Eye of the Labyrinth (37 page)

Chapter 70

The following day, Dirk found himself called to his most arduous test yet—that of facing the Lion of Senet. When he was admitted to Antonov’s study, the prince was sitting behind his gilded desk, bathed in the sunlight that the desk was so carefully positioned to catch.

“Come in, Dirk. And close the door.”

Dirk did as Antonov ordered and then stood in front of the desk, waiting for the prince to say something. Like his first meeting with Antonov, Dirk had tried to envisage this conversation a thousand times over, but he suspected it would end up being nothing like he imagined.

“The High Priestess informs me that you wish to join the Shadowdancers.”

“Yes, sir.”

“She says you’ve had something of an epiphany.”

“I suppose you could call it that.”

Antonov leaned back in his chair and scowled. “What I
should
do, you ungrateful little pup, is hang you.”

“For what crime, exactly?” Dirk asked. “Killing Johan Thorn? You were planning to do that yourself. Raping a Shadowdancer, perhaps? You know as well as I do how flimsy that accusation is.”

“How about conspiring with the enemies of Senet?” Antonov suggested. “Piracy? Drug running? The wanton and criminal destruction of the
Calliope
? Goddess knows what else you have been up to lately.”

“Mostly I was trying to avoid you, sir.”

That comment gave Antonov pause, and then he asked thoughtfully, “Are you so afraid of me, Dirk?”

“The only thing I’m afraid of is that you won’t believe me when I tell you that I have no interest in your plans for me. I don’t want to be Johan’s heir. I wish I’d never heard of him.” In that, Dirk was admitting an indisputable truth. His whole life had begun to fall apart the day Johan Thorn arrived on Elcast.

“So now you wish to be a Shadowdancer? Is that out of a genuine desire to serve the Goddess, or a convenient way of avoiding me?”

“If you remember, your highness, the reason I left Elcast in the first place was to join the Shadowdancers. It was you who decided to delay my admittance to their ranks.”

“At your mother’s request,” Antonov reminded him.

“If I recall, sir, it was Wallin Provin who negotiated that arrangement. My mother never wanted me to leave Elcast at all.”

Antonov nodded slowly. “What were you doing in Omaxin?”

This was where the danger lay, Dirk knew. He must walk a fine line between the truth and his carefully constructed lies.

“After my mother was sacrificed to the Goddess, I was pretty angry . . .”

“I noticed,” Antonov noted with a frown.

“I decided to confront her head on. I wanted to know how a Goddess who teaches love and forgiveness could condone such torment.”

“So you sought the answers in Omaxin?”

“It’s where the High Priestess first heard the Voice of the Goddess,” Dirk reminded him, using Antonov’s faith to strengthen his argument. “I figured that would be the best place to confront her.”

The Lion of Senet nodded slowly, Dirk’s logic making perfect sense to a man who believed so wholeheartedly in the infallibility of the High Priestess that he had murdered his own son at her behest in the belief that the Goddess had willed it.

“What happened in Omaxin that wrought this remarkable change in you?”

“Nothing much, at first. When I got there, I discovered the tunnel into the temple had been blocked.”

“Yes, I know,” said Antonov. “Among the more pernicious things that Neris Veran did was to deny the High Priestess access to the most holy place on Ranadon.”

“I was there for weeks, trying to figure out how to get into the temple, and was on the verge of giving up when it suddenly came to me . . .”

“What happened?”

Dirk nodded. “It was indescribable, sir,” he said, hoping that if he claimed it could not be described, Antonov would not demand a detailed description. “It was as if I’d been visited by the Goddess. I didn’t hear her words exactly, but at that moment, I felt her presence. I just walked into the Labyrinth and opened the gate.”

Antonov studied him thoughtfully. He was quite blinded by his beliefs, but Antonov Latanya was neither stupid nor easily fooled. That he had been duped about his Goddess for so long was more a testament to Belagren’s skill than a slight on the Lion of Senet’s character. He
had
to believe that Dirk was genuine in his desire to join the Shadowdancers. If he was not convinced, his threat to hang Dirk remained a very real possibility.

