Lord of the Shadows

by Jennifer Fallon

  Kirsh frowned, obviously disturbed by the question.

  “Marqel loves me,” he insisted stubbornly.

  “Then you have nothing to worry about, do you?”

  Kirsh shrugged and studied his empty wineglass for a moment.

  “Alenor missed you when you left Avacas,” he said.

  Dirk smiled. “I'll bet you didn't. You were too busy fulfilling your lifelong ambition in the Queen's Guard.”

  “My lifelong ambitions,” Kirsh snorted. “None of them have even come close to being realized, Dirk. I spent two years in the guard being ostracized because of who I am. I'm regent of a country that would prefer it if I was dead, and married to a woman who hates me. She won't even let me into her bed. Did you know that? Your precious, innocent little queen got herself knocked up by a lover, not by me.”

  He was more than a little drunk, Dirk realized. Although Kirsh had only had two glasses of wine with Dirk, there was no telling how much he'd consumed before Dirk arrived.

  “Kirsh…”

  “And now the one thing in my life I thought I could count on, the one person I thought was truly on my side, is going to be taken from me …”

  “Oh, for pity's sake, Kirsh!” Dirk snapped. “Stop feeling so damned sorry for yourself! If you think Marqel is going to put you aside so she can take up with your father, then she's not nearly as in love with you as you'd like to think, is she? And don't you ever repeat that nonsense about Alenor to anyone! You'd be killing her just as effectively as if you wielded the blade yourself.”

  Kirsh glared at him. “You knew, didn't you? She told you.”

  “I would never betray Alenor. Or you, for that matter.”

  “Really? That's why you made me let Tia Veran go? So she could kidnap my brother? If you don't call that betrayal, Dirk, what do you call it?”

  “I called in the favor you owed me, Kirsh, that's all. What happened afterward was none of my doing.”

  Kirsh was silent for a moment. Dirk couldn't tell what he was thinking, but in his present state, it wasn't likely to be very coherent.

  “I was going to save Misha,” he said eventually. “I was going to prove I was more than just a second son; more than a spare heir whose only use is standing at stud for his father's dynastic ambitions. I was going to wipe out the Baenlands and return to Avacas a hero.”

  “Is that what's got you wallowing in self pity? You're afraid you won't be hailed as a hero?”

  Kirsh shook his head. “This was my chance to prove myself to Antonov, Dirk. To prove that I really am the son he likes to think I am. But I've screwed it up. There's no sign of Misha, and the Baenlanders got away from us. All I have is a smoking village and a few prisoners who say they know little more than their own names.”

  “That's hardly your fault, Kirsh.”

  “Antonov will think it is. Yet again, I fail the test.”

  “What test?”

  “The test he applies to everything I do, Dirk. The one where my father measures my every decision, my every action, against his benchmark of what constitutes a son he can be proud of.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You, Dirk. I'm talking about you.”

  “That's absurd!”

  “You're everything he could have hoped for in a son, don't you see? Goddess, even after you burned the Calliope it was obvious he secretly admired your daring. Look at you! You're the ultimate survivor. And—bastard or not—you have the added advantage of being the son of a real king. My grandfather was a commoner, who rose through the ranks and seized control of Senet, Dirk. You think my father doesn't remember that? But you're the last in a line of kings reaching back into antiquity. Why do you think he's never just overthrown Dhevyn and appointed himself her king? It's because he knows that a couple of generations of power don't make you royal. Goddess, he's let you get away with murder—literally! How can I compete with you?”

  “I never tried to compete with you, Kirsh,” Dirk said.

  “And that's what really pisses me off,” Kirsh replied. “You are everything my father wanted his own sons to be and you don't even care.”

  y the second month of her reign, Marqel realized that Madalan Tirov was deliberately preventing her from retuning to the Lion of Senet's palace, or having anything else to do with him. The reason was clear, even to Marqel. Until the fleet returned, and Dirk's reliability was either proved or disproved, Madalan didn't want Marqel to have a chance to get close to Antonov Latanya. If word came back that the fleet had been destroyed, Marqel would be the one to wear the blame, and Madalan didn't want Antonov flinching from passing her death sentence because he had grown attached to her.

