Eye of the Labyrinth (3 page)

She smiled faintly and withdrew her hand. “You’ll survive, Kirsh.”

Alenor swept up her skirts and followed her companion back toward the palace. Then she turned suddenly and looked back at him. “Oh, by the way, I heard that Misha has taken a turn for the worse. I hope it’s nothing too serious.”

“Misha’s survived worse than this before,” he assured her. “He’ll recover.”

“I’ll pray for him,” she promised, which was an odd thing for Alenor to say. But Kirsh was not worried about his brother. Misha would pull through. Misha always pulled through.

As Kirsh watched her leave, another thought occurred to him. If the queen was going to Grannon Rock for the Landfall Festival, there was a good chance that he would be chosen for the guard that must accompany the queen. Rove would have to consider him, even if only because he was Dhevyn’s future regent.

He did not let himself consciously consider the other reason that the idea appealed to him so much. A part of Kirshov knew, with a certainty that bordered on blind faith, that if he was anywhere other than Kalarada come Landfall, the Goddess would see to it that Marqel was there, too.

Chapter 4

It had become the High Priestess’s habit of late to join Antonov each evening after dinner for a nightcap. While she had always been a frequent guest at the palace in Avacas—she had her own suite of rooms permanently at her disposal—she found it beneficial to catch Antonov when he was at his most relaxed. And his most vulnerable.

He had been preoccupied lately; so much so that the last young woman she had arranged to keep him entertained had lasted barely a month before Antonov wearied of her and sent her away. It was unlike him to be so fickle.

Belagren knew what was bothering him, and it was not the approaching wedding of his son to the future Queen of Dhevyn. It wasn’t the continuing irritation of the Baenlander pirates who harassed their shipping lanes. It wasn’t even the failing health of his eldest son.

No, what vexed the Lion of Senet was the continuing absence of Dirk Provin.

Antonov’s fixation with the boy was a constant source of irritation to Belagren. She had her own reasons for wanting to get her hands on Dirk, and they had little to do with Antonov’s obsession. She had tried to point out that he did not really need the boy. Kirsh would marry Alenor soon. Within a few weeks, his own son would be Regent of Dhevyn. With luck, within a year, he would have a grandchild to name as heir. He didn’t need Dirk Provin to claim Dhevyn. For all intents and purposes, he already owned it.

But the Lion of Senet’s plans for Dirk Provin had little to do with logic—and even less to do with reason. In Belagren’s mind, it was as though Antonov was still trying to prove to Johan Thorn that he had won, despite the fact that the King of Dhevyn had been dead for two years, killed by the bastard son he never knew he had, right here on Antonov’s terrace. Pointing that out to Antonov, however, was akin to opening a vein with a rusty blade, so she was forced to take a more subtle tack.

Subtlety was wasted on the obsessed, Belagren had discovered.

“Looks like rain,” Antonov remarked as he stepped onto the terrace. The sky was overcast and low, the clouds stained red by the evening sun. It was late, and the last of the dinner guests had only recently departed. A trading delegation from Talenburg, come to Avacas to promote their fine carpets, beg tax concessions from the Lion of Senet and probably cheat on their spouses while they were in the big city, away from the prying eyes of their neighbors. Belagren found the evening particularly trying.

“Well, if it does rain,” she remarked sourly, “I hope it rains all over those damn Talenburg merchants’ carpet samples and shrinks them down to match the size of their brains. Did you hear them going on and on about repairing the levee walls in the city? They’ll be asking you to pay for that, you mark my words.”

Antonov came to stand beside her, sipping a glass of wine. He smiled. “Shouldn’t you be bestowing the blessing of the Goddess on our guests, not wishing them ill?”

“I am the Voice of the Goddess, Anton. I’m quite certain the last time we spoke she mentioned nothing about suffering the ill manners and banal conversation of the Talenburg Chamber of Commerce.”

“You’re becoming a cynic in your old age, my dear.”

She smiled at him. “Isn’t that a privilege we earn as we get older?”

“Perhaps,” he agreed, still studying the bloodstained sky. “Some seem to think they earn the right much younger.”

She looked at him quizzically. “Did you have anyone particular in mind?”

“Morna Provin.”

“I hear you’ve had her arrested.”

“I promised Wallin no harm would come to her while he lived. I kept my word.”

“What are you going to do with her?”

