Chapter 38
Marqel was summoned to appear before the High Priestess almost as soon as her feet touched solid ground. The message was delivered to the ship by one of the Queen of Dhevyn’s palace lackeys, so Marqel could tell nothing about the tone of the message. She had no idea if it was a warm invitation or an angry summons. Kirsh had left with Alenor and the queen as soon as their ship docked so, with some trepidation, she climbed into the open carriage sent down to the wharf to collect her and headed for the palace.
The city of Kalarada, like the island it was named after, was a steep, narrow place where the buildings loomed over each other as they peered down over the harbor. Marqel had been here several times as an acrobat, and she remembered the city more for its clientele than for its architecture. She had never been to the palace, though; never even got a glimpse of it before today. She watched it slowly emerge out of the woodlands on the outskirts of the city as the carriage moved up the steep hill. The palace was tall and narrow and picturesque, built of the same white stone as the Hall of Shadows in Avacas. It was set amid acres of woods that were carefully tended to give the impression of wilderness. Another, smaller keep, the barracks of the Queen’s Guard, sat lower down the mountain in the shadow of the larger palace. She thought about Kirsh as they passed, wondering what he was doing now. Was he thinking of her? Or was he with that snotty little princess?
What a fool Alenor is, Marqel thought with a smile. Fancy inviting me here to Kalarada to be with Kirsh. How naive could one person be?
When she reached the palace, a servant led her through a maze of halls, up several short staircases and down several others toward the High Priestess’s suite. The palace had been built around the contours of the mountain on which it sat, she suspected, which made for some interesting detours.
Belagren was in her rooms with Madalan when she arrived. The servant left her outside with a bow, and then hurried off, probably not wanting to face the High Priestess. Marqel knocked on the door and waited, trying to control her racing heart by taking deep, measured breaths. All her plans, everything she had done to get herself here, might soon prove to have been for naught if the High Priestess did not believe her story.
Madalan opened the door for her. She curtsied politely. “The High Priestess sent for me.”
“Is that Marqel?” Belagren’s voice called from behind the partially closed door.
“You’d better come in,” Madalan suggested, standing back to let her enter.
Marqel stepped into the room and glanced around. The suite was smaller than she expected, but tastefully furnished. Kalarada did not enjoy the conspicuous wealth of Avacas, but what the palace lacked in ostentation, it made up in understated elegance.
Belagren was sitting at the small carved writing desk by the window. The room looked out over the sea. All Marqel could see beyond the High Priestess was an ocean of blue, but it was impossible to tell where the sky finished and the sea began.
When Belagren looked up her expression was cold and hostile. “I left you at the palace in Avacas. I expected to find you there when I got back.”
“There was some trouble . . .” Marqel tried to explain as she stopped a few feet from the High Priestess.
“Ah yes, I heard about that,” the High Priestess cut in. “Caspona suddenly died of an overdose. Odd that nobody suspected she was a poppy-dust addict.”
“I had no idea, either, my lady,” Marqel hurried to assure her. “I would have said something if I’d known.”
Belagren turned in her chair to face her. “Oh, I’m quite sure you would have, Marqel. I know how much you two loathed each other. I’m quite certain that even if you suspected Caspona was fooling around with poppy-dust you’d have come running to me.”
Marqel breathed a mental sigh of relief. Maybe this was going to work.
“Of course,” the High Priestess continued, “I find it extremely convenient that she chose to die the night before she was due to depart for Grannon Rock, and that you so graciously offered to take her place.”
Marqel met the High Priestess’s gaze with guileless innocence. “Do you really think she meant to kill herself, my lady?”
Belagren looked at her in surprise. “What?”
“You just said you thought it odd that she chose to die on that day. Do you really think she deliberately took her own life? I mean, it’s no secret that I never liked her much, but she didn’t strike me as the suicidal type. I spoke to her just before she went to bed the evening before. She didn’t appear to be unhappy.”
Stick as close to the truth as you can, Marqel knew. It was the only way to lie effectively.
