His mind reeling from the pain and the implications of a conversation Kirsh was sure he must have imagined, he lost consciousness as they dragged him upright. The men who had beaten him slung his limp and battered body between them, then hauled him to his borrowed mount and draped him inelegantly over his saddle before leading him away from the docks.
Chapter 23
It was the early hours of the morning before Marqel left the tavern and headed uphill toward the road that led to the temple. Red-stained clouds had built up, threatening rain. The sky was low and heavy and the air felt moist. It began to rain, not heavily but enough to make her shiver as her red tunic gradually became soaked. She walked on, heedless of the weather. Perhaps, when she arrived back at the temple looking forlorn and drenched, the others would assume she was stricken with grief, rather than the truth, which was that she had spent a very agreeable evening in a tavern getting pleasantly drunk.
Most of the shops in the center of town were still closed. On the other side of the square an early rising merchant was lifting the awning on her fruit stall to catch the first customers of the day. The rain was falling harder now, tiny rivulets forming between the cobbles as the water drained toward the sewers beneath the town. Marqel heard a horse nicker softly from the shadows of a lane between the tannery and a shop displaying a sign that announced “Distinguished Pottery.” She squinted curiously through the rain at the riderless horse. He was saddled, his reins dragging on the ground, and he was nudging at the rubbish thrown out from the back of the shop.
Instinctively, Marqel eyed the horse with a view to its value. Someone would surely pay to have it returned. The saddle alone was worth a fortune; the fittings appeared to be solid silver and worked with exquisite attention to detail. She smiled to herself, thinking how some habits were so ingrained in her, that even after more than two years in the Goddess’s service, she still could not help but wonder about the reward she might claim for retrieving something so valuable.
She called softly to the horse as she entered the lane, speaking nonsense words in a soothing tone so as not to startle the beast. There was no sign of his owner. When she was close enough, she reached up slowly for his bridle and was rewarded with a friendly push. Marqel smiled as the gelding rubbed his wet, velvety muzzle against her cheek.
“Aren’t you beautiful?” she murmured as she patted him.
The horse tossed his head with a shower of raindrops, nodding as if he agreed with her. Carefully, she gathered up his reins and threw them over his neck to prevent him stepping on them. She made no attempt to mount him. Marqel still had little experience with riding and was not so foolish that she would attempt to mount an unknown horse, regardless of how friendly he might appear.
“Come on, gorgeous,” she coaxed, tugging on his bridle to move him forward. “Let’s go find out who owns you.”
Even with the promise of shelter in the offing, the horse refused to budge. She tugged a little harder, but the gelding was adamant. Marqel sighed impatiently as she looked around for something that might entice him, some scrap of food or an errant weed poking through the cobbles that might tempt the beast to move. As she did, the rubbish heap beside her moved.
With a squeal of fright, Marqel jumped backward. The horse seemed unconcerned. Instead, he lowered his head and pushed at the rubbish. A glimpse of royal blue poked out from under the discarded packing left over from the pottery shop. When the pile moved again and groaned, Marqel realized that it was a man. Quickly, she tore away at the piled-up rubbish until she was able to drag the limp body clear of the pile.
He was dressed in the blue-and-silver uniform of a Queen’s Guardsman. She rolled him onto his back and gasped aloud. He was so battered and bruised, she almost didn’t recognize him.
“Oh, Goddess! Kirsh? Kirshov? Answer me!”
He groaned, but that was all the sense she could get out of him. Oblivious to the rain, Marqel checked him over carefully, but it appeared that nothing was broken. She frowned suspiciously, recognizing the work of professional thugs. Kalleen had occasionally hired out Sooter and Murry to the moneylender on Bryton because they could deliver the same sort of precise beating: the kind that would leave a man pissing blood for a week, but wouldn’t kill him. The moneylender was quite firm on that point. He wanted his errant debtors alive to pay their debts. Kirsh, too, had been worked over by experts.
“Oh, Kirshov,” she cried, cradling his head in her lap. “Who did this to you?”
