Eye of the Labyrinth

by Jennifer Fallon

  “You don’t think it had anything to do with the fact that Kirshov Latanya and Dirk Provin were once best friends? That perhaps he released you because Dirk asked him to?”

  “No, I don’t,” Tia declared flatly. “I think you’re clutching at sunbeams, Lexie. Dirk has betrayed us and there’s no nice way of putting it, no favorable light to study it by.”

  “Perhaps you’re right,” she conceded. “I’ve just got a feeling there’s more to this than we know.”

  “Well, as soon as you figure out what sort of brave and noble plan required Dirk Provin to betray all his friends and take a position of power in a religion he knows to be a sham, while ensuring the Lion of Senet has enough information to wipe us all off the face of Ranadon, would you let me know what it is? I’m sure it will be fascinating.”

  Lexie shook her head sadly. “Don’t let bitterness and anger consume you, Tia.”

  “You gave me that piece of advice once before, Lexie. Do you remember? You told me I should give Dirk the benefit of the doubt. Well, I did what you asked. And I didn’t just give him the benefit of the doubt; I gave him everything. Threw myself at him, if you want to know the sordid truth. And guess what? I got screwed—in more ways than one.”

  “Your language always gets more vulgar when you’ve been to sea,” Lexie scolded.

  Tia stared at Lexie in amazement. “You won’t accept it at all, will you? You don’t want to admit Dirk betrayed us. You think that because he’s Johan’s son, he must have been born with some inherent streak of nobility that puts him above such a base and despicable act. You’re like that with everything! Twenty years in the Baenlands and you don’t even want to admit that this is your life now. You’re always telling Mellie to mind her manners because she’s a princess. You still act as if any day now, we’re all going back home, and you’ll be a lady and a noblewoman again, with nothing more serious to concern yourself with than next season’s wardrobe. What difference does it make, Lexie, if Mellie doesn’t act like she was raised at court? She’s never going to see the inside of a palace, any more than you will.”

  “Some habits die hard, Tia,” Lexie explained. “Others are so much a part of you that without them, you’re not yourself any longer.”

  Tia sighed heavily, regretting her outburst. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to take it out on you.”

  “I know you didn’t.”

  “What am I going to do, Lexie?”

  “Take one day at a time,” Lexie suggested. “Actually, there’s not much else you can do. Once you’ve stopped wallowing in self-pity, things will begin to look up.”

  “I’ve always despised people who wallow in self-pity.”

  “And that’s a large part of the problem.” Lexie reached over and squeezed her hand with a smile. “You can’t alter the direction of the wind, Tia...but you can adjust your sails. You’ll get through this and be stronger for it.”

  “Maybe,” she agreed reluctantly. “But right now I have a more pressing problem.”

  “What’s that, dear?”

  “How am I going to break this to Neris?”

  Chapter 87

  If she didn’t know better, sometimes Belagren was prepared to believe that there really was a Goddess. The summons she had received from Antonov to attend him the previous night had proved the most fortuitous thing that had happened lately, and she still could not quite believe her luck.

  Misha Latanya had been kidnapped—and hopefully killed—by the Baenlanders.

  In a thousand years, she could not have thought of a more fitting way to dispose of the elder prince. It left her totally blameless, totally free of guilt. She even spared the poor young man a moment’s sympathy, thinking it was such an unfortunate fate to befall someone whose greatest sin was getting in her way.

  That the young woman who had apparently kidnapped Misha from the Hospice fit the description of the recently escaped and still missing Tia Veran, just made it all the more deliciously ironic. The look on Kirshov’s face when he had heard the news was priceless. The younger prince obviously blamed himself for his brother’s plight. He was, after all, the one responsible for letting her escape.

  Dirk Provin’s reaction was harder to fathom. He had listened to Barin’s report with no visible reaction. That could have been simply because he was hearing it for the second time. Or there might have been a more sinister reason.

