Eye of the Labyrinth

by Jennifer Fallon

  Antonov nodded and took another sip of his wine, turning back to stare at the turbulent sky. “He will come, Belagren. I’m sure of it.”

  Chapter 5

  Marqel stood at the window of the room belonging to the Crippled Prince, and looked down over the broad paved terrace where the Lion of Senet and the High Priestess stood, engrossed in a private conversation. Are they discussing Misha? she wondered. Or was something else consuming the attention of the two most powerful people in the world? Marqel watched them with a degree of envy. What must it be like to be so certain of your power that you never need fear that it might all be taken from you at any moment?

  A muffled groan came from the bed, and Marqel turned to look at Misha Latanya. The ailing prince was still unconscious, but he had come back from the depths of the coma that had wrapped him in its smothering embrace. She looked at Ella Geon, who was bending over the bed, dribbling fluid into Misha’s mouth from a small cup.

  “Will he be all right, my lady?”

  “He appears to be out of danger now.” She put down the cup and beckoned Marqel to the bed. “Keep applying the compress. I don’t want his temperature going up again.”

  Marqel swapped places with Ella and dabbed gently at Misha’s forehead, stifling a yawn. They had been watching over him for days now as he fought the effects of the overdose he had inadvertently consumed. It had been a tense time for everyone. Marqel had barely left the Crippled Prince’s side as they fought to bring the young man back from the brink of death.

  “If he doesn’t make it ...” she began hesitantly. “I mean, it’s not that bad, is it? Prince Antonov has a second son.”

  Ella turned on Marqel. “It would be a disaster, Marqel. Kirshov is engaged to Alenor because he is Antonov’s second son, not his heir. If Rainan thought that Kirsh would inherit his father’s throne, she’d call off the betrothal in a heartbeat.”

  The unconscious prince stirred uneasily on the bed. Marqel wrung out the cloth and wiped his fevered brow again. She nodded in understanding as she dropped the cloth back into the bowl. “Does this mean you won’t be leaving Avacas with Prince Antonov, my lady?”

  “Oh, I’ll be attending the Festival in Elcast,” Ella replied with a smile. “Even another Age of Shadows couldn’t keep me from seeing Morna Provin burn. Besides, Misha appears to be over the worst of it now. I’m sure he’ll live until we get back for the wedding.”

  “What do you want me to do, my lady?”

  “I want you to help Yuri and Olena look after Misha while I’m gone. And you can see to it that my trunks are sent down to the Calliope before she sails.”

  “Won’t I be coming with you to Elcast, my lady?”

  “Are you so anxious to see the Duchess of Elcast burn?”

  Marqel remembered Morna Provin as a tall, aloof woman with the same unforgiving steel-gray eyes as her son Dirk. She also remembered that the only time the duchess had ever deigned to notice her, she had looked at Marqel as if she was a feral animal.

  “I’ve never seen a noblewoman burned alive.”

  Ella shook her head with a frown. “You’re not coming to Elcast. The execution of a member of a ruling family is a very delicate matter. We can’t risk anything going wrong.”

  “You think I can’t be trusted.”

  “I think it’s nothing to do with you. Stop being so impatient, child. Your time will come.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  If Ella noticed her disappointment, she chose to ignore it. “If you want to do something useful, see that Caspona and Laleno are ready to leave for Grannon Rock on time. They will be attending the Landfall Feast there this year.”

  Laleno and Caspona were the other two acolytes assigned to the palace. Marqel’s suggestion that she stay in the Lion of Senet’s palace under the tutelage of Ella Geon had had an unexpected outcome. The High Priestess had really warmed to the idea—so much so that she sent three trainees to work under Ella, not just Marqel. The other girls were a constant source of irritation to Marqel, and she spent much of her spare time trying to come up with ways to discredit them in the eyes of Ella and Belagren. So far, she had been spectacularly unsuccessful in her efforts to rid herself of either girl.

  “I saw the Grannon Rock Landfall Festival when I was an acrobat.” She shrugged, thinking that she would have the run of the palace for a few weeks, with Ella and the other girls away. “It was a fairly subdued affair, as I recall.”