Belagren was silent for a moment, her expression thoughtful. “You admit that you were the last person to see her alive?”
“Was I? I didn’t know.”
“And if you had known that Caspona was planning to take her own life,” Madalan asked from behind her, “would you have done anything to prevent it?”
Marqel glanced over her shoulder at the High Priestess’s right hand. “I hated her, my lady, and she hated me. Had I any inkling of what she was planning, I probably wouldn’t have done a thing. But if I’d known she was an addict, I would have reported that. Cheerfully.”
“I’m inclined to believe you would, Marqel,” the High Priestess agreed. “You’re a vindictive little bitch.”
Marqel let the insult pass. I might be a vindictive little bitch, but I’m smarter than you are, you aging old whore.
“Of course, Caspona’s tragic and untimely demise would seem a lot less suspicious had not Laleno met a similar fate in your company not more than two weeks later,” Belagren remarked, watching her closely.
Marqel met the High Priestess’s gaze evenly. “Laleno was with the Duke of Grannon Rock’s hawkmaster when she died, my lady. I wasn’t even there.”
“You found the bodies, though,” Madalan pointed out. “What made you go looking for them?”
“Laleno asked me to make sure we weren’t late getting back to the city. I was following her instructions, my lady.”
“You have a well-rehearsed answer for everything, Marqel,” Belagren noted with a frown.
“I’ve had a lot of practice, my lady. I’ve been questioned a score of times since the accident.”
Belagren did not look entirely convinced, but Marqel’s story had stood up to close scrutiny so far, and she was growing more and more confident that it would survive the High Priestess’s inquiry. “Did you have anything to do with what happened to Prince Kirshov?”
“My lady?” Marqel gasped in genuine shock.
Belagren smiled. “That got a reaction from you.”
“My lady!” she protested. “I had nothing to do with that! I found him ... I saved him!”
“Oh, settle down, girl,” Belagren ordered. “Of all the strange things that happen around you, that’s the one thing I am certain that you had no part in. What I would like to know is how you came to the conclusion that Dirk Provin was involved.”
Marqel allowed herself a small, triumphant smile. This was the opening she needed. This was her payoff for allowing that half-witted moron to touch her.
“Because I found his servant in Nova, my lady.”
“His servant?” Madalan asked.
“The half-wit. Eryk. I bumped into him ... quite literally ... in the marketplace in Nova. The poor boy was desperately lonely and unhappy. He was thrilled to see a familiar face. We had a very long and interesting conversation, Eryk and I.”
Belagren stared at her. “You know where Dirk Provin is?”
Marqel shook her head. “Not exactly. But I know where he’s been. And who’s he’s been with.”
“And you’re only telling me this now?” Belagren demanded angrily.
“I couldn’t think of a way to get the information to you safely, my lady. I mean, it is rather ... sensitive ...”
“So you found a way to get Alenor to invite you to Kalarada,” Belagren concluded, with a touch of begrudgin
g admiration.
Actually, Marqel still had no idea why Alenor had invited her to Kalarada, but she was quite content to let the High Priestess think it was the result of something she had done.
“I couldn’t think of any other way, my lady.”
Belagren nodded. “I believe, Marqel, that even if you’d marched in here and confessed to killing both Caspona and Laleno, I’d be inclined to forgive you in light of this.”
Fat chance, Marqel thought. She smiled tentatively. “I’ll be allowed to stay then?”
“For reasons known only to the Goddess herself, Alenor seems to want you here,” Belagren told her. “I’ve no wish to upset our future queen at this point. You’ll certainly stay here until I leave. After that, we’ll see.”
“Thank you, my lady,” she said with a curtsy.
“Is that wise?” Madalan asked the High Priestess. “Given the previous relationship between Kirshov and Marqel, Alenor’s good will may soon evaporate if she thinks there’s a chance that her beloved has a wandering eye.”
The High Priestess was silent for a moment, and then she looked at Marqel. “Have you and Kirshov resumed your ... friendship?”
