He wanted more than anything to run away, and yet he hugged her closer. "Maybe that's why you can watch me dance," he whispered. "Maybe nothing happens because of your love." Another thought took shape in his mind. Perhaps, Razkili
could
watch him dance. "We should get back to camp," he said distantly, his voice barely audible as he looked through the fog toward the copse of trees.
Hands linked, they started walking. "Have I been too sheltered, Innocent?" she asked with a note of bewilderment. "I wouldn't have thought so, but these past few days prove me wrong. I didn't know how troubled Ispor had become. I didn't know about the drought or the rebellions or anything." She swallowed, and her fingers tightened about his. "I didn't know how disliked my father is by those who serve him. His own men hate him. They'd rather follow Minarik."
Innowen said nothing. What could he say? What could anyone say to a child when it first realized its parents were made of clay, like everyone else, and clay, when wet, was as slimy as the mud under their feet? And didn't every child make that discovery sooner or later, that father and mother were not gods at all, not pillars of strength, or founts of wisdom, but just clay?
He thought of Drushen as he had not done so in some years. It had taken Innowen some time to understand, and a little more time to forgive. He knew now it was his dancing that had made the old man do what he had done. And yet he wouldn't have done it at all if the desire had not always been there, lurking in some small corner of his woodcutter's heart. And that was the way of it. He had raised Innowen, cared for him like his own child, fed and clothed and protected him and loved him—and in his heart secretly harbored a dark desire.
"Remember how the gods made us," he told her quietly, staring into the fog ahead: "...how Enlit, the Good Father, and Bastit, the Dark Father, strove against each other, creating Chaos from their hatred for each other. Yet as they battled, strength against strength, sinew to sinew, each straining to overpower the other, an understanding grew between them, that one could not live without the other, and that, in itself, was a kind of love, and from that understanding came a powerful, passionate coupling. The result of that coupling was Man." He paused long enough to look into her eyes, taking both her hands. "But no one, not all the priests in Ispor, knows which god it was that actually birthed us. Some say it was the Dark Father, because of the evil we do, but some say it was the Good Father, because still we are capable of good things."
"And some say it doesn't matter at all," Dyan interrupted, "because whoever gave us birth, still we're tainted with the seed of the other."
"So it is with Kyrin," Innowen said. "The son of both his fathers."
"I guess I've only seen him through a daughter's veiled eyes," Dyan answered discordantly. She drew her hands away. "Maybe now, though, I see him too well."
A shrill scream made them stop suddenly. Dyan clutched at Innowen's arm, and he pulled her close as he stared through the fog toward the copse of trees. The scream came again. Then a shouting rose before the scream could fade.
"Come on!" Innowen took Dyan's hand and dragged her along as he ran toward the encampment. They stumbled in the mud and slipped on the slick grass, helping each other. The trees grew closer, and the shouting grew louder. They reached the edge of the copse. Shadowy figures ran among the thick bolls, all in the same direction of the screaming. Innowen followed them.
A confused ring of soldiers had formed on the far side of the camp. With Dyan still in tow, Innowen pushed his way through them to the fore.
Minarik and Kyrin stood nose to nose, shouting at the top of their voices. Riloosa lay on the ground close by, hugging his injured arm, his face a pale twisted mask of agony. He moaned, and his breath hissed through clenched teeth as he rocked himself.
They were not the only source of shouting, however. Just beyond those three, a handful of soldiers kept another group at bay with drawn weapons. Innowen spied Razkili. The point of his friend's sword hovered near someone's throat. More shouting grew among the soldiers in the ring, and Innowen glanced around nervously. How many were Minarik's men, and how many Kyrin's? It hadn't occurred to him before to wonder.
In the center of the ring, Kyrin made a quick side-step and dealt Riloosa a vicious kick. Riloosa shrieked in horror and wrenched his arm out of the blow's range, taking it in the ribs instead. Almost as quickly, Minarik moved, planting both hands on his king's chest, pushing him backward. Kyrin lost his footing in the mud, slipped, and pitched over. He scrambled angrily to his feet again. An ugly sound rumbled through the ranks of soldiers.
Plainly, the argument concerned Riloosa. Innowen tried to focus on what Kyrin was saying.