  Ella nodded. “Grannon Rock considers itself a sophisticated island. They want to be considered the prime center of learning in Dhevyn and are very jealous of Avacas’s older and more prestigious reputation. Of course, they wouldn’t dare refuse to hold the Landfall Feast outright, but they tend to play it down. It’s the reason the High Priestess makes a point of sending additional Shadowdancers out to the island every year for the Festival. It never hurts to remind people where their loyalties should lie.”

  “Shouldn’t they just obey the law?”

  Ella smiled at her ignorance. “Never, for a moment, assume that just because a thing is law, people will automatically follow it, Marqel. The price of ultimate power is eternal vigilance.”

  “Why Caspona, though?” Marqel did not particularly care that her rival had been chosen over her to attend Landfall on boring old Grannon Rock, but she never missed an opportunity to cast aspersions on Caspona’s competence. “Is she ready for such responsibility?”

  Ella glared at her. “You’ve a nerve, child, to question the High Priestess so.”

  “I’m sorry, my lady,” Marqel replied hurriedly, dropping her eyes.

  The Shadowdancer laughed sourly. “Oh, please, Marqel, don’t even try that nonsense on me. You’re not sorry. You’re envious. You think all the important events are going to happen somewhere else and you want to be there. You’re like a sleepy child who doesn’t want to leave the party, afraid she’ll miss something exciting.”

  Marqel looked up at her mistress defiantly. “Is that so wrong?”

  “Not if you aspire to high office. But the High Priestess is still sending Caspona to Grannon Rock and not you. The queen is attending the festival there this year.”

  The young Shadowdancer was silent for a moment as the implications of that news sank in. “Then she’ll take her guard.”

  “Most certainly.”

  “I see.”

  “Do you, Marqel? Do you really understand how important this is?”

  “Belagren wants to be sure of Kirshov before he takes the throne of Senet.”

  “She wants more than that, child. We want to own him. We want to own him body and soul, the same way we once owned his father. The Shadowdancers cannot risk losing the support of the Lion of Senet. Belagren had her hand wrapped around Antonov’s heart so tightly he slit his own son’s throat at her behest. We must own his heir as well.”

  “Then why send Caspona and Laleno? If anyone has a chance of ensuring that Kirshov—”

  “We would be incurring Antonov’s wrath if we sent you to Grannon Rock, particularly this close to the wedding. Caspona will be charged with ensuring Kirshov’s heart doesn’t wander too far from the Goddess.”

  “Caspona hasn’t got what it takes,” Marqel objected. She could not believe that Belagren was sending that vacuous little bitch to seduce Kirshov. He’s mine.

  “Neither have you, it seems.”

  “It wasn’t my fault that Kirsh was sent to Kalarada,” she pointed out. When Ella seemed unmoved by her reasoning, she resorted to more direct methods. “My lady, please. Can’t you speak to the High Priestess? Let me do this.”

  The Shadowdancer studied her for a moment then shook her head. “No, Marqel. This is too important. We cannot risk annoying Antonov at this critical stage. Caspona and Laleno will go to Grannon Rock. You will stay here in Avacas and continue your studies. I’m actually quite impressed with your progress in the area of herb lore.” The Shadowdancer smiled, as if the compliment would somehow compensate for Marqel’s disappointment. “Now
see to it that the High Priestess’s orders are carried out and I’ll hear no more about it.”

  Marqel lowered her eyes so that Ella would not see the defiance lurking there, and curtsied in acquiescence. “As you command, my lady.”

  Marqel closed the door behind herself, careful not to let it slam and give Ella any reason to suspect her anger. She turned toward the stairs and the third floor, where Caspona’s room was located, trying to work out where she had gone wrong. Two years as a Shadowdancer here in the Lion of Senet’s palace had put Marqel in a strong position, but apparently it was not as strong as she thought. Belagren should have considered sending no one else but her to Grannon Rock to be with Kirsh on Landfall night. The idea that Caspona might have the power she believed would one day be hers was unconscionable.

