Eye of the Labyrinth (2 page)

Chapter 2

Kirshov Latanya turned on his bunk with a muffled groan as the Kalarada trumpets announced rising of the second sun. Every muscle he owned was aching, and he was sure his body must be a mass of black and purple bruises. He pulled the pillow over his head, wishing for just a few more moments of blessed sleep before his day began again.

All his life, Kirsh had been looking forward to joining the Queen’s Guard. He had dreamed about how proud he would be as he rode at the side of his queen, ready to give his life for her in some noble and glorious cause. Of course, in his dreams, the queen had been some faceless, vague and regal figure—nothing like bossy little Alenor. And he had never had to deal with
politics
. The dream had been his driving force for as long as he could remember.

Reality was proving to be vastly different.

Kirsh had always reasoned that if he kept out of the political games his father delighted in, he could somehow escape their consequences. He didn’t really care about the High Priestess Belagren, or the fact that she and the Queen of Dhevyn were frequently at odds. It made no difference to him at all that his father was admired and despised in almost equal measure. The power struggles between the islands of Dhevyn and the mainland kingdom of Senet held no interest for him. What had happened in the past had happened, and there was not a damn thing he could do about it. Kirshov wanted to be a soldier. He wanted to make a name for himself so that he would be something more than a superfluous second son.

Dirk had tried to warn him, on more than one occasion, that he could not maintain such a position for long. He’d had several heated arguments with him when they were both in Avacas, as his cousin from Elcast had tried to awaken his political conscience. Kirsh would have none of it. He was going to join the Queen’s Guard. He was not going to be a ruling prince, so it didn’t matter what he did. Dirk had called him a fool. He had tried using Alenor as an excuse. Dirk had even given him several very eloquent and logical reasons why, as prince consort, he would at least need to make an effort to understand what was going on around him.

Dirk had been ignorant of the true role of a consort, Kirsh reflected bitterly. As he was frequently reminded by his brothers-in-arms in the Queen’s Guard, his role was to stand at stud, nothing more.

It was obvious that they considered him barely up to even that task.

It was two years since Kirsh had presented himself to the Lord Marshal the day he arrived on Kalarada after an awkward reception held in the palace, to (supposedly) welcome him to Dhevyn. The Lord Marshal had droned on, explaining his duties in the Queen’s Guard and the training regime he would undergo before formally being given a commission as an officer.

“You’ll find things a little different here on Kalarada, your highness,” Rove Elan had explained to him. “You’ll be just another soldier, I’m afraid. Rank is earned on merit in the Queen’s Guard. Your civilian rank, that of the Princess Alenor’s consort, or even our future regent, counts for nothing here.”

“I know that, my lord. I expect no special consideration because of who I am or who my father is.”

Rove Elan smiled faintly. “Oh, you’ll find yourself judged on who your father is, your highness, but it may not be the reaction you imagine. This is the
Queen’s
Guard. The Queen of Dhevyn, not Senet, and you would do well to remember that.”

“I’m not ignorant of the political situation, my lord,” he said, which was not entirely accurate, but neither was it actually a lie.

“You’re likely to be sorely tested here, until the others have accepted you. You will be judged on how you react to that testing.”

“I believe I can look after myself, my lord.”

Rove nodded. “From what I hear, you’re more than capable of taking care of yourself, but we’re not like your father’s Palace Guard, full of mercenaries and men seeking fortune and position. Here, you are expected to put your comrades and the protection of the queen above personal glorification.”

“And you think I can’t do that, sir?” he asked, a little offended.

“I’ve no idea if you can do it or not, your highness,” Rove said with a shrug. “But it will be up to you to prove that you can.”

The training grounds of the Queen’s Guard were located inside the small keep that guarded the steep access road to the palace. The shadow of Kalarada Palace loomed over the keep, its bulk concealing the sun for a good part of the day and most of the night. Kirsh had found the gloom a little disconcerting at first. He still remembered the first time Rove Elan had led him toward the high paling fence that surrounded the fighting arena in the shadow of the gray stone outer wall.

