The Lion of Senet

by Jennifer Fallon

  “Kirsh, I really don’t feel like...”

  “A pact is a pact.”

  “But I can’t even breathe properly! You’ll win just on that alone!”

  “You can breathe, Dirk. Besides, if anything, your injuries just level the playing field. You’re used to those damn stairs. You’ve been running up and down them all your life.”

  Dirk sat up slowly and swung his legs around so that he was sitting on the edge of the bed. “There’s no way I can talk you out of this, I suppose?”

  “Not a chance,” Kirsh assured him.

  Dirk sighed heavily. “Very well. Do you want to get ready, then?”

  “I am ready.”

  Dirk glanced at Kirsh’s clothes and would have frowned, except that it hurt too much.

  “You’re wearing that?”

  Kirsh was dressed in fine woolen trousers, an expensive and exquisitely embroidered linen shirt and knee-high boots. “Sure. What’s wrong with it?”

  “Nothing.” Dirk shrugged. “Let me get dressed and wash my face. I’ll meet you downstairs.”

  Kirsh nodded and ruffled Eryk’s head with a grin. “Don’t let him go back to sleep, Eryk. If he’s not there in ten minutes, I’m coming for him. We have to leave just after the second sunrise to catch the tide, so we have to get this over and done with, or Father won’t let us finish it.”

  That sounded just fine to Dirk, but he knew that Kirsh wasn’t going to be put off by anything as mundane as angering the Lion of Senet.

  “I’ll be there,” Dirk promised.

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  Once Kirsh left the room, Dirk pushed Eryk aside and stumbled to the washbowl to splash cold water on his face.

  “You’re gonna beat him, Lord Dirk,” Eryk declared confidently as he handed him a towel.

  He glanced down at the boy and smiled. “You think so, Eryk?”

  Eryk nodded. “You fixed Derwn up real good.”

  “That was actually Kirsh, not me.”

  Eryk shrugged. “You’re still gonna beat him. I know it. Here.” The boy tapped his chest, roughly where he thought his heart might be.

  Dirk frowned, not sure he wanted to be the repository for Eryk’s noble dreams.

  “Will you be disappointed in me if I lose?”

  “You won’t lose,” Eryk assured him confidently.

  Dirk smiled. “Well, I hope I’m as good as you think I am, Eryk. Are you all packed?”

  The boy nodded, a little uncertainly.

  “You know, you don’t have to come with me. You can stay here on Elcast with your friends if you prefer.”

  “But you’re my only real friend, Lord Dirk.”

  Sadly, the boy probably spoke the truth. Dirk glanced around the room, with its bare shelves and empty cupboards, experiencing a moment of doubt. What am I doing? he asked himself. Then he remembered why he was leaving Elcast and straightened his shoulders with determination.

  I’m not a Provin. I don’t belong here.

  Then he splashed his face again, mostly to stop himself from facing the uncomfortable fact that he probably didn’t belong with Antonov Latanya either.

  Eryk headed up to the top floor after they left Dirk’s room, preferring to be there for the finish, rather than watch it from below. When Dirk arrived at the bottom of the stairs, he discovered to his dismay that most of the people in the Keep had gotten wind of the challenge between Dirk Provin and Kirshov Latanya, and had turned out to watch. Dirk pushed his way through the crowd, smiling uncomfortably at the wellwishers, who slapped him on the back and offered words of encouragement.

  “Quite an audience,” a voice remarked behind him.

  Dirk spun around to find Prince Antonov standing behind him.

  “Your highness?”

  “Kirsh told me about your challenge.” He glanced around at the gathered servants and smiled. “It would seem the pride of Elcast is firmly in your hands this morning.”

  “It’s only a race, your highness.”

  “It’s never only a race, Dirk.”

  Kirsh came to stand beside his father, bouncing on the balls of his feet with anticipation. He was itching to get started.

  “Aren’t you going to get dressed first?” he asked, taking in Dirk’s loose trousers, bare chest and bare feet.

  “I’m dressed enough for this,” Dirk replied.

  Kirsh looked at him oddly, then shrugged. “Are you ready, then?”

  He nodded. “Let’s get it over with.”