The horse pushed against her back to remind her he was still there. Marqel glanced around the lane, but there was nothing there she could use to bathe his wounds, and she would not leave him. Not like this. Tears streamed unheeded down her face, mingling with the rain. It all made sense now. Why she had come here, why circumstances had conspired to bring her down this particular lane at this precise moment.
Kirshov needed her and destiny had guided her to him.
Marqel’s cries for help eventually roused the pottery store owner. She ordered him to send his son to the duke’s house for help. Marqel did not want to involve the Queen’s Guard, but she knew she couldn’t care for him alone. He needed to be moved, for one thing, and she had no hope of performing that feat on her own.
It was well into the morning before help arrived. The second sun had risen behind the clouds and the rain had settled in to a steady downpour that had hardly faltered as she sat in the lane, holding Kirsh to her, urging him to wake. She was soaked to the skin, her long fair hair plastered to her head, but she didn’t notice her own discomfort.
Several Guardsmen accompanied the storekeeper’s son on his return. They lifted Kirsh into an open wagon—none too gently, she noticed with a scowl—then, with Kirsh’s horse tied to the back, headed up the hill toward the duke’s house. They did not ask for an explanation, nor seem to expect one. She got the impression they rather expected Kirsh to get himself into trouble and, if anything, his injuries were his own fault. Marqel rode with Kirsh in the wagon, refusing to let the Guardsmen near him.
When the wagon arrived at the duke’s house, the captain of the guard hurried out to greet them with Alenor close on his heels. The dark-haired princess was distraught when she caught sight of Kirshov, even more so when she realized that it was Marqel who held his head in her lap. The rain quickly drenched the princess, ruining her pale silk gown and destroying hours of work by her hairdresser. Within minutes, her Royal-Bloody-Highness was looking as disheveled and unkempt as a gutter rat.
“Who did this to him?” Alenor demanded of Marqel angrily.
“You would know better than I, your highness,” Marqel replied as she relinquished Kirshov to the Guardsmen. “Perhaps this was meant as a warning to you.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Later, your highness,” the captain advised. “We need to get him inside.”
“Of course,” the princess agreed, stepping back to let the Guardsmen lift him clear. Marqel noticed that with Alenor present, they were much gentler in their handling of the Senetian prince than they had been in the town. Alexin led the way as they carried him into the house.
Marqel jumped down from the wagon and made to follow him inside. She was determined not to let Kirsh out of her sight, but the little princess blocked her path. Marqel was a head taller than Alenor, but that didn’t seem to cow the younger girl. The rain had soaked her though. Her carefully arranged curls lay flat against her head and her skin had taken on a faintly blue tinge as the cold rain began to take its toll.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“To tend the prince,” Marqel replied.
“The duke’s physician can take care of him now. I thank you for your assistance, my lady Shadowdancer, but it is no longer required.”
“But I’m trained—”
“I know what you’re trained in, Marqel,” the princess informed her icily. “And Kirsh doesn’t need your help. Not now. Not ever.”
For a long moment, the young women stared at each
other.
“My lady?”
They both turned toward the Guardsman who stood on the step near the open door to the duke’s hall. If he noticed anything amiss, he was wise enough not to let it show.
“What?” Alenor snapped, automatically assuming that the man was addressing her.
“The prince is conscious, your highness. He’s asking for the Shadowdancer.”
Marqel felt a surge of triumph as she stared at the princess. Alenor looked so deflated, so hurt, that Marqel almost felt sorry for her. Almost. The sorry little bitch deserved everything she got. She was a princess; she was rich. One day she would be a queen. That should be more than enough for anybody. What made her think she could have Kirshov as well?
“I’ll be right there,” Marqel informed the Guardsman, although her victorious gaze never left Alenor’s face. The little princess seemed to be fighting back tears. Drenched and devastated as she was, Marqel thought she had never seen such a pathetic sight.
“It seems Kirshov does need me,” she said softly.
Alenor didn’t reply. With a triumphant smile, Marqel pushed past the princess and hurried inside to tend Kirsh.
