"I believe these are yours," Taelyn declared. He passed the reins of the three animals into Innowen's hand, and gave a curt nod to Razkili. Innowen recognized their mounts and the pack horse. All his bundles seemed accounted for, the sleeping rolls with their money bags, the bags with his dolls, all the little treasures he and Razkili had elected to bring with them to Whisperstone. "We were lucky, Rascal," Innowen said appraisingly.
"Let me have a litter brought and hitched behind your horse," Taelyn offered as his gaze drifted over Innowen's legs. "You'll be comfortable, and you can sleep as we travel."
"No," Razkili said before Innowen could speak. "That way is for the wounded and the dying. Innocent will ride with me."
Innowen glanced at Razkili with an expression of surprise. Razkili looked back at him and grinned. Innowen let go a long sigh of resignation. Some nicknames just couldn't be lived down, it seemed. His chin dropped to his chest for a moment, and when he looked up, Rascal's grin widened, and the powerful arms that bore him hugged him closer.
"He can't sit on a horse," Taelyn protested. "He's crippled. There's no feeling in his legs!"
"He's not crippled," Razkili answered firmly, his eyes narrowing at that word. "Not while I'm here to be his limbs. Now, come take him for a moment, and hand him up to me after I've mounted. He'll ride in my arms. If he's too much for you to lift, call one of your men."
Taelyn frowned disapprovingly, but he stepped forward and took Innowen in his own arms. "Don't you have anything to say about this?" he said with some exasperation.
Innowen watched as Razkili took his horse's reins and swung one leg high and over. For a moment, his friend lay flat on the animal's bare back, and he remembered that Rascal was still probably a bit stiff and sore from the beating Chohlit had given him, but then he pulled himself erect and reached down with one arm.
Innowen shrugged and gave Taelyn his biggest smile. "I say, hand me up to him when he's mounted," he told his old friend. "If I'm too heavy for you, then call one of your men." He winked suddenly and put on a mock-serious face. "I never argue with him."
"I should drop you, instead," Taelyn muttered as he handed Innowen up into Razkili's embrace.
For an instant, Innowen sat sideways on the horse's withers, his balance precarious. Then Razkili twisted and maneuvered him until one leg slipped over the horse's neck, and he straddled the animal like a proper rider. Finally, one strong arm locked around his waist, and he was settled.
Taelyn helped keep the horse steady by holding its bridle strap until Razkili had a firm grip on the reins. "Can you manage a lead line on your other two beasts?" he asked Innowen, and Innowen nodded. Taelyn disappeared briefly and returned with a rope, which he passed through the bridles of their other two horses. He handed the line to Innowen.
"Now, I've spared enough attention for the pair of you," Taelyn said good-naturedly as he brushed dust from his hands. "I've got an army that needs a little bit of me, too." He turned and pointed to a gathering of mounted soldiers. "You wait with that group forming over there, and I'll join you when we're ready to move out." With that, he left them.
"Ready?" Razkili asked.
Innowen settled back, letting Razkili take his weight. He rested one arm over the arm around his middle and let the hand holding the lead line dangle over Rascal's thigh. Their flesh quickly stuck together wherever they touched, for the day was hot, and already, he had a fine sweat.
Off to his right, a pair of soldiers stared in their direction and whispered to each other. How, he wondered briefly, had Taelyn explained him to his soldiers? He had walked into camp last night. Now, he had to be carried. He couldn't even ride his own horse. Had Taelyn even bothered to explain?
It wasn't important. Let them think what they would. With his free hand, he squeezed the forearm that crossed his belly, feeling the muscle corded beneath the sun-bronzed skin. As if in response, that arm drew tighter about him.
He lifted his head, and the slightest breeze brushed his face. "Ready," he answered.