  The crowd moved back to give them room. Antonov took it upon himself to act as the starter, and made sure that both boys were positioned below the first step. Dirk took his place on the inside. It might only be by a fraction, but the distance was shorter, the steps a little narrower on that side. Of course, the disadvantage was that if he stumbled, he might plummet to his death, but it was a risk he was prepared to take. Antonov smiled at them, as he pulled a kerchief from his jacket.

  “A race to the top of the stairs!” the prince announced loudly, for the benefit of the spectators. “The loser will owe the winner a favor, which may be collected at any time in the future, at the winner’s convenience. Is that right?”

  Both boys nodded. Dirk didn’t look at Antonov. His eyes were fixed firmly on the winding staircase. He opened his mouth and took several deep breaths as Antonov spoke. His nose was still swollen and his breathing was already affected. He needed all the wind he could get. He glanced at Kirsh, whose eyes were alight with excitement. The prince cut a dashing figure in his well-cut clothes and his expensive boots, but they would tell on him the farther they climbed the stairs.

  “So, just to make it interesting, I have decided to throw in a purse of one hundred gold dorns for the winner!”

  The crowd gasped at the news. A hundred gold dorns was more than any of them earned in a lifetime. Even Dirk was stunned by the offer. He had never even seen that much money at once.

  “Are you ready?”

  Dirk nodded and took a final deep breath. Kirsh said something that brought a laugh from the gathered spectators, but Dirk was too focused on the task ahead to hear. He watched Antonov out of the corner of his eye, saw the kerchief rise and then fall, and then, without any conscious act, he was running up the stairs.

  Kirsh streaked ahead, as Dirk knew he would. The Senetian prince was both taller and stronger than Dirk, and he didn’t know the meaning of restraint. Kirsh would give the race every ounce of strength and energy he had. Dirk’s only hope lay in the fact that he was lighter, he wasn’t carrying the added weight of leather boots, and he’d climbed these stairs every day of his life since he’d learned how to walk.

  The crowd cheered them on as they reached the first landing. Kirsh was well ahead of him, reaching the second landing while Dirk was only a few steps above the first. Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of Morna and Wallin on the landing, but he paid them no mind, too focused on the task at hand to even notice if they were cheering for him. He tried to pace himself, to leave himself something for the latter stages of the race, when he was counting on Kirsh tiring, but the temptation was strong to try to catch his opponent. He forced himself not to look at Kirsh, to concentrate on putting one foot above the other.

  The cheers above him told him that Kirsh had reached the third landing while he was barely past the second. His face was aching and he could feel his lungs straining for air. He passed the third landing as the crowd cheered Kirsh ahead of him on the fourth. Dirk felt a surge of annoyance. Why are they cheering Kirshov? You’d think they would want to see me win. But everyone loved a winner, Dirk knew, and Kirsh had endeared himself to the folk of Elcast Keep in the short time he had been on the island.

  The fourth and fifth landings passed in a blur, and Dirk’s lungs began to burn. His breathing rasped and his swollen nose felt like it was on fire. He risked a glance ahead and was relieved to find Kirsh had yet to reach the sixth-floor landing. He was gaining on the prince—slowly—but gaining nonetheless. His concern
now was that he’d left his final push too late. Kirsh was pounding upward and didn’t seem to be flagging much at all.

  Dirk’s legs were heavy as he ran doggedly upward. By the time they reached the seventh-floor landing, he was only a few steps behind Kirsh.

  Now was when it really counted, he knew. Kirsh’s thighs would be burning, but he just might have the strength to see it through. With a determined effort, Dirk gave it everything he had. He was breathing through his mouth now, his nose unable to supply the wind he needed to sustain his effort. Fifteen steps from the top he drew level with Kirsh, who glanced at him in surprise. They ran neck and neck for a few steps, then Dirk surged ahead, his lungs crying out in protest, his bare feet chaffed raw by the granite, his thighs on fire.

  Kirsh drew level with him three steps from the top. Dirk risked a glance out of the corner of his eye and saw the look of glee on Kirshov’s face. Lanon stood on the top step, cheering them on. The roars of the crowd were muted and lost in the distance.

  Three steps to go and Dirk knew Kirsh was going to beat him.

  Two steps left and he glanced up. Eryk was next to Lanon, jumping up and down as he cheered his master on. His face shone with the inalienable belief that Dirk would triumph.