“I thought Landfall might be appropriate. What do you think?”

Belagren glanced at him with a frown. “While I’m sure the Goddess will appreciate the irony of sacrificing Morna Provin to her, Anton, are you sure it’s wise, politically? Some of the ruling houses of Dhevyn might get a little nervous if you start disposing of members of their class in such a fashion.”

Antonov seemed unconcerned. “Morna is a special case. It’s no secret she’s only lived this long thanks to the protection of her husband. Nobody will think it odd that on his death that protection ceased. And I don’t imagine Dirk will be too pleased when he hears.”

Belagren sighed. I might have known ...

“You’re assuming he
will
hear about it. Suppose he’s fled into Sidoria? Or he sailed south to Galina?”

Antonov shook his head confidently. “He’ll hear about it. And he’ll try to put a stop to it. I’d wager my kingdom on it.”

Belagren was tempted to point out that that was precisely what he was doing. But she didn’t. Despite the folly of such a scheme, Antonov was right about one thing: if Dirk Provin learned his mother was destined to be burned alive at the Landfall Festival, it was very likely that he would try to do something to prevent it. The trouble was, Dirk was not like Antonov. The boy had brains, and he was not the sort to go barging in thoughtlessly with nothing more than his sword and his noble heart to protect him. While she was quite certain that Antonov had thought about little else lately, she was not convinced that he fully appreciated who he was dealing with.

“The boy isn’t stupid, Anton. He’ll know it’s a trap.”

“I’d be disappointed in him if he didn’t.”

“Yet you expect him to walk into it?”

“He has no other choice. His mother is on Elcast, and that’s where she will burn. If he wants to prevent it, then he must go to Elcast to do it. I could line the streets with soldiers and hang out ‘Welcome Home, Dirk’ signs, and he would still have no choice but to be where I want him, when I want him.”

“It’s a huge risk, Anton,” she warned. “Even if you ignore the discontented rumbling from the Dhevynian nobility, you risk making a mockery out of the Goddess’s ritual. I’m not sure she would appreciate being used in such a manner. And have you thought about the reaction in Damita? Morna Provin is a Damitian princess.”

“Prince Baston of Damita would slay his sister, Morna, himself if I ordered it, and the Goddess will understand.”

He was right about Baston. The man had raised the art of groveling to new heights. Or was it new lows? But it was her job, not Antonov’s, to decide what the Goddess wanted. “What would she understand? That you are using her celebration to further your own goals?”

“My goals are the Goddess’s goals,” Antonov informed her, with the absolute assurance of a true believer. She didn’t like it when he talked like that. It made her feel obsolete.

“I will bring Dhevyn to the Goddess through the son of the man who denounced her,” he continued. “It’s the only way to completely rid Dhevyn of the heresy that poisons it.”

“Even so—” she began, but Antonov cut her off.

“I’m not so blind to the feelings of Dhevyn’s people as you think, Belagren. I know they accepted Rainan as their queen begrudgingly, and I know that they will accept Alenor even more reluctantly, given the circumstances of her ascension and the fact that Dhevyn will have a Senetian regent until Alenor comes of age. But think about it. If I could give them Johan’s son—if I could place the true heir on the Eagle Throne— there’d be barely a voice raised in protest.”

She nodded reluctantly. He had a valid point, and that made arguing against it even more difficult. “But even if you could find Dirk Provin, what makes you think he has any interest in becoming what you want him to be?”

“He killed Johan Thorn.”

“Was that because he wanted to aid you or to prevent you from learning what Thorn knew?” Belagren asked.

“I’ve asked myself that same question a number of times,” Antonov admitted.

“And what answer did you settle on?”

“You weren’t there, Belagren. You didn’t see him do it. There was no fear in the boy’s demeanor, not even a moment of hesitation. The boy has huge potential. Under my tutelage, Dirk Provin will become what his father could have been.”

“I’m more concerned that Dirk Provin will become what his father
was,
” she warned.

“You still think he fled to the Baenlands?”

“He helped Reithan Seranov and Tia Veran escape the palace after Johan’s death. It seems a reasonable assumption.”

“Dirk Provin
murdered
Johan Thorn,” Anton reminded her with a shake of his head. “The Baenlanders would kill him, not shelter him.”

