Lord of the Shadows (5 page)

irk was able to stave off the inevitable confrontation with the Lady Madalan, Belagren's closest confidante, for nearly two days before she finally cornered him. In that time he'd made a great show of interrogating Marqel to determine if her vision was true, while Avacas reeled from the news the High Priestess of the Shadowdancers was dead.

Although she had never been as daunting as her good friend Belagren, Madalan Tirov was sufficiently riled to bluff her way through his guards and gain admittance to his rooms, even though Dirk had left strict instructions that he wasn't to be disturbed. He could have had her thrown out, but facing Madalan and securing her cooperation was something he could not afford to put off for much longer.

“What the hell are you playing at?” Madalan demanded, as soon as they were alone.

“My lady?” he asked innocently.

“Belagren is dead and that sly little Dhevynian slut is claiming she's now the Voice of the Goddess.”

“Interesting coincidence,” Dirk agreed. “Can I offer you some wine?”

“You can offer me an explanation!” she growled, her voice gaining volume with every word she spoke. “There's only one way Marqel could be speaking to the Goddess, Dirk Provin, and you and I both know how that is.
You
must have given her the information.”

“Maybe you should speak a little louder, my lady. I'm sure there's a sailor or two in Paislee who can't hear you.”

“You murdered Belagren!” Madalan accused, albeit at a much lower volume.

“No, I didn't,” Dirk corrected. “She died of a stroke. And unless you want to explain to Antonov why anybody would want to murder his beloved High Priestess, you will quash any rumor to the contrary as soon as it rears its ugly head.”

His words seemed to quell Madalan's anger a little. Despite her shock and fury over Belagren's death, she knew Dirk was right. For Madalan to go to Antonov with her suspicions would mean she would have to offer a motive, and that would mean explaining a few things to the Lion of Senet that Madalan had helped Belagren conceal from him for more than a quarter of a century.

“If you didn't kill her, who did?”

“Marqel.”

“And you expect me to let her get away with it?”

“You have no choice.” Dirk shrugged. “It's not your fault Belagren's plan backfired on her.”

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

“You didn't know about it?” Dirk asked, feigning surprise. “I thought you and Belagren shared all your secrets?”

“Apparently not,” Madalan retorted. “What plan are you talking of?”

“Belagren was concerned Antonov was slipping through her grasp,” Dirk explained, watching the older woman closely. Madalan nodded unconsciously in agreement, which relieved Dirk a great deal. It had taken quite a while to come up with a feasible explanation for what had happened and Madalan had sufficient rank to expose him and be believed if she doubted his version of events.

“She decided it was time to ‘pass on the torch,’ as it were,” he continued. “She wanted to make Antonov believe the Goddess now spoke through another Shadowdancer, one who was young, attractive and would do whatever Belagren told her to do. She noticed Antonov eyeing his son's mistress one day and decided the new Voice of the Goddess would be Marqel.”

“That's ridiculous!” Madalan snorted. “Belagren would never trust Marqel with anything so important.”

“I believe, my lady, her decision was made mostly out of lack of trust in me.”

“I don't see the connection.”

“Belagren was distrustful of my defection and remained so right up until her death. I believe she reasoned if I was lying to her and gave her false information, if it was proved to be a lie, she could disown Marqel and let Antonov vent his wrath on someone who was essentially disposable.”

“Absolving her of any blame in the affair,” Madalan concluded thoughtfully. It was something Belagren would do. “But what if you weren't lying? What if your information proved correct?”

“Then she still owned the Lion of Senet through Marqel and as an added bonus, she was spared the necessity of catering to his… carnal needs. I believe she's found intercourse quite painful since her menses ceased.”

Dirk knew Belagren often procured young women for Antonov, but he was only guessing about the menopause. Given Belagren's age, he figured he was on safe ground. Back in another lifetime, while he'd been an apprentice physician on Elcast, he'd heard one of Master Helgin's patients complain endlessly about her insatiable husband and the pain he caused her once she'd passed childbearing age. Helgin had quite seriously suggested the woman encourage her husband to find a younger mistress, which is what had given Dirk the idea in the first place. If Belagren had ever confided such a thing to her closest friend, however, Madalan gave no sign.