  Marqel was at a loss as to how to fight Madalan. She had never had any friends among the other Shadowdancers, viewing them as competition rather than potential allies, so there was nobody she could even trust to run a message for her without it finding its way into Madalan's hands. Her elevation to High Priestess was unpopular; she had still been an acolyte and she wasn't even Senetian. Marqel was alone in a gilded cage, trapped amid undreamed-of wealth as she waited to find out if she would live or die, her fate in the hands of a man who openly despised her.

  Madalan kept her busy. Marqel spent almost every waking moment buried in boring administrative matters that she was certain Belagren had never had to deal with. She said as much to Madalan once, who smiled nastily, and pointed out that much of the work was the responsibility of the right hand of the High Priestess, but since the Lord of the Shadows was currently otherwise engaged, Marqel would just have to deal with it herself.

  Marqel was tempted to test the limits of her power by simply removing Dirk in his absence and reassigning Madalan to the job, which would force the old sow to take on the work herself, but she thought better of it. That would be handing the bitch far too much power, and she was afraid to think of what Dirk's reaction might be if he returned to Avacas to find himself deposed. Besides, if things went bad in the Baenlands, the last thing Marqel needed was Madalan Tirov at her right hand, close enough to wield the knife that stabbed her in the back.

  The Lion of Senet questioned her absence from the palace. Madalan made no attempt to hide his messages and invitations from Marqel. But she replied to each one with an apologetic missive on Marqel's behalf, claiming the new High Priestess was under a great deal of pressure and had far too much to deal with in her new role to take time out to socialize, even with someone as important as the Lion of Senet.

  Just when Marqel began to grow truly desperate about her predicament, she received a ray of hope from the most unlikely source. Jacinta D'Orlon, lady-in-waiting to the Queen of Dhevyn, requested a private audience with the High Priestess, and there was not a damn thing Madalan Tirov could do to prevent it.

  “You do me a great honor, my lady,” Jacinta said graciously, looking around the opulent, almost tasteless wealth decorating the High Priestess's private suite. The whole room, from the small side tables to the large inlaid murals on the walls, was touched with gilt. Even the vase in the corner of the room, filled with freshly cut flowers, was solid gold (Marqel had checked on that personally the day she moved in). Marqel enjoyed the look of surprise on Jacinta's face. She could remember thinking, the first time she had entered this place, that one day all this would belong to her. And now it did.

  Then Jacinta turned to face Marqel with a friendly smile. “You've come a long way since I saw you last.”

  Although she would not go so far as to call Jacinta a friend, Alenor's lady-in-waiting had always treated her with respect, and Marqel was delighted to see someone who wasn't a damned Shadowdancer.

  “The Goddess spoke to me. I'm the High Priestess now.”

  “So I hear,” Jacinta agreed. “That's why I was so surprised to find you buried here in the Hall of Shadows and not at the palace. I thought the High Priestess had duties there as well.”

  Marqel was instantly suspicious. “What do you mean?”

  The Dhevynian woman smiled.
“Why don't we sit down?”

  Marqel nodded her agreement and took the seat opposite Jacinta, as the lady-in-waiting fastidiously straightened her skirts.

  “What duties?” she asked again.

  “Well, it's just I thought the High Priestess and the Lion of Senet …”

  “I've been busy,” Marqel shrugged uncomfortably. “I haven't had time to get back to the palace.”

  “That's such a pity. Antonov has been asking for you, I understand.”

  “He has?” she asked, a little too eagerly.

  Jacinta looked at her with great concern. “Marqel, may I ask you something personal?”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, it seems to me your elevation to the position of High Priestess might be unpopular among the Shadowdancers. You're Dhevynian, for one thing, and new to their ranks. They're not deliberately keeping you from Antonov, are they?”

  Marqel's natural distrust of anything or anybody connected with Alenor began to wane a little in the face of Jacinta's obvious sincerity. “I think they might be,” she confided in a low voice.

