Shadowdance (32 page)

"So I stayed awake," Razkili continued through Innowen's embrace. "It got kind of quiet, though, and I feared I'd nod off, so I took the lamp to explore for a bit."

"But the screams," Innowen said, crossing to the middle of the room, "didn't you hear them?"

"Of course I heard them." He hesitated, then swallowed. "It was Riloosa. They had to cut off his arm."

Innowen's hands squeezed into fists, and he felt suddenly cold all over.

"He was crazy with fever, and the infection had spread too far. Kyrin's got him in a room downstairs."

Innowen dug his nails into his palms. "Kyrin ordered his arm cut off?"

Razkili nodded as he sat down on the edge of Innowen's bed.

Innowen paced back and forth. The cold he felt dissolved, and the slow fire of anger began to burn within him. He went to a chest where earlier a servant had placed some clothes for them, and he drew out a white chiton, pulled it over his head, not bothering with a loin cloth, and fastened on a belt.

"Why do you care?" Razkili asked suddenly in a strained voice. "As I recall, you didn't much like the Syraean."

Innowen didn't answer. He looked instead for his sandals, then remembered the same servant had taken them away to try to clean off the mud.

He turned back to Razkili. "Show me where he is," he demanded.

Razkili frowned but didn't get up. "What do you think you're doing, Innocent?"

Innowen exploded, grabbing Razkili by the shoulder of his tunic and hauling him to his feet. "I said, show me where he is, gods damn it!" he shouted in his friend's face.

Razkili wiped a bit of spittle from his cheek, and his eyes narrowed with anger. Then his shoulders slumped, and he shook his head slowly. "All right," he said with a calm born of weariness. "All right."

Innowen led the way into the corridor, his jaw set, his fists clenched rigidly at his sides. Razkili snatched up the lamp from the table and followed. From behind one of the many doors in the corridor, voices issued, but Innowen didn't stop to listen or investigate. He stalked on at the very edge of the tiny flame's wavering illumination, his shadow slithering on the floor before him.

The corridor ended in a descending flight of stairs. There, Innowen stopped. Mounted in brackets on the old stone wall was a large round shield whose bronze surface had been beaten into the semblance of a demonic face. On either side of it hung two beautifully wrought copper swords with matching daggers. Innowen slipped one of those daggers from its resting place and ran his finger along the edge. The razor-keen blade equaled half the length of his forearm. He stuck it in his belt and glared wordlessly at Razkili until the Osiri took the lead and continued on.

Rascal guided him through a series of twists and turns. Whisperstone was still a labyrinth,
that
at least had not changed. They descended two more flights of stairs and entered a passage lit by oil lamps that had been suspended by thin chains from broad overhead beams. A faintly odorous smoke drifted in the poorly ventilated corridor.

Just ahead, a sentry stood watch beside one of the many doors. He turned to look when he heard footsteps and watched warily as they approached. A frown flickered over the man's face, and he glanced down uncertainly before finally meeting Innowen's hard gaze.

Innowen wondered if he was one of Minarik's men or one of Kyrin's. Kyrin's, he guessed, since it was Kyrin's prisoner he guarded. Innowen didn't give a damn. He glowered at the soldier, almost nose to nose. "Do you know me?" he asked, but his tone made the question irrelevant. His words were a pure threat.

The soldier blinked with timid consternation as he glanced at Innowen's long dagger. "I know you," he managed.

"Then go back to your barracks," Innowen told him sharply. When the man hesitated, Innowen repeated, his voice an angry hiss, "Go back to your barracks, soldier!"

The soldier shrugged. "This is none of my affair," he muttered. "Me, I got a family I've not seen in months, and fields all gone to hell. The sooner you great lords get to killing each other off, the sooner the rest of us can get back to more important concerns." He made a curt mockery of a bow, then shoved between them and disappeared down the corridor.

"Quite a speech," Razkili said, cocking an eyebrow.

"Quite," Innowen agreed. "See that he gets a bag of coins tomorrow for his honesty."

Innowen turned toward the door and pushed it open. His anger was gone, lost in the surprising encounter with the guard. Yet he was no less determined as he stepped into the room. The stench of burned flesh and hot pitch hung in the air. Not even the opened window had been able to leech it out. Several lamps provided light, and an unseasonable fire crackled in the small hearth, making an oven of the room.

A bare-chested, leather-collared slave hurried to block their entrance. From the assortment of bandages, steaming pots and bloodied cloths, Innowen guessed he had some responsibility as a healer. It didn't matter. He gently but firmly pushed the older man into the corridor, ignoring his protests, and closed the door again.

Riloosa's ankles had been bound to the end posts of his bed. The sheets upon which he lay were a mess of blood and foul matter and sticky pitch. His clothes had been cut away. He looked frail and withered in his nakedness, not at all the calculating, hard-willed court advisor Innowen had known before. His gray hair seemed thinner, and those darkly glazed eyes seemed barely able to focus as he looked up at Innowen. His lips parted slightly, but no sound came from him. Weakly, his head rolled to the side, and he looked away.

Innowen forced himself to look at the stump where Riloosa's right arm had been. They had taken it just below the shoulder. Black pitch covered the cauterized flesh, but burns were plainly visible on the shoulder and along the right side, caused by whatever they had used for the cauterization, probably a hot torch or a brand from the fireplace.

Innowen pulled the dagger from his belt. He had brought Riloosa to this with his dancing, and he felt the weight of that guilt like a huge stone around his neck. He had not liked the Syraean, but no man deserved this. He touched Riloosa's forehead; the skin was searing hot with fever. Amputating the arm would not save his life. The infection had eaten far too deeply. Greater agony was all that awaited the advisor, from the poison in his blood and from Kyrin's unforgiving hands.

He had no intention of allowing that. He brushed a finger over Riloosa's cheek, and the old man turned his head to look once more at him. His gaze fastened for an instant on the dagger, then he closed his eyes. His mouth opened slackly, and he let go either a sigh or a little moan.

Innowen fancied it was a sigh of gratitude. He cut the ropes that bound Riloosa's ankles, then sat down on the bed, gathered the old man in one arm, and hugged him close to his chest. Those weary eyes never opened as Innowen pressed his face to the top of the Syraean's balding head. The mouth never tried to speak.

Innowen set the point of the copper dagger to Riloosa's heart and slipped it deep. Another sigh fled the old man's lips, the softest of sounds, like a tiny zephyr that stirred among fallen leaves. For an instant, the Syraean stiffened, then he completely relaxed.

Warm blood spread over Innowen's hand as he pulled the dagger free and dropped it on the floor. Still, he clung to the old man and hugged him closer, as a child might a broken doll, and he set his cheek next to the old man's cheek as tears started to seep from the corners of his eyes. Suddenly, he gave a great sob and buried his face against Riloosa's neck.

Razkili's hands settled on Innowen's shoulders, and Innowen felt himself pulled away. He refused, though, and clutched at Riloosa's body, twisting away from his friend. "Get out, Rascal!" he cried despairingly. "Get out before someone comes!"

Razkili continued to pull at him, working strength against strength to unwrap his arms from around the counselor's body. "Come on, Innocent!" The urgently whispered words echoed in his ears. "Come on, I'm not leaving you here. He's dead. Let go of him!"

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."