“We need to get her cleaned up. He'll want to see her again, but not like this.”
Yuri nodded. “I'll get Ella and Olena to see to it. What are you going to do?”
“First, I'm going to send a message to the Hall of Shadows and get Madalan Tirov back here. I can't deal with this on my own. Then I'm going to find Antonov and try to convince him this was the will of the Goddess.”
Yuri nodded. Like most Shadowdancers in Belagren's inner circle, Yuri knew there was no Goddess, or if there was, she certainly hadn't spoken to the High Priestess and told her anything of value. Yuri knew about Neris. He knew about the Milk of the Goddess; he knew about many other things Dirk would dearly like to know about, too.
“I don't envy you that task.”
“I'm not looking forward to it, either,” Dirk agreed. “Will you take care of things here?”
“My task is by far the easier one,” Yuri replied. “Good luck with yours.”
Dirk pushed through the curious crowd gathered outside Belagren's room, grateful for the escort Antonov had appointed to watch over him. His guards bullied a path through the servants and courtiers, making it easier for him to avoid the questioning looks that followed him back to his room.
Once he reached his own suite, he slipped inside, locked the door and then leaned against it, closing his eyes against the horror of what he had just witnessed. What made it even worse was the knowledge that he was responsible.
Marqel had killed her. There was no question in Dirk's mind about it. That stupid, shortsighted, murderous little bitch! She was too self-absorbed to understand the ramifications of what she had done and Dirk was a fool for not realizing it. They'd argued on a number of occasions about it in the past few weeks. Dirk had tried to explain to Marqel why Belagren had to live, but she had obviously only listened to the part about becoming High Priestess. Stupid, stupid girl! Did she have any idea how much harder she had made things?
Dirk did not grieve for Belagren. A part of him was glad to see the end of her. Nor was he particularly concerned about the manner of her demise. But the timing was everything. The chances were quite good Marqel had ruined everything with her meddling.
Why couldn't she have just done what I told her?
Dirk would have little chance to take Marqel to task for it, either. Now that he had set this plan in motion, he would have little private contact with Marqel, or it might begin to raise suspicion. Dirk opened his eyes and reached into his pocket. He withdrew the delicate porcelain teacup he had taken from Belagren's room. He sniffed it again, smelled the peppermint, the proof of Marqel's guilt.
I'm insane for thinking this would work.
Then he walked into the bathroom, held the cup high and let it go. It dropped to the tiles and smashed to pieces.
Dirk gathered them up carefully and threw them down the garderobe before he walked back into the main room. He sat down at his desk, took a deep breath, picked up a pen, and taking a fresh leaf of paper, he began to compose a note to Madalan Tirov, Belagren's former right hand and closest confidante, informing her the High Priestess was dead and she was required urgently at the palace.
With the letter to Madalan on its way to the Hall of Shadows, Dirk went looking for the Lion of Senet. He found Antonov on the terrace outside his study, standing near the marble balustrade, staring up at the second sun.
“Your highness?”
The Lion of Senet did not answer immediately. Dirk wondered if Antonov had heard him.
“Sire?”
Slowly, he turned to look at Dirk. His expression was thoughtful rather than grieving. Perhaps Marqel had managed to convince him her visions were true before he learned about the High Priestess. Or he was still in shock. Whatever Antonov was feeling, Dirk knew he would have to tread very, very carefully.
“You've heard the news then?” Antonov said tonelessly.
“I've just come from the High Priestess's room, your highness. Yuri is with her. He seems to think she died of a stroke.”
“A sign from the Goddess.”
“Sire?”
“You'll do well out of this,” he replied, not answering Dirk's question. “You're the High Priest of the Shadowdancers now, aren't you?”
Dirk shook his head. “No, your highness, nor do I wish to be. The Lord of the Suns must appoint the High Priest or Priestess. I've sent to the Hall of Shadows for Lady Madalan. She can take care of things until a successor is found.”
“Your humility does you credit, Dirk.”
