Eye of the Labyrinth (12 page)

Chapter 21

Morna Provin found herself spending much of her days lost in thought. There was precious little else to do as she counted down the sunrises until the Landfall Festival. She thought a great deal about the past, and tried very hard not to think about the future.

Tovin Rill was holding her in the cells of the Senetian Garrison on the outskirts of Elcast Town. Built hastily after the return of the Age of Light, it was not a particularly aesthetically pleasing fortress, its functionality taking precedence over its appearance. Her small cell was in one of the outbuildings, constructed of roughly dressed stone, the only light provided by a tiny barred window, too high in the wall to offer a view of anything but a small patch of sky. Her bed was a straw pallet, her toilet a wooden bucket in the corner.

For the most part, her guards were considerate, and for all that she was trapped in a cell normally reserved for thieves and murderers, she had not been unbearably uncomfortable. Captain Ateway had brought in some debtor slaves to clean the cell before incarcerating the dowager duchess, and he made sure the bucket was regularly emptied. Faralan had also sent down quite a few of her personal possessions, and she had been allowed writing materials to enable her to put her affairs in order. All in all, the whole thing was being handled in a very civilized manner, except for the fact that at the end of it lay a burning pyre and inevitably, her death.

Morna had always thought that she would have to be dragged kicking and screaming to her execution, but now that she was actually faced with it, she found herself quite philosophical about the whole idea. The reason, she concluded, was that she had little to live for any longer. There were no sons left to raise, not even a decent fight left to fight. Johan was dead, and so was Wallin. Dirk had vanished. Rees no longer needed her, or wanted her, it seemed. Her purpose in life was gone. In a few weeks, Alenor D’Orlon would marry Kirshov Latanya, and Dhevyn would have a Senetian regent.

Antonov and Belagren had won.

If Morna regretted anything about her life, it was that she did not perish in the last great battle at the end of the Age of Shadows. Those who died in that fight at least went to their graves believing that they were dying for something worthwhile. She understood now the futility of what she and Johan had attempted. She thought a lot about Johan these days. It was almost as if she could feel him waiting for her on the other side.

How much harder it had been to live on, to learn the bitter truth that good did not always triumph over evil. She had discovered the hard way that right was not enough when people were frightened and hungry. And who got to judge what was “right,” anyway? In the eyes of Antonov Latanya, she was evil personified. Her story, told from his perspective, cast her as the villain. They had lost that last dreadful battle, in part, because at least half the dukes of Dhevyn had preferred the Lion of Senet’s version of right over Johan’s.

Morna smiled faintly, thinking it would have been so much easier if Antonov had been short and fat, or ugly, or horribly scarred, or drooled when he ate. But there was nothing about the man that hinted at the darkness in his soul. No outward manifestation of evil that made it simple to look at him and say “Beware!”

Then she wondered about her own reasoning.
If there is no
Goddess, does that mean humans
have
no soul?

“My lady?”

Morna looked up from the small desk they had provided for her in the cell. She had been composing letters to be read after she was gone; hence her rather maudlin train of thought. She welcomed the interruption.

“Yes, Captain?”

“Lady Faralan is here to see you.”

“Thank you, Captain. Please show her in.”

We’re all being so polite, so terribly courteous about this.
Perhaps that was the true measure of nobility, this remarkable gift for accepting everything with grace and elegance, when any normal, rational person should be howling in protest.

“How are you today, my lady?” Faralan inquired as Ateway opened the cell door for her. He locked it again once she was inside, but moved to the other side of the guardroom to give them at least the semblance of privacy.

“I’m well, Faralan. And you?”

Faralan lifted the basket she was carrying onto the bunk. Morna glanced at it, wondering if Ateway or one of his men had searched it before allowing her daughter-in-law to bring it to her.

“I brought you some food. Welma baked herb bread for you.”

Welma had been the baker in Elcast Keep since before Morna arrived on Elcast as a seventeen-year-old bride during the Age of Shadows. The brusque, unforgiving baker had been very understanding of a young princess raised for a life of luxury and leisure who suddenly found herself married to a complete stranger, and mistress of an enormous keep that required an army of servants just to ensure it ran smoothly from one day to the next.

“Does she worry that I’m not thriving on a steady diet of gruel?” Morna asked with a small smile.