"He's mine!" the king raged. "I'll do as I please with him, gods damn you, Uncle, and no one's going to set that arm. He used it to raise a sword against me, against his king! And I'm going to see he never uses it again for anything."
Minarik was equally loud and stubborn. "I don't give a frogging damn about his arm! Set it or not, it's nothing to me. Just stop kicking him. It's the middle of the night. At least a few of us are able to sleep, and the rest need a little peace before getting back on a horse again. So stop kicking him, gods damn you, you drunken ass!" He pushed again as Kyrin's foot lashed out.
Dyan squeezed Innowen's hand, but he was barely aware of her at his side.
"I said stop!"
"I'm your king!"
"King of nothing! The Witch has your throne now, and your city and your crown. She'd have your life, too, if Taelyn hadn't pulled your fat out of the fire."
"Ispor is still mine!"
"Nothing is yours! Nothing! Get it through your head, Kyrin. You've lost! She's won. She's finally won. Your sister has the throne now. Your sister!"
"Shut up!" Kyrin glanced wildly at the circle of soldiers. "Shut your lying mouth!" He shook a fist under Minarik's nose, all color gone from his face. "She's not my sister. I never had a sister!" He turned to the crowd, spreading his arms in an appealing gesture. "I have no sister! Minarik speaks an evil lie! Minarik is a traitor!"
"It's no lie!" Minarik shouted at Kyrin. "She was Koryan's firstborn. You know as well as I that Koryan ordered her exposed to the elements before she was three hours old because, fool that he was, he wanted a son first to inherit his crown. But she didn't die. Instead, her nurse fled with her to the island of Mikonos and raised her there. She
is
your sister!"
Kyrin let go a wild cry and threw himself at Minarik, locking his fingers around his uncle's throat. Both men tumbled backward, falling on Riloosa, who let go a shriek of pain. The soldiers stirred uncertainly. Some hands drifted toward sword hilts or tightened around the hafts of spears, but no one moved to assist either combatant as they rolled in the mud.
On his back, pinned between two struggling, screaming men, Minarik scooped a handful of filth from the ground and rubbed it in Kyrin's eyes. His nephew sputtered and flinched enough for Minarik to knock away the hands around his throat, and with a twist, he unseated the once-king and scrambled over Riloosa to his feet.
Kyrin was equally fast. Wiping the muck from his eyes, he launched himself again at Minarik, head down, arms wide and grasping. Minarik caught him by the shoulders and brought a knee up into his chin. Kyrin grunted as he collapsed to the ground, but his arms went around Minarik's legs, and both men were on the ground again, rolling and pummeling each other.
The soldiers had grown tense and quiet, expectant. At once, Innowen realized he was witnessing more than a mere fight. Whichever man emerged from this struggle would rule these soldiers. Kyrin was king, yes, but no king ruled in Ispor without the respect and support of his armies.
Suddenly, a long-bladed copper knife sailed over the heads of the nearest soldiers and splashed in the mud near Kyrin's hand. Innowen caught his breath, then whirled, hoping to spot the man who had thrown it, but to no avail. He turned back to the fight. Kyrin and Minarik also saw the blade. Kyrin reached out for it, his fingertips brushing the hilt. Minarik caught his arm and dragged it away from the weapon. Slowly, he climbed on top of Kyrin and straddled his chest. Kyrin beat Minarik's back with his knees, tried to strike his face with his fists. Instead, Minarik dealt Kyrin two vicious slaps and reached out to claim the knife himself. He raised it high as Kyrin let out a piercing, terrified shriek.
Dyan's nails dug into Innowen's arm as she, too, screamed.
Innowen moved without thinking, shrugging Dyan off, hurling himself forward. His hands closed around Minarik's wrist, preventing the blade from descending. "Father!" he shouted in Minarik's ear. "Don't! No!"
Minarik looked up at him, his eyes glazed with anger and bloodlust. His breath came in ragged gasps, and his lips curled back, exposing teeth. His free hand formed into a fist and prepared to strike, and Innowen readied himself to dodge without relinquishing his grip on his father's knife hand.
