Marqel had joined the procession of Shadowdancers who walked in the wake of the carriage, doing her best to look like she was mourning the old bitch. The men and women around her walked with their heads down, some of them muttering silently to themselves. Were they praying? Or just running through tomorrow's laundry list? she wondered. Perhaps they were praying. Somewhat to Marqel's surprise, she had discovered that despite the fraud on which their cult was based, many Shadowdancers honestly believed in the Goddess.
Still, Marqel mused, I suppose Belagren didn't keep her secret all these years by broadcasting it to all and sundry.
Fools, she sneered silently. If only you knew what I know …
There was a roped-off area near the docks, where Antonov and his closest advisers stood on a podium decked out in the gold-and-white colors of the Latanya family, waiting for the funeral carriage to arrive. Alenor sat beside the empty chair reserved for the Lord of the Suns, looking pale and gaunt. Marqel recognized the chancellor, Lord Palinov, and a few other familiar faces from the palace. Dirk was with them, too. He might be Lord of the Shadows and the right hand of the High Priestess, but he stubbornly refused to wear the red robes of their order, and was dressed in dark trousers, calf-high boots and a jacket that was well cut, expensive and suited to his lean frame. He hardly posed a daunting figure, though, standing beside Antonov. You had to get to know him, Marqel decided, to appreciate how intimidating he could be.
She wondered why he wasn't walking with the rest of the Shadowdancers, until she remembered Dirk was the nephew of Antonov's late wife, the Princess Analee of Damita. Marqel frowned at the thought. It reminded her that no matter what she did, she would never be family. Dirk had committed murder. He had destroyed Antonov's favorite ship. He had spent two years living among the Lion of Senet's enemies—a criminal running drugs with Reithan Seranov and doing Goddess knows what else…Yet there he was, standing on the podium next to his uncle in a position of honor because he was family, and being family gave him a level of protection Marqel could never hope to aspire to.
For a moment she scanned the faces of the other people standing with Antonov. Was there a distant cousin up there, she wondered? Was there another member of the Latanya family on that podium? Was the heir to the throne after Misha and Kirshov up there now, waiting for his chance at power? If there was, Marqel silently wished him luck. With Dirk Provin in Avacas, she doubted anybody else had much of a chance at anything.
Still, she supposed. He might hate me, but Dirk needs me.
And a child by Antonov will make me family, too …
She was still a little concerned about her ability to bear a child, but had decided not to worry about it for now. Once she was High Priestess, Marqel was certain there would be other herbs, other drugs she could use to ensure a baby. There were many secrets she would become privy to, once her position was confirmed. She was confident that among them was the solution to her dilemma.
In the meantime, Marqel resolved to bide her time and do as Dirk ordered, although she was honest enough to admit it was not just his plan that appealed to her. She was beginning to develop a healthy respect for his influence. That he stood beside Antonov today, unpunished for all that he had done, drove home forcefully that she was a long way from being able to defy him. She didn't have Kirsh to protect her anymore and until she had Antonov utterly convinced she was the Voice of the Goddess, until he believed her—even above his precious nephew—she was in no position to challenge Dirk on anything.
It came as something as a shock to Marqel to realize that she had been so engrossed in her own thoughts that the Lord of the Suns had almost reached the end of his eulogy without her even noticing. The old man had finished chronicling Belagren's remarkable life—that must have really stuck in his throat, she thought—and now beseeched the Goddess to take Belagren into her embrace for eternity.
And I'll bet he doesn't mean a word of it.
When the Lord of the Suns was finished, he returned, slowly and painfully, to the podium and gave a signal. The honor guard stepped forward to lift Belagren's body from the carriage and carry it down to the elaborate floating bier tied up at the end of the wharf. Antonov stepped down from the podium and followed the small procession, waiting as the honor guard secured the High Priestess to the pyre. There were two longboats attached to the pyre, waiting to tow it out into the harbor. In the prow of each boat sat a drummer, who would pound out the mournful beat so the oarsmen could draw the float away from the wharf with a degree of solemn dignity.