Chapter 7
Ispor by day was quite different from the Ispor Innowen and Razkili had traveled through at night. Gone were the moonlit mountain peaks and star-speckled rivers, the vast gray and white plains so beautiful in their starkness. Under the sun's searing glare, the land screamed. The grass shriveled into a course brown hair that only grew in clumps and patches. Dust swirled and eddied in the slightest wind. The trees stood like frail and fatigued old men, stooped and twisted, as if even their wilted leaves were too heavy to bear in such torrid heat.
The deeper into Ispor they journeyed, the worse were the effects of the drought. Ponds and small lakes lay like dried-up scabs on the earth, leeched of water, the black silt bottoms turned to caked and cracked depressions where fish scales and tiny bones gleamed. Even the larger lakes and streams shrank away from their banks, leaving rings or stretches of mud where clouds of insects droned.
Innowen stood outside his tent remembering all he had seen that day. Though night had fallen, the air was still warm enough to cause a few beads of sweat to trickle down the valley of his chest. He caught them on his fingertips and tasted his own salt tang as he gazed into the distance.
The tent fabric gave a slight rustle as Razkili slipped out and joined him. "What are you thinking about?" he asked, touching Innowen's shoulder.
Innowen let go a long breath and rubbed the ball of his thumb over his lips. "I was remembering that deer carcass we passed," he answered slowly. "It must have died from thirst." He stared toward a faint star that hung just above the horizon. He'd specifically chosen this spot for his tent, on the outer perimeter of the camp, facing away from all the others. It was quieter, more private. It made it easier to steal away when he had to later. "Sometimes I feel like that," he went on softly, "like I'm dying of thirst. Only it's not water that 1 need. I don't know what it is."
Razkili didn't say anything, but his fingers massaged the muscles of Innowen's neck. Innowen leaned his head to the side and closed his eyes, tried to feel nothing at all but the gentle hand doing its work. The wind brushed his nipples, and the dim notes of an unnatural music hovered just at the edge of the night, where only he could hear them. It was almost time.
"I have to dance," he said after a long silence.
Razkili's hand continued to massage. "I know."
"Walk with me," Innowen offered, "but just a little way."
The dry grass made a brittle sound beneath their sandals as they walked through the darkness. Most of the camp was asleep, but as Innowen glanced back over his shoulder, he saw, here and there, the shadows and silhouettes of men who still clustered around a late fire swapping tales, men like himself, he suspected, who belonged more to the night than to the day. He wondered if Taelyn might be among them.
The wind nudged gently at his back, and he walked on. Already, the soundless music of the night played clearer in his head. He reached for Razkili's hand, as if his touch might somehow anchor him and hold him back. Yet that wasn't what he wanted. He loved the dance. Only while he danced could he find oneness with the world. Only while he danced could he truly touch the gods.
At the foot of a tow hill, Innowen stopped and looked back. The low fires of the camp could barely be seen. "Wait for me here," he said to his friend.
"Let me come with you," Razkili responded, his voice little more than a whisper, like the rustle of the breeze—a breeze which bore the music that called him.
Innowen let go of his hand, "No." He embraced Razkili, then backed away. "Just wait, and I'll know that you're near. You'll be in my thoughts, and my dance will be for you."
"But I won't see it," Razkili said, his dark eyes piercing Innowen with a sadness and longing.
"The gods will see," Innowen told him. "They'll know it's for you I dance."
He climbed the hill alone. The wind touched his face now with a lover's care, and the music filled him. Legs that were useless by day carried him higher toward a slender moon that just crested the horizon. Step by step he made his way, feeling the strength and blood and power that surged in his limbs. Excitement grew, and his breath quickened.
At the summit, he did a slow turn. In the moonlight, Ispor had found its beauty again. What could daylight show him, he considered, to compare with such a vista of shadow and darkness and pale luminescence, where every shape and movement took on a meaning and identity all its own, where hills were not hills, but the rounded backs of sleeping gods, where gnarly trees were not mere trees, but the willowy fingers of spirits beckoning men's imaginations? Mystery and subtlety, those were the offerings of the night! He made a sweeping gesture with his hand, as if he could stir the gloom and make it swirl like smoke.