There were two hundred or more men present, training in pairs with blunted practice swords, thick quarterstaves or short, broad-bladed spears. Kirsh looked around with interest and the professional eye of a man who had been trained to handle weapons as soon as he was old enough to pick up a blade. The men of the Queen’s Guard were competent, he decided, but not outstanding. There was not a man he could see that he did not feel he could best.

“So this is Antonov’s cub.”

They stopped and turned toward the voice. The man who had spoken was about the same height as Kirsh, but of a much heavier build. He had tossed his shirt aside to train, and his well-developed muscles glistened with sweat. He had a head of thick dark hair and a scowl that made Kirsh wonder if he practiced it in the mirror each morning when he shaved. He glanced around to find all activity in the yard had come to a halt. Everyone was staring at him.

“This is our master-at-arms, Dargin Otmar,” the Lord Marshal explained with a nod to the other man. “He’s all yours, Dargin. Try not to break him. Or damage that pretty face of his. I believe the Princess Alenor may have a use for him someday.”

Kirsh stared after the Lord Marshal as he turned and headed back to the barracks.

“I hear you think you’re pretty good,” Dargin remarked, wiping his hands on his discarded shirt and throwing it aside.

“I never claimed to be anything of the kind,” Kirsh answered, glancing around warily. The other men had abandoned their training and were leaning on the railing of the yard, watching him with interest. He smiled disarmingly. “Perhaps my reputation has preceded me.”

“Oh, your reputation has preceded you, Latanya, I can promise you that.”

Kirsh grinned and flexed his fingers in anticipation. “What’s this then? The traditional let’s-beat-the-crap-out-of-the-new-boy ceremony?”

“No,” Dargin replied, “it’s more along the lines of a let’s-make-certain-the-Lion-of-Senet’s-cub-knows-his-place ceremony. We’ve no room in the Queen’s Guard for cowards, boy. It’s time to see if you’re a better man than your father.”

Kirsh’s grin faded. “I may be sworn to serve the Queen of Dhevyn, sir, but I’ll not allow you to insult my father.”

“You’re not sworn to the queen, boy. That’s a privilege you’ve yet to earn. All you’re sworn to do is stand at stud for the crown princess.”

The rest of the guard roared with laughter. Kirshov looked around him, hoping to see even the slightest hint that one of these men was on his side. It was an idle hope. Kirsh looked back at Dargin and then nodded and began to unbutton his coat. “Very well. Which one of you is it to be?”

Dargin laughed harshly. “Either you really are as good as you think, or you’re a damn fool, boy.”

Kirsh threw his jacket over the railing and shrugged his shoulders a few times to loosen them up, before smiling coldly at the master-at-arms. “Let’s find out, shall we?”

Dargin’s fist was like a sledgehammer. It took Kirsh completely by surprise. He staggered backward, blinking back the white spots that danced before his eyes, derisive laughter ringing in his ears. His jaw felt as if it had been relocated on the other side of his head. Kirsh shook his head groggily, quashing the anger that threatened to make him lose his temper, and turned to face Dargin. The metallic tang of blood filled his mouth.

“That wasn’t fair. I wasn’t ready.”

The master-at-arms was standing with his arms crossed, grinning broadly. “It’s fair you want, is it? Is that how they fight in Senet?”

Dargin moved again, faster than Kirsh would have believed possible for such a big man, although this time Kirsh was ready for him. He blocked the blow with his right arm and struck back with his left, scoring a hit in the older man’s gut, hard enough to make him grunt. That small sound was enough to satisfy Kirsh. Dargin could be hurt. It was just going to take an awful lot to do it.

“So, the cub has teeth,” Dargin laughed, dodging away from Kirsh’s next blow.

Kirsh did not rise to the bait. He was not that easily provoked. Anger led to foolish mistakes, and one mistake with Dargin could prove fatal. He stood his ground, consciously controlling his breathing, balanced on the balls of his feet, waiting for Dargin to move again.

The master-at-arms came at him, this time a little more cautiously. The one hit that Kirsh had managed to land was apparently enough to convince Dargin that he would be in trouble if he let his guard down. But with that cautious respect came the knowledge that if he really meant to prove his point, he had to win, and that the young man he faced was unused to defeat. Not because he was arrogant or cocky, but because Antonov had made damn sure his son was more than capable of taking care of himself.

