The Lion of Senet (18 page)

Chapter 27

Belagren slept late the morning after the Landfall Festival. The second sun was high in the sky when she finally opened her eyes. She stretched languidly with a smile of intense satisfaction, then turned to study Antonov, who was still sleeping beside her. His face was peaceful, his chin shadowed by stubble that was beginning to show more signs of gray than blond these days, but he was still a strong, handsome man. She lightly trailed her fingers over his face, hoping not to wake him for a few moments longer, simply enjoying being in his bed once more.

It was where she belonged.

The Landfall Festival was the one night of the year when Belagren could be sure that Antonov would return to her. His faith was so profound that to spend the night with anyone other than the High Priestess would have bordered on sacrilege.

They were both too old now to simply fall into the bushes consumed by lust, so as soon as the formalities were over, she had led Antonov back to the Keep and the comfort of his rooms. Antonov was familiar with the Milk of the Goddess. He’d learned the hard way to take only enough to invoke its powerful aphrodisiac effects, and avoid the other, less pleasant consequences. What had followed was a night of exhausting passion that rivaled anything she had experienced before. Antonov had never been a particularly thoughtful lover, and under the influence of the Milk of the Goddess, he bordered on barbaric. She had bruises on her arms where he had held her down and the whole of the lower half of her body ached from the abuse he had inflicted on her.

Her smiled widened as she thought of the first Landfall Feast when she had coaxed him back into her arms. It was not long after Analee had killed herself. The war was over by then and Johan had fled to the Baenlands. Antonov was still grieving the loss of his wife, although he was so convinced that the sacrifice of his youngest child had resulted in the return of the second sun, he never once questioned the baby’s fate.

With inexplicable male logic, the man who had spent much of his married life cheating on his wife suddenly decided he should be faithful to her memory. And in some ways, Belagren had become the victim of her own propaganda. Antonov believed so deeply that she truly had spoken to the Goddess that ever since the return of the second sun he had been treating her as if she were a deity herself.

Neris was completely lost to the poppy-dust and becoming quite useless. He had discovered when the second sun would return, but he was so befuddled by the drugs Ella had pumped into him that he was incapable of remembering what day it was, let alone work out complex mathematical problems. And he was racked with guilt, thinking it was his fault that Antonov had killed his son. Hoping to distract him, Belagren had sent Neris north to Omaxin again with instructions to seal the tunnels into the building where they had learned the secrets of the ancients, then ordered him to retire to the small coastal town of Tolace with Ella, to work out the answers she needed.

What she hadn’t known then, and didn’t learn until much later, was that Neris had been in contact with Johan Thorn all through the war, and was in contact with him still. If she’d had any idea that Neris’s guilt wasn’t over the death of Antonov’s son, but the whole damn War of the Shadows, she would never have let him near Omaxin again, and she certainly wouldn’t have left him alone with Ella in Tolace, brooding about his part in the affair.

Looking for another, less dangerous way to control him, Ella had discovered the remarkable aphrodisiac effects of the golden mushrooms that sprouted everywhere during the Age of Shadows, effects that were enhanced a hundredfold when they were dried and powdered. Certain the only way she could get Antonov back to her bed was to make it an order direct from the Goddess, Belagren introduced the “Milk of the Goddess” (Madalan thought up the name) to the ancient tradition of the Landfall Festival. As there was no way to drug Antonov without his knowledge, she simply served it to everyone present...

There were side effects, of course, as they discovered the following day. The rash that broke out had driven some people to terrible acts of self-mutilation, but it faded quickly, so quickly that many never realized what had happened to them.

After the success of the Milk of the Goddess at the Landfall Festival, Belagren had actively begun to recruit her own people outside of the ranks of the Sundancers. She trained them in the use of the drug, and then sent them out to every Landfall Festival she could find, calling them Shadowdancers to differentiate them from Paige Halyn’s Sundancers. Carefully selected, they were always young, beautiful, and often from the lower classes. Those young men and women, she knew, were prepared to do quite a bit to change their status in life. A surprising number even joined her because they truly believed they were doing the Goddess’s work.

She smiled at Antonov’s sleeping form, thinking what a great ally he had been. Belagren encouraged Antonov to invite the sons of his friends and enemies alike to Avacas, so that he could befriend them, and win them over to his cause—a thing he was able to do with the sheer force of his personality. For years now, the heirs of Dhevyn had arrived in Avacas, sullen and resentful. They had stayed for the Landfall Feast, then returned home ardent believers in both the Goddess and the beneficence of the Lion of Senet.

