously. Taelyn hurled himself desperately for the lance, grabbing it in both hands as he rolled forward and onto his feet. In the same motion, he flung the lance again.
Vashni's horse gave a piteous cry as the shaft sank deep into its breast. It stumbled and fell forward, and the sharp snap and splinter of wood sounded like a blast of brittle thunder. The horse screamed again as it rolled over on its own neck.
Vashni arched through the air with a dancer's skill, catching himself on his hands as he struck the ground. Unharm
ed, he rolled to his feet and grabbed for the sword at his waist. Taelyn's sword cleared its sheath at the same time, and the two men ran at each other.
Their blades clanged twice. Then Taelyn caught Vashni's descending wrist with his empty hand. Before Vashni could react, Taelyn's sandaled foot shot upward into his ribs. The black-armored warrior gave an audible grunt and stumbled back. Taelyn gave him no time to recover. With a shout, he rushed at Vashni, and their bronze blades clashed together in a flurry of blows.
Atop the wall, Minarik and Veydon watched side by side. "You planned this with him, didn't you!" an enraged Minarik shouted.
At first, a reluctant Veydon held his tongue. Then he unleashed the anger he'd kept in check so long. "Yes! Someone had to answer that arrogant fool's challenge. I would have ridden out today, but Taelyn took it upon himself. He claimed the right, he said, to fight for you— to wash your honor clean of this mockery!"
"My honor!" Minarik spat with savage contempt. But he turned away from Veydon and stared toward the combat. "I didn't want this!"
"You could have prevented it." Veydon's voice was cold and hard. "You could have taken up the crown and ordered him. He would have obeyed."
Vashni and Taelyn circled each other, trading ringing blows with their swords. When they crashed together bodily, Vashni's greater strength won out. Taelyn fell backward and threw himself aside as Vashni's blade sank into the dust where he had just been. Scrambling up, he swept his free hand over the loose earth. Simultaneously, Vashni stooped low. As if with the same thought, both men flung ash into the other's eyes. Blinded, both stumbled back, sputtering and wiping at their faces.
The black warrior's vision cleared first. Vashni advanced on Taelyn. The sun flashed on the bronze length of his blade as he drew back. Rubbing his eyes, Taelyn reacted much too late. With a sharp, underhanded thrust, Vashni plunged his sword upward under Taelyn's breastplate. He held it there a moment, and the two combatant's stood frozen in a fateful tableau, gazes locked.
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