Dargin feinted to the left and caught Kirsh with a glancing blow to the side of his head, which he dodged at the last moment. Kirsh struck back, landing a solid punch under Dargin’s jaw, then, with his right leg, he swept the bigger man’s feet out from under him. Dargin landed heavily on his back, but rolled clear before Kirsh could press home his advantage. He gained his feet quickly, slamming his fist into Kirsh’s chest so hard Kirsh could hear his ribs breaking. He staggered backward, but Dargin gave him no respite. He hammered the younger man mercilessly. Kirsh managed to land a few more blows, some of them even making an impression, but every time he breathed in a sharp pain stabbed at his left side. Relentlessly, Dargin pushed him back until he struck Kirsh’s broken ribs again. With a cry of sudden pain, Kirsh dropped to his knees. Dargin immediately stepped back, panting heavily. “You’re hurt.”

Kirsh bit back the sarcastic urge to say: “No?
Really?
” He looked up at the master-at-arms through pain-filled eyes, breathing as shallowly as possible.

“I can keep fighting,” he gasped.

Dargin smiled. Kirsh was rather pleased to notice blood dripping from a cut over his eye and a large bruise beginning to manifest itself on his jaw. At least he’d given a good account of himself.

“It’s not my intention to kill you, boy.”

“You could have fooled me,” Kirsh muttered, grimacing as he took a breath that sent a sharp spear of pain through his side.

“You’re too used to fighting men who pull their punches. That’ll not happen here.” Dargin turned to one of the men who had been watching the fight. The spectators’ reaction disturbed Kirsh almost as much as Dargin’s obvious desire to beat him to a pulp. They had not cheered and chanted the way men did, watching a fracas. They had stayed silent and observed the entire exchange with the detached interest of men watching some sort of scientific experiment. “Alexin, get him to the physician. He’ll need to bind up those ribs of his if he’s to be of any use to anyone.”

Dargin stepped forward and offered Kirsh his hand. Kirsh studied it for a moment warily, before accepting it and letting Dargin pull him to his feet. “You’ve got guts, boy, I’ll grant you that.”

Kirsh didn’t answer. It hurt too much to speak. He eyed the men surrounding him with caution, but there was no malice in their expressions. They simply thought he needed taking down a peg or two. The realization was something of a shock to him.

“Come on,” said Alexin. Kirshov accepted his assistance reluctantly and let himself be led away. He didn’t look back, but he could feel every eye in the yard on him. He had no idea what they were thinking.

“You shouldn’t feel too bad,” Alexin assured him once they were out of earshot. “You didn’t shame yourself.”

“Does he do that to every new recruit?”

Alexin grinned. “Only the ones he thinks are going to be trouble.”

“Did he do it to you?”

“No.”

“What makes me so special?”

“Dargin just wants to make sure you know where your loyalties lie.”

“By beating the shit out of me?” he asked doubtfully.

Alexin hesitated before answering. “You must know how unpopular the decision was to appoint you Regent of Dhevyn when you marry Alenor.”

“I suppose.”

“Then get used to it, your highness. If you plan to be regent for long, you’re going to have to win these men over.”

“I know,” he agreed, unhappily. “It’s just ...”

“What?”

“I don’t know. I guess I was hoping all it would take is a few rounds of drinks.”

Alexin looked at him, trying to determine if he was joking, then he smiled and shook his head. “I hope you’ve still got your sense of humor by the end of the week, your highness.”

“Could you stop calling me that?”

“What would you prefer to be called?”

“Kirsh. All my friends call me Kirsh.”

“Kirsh it is, then.”

Kirsh smiled, thinking that when all was said and done, he had made a good start. He had survived Dargin’s beating and made the first tentative steps toward friendship with Alexin.

How bad could it get? ...

