Eye of the Labyrinth
Table of Contents
PART ONE - A CHANGE OF SEASONS
PART TWO - OF DECEIT AND VENGEANCE
PART THREE - NEW FRIENDS, OLD ENEMIES
PART FIVE - A LITTLE TASTE OF THE SHADOWS
For Amanda,
and as always, Adele Robinson
Acknowledgments
We have some interesting discussions in my house, usually late at night and frequently incomprehensible to the casual observer. We talk, argue and agonize over worlds that don’t exist and the people who populate them as if they are real. It is not possible to quantify the value of these discussions when it comes to populating the world of Ranadon.
I wish to thank my son David for the idea of diamond blades and for reminding me that sometimes you have to take a risk to change the world you live in. I cannot thank my daughters enough: Amanda, for being my sounding board and for providing so many bright ideas that it would be impossible to list them all; and TJ, for her constant reading of draft after draft of this series and for reminding me that some stories are too big to tell in a single volume.
I must also thank Peter Jackson for his help in defining the world of Ranadon, and Doug Standish for working out the physics of Ranadon’s solar system. If there are mistakes or inconsistencies, they are totally mine, because I kept rearranging the universe to suit my imagination instead of the other way round.
Special thanks must go to the gang from Kabana Kids Klub, especially Ella Sullivan for keeping me on the straight and narrow regarding the geology of Ranadon, and Erika Rockstorm, for her assistance in ironing out some details of this world. I must also thank Ryan Kelly for his advice, his mathematical prowess, and for helping Dirk appear so clever, and Stephanie Sullivan, Analee (Woodie) Wood, Fi Simpson and Alison Dijs for being such economically viable (it sounded better than cheap) proof-readers.
Once again, I have Dave English to thank for helping me look like I know something about ships and sailing, and my good friends John and Toni-Maree Elferink for knowing way too much about the human body and what happens when you do terrible things to it.
I would also like to acknowledge Fiona McLennan and the Phantophiles from the Voyager Online community for their enthusiasm and support, for keeping my spirits up and for providing quite a few of the names that crop up throughout the series.
Last but not least, I wish to thank Lyn Tranter for her help and support, and the staff at ALM for being so wonderfully patient with my eccentricities and Stephanie Smith for giving me so much leeway with the story, when all she wanted was for me to “tidy up the last chapter a bit ...”
Praise for
THE LION OF SENET
“
The
Lion of Senet
is one of those rare hybrids, an SF plot
compounded with the in-depth characterization of
a good fantasy tale. It is a book that recognizes the old
saw, any sufficiently advanced science is
indistinguishable from magic, and makes good use of
the premise. Jennifer Fallon mines the rich
borderland between fantasy and SF to produce a tale of
deception and ambition in a battle between science and
religion. Well-rounded characters and conflicts that
are ethical as well as adventurous make for
an intriguing read.”
—Robin Hobb
“In
The Lion of Senet
Jennifer Fallon has created
a fast-moving and exciting fantasy saga of betrayal and
deceit, peopled by an engaging cast of characters. I
can’t wait to see what new twists she will bring
to the plot in Book Two!”
—Sarah Ash, author of
Lord of Snow and Shadows
and
Prisoner of the Iron Tower
There was a door to which I found no key:
There was a veil past which I could not see:
THE RUBAIYAT OF OMAR KHAYYÁM
(translation by Edward J. Fitzgerald, 1859)
PART ONE
A CHANGE OF SEASONS
Chapter 1
The worst thing about funerals was the smiles, Morna Provin thought. The wary, tremulous, uncertain smiles that never reached the eyes. The hesitant, insincere, I-don’t know-what-to-say-to-you smiles that everyone wore when attempting to express their sympathy, while inside they recoiled from this blatant reminder of their own mortality.
Morna walked behind the carriage bearing Wallin’s body down toward Elcast harbor feeling numb. The first sun was high in the red-tinted sky. Perspiration stained her black silk gown in dark, unsightly patches under her arms and across her back.
