Of course, Marqel thought, I should have realized that anythingto do with that gray-eyed, too-damn-smart-for-his-own-good bastard from Elcast was apt to go astray.
Had it not been for her quick thinking, everything might have been ruined. A small, irritating voice in her head rudely reminded her that if she hadn’t tried to get even with Dirk Provin by spiking his wine with a stolen dose of the drug in the first place, none of this would have happened, but she ignored it.
It was very late, but two guards stood at the entrance, their red tabards pressed and gleaming in the evening light that flooded the hall from the glass panels in the ceiling. The gilded mural on the doors behind them depicted the two suns of Ranadon, the High Priestess reaching up to them, her arms outstretched, interceding on behalf of the grateful population that lay prostrate at her feet.
The guards stood back to let her pass as she pushed open the heavy door and let herself into the High Priestess’s chamber. Marqel had never been in this part of the Hall before. This was Belagren’s private sanctuary and off limits to everyone but her closest advisers. The opulence of the rooms made her gape. Everything from the small side tables to the large inlaid murals on the walls was touched with gilt. The vase in the corner of the room appeared to be solid gold. The wealth that had been squandered in the entrance hall alone would feed a village for five years.
And if I’m careful, one day all this will be mine.
“Marqel!”
“My lady?”
Marqel followed the sound of Belagren’s voice, turning toward the door of the bedroom. It was gilded with the same careless opulence as the rest of the apartment. Forcing down her apprehension at Belagren’s tone, she opened the door.
The bedchamber was almost large enough to accommodate the Queen’s Assembly, its walls paneled with hand-painted silk. The massive bed took pride of place in the center of the room, its diaphanous curtains blowing gently in the slight breeze that came from the open doors leading to the marble balustraded balcony.
Marqel’s slippers were silent on the tiles as she crossed the room. The High Priestess was still fuming over the Lion of Senet’s intransigence concerning Dirk Provin, she guessed, hoping it was enough to distract her from her own misdemeanors. Marqel was new to the politics and power games of Senet and the Shadowdancers, but she had already discerned that there had been a shift in the balance of power recently; another event that seemed unaccountably related to Dirk Provin. For an insignificant second son of a provincial Dhevynian duke, he’d made quite an impact since his arrival in Avacas.
“If that’s a smirk I see on your face, girl ...” Belagren began as she caught sight of her.
“No, my lady, I wasn’t smirking.”
“You wouldn’t want to be,” Belagren assured her ominously. “Not in the mood I’m in tonight. I’ve had just about enough of people who think they can trifle with me. Help me with these shoes.”
The High Priestess settled into her tapestry-upholstered armchair. She lifted her feet onto the matching padded foot-stool and allowed Marqel to unlace her boots. She watched Marqel the whole time, with her bright, birdlike eyes. Marqel could not begin to guess what the High Priestess was thinking. She had been watching her like that ever since they had left the palace earlier this evening and ridden back to the Hall of Shadows in Belagren’s elaborate coach. Marqel wished she could tell if the constant surveillance was a good sign—or bad.
“You did quite well today,” the High Priestess said as she wiggled her toes appreciatively.
“Thank you, my lady,” she said, greatly relieved. She placed the boots on the floor beside the stool. “Can I get you anything else?”
“Some wine, I think.”
She bowed and hurried out into the anteroom, where a selection of finely cut crystal decanters was arranged on the sideboard. Selecting one at random, she poured the dark liquid into a crystal goblet edged with gold and hurried back to her mistress. Belagren took the wine from her and smiled.
“That’s better,” she sighed. “Sit down, Marqel. I’d like to talk to you.”
With some trepidation, she perched on the edge of the chair opposite the High Priestess, like a bird ready to take flight at the slightest hint of danger.
“I’m curious about you, Marqel.”
“My lady?”
“Why are you here?”
“You sent for me, my lady.”
“That’s not what I meant. When I offered you the choice on Elcast you jumped at the chance to become a Shadowdancer. Why?”
Marqel considered her answer carefully before she spoke. “Because I want what you have, my lady.”