Dirk considered his decision practical, rather than humble, however, if Antonov wanted to think that of him, it would do no harm. But Antonov's calm demeanor worried him. The Lion of Senet had been very close to Belagren. He'd been her lover for more than twenty-five years.
He was taking her sudden death very well.
“It's good you've sent for Madalan,” Antonov added. “She'll know how to deal with all the finicky little details that must be attended to at a time like this. Besides, I have another task for you.”
“I'm at your disposal, sire.” Dirk sounded much less concerned about the prospect than he felt. But he was getting good at this. Neris had once told him that he needed to be a better liar. And he was. Dirk was not sure if he should be proud of the fact, though. There was something unwholesome about being a good liar. Something inherently wrong with it.
“I want you to go down to my temple,” Antonov said. “There you will find a Shadowdancer waiting. She claims to have had a vision. She claims the Goddess told her she would send me a sign to show me the vision was true. I want you to find out if she's lying.”
“Me, your highness? Wouldn't you be better asking someone more qualified?”
“You have felt the presence of the Goddess, Dirk. You can read her writings in the ruins at Omaxin. Belagren thought you good enough to appoint you her right hand. There is no one more qualified.”
“But, sire …”
“Do not argue with me, boy. Do as I say.”
“How do you expect me to know if her vision is real?”
Antonov studied Dirk for a moment before he answered. “She claims the Goddess revealed the way through the Spakan River delta.”
Dirk hoped he looked suitably stunned by the revelation. “That's … astonishing.”
“It is,” Antonov agreed, apparently convinced that Dirk's shock was genuine. “And given the sudden and unexpected demise of the High Priestess, it's either the most significant event since the return of the second sun, or the most heinous crime in Senet's history.”
“You suspect foul play?” Dirk asked, aware his own life was at just as much risk as Marqel's. He had no doubt Marqel would betray him in a heartbeat to save her own neck.
“I suspect nothing, Dirk. I'm leaving that up to you. Find out if she's lying. Make her give you the details. You should know enough about the delta to tell if what she claims is true. Test her. Challenge her. Find out if the Goddess really spoke to her or if she's simply deluding herself.”
“I think, your highness, perhaps if Madalan, or even Ella, were to speak to her …” It wouldn't do to appear too eager.
“I want you do it,” Antonov insisted. “In this case, I trust you to uncover the truth with a vigor nobody else would bring to the task.”
“Why is that?”
“Because the Shadowdancer who would have me believe she is the new Voice of the Goddess is your old friend Marqel. The thief from Elcast who claims you raped her at Kirsh's birthday party. I'm quite certain she lied about that, so I'd not put it past her to lie about this. Given what I will do to her if I find out that she is lying, I trust you as I trust no other to expose her.”
“And if she's telling the truth?” he asked cautiously. On Antonov's belief in that, hinged his entire future.
“Then we will honor Belagren for her piety and wisdom, and after her funeral, we will announce we have a new Voice of the Goddess.” Then for the first time, Antonov allowed a hint of his grief and anger to surface. The Lion
of Senet was not taking this nearly as calmly as he would like Dirk to believe. “And,” Antonov added with quiet menace, “when we have given thanks to the Goddess for this boon, we will sail into Mil and wipe that pestilent outpost and all who inhabit it from the face of Ranadon.”
“And bring back your son?” Dirk asked, wondering how far down Antonov's list of priorities the Crippled Prince ranked.
“Of course,” Antonov replied, almost as an afterthought. “We will bring back my son.”
arqel heard someone approach and hurriedly scrambled to her feet. She'd been sitting on the floor with her back to the altar, chatting in a low voice to the guard Antonov had left behind to watch over her. He wasn't able to tell her much, but it was better than pacing the temple, burning up with curiosity. Better than praying. The temple was guarded outside, too. The men did not challenge the newcomer as he approached. They merely bowed in acknowledgment of his rank and stood aside to let him enter.
The guard inside hurriedly stood to attention as the Lord of the Shadows walked in.
“Leave us,” Dirk ordered.
Marqel studied him warily but it was impossible to gauge Dirk's mood. The guard saluted and hurried from the temple, leaving them alone.