Slipping out of bed carefully, so as not to disturb Antonov, Belagren slipped her robe over her head. The days when she didn’t care if he saw her naked in the cold light of the second sun were long past. She made a small detour to the garderobe before moving to the table to prepare a tonic to relieve the headache Antonov would be suffering when he woke. That was another unfortunate side effect of the Milk of the Goddess. It left one with a head that felt as if it had been cleaved in two.

She tapped the powder into a small amount of watered-down wine, then swirled the liquid around until it had completely dissolved. When she was satisfied that the tonic was ready, she moved back to the bed and sat down beside Antonov. Placing the cup on the table beside the bed, she leaned forward and gently kissed him awake.

“Goddess! My head feels like it’s going to explode,” Antonov complained, before he even opened his eyes.

“Here, I’ve something that will help the pain.”

He stared at her through bleary eyes, accepted the cup and drank its contents down without hesitation, then flopped back against the pillows.

“That stuff tastes foul.”

“Of course it does,” she agreed with a smile. “If it tasted pleasant, it wouldn’t be nearly as effective.”

Antonov looked at her for a moment, then glanced down at her bruised arm. “I hurt you.”

She shrugged. “You could never hurt me, Anton.”

“I should be more careful.”

Leaning forward, she ran her finger lightly over his bare chest. “Since when has the Lion of Senet ever worried about being careful?”

“You’d be surprised,” he replied, pushing her away and bringing himself up into a sitting position. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“I’ll live,” she assured him, hiding her anger at his rejection. The days when Antonov desired her were fading fast. Now it required the Milk of the Goddess and a night of religious fervor to coax him to bed. She forced herself to smile and added, “Although, if you’re feeling guilty about my pain, you could make it up to me.”

Antonov smiled knowingly. “Let me guess? You want me to loan Wallin a fortune so he can rebuild your temple?”

“That would be a good start.”

“A start? What more can I give you?”

“I want Dirk Provin.”

Antonov stared at her for a long moment before he replied. “Why?”

“I think it would be a nice gesture on Wallin and Morna’s part to give their second son to the Goddess, don’t you? It would certainly alleviate any concerns I have that they may have turned from the Goddess here on Elcast.”

Antonov’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Are you sure it’s not just because I wouldn’t let you execute Morna as a heretic after the war?”

“If I wanted to do anything so petty as seek revenge on Morna Provin, Anton, I would ask for her first son, not her second. Besides, what difference will it make to Elcast? Rees is the Provin heir, and he’s a healthy and capable young man. Wallin was letting the boy train as a physician, for the Goddess’s sake! Dirk has no future here, but he’s obviously a bright boy. Under my guidance, he could attend the university in Avacas and perhaps achieve his true potential. You have to agree that’s not likely to happen if he stays here in Elcast under the tutelage of an old fool like Helgin.”

Antonov thought about it for a moment and then shrugged, apparently seeing no harm in the suggestion. “I’ll speak to Wallin about it.”

“Don’t
speak
to him about it, Anton, demand it of him. The Goddess knows he owes you enough favors.”

“I’ll not drag the boy away from his home against his will, Bela.”

“You didn’t worry about that when you took Alenor from Kalarada.”

“Alenor is the heir to Dhevyn, my lady. Dirk Provin is the second son of a minor Dhevynian duke. It’s hardly the same thing.”

“But you’ll speak to Wallin, won’t you?”

“I said I would.”

She nodded, having no choice but to accept his word. “Yet again you prove yourself a devoted servant of the Goddess, your highness.”

Antonov smiled and leaned back against the pillows with a yawn. “Then do you suppose you could do something about this devoted servant of the Goddess being fed? I’m ravenous.”

Belagren leaned forward and kissed him on the lips. Insatiable hunger was another of the side effects of the Milk of the Goddess. His kiss was perfunctory and disinterested.

“I’ll have something sent up. Or did you want to eat in the Hall?”

“No, have it sent up.” He closed his eyes, stifling another yawn. “I doubt there’s much of anything going on downstairs at the moment.”

Belagren took the empty cup and rose to her feet. By the time she reached the door to call for a servant, Antonov had drifted off to sleep again.