Belagren glanced around the room. “You mean this? This is just the trappings of wealth, child. It means nothing.”
“But people respect the Shadowdancers, my lady. I want people to respect me, too.”
“Is it just respect you want, Marqel?” she asked curiously.
“I’m not sure I understand what you mean, my lady.”
Belagren took a good swallow of the wine, studying her closely over the gilded rim. “You’ve been with us how long now? A few months? In that time, when other acolytes are still trying to find their way, you have managed to make a friend of Kirshov Latanya and an enemy of Dirk Provin. You stole the—”
“But, my lady—” she objected. Belagren held up her hand, commanding her to silence.
“You stole from us, Marqel. Whatever romantic slant you might like to put on it, you took that vial of the Milk of the Goddess and gave it to the Provin boy without permission. In fact, you’ve broken any number of our rules, and yet you’ve managed to turn everything to your advantage. The question I would like answered is this: are you incredibly stupid or incredibly lucky?”
Marqel didn’t answer. She wasn’t sure that she could.
“So I will repeat my question, Marqel. Are you sure it’s just respect you want?”
There was no answer Marqel could think of that would satisfy the High Priestess, and fortunately, she was saved from having to think of one. At that moment, Ella Geon burst into the outer chamber, calling for Belagren. She threw open the bedroom doors, her face flushed.
“He’s dead!” she announced furiously.
“I beg your pardon?”
“He’s dead!”
“Yes, I heard that part, Ella. Who exactly are you referring to?”
Ella appeared not to have heard her. She began pacing like an angry cat. Marqel bit back a smile as she thought that if Ella had a tail, it would be lashing back and forth like a whip.
“One minute he was there, as large as life, and the next minute he’s bleeding all over the terrace!”
“Who is dead, my dear?” Belagren asked calmly.
“Johan Thorn, of course! Who do you think?”
The High Priestess froze for a moment in shock, then swung her feet to the floor. “How did it happen?”
“Oh, that’s the bit you’re never going to believe!” Ella declared, throwing her hands up.
“Perhaps, if you ever get around to telling me what happened, I could decide that for myself,” she suggested tartly.
Ella stopped pacing and turned to face the High Priestess. “Your precious Dirk Provin killed him.”
Marqel thought she must have misheard the Shadowdancer. So did Belagren, by the shocked look on her face. “The Provin boy killed Johan Thorn?”
“Right after Antonov got Rainan to agree to abdicate in favor of Alenor, with Kirshov to act as regent until she comes of age.”
“He did what? Without me present?” Belagren seemed more shocked at that news than the news that Dirk Provin had killed Johan Thorn. “What happened? Was the boy provoked?”
“He was as calm as you like,” Ella told her with a shake of her head. “Ran a blade into Johan’s brain with surgical precision, actually. He’s dangerous, that one. Oh! And here’s the real treat. Did you know that Dirk Provin was not Provin’s son, but Thorn’s bastard?”
The High Priestess w
as silent for a long time before she spoke. “Are you certain?”
“Antonov is. He was positively gloating over the revelation.”
“He’s never said anything. He never even hinted at the possibility.”
“That’s because the Lion of Senet is playing his own game, my lady. I’ve been warning you of that for years.”
“But he is so devout ...”
“You mistake devotion for obedience,” Ella warned. “Antonov worships the Goddess, Belagren, and he believes you are her instrument, but he also thinks he has a divine mandate to right the wrongs of this world. A misconception you yourself have gone to great pains to foster in him. He’s still fighting for the Goddess, but he’s fighting by his rules these days, not yours.”
“Where is he now?” Belagren demanded, rising to her feet. She seemed to have forgotten that Marqel was in the room.
“Antonov?”
“No. The Provin boy. Where is he?”
“Last seen, he was issuing orders in Antonov’s name like he was the Lion of Senet’s favorite son. You’ve almost no chance of getting hold of him now. Antonov said as much, just before the boy killed Thorn.”
“Did Antonov do nothing?” Belagren asked.
“He was too stunned, I think. We all were.”