“Do you now claim to speak to the Goddess?”

Dirk shook his head. “That is the privilege of the High Priestess, sire. But I can understand some of the writings in the temple. I’ve asked the High Priestess if I can be allowed to study and translate them.”

The dilemma Dirk’s revelation posed for Antonov was considerable. He was torn between his faith and his political interests.

“She also tells me that your position is unique.”

“Sir?”

“The High Priestess says that this gift you have been given by the Goddess to understand her writings requires special consideration. She tells me that you are to be made Lord of the Shadows.”

Dirk fought down a smile. He had not been very serious about the title when he suggested it, and was a little surprised that Belagren had granted it to him.
Lord of the Shadows.
That was the title Tia had scathingly applied to him for enjoying the dark challenge of the Labyrinth. It was quite fitting, actually.

“I only hope I can do the title justice, your highness.”

“If I decide to let you keep it,” Antonov snorted. “Belagren says you’ve been with the Baenlanders all this time.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What can you tell me about them?”

“Anything you want to know,” he offered.

“Can you get my ships through the delta?”

“Except that,” he amended. “I only sailed it two or three times the whole time I was there.” The lie came easily to him.

“Then what intelligence you
do
have is probably useless.”

“I returned because I felt the Goddess calling to me, your highness, not to provide you with information to destroy your enemies.”

“You might like to rethink your position on that, Dirk. The Baenlanders are
your
enemies now.”

“I know that, and truly, sir, if I could give you the information you need I would, if only to prove my loyalty.”

Antonov watched him closely, studying every move he made—every twitching finger, every blink of his eyes—looking for some indication that he was lying. Dirk was watching Antonov just as closely, trying to determine if he had been found out.

“To let you off, after what you’ve done, would set a very bad precedent,” Antonov said. “To allow your crimes to go unpunished because you’ve had a moment of clarity would be asking for trouble. I can imagine every miscreant from here to Sidoria suddenly deciding the Goddess is calling them the moment they get caught.”

Dirk allowed himself a small smile at the thought. “I can see your dilemma, your highness.”

“And yet, the translation of the Goddess’s work is an important task. I suppose I could send you back to Omaxin.”

Dirk did not answer him, certain that he knew Antonov well enough to know that it was not a serious suggestion. Antonov would want him near, on the off chance Dirk might have a change of heart.

“Or I could keep you here in Avacas, under house arrest. That would leave you free to do the Goddess’s work and still send a message to the world that criminals cannot hide behind her skirts.”

“I will honor whatever you decide, your highness,” Dirk informed him with a degree of resignation. There was no point in trying to appear meek or humble. Antonov would not believe that for an instant.

“You’re damn right you will, boy,” Antonov agreed. “I’m tempted to hand you over to Barin for a week or two, anyway, just to remind you of your fate, should you decide to run away again.”

“I’m done with running away,” Dirk assured him. The truth was always easier than a lie.

“I’m still at a loss as to what drove you to it in the first place.” Antonov’s arrogance was a never-ending source of amazement to Dirk. That he could not understand what had forced Dirk to flee Avacas the morning after Johan Thorn’s killing was almost laughable.

Don’t you understand?
he wanted to yell at him.
You drove
me to kill my own father. You made me the Butcher of Elcast! You
tried to mold me into an image of yourself, for no better reason than
the chance to gloat in the face of the man who had the appallingly
bad manners to object when you invaded his country.

“I was confused,” he shrugged, letting no hint of what he truly felt reflect in his eyes.

“And now?”

“I see things much more clearly.”

Antonov still looked doubtful. “Were it not for the fact that the High Priestess believes you are genuine in your desire to serve the Goddess, I’d have you put to death in a heartbeat. You do understand that, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Belagren is not so easily fooled, I think, that you would be able to lie about such a thing to her and get away with it.”