“And have you considered the possibility that is precisely what
did
happen? Have you even allowed for the fact that you haven’t heard from Dirk Provin these past two years because Reithan Seranov and Tia Veran used Dirk to aid their escape, and left him lying in a ditch somewhere with his throat cut?”

“I’ve thought about it. But I don’t believe it. The Goddess wants me to bring Dhevyn to her. You’ve told me that any number of times. To do it properly, to do it
completely,
I need the son of Dhevyn’s true king. The Goddess would not have allowed any harm to come to him until his destiny has been fulfilled.”

This is what I get for being such a good liar,
Belagren grumbled silently.

“Then I will pray that the Goddess looks favorably upon your endeavors,” she promised. It was useful being able to fall back on the Goddess. If Antonov failed, she could always pass the blame to her deity.

Antonov nodded and took another sip of his wine, turning back to stare at the turbulent sky. “He will come, Belagren. I’m sure of it.”

Chapter 5

Marqel stood at the window of the room belonging to the Crippled Prince, and looked down over the broad paved terrace where the Lion of Senet and the High Priestess stood, engrossed in a private conversation.
Are they discussing
Misha?
she wondered. Or was something else consuming the attention of the two most powerful people in the world? Marqel watched them with a degree of envy. What must it be like to be so certain of your power that you never need fear that it might all be taken from you at any moment?

A muffled groan came from the bed, and Marqel turned to look at Misha Latanya. The ailing prince was still unconscious, but he had come back from the depths of the coma that had wrapped him in its smothering embrace. She looked at Ella Geon, who was bending over the bed, dribbling fluid into Misha’s mouth from a small cup.

“Will he be all right, my lady?”

“He appears to be out of danger now.” She put down the cup and beckoned Marqel to the bed. “Keep applying the compress. I don’t want his temperature going up again.”

Marqel swapped places with Ella and dabbed gently at Misha’s forehead, stifling a yawn. They had been watching over him for days now as he fought the effects of the overdose he had inadvertently consumed. It had been a tense time for everyone. Marqel had barely left the Crippled Prince’s side as they fought to bring the young man back from the brink of death.

“If he doesn’t make it ...” she began hesitantly. “I mean, it’s not that bad, is it? Prince Antonov has a second son.”

Ella turned on Marqel. “It would be a disaster, Marqel. Kirshov is engaged to Alenor
because
he is Antonov’s second son, not his heir. If Rainan thought that Kirsh would inherit his father’s throne, she’d call off the betrothal in a heartbeat.”

The unconscious prince stirred uneasily on the bed. Marqel wrung out the cloth and wiped his fevered brow again. She nodded in understanding as she dropped the cloth back into the bowl. “Does this mean you won’t be leaving Avacas with Prince Antonov, my lady?”

“Oh, I’ll be attending the Festival in Elcast,” Ella replied with a smile. “Even another Age of Shadows couldn’t keep me from seeing Morna Provin burn. Besides, Misha appears to be over the worst of it now. I’m sure he’ll live until we get back for the wedding.”

“What do you want me to do, my lady?”

“I want you to help Yuri and Olena look after Misha while I’m gone. And you can see to it that my trunks are sent down to the
Calliope
before she sails.”

“Won’t I be coming with you to Elcast, my lady?”

“Are you so anxious to see the Duchess of Elcast burn?”

Marqel remembered Morna Provin as a tall, aloof woman with the same unforgiving steel-gray eyes as her son Dirk. She also remembered that the only time the duchess had ever deigned to notice her, she had looked at Marqel as if she was a feral animal.

“I’ve never seen a noblewoman burned alive.”

Ella shook her head with a frown. “You’re not coming to Elcast. The execution of a member of a ruling family is a very delicate matter. We can’t risk anything going wrong.”

“You think I can’t be trusted.”

“I think it’s nothing to do with you. Stop being so impatient, child. Your time will come.”

“Yes, my lady.”

If Ella noticed her disappointment, she chose to ignore it. “If you want to do something useful, see that Caspona and Laleno are ready to leave for Grannon Rock on time. They will be attending the Landfall Feast there this year.”

Laleno and Caspona were the other two acolytes assigned to the palace. Marqel’s suggestion that she stay in the Lion of Senet’s palace under the tutelage of Ella Geon had had an unexpected outcome. The High Priestess had really warmed to the idea—so much so that she sent three trainees to work under Ella, not just Marqel. The other girls were a constant source of irritation to Marqel, and she spent much of her spare time trying to come up with ways to discredit them in the eyes of Ella and Belagren. So far, she had been spectacularly unsuccessful in her efforts to rid herself of either girl.