Chapter 28

Rees’s dramatic return, limping and bloodied, did nothing to lighten the tension that infused the Keep the morning after the Landfall Festival. His right ankle was badly sprained and he spent the rest of the day in bed, with Morna fussing over him, her mood swinging between compassion and anger without warning. The girl who had helped him back to the castle had been Marqel, the acrobat from the Festival, Dirk heard, but she was long gone by the time they arrived to see what all the fuss was about. Kirsh was quite put out when he heard that he’d missed her.

The prince’s sudden and inexplicable obsession with Marqel the Magnificent was starting to wear on Dirk, so he sought out Frena, to find out how she fared. He was sorry he thought about it the moment he opened the door of the bakehouse.

Frena and her mother were alone, except for Lila Baystoke, the town’s herb woman. Master Helgin tolerated her because she had a vast knowledge of herbs, and by providing her services in the town, she kept away the more trivial cases that otherwise would have demanded his attention. She was a small woman, thin and old. It was unusual to find her in the Keep so early in the morning. The rest of the bakers and apprentices had either made themselves scarce or had not returned to work yet. The air was stifling and heavy with the mouthwatering aroma of baking bread.

Frena stood in the center of the bakehouse by the long scrubbed table, her whole body radiating misery. Her dress, no doubt her only finery, was disheveled and stained, and even torn in several places. The light from the ovens behind her gave her uneven complexion a ruddy glow and tinted the tears on her cheeks. She looked as if she were crying tears of blood.

“Drink the damn thing!” Frena’s mother was demanding impatiently.

“But it makes me sick!” Frena sobbed, clutching a small metal cup.

“It’s supposed to make you sick, you foolish girl,” Lila snapped. “Now take it and be done with it! The blood should start tomorrow and with luck, you’ll be back to normal in a week or two.”

Welma was wringing her hands as she paced up and down the flagstones. “I’ll not have a Landfall bastard shaming this family!”

“I’m not having a baby!”

“You don’t... Master Dirk!”

Dirk stepped away from the door and fully into the bakehouse, fervently wishing he had thought to mind his own business.

“Mistress Welma. Lila.”

“Is there something you want, Master Dirk? The loaves will be a tad late this morning, what with everything that went on last night.” Welma was ranked low enough in the castle that she would not deliberately offend one of the duke’s sons. She glanced at the herb woman for a moment and then turned her attention back to Dirk with a nervous smile.

“I ... I thought I heard someone crying,” Dirk stammered, with no idea how to deal with such a situation. “Is everything all right?”

“Nothing to bother a young lord, Master Dirk,” Lila assured him. “Just silly girl troubles.”

“You run along, my lord,” Welma suggested nervously. “I’ll have the loaves brought up to the Hall as soon as they’re out of the ovens, there’s a good lad.”

“Is there nothing I can do to help?” he persisted.
Like
telling you it was Tovin Rill who had your daughter last night?
he added silently.
Or perhaps telling you that the shit Lila is giving
your daughter to stop her conceiving could just as easily kill her?
Helgin had long suspected Lila of dealing in abortifacients, but until now, Dirk had never seen any proof of it.

“It’s good of you to offer, Master Dirk, but we’ll be fine. You run along now.”

Everything Dirk wanted to say was rolled up into a lump of choked-up words that stuck in the back of his throat. He nodded wordlessly and fled the bakehouse, praying silently to the Goddess who had brought this terrible thing to his home that Lila’s herbal concoctions worked, that Frena survived it and that no child would ever come of such an ill-begotten union.

Dinner that night was tense. Rees was recovered enough to hobble to the table and sat beside Faralan, refusing to look at anyone. Between Rees and his father were three empty places at the High Table when Dirk arrived. Dirk had been relegated to another table since Prince Antonov and his entourage arrived, to sit with Kirsh, Lanon and Alenor.

Wallin’s expression was carefully guarded, torn as he was between the prince and his wife. Dirk felt for his father. Prince Antonov was the most powerful man in Senet, and in Dhevyn, too. Although Antonov had demanded nothing of Wallin other than that he follow the letter of the law, the Landfall Festival was a vile custom, and to obey Antonov, he had defied the express wishes of his wife. Any man on Elcast would know what a foolish thing that was.