  She wished she were better at politics. She could manipulate men well, but she had never really been able to crack the secret of getting what she wanted out of Ella Geon or the High Priestess. It had something to do with being Senetian, she concluded. It was as if there were unwritten laws, and you had to be born Senetian to understand them. She wished she had someone to guide her; someone who could give her an edge over girls like Caspona and Laleno. Someone whose only interest was in helping Marqel get to the top—fast.

  There was no such person, of course. Everyone was out to look after themselves.

  Marqel took the stairs to the third floor, where the Shadowdancers’ rooms were located, stewing about it. There had to be a way to get to Grannon Rock for Landfall, but she couldn’t think of one. Her brilliant idea about staying in the palace under the tutelage of Ella Geon had proved a waste of time. For a few, short, glorious days she’d had everything she ever wanted out of life, then Kirshov had been sent to Kalarada. After that, she was just another acolyte learning the arts of herbs and poisons and the rituals of the Goddess under the distrustful eye of Ella Geon. She still had to study, still had to spend hours laboring over boring, incomprehensible texts that she struggled to understand.

  Admittedly, she had learned a great deal from Ella during her time here, but once Kirsh had left, there was no point in staying to help tend the Crippled Prince. Marqel had requested she be moved back to the Hall of Shadows to continue her training under the High Priestess, but had been refused. “You wanted to be at the palace,” Belagren had said, “so you are. I’ve no intention of moving you every time you get bored, young lady.”

  So she was stuck here nursing the Crippled Prince, with Ella’s suspicious looks, Caspona’s snide condescension and Laleno’s smug disapproval. And now, after two years of living in limbo, who was going to Grannon Rock for Landfall? That sly, insipid, vacuous, insufferable cow, Caspona Takarnov.

  She knocked on Caspona’s door and waited, thinking that the nicest thing she could wish on her opponent was a galloping dose of the pox.

  “Marqel!” the older girl exclaimed as she opened the door. “To what do I owe this remarkable honor?”

  “I’ve an assignment for you from Ella. Can I come in?”

  Caspona stepped aside to allow Marqel to enter. Caspona’s room looked out over the gardens. My room doesn’t even have a view, Marqel noted with a slight frown.

  “So?”

  Marqel turned to look at Caspona.

  “The assignment? What is it?”

  “Nothing terribly taxing.” Marqel shrugged. “She’s sending you to Grannon Rock with Laleno for the Landfall Feast this year.”

  “Why Grannon Rock, of all places?” Caspona asked. She did not look pleased that Ella had sent Marqel with her orders, rather than sending for her and delivering them personally.

  “Because the Queen of Dhevyn will be attending the Festival there this year.” The words almost stuck in her throat. But she was not going to let it show—certainly not to Caspona.

  Caspona smiled knowingly. “Which means Kirshov Latanya will probably be there. I’ll bet you’re just squirming over the thought that I’ll be having your lover while you sit here in Avacas holding the hand of the Crippled Prince while he sweats out his last dose of poppy-dust.”

  Marqel clasped her hands behind her back. It gave the impression she had everything under control. In truth, she had clasped her hands together to stop herself grabbing Caspona by the throat. “I’m sure Prince Kirshov wouldn’t even remember me,” Marqel replied with a careless shrug. “He’s like that, you know. Once he’s had you, he’ll cast you aside like a soiled shirt.”

  “He won’t cast me aside,” the Shadowdancer announced confidently. “I’ll give him a night he’ll never forget.”

  “He’ll forget,” Marqel assured her. “Either the Milk of the Goddess or your own ... mediocrity ... will see to that. All you’re going to do is be his whore for the night.”

  The older girl glared at her. “I am no man’s whore. I’m a Shadowdancer. Of course, you wouldn’t appreciate the difference, would you? Not someone with your dubious background.”

  Marqel clenched her hands together even tighter. The desire to throttle her companion was almost overwhelming. “You should be grateful you’re a Shadowdancer, Caspona. You’d starve if you had to rely on your talents as a whore to earn a living.”

  “Well, I guess I’ll have to take your word for that, Marqel,” Caspona replied sweetly. “I don’t have the benefit of your firsthand experience selling myself to every man with a pulse and purse between here and Damita.”

