Shadowdance (2 page)

The Witch smiled as she waited for Vashni to swing onto his horse and guide his mount up beside her. Innowen found himself nose to knee with this strange woman, and her scent swam intoxicatingly in his nostrils. "Of course not," she said. "It's my storm. It's supposed to slow my enemies, not ruin my garments. What's your name, boy?"

He swallowed again and told her.

"Innowen," she repeated with a small laugh. "Like
Innocent
." She looked toward Vashni, and Innowen heard the demon's low-throated chuckle. "Well, hold tight, my Innocent. We'll waste no time reaching your guardian."

He didn't get a chance to answer or to protest the nickname.
Boy
was bad enough, but
Innocent!
Vashni's huge mount lurched forward, bouncing him painfully on the demon's knee. Again, the breath rushed out of him with a whoosh; starry lights burst dizzyingly in his vision, and tears burned his eyes.

Still he felt good. Soon, he would be at Drushen's side again. He hadn't failed his dearest and only friend. This time he had won a victory over his crippled, useless body, and his heart swelled with pride.

They raced with bone-jarring speed. Mud splashed up toward his face, never quite touching him. The storm smashed the forest, beat the branches of the trees until they hung thick with water. Yet no drop of rain dampened his skin.

The wind was a different matter. It stung his flesh and pulled his hair. He tried to look ahead, but he couldn't bear its force directly in his eyes. It filled his ears with a terrible rushing roar as it whipped past.

The horse's motion made breathing difficult. Innowen bounced helplessly, held in place only by Vashni's huge right hand, which pressed into the small of his back. Innowen's lungs burned until he feared he would cry out. Instead, he choked and gasped for what little air he could draw and bit his lip against any sound or outcry.

From the corner of his eye he glimpsed the Lady. Far ahead, she glowed like a wild torch in the darkness. Her hair streamed, and her cloak flowed behind her. At a bend in the road, her horse slipped in the treacherous muck, nearly unseating her, but she recovered easily, and her unexpected laughter drifted back to him like cymbals and wild bells on the night air.

Never in his young life had Innowen met anyone like her, and he knew in that instant that he loved her with all his heart. He couldn't explain his passion, and he wondered if it might be some strange magic. But he knew it with certainty.

Caught up in wonder, he almost missed the boulder and the old tree that marked the path to his cottage. The Witch of Shanalane sped past them. Only the strange radiance that surrounded her gave Innowen any warning as, for just an instant, his landmarks stood illuminated against the gloom.

"Wait!" he cried. "To the right! Take the path!"

The Witch seemed not even to slow. She jerked on her jeweled reins and wheeled her steed in an impossible circle. Into the thicket, she briefly disappeared. Then, her light could be seen winking between the trunks and the branches and the leaves. Nothing restrained her speed.

Innowen marveled at her courage. The woods were thick along the path. A low limb would certainly sweep her from the animal's back. Didn't she care?

Vashni's hand pressed him down with greater force as they, too, turned onto the path. The world spun crazily for a moment, and Innowen thought the black mare had slipped. He screamed and dug his fingers into Vashni's leg. The huge demon only chuckled as he crouched low over Innowen, bringing his face close to the horse's neck as they plunged into the woods.

The forest closed around them, but the canopy of leaves seemed less dense than Innowen thought it should be. There were no limbs to menace them, no roots to trip them. He knew the path well; Drushen had often carried him along it to the road where they would meet and chat with travelers. But now the way was clear. The trees seemed to bend away, to
part
for them.

Just ahead stood the cottage. Firelight trickled through the cracks of worn shutters and through the partially opened door. The Lady had arrived before them. Her mount waited untethered, breathing heavily. Her shadow moved within the cottage.

Vashni jerked his own horse to a halt, flung his leg over Innowen's head, and jumped down. He hauled the boy down and tossed him over one shoulder. At last, Innowen dared to protest—uselessly. The demon kicked the door open wider with the toe of his boot, glanced around disdainfully at the furnishings, and grunted before he deposited his squirming burden on a stool that stood beside a rickety table.