Chapter 24
Alenor slammed the door of her room and began tearing off her sodden clothes, blinded by tears of anger and humiliation. The rain rattled against the window, making the room almost as gloomy as her mood. When the door opened without warning, she turned to yell at whomever it was that dared disturb her. She didn’t want to see anyone. She simply wanted to die.
“Alexin told me what happened,” Rainan explained, closing the door behind her, before Alenor could say a word.
“Oh, Mother!” she cried, hurling her sodden gown to the floor. “How could he betray me like that?”
“Betray you?” the queen asked curiously. “I’m not sure I follow you, Alenor.”
“How could Kirsh ask for that damn Shadowdancer instead of me? And in front of the Guardsmen? What must they think? What was he thinking?”
“From what Alexin tells me, he’s barely conscious.” The queen walked into the dressing room and reappeared a moment later with a towel. She handed it to Alenor and then picked up the ruined gown from the rug where Alenor had thrown it. Rainan walked across the room and draped it over the back of a chair, where at least it wasn’t dripping on the Duke of Grannon Rock’s carpet. “I’m not sure Kirshov knew what he was saying, darling.”
“But that just makes it worse!” Alenor declared from under the towel as she tried to dry her hair. She rubbed at it vigorously for a moment then looked up at her mother. “Don’t you see? He called out to her. Not me!”
“I assume we’re talking about the Shadowdancer who found him?” Rainan asked. “I know her from somewhere, don’t I?”
“She was in Avacas. She was the one who claimed Dirk raped her.”
“And Kirsh attacked him for it, as I recall. Quite a catalyst for disaster, your little Shadowdancer.”
“She’s a thief and a liar and she’s been after Kirshov since we first met her on Elcast.”
Rainan seemed unconvinced. “Alenor, by all accounts she saved his life. Aren’t you overreacting just a little bit? She had been with him for quite some time before help arrived. He’s delirious. Kirshov was probably just calling for the most recent familiar face, darling. It’s you he loves. You’ve told me that a thousand times.”
“No, he was calling for Marqel because she’s the one he truly wants.”
Rainan’s reaction to her angry announcement was guarded. The queen took over from the mother. It hurt Alenor a little to think that her mother’s response was politically motivated, rather than guided by maternal feeling.
“Are you certain of that?”
Alenor shrugged and sank down on the edge of the bed. “Yes.”
“I see.”
“You don’t sound surprised.”
“To be frank, Alenor, I was more surprised to learn that you loved Kirsh, or that he seemed to love you. Falling in love is a luxury for someone in your position.”
“Did you love my father?”
“I liked him well enough, certainly, and I grieved for him when he died, but I never loved him. Like your future consort, your father was chosen because of who he was, not for what I felt for him.”
“How can I marry Kirsh now, Mother? Knowing that he doesn’t love me?”
“For one thing, you don’t know he doesn’t love you. Your entire hypothesis is based on the delirious babbling of a barely conscious young man. And second, even if you loathed him, Alenor, the wedding would still go ahead. The only chance we have of protecting Dhevyn’s sovereignty is to ensure that the next king or queen of Dhevyn after you is of Senetian and Dhevynian blood.”
“Won’t that achieve the exact opposite? If Kirsh and I have a child, then we’re all but handing Dhevyn to the Senetians.”
“On the contrary, my dear, we are securing its future. Antonov wishes to own Dhevyn, make no mistake about that. He will do it peacefully by marriage, or he’ll do it the hard way and take us by force, but one way or another, he intends to claim us.”
Alenor nodded thoughtfully. “So you think that if the next heir to Dhevyn is Antonov’s grandchild, he’ll think that he’s achieved his goal?”
“Exactly,” the queen agreed. “By the time your child inherits the throne, we’ll have been able to negotiate a much more reasonable and secure agreement regarding Dhevyn’s future with Misha.”
“With our luck,” she sighed miserably, “Antonov will live to be a hundred and fifty and poor Misha will die before he can inherit anything.”