“So you told Marqel, and not Belagren, how to get through the delta,” Madalan said.

“No, I told Marqel
and
Belagren. The High Priestess would never have trusted me to impart such important information to Marqel without knowing every detail herself.”

Madalan nodded. That was also something Belagren would do.

“Of course,” he sighed, “none of us counted on Marqel being so ambitious. She killed Belagren and then told Antonov her death was a sign Marqel should become High Priestess.”

“I warned Belagren that little bitch couldn't be trusted. When I get my hands on her …”

“You will bow and smile and proclaim her Belagren's natural successor,” Dirk finished for her.

Madalan stared at him in shock. “Are you mad?”

“Antonov believes Marqel is now the Voice of the Goddess, and if you even
hint
Belagren's death was anything other than the will of the Goddess, we'll all be destroyed. We have no choice but to play along with it.”

“I will never let that murderous whore profit from what she's done! I'm certainly not going to bow to the smug little slut and offer her my loyalty. If anyone should succeed Belagren, then it should be me.” Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Or are
you
planning to step into her shoes now that you've removed me from my position as the right hand of the High Priestess?”

Dirk shook his head. “I don't want the job, Madalan. I never did. I wanted to be Belagren's right hand to protect myself
from Antonov, that's all. Anyway, you mustn't become High Priestess. The Lord of the Suns named you his successor. When Paige Halyn dies, you're to become the Lady of the Suns. Then you will outrank Marqel and we will have some hope of controlling her.”

“How do you know about that?”

“Belagren told me.”

Madalan was still doubtful, but everything Dirk had told her fitted in with the way Belagren did things. His story was
plausible
and it was always easier to believe a plausible lie than go digging for the truth, especially when you stood to profit from it.

“Paige Halyn may live for years yet,” Madalan pointed out. “How do we control Marqel in the meantime?”

“Keep her away from Antonov, for one thing,” Dirk suggested. “Take her back to the Hall of Shadows and bury her in paperwork. She's going to need training, even Antonov will accept that, and it's perfectly reasonable you assume the duties of the High Priestess, and the role of training her successor, until the Lord of the Suns can get to Avacas to appoint Belagren's replacement formally. Between the two of us, I'm sure we can find any number of ways to delay Paige's decision to appoint Marqel until it suits our plans. You will effectively be High Priestess until then, anyway. Paige Halyn is dying, so Belagren informed me. If we manage it right, there'll be little time for Marqel to do any real damage before you succeed him and then you can curb her excesses all you want and not even Antonov will be able to stop you.”

Madalan was still not convinced. “It feels wrong, letting Marqel commit murder and receive nothing for it but a slap on the wrist.”

“If it's any consolation, she's had a slap on the face.”

“I do not appreciate your attempts at levity, Dirk Provin. Have you told Antonov you believe Marqel's vision is accurate?”

“Not yet. I thought it would sound better if you were there to back me up.”

Madalan shook her head doubtfully. “This is fraught with danger …”

“Then as an added precaution, might I suggest you start looking for a replacement for Marqel?”

“Why?”

“The Goddess has just chosen a different voice, my lady. If she can do it once, she can do it again. Let's find another Shadowdancer we can groom for the role of Voice of the Goddess. That way, if Marqel proves too much trouble, we can simply announce the Goddess has found a more worthy vessel and the Goddess can take Marqel to her bosom anytime we decide she's no longer useful to us.”

Madalan nodded slowly, apparently not in the least bothered by the suggestion they might have to kill Marqel. “That may work.”

Dirk watched her closely for any sign she doubted him. But Madalan had followed Belagren for years. He was counting on that habit surviving her death.

“You knew the High Priestess better than I, my lady,” he pointed out, with a touch of convincing humility. “This is her plan, not mine. Despite the alteration Marqel took upon herself to make to it, I feel we should be guided by Belagren's wisdom and follow it through.”

“Has the Lord of the Suns been informed of the High Priestess's death yet?”

