Lord of the Shadows

by Jennifer Fallon

  “No. She just pointed out the similarities in our situations.”

  “What similarities?” he asked with a forced smile. “Goddess! You're not poisoning me, too, are you?”

  Tia glared at him. “This is no joking matter, Misha.”

  “It is if you're ready to up and leave at the behest of that murderous bitch.”

  “But don't you see,” she pleaded. “She's my mother. How can you love someone who was begotten by such evil?”

  “Much the same way you can love the son of Antonov Latanya, I suppose,” he pointed out.

  Tia wiped her eyes again. “It's not the same thing.”

  He limped toward her and held out his arms. “It's exactly the same thing, my love. And if you can love me, even with the stain of being Antonov's son on my character, there is no reason at all why I can't love the daughter of the woman who tried to kill me.”

  She came to him almost reluctantly, but as soon as he had her in his arms, he knew everything would be all right.

  “I'm so sorry, Misha. I shouldn't have gone to see her. It's just … you're shivering!”

  “It's nothing to worry about. Just a little reminder that I'm not as cured as I'd like to think.”

  Tia leaned back in his arms and studied his face. “You don't have to lie to me, Misha.”

  “I'm not lying,” he assured her, keeping his body still by sheer force of will. “I'm simply putting a brave face on a rather inconvenient relapse. I'll be fine in a little while. Promise me you won't leave.”

  “Are you sure, Misha? Really sure?”

  “I'm sure.”

  “Then I promise.”

  “I love you, Tia,” he whispered soothingly as she laid her head on his shoulder. “And I don't want you worrying about Ella. I'll take care of it. She won't bother you ever again, my love. I give you my word.”

  Misha made it to his room before he collapsed, but he wasn't able to take his rest yet. He needed to keep his promise to Tia first. Staggering to the settee, he rang for a servant, his shivering almost uncontrollable.

  “Your highness?” the servant asked as he entered the room, looking at Misha with alarm.

  “Fetch Lord Provin. Bring him here. Now.”

  The man fled the room and Misha sank down on to the couch, pulling a rug over himself to ward off the chill, even though the room was quite warm. He didn't need this. Not now. Not when it was so vital he keep his wits about him.

  Dirk answered his summons with little delay. He took one look at Misha and dismissed the servant who accompanied him, and then he crossed the room and knelt beside the prince. “Is there anything I can do?”

  Misha liked that about Dirk. He didn't waste time on useless platitudes.

  “Not about this,” he said, holding up a trembling hand for Dirk to see. “I need you to do something else for me. A favor. A big favor.”

  “Name it.”

  “I want you to take care of Ella Geon.”

  “I promised I would. As soon as I get back, we can convene the trial and—”

  “No. I don't mean that. I mean I want you to take care of her. Now. Permanently.”

  Dirk was silent for a moment, and when he did finally speak there was no emotion in his voice, no censure. “You want me to kill her.”

  “I shouldn't ask it of you,” Misha admitted, leaning back against the coach with his eyes closed. “But don't you see what will happen? She'll stand up in court and do nothing but dredge up a world of pain, which will do nothing but hurt the people I love.”

  “You mean Tia, I suppose.”

  He opened his eyes and stared up at the ceiling, wishing the pain would go away. Not just the pain of withdrawal. The pain of betrayal by the people he trusted. The pain of seeing the woman he loved suffering. “How ironic I fell for her. I never did have much of a choice, did I? Not with my … disabilities.”

  “I don't think Tia cares about that.”

  “Ella probably did me a favor, you know,” he said, aware he was rambling, finding it hard to concentrate. “She gave me a chance to forget for a while. I don't think I was really aware of how much more my father loved Kirsh than me. How much he despised my weakness. My imperfections. Perhaps I should be grateful I spent most of my time coddled in poppy-dust. The reality of my position might have been a lot more painful if I'd known what was really going on around me.”

  “You don't mean that.”

