The Lion of Senet

by Jennifer Fallon

  “Neris took his own life,” Ella reminded her stiffly.

  “And why was that, I wonder?” Belagren asked with the smug assurance of one who well knew the answer. “Explain to me again why Neris threw himself off a cliff, Ella. Was it because he had betrayed us to Johan? Was it because he thought he started a war? Or was it that he couldn’t bear the thought of another night with you in his bed?”

  Ella began to tug at her long red hair, a habit Marqel had noticed that she usually fell into whenever she was feeling unsure of herself. “The man was a drug addict, my lady, as well you know. If anyone had suspected he was suicidal...”

  “You might have noticed he was suicidal, Ella,” Belagren said with venomous sweetness, “if you weren’t so busy trying to find ever more inventive ways of ruining his mind so that he was of no use to us at all. A bit more restraint and a little less experimentation on your part and none of us would be in this mess.”

  “All I can suggest, my lady . . .”

  Belagren glared at the Shadowdancer. “I’m not interested in your suggestions, Ella. I want Dirk Provin. And I want you to get him for me, because if the Age of Shadows returns and I’m not forewarned, I promise you, the first head I take in retribution for Ranadon turning from the Goddess will be yours.”

  “Ella appears to be wavering in her resolve,” Madalan remarked once the redheaded Shadowdancer had left the Hall of Shadows to return to the Lion of Senet’s palace.

  Belagren nodded thoughtfully before answering. Marqel filled the High Priestess’s cup with wine and placed the golden decanter carefully on the tray.

  “She seems unusually nervous, but that could be because she’s scared of me. She always has been.”

  “It more than likely was,” Madalan agreed.

  The High Priestess picked up a chicken leg and delicately tore a small piece from it with her teeth. No grease dribbled down her chin as she ate; nothing stained the front of her red silk robe. Marqel, who had grown up around the manners of men like Sooter and Murry, found her fastidious eating habits quite fascinating.

  “Is Dirk Provin really so important?” Madalan inquired.

  “He might be. If he’s as clever as they claim.”

  “Are you certain Antonov has no inkling of the boy’s significance?”

  “We’d do well to pray that he doesn’t,” Belagren warned ominously. “Why in the name of the Goddess didn’t I insist on bringing him straight to the Hall of Shadows when I arrived in Avacas? We’ve lost months tiptoeing around Antonov, trying to be discreet.”

  “Don’t you think Johan will find it a bit suspicious that we want Morna’s son? He’ll smell a conspiracy and you can be certain that once he does, he’ll not rest until he’s unearthed it.”

  “Our problem is not what Johan Thorn will make of it.” Belagren shrugged. “He is powerless now. I’m more worried about Antonov. He believes that I am the Voice of the Goddess. I can hardly admit that I need the boy to tell me something I’ve spent a lifetime convincing him I already know.” Then she turned to Marqel and studied her curiously. “Don’t you have classes you should be attending, child?”

  “I was ordered to serve you, my lady.”

  “Yes, well, you’ll serve the Goddess much more effectively if you know what she needs of you. What class are you missing by being here today?”

  “Herb lore, my lady.”

  “Then go and learn about her gifts, my dear. That will be all.”

  “My lady,” she said with a small bow. The discussion was just getting interesting, too. She was quite certain Belagren didn’t care whether she missed the lesson on herb lore—even if Caspona had heard a rumor that today they were supposed to learn the secrets of the Milk of the Goddess. The High Priestess dabbed at her chin with a napkin and waited until Marqel closed the door of the anteroom behind her before she continued. Marqel leaned against the closed door with a frown, more than a little miffed that she had been dismissed. There was something going on, something that involved the insufferable Dirk Provin, and she was itching to learn what it was.

  “Damn Neris Veran!”

  Marqel heard the curse quite clearly, and turned to examine the door. At some stage, probably during an earlier quake, the frame had twisted slightly. There was a thin, wedge-shaped gap between the door and the frame, just above eye level. Without any thought for the consequences if she were discovered eavesdropping on the High Priestess, she stood on her toes and peered through the gap to observe the rest of what was bound to be an interesting conversation.