“But why? What does Dirk Provin have to gain by killing Thorn?”
“It’s like Ella said,” Marqel said. “He did it because now there’s no chance Prince Antonov will let you have him.” It was only when Belagren and Ella turned to stare at her that she realized that she’d spoken out loud. She swallowed her apprehension and added gamely: “If you still want him, you’re going to have to make his killing of Johan Thorn a religious matter.”
Ella looked surprised at her assessment of the situation, but nodded in agreement. “She’s right, I fear. The only way you’re going to get your hands on Dirk Provin now is if you declare the murder of Johan Thorn a crime against the Goddess.”
“That’s a simple matter.” Belagren shrugged. “Johan was a heretic and Dirk Provin has robbed the Goddess of her chance to redeem him.”
“Now you have to convince Antonov of that,” Ella reminded her.
Belagren shook her head slowly and turned to stare thoughtfully at Marqel. “No, I don’t think I do. I think in this case, it’s not Antonov I need to act as the sword arm of the Goddess. It must be Kirshov.”
“My lady?”
“We’re going back to the palace, Ella. You are to make certain that nothing of import happens without me. I must speak to Antonov. How dare he make such a decision without consulting me first!” Then she turned to Marqel. “As for you, my dear... well, I have a special job for you.”
“What do you want me to do?”
Belagren smiled coldly. “I want you to earn the respect you so hunger for, Marqel. Let’s see if you’re good enough to seduce a prince.”
Chapter 69
Tia didn’t pass out from the pain, although Dirk fervently wished that she had. But then, she hadn’t screamed, either. He was quite impressed by that. He had cleaned and stitched Tia’s wounded hand as she gritted her teeth, tears streaming silently down her face.
Dirk was grateful for the distraction of her mutilated fingers. It gave him something else to think about other than what had happened in the past hour. The inner turmoil that Dirk thought might eventually tear him apart could find no outlet. On the surface, he appeared just as cold and calculating as Tia thought him to be. As he dressed Tia’s mangled hand, it was easier to live with what he’d done; it served as a vivid reminder of why he’d done it. It would have been easier, though, if she didn’t so obviously despise him.
Dirk was just finishing tying off the bandage when there was a pounding on the door. He knelt back on his heels and examined his handiwork for a moment. The bandage was as good as any he’d seen Master Helgin do. With a nod of satisfaction he climbed to his feet and crossed to the door.
Dirk opened it to find Alenor and Eryk standing outside.
“Dirk?” Her expression was grim, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen.
He stared at her silently for a moment, guessing that she must have heard what happened. He stood back to let them enter.
“I’m in two minds about you, Dirk,” she announced as she turned to face him. “And you’ve got about three heartbeats to convince me why I shouldn’t have the Queen’s Guard kill you where you stand.”
“Go ahead and kill me,” Dirk suggested wearily as he closed the door. “It’ll top off the perfect day.”
Alenor glared at him, then glanced over her shoulder at Tia and Reithan.
“Who are they?”
“This is Tia Veran,” Dirk said. “And Reithan Seranov.”
The princess turned to Reithan. “You’re Alexin’s cousin?”
“Yes, your highness.”
The news did not seem to surprise Alenor. She turned her attention to Tia then and looked at her curiously. “Veran? Neris’s daughter?”
“The one and only.”
“Mother said there was some girl—”
“Oh, she’s some girl,” Dirk muttered with feeling.
Alenor faced Dirk determinedly. Her bearing was regal, unfriendly.
“What happened tonight, Dirk? First there was that business with Kirsh and Marqel and the High Priestess and now mother says you killed my uncle.” Dirk thought it curious that Alenor referred to Johan as her uncle. Until now she seemed to have gone out of her way to play down her relationship to the deposed king.
“You should be proud of your cousin, your highness. He played Antonov like he was a damn fiddle,” Reithan said.
“What do you mean?”
“I’m still alive and Tia’s still got most of her fingers because Dirk intervened.”
“But he managed to dispose of Johan Thorn in the process,” Tia added. “You should have seen how easily he did that.”