  The boy was uncomfortably hard to read. She made a mental note to herself to spend more time with him in the future. She did not know Dirk nearly well enough; could not tell when he was lying—or even when he was joking—much of the time. Belagren’s strength lay in her ability to read people, and not being able to work out what was going on behind those cold gray eyes was a dangerous inadequacy.

  Still, knowing that Misha was out of the way had been the most welcome news she’d had since learning that Dirk Provin had decided to join her and give her back the Voice of the Goddess.

  Antonov was furious, of course. Belagren suspected his anger was driven as much by the thought that the Baenlanders had the audacity to kidnap his son as it was by actual fear for the young man. It was the insult that enraged him, not the act itself. Deep down, Belagren knew, Antonov Latanya would not grieve his eldest son long if he found out he was dead. But he would tear the world apart because someone had the temerity to take something of his without asking.

  Belagren walked to the window of the rooms kept for her here in the palace, wondering what time it was. The red sun was still shining, and there was no hint yet of the second sun rising, but it felt close to morning. She was tired, but although she had not slept yet, she was too wound up to seek her bed.

  What a strange few months it’s been, she mused.

  After years of worrying, everything was finally falling into place. They were through that damn Labyrinth, and Rudi had sent her a letter last week assuring her that the first section of the wall they had been assiduously copying down was almost complete. As soon as he had arranged for the notes to be copied a second time—she was not foolish enough to leave the only copy in Dirk’s hands—he would dispatch them to Avacas, and Dirk could finally get to work on them.

  Better yet, there was an eclipse coming. She still did not have the details, but that was something she intended to do something about this morning. Dirk had prevaricated long enough. She had given him everything he wanted. It was time for him to give something in return.

  In fact, she thought, the timing couldn’t be better for an eclipse. Antonov would appreciate a sign from the Goddess right now. A little taste of the shadows would go a long way to reminding him who it was who spoke with the Voice of the Goddess. And all I need now is for that idiot Paige Halyn to die, and have Madalan appointed Lady of the Suns, and everything will be perfect.

  The first thing she intended to have Madalan do in her new role was disband the last remnants of the Sundancers. While he was gloating over how he had foiled her ambition, Paige Halyn had reminded her of a fact she had overlooked in her haste to secure the position of her Shadowdancers. There were still a lot of Sundancers out there, and many of them were well-respected members of the communities they served. They needed to be taken out and replaced by her people. Within a few years, nobody would even remember what a Sundancer was.

  Perhaps I’ll make it easier to become a Shadowdancer, she thought. I could ease up on the requirements a little, even welcome some Dhevynians into the fold.

  The experiment with Marqel had not been a complete disaster. In fact, the girl had been positively helpful these past few weeks. Dirk Provin had asked for her assistance, which had made Belagren a little suspicious, until she realized how much he enjoyed tormenting the poor girl. He was exacting his own revenge on Marqel the Magnificent for accusing him of rape.

  That boy had a streak of sadism in him that she had not previously suspected.

  I wonder if he’s sleeping with her? she thought. He might be, these days, just to remind Marqel who was the master and who was the serv
ant. Or he might not be—smart enough not to give the young Shadowdancer a chance to use her considerable talents in the bedroom to gain the upper hand.

  Kirsh was still besotted by Marqel, but he was being very cautious while Alenor was ill. Perhaps he even felt a little guilty? Men were strange like that, sometimes—blaming themselves for things they had nothing to do with, and refusing to take responsibility for things that were blatantly their fault.

  The lingering suspicion that Alenor’s miscarriage was not an accident was fading from everyone’s mind, mostly because nobody could think of a plausible reason why the Queen of Dhevyn would deliberately abort her own child. She was obviously shattered by the loss, as was Kirsh, who had been morose and moody ever since it happened. Yuri had warned Belagren that Alenor might not be able to have any other children, but he did not know for certain, so she was prepared to hope for the best.

  All in all, she concluded, things were going quite well.

  A knock at her door surprised her at this early hour. She opened the door herself, to find Marqel standing outside.