  “Did he really hate us so much that he’d want to kill us?”

  “He wanted to hide the records of Ranadon’s movement around the suns,” Belagren said, delicately laying aside the chicken bone and wiping the grease from her fingers with the napkin. “Killing a few Shadowdancers in the process was just an added bonus.”

  “Have you given any thought to Antonov’s likely reaction if he ever discovers there was no need for a sacrifice?”

  “Of course there was a need,” Belagren said, picking a grape from the platter on the table. She bit into it daintily. “You need momentous acts to mark momentous occasions, Madalan.”

  “And if he suspects the truth?”

  “Antonov won’t—can’t—allow himself to confront the possibility that he was duped,” Belagren said. “For his own sanity he must continue to believe that it was the sacrifice of his son that made the sun return.”

  Madalan nodded in agreement. “For him to accept the truth would make him a murderer. But I’m still not certain where Dirk Provin fits in to all this.”

  “By some extraordinary coincidence, the Provin boy has a similar mathematical gift to Neris. He just might be smart enough to get us through the Labyrinth and tell us what Neris didn’t want us to learn.” The High Priestess took another delicate bite. “I need to know when the next Age of Shadows is due. I must know the time down to the hour, the very minute! Otherwise everything we’ve worked for will be wasted.”

  “Rudi calculates it will be years yet,” Madalan reminded her.

  Belagren shrugged, before discreetly spitting out the seeds into a small silver bowl. “What would that fool know?”

  “At least you have Antonov right where you want him.”

  “If Anton was right where I wanted him, Madalan, he wouldn’t be defying me over the Provin boy,” Belagren complained.

  “And the Lord of the Suns? What if he decides to interfere?”

  “Paige Halyn is a drowning man taking his last few gasps as he tries to save what is left of his tired old religion. The Shadowdancers are the future, Madalan.”

  “And what of the future? Suppose it does take years? What if Antonov dies and Misha becomes the Lion of Senet? What if the sun disappears and the next Lion of Senet doesn’t believe it was you who made it happen?”

  “Misha will never be the Lion of Senet, Madalan. It will be Kirshov.”

  “But he’s due to leave Senet. He’s going to join the Queen’s Guard in Dhevyn.”

  “Misha is a sickly young man,” Belagren pointed out. “Nobody will think it odd that he dies young. It will be Kirshov who rules Senet.”

  “Isn’t he supposed to be marrying Alenor? How can he be Prince Consort of Dhevyn and the Lion of Senet at the same time?”

  Although out of the line of her vision, Marqel heard Madalan pouring another glass of wine from the decanter.

  “Once Kirshov is married to Alenor,” the High Priestess explained, “Misha will die, and Rainan will have no choice but to accept him in the dual role of consort and prince.”

  “How do you know Misha will die once Kirshov marries?”

  “The same way I know what’s wrong with him, Madalan. Goddess! You don’t think I left anything as important as the succession of Senet to chance, do you?”

  Madalan stared at the High Priestess. “You poisoned him?”

  “Now that’s such a nasty word, Madalan. Let’s just say that Misha’s pain can only be relieved by regular do
ses of poppy-dust. Unfortunately for young Misha, it’s highly addictive. If he misses a dose of his ‘tonic,’ he suffers withdrawal, and the poor boy immediately thinks he’s dying.” Belagren smiled coldly. “So, of course, because taking our tonic makes him feel much better, everyone believes that it’s helping him.”

  Madalan sounded quite horrified. “Belagren, have you any idea what Antonov would do if he realized you’d turned his son into an addict?”

  “This is Misha we’re talking about, Madalan. The Crippled Prince. Anton can barely bring himself to look at the young man. And he has no experience with the symptoms of poppy-dust addiction.”

  “And the physicians who tend Misha? Surely they suspect something?”

  “There hasn’t been a physician near Misha Latanya in twenty years that I don’t own, Madalan. It would be a different story if it were Kirshov who was addicted. Anton dotes on his second son.”

  “And what of Kirshov? How are you going to ensure that he’s on our side once he rules Senet?”