“It’s true, then?” Alenor gasped, turning to Dirk. “You really did kill Johan?”
Dirk didn’t answer her. There didn’t seem much point. She knew the truth before she came here. The queen had obviously told her everything that had happened.
“Why, Dirk?” the princess insisted when he would not meet her eye.
“Maybe he thought that with Johan out of the way, he might have a chance at the throne of Dhevyn?” Tia suggested.
“Tia, will you please let it go!” Reithan snapped impatiently, almost as weary of the young woman’s rage as Dirk was. “You’re not helping anyone with this.”
Alenor turned to Dirk and studied him closely. “Do you want the throne of Dhevyn, Dirk? If you truly are Johan’s son, you’ve as much claim to it as I have.”
“I don’t want anybody’s throne,” he said.
“Are you sure?”
“Think about it, Alenor. Even if I did want your throne, who would follow me? I’m the Butcher of Elcast. The fiend who killed Johan Thorn, remember?”
“That’s something I’ll never forget,” Tia assured him savagely.
Dirk turned on Tia angrily. “Don’t you dare stand there all full of righteous indignation because I killed your precious king. I saved his life! Twice! And all the while he kept asking me to end it. You came here to kill him! And now, because I saved you the trouble of doing it yourself, you think you can condemn me with a clear conscience.”
Tia looked away guiltily. She caught Reithan’s eye and abruptly sat down.
“Not another word, Tia,” Reithan warned.
“You could have killed Antonov,” Alenor suggested. “Or Barin, or—”
“Which would have resulted in everyone dying,” Dirk pointed out, collapsing into the chair by the unlit fireplace. “Including your mother.”
“How can you be so certain?” Alenor asked.
“If I’d assassinated the Lion of Senet, do you think Prefect Welacin would have allowed anyone to leave that terrace alive?” Dirk leaned his head back and closed his eyes. He was tired, desperately so. And sick. Sick of
Tia and her self-righteous condemnation, sick of Alenor and her accusing, wounded looks ... and sick over what he had done. For a moment, out there on the balcony in the ruddy evening light with Johan begging him to rob Antonov of his sport, it had seemed the right thing to do. In that brief moment it had seemed the only thing to do. But now...
“Alenor, you have to leave Avacas.”
“What’s going to happen to you?”
He gave a short, bitter laugh. “With luck, Antonov will kill me.”
Alenor frowned. “Either that, or he’ll hand you over to the High Priestess to answer for your other crimes.”
“What other crimes?” Reithan asked curiously.
“I’ve had a busy day,” Dirk said. “Right now, I’m overwhelmed with not caring about it, one way or the other.”
He looked up at Alenor, who appeared to be torn between sympathy for his plight and horror at what he’d done.
“Take your mother and get out of Avacas while you still can, Alenor. Antonov’s reeling at the moment, but it won’t last long. He’s blinded by his faith, but he’s not stupid. I don’t know if he bought my story about Tia being a nobody, but even if he did believe it, it won’t take him long to realize that Reithan probably knows enough to satisfy him. After that, there’s no hope for anyone.”
“How can you just sit there and be so damn analytical?” the princess demanded.
“Rainan agreed to abdicate, Alenor,” he reminded her wearily. “If she doesn’t get away while she still can, the Lion of Senet will crown you Queen of Dhevyn tomorrow, then marry you to Kirsh and, with his son as regent, Antonov might as well be sitting on the throne of Dhevyn himself.”
“You’re not suggesting Kirshov had anything to do with this?” Alenor asked incredulously.
“No, Alenor,” Dirk assured her. “Your precious sweet-heart is still unsullied by the taint of blood on his hands.” He couldn’t believe that even now, Alenor still harbored such a crush on Kirshov that it blinded her to what was going on. Antonov had announced his plans for Dhevyn openly, yet she still clung to the illusion that her love for Kirsh would overcome everything. “Your fiancé has a gift for remaining blithely unaware of what’s going on around him,” he added. “I wonder how much longer he’ll be able to keep doing that?”
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