Lord of the Shadows (20 page)

“I was going to save Misha,” he said eventually. “I was going to prove I was more than just a second son; more than a spare heir whose only use is standing at stud for his father's dynastic ambitions. I was going to wipe out the Baenlands and return to Avacas a hero.”

“Is that what's got you wallowing in self pity? You're afraid you won't be hailed as a hero?”

Kirsh shook his head. “This was my chance to prove myself to Antonov, Dirk. To prove that I really am the son he likes to think I am. But I've screwed it up. There's no sign of Misha, and the Baenlanders got away from us. All I have is a smoking village and a few prisoners who say they know little more than their own names.”

“That's hardly your fault, Kirsh.”

“Antonov will think it is. Yet again, I fail the test.”

“What test?”

“The test he applies to everything I do, Dirk. The one where my father measures my every decision, my every action, against his benchmark of what constitutes a son he can be proud of.”

“What are you talking about?”

“
You
, Dirk. I'm talking about
you
.”

“That's absurd!”

“You're everything he could have hoped for in a son, don't you see? Goddess, even after you burned the
Calliope
it was obvious he secretly admired your daring. Look at you! You're the
ultimate survivor. And—bastard or not—you have the added advantage of being the son of a
real
king. My grandfather was a commoner, who rose through the ranks and seized control of Senet, Dirk. You think my father doesn't remember that? But you're the last in a line of kings reaching back into antiquity. Why do you think he's never just overthrown Dhevyn and appointed himself her king? It's because he knows that a couple of generations of power don't make you royal. Goddess, he's let you get away with murder—literally! How can I compete with you?”

“I never tried to compete with you, Kirsh,” Dirk said.

“And that's what really pisses me off,” Kirsh replied. “You are everything my father wanted his own sons to be and you don't even care.”

y the second month of her reign, Marqel realized that Madalan Tirov was deliberately preventing her from retuning to the Lion of Senet's palace, or having anything else to do with him. The reason was clear, even to Marqel. Until the fleet returned, and Dirk's reliability was either proved or disproved, Madalan didn't want Marqel to have a chance to get close to Antonov Latanya. If word came back that the fleet had been destroyed, Marqel would be the one to wear the blame, and Madalan didn't want Antonov flinching from passing her death sentence because he had grown attached to her.

Marqel was at a loss as to how to fight Madalan. She had never had any friends among the other Shadowdancers, viewing them as competition rather than potential allies, so there was nobody she could even trust to run a message for her without it finding its way into Madalan's hands. Her elevation to High Priestess was unpopular; she had still been an acolyte and she wasn't even Senetian. Marqel was alone in a gilded cage, trapped amid undreamed-of wealth as she waited to find out if
she would live or die, her fate in the hands of a man who openly despised her.

Madalan kept her busy. Marqel spent almost every waking moment buried in boring administrative matters that she was certain Belagren had never had to deal with. She said as much to Madalan once, who smiled nastily, and pointed out that much of the work was the responsibility of the right hand of the High Priestess, but since the Lord of the Shadows was currently otherwise engaged, Marqel would just have to deal with it herself.

Marqel was tempted to test the limits of her power by simply removing Dirk in his absence and reassigning Madalan to the job, which would force the old sow to take on the work herself, but she thought better of it. That would be handing the bitch far too much power, and she was afraid to think of what Dirk's reaction might be if he returned to Avacas to find himself deposed. Besides, if things went bad in the Baenlands, the last thing Marqel needed was Madalan Tirov at her right hand, close enough to wield the knife that stabbed her in the back.

The Lion of Senet questioned her absence from the palace. Madalan made no attempt to hide his messages and invitations from Marqel. But she replied to each one with an apologetic missive on Marqel's behalf, claiming the new High Priestess was under a great deal of pressure and had far too much to deal with in her new role to take time out to socialize, even with someone as important as the Lion of Senet.

Just when Marqel began to grow truly desperate about her predicament, she received a ray of hope from the most unlikely source. Jacinta D'Orlon, lady-in-waiting to the Queen of Dhevyn, requested a private audience with the High Priestess, and there was not a damn thing Madalan Tirov could do to prevent it.