  “But that's terrible,” Jacinta cried. “Can't you order them to let you out of here?”

  “If I could, do you think I'd be sitting here?”

  “Oh, Marqel! How dreadful for you. Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “What can you do? I'm the High Priestess of the Shadowdancers. You're just the Queen of Dhevyn's maid.”

  Jacinta smiled conspiratorially. “I may just be the Queen of Dhevyn's maid, Marqel, but I think I might be able to help you.”

  “How? How can you get me into the palace? More to the point, why would you want to?”

  “The how is easy enough. I'll simply have Alenor insist you return.”

  “Antonov's already sent several messages asking about me. Madalan just fobs him off with one excuse after another.”

  “Alenor won't just ask after you, Marqel, she will insist on your spiritual guidance. If she begs your company of Antonov, instead of simply asking after you, he will insist to Madalan that you attend the palace. She can ignore an invitation, but not a direct order.”

  “Why would you do something like this for me?”

  Jacinta sighed heavily. “Because Alenor wants to go home, Marqel.”

  “So?”

  “Well, I was thinking … in exchange for getting you out of here, perhaps you could return the favor by insisting Antonov sends her back to Kalarada.”

  Marqel smiled. She was always more comfortable when she knew what someone wanted of her. And Jacinta obviously wanted her help. Better yet, she obviously needed it. “But why would he listen to me?”

  “Because you are the Voice of the Goddess.”

  Marqel's smile faded. She didn't like the sound of this. She certainly did not want to give Jacinta anything she could hold over her at some stage in the future. “You're asking me to lie to him.”

  Lady Jacinta met her eye and smiled knowingly. “If lying to Antonov bothered you, Marqel, you'd not be the High Priestess. It's part and parcel of the job, I understand.”

  The comment worried her. As far as Marqel knew, Jacinta was supposed to be a faithful follower of the Goddess. Antonov would never have allowed her to remain in the queen's service if she wasn't. Jacinta should not even be questioning the truth of her visions. But then, the little queen of Dhevyn was uncomfortably close to Dirk Provin, Marqel recalled. The Goddess knew what he'd told her about all this and what she'd told her lady-in-waiting.

  For a moment, Marqel wavered with indecision. But when all was said and done, whatever Jacinta believed, she was offering her a way out of the Hall of Shadows and, in truth, Marqel would be glad to see the back of the pallid little queen. And if it came to a showdown, it would be the word of a Dhevynian lady-in-waiting against the Voice of the Goddess.

  “Very well, I'll help you. If you help me.”

  Jacinta rose to her feet. “Then I will look forward to seeing you at the palace sometime soon, Marqel.”

  The lady-in-waiting headed for the door without waiting to be excused. She had almost reached it when Marqel thought of something else. Jacinta must be truly desperate if her only recourse was to turn to Marqel for help.

  “I have a condition.”

  Jacinta turned and looked at her curiously. “And what is that?”

  “Getting me into the palace isn't enough. Get me into Antonov's bed.”

  “I'm not your pimp, Marqel,” she responded with a frown.

  “Oh yes, you are, Lady Jacinta,” Marqel told her, feeling a lot more confident about her ability to bargain. “If Alenor wants out of Avacas, then get me into Antonov's bed. That's the deal or we have no deal at all.” She smiled and opened her arms to encompass the luxurious suite she occupied. “As prisons go, this isn't so bad, you know. I can stay a little longer if I have to.”

  Jacinta thought about it for a moment and then shrugged. “I'll see what I can do.”

  “You do that, my lady, because I won't be having any visions about your queen going home to Kalarada until the morning after.”

  ellie Thorn was a strong swimmer, so she volunteered to teach Misha. It was a little embarrassing for Misha to admit he couldn't swim. He was a grown man who had spent his whole life near the sea. But Mellie seemed glad she was able to do something to help. Misha suspected she was bored. After the initial excitement of their flight from Mil and arrival in Damita had worn off, with no friends her own age nearby, Mellie found herself with little else to do but work her way through Oscon's extensive library, or go for long, solitary walks. On the rare occasions she had disappeared for a walk, Tia had been so angry at her for wandering off that Mellie soon discounted it as a viable way to pass the time.

