Kirsh allowed her to lead him down the red brick path into the shade toward the splashing fountain in the center of the garden. Within moments, the lady-in-waiting was out of sight, although he was quite certain that if she called out, Lady Dorra would be on them in an instant.
“The Lord Marshal told Mother that you were ‘surviving’ your tenure in the guard,” she remarked, her arm comfortably linked with his. “I wonder what you’d look like if you weren’t.”
“Is that why you brought me here? To gloat?”
She stopped and turned to look up at him. Alenor knew him too well to be offended by his tone. “Self-pity ill becomes you, Kirshov.”
“That’s because I’ve never had much reason to feel sorry for myself before,” he admitted.
She smiled and ran her fingers gently over his puffy, swollen eye. “You look like you’ve been run over by a wagon.”
“I feel like it, too. I’m sure they’re trying to kill me. Or drive me out of the guard, at the very least.”
To his surprise, she did not scoff at his suggestion. “The latter, probably. They wouldn’t dare kill you, but they don’t like the idea of you being in the guard. They like it even less that you’re going to be regent soon.”
“I figured that out the day I arrived.”
“Yet you continue to take everything they throw at you. You’ll have earned their respect, if nothing else.”
He smiled crookedly, his earlier anger fading. Alenor, first and foremost, was a friend, and he could talk to her in a way he could never talk to his compatriots in the guard. “They treat me as if I’m an idiot who thinks he’s better than everybody else.”
“Really? I wonder how anybody could think that of you.”
He glared at her, not at all pleased by her mocking smile. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well, you can be rather arrogant, Kirsh.”
He opened his mouth to deny the accusation, and then closed it again. “Am I really that bad, Alenor?”
“No. And you’re better than you used to be. But you still speak before you think, sometimes. And I suppose you can’t help who your father is.”
“My father!” he exclaimed sourly. “By the Goddess, I never thought I’d rue the day I was born a Prince of Senet. It’s all his fault, you know. Everybody expects me to be just like him. I’m not. I’m nothing like him.”
“You’re the spitting image of your father, Kirsh, which doesn’t help your cause, but they’ll learn in time that you’re a different man. Don’t let them defeat you.”
“That’s much easier advice to give than take, Alenor.”
“Do you really want me to do more than offer useless advice? I could, you know. One word from me and nobody would lay a hand on you.”
“I’d rather die,” he declared, alarmed that she might actually do something so humiliating. “Don’t you dare even think about doing that!”
“I won’t,” she assured him. “I’ll stand back and let them kill you, if I have to, rather than do anything that might dent that awesome Latanya pride.”
“You sound like Dirk,” he complained, and then regretted it immediately, when he saw the shadow of pain that darkened her fair face. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have mentioned ...”
“I still miss him so much, Kirsh,” she sighed. He was surprised to find her eyes glistening with tears. “Even after all this time.”
A small spear of jealousy pricked him. Dirk had been missing for nearly two years. While he knew the cousins had been close, it annoyed him a little that Alenor still grieved him like a long-lost lover, even though Kirsh was sure their relationship had been boringly honorable.
“Oh, Kirsh, it’s like the whole family is cursed,” she said, wiping away her unshed tears. “First your mother, then Dirk, and now the duke and Lady Morna ...”
“What are you talking about?” Kirsh asked, feeling rather stupid for his earlier suspicions. “What about them?”
“That’s why I sent for you,” she told him with an inelegant sniff. “Wallin Provin is dead, Kirsh. His heart just gave out at dinner one evening. And now Lady Morna has been arrested. Your father is going to burn her at the next Landfall Festival.”
Kirsh stopped walking, shocked beyond words. “When did you hear of this?”
“My mother received a letter from the new Duchess of Elcast, Faralan Provin, yesterday, begging the queen’s intervention.”
She was fighting back tears. Kirsh gathered her into his arms and held her, wishing he could explain why, but knowing that he could not. He knew his father had threatened to drive Dirk out of hiding, but the past two years of relative quiet had lulled him into believing that the Lion of Senet was over his obsession with Dirk Provin.