  “Don't kid yourself, Dirk,” he laughed sourly. “I sometimes think I'm just as deluded now as I was when I was an addict. Do you think Tia really loves me? Maybe she's using me, because I can give her the life Johan Thorn stole from her when he took her from the Hall of Shadows. And how long can I keep hold of my father's throne, anyway? Against Kirsh? If he doesn't take it from me, then all the able-bodied nobleman in Senet who resent being governed by a cripple certainly will.”

  “It's not like you to wallow in self-pity, Misha.”

  “It's not like me to ask another man to kill for me, either. It's the pain, I think. It's making me foolish. I never…I never…”

  “Killed anyone before? Your father told me once it gets easier.”

  “Does it?”

  “Not that I've noticed.”

  “Do you think I'm a monster? For a man who swore to rule by the law, I'm making an impressive start, aren't I? At the first test of my character, I choose vengeance over justice.”

  “Deal with it, Misha,” Dirk said unsympathetically. “You're the Lion of Senet. If this is the worst thing you ever order, you'll still be streets ahead of your father.”

  He forced his eyes to focus on the Lord of the Suns. “You'll do it, then?”

  “Wouldn't you rather wait until you're feeling better? You might have a change of heart—”

  “Which is exactly the reason I don't want to wait, Dirk,” he cut in. “I don't want to have a change of heart. I don't want to decide this rationally and coolly. I want the bitch who poisoned me and hurt the woman I love to be gone from our lives forever.”

  Dirk thought about it for a long time, and then he shrugged. “I'll take care of it. I think I owe Tia that much.”

  “You hurt her, Dirk.”

  “I know.”

  Misha stared at him, trying to read what was behind that flat admission of guilt. There was nothing in Dirk's expression that provided Misha with a satisfactory answer. “How will you—”

  “Don't ask for details, Misha.”

  He nodded, glad Dirk had placed that condition on him. In truth, he didn't want to know the details. He just wanted it over.

  “I'm sorry, my friend. I should have the courage to do this myself. It's not even for me really. It's just that Tia …”

  “It doesn't take courage to kill someone. Sometimes it takes more courage to let them live.”

  “Then I am twice damned,” Misha sighed. “I've neither the courage to let Ella Geon live, nor the strength to kill her myself. I will be in your debt forever, Dirk.”

  The young man stared at him for a long moment with those unreadable, metal-gray eyes and then he nodded.

  “Yes, Misha,” he agreed heavily. “You will.”

  PART SIX

  t was Marqel's idea to hold Antonov's funeral in the cavern at the end of the labyrinth. He had come all this way to speak to the Goddess, after all. It seemed only fitting the Lion of Senet should go to meet his Goddess in the place where everyone believed her voice could be most clearly heard.

  Kirsh nodded silently when she suggested it, too stunned by the realization that his father was dead to care about his funeral arrangements. Marqel had kissed his forehead, smiled sympathetically and promised to take care of everything for him. Kirsh, grief-stricken and dismayed by Antonov's sudden demise, accepted her offer without a whimper of protest.

  Marqel had arranged for Kirsh to find his father, sending him in to deliver the news about Misha about an hour after Eryk delivered the tea. The nightshade-laced peppermint had done its work long before Kirsh arrived. Antonov
was lying on the floor of his tent, his tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth. He had—rather thoughtfully—placed the cup back on the saucer on the side table before collapsing. Marqel was able to remove the incriminating evidence before anyone even noticed it was there.

  She announced that Antonov had been taken by the Goddess, just as the prophecies had foretold, but her announcement was met with a great deal of suspicion by the rank and file of both Antonov's army and the Shadowdancers stationed in Omaxin. Antonov was a healthy man in the prime of life. It didn't seem possible he could be struck down so easily without foul play being involved.

  Marqel still had one trick to play, however. One more bit of information that would remove all doubt in the minds of the disbelievers; one ace to play that would lend her prophecies credence and banish forever any question that she could read the writings in the cavern and hear the voice of the Goddess.

  Her way was not entirely without obstacles, though. Rudi Kalenkov demanded to see her when he learned what she had planned. Marqel had been avoiding the old Shadowdancer because he kept trying to pin her down on what part of the cavern wall she had read the prophecy about the false redeemer. Unfortunately, she would need all the Shadowdancers at the funeral, so she couldn't really deny him the audience he sought.