“If Misha dies, Alenor, you won’t be marrying Kirshov. I’ll not have Dhevyn absorbed by Senet because we suddenly share an heir.”
“I heard Misha was really sick.”
“But well on the way to recovery,” Rainan assured her. When Alenor looked at her questioningly, she smiled. “I’m not entirely reliant on the information fed to me by Antonov and Belagren.”
“You have spies in Senet?” Alenor asked in surprise.
“Sympathizers.” Rainan smiled. “Now, why don’t you finish getting changed? I’m going to be busy for a while drafting a letter to Antonov, trying to explain this rather unfortunate accident.”
“It wasn’t an accident, Mother, someone beat him up.”
“Alexin seems to think it was cutpurses. Apparently he was drinking with Kirshov in a tavern by the docks in the early hours of the morning. He claims Kirsh was quite drunk when he left him. I guess we won’t know the whole story until he recovers.”
“Do you think it was cutpurses? Or because of who he is?”
The queen shrugged. “I’m very fond of the cutpurse theory myself. When Antonov hears about this, I’ll have enough to account for, without trying to explain away an attempt on his son’s life.”
“Does Antonov need to know?”
“I don’t think there’s any way to stop him finding out.” The queen smiled comfortingly. “Why don’t you go up to the bathhouse and have a good long soak? Things will look a lot less drastic when you’re clean and dry.”
Her mother’s reassurances did little to placate Alenor, but she could see there was no point arguing about it.
“Yes, Mother.”
Rainan stepped forward and kissed her cheek. “It will all work out, Alenor, I promise. We’ve survived so far.”
Rainan let herself out of the room, leaving Alenor staring thoughtfully after her.
We’ve survived so far. It was true, she knew, but it wasn’t enough. In a few weeks, Alenor would be Queen of Dhevyn, but she was not so foolish to believe that she would have any control at all over her kingdom or her own fate. Kirsh didn’t really care about being regent, and she knew he would allow the underlings his father had placed in Dhevyn’s court to run things as they saw fit. She would be lucky if he questioned anything. All he wanted was that damn thief.
It’s up to me, she realized with an overwhelming sense of despair. Mother can’t do anyth
ing, Kirsh won’t do anything. If anyone is going to put things to rights, then it has to be me. The unfairness of it all seemed to swamp her for a moment. What can I do? I’m fifteen years old, and I’m surrounded by people who are too afraid to sneeze in the direction of Avacas for fear of upsetting Antonov and Belagren ...
Then she thought of Alexin and his cryptic offer.
Maybe she was not as alone as she thought.
Her hair still damp, but dressed in dry clothes, Alenor hurried through the duke’s sprawling house to the wing where the Queen’s Guard were quartered. She badly wanted to check on Kirshov, but didn’t want to risk running into Marqel, so she gave his room a wide berth. Perhaps later she would visit him, when he was fully awake and aware of his surroundings.
Mother’s probably right. He didn’t know what he was saying. If she told herself that often enough, she might even come to believe it.
“Your highness!” a startled voice declared as she burst into the dormitory, where the off-duty Guardsmen were lying about on their bunks in various states of undress. She had no time to be embarrassed.
“I’m looking for Captain Seranov.”
“I ... er ... I believe he’s in the bathhouse, your highness,” one of the guards told her, as his companions hurriedly began to cover themselves. “I can have someone fetch him for you, if you wish.”
“Thank you, but I can take care of this myself.”
She smiled suddenly, realizing that the guards were more embarrassed than she was.
“As you were, gentlemen.”
Alenor hurried across the lawns toward the bathhouse. The rain had stopped and the heat of the second sun was making the ground steam as it burned off the excess moisture. The bathhouse was steamy and stank of sulfur.
“Alexin?” she called through the mist. Fed by a hot spring, the baths had been bricked in to form two large pools, separated by a low stone wall.
“Your highness?” a disjointed voice answered.
“Are you decent?”
“No!” He sounded quite alarmed. “What are you doing here?”
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