That, and to make sure the wharf doesn't catch fire, Marqel thought with a sly little smile.
Antonov moved forward as the honor guard stepped back. Somebody appeared with a torch and handed it to him. He held the flaming baton on high for a moment and then touched it to the pyre. A wall of flame immediately obscured Belagren's body. The drummers in the longboats took up the beat and the pyre began to move out into the harbor. Marqel watched it burn, fascinated by the flames.
“I wonder how long it's been since he set fire to a body that was already dead?” a sour voice in the crowd muttered. Marqel looked around in surprise, but whoever was brave enough to make such a remark was smart enough to draw no further attention to himself.
Marqel looked back at the pyre, wondering idly if the voice was simply a lone dissenter or if such sentiments were common among the people in Avacas. She'd had little to do with the general population in Senet since becoming a Shadowdancer, and her life as a traveling performer before that had always marked her as an outcast. Marqel had no real understanding of the lives of ordinary people.
It didn't matter anyway. She was never going to be ordinary, so what ordinary people thought meant nothing to her. She was going to be High Priestess of the Shadowdancers.
Antonov stood at the end of the wharf, a lone, poignant figure silhouetted by the flames, as the High Priestess burned. Marqel studied him closely. He was a powerful, well-built man, still fit and good-looking, considering he was old enough to be her father. She'd been shocked by the suggestion that she should become Antonov's mistress when Dirk first proposed it, but as she watched the Lion of Senet now, she realized it wasn't going to be such a chore. Kirsh was young and good-looking and he adored her, but Antonov wore an aura of power Marqel found much more seductive. All Kirsh could offer her were furtive kisses and second place to his wife.
Antonov could give her the world.
Marqel glanced back at Dirk and smiled to herself. And when he does, she told him silently, I won't need you anymore, Dirk Provin.
Then we'll see who the clever one really is.
isha's health improved rapidly once Master Helgin and Petra taught him how to deal with his addiction. Taken in the right quantities, poppy-dust made him alert, stronger and more confident. He was eating regularly and had already gained weight, although Helgin wouldn't be happy until he gained a lot more. The physician speculated that Ella had been varying the dose she gave him just to keep him off balance, but once he was in a position to regulate his own medication, he found he had some chance of living a normal life. He also began to understand what Helgin meant when he referred to a “manageable addiction.”
But Misha wasn't interested in managing anything. He wanted to be rid of it, once and for all, and were it not for his experiences in Tolace he would have refused the drug outright.
Helgin assured him that once he was stable and had regained some strength he could begin to taper the dose gradually, which would give his body time to adjust. While such a course of action was eminently reasonable, it might take months—even years—before he was completely free of it. Misha didn't have years. Dirk had betrayed the Baenlanders and told Antonov the way through the delta. Misha would be lucky if he had weeks before they came for him, and once he was back in the clutches of Belagren and Ella Geon, he wasn't sure he would have much longer to live, regardless of whether he was an addict or not.
He was walking again—painfully—but at least he could hobble a sh
ort way along the beach. Calla had paid him a visit several days before and then returned the following day with a metal crutch she had made for him, which made it easier for him to get around. Misha was dismayed by his weakness, but somehow, he had to survive this. He had to free himself of the poppy-dust and return to Avacas, strong enough to confront his father and tell him what was going on.
Misha had learned much more than how to manage his addiction in the short time he had been in Mil. With no reason to doubt the High Priestess's version of events, he had always believed Neris Veran was the heretic who had corrupted the King of Dhevyn, which led to the War of Shadows. Since he'd been in Mil, since he'd had Neris's supposed “heresy” explained to him in detail, his whole world had turned on its ear. A few months ago, he would have denied the story about Neris discovering the truth about the return of the second sun in the ruins of Omaxin and sharing it with Belagren, who then announced the Goddess had spoken to her. But then, a few months ago, he would have scoffed at the suggestion he was a poppy-dust addict, too.