Faralan returned her smile cautiously. “I’d quite a job assuring her that you weren’t down here being stretched over a rack. She’s very loyal to you, my lady.”

“Then do something for me, Faralan. Tell Welma to forget me. It will do none of us any good if she voices her displeasure in the hearing of the Lion of Senet.”

“I will,” Faralan promised. “He’ll be here tomorrow.”

“Antonov? He’s cutting it a bit fine, isn’t he? It’s only a few days until Landfall.” She said it without even thinking about what Landfall meant to her. Faralan looked away, unable to speak so calmly or openly about the perilous future that awaited her mother-in-law. Perhaps she should have said, “It’s only a few days until I die.” What would poor Faralan do then?

“I suppose there’s little chance that Rees is planning to petition Antonov for my life?”

“I’m sure he will,” the girl hurried to assure her. “I’ve spoken to him about it on a number of occasions.”

“Faralan, don’t you think it odd that Rees needs to be coerced into asking for his mother’s life?”

The poor child looked away in shame. “It’s not that he doesn’t want to ...”

“No. It’s that he’s studied his options and decided prosperity lies with following Antonov. I’ve no one to blame for that but myself, I suppose. He never said anything to me directly, but I know he thought Dirk was my favorite.”

“Is it true? ...” Faralan began, and then she appeared to change her mind, obviously embarrassed.

“Is what true, dear?” When the girl didn’t answer, Morna smiled. “If you have any questions, you’d best ask them now. I’ll not be in a position to answer them after Landfall.”

Faralan took a deep breath. “Rees says ... he got a letter from Prince Antonov. He says Antonov claims Dirk ... that he was ...”

“Johan Thorn’s bastard?” Morna finished for her. So Antonov had told Rees the truth. Well, that explained why Rees was being so cooperative. The Lion of Senet would have worded the letter in such a way that Rees would have felt totally betrayed by the revelation. The secret that Morna had kept for so long to protect one son was now the ammunition the other son would use to destroy her.

How naive I was to ever imagine I could fight you and have a
chance of winning, Antonov Latanya.

“It’s true then?” Faralan looked genuinely shocked.

“Yes, it’s true.”

“But you let Dirk leave! You sent him to Avacas!”

“I’ve done many things in my life, Faralan. Not all of them have been wise.”

“Do you think he’s dead?”

“Who? Dirk? Of course not,” she scoffed. “If my son was dead, Antonov would have hung his head from the gates of his palace in triumph the day it happened.”

“Where do you suppose he is, then?”

Morna wondered at the question. Was Faralan genuinely concerned for Dirk, or was she fishing for information at Rees’s behest?
Was there ever a time I trusted anyone?

“I’ve no idea.”

“Do you think he’ll come to? ...”

“Why don’t you say the rest of it, Faralan? Do you think he’ll come to watch me die? I certainly hope not.”

“My lady, that’s not what I meant.”

Morna sighed. Perhaps she was being too hard on the child. Faralan had been married to Rees for a bare four months. Her annual visits to Elcast had trained her to run a household, not deal with the politics of deceit or vengeance.

“I’m sorry, Faralan. I don’t mean to snap at you. None of this is your fault. I just find myself leaning toward the maudlin the closer I come to dying.”

Faralan nodded warily, trying to give the impression that she had some notion of what Morna was going through, then glanced over her shoulder to ensure that Captain Ateway was still out of earshot.

“Master Helgin asked me to give you something,” she said, lowering her voice. She reached into the basket and picked up a small loaf resting on the top of the herb bread and fruit that Welma had sent.

“I didn’t realize Helgin had taken up baking as a hobby,” Morna remarked, accepting the loaf from Faralan’s outstretched hand.

“He said it might make things easier ... when the time comes,” Faralan whispered cautiously.

Morna glanced down at the loaf. What had he done? Laced the dough with nightshade? Or had he and Welma actually baked the bread with something hidden inside? She bit back a smile. Surely nobody actually did that? Not in real life.

“Does Rees know about this?” she asked curiously. It was odd that the thought of suicide no longer disturbed her. For the first time in her life she understood how Analee had been able to take her own life. Strange that, of all the outcomes of her impending death, the most unexpected was that it had allowed Morna to finally forgive her sister.

“No.”