“No, sir.”

The Lion of Senet glared at him, perhaps detecting a hint of insolence in his docile compliance. “You will remain here in the palace,” Antonov decreed. “You will be under house arrest. You will be guarded at all times and will not be permitted to leave the palace grounds without my express permission. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Furthermore, you will undertake such studies as the High Priestess deems necessary to translate the inscriptions from Omaxin, and you will report to me at least once a week on your progress. If I decide you are not applying yourself with sufficient enthusiasm, I will arrange to have Barin Welacin brought in, and the Prefect can point out to you the error of your ways.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You will also, before you begin your studies for the High Priestess, document everything you know about the Baenlands. I don’t care if you think it’s useful or irrelevant. That will be for me to decide. I want maps, defenses, a layout of their fortress, escape routes . . . everything you remember. I also want a list of names. I want to know who shelters them, who aids them, and who is dealing with them behind my back.”

“Yes, sir.”

Antonov nodded in satisfaction. “Then we understand each other, Dirk.”

You don’t even begin to understand me, Antonov Latanya.
“Yes, sir.”

“In that case, you may go.”

Dirk bowed and turned for the door, his heart pounding with relief that he had got off so lightly. More importantly, Antonov had done exactly what Dirk was hoping he would do. There was hope yet.

“One other thing, Dirk,” Antonov added.

He turned back to face the prince. “Sir?”

“Neris Veran. Is he alive?”

Dirk shook his head. “I hear he died some years back from an overdose of poppy-dust.”

“So you never met him?”

“No, sir.”

“Pity.”

“Why is that, your highness?” Dirk asked, a little concerned by the inquiry. Antonov’s question about Neris had caught him off guard.

“It would have been a salutary lesson for you to meet Neris Veran, Dirk. Then you could have seen, firsthand, the vengeance the Goddess is capable of wreaking when her very existence is questioned.”

“I no longer question her existence, your highness.”
What
would you do, I wonder, if you learned that I am the voice of your
deity?
“In fact,” Dirk added with moving sincerity, “I realize now that the Goddess resides within me.”

Antonov smiled, pleased by Dirk’s profession of faith.

“Welcome home, Dirk,” he said.

Chapter 71

The last thing Marqel was expecting to discover on her return to Avacas was that the Queen of Dhevyn was pregnant. How could that turgid little cow have conceived so quickly? By her estimation, Kirsh had slept with his wife less than a handful of times since they married, and he certainly never laid a hand on her before that day. At this rate, Alenor would breed like a damn rabbit, and there’d be a dozen heirs running around Dhevyn and Senet in as many years.

It did not help Marqel’s mood that Kirsh had hovered solicitously by his wife’s side, and that the two of them had smiled and carried on like a pair of young lovers all evening. Even though she was quite sure Kirsh was acting for his father’s benefit, Marqel was still unsure about Alenor. How that girl could be so thick not to realize what was going on totally escaped Marqel. It must be something about the way they raised noble-women, she concluded. They were such vapid, useless creatures that they couldn’t see past their own stuck-up little noses.

Kirsh did not seek her out that night, so the following morning she presented herself to the High Priestess to find out what Belagren wanted her to do. Marqel had a bad feeling that she would be sent back to the Hall of Shadows, the High Priestess having decided that, with Alenor pregnant, Marqel’s presence was no longer required.

Then it occurred to her that she did have another reason to stay in the palace. With her hand raised to knock on the door of Belagren’s room, she hesitated, and then, with a smug little smile, headed down the hall and knocked on the door of Prince Misha’s room instead.

When she didn’t receive an immediate reply, she waited, and then knocked again. When silence still met her knock, she opened the door and poked her head through.

“Hello?”

There was still no answer. Glancing up and down the hall to make certain she was unobserved, Marqel slipped inside.

