Six …
Marqel held her arms wide. “Come to us, my lady!” she called. “You find us here, gathered at your request, to witness the full might of your awesome power! Show us the truth! Bring forth the moment of darkness you promised, so the disbelievers may be humbled. Let us be reminded of the Age of Shadows. Let the darkness come! We welcome it because the truth in our hearts will return us to the light!”
Seven…
The second sun blazed bright and uninterrupted. There was no hint of the promised darkness. Marqel glanced at Dirk again nervously. Had he gotten the time wrong? The day, perhaps?
“Show us, my lady! Show us your might! Assure us our sacrifices have not been in vain!”
Dirk had composed her rather dramatic speech. The words were far too eloquent for an uneducated Landfall bastard. But he'd promised the eclipse would begin while she was beseeching the Goddess.
Like a lot of other people, she surreptitiously glanced up at the sky, expecting to see something, anything, but still there was no hint of encroaching darkness. Marqel was starting to feel more than a little uncertain.
Eight …
Truly concerned now, she glanced over her shoulder at Dirk again. The Lord of the Suns met her eye evenly but remained unmoved. This was her show. The High Priestess was the one who spoke to the Goddess, not the Lord of the Suns. He was merely lending her support. Marqel glanced over to where Antonov sat with Kirsh and Alenor. She couldn't see the queen's expression, but she could see the Lion of Senet and his son. Antonov's face was set in a rapturous gaze of absolute faith. Kirsh simply stared, transfixed by the sight of her.
“I call on the Goddess!” Marqel cried again, her voice almost desperate now. An uneasy restlessness began to infect the people in the plaza. They had come to witness a show. Surely, by now, something should have happened …
Nine…
Marqel bit her bottom lip to stifle her outrage as it slowly dawned on her what was really going on.
Dirk Provin had used her. She'd been set up.
In the most spectacular way imaginable.
He had elevated her to High Priestess, just so he could knock her down. The exquisite subtlety of his vengeance was lost on Marqel. All she understood was the glittering world she had come to know was suddenly in danger.
The sound of the ninth bell faded slowly, taking with it Marqel's only chance to publicly prove she was the Voice of the Goddess.
Silence filled the plaza. A hush of anticipation. Then a gasp of awe. Marqel looked over her shoulder at the pyres behind her. Instead of the flames taking hold of the sacrifices, they sputtered and hissed and smouldered and suddenly died.
The Goddess had refused the sacrifice of the High Priestess.
As the last bell tolled over the city, Marqel began to understand she had been betrayed.
The Goddess had spoken to the people of Ranadon.
She had—unequivocally—demonstrated to the world she no longer favored the Shadowdancers. Her position, the respect, the wealth and the fear she engendered—all of it slipped from Marqel's grasp in those few fatal seconds. Worse than that, she had been publicly exposed as a fraud. She risked a glance at Antonov. His expression was dumbstruck, shattered. Antonov understood the implications even better than Marqel did.
Because when the bells rang out the ninth hour of the ninth day of Ezenor in the year 10,241, absolutely nothing happened.
PART FOUR
he seconds after the eclipse failed to materialize were the most critical. Dirk held his breath as the truth settled on the gathered crowd, desperately hoping he had judged things correctly. What was it Marqel said that day in the carriage on the way to inform the Lion of Senet that Dirk was now the Lord of the Suns?
You need momentous acts to mark momentous occasions.
And this was a momentous occasion. This was the beginning of the end of the Shadowdancers. They had risen to power so quickly because Antonov supported them. Dirk was counting on their demise being just as rapid once that support was withdrawn. But he couldn't even begin to tackle the rest of the Shadowdancers or the hundreds of thousands of people who believed in them until Antonov's faith was fractured.
Dirk knew there was no quick fix, no one clean, sweeping deed he could perform to break the power of the people's belief in the Shadowdancers, but he could rattle that belief. Shake it so profoundly that it would take only a little more persuasion to bring the whole thing down. Like a building damaged in a quake, it would take very little to make it collapse on top of itself once the foundations were weakened. Antonov and the High Priestess were the foundations and before he could bring this building down, he needed to discredit the High Priestess and shatter Antonov's faith.