Morna frowned. “I appreciate your help, Faralan, but if I can give you one piece of advice before I die, let it be this: don’t set yourself up in opposition to your husband. Not if you wish to be happy.”

“But what if I think what he’s doing is wrong?”

“Then run, child,” she suggested, sadly. “Run away now. Run as far and as fast as you can, because I can guarantee that you will spend the rest of your life regretting it if you stay.”

Chapter 22

Kirshov Latanya was rather annoyed when he discovered he had been assigned to the Queen’s Guard detail, instead of being allowed to take part in the Landfall Festival. He had been planning to complain to Alexin about it, too, until it occurred to him that this was the first time in almost two years that he had been assigned to anything remotely useful, and it might be smarter to follow orders. He had never imagined that it would be so hard to win the trust and confidence of his comrades-in-arms. Perhaps finally, the Lord Marshal was convinced that he was worthy of his commission in the Queen’s Guard, and Alexin had assigned him to guard the queen on Landfall night for that reason.

Objecting to his assignment might set his cause back by years.

The Grannon Rock Landfall Festival was probably going to be disappointing, in any case. It was held in the confines of the town square, and was smaller almost than the Elcast Festival. Rainan and Alenor would leave the square as soon as the drums began to pound, so he would have no chance to see Marqel, and certainly no chance to do anything else with her.

He had heard she was among the Shadowdancers brought to the island to conduct the ritual, but the closest he came to her was when he caught a glimpse as she rode out to go hawking with the other Shadowdancer the day before. One of them had been killed in an accident, he had heard, but nobody could tell him who. He didn’t think it was Marqel. For some reason he felt he would know if something happened to her.

Alenor knew the identity of the late Shadowdancer, but Kirshov was not so foolish as to broach the subject of Marqel with his betrothed. They had an unspoken agreement: Marqel did not exist, and if they both pretended that was the case, they could maintain a harmonious peace.

Kirsh was relieved at midnight, when the next detail arrived in the wing of the duke’s house where she was quartered to assume the protection of the queen. There was not much point that Kirsh could see. Grannon Rock was a safe island and the duke’s house was well guarded. The chance that some fanatical Dhevynian was plotting dastardly deeds against the queen was remote. However, he did not relax his guard either, and the men who took over from him were nervously alert, as if they were expecting an assassin to jump out from behind the tapestries at any minute.

Once he was off duty, Kirsh debated heading into the city to see what was happening. It was well into the night, and he knew there would be nothing much going on now, but he decided to seek out Alexin, who had mentioned plans to meet some friends in a tavern somewhere. He could not remember if Alexin had given the name of the tavern, but Nova was not so large that Kirsh could not check them all if he had to.

With no other purpose in mind than a drink with a friend, Kirsh woke the grooms in the duke’s stables, arranged to borrow a horse and headed into town.

He found Alexin in the third tavern he tried. It was near the docks, and was remarkably subdued, given the lateness of the hour. With all the other entertainment available in Nova so close to Landfall, the tavern was feeling the pinch. The innkeeper stood behind a long, polished bar that was dented and battered from the frequent fights that broke out in the taproom. He looked up with pathetic eagerness when Kirsh stepped into the room. Any customer on a night like this was welcome.

Kirsh glanced around, ordered ale and headed to the corner where he had spied Alexin’s familiar profile through the dusty window. The Guardsman was deep in conversation with another man, a sailor. Neither man noticed Kirsh approach.

“...if she says yes,” Alexin was saying in a low voice, as Kirsh neared the table. “As I told the others, she wasn’t very enthusiastic about the idea.”

“We don’t have time to sit here and wait for her to think it over. We have to get this done quickly,” his companion remarked. Kirsh noticed that his face was scarred on the right side, as if he had been badly burned.

“I agree,” Alexin shrugged. “But I’m not certain—” Alexin shut his mouth abruptly as he glanced up and caught sight of Kirsh. The Guardsman looked as guilty as if Kirsh had just caught him stealing the crown jewels. His companion was staring at him with open hostility. “Kirshov!”

“Alexin,” Kirsh greeted him warily. “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”

“Of course not!” Alexin declared with false cheer. “I was just catching up with Captain ... Borus, here. He’s an old friend of the family. Borus, this is Kirshov Latanya.”

