Eye of the Labyrinth (32 page)

Chapter 60

The Lord of the Suns had little choice but to suffer Belagren and her party as his guests when they arrived in Bollow, mostly because Kirshov Latanya was leading her guard. Not for anything would Paige Halyn risk offending the Lion of Senet’s favorite son. The High Priestess felt no guilt about arriving so unexpectedly. The Lord of the Suns’ residence was huge. It was manned by a small army of servants, and it could easily accommodate her escort and the large number of retainers Belagren had in attendance.

The official residence of the Lord of the Suns’ was several miles outside Bollow, on the shores of Lake Ruska. The house was built of alternating blocks of dark granite and creamy ignimbrite, which gave it an odd, checkered appearance. Four onion-domed spires marked the cardinal points of the house, which was as ancient and elegantly designed as the nearby city. It sat in the center of a beautifully manicured park, complete with peacocks roaming the lawns and long-necked swans gliding smoothly across the glassy surface of the lake.

Once they were installed in their rooms, Belagren sent for Madalan and settled down in the Lord of the Suns’ drawing room to wait for her. The trip from Kalarada had been rushed; the ride from Paislee forced; and she was glad of the chance to rest before tackling the most onerous part of their journey: the last two hundred miles to Omaxin.

They had taken the long way, swinging around Avacas, as she did not wish to confront Antonov until this was done. Belagren worried constantly that he would send someone to investigate why his son had abandoned his post as regent in Dhevyn for an unexpected pilgrimage to Omaxin.

“Old Paige really does quite well for himself out here in the backwaters, doesn’t he?” Madalan remarked as she slid the doors shut behind her. The drawing room, like the rest of the house, was tastefully decorated with pieces that came from all over the world. The rugs were Sidorian, the elegant blackwood sideboard from distant Galina. Even the landscaped murals that covered the walls had a distinctly Damitian flavor.

Belagren stood by the window, watching the first sunrise stain the lake red as it crept over the horizon. She glanced over her shoulder at Madalan with a brief smile.

“He’s not as big a fool as we like to think. He knows he can’t do anything about us, so he’s hunkered down here in Bollow for the past two decades and feathered his nest very nicely.”

“You should have gotten rid of him years ago,” Madalan suggested with a frown.

Belagren shook her head. “And risk getting a Lord of the Suns in his place who has a spine? Paige Halyn suits me just fine, Madalan.”

“And when he dies? He’s an old man.”

“Then I will take his place. I will be the Lady of the Suns
and
the High Priestess of the Shadowdancers.”

“How do you plan to manage that? The Lord of the Suns designates his own successor.”

“He’ll do as I tell him, or his brother will be gracing the next Landfall Feast on Elcast as the main sacrifice. Why do you think I’ve left that limping fool on Elcast undisturbed all these years?”

“Once again, you appear to have thought of everything,” Madalan agreed. “What did you want to see me about?”

“I want you to go back to Avacas,” Belagren said, turning to face her. “With this new development, I believe it’s time we did something about the heir to Senet.”

“Is that wise? Kirsh has only been married for a couple of months. Won’t it appear a bit odd if Misha suddenly dies?”

“He needn’t die immediately, but he needs to take another turn for the worse; bad enough that he has to be moved to the Hospice at Tolace to recover, I think.”

Madalan did not seem to agree. “Do we really need to get rid of him? By all accounts he was becoming quite confident in his role as the heir to Senet while his father was away. He’s a lot more astute than his brother, even with his ... problems.”

“All the more reason to dispose of him. The last thing we need is an heir to Senet who we can’t anticipate or control. No, Misha must go to Tolace and word must get around that he may not recover this time. I don’t want him dying in the palace, and I certainly don’t want to risk Antonov suspecting anything.”

“Then why not just send Ella a message?”

“And commit my instructions to paper? Surely you jest?”

Madalan raised a brow with a faint smile. “That would be rather foolish, wouldn’t it? Shall I take Marqel back with me, or have you decided to let her stay with Kirshov?”

“She can stay for the time being. She’s being very cooperative at the moment, and Kirsh is genuinely fond of her. Besides, I’d rather have that dangerous little mischief-maker where I can keep an eye on her.”

Madalan nodded, but before she could reply, there was a knock at the door. Annoyed at the interruption, the High Priestess called permission to enter, determined to have the fool who dared disturb her lashed to within an inch of his life.