Why do we wear black in this heat?
she wondered idly.
Or
clothes with so many layers?
What half-witted fool invented the petticoat?
The Duchess of Elcast wore a dark veil over her face, which provided her with some small measure of privacy, but she knew every eye was on her. Did the onlookers think her dignified in her dry-eyed composure—or cold and unfeeling? She had not allowed herself to cry or even grieve yet; had not allowed herself to contemplate the future. Morna simply refused to think about it.
Rees Provin, her eldest son and the new Duke of Elcast, walked in front of her. Beside him was his bride of three months, Faralan. Rees had assumed his duties as duke with a competence that made her feel proud—and more than a little obsolete. He had organized the funeral, seen to it that his father’s bequests were distributed in accordance with his wishes, done everything that needed to be done, efficiently and gracefully, without once asking for her advice or counsel.
Of Morna’s missing youngest son, Dirk, there was no sign; no news for the past two years. Morna grieved the loss of her second son more than she could describe.
To lose a child was a
pain no parent should bear,
she thought. To lose the son she had borne to Johan Thorn had been exquisitely painful, a fact that undoubtedly gave the Lion of Senet and the High Priestess no end of amusement.
There had been no word of Dirk for so long. There were rumors, of course. Rumors that he had fled to Sidoria or Galina; rumors that he was in the Baenlands. The only thing she knew for certain was that Dirk had supposedly raped a Shadowdancer, killed Johan Thorn and then fled Avacas a wanted man.
She could not imagine what had driven him to do such terrible things. Antonov had written to her after it happened, positively gloating as he described the events that had forced Dirk to flee.
What did you do to him, Anton? What evil did you infect my
son with that he would turn from the intelligent, thoughtful boy I
loved into a murderer and rapist in a few short months?
She had thought about trying to get a message to Dirk, but she had no idea where to find him. Even if she did, the risk was too great. Dirk would come home one day, she was certain.
Morna ran her eyes over the crowds that lined the streets, half-hoping to see him. She had delayed the funeral for as long as she could, in the hopes that word would reach Dirk, wherever he was. He would not be able to appear openly, she knew, but surely he would not miss this day. Dirk had loved Wallin like a father. For most of his life, he was the only father Dirk had known. Dear, patient, understanding, forgiving Wallin. It was Wallin who had tried to comfort her when she learned about what happened in Avacas. It was Wallin who reminded her that things were not always as they seemed.
And now he was gone, struck down by the very thing that made him what he was—his heart. One minute he was sitting at the High Table, sharing a joke with Rees; the next he could not breathe. He had died in her arms on the floor of the Great Hall of Elcast Keep, and taken a part of her with him when he left.
Morna Provin had not merely lost a husband. Wallin’s death meant she no longer enjoyed the protection he provided. She had lived these past twenty years because Wallin had begged for her life, and now he was no longer here to shield her. She glanced over her shoulder as the funeral procession wound down the steep road toward the town. Tovin Rill walked behind them with his youngest son, Lanon. His expression was grave. The Senetian governor had done nothing but express his sympathy so far, but Morna knew she was living on borrowed time. Her fate was inevitable and, in some ways, she thought, not undeserved.
If she felt anything, it was a deep sense of disappointment, mostly in herself.
She had promised to do so much.
But in the end I was no better than you, Johan,
she admitted silently.
For all my noise about
freeing Dhevyn, about carrying on the fight, what did I end up doing? Exactly what you did, my love. I hunkered down somewhere
safe and let the world pass me by, fooling myself into believing that I
was just waiting for the right time, the right circumstances, before I
acted.
Even worse, I gave birth to the son you never knew you had,
and then raised him so well, he killed you ...
The procession reached Elcast Town, wending its way through streets lined with mourners. Wallin had been a good man, a good duke, and his people genuinely grieved his passing. Some of them threw petals on the carriage as they passed; a few smiled those uncomfortable smiles Morna had come to loathe. She kept her eyes fixed on the back of the carriage. It was easier not to look them in the eye.