Chapter 3

Very bad, Kirsh discovered over the next two years. The beating he had received that day was merely the first of many. Every time he stepped into the training arena, somebody managed to get the better of him. He was not badly trained, he knew that, but the men of the Queen’s Guard were superbly trained, and none of them stood to lose his position if Kirsh broke a few bones. He realized now that training with his father’s guard was a world away from training every day, all day, with a squad of men whose dedication to their queen was inspired by true loyalty, rather than a fat purse at the end of the week.

If he had a friend at all in the Queen’s Guard, it was Alexin Seranov, the second son of the Duke of Grannon Rock. The young man was as universally liked as Kirshov was universally despised. He seemed to hold no prejudice, one way or another, about his Senetian comrade, and he was often the only one who bothered to explain rules that the rest of the guard expected him to have been born knowing. Alexin had bailed him out of trouble on more than one occasion, but Kirsh was never certain if it was because he was a friend, or that Alexin was simply a political creature, who was hedging his bets against the future.

The wake-up trumpets had long since faded when his door flew open. He must have been lying daydreaming for the better part of an hour.

“Hey! Latanya! Wake-up was sounded ages ago! Get that lazy arse of yours out of bed, or you’ll be mucking out the stables with your dinner plate for the next week!”

Kirsh groaned again and rolled out of bed. He opened his swollen eyes and glared balefully at the man who had so rudely awakened him. “I heard the call, Tael.”

“Then why aren’t you on your feet, boy?” Tael was the second son of the Duke of Derex, a small, impoverished, insignificant island. The Queen’s Guard was the only place a second son of Derex would be in a position to lord it over a Prince of Senet.

Kirsh gained his feet, a little unsteadily, and squared his shoulders. He was not going to let Tael see how much pain he was in. “I’m awake. Satisfied?”

Tael laughed sourly. “It’d take more than seeing your ugly face first thing in the morning to satisfy me, Senet. Rove Elan wants to see you. You’re to report to him before breakfast.”

“Did he say why?”

“I’m not his damn secretary, or yours either. You want to know what the Lord Marshal wants, you’re going to have ask him yourself.”

Tael left his room, slamming the door with a thump that made Kirsh wince. He sank down on the side of his narrow bunk and, for a moment, let the aches and pains of the past two years wash over him, wondering if the reason Rove Elan wanted to see him was that he had finally decided to throw him out of the guard.

By midmorning, Kirsh had finished his interview with the Lord Marshal and was on his way to the palace, summoned by the crown princess. Kirsh had grimaced when Rove delivered the order, determined to throttle Alenor when he saw her for reminding his comrades that he was her betrothed and very soon to be Regent of Dhevyn. He was so sick of the barbs. So sick of hearing men laugh at him. He had privately sworn to kill the next man who made a snide remark about “damaging that pretty face.” He was going to tear the heart out of the next man who made a comment about not harming his reproductive organs.

As he stewed on it all the way up to the castle, the anger built in him like a slow boiling kettle. It was all Alenor’s fault, he concluded. If not for their betrothal, if not for that wretched agreement between his father and Alenor’s mother over the Regency of Dhevyn, they would have nothing to taunt him with. By the time he dismounted in front of the palace, he was ready to give Alenor a piece of his mind she would never forget.

A groom stepped forward to take his mount. Kirsh handed over the reins gratefully, careful not to turn his back on the beast. The gelding’s name was Sunray, and a more unlikely name had never been bestowed on such an ornery creature. He was a slender chestnut with intelligent eyes and a mean streak as wide as the Bandera Straits. Kirsh had been issued the mount on his third day in the guard, and had been fighting with the beast ever since. Sunray snapped at him as he dismounted, but let the groom lead him away as if he was a child’s pony.

“Traitor,” Kirsh muttered at the beast as he trotted meekly beside the groom.

“Your highness?”

Kirsh turned to find Dimitri Bayel, the Kalarada Court Seneschal, standing in the open doorway of the palace.

“My lord.”

“If you would follow me, your highness, I shall take you to the princess.”

Kirsh followed Bayel, still angry with both Alenor and his treacherous horse. He knew he had been given the beast as some sort of test, and he was damned if he was going to let the ugly, four-legged fiend defeat him. Kirsh carried more than his fair share of nips from Sunray’s sharp teeth, and his shins were bruised from his unpredictable hooves. But he had not been thrown yet, and Kirsh had not asked for a different horse. They were both minor victories that he clung to.