That he had discredited the High Priestess was a given. What really worried Dirk was Antonov's reaction. He looked down at the Lion of Senet. He was clutching at Kirsh's arm, his expression frozen in shock, and for the first time in his life … doubt.
Dirk felt a sudden wave of relief mingled with satisfaction. For that look of doubt Dirk had let Tia and the Baenlanders think he had turned on them. He had joined the Church of the Suns; clawed his way to the ultimate position of authority. For this moment of clarity in Antonov he had burned Mil and betrayed every friend he owned. For this one, crucial instant when Antonov Latanya was confronted with the possibility that he was wrong, Dirk had made Marqel the Magnificent High Priestess of the Shadowdancers.
One hint of suspicion and he would never had gotten this far. Jacinta D'Orlon might have guessed what he was up to. Given much longer to think about it, she probably would have worked it out. But the only person who had known for certain what would happen this morning was Claudio Varell, and Dirk had taken him into his confidence only a few hours ago.
Everything he had done had been for these few precious moments of stunned immobility as Antonov was confronted with the truth.
It's all about faith. Give them something tangible to believe in, and nobody suspects the truth. Even when the truth makes more sense. He'd learned that from Belagren.
Dirk gave Antonov a few seconds for the full impact of what he had witnessed to sink in, and then he stepped forward.
“The Goddess has spoken!” he declared into the nervous silence. “See how she spurns the sacrifices of the Shadowdancers! It is a sign. She has declared the visions of the Shadowdancers false!”
Dirk's eyes were fixed on Antonov as he spoke. To watch the truth sink in; to see him visibly crumble made everything Dirk had done suddenly seem worthwhile. It made the treachery, the lies—all of it—seem justified.
You have to kill the idea, Neris had told him.
But not just in the minds of the people, Neris, he told the old man silently. The idea has to be killed at the source. In the heart of the man who sanctioned the Shadowdancers and gave their cult credence. You have to kill the idea in the heart of the man whose faith sustained and supported the lies. The man the rest of the world followed.
As he watched him, Antonov sagged against his son. Visibly broken.
Now it was time. Now was the moment he had been waiting for. Dirk raised his arms to the heavens.
“The Goddess has shown us the way,” the Lord of the Suns shouted, his words meant for Antonov. “She has turned her back on the High Priestess and exposed her as a fraud. She has spurned the darkness and offered us light. Now you must do the same!”
And then something happened that Dirk hadn't anticipated.
The crowd erupted, but rather than an outpouring of renewed faith in the Sundancers he was hoping for, they began howling for Shadowdancer blood. Dirk had anticipated a certain degree of anger at his words—he'd disarmed the Senetian soldiers for that reason—but he didn't expect the mob to interpret his advice quite so literally. Before his words had reached the far corners of the plaza a chant was taken up by the crowd: “Give us the light! Give us the light!”
Betrayed and angry, within moments the crowd had disintegrated into a mindless mob, turning on a
nybody wearing red, anybody who even looked like he might be a Shadowdancer. Claudio begged for order, but it was doubtful anybody heard him over the din. Over the chanting, screams tore through the air—of mothers frightened for their children, of those who, after two decades of smug superiority, suddenly found themselves the target of the people's wrath. The Senetian soldiers moved in to restore order, but without weapons they could do little to quell the anger of the raging mob.
Dirk glanced back at the temple entrance. The Sundancers he had addressed before the ceremony hurried out. He had not told them exactly what was going to happen, just that they would be needed when the time came. The woman who had questioned him earlier had asked how they would know when the time was right.
Dirk had smiled at her and said, “You'll know.”
He didn't bother to check if they were doing as he'd ordered. He pushed forward down the steps against the press of angry people trying to rush the temple until he reached Tael Gordonov. Some people were trying to get to Marqel, others wanted a piece of the pyres the Goddess had so dramatically extinguished, or maybe a chance to vent their anger on the sacrifices the Goddess had deemed unworthy. Many of them wanted nothing but to be free of the mob, but were carried along by the weight of the crowd.
