“Gently, now,” Dirk advised. “You don't want the bleeding to start again.”
“What happened? Have I been ill?”
“You took a crossbow bolt in the neck meant for me,” he explained.
A frown flickered over the old man's face. “I seem…to be doing you a lot of favors … lately.”
“Don't die on me,” Dirk suggested with a hint of a smile. “That would be the biggest favor you could do me right now.”
“Things … are not going as you expected …” It was taking Paige Halyn every ounce of his strength to speak. And the Lord of the Suns was not asking Dirk a question, Marqel thought curiously.
“All the more reason for you to live, my lord.”
“I'll try … not to inconvenience you …”
Dirk looked up at Marqel and beckoned her closer. “This is Marqel, the new Voice of the Goddess.”
The Lord of the Suns glanced at her, but his face was etched with so much pain it was impossible to tell what he thought.
“You wish me to lie to Antonov?”
“You've been lying to him for decades, my lord,” Dirk reminded the old man gently.
“Those were lies of omission,” Paige replied, as if that excused his dishonesty. “They were lies of inaction, not intent. What you ask is … deliberate deceit.”
“But it's deceit for the greater good.”
“And the end justifies the means, I suppose?” Paige gasped bitterly. He closed his eyes for a moment as the pain became too much to bear. After a time, he opened them again and looked at Marqel. “Do you know what you're doing, young lady? Or are you simply blinded by ambition … as Belagren was?”
Marqel glanced at Dirk, not sure how to answer him. Dirk nodded encouragingly, but offered her no advice about what she should say.
“I'm just doing what Dirk tells me, my lord,” she told him, honestly enough. “He's the one with all the ambition.”
That last part wasn't strictly true, but there was no need to burden the old man with details. If her answer satisfied him, there was no way of telling.
He turned his attention back to Dirk. “You place me …in an untenable position, Dirk Provin. I'm left with a choice between allowing the old lies to continue or endorsing a whole raft of new lies.”
“But they are lies that will eventually lead to the truth,” Dirk pointed out.
Marqel bit back an exasperated sigh. She had no idea what they were talking about. All she wanted was for Paige Halyn to hurry up and announce that she was the new High Priestess. Then he could die.
The Lord of the Suns closed his eyes. He was silent for a long time. Marqel was just beginning to wonder if he had dropped off again, when suddenly he spoke.
“I have your word on this?” he asked.
Dirk nodded. “I'll not let you or the Goddess down, my lord, I promise.”
“Very well.”
Dirk smiled at the old man briefly then turned to Marqel.
“Fetch Antonov,” he said.
A short time later, they all gathered in the Lord of the Suns' room. Antonov arrived, looking concerned. Madalan came in a few moments later, but her expression was harder to read. Yuri was bending over his patient, tut-tutting impatiently, and making noises about overexciting the old man. Dirk stood in the background, a spectator rather than a participant. He was supposed to be opposed to this, and once Antonov arrived, that was exactly the impression he gave.
Antonov stepped up to the foot of the bed and looked down on the Lord of the Suns for a moment before turning to Yuri. “How does he fare?”
“He's desperately ill, your highness,” Yuri told him. “Much too ill to be entertaining so many visitors.”
The Lord of the Suns reached out a clawlike hand toward Antonov. “I'm well enough… to speak, your highness.”
“I've no wish to endanger your health further, my lord.”
“The Goddess will take me when she's ready, sire, and not before. She works in her own ways … and in her own time.”
“It would be greedy of her to demand the High Priestess and the Lord of the Suns at her side so close together.”
“The Goddess never takes something from us without giving something in return, your highness.” He closed his eyes, marshaling his strength before continuing. “For all things there comes a time when younger blood is called for.”
Antonov's eyes suddenly fixed on Marqel. “Are you saying this girl speaks the truth? That the Goddess truly has spoken to her?”
“The Goddess gives without fear or favor, your highness, and it is not for us to judge the worthiness of the recipient…” He stopped for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts. “She called the High Priestess to her, and gave you another voice in return. When I die, she will do the same with me.”
Marqel discovered she was holding her breath. She looked down at her hands, which fortunately gave the impression she was humbled by the responsibility she now faced.
“Trust in the Goddess, your highness,” Paige Halyn continued painfully. “Haven't I always advocated that?”
“There was a time when you doubted the High Priestess, my lord,” Antonov reminded him. “I recall a time when you were loudly opposed to everything she stood for.”
“It can be difficult to accept change, sire. But I know the truth in my heart, now.” The old man smiled wanly. It was a serene, accepting smile, as if he had finally made peace with himself. “I have lived to see the Goddess bring me a ray of hope for the future. It is my fervent wish that you, too, will achieve such clarity of vision before you are called to her embrace.”
Marqel listened to the Lord of the Suns sprouting his flowery rhetoric, desperately fighting the urge to giggle. It is my fervent wish that you, too, will achieve such clarity of vision …Why didn't he just come right out and say it? Hey, Antonov, I hope one day you'll realize you've been had.
She glanced over her shoulder at Dirk to see what he thought about all this, but as usual, his expression betrayed nothing.
“Marqel.”
She started a little to hear her name and turned back to look at Paige Halyn.
“Come here, child.”
Marqel walked to the bed and took the hand the Lord of the Suns offered her. His skin was as dry and fragile as tissue paper someone had wrinkled up and thrown into a forgotten corner.
“I name you High Priestess of the Shadowdancers,” he announced with an effort. “You are … the Shadowdancers' Voice of the Goddess. I charge you with bringing her truth to the world.”
“I will,” she whispered in a choked voice, deciding a few tears might be appropriate at this juncture. She risked a glance at Antonov out of the corner of her eye. For the first time he looked at her with more awe than suspicion.