Marqel thought about lying for a moment, and then decided against it. “I haven’t slept with him again, if that’s what you’re asking. He’s not been in a fit state to do much of anything.”
“And now that he’s recovered?”
“All I need do is snap my fingers in his direction, my lady.”
Belagren smiled. “Vindictive and cocky.”
“I don’t believe in false modesty, my lady.”
“I suspect you don’t believe in modesty at all, Marqel,” the High Priestess snorted. “However, it suits me to allow you some leeway in this matter. Kirshov is prone to attacks of honorable behavior. I don’t want him deciding to ‘do the right thing’ by Alenor at an inconvenient time. You may do what you must to keep Kirshov’s mind focused on the benefits of following the Goddess. Just be discreet about it. If the Lion of Senet gets wind of it, I will deny all knowledge of the affair and ship you off to the farthest outpost I can find at the slightest hint of trouble.”
“I understand, my lady.”
“Good,” she declared. “In that case, you may pour me some wine and pull up a chair. I want to know everything you learned about Dirk Provin.”
Feeling relieved and rather proud of herself, Marqel left the High Priestess’s room three hours later, having delivered her carefully edited version of Eryk’s tale. She was starting to realize that true power lay in knowledge; not the sort of book learning that Dirk Provin favored, but in knowing what others wanted to know.
Marqel confirmed the High Priestess’s suspicion that Dirk had been living with the Baenlanders. She had related Eryk’s tales about Dirk’s exploits with the notorious and elusive Reithan Seranov. What she had not confirmed for the High Priestess was that Neris Veran lived and was hiding in Mil. Nor had she mentioned the existence of a young girl named Mellie Thorn. Marqel knew how touchy the nobility were on the matter of heirs, and she had no intention of muddying the waters with another potential claimant to the throne of Dhevyn.
Alenor would be queen soon, and Kirsh the Regent of Dhevyn. Any issue of theirs would be the heir to the Dhevynian throne, and when Misha died, the heir to Senet as well. Of course, that was assuming an heir came from this union, a circumstance that Marqel was quietly determined to prevent.
Marqel had changed her mind about pregnancy since meeting up with young Eryk in Nova. There was a good reason to risk ruining her figure, she had decided. If Kirsh was going to father any children, then the first should be her child. It would be illegitimate, certainly, but the nobility were quite happy to overlook that if it meant preserving an important bloodline. If she wanted proof of that, she need look no further than the Lion of Senet’s obsession with finding Dirk Provin.
When Alenor proved barren, or unable to carry a child to term (it did not matter which; Marqel knew the right herbs to make either happen), then the only living heir would be the healthy child born of Kirshov’s mistress.
Marqel smiled as she walked. I will be the mother of a king or a queen. That bratty little princess will live to see my child elevated to heir.
That would feel almost as good as seeing Dirk Provin brought down.
Chapter 39
The Senetian port of Tolace was home to a number of small estates belonging to noble families with sufficient wealth and leisure time to afford a holiday home on the coast. Its main claim to fame, however, was the Hospice run by the Sundancers for centuries, and now occupied by Belagren’s Shadowdancers.
It was to Tolace that young women of noble birth came to deal with any unfortunate accidents resulting from Landfall. It was here, in Tolace, that the sons and daughters of Senet’s more prominent families were sent when their poppy-dust addiction became serious enough to attract attention. It was to Tolace that the old and the senile were sent to die.
And it was here that Neris Veran had faked his own death.
The Hospice was a sprawling complex of small, discreet cottages set among carefully manicured gardens, connected by graveled paths to the larger, less aesthetically pleasing buildings housing the general wards where the less fortunate were cared for. The whole place was surrounded by a long whitewashed wall. The rest of Tolace was built around the wall, as if the town had no other purpose but to serve the Hospice and its needs.
“I was conceived in there,” Tia remarked as she and Dirk walked alongside the wall toward the center of town. Dirk glanced at her curiously. They had said little since Kurt had delivered them by longboat to a small deserted beach some eight miles from the town.