“You do me a great honor, my lady,” Jacinta said graciously, looking around the opulent, almost tasteless wealth decorating the High Priestess's private suite. The whole room, from the small side tables to the large inlaid murals on the walls, was touched with gilt. Even the vase in the corner of the room, filled
with freshly cut flowers, was solid gold (Marqel had checked on that personally the day she moved in). Marqel enjoyed the look of surprise on Jacinta's face. She could remember thinking, the first time she had entered this place, that one day all this would belong to her. And now it did.

Then Jacinta turned to face Marqel with a friendly smile. “You've come a long way since I saw you last.”

Although she would not go so far as to call Jacinta a friend, Alenor's lady-in-waiting had always treated her with respect, and Marqel was delighted to see someone who wasn't a damned Shadowdancer.

“The Goddess spoke to me. I'm the High Priestess now.”

“So I hear,” Jacinta agreed. “That's why I was so surprised to find you buried here in the Hall of Shadows and not at the palace. I thought the High Priestess had duties there as well.”

Marqel was instantly suspicious. “What do you mean?”

The Dhevynian woman smiled. “Why don't we sit down?”

Marqel nodded her agreement and took the seat opposite Jacinta, as the lady-in-waiting fastidiously straightened her skirts.

“What duties?” she asked again.

“Well, it's just I thought the High Priestess and the Lion of Senet …”

“I've been busy,” Marqel shrugged uncomfortably. “I haven't had time to get back to the palace.”

“That's such a pity. Antonov has been asking for you, I understand.”

“He has?” she asked, a little too eagerly.

Jacinta looked at her with great concern. “Marqel, may I ask you something personal?”

“Like what?”

“Well, it seems to me your elevation to the position of High Priestess might be unpopular among the Shadowdancers. You're Dhevynian, for one thing, and new to their ranks. They're not
deliberately
keeping you from Antonov, are they?”

Marqel's natural distrust of anything or anybody connected with Alenor began to wane a little in the face of Jacinta's obvious
sincerity. “I think they might be,” she confided in a low voice.

“But that's terrible,” Jacinta cried. “Can't you order them to let you out of here?”

“If I could, do you think I'd be sitting here?”

“Oh, Marqel! How dreadful for you. Is there anything I can do to help?”

“What can you do? I'm the High Priestess of the Shadowdancers. You're just the Queen of Dhevyn's maid.”

Jacinta smiled conspiratorially. “I may just be the Queen of Dhevyn's maid, Marqel, but I think I
might
be able to help you.”

“How? How can you get me into the palace? More to the point, why would you want to?”

“The
how
is easy enough. I'll simply have Alenor insist you return.”

“Antonov's already sent several messages asking about me. Madalan just fobs him off with one excuse after another.”

“Alenor won't just ask after you, Marqel, she will insist on your spiritual guidance. If she begs your company of Antonov, instead of simply asking after you, he will
insist
to Madalan that you attend the palace. She can ignore an invitation, but not a direct order.”

“Why would you do something like this for me?”

Jacinta sighed heavily. “Because Alenor wants to go home, Marqel.”

“So?”

“Well, I was thinking … in exchange for getting you out of here, perhaps you could return the favor by insisting Antonov sends her back to Kalarada.”

Marqel smiled. She was always more comfortable when she knew what someone wanted of her. And Jacinta obviously wanted her help. Better yet, she obviously
needed
it. “But why would he listen to me?”

“Because you are the Voice of the Goddess.”

Marqel's smile faded. She didn't like the sound of this. She certainly did not want to give Jacinta anything she could hold over her at some stage in the future. “You're asking me to lie to him.”

Lady Jacinta met her eye and smiled knowingly. “If lying to Antonov bothered you, Marqel, you'd not be the High Priestess. It's part and parcel of the job, I understand.”