When they reached the harbor, the procession came to a halt and the Guard of Honor stepped forward. They lifted Wallin’s body from the carriage and bore it down to the water to the mournful beat of a lone drummer. The guard placed Wallin’s body on the floating bier that was anchored near the beach. Rees stepped forward, accepting a flaming torch from the Sundancer Brahm Halyn, who waited by the bier. Her son waded into the shallows, hesitated for a moment as he said a silent farewell to his father, and then touched the flame to the pyre.
The wood had been drenched with oil so it caught immediately. Rees waited, to make certain the flames had taken hold, and then, with the help of two of the guard, pushed the bier out into the water. The silence would have been complete, but for the monotonous drumbeat, the distant squawking of gulls and the crackle and hiss of the flames as they consumed Wallin’s body.
Morna wished she could cry. She wished her numbness would go away and leave her free to feel the pain. Wallin was a good man. He deserved to be mourned properly.
They watched the bier floating on the harbor, the tall column of thick smoke pouring from the oil-soaked wood. Morna found herself fascinated by the smoke. It was an allegory for her whole life. An angry fire that had burned so brightly for such a short time until eventually, like her dreams and ambitions, her whole existence ended up as nothing more than a smoky haze that dissipated into the red sunlight, gone and forgotten.
“My lady?”
Morna looked down at the beach. Rees was wading back to shore, his expression grim, his shoulders stiffly set.
“My lady?” Tovin Rill repeated from behind her.
So soon,
she thought.
They’re not even going to wait until the
fire is out?
Rees walked up the beach and stopped in front of her. He was so like Wallin to look at—solid, stocky and dependable— but he did not have Wallin’s heart. Or his compassion.
“I’m sorry, Mother.”
So Rees had known about this in advance. She heard Tovin Rill snap his fingers behind her, heard the guards moving to surround her.
“Please go quietly, Mother,” Rees begged. “Don’t make a scene.”
Morna lifted the veil and looked around. There were a dozen or more Senetian soldiers waiting to take her into custody. Tovin Rill was looking at her expectantly.
What does he think I’m going to do? Whip out a sword from
underneath my skirts and fight my way to freedom?
Young Lanon Rill refused to meet her gaze, obviously uncomfortable with his father’s role in this. Faralan was crying silently. The townsfolk looked on in wordless dread, too afraid to object.
Or maybe they don’t want to object. Maybe they feel I am
finally getting what I deserve.
“Where are you taking me?”
“To the garrison in town, my lady,” Tovin informed her. “You’ll be held there until Landfall.”
Landfall.
They’re going to burn me alive.
Faralan bit back a sob. “I’ll have your things brought down to you, my lady,” she promised, as if having her own hairbrush handy would somehow ease the terror of knowing she was to be executed.
“Thank you, Faralan,” she replied graciously, and then turned to the captain of Tovin’s guard. “Captain Ateway? Could I lean on your arm? I seem to be a little unsteady this evening.”
Why aren’t I screaming? Why am I not afraid?
Ateway glanced at Tovin Rill, who nodded his permission, and then stepped forward to offer the dowager Duchess of Elcast his arm. “This way, my lady.”
She didn’t know what to say to him.
What
does
one say
when they are being led away to die? Why don’t I feel anything?
So she smiled at him.
She smiled at them all. She smiled at Tovin Rill, who had sat like a vulture for the past three years, waiting for an opportunity like this. She smiled at her son, Rees, who wore Wallin’s face, but had inherited nothing of the man. She smiled at her daughter-in-law, Faralan, who was just eighteen and far too inexperienced to assume the responsibilities of a duchess. She smiled at Lanon Rill, who had once been Dirk’s friend. She smiled at the townsfolk, who did nothing but stand and watch her being led away.
It was one of those I-don’t-know-what-to-say-to-you smiles.