“I see you’ve made yourself at home,” remarked the Lord of the Suns as he stepped into the room. Belagren bit back the furious retort she was planning and smiled graciously.

“Your generosity and hospitality are most appreciated, my lord.”

“You make it sound as if I had a choice in the matter, my lady.”

Paige moved stiffly to the sideboard and poured himself a small glass of wine. He did not offer his guests refreshment, but Belagren decided to let the insult pass.
Have your petty victories,
old man. I will win in the end.

“Actually, your unexpected visit gives me an opportunity to speak with you on a rather important matter,” he said, turning back to face her. “I was planning to write you, but perhaps it’s better if I tell you face to face.”

“You intrigue me, my lord.”

“Do I?” he asked absently. “I don’t mean to.”

“What did you wish to discuss?”

“The matter of my successor.” He moved across the room and took a seat opposite her, lowering himself into the chair cautiously, as if he was in great pain.
Madalan was right. He really is an old man.

“Odd that you should bring that up,” she remarked. “Madalan and I were just discussing it.”

The old man smiled. She wished she could read him better, but the long beard that obscured half his face made it difficult to see his expression. Belagren had always distrusted men with beards. She thought they were hiding something.

“Well, if you’ve plans to tell me who I should name, I fear you’re about a week too late. My will is already sealed in the Tabernacle of the Temple in Bollow.”

Although she gave no outward sign of her irritation, Belagren could have slapped the old fool. She knew the traditions that bound the Church as well as any Sundancer. Once the Lord of the Suns’ will had been locked away in the tabernacle, it could not be tampered with. If there was even the slightest hint that it had been, then the will was void and the appointment of the next Lord of the Suns was done by election. That was something she could not risk.

“Might I inquire as to the identity of your successor?”

“It’s not you,” he told her with a certain degree of malice.

“Then who?”

He took another sip from his glass, deliberately drawing out the silence. Then he looked at Madalan. “It’s you.”

“Me?”
Madalan gasped in surprise.

The old man shrugged. “Consider it my last great act of defiance. I know that in reality there’s no way I can stop you, Belagren, and the truth is, I long ago lost the will for the fight— about the time I watched you convince a once decent and devout young man to slit his baby son’s throat simply to further your own ambitions, actually.”

“But why
Madalan
?”

“She is your right hand, isn’t she? That makes her close enough to you that you won’t challenge my decision, but I still manage to deny you the one thing you’ve never had, which is my title. It’s petty, I know, but I’m an old man and I’m dying. I should be allowed my little luxuries.”

Belagren stared at the Lord of the Suns, quite astonished that he had had the wit to think of such a thing. He was right, of course. With Madalan elevated to Lady of the Suns, her closest confidante would become head of the Church. It in no way hampered the High Priestess’s power, but it denied her the one thing that had always been out of her reach.

“And if I decide to challenge it?”

“I’ll be dead, Belagren. I won’t be in a position to care.”

“It’s a masterful stroke, my lord,” she admitted begrudgingly. “You’re not renowned for your political savvy. It’s a pity for you that you didn’t develop such a skill sooner.”

“But rather lucky for you though, eh?”

She could not tolerate him looking so smug. “You said you were dying. Do you have any idea when we can expect this happy event?”

“In the fullness of time, Belagren. Don’t rush me. I’ll die when I’m good and ready.” He finished his wine, placed the empty glass on the side table and painfully climbed to his feet. “And before you start arranging any accidents for me, just remember that my will is only valid if I die of natural causes. If there is even a hint of foul play, the new Lord or Lady of the Suns must be elected by the members of the Church. You may want to do the numbers, my lady. Your Shadowdancers are highly visible, but there are a lot of Sundancers still out there. Old men and women like me, who remember what it was like to worship the Goddess the way she truly should be worshipped, without death or Landfall bastards, without rope tattoos or foul potions. Every out-of-the-way town and remote village in Senet, and quite a few in Dhevyn, even as far away as Damita—all the places you never think to send your people because they aren’t important enough for you—have Sundancers who remember the old ways and who will be called on to vote. I’ll let you work out the odds for yourself. As for me, I’m content that I’ve slowed you down a little.”

“You sound like a bitter old man,” she accused.

“That’s probably because I
am
a bitter old man,” the Lord of the Suns agreed.

“You can’t blame me for your own shortcomings, my lord,” Belagren said.