  “Just be ready to leave on time,” Marqel snapped, furious, but unable to think up a suitable retort.

  “Shall I give Prince Kirshov your regards?”

  Marqel slammed the door behind her as she left the room.

  Chapter 6

  Misha Latanya’s latest brush with death seemed closer than the others—more real somehow, as if this time he really would simply fall into unconsciousness and never awaken. He was not sure why he felt that way. It just seemed as if this time, rather than walk past death’s door, he had actually stopped and considered it for a while.

  He often wondered if it would matter if he died. Misha was not suicidal but, in his more maudlin moments, he sometimes wondered if his death would simply remove the burden he was to others. Misha despised being a burden. He despised his own weakness, a fact not helped by the look in his father’s eye whenever Antonov came to visit him. It was not just because he was crippled. Misha favored his mother in appearance. He had her dark coloring, her blue-gray eyes, her slender build—but not, perhaps, her nature. Kirsh had inherited that.

  Misha could just remember Analee. He treasured his earliest memories of his mother, when she seemed so full of joy, so full of life. He quite deliberately blocked out the more recent memories, the ones just before she took her own life, when it seemed she was always crying, or fighting with his father over things he was far too young to understand.

  He knew Antonov tried not to let his disappointment in his eldest son show. The Lion of Senet went to great pains to make Misha feel as though he were a contributing member of the family. But he sent his eldest son agricultural reports to study or asked him to consider minor, unimportant requests from outlying duchies. The important things, however, the things that really mattered to Antonov, were rarely brought to Misha’s attention.

  Not that he really blamed him. Antonov was a man of action. He would rather spend all day watching his men training for a horse race than an hour going over the problems with grape harvest with his advisers. He did not ignore such things—he was too astute a ruler for that—but he made sure the people who were responsible for overseeing them were competent and trustworthy so he did not have to bother with the details.

  His eldest son was quite the opposite. Bedridden much of the time by his withered left side and the strange turns that caused his fits and fevers, Misha was the antithesis of everything Antonov admired in a man.

  Misha knew, without doubt, that Kirshov was the son Antonov adored—Kirshov, for whom no physical challenge posed an obstacle. Misha smiled to himself, wondering how his brother was far
ing in the Queen’s Guard. He’s probably loving every minute of it. Misha hoped so. But he knew that Kirsh was in for a rude awakening when he became Regent of Dhevyn. Administering that cluster of rebellious, fractious islands would take more political skill than Misha thought his younger brother possessed. Two years in the guard might have matured him a bit, Misha thought hopefully, and although she was still quite young, Alenor had a good head on her shoulders.

  Misha had never really gotten the full details of how his father managed to arrange for Queen Rainan to abdicate on Alenor’s sixteenth birthday, but that important date was approaching soon and, before long, Kirsh would be a ruler in his own right. Misha envied his brother a little. He did not envy him his strength, his good nature or his golden good looks. He envied his responsibility. As Regent of Dhevyn, Kirsh would have a chance to make a real difference. If he used his head, Kirsh might even be able to heal the breach between Senet and Dhevyn, which had started during the Age of Shadows with Johan Thorn and culminated in a ruinous war that neither side could really afford.

  Misha was quite a student of history. He was knowledgeable in a great many things—scholarship being the only thing he was better at than his brother. For that reason also, he quite missed Dirk Provin. His young Elcastran cousin had a fiendishly clever mind, and Misha had enjoyed playing chess with him.

  There’d been a temporary laundry maid, too, that Misha had become quite fascinated by. He learned later that she was a spy. The heretic Neris Veran’s daughter, no less, sent to Avacas to try to free Johan Thorn. She had not succeeded, of course, but Misha missed having someone around who would argue with him, rather than nod and smile and say, “If you say so, your highness,” whenever he expressed an opinion.

  The door to his room opened and he turned his head to see who had disturbed him. He was still too weak to get out of bed, but his mind was clearer than it had been for days.

  “I’m sorry, Misha,” Ella Geon said when she realized he was conscious. She had tended him since he was a small boy and rarely addressed him by his title unless there were others present. “Did I wake you?”