Morna made no attempt to hide her fury. Rees’s condition on his return to the Keep had done nothing but add fuel to an already simmering fire. Even Kirsh was uncharacteristically quiet. Alenor sat beside him, her brown eyes wide and nervous as the tension emanating from the High Table affected everyone in the Hall.

Just when Dirk was certain the atmosphere could get no worse, the Shadowdancers walked down the stairs to join them.

Since arriving on Elcast, the High Priestess and her minions (as his mother referred to them) had kept largely to themselves. Belagren was busy making plans for a new temple, but she had not shared the details with anyone yet. This was the first meal they had attended in several days. Leading the way was the High Priestess. Behind her walked Ella Geon, Misha’s nurse, and Olena Borne, the other Shadowdancer, who was shorter and more voluptuous than her companion, with long brown hair and a look of smug superiority. Behind the women walked Elcast’s own Sundancer. Brahm Halyn wore the yellow robes of his sect and looked decidedly out of place next to the Shadowdancers. He was short, thin and walked with a limp, his dark hair untidy and streaked with grey. The Shadowdancers wore sleeveless gowns of soft red silk, gathered under the breast and caught by a thin band of gold braid. Only the youngest, Dirk noticed, was marked with the rope tattoo.

Prince Antonov and Tovin Rill rose to greet the Shadowdancers. After a moment’s hesitation, Wallin and Rees followed suit and, after a long and painful silence, so did Faralan and Morna.

“Stand up,” Kirsh hissed to Dirk as he climbed to his feet. Alenor and Lanon were already standing. They did not need to be told, Dirk thought, looking around the Hall as everybody else began to do the same. He watched the Shadowdancers and the Sundancer walk down the long Hall, then glanced at his mother. Her expression was one of helpless rage.

When they reached the High Table, Belagren bowed respectfully to Antonov. “Your highness.”

“My lady. Won’t you join us?”

“Thank you, your highness.” She turned to Wallin. “You honor us at your table, my lord.”

Wallin bowed in acknowledgment of the greeting, but did not offer a reply. Anything he said would get him into trouble, Dirk reasoned, either with Antonov or Morna.

Belagren hesitated before moving to take her place. “May I request an indulgence before we eat, my lord?”

“Certainly, my lady.”

“May I speak with our newest recruit?”

“Recruit?”

“Your second son, my lord. Surely, you’re aware by now that Prince Antonov has suggested he be taken into the service of the Goddess?”

Morna let out a small cry of anguish, then clamped her hand over her mouth in horror. Dirk looked about him, uncomfortably aware that every eye in the Hall was suddenly turned to him. Since when had he been recruited into the Goddess’s service? His father spared him an apologetic glance and beckoned him forward. With a great deal of reluctance, Dirk did as his father bid.

Belagren turned and studied him as he approached, nodding approvingly. “I hear great things about you, Master Provin.”

“Thank you, my lady.”

“I hear you are much advanced in your studies. Well beyond what one would expect in one so young, particularly in the area of mathematics.” She threw Morna an accusing glare. “Although I hear other areas of your education have been sadly neglected. Would you do something for me?”

“If I can, my lady.”

“Very well.” The High Priestess thought for a moment then glanced around the Hall until her eyes alighted on the physician. “Master Helgin. I will give Dirk a problem to solve. You will solve it also, so that we might check the veracity of his answer.”

Master Helgin warily nodded his agreement as Belagren turned back to Dirk with a smile.

“Let me see... how about this: a wagon is stopped on the side of the road. You make a chalk mark on both a front wheel and a rear wheel. How far will the wagon travel before both chalk marks return to their initial position at the same time?”

“I couldn’t say, my lady.”

“The problem is beyond you?”

“Well, I would need to know the size of the wheels. Without that, an accurate calculation is impossible.”

He caught a glimpse of his father smiling at his response. Belagren looked rather annoyed. “Very well, then, assume that the front wheels are three and a half feet across and the back wheels measure...” She shrugged and looked up at Prince Antonov.

“Four and a quarter feet...” the prince supplied with a grin. “Let’s not make it too easy for him.”

Dirk closed his eyes for a moment as he worked the problem out in his head. Then he opened them and looked at the High Priestess.

“Well?” she demanded impatiently.

“One hundred and eighty-seven feet.”

