Lord of the Shadows (3 page)

“And bring back your son?” Dirk asked, wondering how far down Antonov's list of priorities the Crippled Prince ranked.

“Of course,” Antonov replied, almost as an afterthought. “We will bring back my son.”

arqel heard someone approach and hurriedly scrambled to her feet. She'd been sitting on the floor with her back to the altar, chatting in a low voice to the guard Antonov had left behind to watch over her. He wasn't able to tell her much, but it was better than pacing the temple, burning up with
curiosity. Better than praying. The temple was guarded outside, too. The men did not challenge the newcomer as he approached. They merely bowed in acknowledgment of his rank and stood aside to let him enter.

The guard inside hurriedly stood to attention as the Lord of the Shadows walked in.

“Leave us,” Dirk ordered.

Marqel studied him warily but it was impossible to gauge Dirk's mood. The guard saluted and hurried from the temple, leaving them alone.

She smiled as he approached her, her uncertainty giving way to a smug feeling of one-upmanship. Dirk would learn, soon enough, that she was not to be trifled with, that she was just as capable as he was of coming up with a clever plan. He stopped in front of her. Before she had time to defend herself, he raised his arm and backhanded her across the face.

Marqel staggered backward under the force of the blow. She glared at him, rubbing her stinging face.

“What was
that
for?”

“Belagren.”

“Oh,” she said. “So you've heard about that.” In truth, she was more surprised that Dirk had guessed she was responsible than guilty over the actual murder. “You didn't have to hit me.”

“After what you did, I should think it a small price to pay. With my help, you're going to get away with murder. I
should
have you burned at the stake.”

“But you won't, though,” she predicted, a confident smirk covering her relief. “You need me.”

“Defy me one more time, and I'll find another way, Marqel,” Dirk warned. “Make no mistake about that. I told you Belagren wasn't to die.”

“She would have killed me the moment she found out I was claiming to be the Voice of the Goddess.”

“Belagren would have
verified
you were the Voice of the Goddess, you shortsighted idiot! If you hadn't interfered, she would have had no choice. Once Belagren realized I'd told you and not her what she wanted to know, she would've had no option but to support you, or lose Antonov's faith completely.
You've thrown everything into doubt. Antonov doesn't believe you.”

“Yes, he does!” She was sure of that one thing, if nothing else. Antonov had held her, comforted her.

“He sent me here to prove you're lying.”

“Then we have nothing to worry about, do we?” She shrugged. “You'll just go back and tell him I'm not lying, I'll be High Priestess and everything will be fine.”

“Everything will
not
be fine, Marqel,” Dirk corrected. He sounded angry, which worried her a little. Dirk's normal state was coldly dispassionate. “The Lord of the Suns must appoint the High Priestess. When he gets here, who do you think he's going to choose? An experienced Shadowdancer with some proof of leadership ability or some nameless acolyte who claims she's had a vision?”

“You said
you
could make me High Priestess,” she accused. “And you said the Lord of the Suns wouldn't be a problem.”

“If you'd done exactly what I told you to do, he wouldn't have been. He would have had no choice but to make you High Priestess, because Belagren would have agreed to it. Now it's going to be a real problem.”

For the first time Marqel began to feel a little uncertain. “What are we going to do?”

“You and I are going to spend the next few days going over your story, so I can convince Antonov I've interrogated you sufficiently. If we don't, he's likely to hand you over to the Prefect of Avacas, and trust me, you don't want that to happen. In the meantime, I've arranged for Madalan Tirov to take over until Paige Halyn can get here from Bollow.”

“Madalan? But she hates me!”

“A sentiment I'm extremely sympathetic to right at this moment.”

Marqel scowled at him. She'd thought Dirk's reluctance to kill Belagren was because he was squeamish, not because he had other plans. “You didn't tell me I'd have to deal with Madalan,” she sulked.

“And whose fault is that, Marqel?” he replied unsympathetically. “Exactly what did you tell Antonov about Belagren,
anyway? I assume you told him something to explain her sudden demise.”

“I said what you told me to say. I told Antonov I wanted to see the High Priestess, because she would make everything right again. I was very convincing.”

“What else?”

“I told him the Goddess would give him a sign to prove I wasn't lying.”

“And your sign was Belagren's corpse?” He swore under his breath as he shook his head. “You don't think about anything but yourself, do you? You could have ruined everything.”