The comment worried her. As far as Marqel knew, Jacinta was supposed to be a faithful follower of the Goddess. Antonov would never have allowed her to remain in the queen's service if she wasn't. Jacinta should not even be questioning the truth of her visions. But then, the little queen of Dhevyn was uncomfortably close to Dirk Provin, Marqel recalled. The Goddess knew what
he'd
told her about all this and what she'd told her lady-in-waiting.

For a moment, Marqel wavered with indecision. But when all was said and done, whatever Jacinta believed, she was offering her a way out of the Hall of Shadows and, in truth, Marqel would be glad to see the back of the pallid little queen. And if it came to a showdown, it would be the word of a Dhevynian lady-in-waiting against the Voice of the Goddess.

“Very well, I'll help you.
If
you help me.”

Jacinta rose to her feet. “Then I will look forward to seeing you at the palace sometime soon, Marqel.”

The lady-in-waiting headed for the door without waiting to be excused. She had almost reached it when Marqel thought of something else. Jacinta must be truly desperate if her only recourse was to turn to Marqel for help.

“I have a condition.”

Jacinta turned and looked at her curiously. “And what is that?”

“Getting me into the palace isn't enough. Get me into Antonov's bed.”

“I'm not your pimp, Marqel,” she responded with a frown.

“Oh yes, you are, Lady Jacinta,” Marqel told her, feeling a lot more confident about her ability to bargain. “If Alenor wants out of Avacas, then get me into Antonov's bed. That's the deal or we have no deal at all.” She smiled and opened her arms to encompass the luxurious suite she occupied. “As prisons go, this isn't so bad, you know. I can stay a little longer if I have to.”

Jacinta thought about it for a moment and then shrugged. “I'll see what I can do.”

“You do that, my lady, because I won't be having
any
visions about your queen going home to Kalarada until the morning
after
.”

ellie Thorn was a strong swimmer, so she volunteered to teach Misha. It was a little embarrassing for Misha to admit he couldn't swim. He was a grown man who had spent his whole life near the sea. But Mellie seemed glad she was able to do something to help. Misha suspected she was bored. After the initial excitement of their flight from Mil and arrival in Damita had worn off, with no friends her own age nearby, Mellie found herself with little else to do but work her way through Oscon's extensive library, or go for long, solitary walks. On the rare occasions she
had
disappeared for a walk, Tia had been so angry at her for wandering off that Mellie soon discounted it as a viable way to pass the time.

Misha promised he would go walking with Mellie when he was strong enough, to which Tia responded contemptuously: “Over my dead body!”

Misha smiled. He suspected that Tia didn't doubt he would eventually be strong enough to walk unaided. It was the idea she would let either Mellie or Misha roam the countryside around Garwenfield unescorted that prompted her comment.

They were sitting on the beach, letting the warm second sun dry their skin. The ocean lapped the white sand with hypnotic regularity. The screeching of gulls searching the shoreline for scraps was the only thing preventing them from being caught in its spell. Misha was tired, but not unbearably so. Mellie was a surprisingly patient teacher, and Tia always remained close by, to make sure he didn't drown when they paddled out into the deeper water. He could not swim yet, but he could tread water for longer and longer periods each day. His right arm and
leg felt as strong as they ever had, although the weakness in his left side was an endless source of frustration.

“I fear our jailer plans to let neither of us out of her sight, Mellie,” Misha predicted with a smile.

“I'll give you
jailer
,” Tia snapped. “If I catch either of you even
thinking
about wandering off without me, I'll lock you both in a dungeon and you can survive on bread and water and whatever food I can slip under the door.”

“There are no dungeons here, Tia,” Mellie laughed. “She's such a grouch, isn't she?” she added to Misha.

“I know,” he agreed with a grin. “What do you think we should do about it?”

“We could throw her back into the water,” Mellie suggested.

“You and Misha?” Tia scoffed. “That'll be the day.”

“She's right, Mellie. But give me time to get stronger and then we'll catch her unawares one day and toss her into the sea.”

“It's a bargain!” Mellie laughed, climbing to her feet. “Do you want to try again?”