  The thought of letting Eryk down was suddenly intolerable. With one last desperate surge he took the last step a heartbeat ahead of Kirsh and collapsed on the cold stone of the landing, as wild cheers erupted all around him. Dirk rolled onto his back and lay there taking deep, rasping breaths with his eyes closed. He was too exhausted to relish his victory, too drained to think what it meant.

  “Con ... grat ... ulations.”

  Dirk opened his eyes and stared at Kirsh. He was bent double, his hands resting on his knees as he gasped for air. Dirk didn’t answer him. He didn’t have the breath in him left to speak.

  Kirsh managed a wan smile. “You’re tougher . . . than you . . . look . . . Dirk Provin.”

  “Faster, too,” Lanon remarked with a laugh.

  He felt a small hand on his shoulder and turned his head. Eryk was kneeling beside him, a look of supreme smugness on his face.

  “I told you you’d win,” he said happily.

  “I ... owe you . . . a favor ...” Kirsh added. He didn’t seem to mind that he’d lost. “Name... it...”

  “Some . . . other . . . time . . .” Dirk managed to gasp. At that moment, Dirk couldn’t think of anything he needed or wanted of Kirshov Latanya.

  “When . . . you’re ready.”

  Dirk nodded and closed his eyes, better to concentrate on breathing.

  It was only later that it occurred to him that he had won a small fortune. He was leaving Elcast a rich man.

  PART THREE

  THE HERESY OF LOGIC

  Chapter 42

  It was not that far from Elcast to Senet, but for the same reason there was a massive levee wall on Elcast’s northern coast to protect it from tidal waves, the Lion of Senet’s ship was forced to take a much more circuitous route to reach the mainland. The Tresna Sea between Elcast and the mainland was riddled with underwater volcanoes. Floating slabs of pumice dotted the seascape, and the constantly changing seabed made it difficult to navigate safely through the shallow, turbulent waters.

  The journey from Elcast to Avacas was a trying time for Dirk. Although he would never admit it to anyone aboard the Calliope, he was desperately homesick, missing Elcast as if a limb had been severed. He was angry with himself, too. Within a day of boarding the ship, he began seriously to regret the impulse that had driven him to announce that he wanted to go to Avacas.

  He was sharing a cabin with Kirsh, Misha and Eryk, which was extremely awkward for all of them. Misha didn’t travel well, and his temporary recovery while on Elcast was soon a distant memory as the sea voyage took its toll. Ella Geon was often in their cabin tending the young man, and while she seemed happy enough for Eryk to run errands for her, she had little patience with either Kirsh or Dirk getting underfoot.

  Part of Dirk missed his apprenticeship with Master Helgin, and he couldn’t help but wonder what was wrong with the elder Latanya prince. Misha’s withered left side did not seem to be in any way related to the tortured cold sweats he suffered. At times, he was lucid and seemingly free of pain. Occasionally, he was delirious and incomprehensible. Although Dirk had never witnessed one, Misha had told him that he sometimes suffered fits that left him foaming at the mouth. When he questioned Kirsh about the nature of Misha’s illness, the younger prince shrugged. He had no idea what was wrong with his brother. It was bad enough that Misha was crippled. To Kirsh, physical disability was the cruelest thing a man could suffer. Other problems hardly seemed worth worrying about.

  On their fourth day out, Dirk escaped the cabin as Ella bustled in, just as the second sun was overtaking the first. Misha had been awake most of the night, tossing restlessly on the narrow bunk, and this had kept the other boys awake, too. Once in the companionway outside the cabin, Kirsh vanished in the direction of the galley, looking for breakfast. Yawning, Dirk headed up to the main deck, preferring fresh air. Illness had a unique smell about it, he decided, and in the close confines of the cabin it was more noticeable than usual.

  The air was cool and refreshing on deck, and for a moment Dirk did nothing but close his eyes and let the wind wash over him. Then he made his way aft, past the horses corralled on the deck, stopping for a moment to pat the few that poked their curious muzzles through the barricade to greet him. He leaned on the starboard side railing, watching the sea heave and sigh beneath the ship. The morning was clear, the wind steady, but there was no sign of Elcast in the distance. More than anything, that featureless horizon drove home his isolation.