Once he had accepted that brutal truth, it wasn't very hard at all to accept the rest of it.
“Misha!”
He turned at the call and discovered Mellie Thorn skipping along the beach toward him. He stopped and looked at the ground he had covered, disappointed by the short distance he had traveled. He felt like he'd just run a marathon.
“Hello, Mellie,” he said, when she caught up with him.
“I saw you from the house. Are you supposed to be out here on your own?”
“No,” he told her with a smile. “Can't you tell? I'm trying to escape.”
Mellie laughed. “I really like you, Misha. It's such a pity you're a Latanya.”
“Isn't it,” he agreed wryly. “And what about you? Are you allowed to be talking to me?”
“It's all right. Mama's decided you're harmless.”
“Really?”
She smiled at the expression on his face. “You know what I mean.”
“Well, I hope it means she thinks I won't do you any harm.”
“I think so. Anyway, Tia thinks you're all right, and Mama always listens to her.” A frown darkened her warm brown eyes. “Everybody does now, since that awful business with Dirk.”
“Why is that?”
“Because Tia always insisted we shouldn't trust him and nobody listened to her until it was too late.”
“Did you trust him?”
She looked away. Dirk's betrayal had obviously broken Mellie's heart.
“I'm sure he had a good reason for what he did, Mellie,” Misha told her gently.
“Tia says it's because he's selfish and power hungry.”
“And what do you think?”
Mellie shrugged uncomfortably. “I don't know. I want to think he's doing something good, something he hasn't told anybody about, and I know Mama hopes the same thing, but it's just … well, why would he do such a thing and not tell us about it?”
“Perhaps he had his reasons,” Misha suggested, realizing his words were little comfort. He understood how she felt. Belagren probably had eminently good reasons for having him poisoned.
“He has plenty of reasons,” Tia announced, coming up behind him. Misha hadn't heard her footfalls on the soft black sand. “Mostly they're about what's best for Dirk Provin.”
He turned to look at her. She wore the same look of icy rage she always wore when anybody foolishly mentioned Dirk's name in her presence.
Mellie sensed Tia's fury and quickly changed the subject. “Misha's trying to escape. Do you think we should stop him?”
Misha watched curiously as Tia visibly forced aside her anger and smiled at Mellie. “Think you can handle it, Mel?” she joked. “He's getting pretty good on that crutch. Are you sure you'd be able to catch him?”
“I'll need a head start,” Misha warned. “Of about …a week.”
Mellie laughed. Misha suspected her merriment had as much to do with the fact that Tia was prepared to put aside her anger and join in the game as it did with their rather lame attempts to make light of his disabilities.
“Well, I'll take over guarding this dangerous prisoner for now,” Tia offered. “Lexie wants you back at the house.”
“Did she say why?”
“No, but I wouldn't drag my heels if I were you. She seemed a bit miffed you'd disappeared.”
“I'd better go then. You won't tell her I was consorting with the enemy, will you?”
“Not if you leave right this minute.”
“I'm going!” she promised, and then she turned to Misha with a smile. “Bye, Misha.”
“Good-bye, Mellie.”
As she turned and hurried up the beach toward the steep path leading to the stilted house overlooking the bay, Tia turned to him with a frown. “Please don't talk to Mellie about Dirk. She's hurting enough without you reminding her about it constantly.”
“It was Mellie who brought it up, Tia.”
“Well, the next time she brings it up, just ignore her.”
“I think she wants to talk about Dirk,” he suggested, aware he was treading on very thin ice. “Sometimes talking about these things can help ease the pain.”
She glared at him. “For you, maybe. Personally, the news somebody has slit his throat would suit me just as well.”
“Is that what you're hoping for? News that your assassin has been successful?”
“How did you know about that?”
“Petra mentioned it. She was complaining about what an assassin would cost. I think she was rather put out you didn't ask her to go to Avacas to poison Dirk, actually. Sort of a professional pride thing.”