The High Priestess looked to Master Helgin, who was still working out the problem on a scrap of parchment. He scribbled frantically for a few moments as the Hall waited in expectant silence, then looked up.

“Is he right?”

“Not exactly, my lady.”

Belagren turned to Dirk with a disappointed frown. “Seems you’re not as clever as everyone thinks, young Dirk. Or is Master Helgin wrong?”

Dirk shrugged helplessly. “I guess I’m not as smart as everyone thinks.”

“No, he’s not wrong,” Master Helgin called out, checking his calculations again.

Dirk glared at the physician. Of all the people in the Hall he thought he could trust to keep his big mouth shut, Helgin should have been at the top of the list.

“Make up your mind, Helgin,” Antonov snapped. He, too, looked rather disappointed that Dirk had not come up with the correct answer.

“The correct answer is one hundred and eighty-six point nine two feet.”

Antonov looked at Dirk curiously. “Is that right?”

Dirk shrugged. “I rounded it up.”

Anton was silent for a moment, then suddenly roared with laughter. “What do you think, my lady?”

“I’ll have to test him further, but he seems bright enough,” Belagren agreed. There was a gleam in her eye that was almost... predatory?

“What say you, Dirk Provin? Do you enjoy learning?”

“Very much, my lady,” he answered cautiously.

“Would you enjoy an opportunity to further your studies? To work under some of the best tutors in the world?”

“Where would I have to go to do that, my lady?”

“The Hall of Shadows.”

“
No!
” Morna cried, leaping to her feet. “You can’t take my son!”

Belagren looked up at Morna. Was there a hint of spite in her smile? A touch of vengeance, perhaps? “My lady, the ability your son displays is extremely uncommon. It is obvious that the Goddess has chosen him.”

“He hasn’t been chosen by the Goddess,” Morna cried scornfully. “
You
chose him.” She turned to the prince, unable to hide her distress. “Is this your way of repaying our hospitality? We open our home to you, and you reward us by stealing my son?”

“With a mind so rare, one must not leave it to be damaged by those who would adversely influence it,” Antonov replied, firmly on the side of the High Priestess. “Your son is blessed by the Goddess, my lady. I deem it prudent to remove Dirk to a more devout environment. I’ll not leave him in your care so that his mind can be poisoned.”

Wallin had to physically restrain Morna, who looked set to leap across the table and claw Antonov’s eyes out.

“And what happened to the last great mind you discovered? ” Morna demanded. “Look what you did to Neris Veran! You’ll not destroy my son the same way you did that poor—”

“This is not the place to discuss Neris, or Dirk,” Wallin warned, holding Morna tightly. “I beg you, your highness, may we discuss this later? When we’re alone?”

Antonov glanced around the Hall, as if he’d only just noticed the people standing there, silently watching them. He nodded. “That would be best, I think. Perhaps your wife would prefer to eat in her rooms?”

Morna shook herself free of Wallin and drew herself up proudly. “Don’t speak about me as if I’m not here, Antonov. And yes, I would prefer to eat in my rooms. I’ll not share a meal with
her,
” she declared, pointing an accusing finger at Belagren, “or with a man as duplicitous as you.”

Morna left the table and strode the length of the Hall toward the stairs with her head held high. Dirk watched her leave, wishing he could run after her. He knew there was nothing he could do to ease his mother’s pain, but he wanted to hug her, to tell her that it would be all right. He wanted to tell her that Alenor had promised to put an end to all this when she was queen. And he was curious about Neris Veran. Dirk had never heard of him before, but his fate, whatever it was, obviously distressed his mother.

“How about some music, Wallin?” Antonov said, in the dreadful silence that followed the departure of the duchess. Wallin nodded and waved to the musicians in the corner. They began to play, but it was a quiet melody, more suited to a funeral than a dinner. Belagren reached forward and placed her hand on Dirk’s shoulder. Her grip was like a vice.

“As there seems to be room at the High Table now, why don’t you join us, Dirk?”

“Excellent idea,” Antonov agreed, before his father could object.

With a great deal of reluctance, Dirk took his mother’s place between the younger Shadowdancer, Olena, and Rees. Belagren sat next to his father and Ella next to Tovin Rill. Rees would not look at him, although Faralan spared him a sympathetic smile. He looked down at the table where Kirsh, Lanon and Alenor were watching the proceedings with interest, wishing he was with them, rather than stuck up here for all to gawk at.