Misha shook his head. “I've had enough for one day, I think. But don't let me stop you if you want to keep swimming.”

Mellie ran down the sand toward the water and splashed into the small waves. Misha watched her for a while, and then turned to look at Tia, who was staring out over the water with a pensive expression.

“I envy Mellie Thorn.”

“Why?” she asked, turning to look at him.

“Because she's so unaffected. I wish I was as innocent of the dangers of being an heir.”

“Mellie's not the heir to anything.”

“Don't kid yourself, Tia. While Alenor D'Orlon remains childless, there is no other logical heir to Dhevyn unless you want to see Dirk Provin on the Eagle Throne.”

As usual, her expression darkened at the mention of Dirk's name. “Are you suggesting that Dirk would kill Alenor, and then try to remove Mellie as well?”

He shook his head. “I know your opinion of Dirk, Tia, but
the more I think about it, the more I don't believe the Eagle Throne of Dhevyn is what he's after.”

“What is he after then?”

“I think he's trying to destroy the Church.”

Tia snorted skeptically. “He
joined
the damned Church, Misha!”

“It's sometimes easier to pull a thing down from the inside,” he said, “than to stand outside throwing rocks at it.”

“You're as bad as Lexie,” she complained. “You just can't help trying to find a reason to convince yourself he hasn't betrayed us, can you? I hope you haven't been telling Mellie your bizarre theories. I warned you about that.”

“She's not mentioned him to me since Mil.”

“Good. The less time she spends dwelling on her bastard half-brother, the better.”

“You didn't know him before he came to Avacas, did you?” he asked. “The Dirk Provin you describe is different from the boy I once played chess with.”

“You knew the
boy
, Misha. It's the
man
you should worry about.”

If Tia thought her anger masked the pain behind her words, then she was mistaken. Misha thought Master Helgin was right when he speculated that Tia and Dirk had been more than friends. It would account for why her rage seemed to have no limit.

“Did you love him very much, Tia?”

She glared at him for a moment, and then scrambled angrily to her feet and stalked off toward the house without answering his question.

Misha only began to fully appreciate how much he had angered Tia later that day when it came time for the daily massage Helgin had prescribed.

Over the past weeks, Tia had been a conscientious student, as she learned under Helgin's careful guidance how to mix the oils, how to warm the muscles gently before working them, and how to ease the knots and twists that half a lifetime of being bedridden had wrought on his body.

He had been reluctant at first. Master Helgin had stood over
Tia, instructing her in the correct techniques, while he lay on the table like an undressed side of beef. He was self-conscious about his lopsided body, and while he didn't have a problem with Master Helgin's professional gaze, there was something extremely unsettling about Tia Veran's touch. She had been very businesslike about the whole thing, however, and three days before, Master Helgin had declared her sufficiently competent to continue without his supervision.

But there was nothing gentle or considerate about her touch today. She was brutal. Her strong hands, which he usually found so soothing, were not easing his muscles, they were pulverizing them. Her fingers felt like iron bars, and she seemed to be seeking out every sore spot on his back and making it her mission to bruise it even more.

“Ouch!” he yelped, as she found one of the pressure points at the base of his spine and applied far more pressure than was necessary.

“Don't be such a baby.”

Misha was lying on his stomach so he couldn't see her expression. He turned his head to look at her. “Do you mind? You'll break something if you keep on like that.”

“Stop complaining. This is good for you.”

Misha snatched at her arm with his good hand to prevent her doing him serious damage. “Don't take your anger at Dirk out on me, Tia.”

“Let me go,” she ordered coldly.

Misha kept hold of her arm and twisted himself around into a sitting position. The mere fact he could manage such a thing was a testament to how much he had improved, but he didn't have time, just then, to savor his achievement.

“Tia, I don't know what happened between you and Dirk—”

She snatched her arm free of his grasp. “That's right, Misha, you
don't
know. So just mind your own damn business!”

“Tia, if you hate him as much as you claim, why are you letting him get you like this? He's not here. He's not even on the same continent. Despise him for what he's done, if you must,
but don't let him ruin your life by turning you into a bitter old woman. That's giving Dirk far more than he deserves.”