“But I didn't,” she pointed out in her own defense. “Everything is fine.”

“We don't know that yet.”

“Well, you're the brains behind this plan, Dirk Provin. Find a way to fix it.”

“I wouldn't
have
anything to fix if you'd done what you were supposed to do.”

He was taking this far too seriously. She smiled. “Honestly! The way you're carrying on, you'd think I'd done something really dreadful.”

Dirk stared at her for a moment before he answered. “Do you have any concept of the difference between right and wrong, Marqel?”

“Don't you preach to me about right and wrong! You're far worse than I am, Dirk Provin. You're highborn. You were brought up learning all that stuff about honor and nobility and look what you're doing!”

“What I'm doing is not killing people just because they stand in my way.”

“Aren't you? Your body count is far greater than mine.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You killed Johan Thorn, didn't you? I heard you even killed your own mother. And what about those men who died when you told Antonov the best way to interrogate Johan Thorn? Don't look down your righteous nose at me, Dirk Provin. I'm not the one they call the Butcher.”

For once, Dirk didn't seem to have an answer.

Marqel smiled, finally beginning to feel as if she had gained the upper hand again. “Belagren is dead, Dirk. Your job is to deal with it. Make Antonov believe I'm telling the truth. Make the Lord of the Suns appoint me High Priestess. I've proved I'm the Voice of the Goddess. Once we sail into Mil and rescue Misha, even you won't be able to touch me. So just do your job, Lord of the Shadows, and I'll do mine.”

Dirk was silent for a moment longer, and then he shrugged. “Go back to the palace for now. I'll set a guard on your room and order them to keep everyone out, including Madalan. That should keep her off your back for a while and give me time to think up a reasonable explanation for her.”

“There! That's better, isn't it?” she declared as she headed for the temple's entrance, glad to be finally allowed out of there. “Things are so much easier when we work together, aren't they?”

“Things are better when you do what you're told, Marqel.”

She didn't bother to answer him, fed up with his disapproval. If he wanted someone to grovel to him, why didn't he pick somebody else to do his dirty work? Like that spineless little cousin of his he was so fond of? Alenor would probably lick his boots clean if he asked her to.

“Marqel.”

She turned to look at him.

“Don't get too cocky. You know enough to tell Antonov how to get through the delta, but you have no idea when the eclipse is due. You might find that a little hard to explain away if I'm not there to help you.”

“You'll keep helping me, Dirk,” she told him confidently. “After this, you have no choice.”

or several days, Misha Latanya remained confined to a small hut near the black sandy beach lapped by the waters of the hidden cove in the legendary pirate stronghold of Mil. He saw nobody other than Petra, the herb woman, and Master Helgin, the old physician and Dirk Provin's boyhood tutor from Elcast.

Misha spent a good part of his days talking to Helgin while he waited for his fate to be decided. The physician's journey to Mil had been almost as strange as his own. Helgin's rise and fall was a story in itself. He had gone from a young man full of ideals and hopes, the personal physician of the Dhevynian king, to an exile and an outcast, first on Elcast and now here in Mil. Listening to Helgin, Misha realized how little he knew about the lives of the ordinary people on Ranadon; how little he knew of the truth about the War of Shadows. It was disturbing to think someone in his position was raised in such ignorance.

The old man did put his mind at rest on one point. Helgin was of the opinion the Baenlanders were essentially decent people and were unlikely to execute him out of hand. Other than that, he could offer no comfort regarding the prince's eventual fate. Misha had not seen Tia since they landed.

The pirate settlement was crude, but in some ways, it was disturbingly ordinary. There were children aplenty here who laughed and played in the murky shallows, and even a small schoolhouse manned by a thin, tall woman who smiled at her errant charges like an indulgent grandmother. Herds of goats roamed the hills above the settlement, tended by boys too young to be apprenticed to the sea. A smith with a well-built forge wielded her hammer with a rhythm that echoed off the cliffs, filling the whole settlement with its metallic song. The lives of these people were so unremarkable, so normal; it was easy to forget they were outlaws.

The reputation of the pirates of Mil had never really been
romantic nor particularly noble. Until he was captured on Elcast, Johan Thorn and the pirates of Mil had been little more than a legend to Misha—vicious brigands who plundered shipping around the Bandera Straits and the Tresna Sea, attacking anything with sails, particularly if it was Senetian, able to stay afloat long enough for the pirates to throw their lines across. To find such common, everyday things as goats and fishing nets here made it somehow seem less real. Misha had to remind himself of the danger he was in. He could not risk seduction by the air of domestic harmony that permeated this place.