Dimitri Bayel led him through the palace and left him waiting on the terrace overlooking the Queen’s Garden. The second sun was shining brightly overhead, and he was forced to squint painfully as he looked around the carefully manicured gardens. Alenor was not there, which angered him even more. It was bad enough that she had summoned him like a servant, but he did not expect to be kept waiting like one. He paced the flagstones like a caged cat, silently rehearsing the scolding he planned to deliver.

“Oh, by the Goddess! What have they done to you, Kirsh?”

He looked up to discover Alenor and her lady-in-waiting walking toward him from the gardens. She was wearing a long blue gown with a close-fitting bodice, her dark hair caught up in a jeweled clasp, the curls arranged artfully over one shoulder, leaving the other enticingly bare. Her companion stepped back discreetly as she approached him, staying in sight, but not so close that she could hear what was being said. The days when he was allowed to be alone with Alenor were long past.

It was weeks since he had seen Alenor last, and every time he did, he was struck by how much older she seemed. She was still tiny—she always would be—but she had matured in these last two years. And filled out in some rather interesting places, another, less noble part of him noticed with approval. But even that observation did not soften his mood. He was still angry with her.

“It’s nothing,” he scoffed impatiently, jerking his head away from her touch as she tried to reach for him. “Why did you summon me?”

Alenor seemed surprised by his abruptness. She glanced over her shoulder at her lady-in-waiting and slipped her arm through his. “Let’s walk. The gardens are looking particularly lovely this morning.”

Kirsh allowed her to lead him down the red brick path into the shade toward the splashing fountain in the center of the garden. Within moments, the lady-in-waiting was out of sight, although he was quite certain that if she called out, Lady Dorra would be on them in an instant.

“The Lord Marshal told Mother that you were ‘surviving’ your tenure in the guard,” she remarked, her arm comfortably linked with his. “I wonder what you’d look like if you weren’t.”

“Is that why you brought me here? To gloat?”

She stopped and turned to look up at him. Alenor knew him too well to be offended by his tone. “Self-pity ill becomes you, Kirshov.”

“That’s because I’ve never had much reason to feel sorry for myself before,” he admitted.

She smiled and ran her fingers gently over his puffy, swollen eye. “You look like you’ve been run over by a wagon.”

“I feel like it, too. I’m sure they’re trying to kill me. Or drive me out of the guard, at the very least.”

To his surprise, she did not scoff at his suggestion. “The latter, probably. They wouldn’t dare kill you, but they don’t like the idea of you being in the guard. They like it even less that you’re going to be regent soon.”

“I figured
that
out the day I arrived.”

“Yet you continue to take everything they throw at you. You’ll have earned their respect, if nothing else.”

He smiled crookedly, his earlier anger fading. Alenor, first and foremost, was a friend, and he could talk to her in a way he could never talk to his compatriots in the guard. “They treat me as if I’m an idiot who thinks he’s better than everybody else.”

“Really? I wonder how anybody could think that of you.”

He glared at her, not at all pleased by her mocking smile. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, you can be rather arrogant, Kirsh.”

He opened his mouth to deny the accusation, and then closed it again. “Am I really that bad, Alenor?”

“No. And you’re better than you used to be. But you still speak before you think, sometimes. And I suppose you can’t help who your father is.”

“My father!” he exclaimed sourly. “By the Goddess, I never thought I’d rue the day I was born a Prince of Senet. It’s all his fault, you know. Everybody expects me to be just like him. I’m not. I’m nothing like him.”

“You’re the spitting image of your father, Kirsh, which doesn’t help your cause, but they’ll learn in time that you’re a different man. Don’t let them defeat you.”

“That’s much easier advice to give than take, Alenor.”

“Do you really want me to do more than offer useless advice? I could, you know. One word from me and nobody would lay a hand on you.”

“I’d rather die,” he declared, alarmed that she might actually do something so humiliating. “Don’t you dare even think about doing that!”

“I won’t,” she assured him. “I’ll stand back and let them kill you, if I have to, rather than do anything that might dent that awesome Latanya pride.”