He squinted at her accusingly. “But I do blame you, Belagren. I had such plans once, before the Age of Shadows. I was going to leave a legacy behind me that would help Ranadon, not plunge it into barbarism. Do you know what I really wanted to do as Lord of the Suns?”

Both women shook their heads.

“I wanted to educate people,” he told them. “I wanted to set up schools. I wanted my Sundancers to do more than just worship the Goddess. I wanted them to become teachers. Instead, thanks to you and your lies and your Shadowdancers, I was barely able to keep the Sundancers intact. You drained us of our resources and our will, Belagren. You have made ignorance and narrowmindedness into virtues. When I die, your right hand will assume my title and that will be the end of it.” He shuffled painfully across the room to the door, turning to look at her before he opened it. “You’re going to Omaxin to collect the Provin boy?”

She nodded warily. Belagren was not pleased that Dirk had involved the Lord of the Suns in this.

Paige Halyn shook his head sorrowfully. “Your ability to corrupt others never ceases to amaze me, Belagren. I hope you don’t live to regret offering that young man asylum. He’s more dangerous to you than poor Neris ever was, but I doubt you’ve the wit to realize it.” He slid the doors open then hesitated and looked back at her again with a malicious smile.

“Actually, that’s not true,” he said. “I hope you
do
live to regret it. Badly.”

Chapter 61

With the return of the Lion of Senet to Avacas, Misha’s role in ruling Senet was significantly curbed. Lord Palinov stopped sending him reports, and he had not seen the Palace Seneschal or the Prefect of Avacas in more than three weeks. Boredom had quickly replaced Misha’s feeling of being a contributing member of the royal family.

His father seemed pleased with what Misha had done in his absence, even congratulating him on his solution for the Talenburg levee wall dilemma. But after a brief meeting to bring his father up to date—in which Palinov did most of the talking and gave the impression Misha had done little but sign whatever was put in front of him—he had barely seen his father at all. He certainly had not been invited to continue to offer his opinion about how Senet should be governed.

Although Misha was disappointed, he was not surprised. Like most able-bodied men, Antonov equated physical disability with stupidity. He had actually seemed mildly astonished that Misha had coped as well as he did, but he made no suggestion that Misha might like to sit in on his daily meetings with Palinov, or that his eldest son might want to be kept up to date on the Talenburg situation, even though he was the one who had engineered such an acceptable solution.

Misha was, effectively, sent back to his rooms to quietly rot, out of sight and out of mind.

“Is everything all right, Misha?” Ella asked with some concern as she let herself into his room. He was sitting by the fireplace staring at his chessboard, trying to remember a game he’d had with Dirk once, when the young man had beaten him in about eight moves. Misha could not, for the life of him, remember how he had done it.

“I’m as well as can be expected under the circumstances,” he replied, a little bitterly. They said that about the Crippled Prince a lot: “as well as can be expected under the circumstances.” “Why do you ask?”

“I’ve been gone for hours. You’ve not moved a muscle. I swear you’re still staring at the same chess piece you were studying before I left.”

“There’s little else to do,” he reminded her sourly. “Where have you been?”

“The Hall of Shadows. Madalan arrived back from Bollow today.”

“What was she doing in Bollow?” he asked, out of a desperate need for conversation, more than any real interest in the movements of the Shadowdancers.

“She didn’t say,” Ella shrugged. “Can I get you a rug? Something to drink, perhaps? You look a little pale.”

“I feel no worse than usual,” he assured her. “Nor any better, for that matter.”

“Still, I might have Yuri drop by later and check on you. We don’t want you coming down with anything. You’ve not the strength to fight off a serious illness.”

“Or the wit to do anything useful, it seems.”

She looked at him curiously. “You’re not still brooding over the fact that now your father’s back, your assistance is no longer required, are you? It’s been nearly a month since he returned, Misha.”

“Has it only been a month? It feels like a year.”

“It’s not like you to brood.”

“Maybe I’ll take up brooding as my new hobby,” he suggested. “Then they could call me the Brooding Prince, rather than the Crippled Prince.”

Ella smiled. “It’s not like you to wallow in self-pity, either.”

“I have to do something to pass the time.”

She walked across the room and placed her hand on his forehead with a slight frown. “Are you sure you’re feeling well? You seem to have a slight temperature.”

“I’m not sickening for something, Ella,” he insisted, jerking his head away from her touch. “I’m just bored, that’s all.”