She smiled as he approached her, her uncertainty giving way to a smug feeling of one-upmanship. Dirk would learn, soon enough, that she was not to be trifled with, that she was just as capable as he was of coming up with a clever plan. He stopped in front of her. Before she had time to defend herself, he raised his arm and backhanded her across the face.
Marqel staggered backward under the force of the blow. She glared at him, rubbing her stinging face.
“What was that for?”
“Belagren.”
“Oh,” she said. “So you've heard about that.” In truth, she was more surprised that Dirk had guessed she was responsible than guilty over the actual murder. “You didn't have to hit me.”
“After what you did, I should think it a small price to pay. With my help, you're going to get away with murder. I should have you burned at the stake.”
“But you won't, though,” she predicted, a confident smirk covering her relief. “You need me.”
“Defy me one more time, and I'll find another way, Marqel,” Dirk warned. “Make no mistake about that. I told you Belagren wasn't to die.”
“She would have killed me the moment she found out I was claiming to be the Voice of the Goddess.”
“Belagren would have verified you were the Voice of the Goddess, you shortsighted idiot! If you hadn't interfered, she would have had no choice. Once Belagren realized I'd told you and not her what she wanted to know, she would've had no option but to support you, or lose Antonov's faith completely. You've thrown everything into doubt. Antonov doesn't believe you.”
“Yes, he does!” She was sure of that one thing, if nothing else. Antonov had held her, comforted her.
“He sent me here to prove you're lying.”
“Then we have nothing to worry about, do we?” She shrugged. “You'll just go back and tell him I'm not lying, I'll be High Priestess and everything will be fine.”
“Everything will not be fine, Marqel,” Dirk corrected. He sounded angry, which worried her a little. Dirk's normal state was coldly dispassionate. “The Lord of the Suns must appoint the High Priestess. When he gets here, who do you think he's going to choose? An experienced Shadowdancer with some proof of leadership ability or some nameless acolyte who claims she's had a vision?”
“You said you could make me High Priestess,” she accused. “And you said the Lord of the Suns wouldn't be a problem.”
“If you'd done exactly what I told you to do, he wouldn't have been. He would have had no choice but to make you High Priestess, because Belagren would have agreed to it. Now it's going to be a real problem.”
For the first time Marqel began to feel a little uncertain. “What are we going to do?”
“You and I are going to spend the next few days going over your story, so I can convince Antonov I've interrogated you sufficiently. If we don't, he's likely to hand you over to the Prefect of Avacas, and trust me, you don't want that to happen. In the meantime, I've arranged for Madalan Tirov to take over until Paige Halyn can get here from Bollow.”
“Madalan? But she hates me!”
“A sentiment I'm extremely sympathetic to right at this moment.”
Marqel scowled at him. She'd thought Dirk's reluctance to kill Belagren was because he was squeamish, not because he had other plans. “You didn't tell me I'd have to deal with Madalan,” she sulked.
“And whose fault is that, Marqel?” he replied unsympathetically. “Exactly what did you tell Antonov about Belagren, anyway? I assume you told him something to explain her sudden demise.”
“I said what you told me to say. I told Antonov I wanted to see the High Priestess, because she would make everything right again. I was very convincing.”
“What else?”
“I told him the Goddess would give him a sign to prove I wasn't lying.”
“And your sign was Belagren's corpse?” He swore under his breath as he shook his head. “You don't think about anything but yourself, do you? You could have ruined everything.”
“But I didn't,” she pointed out in her own defense. “Everything is fine.”
“We don't know that yet.”
“Well, you're the brains behind this plan, Dirk Provin. Find a way to fix it.”
“I wouldn't have anything to fix if you'd done what you were supposed to do.”
He was taking this far too seriously. She smiled. “Honestly! The way you're carrying on, you'd think I'd done something really dreadful.”
Dirk stared at her for a moment before he answered. “Do you have any concept of the difference between right and wrong, Marqel?”
“Don't you preach to me about right and wrong! You're far worse than I am, Dirk Provin. You're highborn. You were brought up learning all that stuff about honor and nobility and look what you're doing!”