In the darkest corner of the cottage, a figure sprawled on the only bed. The Witch stood over it. Innowen noticed immediately that her strange glow was gone.

"Drushen?" he whispered, afraid his guardian might already be dead. "Drushen?"

"Shut up," the Witch ordered quietly. "He's very weak. We're almost too late."

Drushen struggled up onto one elbow. Ropes of black hair turning gray clung to his sweat-drenched face. His moist eyes gleamed as he looked past the Witch and spied his charge. "Child, my child," he managed thickly. "I feared the storm had claimed you." He clutched suddenly at the Witch's sleeve and pulled her closer. "Take care of my Innowen, please! He needs someone. I beg you!"

The Witch gently pushed Drushen back on the bed. "Hush. You'll care for him yourself." She tore away the sleeve of the old man's tunic and lifted his arm to better see the puncture marks of the serpent's sting, two tiny wounds just above the right wrist. Abruptly, she called to her demonic companion. "Vashni, get a better fire going in that hearth. I need warmth and light, and these few candles aren't enough." She gestured at the two sticks on the mantle with their pathetic flames. "Then bring my smaller riding bag. You know which one."

Vashni obeyed at once. Without a word, he gathered logs from a basket that sat near the door, thrust them into the hearth, and began to prod and stir the coals.

The Witch unlaced her cloak and started to cast it aside. Then, noticing Innowen on his stool, she changed her mind. "You're shivering," she observed, draping the expensive garment over him. "Don't worry, my Innocent," she whispered. "The old man will live. The bite is a bad one, but the venom hasn't yet reached his heart."

Innowen only nodded. He was back in his familiar cottage, the one-room world which made up most of his existence, and he had found help for Drushen. Although rainwater dripped from strands of his hair and ran into his eyes, and mud slicked his clothes and skin, he found comfort in these surroundings and security in the presence of this Lady who had stolen his heart.

He watched her move, dimly aware when flames began to crackle in the fireplace and the room began to warm. The Witch tied back her hair and never glanced his way as she worked. He couldn't see what she did, but she put her mouth to Drushen's arm several times and kissed his wound. She made a poultice of water and hot ash, and she stripped bandages from the sheet beneath Drushen's body. Sometimes her hands seemed to glow, but Innowen was unsure if that was magic or just the firelight on her ivory flesh.

Vashni returned with her riding bag. In the brighter firelight, Innowen saw he was no demon at all, and he sullenly chided himself for his fear. Beyond a doubt, though, Vashni was the largest man he had ever seen. Far bigger even than Drushen, who bulged with muscle from his wood-cutting. His garments, kilt and breastplate, greaves and arm braces, all glimmered with studs and rings of copper and bronze. The short, embroidered sleeves of a black linen tunic showed from under his armor. And that huge bronze sword still hung sheathed at his right hip.

He had seemed a demon in the storm, with lightning glimmering on all that metal. Innowen had never seen such armor before. Nor had he ever encountered a man he would have called beautiful. He dared to study Vashni's face. The features were perfect, though marked by a hardness that bordered on cruelty. His mouth was a thin cut above the chin, and his brows seemed to crag over deep-set dark eyes that glittered like splinters of black ice. But for the pair of braids, his hair was chopped close, and a short-trimmed beard colored his cheeks.

The Witch took the bag from his hand, opened it, and extracted a small wooden figurine. From a sheath at her belt she withdrew a small dagger and began to carve. The firelight rippled on the sharp copper blade as she worked, and Innowen leaned forward on the table to see better. But she turned, blocking his view, and quickly finished. She looked from the doll to Drushen, then touched it to his forehead and heart. With two quick motions, she stabbed the figurine's right arm, kissed its new wounds, and cast it into the fire.

The old man never made a sound. His eyes stayed closed in apparent sleep.

Innowen sagged against the wall, sure at last that his guardian would be all right. The Witch had said so, and he had watched her work some charm.

I love her,
he thought again. He didn't understand, but he knew it without a doubt. Everything about her fascinated him. She was new and refreshing, and she made his world seem new as well. The cottage felt warmer, the furniture looked more elegant. The very woodgrain in the old walls seemed sharper and more vivid. He inhaled the air, and it tasted like the rarest essence. The snapping crackle of the flames made a music. The fire shimmered.