The Baenlanders seemed in no hurry to decide his fate. Master Helgin told him there were other things going on in the settlement, more important even than having the Lion of Senet's heir as a guest.

He finally received word he was to meet officially with his captors for the first time almost a week after he arrived in Mil. They weren't supposed to be his captors. Misha had come here willingly enough, but he wasn't so foolish to think the Baenlanders would welcome their worst enemy's eldest son into their midst without a great deal of suspicion. Still, he was only lightly guarded. And there was nowhere for him to run to, even if he could. Generally, the villagers gave his small hut a wide berth and Petra cooked his meals. The only other sign he was a prisoner was the guard outside the hut wearing a sword and a sullen scowl, to remind Misha of the futility of trying to escape.

Helgin arranged for two sailors to carry Misha to the longhouse the pirates used as a communal meeting place. The men said little on the short trip from the shack to the longhouse, merely placing him in a chair near the table at the other end of the hall and leaving him alone. There was no guard left to watch him. Misha could barely walk. Where would he run to?

A few moments after the sailors left, two girls entered the hall carrying trays of food. Apparently, the Baenlanders thought this was going to be a long meeting. The smaller of the two girls was dark-haired and petite and looked to be about fourteen. Her taller, more voluptuous friend was as fair as the
smaller girl was dark. The girls looked at him curiously as they placed the trays on the table, but said nothing.

Misha smiled at them, hoping he appeared friendly. Master Helgin had just given him another dose of poppy-dust, so he wasn't shaking, nor in danger of having a fit and scaring the girls witless. The blond girl frowned at him, but the dark-haired one seemed more receptive.

“Are you really the Crippled Prince?” she asked.

“Mellie!” the blonde hissed. “Come away from him!”

Misha met her eye evenly and nodded. “That's what they call me.”

She looked him over with a critical eye. “You look all right to me.”

“Mellie!”

“Oh, don't be such a bore, Eleska!” Mellie scolded, before turning back to the prince. “What's wrong with you?”

Misha smiled. Nobody had ever asked him that question so bluntly before. “My left side is withered.” He decided not to volunteer the information he was also a poppy-dust addict. That was something he'd still not come to grips with himself.

“Why?”

“I had a stroke when I was a baby.”

“I didn't know babies could have strokes.”

“I can assure you they do,” he replied with a thin smile.

Mellie thought about it for a moment, and then she shrugged and thrust her hand forward. “My name is Mellie Thorn. Should we call you your highness, or something?”

Misha accepted her unexpected handshake, somewhat bemused. “It's nice to meet you, Mellie. And you can call me Misha. I've a feeling you don't stand on ceremony much here in Mil.”

“I know,” she agreed with a smile. “It drives Mama mad, sometimes. The snarly one by the door is Eleska Arrowsmith.”

“It's nice to meet you too, Eleska.”

“We have to go, Mellie!” her friend insisted. “Lexie's going to be really mad at you if she finds out you stayed here chatting to …
him
.”

“So don't tell her about it,” Mellie shrugged, and then she smiled at Misha again. “What's it like being a prince?”

Just wonderful
, he was tempted to reply.
I get to live in a palace and have someone poison me on a regular basis
… He forced himself not to follow that train of thought, and put on a cheerful face for the benefit of the girls. “What's it like being a pirate?”

The girl laughed delightedly. “I wouldn't know. They never let me sail farther than the end of the delta.”

The girl's resemblance to Alenor when she laughed was uncanny. “Did you say your name was Mellie
Thorn
?”

She nodded. “Johan Thorn was my father.”

Johan Thorn's daughter
?
Dear Goddess, what would my father do if he ever discovered Johan had left a legitimate heir?
Would he become as fascinated by Mellie Thorn as he was by Dirk?

“So that means Dirk Provin is your half-brother …,” he said thoughtfully.

Mellie's expression darkened. “He's not my brother anymore. He's a traitor.”

Before Misha could say anything to that, the door at the end of the longhouse opened and a small, well-rounded woman stepped into the hall. “Mellie!” she said sharply. “Go and help Eleska with the rest of the food, please.”

“Yes, Mama,” Mellie said. She turned to the door, giving Misha a wink as she passed him. Misha quickly covered his smile as Mellie's mother crossed the hall to stand before him.