“What I'm doing is not killing people just because they stand in my way.”
“Aren't you? Your body count is far greater than mine.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You killed Johan Thorn, didn't you? I heard you even killed your own mother. And what about those men who died when you told Antonov the best way to interrogate Johan Thorn? Don't look down your righteous nose at me, Dirk Provin. I'm not the one they call the Butcher.”
For once, Dirk didn't seem to have an answer.
Marqel smiled, finally beginning to feel as if she had gained the upper hand again. “Belagren is dead, Dirk. Your job is to deal with it. Make Antonov believe I'm telling the truth. Make the Lord of the Suns appoint me High Priestess. I've proved I'm the Voice of the Goddess. Once we sail into Mil and rescue Misha, even you won't be able to touch me. So just do your job, Lord of the Shadows, and I'll do mine.”
Dirk was silent for a moment longer, and then he shrugged. “Go back to the palace for now. I'll set a guard on your room and order them to keep everyone out, including Madalan. That should keep her off your back for a while and give me time to think up a reasonable explanation for her.”
“There! That's better, isn't it?” she declared as she headed for the temple's entrance, glad to be finally allowed out of there. “Things are so much easier when we work together, aren't they?”
“Things are better when you do what you're told, Marqel.”
She didn't bother to answer him, fed up with his disapproval. If he wanted someone to grovel to him, why didn't he pick somebody else to do his dirty work? Like that spineless little cousin of his he was so fond of? Alenor would probably lick his boots clean if he asked her to.
“Marqel.”
She turned to look at him.
“Don't get too cocky. You know enough to tell Antonov how to get through the delta, but you have no idea when the eclipse is due. You might find that a little hard to explain away if I'm not t
here to help you.”
“You'll keep helping me, Dirk,” she told him confidently. “After this, you have no choice.”
or several days, Misha Latanya remained confined to a small hut near the black sandy beach lapped by the waters of the hidden cove in the legendary pirate stronghold of Mil. He saw nobody other than Petra, the herb woman, and Master Helgin, the old physician and Dirk Provin's boyhood tutor from Elcast.
Misha spent a good part of his days talking to Helgin while he waited for his fate to be decided. The physician's journey to Mil had been almost as strange as his own. Helgin's rise and fall was a story in itself. He had gone from a young man full of ideals and hopes, the personal physician of the Dhevynian king, to an exile and an outcast, first on Elcast and now here in Mil. Listening to Helgin, Misha realized how little he knew about the lives of the ordinary people on Ranadon; how little he knew of the truth about the War of Shadows. It was disturbing to think someone in his position was raised in such ignorance.
The old man did put his mind at rest on one point. Helgin was of the opinion the Baenlanders were essentially decent people and were unlikely to execute him out of hand. Other than that, he could offer no comfort regarding the prince's eventual fate. Misha had not seen Tia since they landed.
The pirate settlement was crude, but in some ways, it was disturbingly ordinary. There were children aplenty here who laughed and played in the murky shallows, and even a small schoolhouse manned by a thin, tall woman who smiled at her errant charges like an indulgent grandmother. Herds of goats roamed the hills above the settlement, tended by boys too young to be apprenticed to the sea. A smith with a well-built forge wielded her hammer with a rhythm that echoed off the cliffs, filling the whole settlement with its metallic song. The lives of these people were so unremarkable, so normal; it was easy to forget they were outlaws.
The reputation of the pirates of Mil had never really been romantic nor particularly noble. Until he was captured on Elcast, Johan Thorn and the pirates of Mil had been little more than a legend to Misha—vicious brigands who plundered shipping around the Bandera Straits and the Tresna Sea, attacking anything with sails, particularly if it was Senetian, able to stay afloat long enough for the pirates to throw their lines across. To find such common, everyday things as goats and fishing nets here made it somehow seem less real. Misha had to remind himself of the danger he was in. He could not risk seduction by the air of domestic harmony that permeated this place.
Lord of the Shadows Page 2