It was midmorning, and the town around them was well and truly awake. The seemingly endless Hospice wall provided a perfect backdrop for the market set up in its shadow, and the air was filled with the shouts of merchants hawking their wares and the smell of roasting meat from the numerous stalls selling food. There were several other stalls offering a dubious, virulently alcoholic drink known as vod’kun, which Tia had tried once when she was in Avacas with Reithan. The drink had a faintly aniseed aftertaste and a tendency to strip the lining from one’s stomach. She could not imagine anyone wanting to drink it this early in the morning.
“That’s where Neris is supposed to have killed himself, isn’t it?”
She nodded and pointed west where the land rose sharply, exposing a long line of jagged cliffs. “Over there, I think it was.”
He nodded thoughtfully, but said nothing further, making Tia wonder what he was thinking. Dirk Provin could be the walking definition of inscrutable when he chose. She was not sure how she was going to deal with weeks, possibly months, with only him for company while they crossed Senet trying to discover the most valuable secret on Ranadon.
“You don’t say much, do you?” she remarked, his silence suddenly grating.
“What did you want me to say?”
“You could tell me what the plan is,” she suggested tartly. “That would be a good start. Are we going to walk all the way to Omaxin?”
“People won’t notice a couple of travelers on foot,” he shrugged. “If we buy horses, someone might remember us. Besides, the only coins we have are Dhevynian dorns. That will stick in people’s minds.”
“How are we going to change them?”
“Very carefully,” he said. “And here, while we’re still on the coast. Once we get inland, Dhevynian dorns will cause comment wherever we try to spend them.”
“It’s six hundred miles to Omaxin,” she pointed out. “It’s going to take us a long time on foot.”
Dirk didn’t seem concerned. “With luck, that will leave time for Reithan to get a message to Alexin, so that he can get a message to Alenor, so that she can let it slip that she knows where Neris is ...”
“So the High Priestess can send the order to Omaxin ordering the Shadowdancers to leave,” she finished for him with a frown. “There are far too many things tha
t could go wrong with this insane plan of yours.”
“You’re free to turn around and go home anytime you want, Tia.”
“And leave you alone in Senet? Not likely!”
“And to think I was planning to ditch you somewhere along the way so I could get back to Avacas and my old friend Antonov,” he told her. “Damn, you’ve foiled my plans.”
He had not so much as cracked a smile, but she just knew that he was laughing at her. “You know, at some stage before this journey is over, Dirk Provin, I’m probably going to end up killing you.”
“Are you planning to do this before or after we’ve saved the world?”
She looked at him in astonishment. “Saved the world? That’s a bit dramatic, even for you.”
“Is it? Think about it for a moment. I mean, other than the obvious fact that being able to predict such an important event will shatter Belagren’s whole damn religion and destroy Antonov when he realizes he’s been duped, what’s the most useful thing about knowing when the next Age of Shadows is due?”
“Being able to prepare for it, I suppose.”
“Exactly! The last Age of Shadows lasted nearly ten years. If Johan had had any idea it was coming, he could have stockpiled food, made arrangements to deal with the refugees, made any number of contingency plans ... and not have to rely on Senet, which means Dhevyn would never have been invaded in the first place.”
He was right, she realized. She had just never given the long-term consequences of what they were doing much thought. Her only real interest was vengeance—for her father, for Johan Thorn, and lately, for Morna Provin.
“You do know what’s going to happen, don’t you? Your insane plan will actually work. We’ll get to Omaxin and you’ll immediately find a way through the Labyrinth, where the solution will be waiting for us, plain as day, and it’ll take you no more than ten minutes to figure out that the next Age of Shadows isn’t due for another thousand years, and this whole damn exercise will have been a complete waste of time!”
“It’s possible,” he conceded.
“And what are we going to do then? What if the next Age of Shadows isn’t due in our lifetime?”
Eye of the Labyrinth Page 24