  “Have you any idea of the time, girl?”

  “I need to speak to you, my lady.”

  “And it can’t wait until after second sunrise?”

  “It’s about Dirk.”

  Belagren stood back and let her enter. She closed the door and then turned to look at Marqel suspiciously.

  “What’s the matter?”

  Marqel looked down, almost embarrassed. “He’s been making...advances toward me.”

  Belagren snorted in exasperation. “So?”

  “But I’m with Kirsh...”

  “You’re with whoever I tell you you’re with, Marqel. If Dirk Provin wants you, he can have you.”

  “Kirshov loves me.”

  “That’s his problem. In fact,” she added, “if anything, it might even be time for you to move on. This business with Alenor makes it very awkward for Kirshov to be seen as anything other than a doting husband, especially while he and Alenor are still here in Avacas.”

  “But Dirk Provin? He hates me, my lady,” she insisted. “He’s only doing this to persecute me. Why do you let him?”

  “Dirk Provin can dip you in custard and serve you up at the High Table for dessert, for all I care, Marqel. My only concern is that he gives me what he’s promised, and if he wants to amuse himself by tormenting you, then that’s a price I’m quite willing to pay.”

  The young Shadowdancer scowled for a moment and then lowered her eyes submissively. “I’m sorry, my lady. I shouldn’t have questioned your wisdom.”

  “No, you shouldn’t have,” Belagren agreed grumpily, She had ruined Belagren’s good mood with her whining.

  “Would you like some tea, my lady?” Marqel offered, no doubt wishing to ingratiate herself back into Belagren’s favor.

  “Yes, I would,” the High Priestess decided.

  “I’ll make it myself,” Marqel offered, with a small curtsy.

  Belagren stepped away from the door, and Marqel hurried from the room to fetch her tea. The High Priestess wandered back to the window. The first faint hint of yellow was beginning to lighten the red sky in the east.

  She smiled to herself, thinking that at least now she knew the answer to the question about Dirk’s intentions toward Marqel. He really was a sadistic little bastard, wasn’t he? She would have to bear that in mind when dealing with him. Still, she was not worried about Marqel. The girl had been a whore before Belagren took her off the streets of Elcast. She had probably dealt with far worse in her rather sordid career than Dirk Provin’s mild attempts to humiliate her. In fact, Marqel was coming along quite nicely, after a few minor hiccups. She might prove very useful in the years to come.

  A little while later, the door opened again and Marqel let herself in, awkwardly balancing a tray in one hand. She walked across the room and placed the tray on the desk near the window.

  The cup was steaming and smelled faintly of peppermint.

  “Will that be all, my lady?”

  “Yes, Marqel. You may go.”

  “Don’t let it go cold,” Marqel warned.

  “I won’t.”

  Marqel curtsied with suitable respect and let herself out. Belagren picked up the cup and sipped the tea appreciatively, turning to watch the second sun rise as she did each morning.

  There it was, right on cue. Right where it should be.

  Yes, she thought contentedly, taking another sip of Marqel’s peppermint tea. All in all, things are really going rather well.

  Chapter 88

  Marqel was waiting for the Lion of Senet as the second sun rose. He always started his day with a prayer to the Goddess, so she waited for him in his private temple in the palace gardens. She and Dirk had spent hours going over what she would say, and how she would say it, although she found herself quite annoyed by his assumption that she was too witless to figure out for herself how this should be handled.

  Dirk did, however, know the Lion of Senet far better than she, and she had to admit that he seemed to have thought of everything, so, in the end, she let him instruct her, promising herself that she would do as he asked unless, of course, she came up with a better idea.

  As soon as Marqel heard the footsteps on the gravel outside the small temple she fell to her knees in front of the altar and bowed her head in prayer. Her hair was disheveled, and she looked as if she had been up all night (which she had). She let her eyes fill with tears as she waited, kneeling in front of the two beaten gold suns of Ranadon, with her back to the entrance, quietly sobbing. She heard his boots on the polished schist floor. Heard him stop behind her when he realized somebody had invaded his sanctuary.