Gradually, recognition stole into Minarik's gaze. His anger faded, and his breathing calmed. He turned back to Kyrin, who still held his arms before his face to ward off the expected blow. "You can thank Innowen," he whispered. "You owe him your life." Without taking his eyes off the beaten man, he got to his feet. Only then did he free himself from Innowen's hold and slip the knife into the waistband of his kilt.
Innowen breathed a sigh of relief as his father walked away. He started to follow, glad that the fight had ended. Still, he searched the eyes of the soldiers, wondering what ran through their thoughts. Was it truly over? They seemed listless, uncertain, afraid to look at each other. He remembered a time five years before when Kyrin's troops had dressed in red and Minarik's in green. It had been easy to tell them apart in those quieter times, but the mostly ceremonial uniforms had been cast aside for a warrior's more practical garments. It was no longer so easy to know friend from foe. He couldn't be sure, but those men he thought he recognized as Minarik's appeared to have gravitated to one side of the ring, and those from Parendur, the larger force, to the other.
Dyan stood where he had left her. He remembered pushing her to get to Minarik's side. He owed her an apology. Yet as he approached, her eyes widened, and she gave a shout. "Look out!"
Fire rippled down his back. Without thinking, he whirled and lashed out with the edge of his left hand, even as the other reached around to explore his wound.
Kyrin staggered back a step, rubbing his jaw, glaring. The king's right hand was still curled into a claw, and the nails dripped with blood. "Thank you,
Abathakati?
"
he hissed. "Never."
Innowen locked gazes with his king, suddenly loathing the man he saw before him. His eyes flickered toward Razkili on the other side. Rascal stood taut as a drawn bow, ready to move, but Innowen shook his head sternly. He looked back to Kyrin. "A bear did that to me once," he said, wiping at his scratches with the back of a hand. He brought the hand to his lips, and tasted the salty blood with the tip of his tongue. "Your claws are not nearly so sharp." He turned away and passed through the ring.
Minarik was nowhere in sight, so Innowen returned to the small camp he and Razkili had made, curled up on Rascal's spread cloak, and laid his head on a folded arm. A short time later, Rascal stretched out beside him and gathered him close. Innowen welcomed the warmth of the Osiri's body, though he said nothing.
Fingers roamed over his back, exploring, and Innowen flinched. "Does it need attention?" Rascal asked quietly.
"Just scratches," he answered. "They bled a little, that's all."
"I don't have a cloth to wash them," Rascal said, but he pulled Innowen closer until his bare chest pressed against the wounds. There was some comfort in that. "What happened to your cloak?"
Innowen stiffened, remembering where he'd left it, why he'd taken it off, what he'd done. "I was dancing," he explained slowly, uneasily. "When I heard the shouting, I came running and forgot to pick it up."
Razkili raised up on one elbow and peered over at him. "But you'd already danced once tonight when we went walking. I waited for you at the edge of the trees."
Innowen shrugged irritably. "I wanted to dance again. I didn't have to. I just wanted to, all right?" Razkili laid back down and hugged his friend once more. But Innowen sensed a difference in the touch, and his frown deepened. "I couldn't sleep, Rascal," he said. "It's getting to us. It's getting to all of us."
"I know, Innocent," he said. "Shhhh. We'll reach Whisperstone tomorrow. Try to rest."
But he couldn't rest. He stirred restlessly on the damp ground, unable to sleep. Raindrops fell at random from the leaves above, plopping on his face, on an arm or leg, in his ear, driving him to slow distraction. He resented the apparent ease with which Razkili slipped into sleep. Finally, he freed himself once more from Rascal's embrace and got up.
He wandered through the camp, feeling like a ghost as the fog swirled about him. The dark figures of men slumped miserably beneath the trees, heads on their knees, cloaks pulled over their heads or curled fetally on the wet earth. No longer were they paired together as before in warming embraces, but singly isolated, each apart from all the others. A few drifted as he did, faceless shadows moving aimlessly through the thick mist, unable to rest.
He found Minarik, another restless shadow, standing at the edge of the copse, staring into the gray nothingness. His father barely acknowledged him as he glided to his side. For long moments they didn't speak, and Innowen found himself staring outward, too. The swirl and eddy of the mist had a hypnotic quality.