  When she finally relented and allowed Rudi a few moments of her valuable time, she thought it was to nag her about the prophecy again. Picking a section at random, she pointed to it with a shrug and turned to leave. But Rudi didn't seem to care about the wall. He'd demanded an audience just so he could object strenuously to the idea of lighting a pyre in the cavern, claiming the ventilation was too poor and she was likely to suffocate them all if they were foolish enough to hold the funeral indoors. Marqel brushed aside the Shadowdancer's concerns until Rudi pointed out that as High Priestess, she would be standing closest to the pyre and would be the first overcome by the smoke. With that in mind, Marqel modified the ceremony so that only the lighting of the pyre would take place with an audience. She only needed a few minutes, anyway. Just enough time for the Goddess to make an appearance and for Marqel to make her announcement and all would be well.

  After that, they would retreat from the cavern and let Antonov burn in peace, consumed by the flames that would carry his soul to his beloved—albeit nonexistent—Goddess.

  With everyone in the habit of following her orders anyway, it was little trouble to get what she needed. The young Shadowdancer in charge of the medical supplies didn't question her when she claimed she had a toothache and needed access to his medicine chest. He simply stood back and watched as she rifled through the chest, taking the vial of oil and the whole jar of sulfur.

  “You'll need to mix the oil and sulfur with vinegar for a toothache,” the young man advised.

  “I know that.”

  “You only need a little bit,” he reminded her, looking worriedly at the large jar she had commandeered from the medicine chest.

  “Are you questioning me?” she snapped, having learned most people responded to the threat of authority by backing down if they were challenged.

  “Of course not, my lady,” he hurried to assure her.

  “I should think not!” she declared, flouncing out of the tent in high dudgeon, guaranteeing the young Shadowdancer would not query her need for all that sulfur.

  Marqel waited until the day of the funeral before revealing her trump card. She waited until Antonov had been laid on his pyre, his arms crossed peacefully, clutching his diamond-bladed sword, the sulfur strategically placed for maximum effect when it caught fire. The irony amused her. Dirk had almost destroyed her by somehow preventing the sacrificial fires in Bollow from burning. Marqel intended to destroy him with exactly the opposite tactic.

  When the Goddess was called on for a sign, this time (with a little bit of help from Marqel), the old bitch would oblige.

  The pyre was smaller than Antonov deserved, given his rank and importance, but they couldn't light too big a fire in the hall, so Marqel made up for it in magnificence. If Marqel had learned anything in her life, it was the value of putting on a good show.

  She had extinguished all other light in the cavern. Antonov was draped with white and gold cloth (the interior drapes of Antonov's tent, but she didn't think anyone would notice), with torches standing at the four cardinal points, casting flickering shadows over his inanimate features. The effect was very dramatic, she thought, even poignant. The silence in the huge cavern, the echoing loneliness of the place, simply added to the atmosphere.

  She led Kirsh into the cavern the night before the funeral, determined he should appreciate the full, heartrending impact of Antonov lying in state. Kirsh planned to keep a vigil over his father, a common practice following the death of a king. Privately, Marqel couldn't see the point. The man was dead and watching over him all night wouldn't bring him back.

  Sliding her hand comfortingly into Kirsh's, she led him to the pyre. He stared at his father for a long time, not saying a word.

  “You are his heir,” she told him softly.

  Kirsh shook his head. “That's Misha. I'm just a second son.”

  “No,” she corrected. “It's you, Kirsh. You are the one he trusted. You are the one who swore an oath to see the Goddess's will is done.”

  “But he didn't know Misha was back. He never got the chance to—”

  “And do you think Antonov would have asked Misha for the oath he asked of you, even had he come here to Omaxin?” she cut in, before Kirsh could get too maudlin about his brother. “Misha, the poppy-dust addict? Misha, the cripple? Misha, the man who wants to destroy the Shadowdancers? No, Kirsh. Your father asked that oath of you because you are the only one on Ranadon capable of seeing justice prevail.”