“Get Alenor,” he ordered, shouting to be heard over the ruckus. “And Antonov. Get them into the temple.” The stands full of dignitaries were surrounded by a sea of raging commoners, the stand to the left in danger of being toppled.
The Dhevynian captain stared at him, making the decision Dirk had warned him about earlier, in less than a heartbeat.
“We'll need more weapons than the knives we carry,” he warned.
“In the temple, Captain,” Dirk shouted back. “Ready and waiting for you.”
Tael grinned suddenly and then nodded and called his men to him. They were forcing their way through to Alenor as Dirk raced back up the steps two at a time. Marqel was gone. Forcibly removed back into the temple by Claudio's Sundancers, if they had followed his orders. Alexin had been freed by another Sundancer and was rubbing his wrists as he fled inside. Dirk heard Kirsh's voice over the ruckus, calling the Senetian soldiers to him. The man assigned to freeing Tia was still fumbling with the chains that held her. The outraged mob pressed closer. They would have their vengeance for being duped, and the sacrifices offered by the High Priestess and spurned by the Goddess were their obvious target. Dirk clambered up the pyre and pushed the man out of the way.
“Get inside,” he ordered. “We'll be torn apart if they can't hold the crowd back.”
The old man nodded and gladly climbed down backward as Dirk turned to the chains. Tia was staring at him, dumbstruck.
He cursed as he tried to free her. The old Sundancer had fumbled when he tried to open the chains and the key was jammed crookedly in the lock.
“There was never any eclipse, was there?” Tia said shakily, finally finding her voice. “It was all a trick …”
“Not now, Tia.”
“You faked it … all of it …”
Dirk cursed loudly again as the key finally turned. He pulled Tia free of the chains. Pushing her off the pyre, he jumped down after her as the Queen's Guardsmen thrust through with Alenor and Antonov between them. Dirk looked around but could see no sign of Kirsh and had no time to worry about him. He shoved Tia through the big bronze doors a step behind the Guardsmen and then ordered the doors closed.
They boomed shut a moment ahead of the mob.
His heart pounding, Dirk sagged against the doors and looked around. Antonov was ashen, held up by a Dhevynian Guardsman. Alenor was sobbing, her arms around a visibly shaking Alexin, uncaring of who might be witnessing her infidelity. Tael was over by the pile of weapons Dirk had collected from the Senetian soldiers and distributing them among his men. The Sundancers were looking at him expectantly. Tia was staring at him, her shock almost equal to her anger.
But there was one person missing.
“Where's Marqel?” he said.
s Kirsh watched the world disintegrate around him when the fires fizzled out, one thing was foremost in his mind. Marqel was in danger, and somehow, Dirk was responsible for it. His father clutched at his arm for support but he couldn't tear his eyes away from Marqel. She looked terrified and alone, a slight, red-robed figure stranded in a sea of hostility.
As the crowd rapidly fractured into a raging, mindless mob, Kirsh caught sight of Tael Gordonov and his men pushing through the melee toward them. Without question, Kirsh thrust Antonov at one of the Guardsmen and then grabbed Alenor by the arm and all but threw her at Tael. The captain swept the tiny queen up into his arms and headed for the temple, his men cutting a path through the horde like a blue-and-silver wedge. Kirsh didn't know who'd given the captain his orders and didn't really care. His father and Alenor would be safe in the temple. His duty done, Kirsh was free to help Marqel.
He called to her as she backed away from the surging rabble, and somehow she heard him through the bedlam.
“Kirsh!” she screamed in terror.
He pushed his way forward until he reached the line of Senetian soldiers trying to hold back the mob. They had let the Dhevynians through and closed ranks behind them. Kirsh spied Sergey in the line and screamed at him to help the High Priestess. The captain might not have heard his words, but he must have guessed his meaning. Sergey surged up the steps and grabbed Marqel, pulling her clear as the mob broke through near the doors. Once he was satisfied Marqel was safe, Kirsh turned his attention back to the temple entrance. He caught sight of Dirk shoving Tia Veran through into the safety of the temple as the doors boomed shut a hairbreadth ahead of the rioters.