“I saw the Grannon Rock Landfall Festival when I was an acrobat.” She shrugged, thinking that she would have the run of the palace for a few weeks, with Ella and the other girls away. “It was a fairly subdued affair, as I recall.”

Ella nodded. “Grannon Rock considers itself a sophisticated island. They want to be considered the prime center of learning in Dhevyn and are very jealous of Avacas’s older and more prestigious reputation. Of course, they wouldn’t dare refuse to hold the Landfall Feast outright, but they tend to play it down. It’s the reason the High Priestess makes a point of sending additional Shadowdancers out to the island every year for the Festival. It never hurts to remind people where their loyalties should lie.”

“Shouldn’t they just obey the law?”

Ella smiled at her ignorance. “Never, for a moment, assume that just because a thing is law, people will automatically follow it, Marqel. The price of ultimate power is eternal vigilance.”

“Why Caspona, though?” Marqel did not particularly care that her rival had been chosen over her to attend Landfall on boring old Grannon Rock, but she never missed an opportunity to cast aspersions on Caspona’s competence. “Is she ready for such responsibility?”

Ella glared at her. “You’ve a nerve, child, to question the High Priestess so.”

“I’m sorry, my lady,” Marqel replied hurriedly, dropping her eyes.

The Shadowdancer laughed sourly. “Oh, please, Marqel, don’t even try that nonsense on me. You’re not sorry. You’re envious. You think all the important events are going to happen somewhere else and you want to be there. You’re like a sleepy child who doesn’t want to leave the party, afraid she’ll miss something exciting.”

Marqel looked up at her mistress defiantly. “Is that so wrong?”

“Not if you aspire to high office. But the High Priestess is still sending Caspona to Grannon Rock and not you. The queen is attending the festival there this year.”

The young Shadowdancer was silent for a moment as the implications of that news sank in. “Then she’ll take her guard.”

“Most certainly.”

“I see.”

“Do you, Marqel? Do you really understand how important this is?”

“Belagren wants to be sure of Kirshov before he takes the throne of Senet.”

“She wants more than that, child. We want to own him. We want to own him body and soul, the same way we once owned his father. The Shadowdancers cannot risk losing the support of the Lion of Senet. Belagren had her hand wrapped around Antonov’s heart so tightly he slit his own son’s throat at her behest. We must own his heir as well.”

“Then why send Caspona and Laleno? If anyone has a chance of ensuring that Kirshov—”

“We would be incurring Antonov’s wrath if we sent you to Grannon Rock, particularly this close to the wedding. Caspona will be charged with ensuring Kirshov’s heart doesn’t wander too far from the Goddess.”

“Caspona hasn’t got what it takes,” Marqel objected. She could not believe that Belagren was sending that vacuous little bitch to seduce Kirshov.
He’s mine
.

“Neither have you, it seems.”

“It wasn’t my fault that Kirsh was sent to Kalarada,” she pointed out. When Ella seemed unmoved by her reasoning, she resorted to more direct methods. “My lady, please. Can’t you speak to the High Priestess? Let me do this.”

The Shadowdancer studied her for a moment then shook her head. “No, Marqel. This is too important. We cannot risk annoying Antonov at this critical stage. Caspona and Laleno will go to Grannon Rock. You will stay here in Avacas and continue your studies. I’m actually quite impressed with your progress in the area of herb lore.” The Shadowdancer smiled, as if the compliment would somehow compensate for Marqel’s disappointment. “Now see to it that the High Priestess’s orders are carried out and I’ll hear no more about it.”

Marqel lowered her eyes so that Ella would not see the defiance lurking there, and curtsied in acquiescence. “As you command, my lady.”

Marqel closed the door behind herself, careful not to let it slam and give Ella any reason to suspect her anger. She turned toward the stairs and the third floor, where Caspona’s room was located, trying to work out where she had gone wrong. Two years as a Shadowdancer here in the Lion of Senet’s palace had put Marqel in a strong position, but apparently it was not as strong as she thought. Belagren should have considered sending no one else but
her
to Grannon Rock to be with Kirsh on Landfall night. The idea that Caspona might have the power she believed would one day be hers was unconscionable.