  “What do I tell Misha?”

  “The truth. That you have sworn an oath to see Antonov's wishes fulfilled, and you intend to do it, whether he likes it or not.” She smiled and squeezed his hand. “What are you afraid of, Kirsh? It's not like he's going to declare war on you for wanting to keep your oath.”

  “Of course he wouldn't declare war on me,” Kirsh agreed. “It's just … with Dirk in his ear…I don't know. He may not be as sympathetic as we'd like. And he has good reason, Marqel. Belagren and Ella were poisoning him.”

  “And will you deny the Goddess her due because of the actions of a couple of grasping, evil old women?”

  “I'll write to him,” Kirsh announced after a long tense moment of silence. “I'll tell him what happened. I'll explain the oath I made to our father and what I have to do, and then we'll just wait and see.”

  “It will be all right, Kirsh,” she promised. “The Goddess is on our side.”

  When they gathered in the cavern the following day, Kirsh was bleary-eyed from lack of sleep but seemed to have dealt with much of his grief. Perhaps that was why people thought all-night vigils were useful, Marqel decided. Maybe they were more about the living than the dead.

  Almost everyone in Omaxin gathered in the cavern at first sunrise, to bid farewell to the Lion of Senet. Kirsh delivered the eulogy in a surprisingly steady voice, detailing his father's remarkable life with a sense of genuine admiration and a remarkable economy of words. He read his speech from notes Marqel thought Rees must have prepared. Kirsh wasn't the type to think about what he said before he said it. But Rees Provin was. Perhaps, while Kirsh kept his vigil, Rees Provin was composing the eulogy Kirsh would deliver.

  Marqel looked around the cavern as Kirsh spoke, amazed that even with more than two thousand people in here, the hall barely looked crowded. Some of them would have to leave soon, which was a pity, because the more people who witnessed her moment of glory, the better. But Rudi was right. Once the flames took hold the smoke would become deadly, and there wasn't much point in having a triumphant moment if everyone who saw it wound up dead.

  Kirsh finished his speech and hung his head in a moment of silent prayer. When he was done, he glanced across at Sergey and nodded, the signal for those
not permitted to watch the burning to depart. Briefed before the ceremony by their captains, at Sergey's signal, the troops in the cavern stood to attention, raised their swords in salute and then turned and marched from the hall, followed by those members of Rudi's staff that he felt were surplus to requirements. It took awhile, but before long there were less than twenty people in the cavern. It was a small audience, but an important one.

  As the footsteps faded in the Labyrinth from the last of the mourners, Sergey stepped forward with a torch. Kirsh took it from him, holding it high for a moment, its uneven light reflecting off the edge of the golden eye he stood upon.

  Then, carefully, and with a great deal of reverence, his eyes glistening with tears, Kirsh lowered the torch to the pyre.

  Marqel hung her head, mostly because she was overcome by a sudden urge to smile, which would have ruined everything.

  The tent hangings caught quickly and soon burned away, exposing the pyre underneath. The flames burned high, the oil-soaked wood billowing thick scented smoke toward the cavern's roof. Marqel glanced at the fire and then up at the smoke with concern. She hoped it wouldn't take too long before the sulfur caught. Although the cavern was enormous, Rudi had made a very valid point about the smoke and the ventilation in here.

  The flames licked upward, reaching Antonov's clothes, which began to smoulder. Marqel unconsciously held her breath in anticipation. Any minute now …

  “The Goddess speaks!”

  Everyone turned to stare at the High Priestess as she cried out, falling to her knees, her eyes suddenly filled with tears. At that moment the flames reached the sulfur she had liberated from the medicine chest and without warning, the pyre flared so brightly for an instant that everyone was forced to shield his eyes.

  “The Goddess speaks!” she cried once more, for good measure.

  “Marqel!” Kirsh cried in alarm. He tried to come to her but Rees held him back.

  “What does the Goddess have to say, my lady?” Rudi asked in a voice that sounded skeptical rather than awestruck.