Captain Borus looked like anything but the type who might call himself an old friend of the Seranov family. He glared at Kirsh with a calculating stare. “So, you’re Antonov’s cub.”

Kirsh bristled at the contempt in the man’s voice. “You seem to have a problem with that.”

The captain smiled coldly. “You look like him.”

“You know my father?”

“By reputation only, I’m afraid,” he replied, although for some reason, Kirsh was sure he was lying. “How are you finding life in Dhevyn, your highness? Must be a bit of a comedown for someone like you, mucking it out in the barracks with the commoners.”

Kirsh didn’t know who this Captain Borus was, but he took an instant dislike to the man. “It’s none of your damn business what I think about Dhevyn.”

“Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong, your highness. When the prince of a foreign nation is about to become Regent of Dhevyn, I think it’s the business of every citizen in Dhevyn to know what he thinks of us. More to the point, I think we have a right to know where his loyalties lie. Don’t you agree?”

“What are you implying?” Kirsh demanded, his ire rising. Alexin was shaking his head at the sailor, warning him to cool down.

“I’m not implying anything,” the sailor shrugged. “I’m saying it straight out. Whose side are you on, Kirshov Latanya? If we went to war with Senet tomorrow, who would you fight for?”

“Dhevyn is not at war with Senet,” Kirsh pointed out, a little disturbed by the question. Who
would
he fight for, if Dhevyn and Senet went to war? He was appalled to discover he could not answer the question, even to himself.

“We’re not at war
today,
” the sailor agreed. “But unless you’re a prophet, son, you might want to give the matter some thought. I’d hate to be one of the men under your command, my life hanging in the balance, while you make up your mind.”

Somehow, being called “son” by this boorish sea captain seemed even worse than the man’s accusations.

“I am not your
son,
sailor,” he said icily. “You will address me in a manner befitting my rank, or better yet, don’t address me at all.” Without waiting for Borus to reply, he turned to Alexin. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you, Alexin. Perhaps we can have a drink together some other time. In more congenial company.”

“Tomorrow, maybe?” Alexin suggested, deliberately avoiding the eye of his companion. He neither apologized for the sailor nor seemed unduly concerned that Kirsh was leaving.

“Tomorrow,” Kirsh agreed.

He turned on his heel and strode toward the entrance, tossing a coin to the tavern-keeper for the untouched ale that stood waiting for him on the counter.

Kirsh rode through the deserted streets for a while, still angry at the sailor’s words. What did it matter whose side he was on? Dhevyn and Senet were allies. He was going to marry their future queen. The two nations were tied together by proximity and economic necessity. Even in times past, when they had been less than friendly, they had never actually fought each other. In fact, the only war that had happened in recent times was the one led by Johan Thorn against the Lion of Senet and the forces loyal to the Goddess. Borders and nationalities had meant nothing during that conflict. You were either on the side of the Goddess or you were not.

He was wandering the streets aimlessly as another thought occurred to him. What was Alexin doing in that tavern with such a man? He tried to recall what little he had overheard before the men had halted their discussion. They were obviously discussing something of import, but he had no inkling as to what that might be. It disturbed him. Alexin was a loyal Guardsman, but that did not mean he wasn’t a loyalist. Antonov had warned him before he left Senet that the guard was full of seditious fools. Was Alexin plotting something with the scarred sailor?

Impulsively, Kirsh turned his borrowed horse around and headed back toward the docks. If Alexin was plotting against the queen, it was his duty to learn what was afoot. If he was plotting something against his father, Kirsh felt just as duty-bound to discover it. Of course, he would then be confronted by the very dilemma the sailor had posed. If he uncovered a plot against Senet involving the queen or her guard, who would he report it to?

He was still no closer to an answer when he was hit from behind by what felt like a tree trunk. He had only just turned onto the street facing the docks when his attackers struck. Black lights swam before his eyes as he fell from the saddle, landing heavily on the ground, then all light vanished as a dark hood was pulled over his head. He struggled wildly to regain his feet, but received a sledgehammer-like fist in the gut for his trouble. Gasping for air in the smothering hood, he lashed out blindly with his feet. They kicked him again, this time in the lower back. He grunted with pain as he was pushed down, face first onto the cobbled street. His hands were pulled back behind him and expertly tied, then lashed to his ankles. Finally, the rope was looped around his throat. He quickly discovered he couldn’t move his feet without choking.