She wished she were better at politics. She could manipulate men well, but she had never really been able to crack the secret of getting what she wanted out of Ella Geon or the High Priestess. It had something to do with being Senetian, she concluded. It was as if there were unwritten laws, and you had to be born Senetian to understand them. She wished she had someone to guide her; someone who could give her an edge over girls like Caspona and Laleno. Someone whose only interest was in helping Marqel get to the top—fast.

There was no such person, of course. Everyone was out to look after themselves.

Marqel took the stairs to the third floor, where the Shadowdancers’ rooms were located, stewing about it. There had to be a way to get to Grannon Rock for Landfall, but she couldn’t think of one. Her brilliant idea about staying in the palace under the tutelage of Ella Geon had proved a waste of time. For a few, short, glorious days she’d had everything she ever wanted out of life, then Kirshov had been sent to Kalarada. After that, she was just another acolyte learning the arts of herbs and poisons and the rituals of the Goddess under the distrustful eye of Ella Geon. She still had to study, still had to spend hours laboring over boring, incomprehensible texts that she struggled to understand.

Admittedly, she had learned a great deal from Ella during her time here, but once Kirsh had left, there was no point in staying to help tend the Crippled Prince. Marqel had requested she be moved back to the Hall of Shadows to continue her training under the High Priestess, but had been refused. “You wanted to be at the palace,” Belagren had said, “so you are. I’ve no intention of moving you every time you get bored, young lady.”

So she was stuck here nursing the Crippled Prince, with Ella’s suspicious looks, Caspona’s snide condescension and Laleno’s smug disapproval. And now, after two years of living in limbo, who was going to Grannon Rock for Landfall? That sly, insipid, vacuous, insufferable cow, Caspona Takarnov.

She knocked on Caspona’s door and waited, thinking that the nicest thing she could wish on her opponent was a galloping dose of the pox.

“Marqel!” the older girl exclaimed as she opened the door. “To what do I owe this remarkable honor?”

“I’ve an assignment for you from Ella. Can I come in?”

Caspona stepped aside to allow Marqel to enter. Caspona’s room looked out over the gardens.
My room doesn’t even have a
view,
Marqel noted with a slight frown.

“So?”

Marqel turned to look at Caspona.

“The assignment? What is it?”

“Nothing terribly taxing.” Marqel shrugged. “She’s sending you to Grannon Rock with Laleno for the Landfall Feast this year.”

“Why Grannon Rock, of all places?” Caspona asked. She did not look pleased that Ella had sent Marqel with her orders, rather than sending for her and delivering them personally.

“Because the Queen of Dhevyn will be attending the Festival there this year.” The words almost stuck in her throat. But she was not going to let it show—certainly not to Caspona.

Caspona smiled knowingly. “Which means Kirshov Latanya will probably be there. I’ll bet you’re just squirming over the thought that I’ll be having your lover while you sit here in Avacas holding the hand of the Crippled Prince while he sweats out his last dose of poppy-dust.”

Marqel clasped her hands behind her back. It gave the impression she had everything under control. In truth, she had clasped her hands together to stop herself grabbing Caspona by the throat. “I’m sure Prince Kirshov wouldn’t even remember me,” Marqel replied with a careless shrug. “He’s like that, you know. Once he’s had you, he’ll cast you aside like a soiled shirt.”

“He won’t cast me aside,” the Shadowdancer announced confidently. “I’ll give him a night he’ll never forget.”

“He’ll forget,” Marqel assured her. “Either the Milk of the Goddess or your own ... mediocrity ... will see to that. All you’re going to do is be his whore for the night.”

The older girl glared at her. “I am no man’s whore. I’m a Shadowdancer. Of course, you wouldn’t appreciate the difference, would you? Not someone with your dubious background.”

Marqel clenched her hands together even tighter. The desire to throttle her companion was almost overwhelming. “You should be grateful you’re a Shadowdancer, Caspona. You’d starve if you had to rely on
your
talents as a whore to earn a living.”

“Well, I guess I’ll have to take your word for that, Marqel,” Caspona replied sweetly. “I don’t have the benefit of your firsthand experience selling myself to every man with a pulse and purse between here and Damita.”

“Just be ready to leave on time,” Marqel snapped, furious, but unable to think up a suitable retort.

“Shall I give Prince Kirshov your regards?”

Marqel slammed the door behind her as she left the room.