“I thought you should do that,” he replied. “In your role as acting High Priestess.”

Madalan thought about it for a moment and then nodded slowly. “Does anyone else know what really happened?”

“Yuri knows. We talked about it. He understands the wisdom of not revealing the true circumstances of Belagren's death.”

“Yuri would,” Madalan agreed. “He's been around long enough to know the way the land lays. What about Marqel?”

“She's riding a wave of euphoria,” he told her. “She thinks she's gotten away with murder and is about to become High Priestess of the Shadowdancers. She won't say or do anything that might jeopardize that.”

“We need to keep a close eye on her. If she can murder Belagren, she can just as easily murder one of us.”

Dirk smiled. “She won't kill me, my lady. Without my help, she is no longer the Voice of the Goddess.”

“That's little comfort for me, Dirk.”

“When you're Lady of the Suns and hold power over every Sundancer and Shadowdancer on Ranadon, you should find plenty of comfort, my lady.”

The Shadowdancer studied him thoughtfully. “You know, if your father had had even a fraction of your wit, Belagren would never have gotten as far as she did.”

“Then you should be grateful I'm on your side, my lady.”

Madalan scowled at him. “You'd better be on my side, Dirk Provin. Because Belagren's fate will seem like a blessing if I find out you're not.”

After Madalan left, Dirk closed the door behind her and locked it, but not before reminding the guards outside that not wanting to be disturbed meant exactly that. He turned his back to the door and leaned against it with his eyes closed for a moment, and then he opened them and held out his hands.

He was not surprised to discover they were shaking.

he force gathered in the courtyard outside the Avacas palace was as much for show as anything else. Kirsh knew that, just as he knew the chances of finding anything useful about his brother's disappearance in Tolace were slim. But the Crown Prince of Senet had been kidnapped. It was important something was seen to be done, even if it was fruitless.

He had two hundred men ready to ride out with him. One hundred and fifty of them were Senetian troops, part of his father's Palace Guard, and the other fifty were Dhevynians, members of the elite Queen's Guard of which Kirsh was, until
recently, a member and who were now his—as Dhevyn's regent—to command.

Given a choice in the matter, Kirsh would have preferred to leave the Senetian troops behind. Their numbers would slow him down, for one thing, and he didn't really trust their discipline. The Dhevynians, on the other hand, were much better trained, even if their first loyalty was to the Queen of Dhevyn and not to her regent. He'd managed to get Sergey appointed captain of the Senetian Guard, and with Alexin leading the Dhevynians, he was at least confident his commanders were capable and would only question his orders if they had a genuine concern.

Kirsh had been afraid the news of Belagren's death would delay his expedition, but his father was adamant they leave as scheduled, insisting the living were more important than the dead. Antonov seemed to be taking Belagren's sudden demise very well. Although he had respected the High Priestess, Kirsh had never been as close to her as his father. He mourned her passing but he wasn't actually grieving over it. There were too many other things going on in his life; too many other problems he wasn't sure how to deal with. He anxiously cast his eyes over the crowd come to watch their departure, looking for Marqel again, but there was no sign of her. She hadn't been in her room when he went looking for her earlier. It was unlike her to let him leave without saying good-bye.

The Lion of Senet came to see them off, with Alenor beside him. Kirsh was surprised she had come to bid him farewell. The queen was still pale and gaunt from her miscarriage and she clung to Antonov's arm for support. The effort of descending four flights of stairs from her rooms had exhausted her. She shouldn't have come. It was both a foolish gesture and a pointless one.
Still, one must keep up appearances
, Kirsh thought sourly as he rode forward with his two captains to greet his father and his wife.

“Spare nobody, Kirsh,” Antonov ordered. “Find those who did this and punish them.”

“I will, sire.”

“Good luck, Kirsh,” Alenor added.

“Thank you.” He said nothing more to his wife.

There was nothing else to say.

“I'll have the fleet ready to sail for the Baenlands within two weeks,” Antonov informed him. “You have until then to find out what happened in Tolace. We'll pick you up on the way to Mil.”