“Perhaps,” she agreed doubtfully. “I think I’ll have Yuri check you over all the same.”

“Whatever,” he sighed, thinking she would not let go of this until he agreed. Ella could be as tenacious as a terrier with a bone when she set her mind on something.

By the following morning, Misha was feeling much worse. Even his tonic did little to revive him. He felt weak and shaky, and after he threw up his breakfast, even the thought of food began to repulse him.

Yuri Daranski, the Shadowdancers’ physician, called in to check on him after he refused lunch, tut-tutted meaningfully over the prince, and then took Ella into the other room to discuss his condition. Misha was rarely consulted about either his illness or the treatment required, so he thought nothing odd about it. He was feeling too ill to care much, anyway.

By the evening of the next day, Misha’s fits began again, but this time it was not an isolated occurrence. He had three of them during the night. By the following morning, what little strength he had to start with had been sapped by the constant convulsions. His skin felt as if it had been dragged through the palace laundries, beaten for a time over a washboard, wrung out and then tossed over his skeleton to dry.

Ella was by his side constantly, her expression concerned, as she urged him to be strong, feeding him the tonic that had always helped him so much in the past, and that now appeared to be useless. He saw Yuri two or three times a day, but the physician was helpless. The fits grew more frequent and more savage, until Misha was certain each time he saw the warning, dancing white lights before his eyes that the next fit would be the one that killed him.

Misha’s condition deteriorated so rapidly that finally even his father became concerned. Antonov visited him just as the second sun was setting five days after he had fallen ill. Misha had just had another fit, and Ella and Olena Borne were cleaning him up. As the fits became more intense, he quite often lost control of his bladder. This last fit had been the worst one yet. He had lost control of his bowels, too, while he was unconscious.

Antonov gagged as he stepped into the room, took one look at his son, and then turned to Ella. Misha feigned unconsciousness. He still had enough wit left to be humiliated that his father should see him in such a desperate state. It was easier for both of them if Antonov did not have to meet his eye.

“How long has he been like this?”

“Nearly a week now, your highness. He seems to be going from bad to worse.”

“Can’t you do anything for him?”

“Nothing we have tried is working. I fear this may be the beginning of the end.”

“You mean he’s dying?” Antonov asked bluntly.

“If we can’t get him to keep any food down, then if the fits don’t kill him, starvation and dehydration certainly will,” she confirmed in a voice filled with regret.

So they think I’m dying.

“Surely there must be something you can do?”

“We’ve tried every remedy known to us, your highness, and even a few dubious herbal cures, but nothing seems to make a difference.” Ella hesitated for a moment, and then, with a touching tone, she added, “You may have to prepare yourself for the worst.”

His father was silent for a long time.

“There is something we might try, to ease his suffering, if nothing else,” Ella suggested tentatively.

“What?”

“We could move him to the Hospice at Tolace. They are far better equipped to deal with the terminally ill, your highness, and maybe one of the physicians there has some knowledge that might help the prince recover.”

“Will he survive the journey?”

Ever the pragmatist, aren’t you, Father?

“It can be done in stages, sire, so as not to distress him further. I really feel it is the only thing left to us.”

“You’re assuming he’ll not recover,” Antonov remarked with all the emotion of a man discussing putting down a wounded horse.

“He’s never been strong, your highness,” Ella reminded him gently. “You’ve always known that it was a possibility that Misha’s weakness would eventually be his undoing.”

“The bad blood comes from his mother’s side of the family,” Antonov told her. “The Damitian Royal House is notoriously inbred.”

It’s so much easier to blame Analee, isn’t it, Father? You can’t
bear the thought that my weakness is in any way attributable to you.

“You’re sure there’s nothing you can do for him here?” The Lion of Senet sounded a little uncertain.

“We’d have done it already if there was, your highness.”

There was another long pause as Antonov thought about it.

“Send him to Tolace, then,” he agreed finally. “Make whatever arrangements you must to see that he survives the trip, and once he gets there I want regular reports regarding his improvement. Or lack of it.”

“His fate will be as the Goddess wills it, your highness,” Ella told him.

“I’ve given her one son already, my lady,” the Lion of Senet replied bitterly. “She’s getting a little greedy, don’t you think?”

The comment almost shocked Misha into betraying the fact that he was conscious and had heard every word of the exchange.

It was the closest his father had ever come to admitting that he loved him.