  Misha promised he would go walking with Mellie when he was strong enough, to which Tia responded contemptuously: “Over my dead body!”

  Misha smiled. He suspected that Tia didn't doubt he would eventually be strong enough to walk unaided. It was the idea she would let either Mellie or Misha roam the countryside around Garwenfield unescorted that prompted her comment.

  They were sitting on the beach, letting the warm second sun dry their skin. The ocean lapped the white sand with hypnotic regularity. The screeching of gulls searching the shoreline for scraps was the only thing preventing them from being caught in its spell. Misha was tired, but not unbearably so. Mellie was a surprisingly patient teacher, and Tia always remained close by, to make sure he didn't drown when they paddled out into the deeper water. He could not swim yet, but he could tread water for longer and longer periods each day. His right arm and leg felt as strong as they ever had, although the weakness in his left side was an endless source of frustration.

  “I fear our jailer plans to let neither of us out of her sight, Mellie,” Misha predicted with a smile.

  “I'll give you jailer,” Tia snapped. “If I catch either of you even thinking about wandering off without me, I'll lock you both in a dungeon and you can survive on bread and water and whatever food I can slip under the door.”

  “There are no dungeons here, Tia,” Mellie laughed. “She's such a grouch, isn't she?” she added to Misha.

  “I know,” he agreed with a grin. “What do you think we should do about it?”

  “We could throw her back into the water,” Mellie suggested.

  “You and Misha?” Tia scoffed. “That'll be the day.”

  “She's right, Mellie. But give me time to get stronger and then we'll catch her unawares one day and toss her into the sea.”

  “It's a bargain!” Mellie laughed, climbing to her feet. “Do you want to try again?”

  Misha shook his head. “I've had enough for one day, I think. But don't let me stop you if you want to keep swimming.”

  Mellie ran down the sand toward the water and splashed into the small waves. Misha watched her for a while, and then turned to look at Tia, who was staring out over the water with a pensive expression.

  “I envy Mellie Thorn.”
/>   “Why?” she asked, turning to look at him.

  “Because she's so unaffected. I wish I was as innocent of the dangers of being an heir.”

  “Mellie's not the heir to anything.”

  “Don't kid yourself, Tia. While Alenor D'Orlon remains childless, there is no other logical heir to Dhevyn unless you want to see Dirk Provin on the Eagle Throne.”

  As usual, her expression darkened at the mention of Dirk's name. “Are you suggesting that Dirk would kill Alenor, and then try to remove Mellie as well?”

  He shook his head. “I know your opinion of Dirk, Tia, but the more I think about it, the more I don't believe the Eagle Throne of Dhevyn is what he's after.”

  “What is he after then?”

  “I think he's trying to destroy the Church.”

  Tia snorted skeptically. “He joined the damned Church, Misha!”

  “It's sometimes easier to pull a thing down from the inside,” he said, “than to stand outside throwing rocks at it.”

  “You're as bad as Lexie,” she complained. “You just can't help trying to find a reason to convince yourself he hasn't betrayed us, can you? I hope you haven't been telling Mellie your bizarre theories. I warned you about that.”

  “She's not mentioned him to me since Mil.”

  “Good. The less time she spends dwelling on her bastard half-brother, the better.”

  “You didn't know him before he came to Avacas, did you?” he asked. “The Dirk Provin you describe is different from the boy I once played chess with.”

  “You knew the boy, Misha. It's the man you should worry about.”

  If Tia thought her anger masked the pain behind her words, then she was mistaken. Misha thought Master Helgin was right when he speculated that Tia and Dirk had been more than friends. It would account for why her rage seemed to have no limit.

  “Did you love him very much, Tia?”

  She glared at him for a moment, and then scrambled angrily to her feet and stalked off toward the house without answering his question.