  Belagren leaned back in her seat and took a sip from her golden cup. She glanced over her shoulder at the anteroom door, and for a moment, Marqel got the impression that the High Priestess knew she was listening.

  “I believe that’s where our new acolyte comes in.”

  “Marqel? She’s just a Dhevynian Landfall bastard.”

  “I’m not interested in her origins, Madalan, just in what she’ll become. Did you know that she’s here because Kirshov personally intervened on her behalf when she was arrested? Apparently he’s quite besotted by the girl.”

  “But you don’t know anything about her.”

  “I do know that she’s a whore, a thief and a liar. That’s always a good start in this business.”

  “She’s very young to trust with that sort of responsibility,” Madalan warned.

  “Then your task, Madalan, will be to make sure that she can be trusted. Between now and when the second sun leaves our sky, I must have Kirshov Latanya so bound to us that he will turn his back on everything he believes to be decent and right if I crook my little finger in his direction.”

  Marqel sagged against the door, her heart pounding. There is no Goddess, she realized, her tenuous faith easily giving way to the truth of what she’d overheard. No visions, no nothing. It’s all a trick. It’s just another show, albeit on a far grander scale than anything Marqel was accustomed to.

  Just another circus...just another seedy bunch of traveling performers with better costumes and more expensive props, Marqel thought.

  Only, the takings in this traveling circus weren’t merely a scattering of copper coins. For this performance, the players might well earn themselves a kingdom.

  Chapter 55

  The celebration for Prince Kirshov’s birthday was the most elaborate anyone could remember. It was like Landfall Night, every night, without the orgy. Or so Alenor claimed. Avacas was ablaze with light and music, the streets were full of entertainers. Every noble family in Senet and Dhevyn had sent a representative to the mainland to take part in the festivities. The city was filled with visitors—both highborn and peasant. They were here to curry favor, or take Kirshov’s measure, depending on which side of the political fence they sat.

  Dirk was a little overwhelmed by it all. Although he had been at court on Senet for months now, the sheer excess left him gasping. Antonov was sparing no expense. There were banquets every day and balls every night, as the noble families of Senet tried to outdo themselves—and each other—proving their loyalty to the Lion of Senet.

  Tonight was to be the most impressive function of them all. Dirk had suffered through the celebrations of the past week mostly because Alenor had looked at him with the desperate, get-me-out-of-here look that she often used on him. His nights had been long and tiring, filled with endless dances with Alenor and a succession of eligible young women whose fathers he couldn’t risk offending.

  The ball tonight was being held in the palace and, as Dirk stood before the mirror checking his reflection for the hundredth time, he wondered if he could get an opportunity to dance with Alenor properly. He was a little fed up with having her step out onto the floor with him, clutching his arm and rolling her eyes as she scolded him for taking so long to come to her rescue. For once, he’d like to ask her to dance and have her smile and graciously take his arm, pleased to be in his company—not just relieved because of the escape he had been so well trained to offer her.

  “You look gorgeous!” Eryk declared.

  Laughter accompanied Eryk’s declaration. Dirk spun around guiltily as Kirsh burst into his room and caught him posing in front of the mirror. Kirshov had filled out in the last few months. He was taller than Antonov now, although he was leaner, more athletic. A golden coronet held down his fair hair, and his white jacket was embroidered with golden lions. He looked every inch his father’s son.

  “Are you quite finished admiring yourself?” Kirsh chuckled.

  “I suppose,” Dirk admitted, feeling a little sheepish.

  “Come on, then! We’d better stop by Misha’s room before we go downstairs. I promised him we’d call in so he could admire us in all our finery.”

  “Isn’t he coming to the ball?”

  Kirsh shrugged. “He’s been pretty poorly since that last seizure.”

  Dirk had grown to know Misha quite well over the last couple of months, and often spent time reading to him or playing chess when his illness forced him to stay in bed. Kirsh loved his brother, but as far as Dirk knew, Antonov’s second son had never been ill in his life. He didn’t really understand what Misha was going through.