Tia's eyes blazed angrily for a moment, and then she sighed, as if her rage had exhausted her and she no longer had the will to sustain it.

“I just can't help myself, Misha,” she said, leaning on the table beside him. “Just the mention of his name makes me want to kill something.”

“I noticed,” Misha said with a thin smile.

“I'm sorry. Did I hurt you?”

“The bruises will fade eventually.”

She was silent for a moment and then looked at him with a smile. “I hope Master Helgin doesn't come in and catch us like this.”

“Like what?”

Tia bent down and picked up the towel that had fallen to the floor when Misha had pulled himself up. He felt his face warming with embarrassment as he snatched it from her hand and hurriedly threw it across his lap.

“You're blushing!” Tia laughed.

“Don't be ridiculous.”

“You are too! There's no need to be embarrassed, Misha. It's not as if I haven't seen plenty of naked men before.”

“Really?” he asked with a raised brow.

She rolled her eyes. “I didn't mean that the way it sounded …”

Misha smiled. “Now who's blushing?”

“Just lie down and shut up, Misha, so we can get this finished.”

“I'll bet you didn't say
that
to all the naked men you've seen before.”

Tia scowled at him, shoving him none too gently in the chest to force him to lie down. He fell backward, banging his head painfully on the table.

“Ow!” he yelled, although he did have the presence of mind to keep the towel in place.

“You're such a girl,” Tia told him unsympathetically.

“What is going on in here?” Master Helgin demanded,
opening the door with a disapproving frown. “I can hear you yelling all the way down the hall.”

Misha turned his head to look at Helgin. “There's no problem, Master Helgin. Tia just seems to think a slight concussion might speed my recovery.”

Helgin stared at both of them with a puzzled frown, and then turned away, muttering to himself as he closed the door behind him.

Misha looked back at Tia, who was silent for a moment, and then, like guilty children caught doing something naughty, they both burst out laughing.

After that, Tia's mood was much improved. Misha was not sure if he'd been responsible or not. Perhaps it was pointing out that Dirk still had power over her while she was angry with him. Or it might have been that she had seen him—all of him— and was still laughing about
that
.

Whatever the reason, even Oscon remarked on the change in her.

Tia Veran fascinated Misha. She would laugh wholeheartedly if she thought something was funny, but could explode into fury at the slightest provocation. She could argue politics better than Lord Palinov and play chess better than anyone he knew (not counting Dirk). She was tougher than a drill sergeant when he was exercising, but when Master Helgin began to taper the dose of poppy-dust and Misha became so skittish he couldn't sleep, she would stay up all night talking to him so that he did not have to suffer alone.

He had never met anyone so blunt, so honest or so open. She was equally passionate about those she loved and those she hated. Raised at court, and surrounded all his life by people who played political games to advance themselves in his father's favor, he found her frankness enchanting.

Misha knew he was more than a little bit in love with Tia Veran, although he made no attempt to act on it. For one thing, she was still aching over Dirk, and he was certain the last thing she was interested in was another man.

The second reason was simple pride. If he ever declared
himself to Tia, he could not bear her accepting his love out of pity.

So Misha settled for silence, and turned his mind to fighting the poppy-dust that seemed determined not to relinquish its grip on him. As the doses he took were reduced, some of his earlier symptoms reappeared. He was trembling and quite often nauseous, but he had not suffered any fits and was stronger than he had been in years, so it was easier to deal with the symptoms than it had been in the past.

The long, languid days in Garwenfield blurred into one another. He lost track of time; did not know if he had been here for weeks or months. Each day was more difficult than the day before as the drug reluctantly loosened its hold on him, but each day he survived made him stronger and more determined. Helgin often warned him the worst was yet to come, but Misha found the prospect less daunting than it had been in the past.

For the first time in many years, he had
hope
, and he discovered that was almost as powerful a narcotic as poppy-dust. In spite of his illness and his unrequited love, Misha was the happiest he could ever remember being.