“I'll get him back, Father,” Kirsh promised.

A fleeting smile, full of pride, flickered over Antonov's face. “It will be as the Goddess wills it, son. And in this, I'll soon know if she is with us.”

The comment puzzled Kirsh a little, but he was too used to his father's devout belief in the Goddess to question it. He saluted the Lion of Senet and the Queen of Dhevyn and wheeled his mount around. Sergey and Alexin followed him to the head of the column. Kirsh gave the order to move out and the force headed toward the gates, their pennons snapping in the brisk breeze, their uniforms smart and fear-inspiring in the bright light of the second sun.

Kirsh glanced over his shoulder when they reached the gates. Alenor stood there with his father, a small, fragile figure leaning on the powerful strength of the Lion of Senet.

There was still no sign of Marqel.

They traveled the 120 miles to Tolace in two days. Kirsh pushed the troops hard, but nobody complained. Every man knew they were on a mission to rescue the Crippled Prince, and if some of them thought him not worth the effort, there wasn't a man among them foolish enough to voice his opinion in the hearing of the prince's younger brother.

Kirsh commandeered the Hospice when they arrived in the seaside town and ordered everyone involved in the affair brought before him for questioning. He had quite deliberately left Barin Welacin back in Avacas. Despite the Prefect's assurances that nobody could get information out of a reluctant witness as fast or as efficiently as he could, Kirsh still remembered what had happened to Dirk when he foolishly made a comment about the best way to interrogate Johan Thorn. That one careless
remark had earned the unsuspecting boy from Dhevyn the nickname “The Butcher of Elcast.” Kirsh had no desire to earn an equally brutal title for something even less substantial.

Anyway, if it turned out he couldn't learn what he needed to know, he reasoned, there was always the threat of sending for the Prefect of Avacas. For some, just the thought of attracting Barin's attention would be enough to loosen their tongues. Kirsh wanted to do this on his own. He wanted to be the one who discovered the truth.

He wanted to be the hero.

The first person they brought before him was Sonja, the Shadowdancer who had been nursing Misha at the Hospice and the one who had allowed him to meet with Lady Natasha Orlando, the impostor later identified as Tia Veran.

Kirsh had taken over the administrator's small, cluttered office. He sat behind the wooden desk, flanked by Sergey on his right and Alexin on his left. The woman was visibly shaking when they admitted her. She stopped and looked at the three of them nervously. There was no chair for her to sit on. She stood before them like a prisoner awaiting sentencing.

“I am reliably informed it was you who arranged for my brother and Tia Veran to meet,” Kirsh began, looking at her coldly.

“We didn't know it was Tia Veran, your highness,” she protested. “Prince Misha seemed to know her. He said nothing about her true identity.”

“You were one of the people responsible for the protection of the Crown Prince, my lady. Don't you think part of your duties was checking the credentials of anyone seeking an audience with him?”

The Shadowdancer shook her head. “It wasn't like that, your highness. Lady Natasha never sought an audience with the prince. He sought
her
out. He made us find out where she was staying and had us take him to her cottage. They met several times, your highness, but it was always your brother who instigated the meetings, not Lady Natasha.”

“Are you telling me Misha
deliberately
sought her company?”

“I swear, your highness, I speak the truth!” The woman looked on the verge of tears. Perhaps it was his threatening scowl, or the knowledge that the red robes of her order would do little to protect her if she were blamed for this. “As the Goddess is my witness, your highness, your brother willingly met with Tia Veran! If he was in fear of his life, he gave no sign of it. They seemed to be friends. Good friends.”

Kirsh glared at her. “Be careful what you say, woman. You're implying the Lion of Senet's heir and the daughter of the worst heretic ever to walk the face of Ranadon were conspiring together.”

“Maybe they were,” she suggested defiantly. “He certainly never asked for poppy-dust until he started meeting with her.”