“The last time I saw you, your highness, you were just a babe,” the woman remarked, looking him over with the same undisguised curiosity her daughter had.

“We've met before?”

“In Avacas. During the Age of Shadows. I was the Duchess of Grannon Rock in those days. You'd be too young to remember, I suppose.”

“You're the Lady Lexie? Drogan Seranov's wife?”

“His widow,” she corrected.

“And Mellie? …”

“Is the child of my second marriage,” she explained. “To Johan Thorn.”

“You are wise to have kept her existence a secret, my lady,” Misha said, nodding in understanding. “News Johan had a legitimate heir would be even more disturbing than the news he sired a bastard.”

“I'm glad you understand that, your highness.”

The door opened again and a tall, dark-haired man walked in. He was a little older than Misha, his features vaguely familiar, although Misha was sure he'd never met the man before. Lexie beckoned the newcomer forward. “Prince Misha, this is my son, Reithan.”

Misha smiled, and held out his hand, guessing that was the way of things here in the Baenlands. “The notorious Reithan Seranov, I presume. I'm honored, sir.”

Reithan looked down at Misha's outstretched hand for a moment, and then somewhat reluctantly he accepted the handshake. “The notorious Crippled Prince, I presume.”

“Your reputation is far more adventurous than mine, my lord,” Misha said with a smile.

“You can call me Reithan,” the pirate shrugged. “I've no title I can claim. Not since your father had my father declared a traitor and stripped him of his estates.” It was a simple statement of fact. There was no reproach or bitterness in Reithan's voice.

“There is much between our countries to be forgiven,” Misha agreed.

“Actually, I think you'll find they'd rather be compensated,” Tia remarked as the longhouse door swung shut behind her. She strode the length of the long room and came to stand beside Reithan, and then looked down at Misha. “You're looking better today.”

“An illusion of well-being created by poppy-dust, I fear,” he admitted. “Although at least now, I'm able to eat regularly. Helgin tells me I have a ‘manageable addiction,’ whatever that is.”

“It probably means you won't die from it,” Tia suggested.

As she was speaking, several other people entered the longhouse, including Dal Falstov, the captain of the
Orlando
, the ship that had brought him to Mil, and a badly scarred man.
Lexie introduced them as Porl Isingrin, the captain of the
Makuan
, Lile Droganov, Novin Arrowsmith and Calla, the village blacksmith.

“This makes up our village council, such as it is,” Lexie explained as everyone took their seats. “As you can imagine, your highness, the problem of what to do with you is rather vexing.”

“It was never my intention to cause your people trouble, my lady,” Misha assured her.

“Tia claims you actually
asked
to come here,” the scarred captain of the
Makuan
said. He posed a truly daunting figure with his puckered, shiny flesh that had burned his features into a permanent scowl.

“When I realized I was being systematically poisoned, Captain, I asked Tia where she thought I would be safe. It was she who suggested I come to Mil.”

“How generous of her,” Calla remarked. She was a big woman, with cropped gray hair and well-muscled arms. Misha could well believe she was a blacksmith by trade.

“What was I supposed to do, Calla?” Tia objected. “Just leave him there to die?”

“Well, yes, actually,” the blacksmith replied with cold practicality. “That's exactly what you should have done. What Senet does to their own is none of our concern.”

“I thought it might help us.”

“If you wanted to do something to help, Tia,” Novin Arrowsmith snorted contemptuously, “not letting Dirk Provin betray us would have been a good start.”

“That's not fair, Novin,” Lexie scolded before Tia could respond to the accusation. “We were all taken in by him. You can't single out Tia to ease your own guilt. Besides, we did not come here today to apportion blame. We're here to decide how to proceed from this point.”

Lile Droganov coughed uncomfortably and looked at Misha. “No offense, your highness, I've got nothing personal against you, mind …” He turned to the rest of the council. “What we probably
should
do is send his body back to the Lion of Senet in little pieces with a note saying his second son is next if he doesn't withdraw immediately from Dhevyn.”

The suggestion wasn't met with howls of protest, which worried Misha a great deal.

“I fear Antonov may not be so easily bluffed,” Lexie warned.

“Who said anything about bluffing?” Novin suggested with a malicious grin.

“Don't be an idiot, Novin,” Calla snapped. “That would just bring Antonov's wrath down on us like an erupting volcano.”