On the ground, his shadow in the moonlight made the same motion with its arm as it stretched along the hillside, but to Innowen it looked like an invitation. The wind rushed with a sudden crescendo of music, and he threw back his head. A little cry, like ecstasy, escaped his lips.
The heartbeat of the world became a drum that drove him. He drank its rhythm and poured it out again in pure motion. The night melted as all things real and perceivable fused into a music that entered him, penetrated the deepest parts of him, made of him an instrument for its own physical expression. He invented new geometries with the lines of his body, angles and curves that only flesh could shape, and time collapsed into a single, pulsing moment.
When it was over, he sprawled exhausted on the ground, panting, and dug his fingers into the earth. Though his body rested, his soul still spun to the last diminishing strains. Finally, the music faded away, and the wind was just the wind.
He rolled over on his back. The moon hung isolated and lonely in the black sky. Only it wasn't the moon to him now. It was a face, the face of the Witch of Shanalane.
Innowen blinked, and the illusion vanished. It was only the moon, after all.
He rose, brushed the dirt from his kilt, and looked around for his sandals. He didn't remember removing them, but he was barefooted. A little searching turned them up. He sat back down long enough to put them on and to wrap the soft laces around his calves. At last, he started down the hill.
Razkili lay on the grass asleep where Innowen had left him. One arm was folded under his head, and his features were composed with such peace that Innowen was reluctant to wake his friend. Razkili looked like a child when he slept, free from cares or worries. Innowen half-smiled to himself, and remembering his own nickname, wondered if in slumber he looked half so innocent,
"Rascal," he whispered.
Razkili's eyes opened. Calmly, he sat up and rubbed a thumb and forefinger over his eyes. A few blades of dead grass were stuck in his short-trimmed black beard and in the curls of his hair. He flicked them away. "I saw you dance," he said quietly.
"What!" Innowen's throat constricted with fear, and his hands clenched into fists that he pressed against his thighs. He'd always dreaded that Rascal might break a promise, follow him, and see him dance. He knew how Rascal wanted that.
He swallowed uncertainly.
"I dreamed," Razkili went on calmly, "and I saw you dance. You said the gods would see you, and they let me see, too, this time, by sending the dream." He closed his eyes as if he could see it all again behind his quivering lids. "You were like a cloud chained to earth, struggling to escape back into the sky." He hesitated. "The chain was your shadow. It wrapped its arms around you and held you down with a will of its own. It kept you from achieving the heavens. You danced, and it danced with you. It was almost like a battle. A beautiful, frightening battle between you," he opened his eyes and looked at Innowen, "and yourself."
Innowen gazed toward the summit of the hill where he had danced. Razkili could not have seen him. The distance was too great, the hill too high. So, it was a dream then. Perhaps, as Rascal claimed, sent by the gods. Was a dream enough, though, to satisfy his friend's desire? Or would he want more than ever to see the dance itself?
He held out a hand and pulled Razkili to his feet.
"You're upset," Razkili observed.
"No," Innowen denied, "just tired. We'll reach Parendur tomorrow afternoon." He pointed south in the direction of Ispor's capitol city. "Taelyn will want to start early again, so we should try to sleep tonight."
"Sleep?" Razkili said with surprise. "You? At night?"
"I know," Innowen answered. "But I am weary, and you didn't get much sleep this morning, either. For now, we're traveling with daytimers, so we have to keep their hours."
They drifted slowly back toward camp, kicking at weeds, pausing sometimes to stare toward the stars or the sound of some nocturnal creature, or to watch a thin dark wisp of cloud roll overhead. The night grew cooler. Innowen felt the dry salt sweat crack on his skin.
"Rascal," he said softly as he swatted his way through a swarm of small winged insects that rose suddenly out of the grass. "Remember what you said about a battle?"
"That part of my dream?" Razkili answered. "Between you and yourself?"