“I wish there was something I could do, Allie.”
She looked up at him hopefully. “This is monstrous, Kirsh! They arrested her at Wallin’s funeral! Can’t you speak to your father?”
Kirsh looked away, knowing how useless any plea for clemency would be. Antonov was not interested in saving Morna. He wanted to force Dirk Provin to return to Avacas.
“I doubt there’s anything I could do ...”
She pushed him away, annoyed, or perhaps hurt, that he would not help her. But how could he explain it to her? How could he justify what his father was doing when he didn’t agree with it either? And how could he admit that he knew why this was happening and was powerless to stop it?
As if she sensed something was awry, Alenor glanced up at him. “Kirsh?”
“I love you, Alenor,” he blurted out, as if he could assuage his guilt by the admission. He was not lying. He did love her. But he didn’t burn for her the way he burned for Marqel ...
“Oh, Kirsh, I know you love me,” she said, reaching up to put her arms around his neck. He pulled her closer and kissed her. Her lips tasted faintly of berries. Another memory flashed to mind. Another time, another kiss. Marqel tasted like a heady wine.
It was a chaste kiss that he shared with his betrothed and it did not last long. But it left her gasping. When they broke apart, she looked up at him, her eyes shining. It was almost suffocating, being loved so completely.
He gently peeled her arms from around his neck. “Enough, Alenor. I don’t fancy being run through by some wildly protective lady-in-waiting armed with a tapestry needle.”
She sighed and stepped away from him to a more respectable distance as her lady-in-waiting rounded the corner of the path.
“Mother is sending a letter to Lady Faralan. What shall I tell her?” she asked.
“That I wish I could help,” Kirsh replied. “But I fear there’s nothing I can do.”
“Your highness, the ambassador from Necia will be arriving shortly,” Dorra informed them. “We will be late.”
“I’m coming, Dorra,” she promised and then turned to him. “I’m sorry, Kirsh, I really have to go. Necia and Colmath are squabbling about their fishing grounds again. Mother wants me to be there when she tries to sort it out.”
He bowed again, lower this time, and took her hand in his. His kissed it gallantly. “Then you’d best go. I’ll see you again soon. At the Landfall Festival, if not before then.”
Her eyes narrowed at the mention of the Landfall Festival. “Perhaps. Mother is talking of visiting Grannon Rock this year.”
“Not Elcast?”
She shook her head. “No. Not Elcast.”
“Then I will pray to the Goddess that I’ll be lucky enough to accompany you and the queen as part of your guard,” he said. Then he added in a low voice that only she could hear, “Provided I live that long.”
She smiled faintly and withdrew her hand. “You’ll survive, Kirsh.”
Alenor swept up her skirts and followed her companion back toward the palace. Then she turned suddenly and looked back at him. “Oh, by the way, I heard that Misha has taken a turn for the worse. I hope it’s nothing too serious.”
“Misha’s survived worse than this before,” he assured her. “He’
ll recover.”
“I’ll pray for him,” she promised, which was an odd thing for Alenor to say. But Kirsh was not worried about his brother. Misha would pull through. Misha always pulled through.
As Kirsh watched her leave, another thought occurred to him. If the queen was going to Grannon Rock for the Landfall Festival, there was a good chance that he would be chosen for the guard that must accompany the queen. Rove would have to consider him, even if only because he was Dhevyn’s future regent.
He did not let himself consciously consider the other reason that the idea appealed to him so much. A part of Kirshov knew, with a certainty that bordered on blind faith, that if he was anywhere other than Kalarada come Landfall, the Goddess would see to it that Marqel was there, too.
Chapter 4
It had become the High Priestess’s habit of late to join Antonov each evening after dinner for a nightcap. While she had always been a frequent guest at the palace in Avacas—she had her own suite of rooms permanently at her disposal—she found it beneficial to catch Antonov when he was at his most relaxed. And his most vulnerable.