His assailants had not uttered a word from the moment they had surprised him, and it was that which alarmed Kirsh the most. These men were not simple cutpurses looking for an easy mark. They were efficient and thorough and knew exactly what they were doing. He stopped trying to struggle against the ropes that bound him; it was fruitless, and every movement threatened to strangle him.

“What do you want?” he gasped, his voice muffled by the rough cloth of the hood. Silence followed his question. Although he couldn’t see what was happening, he got the feeling his attackers were waiting for something. “What do you want, damn it!”

“What do we want?” a voice finally answered. Although he couldn’t be certain, he thought it might be the sailor from the tavern. “We want nothing, your highness, except to be left alone.”

The statement puzzled Kirsh, but he was too busy gasping for air to pay much attention to it. The hood reeked of old fish and the smell alone was enough to make him gag.

Then the man spoke again, but it was to someone else. “Work him over good, Kurt, but don’t kill him.” He laughed harshly, confirming Kirsh’s suspicions about the identity of the man. “Just make sure you hit him in a manner befitting his rank.”

After that, Kirsh had no time to spare wondering about his attackers.

There were three of them at least, he thought, and they proceeded to beat him with frightening precision. One pain blurred into another as they pounded into every vulnerable point in his body. They broke no bones, nor hit him anywhere likely to prove fatal, but that still left an awful lot of places he could be hurt. Helpless to defend himself, he teetered on the edge of unconsciousness as they punched him relentlessly, no thought left in his mind except the hope that eventually the torment might stop. He was trussed up like a turkey and could do nothing to shield himself from the blows. All he could do was remain silent, as if by not crying out, he was somehow fighting back. It was the only weapon left to him, so he bit back his howls of agony and let them think he wasn’t hurting.

“Goddess! What are you doing?”

A voice from the past. He wasn’t sure if he heard it or simply imagined it.
How could Dirk be here?
Kirsh wondered if they had slipped up and killed him after all, despite their orders to the contrary.
Am I dead? Is this the afterlife?
Right at that moment, the mere idea that the pain might stop at any moment was close enough to paradise to satisfy Kirsh.

“This is none of your concern.” It was the voice of the sailor from the tavern, he was certain. Kirsh was a little surprised to discover he was still there. He thought he had left. There was a moment’s tense silence before the older man spoke up again. “All right, you can cut him loose, Kurt.”

The voice belonging to the one called Kurt muttered something that sounded like an order, and a few moments later the pressure eased around his throat as the ropes were cut. Kirsh groaned weakly and rolled onto his side, hoping to find a place that didn’t hurt, but there was none.

“You shouldn’t even be out here,” the sailor warned. “Suppose someone sees you?”

“Suppose someone sees your thugs beating a man to death not fifty paces from the ship?” the one who sounded like Dirk retorted. “At least they could have had the brains to take him somewhere else.”

“Who is he, anyway?” a female voice asked curiously.

“The Lion of Senet’s cub.”

From the scuffling sounds near his head, Kirsh wondered if the one who sounded like Dirk was trying to come to his aid and the others were holding him back.

“Why are you
doing
this?”

“Why do you care?” the girl asked.

They must think I’m unconscious,
Kirsh realized, endeavoring to remain still. If he could learn the identity of his attackers, or even the reason for it, he could do something about settling the score later. Right now, surviving this seemed more important than revenge.

“Kirsh was my friend, Captain.”

“You know,” the female voice remarked, “I really wish you’d stop reminding us about your rather dubious coterie of friends.”

Kirsh muffled a groan.

“Beating Antonov’s son half to death isn’t going to achieve anything,” the one who sounded like—but could not possibly be—Dirk pointed out angrily.

“Oh? I don’t know. At the very least it’ll knock some of the arrogance out of him.”

“He’s not moving,” the girl said. “Suppose you’ve killed him?”

“Then I’ll be heartbroken,” the sailor replied with obvious insincerity. “I think we can safely assume our work here is done,” he added, perhaps to the men who had beaten him. “You’d best get him out of here, Kurt, before his friends come looking for him. Assuming he has any friends. And don’t leave him lying about near the ship. Throw him over his horse and dump him in the town somewhere before you take that hood off.”