Her shadow! It danced upon the walls and the ceiling, going where it would, spinning and leaping whenever she moved, flitting around the cottage like an independent soul. The shadow glided delicately and with a strange quality, a kind of magical dance-for-two that only he seemed to witness. The Lady's every gesture embodied grace as she went about her healings, but her motions were brusque and purposeful.

Her shadow, though, was a piece of enchantment, blackness without darkness. One with the Witch, yet free, it elongated all her movements, drew them out and transformed them into pavanes and arabesques.

Innowen looked for his own shadow. It made barely a stain on the far wall, huddled on a low shadow-stool in a corner, all crouched down and formless. It didn't move, it didn't dance. It just sat there, two useless shadow-legs thrust out at funny angles.

Even his shadow was crippled.

A moan rose from the bed. Innowen glanced apprehensively toward Drushen, but the old man made no other sound. The Witch stood motionless at the bedside. Innowen swallowed. "Is he...?"

"Just sleeping," she answered, turning slowly to face him. She wore an expression of weariness as she drew herself erect. "He should awaken later in the day, and he'll be hungry. Feed him the broth that Vashni has prepared."

Innowen gazed toward the hearth. A kettle hung on an iron hook near the fire, and a rich aroma filled the cabin. He hadn't seen the big warrior prepare it. He'd been too involved in watching the Witch and her shadow, too wrapped up in his own thoughts.

Near Drushen's bed, a bowl of water sat on the floor. The Witch had used it to mix the poultice for his wound. Now she bent to pick it up, but as her fingers brushed the earthen rim, she froze. For a moment, she stood unmoving. Then her brow furrowed. She stooped closer and peered with keen interest at something in the water.

As if struck a blow, she suddenly recoiled. All color drained from her face. Her mouth opened slackly, and her eyes widened. Carefully, she picked up the bowl, cradling it in both hands, and stared into it again.

Innowen knew there was only water in the bowl. He didn't understand. What could she see in a bowl of water?

The vessel slipped through her fingers, and the thin pottery shattered. Water splattered the floor and the hem of her fine gown. The Witch didn't care. She whirled toward Innowen. With an effort, she composed her features into a semblance of calm. Slowly, she drew a long breath and knelt to meet him eye to eye.

"Do you know, my Innocent, why you cannot walk?"

Innowen hung his head, unable to meet her gaze for long. He looked, instead, at her shadow as it stretched across the floor, up the far wall, and back over the ceiling like a tenuous preening creature. He could talk to her shadow, if not to the Witch.

"Drushen said I was born this way." He swallowed hard again and trembled at her nearness. Yet the shadow on the wall encouraged him to speak, nodding its head as the flames danced in the hearth. "I never knew my parents. They left me on the road, exposed for the animals or the elements. Drushen found me and raised me, and we've been each others' only company ever since." Despite himself, a tiny smile creased his lips. "I can't do much to help around here, but I listen to his complaints and his stories, and we talk a lot."

The Witch of Shanalane touched his knee. It startled him, and he jerked, bumping his head on the wall. He couldn't avoid her gaze any longer. Her eyes burned into him, searing him, illuminating all his secrets. Was it her power, or was it his own fear? He didn't know, but he couldn't look away.

"Are you happy?" she asked, an odd question for one stranger to ask another.

Innowen stammered and blinked back the tears that threatened to come again. "I can't walk," he answered slowly. He tore his gaze away at last and sought her shadow. It flickered in time to the crackling fire, moving over the old rough wood with an eerie grace. "I can't dance."

A torrent of words burst from him, and his eyes flooded with tears. "I want to dance," he said bitterly. "Like your shadow there. Like the fire. Like the trees in the wind and the stars through the sky. Drushen dances sometimes, and the villagers in Shandisti dance when the harvest comes in. The animals, the birds, the grass and flowers—they all dance, they're all alive with motion." He pounded his fists against his unfeeling limbs. "But not me! Not Innowen!"