He had been preoccupied lately; so much so that the last young woman she had arranged to keep him entertained had lasted barely a month before Antonov wearied of her and sent her away. It was unlike him to be so fickle.
Belagren knew what was bothering him, and it was not the approaching wedding of his son to the future Queen of Dhevyn. It wasn’t the continuing irritation of the Baenlander pirates who harassed their shipping lanes. It wasn’t even the failing health of his eldest son.
No, what vexed the Lion of Senet was the continuing absence of Dirk Provin.
Antonov’s fixation with the boy was a constant source of irritation to Belagren. She had her own reasons for wanting to get her hands on Dirk, and they had little to do with Antonov’s obsession. She had tried to point out that he did not really need the boy. Kirsh would marry Alenor soon. Within a few weeks, his own son would be Regent of Dhevyn. With luck, within a year, he would have a grandchild to name as heir. He didn’t need Dirk Provin to claim Dhevyn. For all intents and purposes, he already owned it.
But the Lion of Senet’s plans for Dirk Provin had little to do with logic—and even less to do with reason. In Belagren’s mind, it was as though Antonov was still trying to prove to Johan Thorn that he had won, despite the fact that the King of Dhevyn had been dead for two years, killed by the bastard son he never knew he had, right here on Antonov’s terrace. Pointing that out to Antonov, however, was akin to opening a vein with a rusty blade, so she was forced to take a more subtle tack.
Subtlety was wasted on the obsessed, Belagren had discovered.
“Looks like rain,” Antonov remarked as he stepped onto the terrace. The sky was overcast and low, the clouds stained red by the evening sun. It was late, and the last of the dinner guests had only recently departed. A trading delegation from Talenburg, come to Avacas to promote their fine carpets, beg tax concessions from the Lion of Senet and probably cheat on their spouses while they were in the big city, away from the prying eyes of their neighbors. Belagren found the evening particularly trying.
“Well, if it does rain,” she remarked sourly, “I hope it rains all over those damn Talenburg merchants’ carpet samples and shrinks them down to match the size of their brains. Did you hear them going on and on about repairing the levee walls in the city? They’ll be asking you to pay for that, you mark my words.”
Antonov came to stand beside her, sipping a glass of wine. He smiled. “Shouldn’t you be bestowing the blessing of the Goddess on our guests, not wishing them ill?”
“I am the Voice of the Goddess, Anton. I’m quite certain the last time we spoke she mentioned nothing about suffering the ill manners and banal conversation of the Talenburg Chamber of Commerce.”
“You’re becoming a cynic in your old age, my dear.”
She smiled at him. “Isn’t that a privilege we earn as we get older?”
“Perhaps,” he agreed, still studying the bloodstained sky. “Some seem to think they earn the right much younger.”
She looked at him quizzically. “Did you have anyone particular in mind?”
“Morna Provin.”
“I hear you’ve had her arrested.”
“I promised Wallin no harm would come to her while he lived. I kept my word.”
“What are you going to do with her?”
“I thought Landfall might be appropriate. What do you think?”
Belagren glanced at him with a frown. “While I’m sure the Goddess will appreciate the irony of sacrificing Morna Provin to her, Anton, are you sure it’s wise, politically? Some of the ruling houses of Dhevyn might get a little nervous if you start disposing of members of their class in such a fashion.”
Antonov seemed unconcerned. “Morna is a special case. It’s no secret she’s only lived this long thanks to the protection of her husband. Nobody will think it odd that on his death that protection ceased. And I don’t imagine Dirk will be too pleased when he hears.”
Belagren sighed. I might have known ...
“You’re assuming he will hear about it. Suppose he’s fled into Sidoria? Or he sailed south to Galina?”
Antonov shook his head confidently. “He’ll hear about it. And he’ll try to put a stop to it. I’d wager my kingdom on it.”