“Poppy-dust?” Kirsh asked in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

The Shadowdancer looked at the floor, suddenly unable to meet his eye. “The day before Prince Misha met with Lady Natasha in her cottage the first time, he asked for some time alone, so we left him in one of the gardens. We were nearby, but not so close we could overhear anything said. I heard him talking to someone so I went to investigate. When I arrived, he was alone and asked to go back to his room. When we got back he asked for two things: to locate a young woman with short redblond hair who was currently staying at the Hospice and that he be given a dose of poppy-dust.”

“He
asked
for it?”

“He insisted, your highness.”

“And you gave in to him,” Kirsh concluded. “Your job was to care for my brother, woman. Not turn him into an addict.”

“If your brother was an addict, your highness, he was one long before he came to this place. His symptoms disappeared quite rapidly once he'd taken the dust, and after that, he began to meet with Lady Natasha on a regular basis. It was only a few days later he disappeared during the fire.”

Kirsh sagged back in his chair, stunned by what the Shadowdancer had told him. It all made sense in his mind. The first
time he'd seen Tia Veran she was in Misha's rooms, posing as a servant, leaning over his brother who was in the throes of a violent seizure.

Was that how it had happened? Had she slipped an illicit dose of poppy-dust to him then? If she'd given him a large enough dose, it might have caused the seizure—and it might have addicted him almost instantly. But how had he been getting hold of it since then? That first meeting between his brother and Tia Veran was almost three years ago. Maybe she'd been bribing the servants to bring it to him. Perhaps the Baenlanders had someone else working in the palace who was able to smuggle it to him.

The implications were frightening. Even worse was the effect such news would have on his father. Antonov despised poppy-dust, those who traded in it and more important, those who were addicted to it. It would kill him to learn Misha had fallen into its trap.

And because of a stupid promise I made as a boy to Dirk Provin, I was the one who let her escape
… If he'd known then what he knew now about Tia Veran, he would have killed her himself before letting her go.

And then another thought occurred to him. If Antonov learned the truth, the Lord Chancellor's suggestion they simply leave Misha to die in the hands of the Baenlanders might look very attractive to his father.

“Who else knows my brother was a poppy-dust addict?”

“I don't think anyone else knew but me, your highness,” she hurried to assure him. “I would never repeat such a thing.”

Kirsh nodded thoughtfully. “You may go.”

Sonja looked at him in surprise. “Your highness?”

“You may go,” he repeated. “Or did you have something else to tell me?”

“No, your highness.”

“Then get out of my sight.”

Sonja fled the room, bowing several times on the way out.

When she was gone, Kirsh leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes for a moment, and then he glanced over his shoulder at Sergey.

“Take care of it, Captain.”

Sergey nodded without question and left the room. Alexin looked a little confused. “Take care of what?” he asked.

“It's none of your concern. Who's next on the list?”

Alexin didn't answer immediately. Kirsh turned to look at him and caught the look of dawning comprehension as it crossed the Dhevynian captain's face.

“You're going to have Sergey kill her!”

“I said it was none of your concern, Alexin.”

“She's done nothing but tell you something you didn't want to hear,” he objected.

“That woman knowingly supplied poppy-dust to my brother. Trading in poppy-dust is punishable by death.”

“After a trial, perhaps. You've just ordered her to be summarily executed.”

Kirsh looked away, uncomfortable with the censure in Alexin's eyes. “I will not have a rumor spread that the Crown Prince of Senet is a poppy-dust addict.”

“And you'd murder a Shadowdancer just to stop it?”

“I'd murder every man, woman and child in Tolace if it meant stopping it,” Kirsh replied. He glanced up at Alexin, hoping for some hint of sympathy for his plight. “Don't you understand? If my father learned of this, he'd leave Misha to rot in the hands of the Baenlanders. I can't—I
won't
—allow that to happen.”

“So you're going to slaughter everyone who knows about it? I thought we taught you better than that in the Queen's Guard, Kirshov.”

“You taught me the meaning of honor, Alexin,” Kirsh agreed. “Which is why I want your word you'll say nothing about this. To anyone. Once I have your oath, I know you won't break it.”

“You want me to swear an oath I'll not speak the truth, no matter how barbaric your behavior is? You ask a great deal, your highness.”