“You sound like Dirk,” he complained, and then regretted it immediately, when he saw the shadow of pain that darkened her fair face. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have mentioned ...”

“I still miss him so much, Kirsh,” she sighed. He was surprised to find her eyes glistening with tears. “Even after all this time.”

A small spear of jealousy pricked him. Dirk had been missing for nearly two years. While he knew the cousins had been close, it annoyed him a little that Alenor still grieved him like a long-lost lover, even though Kirsh was sure their relationship had been boringly honorable.

“Oh, Kirsh, it’s like the whole family is cursed,” she said, wiping away her unshed tears. “First your mother, then Dirk, and now the duke and Lady Morna ...”

“What are you talking about?” Kirsh asked, feeling rather stupid for his earlier suspicions. “What about them?”

“That’s why I sent for you,” she told him with an inelegant sniff. “Wallin Provin is dead, Kirsh. His heart just gave out at dinner one evening. And now Lady Morna has been arrested. Your father is going to burn her at the next Landfall Festival.”

Kirsh stopped walking, shocked beyond words. “When did you hear of this?”

“My mother received a letter from the new Duchess of Elcast, Faralan Provin, yesterday, begging the queen’s intervention.”

She was fighting back tears. Kirsh gathered her into his arms and held her, wishing he could explain why, but knowing that he could not. He knew his father had threatened to drive Dirk out of hiding, but the past two years of relative quiet had lulled him into believing that the Lion of Senet was over his obsession with Dirk Provin.

“I wish there was something I could do, Allie.”

She looked up at him hopefully. “This is monstrous, Kirsh! They arrested her at Wallin’s funeral! Can’t you speak to your father?”

Kirsh looked away, knowing how useless any plea for clemency would be. Antonov was not interested in saving Morna. He wanted to force Dirk Provin to return to Avacas.

“I doubt there’s anything I could do ...”

She pushed him away, annoyed, or perhaps hurt, that he would not help her. But how could he explain it to her? How could he justify what his father was doing when he didn’t agree with it either? And how could he admit that he knew why this was happening and was powerless to stop it?

As if she sensed something was awry, Alenor glanced up at him. “Kirsh?”

“I love you, Alenor,” he blurted out, as if he could assuage his guilt by the admission. He was not lying. He did love her. But he didn’t burn for her the way he burned for Marqel ...

“Oh, Kirsh, I know you love me,” she said, reaching up to put her arms around his neck. He pulled her closer and kissed her. Her lips tasted faintly of berries. Another memory flashed to mind. Another time, another kiss. Marqel tasted like a heady wine.

It was a chaste kiss that he shared with his betrothed and it did not last long. But it left her gasping. When they broke apart, she looked up at him, her eyes shining. It was almost suffocating, being loved so completely.

He gently peeled her arms from around his neck. “Enough, Alenor. I don’t fancy being run through by some wildly protective lady-in-waiting armed with a tapestry needle.”

She sighed and stepped away from him to a more respectable distance as her lady-in-waiting rounded the corner of the path.

“Mother is sending a letter to Lady Faralan. What shall I tell her?” she asked.

“That I wish I could help,” Kirsh replied. “But I fear there’s nothing I can do.”

“Your highness, the ambassador from Necia will be arriving shortly,” Dorra informed them. “We will be late.”

“I’m coming, Dorra,” she promised and then turned to him. “I’m sorry, Kirsh, I really have to go. Necia and Colmath are squabbling about their fishing grounds again. Mother wants me to be there when she tries to sort it out.”

He bowed again, lower this time, and took her hand in his. His kissed it gallantly. “Then you’d best go. I’ll see you again soon. At the Landfall Festival, if not before then.”

Her eyes narrowed at the mention of the Landfall Festival. “Perhaps. Mother is talking of visiting Grannon Rock this year.”

“Not Elcast?”

She shook her head. “No. Not Elcast.”

“Then I will pray to the Goddess that I’ll be lucky enough to accompany you and the queen as part of your guard,” he said. Then he added in a low voice that only she could hear, “Provided I live that long.”