  Dirk privately wondered if Misha was simply using his illness to avoid a potentially uncomfortable evening, which he was not averse to doing on occasion. It would be hard for him to sit there and watch his younger, healthier brother feted by the nobility when he was too weak even to sit on a horse.

  They had come from everywhere for the ball tonight: from as far away as Sidoria in the bleak northern wastes; the exotic islands of Galina in the far south; even from Damita, where Dirk’s mother had once been a princess.

  “Come on,” Kirsh demanded impatiently. “Or do you want to stand there admiring yourself all evening?”

  Dirk allowed himself one final glance in the mirror, still not certain he recognized the reflection that stared back at him. Prince Antonov had provided the finery he wore in the same way that everything else he had wanted or desired had been provided since he left Elcast. Antonov was many things that Dirk did not approve of, but miserly wasn’t one of them.

  “What about Alenor?” Dirk asked with a wink at Eryk as he closed the door behind them. The wide halls were filled with scurrying servants, attending the scores of guests who were staying in the palace.

  “Haven’t seen her all day. Not since Rainan arrived.”

  “Your father let her see the queen?” Dirk asked in surprise.

  “Of course he did. He’s not a monster, Dirk.”

  Dirk didn’t comment, not wanting to offend Kirsh by getting into a discussion that would spoil the evening. He was learning very quickly to keep his opinions to himself. The last time he’d made a passing comment twelve innocent men had died.

  “She’ll be at the ball, won’t she?”

  “She’ll be there. And that reminds me. If you see that sniveling little cretin from Vivan go anywhere near her, run a fork or something through him, would you?”

  “Duke Rhobsin, you mean?” Dirk asked. “If you’re so concerned about Alenor’s honor, why don’t you run him through yourself?”

  “Don’t be stupid. I’m wearing white. I’d get blood all over my clothes.”

  “Oh, well, in that case...”

  Kirshov laughed as they reached Misha’s rooms. “I knew I could count on you.”

  “Anything else I can do for you, while I’m at it, your highness? Anyone else you’d like me to murder? Apparently I’m quite good at it, if you believe the gossip around the palace.”

&nb
sp; Kirsh frowned. “Nobody thinks anything of the kind, Dirk. Stop worrying about it!”

  Dirk opened his mouth to argue the point, then shrugged, realizing the futility of it all, and knocked on the door to Misha’s room. There was no way Kirsh would understand.

  Misha was propped up on a mountain of pillows, and he smiled at them as Ella let them into the bedroom. She bowed politely and left them alone, giving Dirk a long, considered look that made him quite uncomfortable as she left the room. Kirsh threw himself onto the side of the bed, making Misha wince in pain. Dirk remained standing at the foot.

  “You two look like a couple of dandies,” Misha said.

  “We’re going to dazzle everyone,” Kirsh agreed. “Are you sure you don’t want to come?”

  “No. I’ll be better off here, I think. But you must come by tomorrow and tell me all about it. Everything.”

  “I will,” Dirk promised.

  Kirsh also nodded his agreement enthusiastically, but Dirk suspected that by tomorrow morning Kirsh would not be feeling nearly so eager. Hungover, certainly, but in no mood to relive the night with his bedridden brother. Misha smiled at Dirk knowingly. He knew Kirshov too well to expect him to keep such a promise.

  “Well, you’d best be off then,” Misha advised them. “And try to stay out of trouble with the ladies. Remember, they all have fathers and brothers and some of them have armies.”

  Kirsh groaned. “Have you seen some of those girls? The Duke of Cheyne’s daughter looks like the wrong end of a horse!”

  “She laughs like one too,” Dirk added, thinking of the young woman’s braying giggles.

  “And what about the one from Colmath? What’s her name? Piranha?” Kirsh said. “She eats like she’s scared to swallow a decent meal! And all she can talk about is crabs.”

  “Crabs?” Misha asked with a raised brow.

  “Her name’s Pirlana, and Colmath’s major industry is shellfish,” Dirk explained. “She’s rather proud of the fact that Colmath has recovered almost completely from the Age of Shadows. Apparently, her island is now producing more oysters than it did during the last Age of Light.”