Misha’s suite was immaculately clean and, more important, it was tidy. The prince lived in these rooms and rarely ventured outside, but even with servants running after him all day, when he was here, the inevitable clutter and chattels of daily living gave the rooms a lived-in feeling.

There was not a book out of place, not so much a chair askew. Tellingly, Misha’s chess set was put away on the table under the window, the pieces lined up at either end of the board patiently waiting for a new game. He was gone, but where, she could not imagine. He was too weak to leave the palace, even for a short holiday, and Ella Geon would never have countenanced him going off alone.

She was still trying to puzzle it out when the door opened fully. Marqel spun around guiltily only to find it was just one of the laundry maids who changed the towels and sheets on the fourth floor. She was a buxom blonde and palace gossip had it that she was would sleep with any man in Avacas for the price of a meal and a few good ales.

“Sorry, my lady. I saw the door open . . .”

“Emalia, isn’t it?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Where is Prince Misha?”

“He’s gone, my lady.”

“I can see that,” she snapped. “
Where
has he gone?”

“To Tolace, my lady. To the Hospice.”

“Why?”

“The prince took quite poorly, ma’am. Real sick, he was. Lady Ella thought the sea air might do him good.”

We’re on the coast here,
she thought,
that’s not the reason.

“You said he was poorly? What did you mean? What was wrong with him?”

“Can’t rightly say, ma’am,” Emalia shrugged. “I mean, he’s never been a well lad, everyone knows that, but since Prince Kirshov got married he just seemed to go downhill. He always used to say hello when I changed his towels, but it got so that he hardly said a word no more. He just lay there, all listless and weak. Lady Ella was real worried about him.”

Lady Ella was probably responsible,
Marqel decided with interest.

“When did he leave for Tolace?”

“Awhile back now, my lady. After Lady Madalan came back to Avacas—that was more than two months ago now—he just seemed to go from bad to worse, poor pet. Then Lady Ella and Master Daranski had this big meeting with Prince Antonov and they told him that the prince might do better at the Hospice, so they packed him off to Tolace. An’ then, just when it looked like being quiet for a while, the little queen turns up from Kalarada unexpectedly. Not that I mind, though. We all sort of missed her after she left. You get used to having people around, you know? And she was such a sweetie as a child. Real well mannered, you know? Just like you think a little princess ought to be . . .”

“Oh do stop babbling, you stupid girl!” Marqel snapped, even though Emalia was probably five years her senior. “Did you hear anybody say what was wrong with the prince exactly?”

“I’m not privy to that sort of thing, my lady.”

“You seem to be privy to everything else,” Marqel remarked. “Including what Lady Ella and Master Daranski said to Prince Antonov in a private meeting. Or did they invite you along so they’d have a permanent record of the conversation?”

The girl appeared too stupid to realize that Marqel was insulting her. “Why would they do that, my lady?”

Marqel muttered a curse. “Be off with you! Shouldn’t you be scrubbing floors or something?”

Emalia squared her shoulders, looking quite offended. “I’m the fourth-floor laundry maid. I don’t do floors!”

“Then go and do . . . whatever it is that you do.”

Emalia dropped a brief, barely respectful curtsy, made even more insolent by the scowl she wore. “As my lady commands.”

The maid turned and left the room, leaving Marqel alone to ponder the strange turn of events that had removed Misha from the palace. Ella Geon was still in Avacas, but that did not mean she wasn’t responsible for Misha’s deteriorating health. In fact, it could simply mean that she wanted to distance herself from him, in case his condition proved fatal.

The thought that Misha might die gave her pause. If his decline was on the orders of the High Priestess, then he might well be dead within a matter of weeks. Marqel knew of no order to finally terminate Misha, but that didn’t mean it hadn’t been spoken. In fact, it was more than likely she wouldn’t know of it. One did not issue orders to eliminate the heir to the throne of Senet where one was likely to be overheard . . .