  “This is my private temple,” Antonov said.

  Marqel did not answer him, nor give any indication that she had heard him speak.

  “Did you hear me?”

  She looked up slowly, her face streaked with tears, as if she had only just become aware that she was no longer alone. Antonov’s face creased with concern when he saw her obvious distress.

  “Is something wrong?”

  She shook her head wordlessly, too distraught to speak.

  “Are you unwell?”

  “She...She...spoke to me,” Marqel whispered brokenly.

  The Lion of Senet walked across the temple and squatted down beside her. “Who spoke to you?” He sounded impatient.

  “She spoke to me!”

  He looked at her for a moment, his irritation slowly replaced by awe. “The Goddess spoke to you?”

  “She called...to me,” Marqel sobbed, with heartbreaking sincerity. “I was sleeping...and the Goddess called me in my dreams. She told me to come here...” With convincing desperation, Marqel clutched at Antonov’s arm. “I’m so frightened...”

  “There’s nothing to be frightened of, child,” he said, patting her hand. “If this is true, then you’ve been greatly honored.”

  “She...She told me things...”

  “What did she tell you?”

  “She said something about your son...”

  “Kirshov?”

  Marqel sniffed, mostly to cover up her smile. Dirk was right. Antonov Latanya could be so predictable at times. She shook her head. “Prince Misha. She said he’d been taken...”

  “Did she say where?”

  Marqel shrugged. “I’m not sure. I don’t really understand what she told me. It was something to do with sailing. Something about finding a river...She said it was spoken...”

  “Spoken? You mean the Spakan River?” Antonov sat back on his heels and stared at her. “You expect me to believe that the Goddess told you how to find the entrance to the Spakan River through the delta?”

  “I don’t know,” she sobbed desperately. “I only know that she wanted me to tell you things...that she said...” Marqel let her voice trail off, as if she could not bring herself to say the rest of it. This was the part of the plan she had modified to suit herself. She was not going to wait for Dirk’s scheme to come to
fruition. She wanted to be High Priestess. And she wanted it now.

  “She said that Belagren had let her down... that I was to take her place...”

  Antonov was understandably suspicious. “Did she now?”

  “Please help me, your highness,” she begged. “I’m not worthy to be chosen by the Goddess...”

  “I wouldn’t have thought you were either,” he remarked, which was not a good sign. Antonov had to believe her, and it was patently obvious that he didn’t.

  “Can we ask the High Priestess what to do?” she suggested, wiping her tears away with the back of her hand. “I’m sure she’ll know...”

  Antonov nodded. “I think that would be a very good idea.”

  He rose to his feet and walked to the entrance, issued an order to fetch the High Priestess to one of the guards outside, then returned to where Marqel was kneeling on the floor. He held his hand out to her, and when she accepted it, he helped her to her feet.

  Marqel did not let go of his hand. She turned it over and kissed the sword calluses on his palm, then looked up at him through lashes glistening with crystal tears. “The Goddess said something else, too...”

  “What else did she say?” He still sounded far too skeptical.

  “She said... theHigh Priestess is her voice... andthat you are her sword arm.”

  Antonov nodded. That fitted perfectly with what he believed, so she was on fairly safe ground.

  “She said the two should always be as one...”

  “The two are as one, Marqel,” he reminded her.

  She shook her head. “She said that you had wandered from her embrace.”

  “The Goddess thinks I have failed her?” he asked in surprise. “How?”

  “I don’t know,” Marqel replied, deciding a fresh round of tears was in order. She didn’t want to cry too much or she would get all blotchy and look as ugly as sin. “I only know she told me your faith needed to be renewed, and that she would send you a sign, so that you’d know I speak the truth. And I do speak the truth, your highness,” she cried. “I swear I do... I don’t know why she chose me. I didn’t want her to... Do you think the High Priestess will be able to make things right?”