Kirsh watched the crowd bang on the temple doors, but was fairly certain they were solid enough to withstand an angry mob. Even if they did manage to break through, there were nearly a hundred Dhevynian Queen's Guard inside. Putting the problem of the temple out of his mind, he called the Senetian soldiers to him and they bludgeoned their way back through the plaza. A few others followed his lead, including, he noted with surprise, Dirk's brother, Rees Provin. The soldiers he gathered to him were unarmed, which was inconvenient, but it probably meant there would be more broken heads than corpses before this was brought under control.
“What you need is horses!” Rees shouted as he shoved his way to Kirsh's side. “People prepared to face down an armed man will flee from the hooves of a determined cavalry charge.”
Kirsh nodded his agreement and looked back toward the entrance to the plaza. “We have to get back to the garrison. Or hope somebody in the City Guard has the sense to get some mounted troops in here before these rioters destroy the city.”
More and more of the soldiers had managed to push their way through to him and he now had a sizable force with which to cut his way through the bedlam. They pushed back where they could, but it was more like a barroom brawl than a coordinated effort. The stands where the dignitaries had been watching had emptied. Many of the spectators were sheltering underneath. Kirsh made no effort to rescue them, although he did wonder for a moment what had happened to Rees's pregnant wife. The only way to fix this was to quell the riot. Trying to save a few people here and there was useless.
“Look!” someone shouted behind him. “It's the City Guard!”
Kirsh turned in the direction the soldier pointed, relieved to discover that the small and largely ceremonial City Guard had the wit to send in reinforcements. And they were mounted. He forced his way toward the troop, which numbered less than fifty men, but more important, fifty horses. It seemed to take forever to reach them, but they didn't have to fight much. Most of the crowd fled before the wedge of soldiers pushing through the throng.
“Give me your horse!” Kirsh shouted as soon as he reached the captain of the City Guard.
A little nervous about plowing into a crowd of his own people, the young man willingly dismounted and handed the reins to Kirsh. He swung into the saddle, relieved to have a better view of the melee from horseback
.
“Get back to the garrison,” Kirsh ordered Rees. “Get every man you can mounted, and then get them back here as fast as you can.”
He didn't wait for the Duke of Elcast to acknowledge the order. With a savage yell, Kirsh kicked his borrowed horse into a canter and drove straight back into the mob.
By the middle of the day the riot was broken. The plaza in front of the temple was littered with the remnants of the disturbance and several dead bodies. Some had been trampled in the crush; others had been deliberately targeted by the mob. There were more than a few Shadowdancers among the dead. Most of the nobility present appeared to have escaped unscathed, except for Prince Baston of Damita. They found his body near the temple steps, beaten so savagely Kirsh only recognized him by the red clothes he wore.
Once Kirsh had mounted troops to aid him, the rioters lost much of their enthusiasm for the fight. Most of them had fled back to their homes, or out to the tent city. By midafternoon, Kirsh declared a curfew, which left them free to clean up the last of the troublemakers. There were a number of fires lit throughout the city, which Kirsh assigned Bollow's City Guard to bring under control. They had rarely been called on to do more than break up the odd street fight before today, and they didn't have the heart for the ruthless task of rounding up the last of the agitators.
It was late afternoon before he made it to the garrison. He issued orders to keep hunting the last of the rioters and finally got a chance to see Marqel.
Sergey had installed Marqel in a small anteroom off the main barracks dining room and stayed with her to ensure she was safe. Marqel flew into Kirsh's arms when she saw him, sobbing inconsolably and babbling something about Dirk. He held her for a moment, forgetting all that had happened between them. She was back in his arms and in trouble and right now, not even his father could help her.
“Shh,” he said soothingly as he held her. “It's all over now.”
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