So Misha might die soon,
she thought.
Damn!

That did not suit Marqel at all. In fact, little had happened lately that did. She thought she had things under control when Alenor invited her to Kalarada, and she was installed as Kirsh’s mistress. The future looked even rosier when he invited her to Omaxin and left his frigid little wife behind. But then Dirk Provin turned up, and now Alenor was here in Avacas, and pregnant, and being fussed over like a prized brood mare.

If Misha were to die now, before Marqel could conceive a child by Kirsh, then no child of hers would ever be considered a potential heir. In all likelihood, she would be made to get rid of it. Everything hinged on being the firstborn, she knew. Boy or girl, legitimate or not, the child born first to any future king was always important.

And that stupid bitch’s child would be born before the next
Landfall Feast
.

That Marqel had not conceived a child was not for lack of trying on her part. She had taken all the herbs she knew of that were supposed to increase a woman’s fertility. She had even fed Kirsh a concoction once, telling him it would ease a headache, just in case the problem was his. Obviously it was not. If Alenor had conceived so quickly then Kirsh’s seed must be sound.

Perhaps the problem was hers? Perhaps the herbs Kalleen made her drink each night to stop her conceiving had a lasting effect. Perhaps after that time on Derex, when the herbs had not worked and she had fallen pregnant at the tender age of thirteen, and Kalleen had taken her to that sleazy old herb man in the shop behind the tannery and made her drink that foul stuff to get rid of it . . . Perhaps that had done something to her? She remembered thinking at the time, as she lay on the narrow bunk in the wagon she shared with Lanatyne, screaming in agony, that the stuff they had given her seemed designed not just to get rid of the baby, but to disembowel her in the process.

For the first time, Marqel was forced to confront the possibility that perhaps she
couldn’t
have a baby. All the men she had been with since then, from the nameless old men who wanted her to call them “Daddy,” to the countless sailors from the
Calliope
in Elcast, even Dirk Provin and then Kirshov . . . None of them had gotten her with child, which was something of a miracle in itself.

Marqel cursed savagely. She did not mind the thought that she could not have children in general, but it annoyed her intensely that she might not be able to cement her position by giving birth to a royal bastard.

And that pious, waspish little princess gets bedded twice and
suddenly she’s with child
.
It’s just not fair!

Well,
Marqel decided,
if I can’t give Kirsh his firstborn, then
neither will Alenor.

For Marqel, things like that were quite easily taken care of.

She knocked on the door of Alenor’s suite later that evening, once she was sure the queen had retired. Lady Dorra, the suspicious, dark-eyed, lady-in-waiting that Antonov had chosen several years ago to watch over Alenor, admitted her with a frown. Marqel was certain she knew about her and Kirsh, but Dorra’s job was to watch over the little queen, not worry about what the Queen’s consort did when he was not with his wife. She might not approve, but neither did she really care.

“I thought the queen might like some peppermint tea,” Marqel explained, raising the tray she carried a little. “She looked a bit pale at dinner.”

Dorra stood back to let her enter. “She’s just getting ready to retire. I’ll ask her.”

“Is the Lady Jacinta not here?”

“She stayed in Kalarada,” Dorra told her. “Just put it there.”

Marqel carried the tray into the room and placed it on the table in front of the settee. “I thought it might help her sleep. A good night’s sleep is very important in her condition.”

The lady-in-waiting picked up the cup, sniffing the sweet-smelling steam rising off the drink appreciatively. Peppermint was such a wonderful condiment. It masked the taste of so many things.

“Make sure she drinks it all,” Marqel advised.

She watched Dorra take the cup into the other room with a concerned smile. When Dorra emerged a little while later, she volunteered to take the empty cup down to the kitchens, to save Dorra the trouble of summoning a servant. As she left the suite, Marqel wished the lady-in-waiting a good night’s sleep.

And then humming to herself, she took the tray back to the kitchens to wash the cup and remove any trace of the poison.