Tia managed a thin smile. “She's not the only one who volunteered for the job.”
“I'd not like to be in Dirk's shoes,” Misha remarked. “I think if he'd known how many angry women he would have dogging his heels, he might have decided it was easier to live with my father's wrath, after all.”
“If that was a joke, it was in very poor taste, Misha.”
“I'm sorry,” he said. “I don't mean to trivialize the trouble he's caused you.”
“Let's just stop talking about it,” she suggested testily. “Anyway, I have some news you might be interested in.”
“What news?”
“Belagren is dead.”
Misha stared at her in shock. “The High Priestess?”
“How many Belagrens do you know?”
“But …I mean … how did it happen?”
“Officially, she died of a stroke, according to the Brotherhood,” Tia shrugged. “My money's on Dirk, though. It seems a little bit too convenient that no sooner is he confirmed as her right hand than she suddenly keels over. Care to wager on who the next High Priest of the Shadowdancers will be?”
“You think Dirk killed her?”
“He's pretty good at it, Misha. I know. I've seen him at work.”
“I can't believe it!”
“If you can't believe that, you're going to have even more trouble accepting the rest of it.”
“The rest of what?”
“Your brother's been in Tolace investigating your disappearance. The word is he's being very thorough. The body count has almost reached double figures, I hear.”
“Kirsh? What are you saying, Tia? That he's killing people just because I left the Hospice?”
“He's killing people because they think you were kidnapped from the Hospice, Misha.”
He shook his head in disbelief. “That doesn't sound like Kirsh. You must be mistaken. Barin Welacin must be responsible …”
“The Prefect is still in Avacas,” she told him. “Your precious little brother's doing this on his own initiative. I don't know why you look so surprised. Your people have being doing things like this in Dhevyn since the Age of Shadows. Is it Kirshov wielding the sword that shocks you, or that such brutality has finally reached Senet's shores?”
Misha stared at her, stung by her harsh words. “What are you talking about? Senet came to
Dhevyn's aid during the Age of Shadows…”
“Senet invaded Dhevyn, Misha,” she corrected. “When the people of Dhevyn started rioting because there was no food, Johan Thorn asked your father for help. What he got was soldiers—on every island in Dhevyn. And they put down the riots, I'll grant you that. But they didn't do it by helping distribute what little food there was in an orderly manner. They did it by imposing martial law, by killing anyone who stepped outside after curfew. And then, when they had the entire kingdom too afraid to move outside their doors, they imposed their religion on Dhevyn, and then the killing was justified because people refused to worship your damned false Goddess.”
“That's not the way I was taught it happened, Tia.”
“Of course it's not what you were taught,” she scoffed. “History is always written by the winners, and they always paint themselves as heroes. That way, they don't have to acknowledge the unpleasant details.”
Tia turned on her heel and began walking away from him, leaving Misha shocked and very disturbed by what she had told him. He wanted to deny it, but in light of everything that had happened to him recently, her story seemed more than just rebel rhetoric. In fact, it seemed quite plausible. How much of it was my father's will, he wondered, and how much Belagren's?
“Tia!” he called after her.
She stopped and turned back. “What?”
“There's nothing I can do to change the past,” he told her with genuine regret. “But I might be able to help change the future.”
“How?”
“By giving you some advice.”
“That's just what we need,” she said. “Advice from the Crippled Prince.”
She was angry, and perhaps with good cause, so Misha chose to ignore the insult.
“Get Mellie out of the Baenlands while you still can.”
Tia looked confused. That was the last thing she was expecting him to say. “Why?”
“Because she's Johan Thorn's only legitimate child. She has more right to the Eagle Throne of Dhevyn than either Alenor D'Orlon or Dirk Provin; more right to it than any living soul. If my father ever learned of her existence he would hunt her down, take her back to Avacas and try to mold her into a puppet monarch just as he did with Alenor and Dirk.”
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