  “We welcome the second face of the Goddess!”

  Curiously, Dirk turned at the sound of Belagren’s chanting, as it carried on the crisp breeze that drove the ship forward. The High Priestess was kneeling on the poop deck near the wheel, greeting the rising sun of morning, along with Olena Borne and Marqel. The helmsman stood listening to their devotions, with his feet braced wide apart as he steered the ship toward Senet. Dirk watched them for a moment, wondering if they really believed that their devotions would make the slightest bit of difference.

  “Juicy bit o’ meat, that one, eh?”

  Dirk turned to the sailor who had come up beside him. “Pardon?”

  “Her,” the sailor explained, pointing to the Shadowdancers. “The young ’un. Had ’er in Elcast town while we was there. Cost me a fortune, mind you, but she was worth every penny.”

  “Who? Marqel?”

  “Is that ’er name? Never bothered to ask. Didn’t know she was gonna be a Shadowdancer, though.”

  I wonder if you wanted her to call you Daddy, too, he thought.

  “Damn, if I’d known she was gonna be one o’ them, I’d’ve waited a year or two. Then I could’ve had ’er for nothin’ at the Landfall Feast.”

  “I suppose,” Dirk replied with a noncommittal shrug. He spied Kirsh heading along the deck toward them, munching on an apple.

  “Well, p’haps not,” the sailor mused as Kirsh reached them. “Them Shadowdancers usually don’t put out for poor sailors like me. ’Ere, you’re highborn, lad. Maybe you’ll get lucky.” He winked at Dirk, then added, “If you do get lucky, make her do that thing with her mouth...”

  “Who are you talking about, Rezo?” Kirsh asked curiously.

  “Marqel the Magnificent,” Dirk told him. “My new friend Rezo here was just telling me how much he paid for her in Elcast.”

  Kirsh’s eyes narrowed dangerously. He turned to the sailor, grabbing the front of the man’s shirt. “If I hear one word, Rezo, one whisper about Marqel among the crew, I swear I will have you keelhauled.”

  The sailor shrank back in fear. If Kirsh’s tone wasn’t enough to frighten him, then his rank certainly was. Kirshov was the Lion of Senet’s son. His threat was not an idle one.

  “It weren’t just me, yer ’ighness! Lots o’ the crew ’
ad her!”

  “I don’t care, Rezo. It’s you I’ll see keelhauled for it.” Kirsh let him go with a shove and the sailor scurried away toward the chart house.

  Dirk looked at Kirsh in astonishment. “You’re going to keelhaul him? For what, Kirsh? Reminding you that she’s a whore?”

  The prince turned on him angrily. “Unless you want that nose of yours broken again, Dirk, I suggest you stop now. It’s disrespectful to say such things about a Shadowdancer.”

  “She’s not a Shadowdancer yet, Kirsh. Besides, Alenor calls them all whores. You don’t threaten to have her keelhauled for it.”

  “Alenor is a princess,” Kirsh pointed out. “Rezo isn’t, and neither are you. I could just as easily have you punished in the same manner.”

  “You must be joking!”

  Kirsh glared at him for a moment. Then with a slightly embarrassed shrug, he looked away. “I guess I am overreacting just a tad.”

  “Just a tad? You’re insane!” When his accusation drew curious looks from some of the nearby sailors, he lowered his voice. “What does it matter what the crew says about Marqel? You know what she is, Kirsh. Telling people not to say it out loud isn’t going to change it.”

  “It just doesn’t seem fair,” he said, feeding the remains of his apple core to the closest horse. “She’s been given a second chance, Dirk. I’m not going to let half-wits like Rezo ruin it for her.”

  Up on the poop deck, Marqel and the others had finished their prayers. Marqel said something to the High Priestess, who nodded distractedly. She turned and slid down the companion ladder with ease. The acrobat had gained her sea legs quickly for a girl raised on dry land. She saw the boys and headed toward them.

  “Good morning, your highness,” she greeted Kirsh with a beaming smile. Then, with rather less enthusiasm, she added, “Lord Dirk.”

  “Good morning, Marqel,” Kirsh replied, with a smile no less dazzling than hers had been. “All finished with your prayers?”

  “For the time being.”