Belagren was tempted to point out that that was precisely what he was doing. But she didn’t. Despite the folly of such a scheme, Antonov was right about one thing: if Dirk Provin learned his mother was destined to be burned alive at the Landfall Festival, it was very likely that he would try to do something to prevent it. The trouble was, Dirk was not like Antonov. The boy had brains, and he was not the sort to go barging in thoughtlessly with nothing more than his sword and his noble heart to protect him. While she was quite certain that Antonov had thought about little else lately, she was not convinced that he fully appreciated who he was dealing with.
“The boy isn’t stupid, Anton. He’ll know it’s a trap.”
“I’d be disappointed in him if he didn’t.”
“Yet you expect him to walk into it?”
“He has no other choice. His mother is on Elcast, and that’s where she will burn. If he wants to prevent it, then he must go to Elcast to do it. I could line the streets with soldiers and hang out ‘Welcome Home, Dirk’ signs, and he would still have no choice but to be where I want him, when I want him.”
“It’s a huge risk, Anton,” she warned. “Even if you ignore the discontented rumbling from the Dhevynian nobility, you risk making a mockery out of the Goddess’s ritual. I’m not sure she would appreciate being used in such a manner. And have you thought about the reaction in Damita? Morna Provin is a Damitian princess.”
“Prince Baston of Damita would slay his sister, Morna, himself if I ordered it, and the Goddess will understand.”
He was right about Baston. The man had raised the art of groveling to new heights. Or was it new lows? But it was her job, not Antonov’s, to decide what the Goddess wanted. “What would she understand? That you are using her celebration to further your own goals?”
“My goals are the Goddess’s goals,” Antonov informed her, with the absolute assurance of a true believer. She didn’t like it when he talked like that. It made her feel obsolete.
“I will bring Dhevyn to the Goddess through the son of the man who denounced her,” he continued. “It’s the only way to completely rid Dhevyn of the heresy that poisons it.”
“Even so—” she began, but Antonov cut her off.
“I’m not so blind to the feelings of Dhevyn’s people as you think, Belagren. I know they accepted Rainan as their queen begrudgingly, and I know that they will accept Alenor even more reluctantly, given the circumstances of her ascension and the fact that Dhevyn will have a Senetian regent until Alenor comes of age. But think about it. If I could give them Johan’s son—if I could place the true heir on the Eagle Throne— there’d be barely a voice raised in protest.”
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She nodded reluctantly. He had a valid point, and that made arguing against it even more difficult. “But even if you could find Dirk Provin, what makes you think he has any interest in becoming what you want him to be?”
“He killed Johan Thorn.”
“Was that because he wanted to aid you or to prevent you from learning what Thorn knew?” Belagren asked.
“I’ve asked myself that same question a number of times,” Antonov admitted.
“And what answer did you settle on?”
“You weren’t there, Belagren. You didn’t see him do it. There was no fear in the boy’s demeanor, not even a moment of hesitation. The boy has huge potential. Under my tutelage, Dirk Provin will become what his father could have been.”
“I’m more concerned that Dirk Provin will become what his father was,” she warned.
“You still think he fled to the Baenlands?”
“He helped Reithan Seranov and Tia Veran escape the palace after Johan’s death. It seems a reasonable assumption.”
“Dirk Provin murdered Johan Thorn,” Anton reminded her with a shake of his head. “The Baenlanders would kill him, not shelter him.”
“And have you considered the possibility that is precisely what did happen? Have you even allowed for the fact that you haven’t heard from Dirk Provin these past two years because Reithan Seranov and Tia Veran used Dirk to aid their escape, and left him lying in a ditch somewhere with his throat cut?”
“I’ve thought about it. But I don’t believe it. The Goddess wants me to bring Dhevyn to her. You’ve told me that any number of times. To do it properly, to do it completely, I need the son of Dhevyn’s true king. The Goddess would not have allowed any harm to come to him until his destiny has been fulfilled.”
This is what I get for being such a good liar, Belagren grumbled silently.
“Then I will pray that the Goddess looks favorably upon your endeavors,” she promised. It was useful being able to fall back on the Goddess. If Antonov failed, she could always pass the blame to her deity.
Eye of the Labyrinth Page 3