“You must swear to this,” the Lord of the Suns insisted, his skeletal grip tightening on her hand. “And you must swear you will listen to my guidance and the guidance of my successors.”
“I swear,” she promised, thinking there wasn't a chance in hell she was going to do a thing Madalan Tirov told her to do, when the Shadowdancer replaced Paige Halyn and became Lady of the Suns.
The Lord of the Suns closed his eyes, exhausted by the effort of sustaining such a long conversation. Yuri hurried forward and bent over the old man to examine him, and then he turned to Antonov.
“Really, your highness, this is too much for him. I must insist you finish your business with him later, when he's stronger.”
Antonov nodded his agreement. “We'll leave him in peace.” He looked across the bed at Marqel. “We have other things to take care of at present.”
They filed out of the bedroom and gathered in the sitting room. Antonov turned to Madalan first, his manner businesslike and brusque. “We need to issue an announcement, my lady, informing the world that the Goddess has seen fit to give us another voice. We must also announce the news that we have a new High Priestess.”
“I'll see to it, your highness,” she promised with a low bow. Madalan glanced
at Dirk for a moment, but Marqel couldn't see the expression on her face. The Shadowdancer left the apartment, closing the door softly behind her.
“Dirk.”
“Your highness?”
“I'm giving the order for the fleet to leave today. I want you to set sail for Tolace and pick up Kirsh and the men he has with him there before you set course for the Baenlands. He'll be in command after that, but until then, you will be in charge.”
“Me?” Dirk asked in shock.
Marqel liked it when things didn't go the way Dirk planned. It proved he was human.
“I'm no admiral, your highness,” he protested.
“Organizing and dispatching the fleet to Tolace doesn't need an admiral, Dirk, it needs someone with a good brain and an eye for detail, and you're more than capable of both. Kirsh will take care of the military side of things once you've picked him up. Anyway, he'll need you to help him through the delta.”
“The new High Priestess can do that, your highness,” Dirk pointed out.
“Marqel is staying in Avacas,” Antonov decreed. “We have just lost one High Priestess, Dirk. I'll not risk her successor by sending her into battle. Anyway, you're by far the more logical choice to send. You've spoken with Marqel at length and know the instructions the Goddess gave her about the delta, probably better than she does, because to you, they actually mean something.”
It was all she could do not to openly gloat. Dirk had never planned for her to be left alone in Avacas with Antonov while he went off to war. Oh, this is just too perfect …
“But what about my studies… the Goddess's writings in Omaxin?”
“Omaxin has been there for thousands of years, Dirk,” Antonov shrugged. “It'll still be there when you get back.”
“The new High Priestess needs me here.”
Marqel smiled. “But the Goddess needs you in Mil, my lord,” she said humbly, as if it cost her a great deal to be denied his help. “I believe you could do more for the Goddess's cause by cleaning out the rebels in Mil than by staying here with me. And I will have Madalan to aid me until you return.” Try to get out of it now that the Voice of the Goddess has spoken. It was all she could do to keep her delight hidden.
Antonov nodded in agreement. With the support of the Goddess, there was no chance he would change his mind now. Dirk didn't even glance at her, but Marqel could imagine how angry he must be that she hadn't sided with him. Serves him right.
“But I thought you were planning to lead the attack yourself, sire.”
Dirk sounded quite reasonable. Not angry. Not even concerned. Either it really didn't bother him or he was a very good actor. The latter, she suspected.
“Kirsh needs an opportunity to prove himself in a real conflict,” Antonov shrugged. “It's the symbolism, Dirk. It will send a loud message to the Dhevynians if the Regent of Dhevyn leads the attack on the Baenlanders, with Thorn's bastard at his side. Those damned pirates have far too much support among the general population in Dhevyn.”
“I'm under house arrest,” Dirk reminded him.
He's really getting desperate, Marqel thought delightedly.
“I'm releasing you from it. The guard will stay with you while you're still in Avacas for your protection. Besides, you'll be much safer from an assassin at sea than you will be here in Avacas.”
“But, sire …”
Antonov looked at him curiously. “You're not reluctant to do this because you still sympathize with your old friends, are you, Dirk?”
“No, sir.”
“Then the matter is settled. You will leave with the fleet on tomorrow's tide.”
Before Dirk could object further, Antonov turned to Marqel. He took her hand and gently raised it to his lips. “I trust you will forgive me for doubting you, my lady.”
“Your doubts were no more than those I had myself, your highness,” she assured him modestly.
Antonov smiled at her and, at that moment, Marqel felt a warm rush of satisfaction.
The Lion of Senet was hers for the taking.
he Hospice in Tolace had taken on the air of an armed camp, and the feeling in the small coastal town was little better as Kirsh sought to uncover the truth behind his brother's disappearance.
The number of people who seemed to know that Misha was a poppy-dust addict had grown alarmingly and, as he had each one put to death to prevent the secret from slipping out, he had to suffer the silent accusation in Alexin's eyes. True to his word, the Dhevynian captain had said nothing further about what the prince was doing. He didn't have to. His unspoken disapproval was enough.
Kirsh should have known it wasn't going to be as easy as simply killing the Shadowdancer who was nursing Misha. One could not acquire a substance like poppy-dust without involving others. There were the guards watching over him—Kirsh thought them deserving of death anyway, considering it was they who let Misha slip through their fingers—and the Hos-pice's herbalist, who had actually provided him with the drug. The servants who delivered the drugs to his cottage. The friends they gossiped to in the local tavern. All of them deserved to die.
Containing the rumor was proving almost impossible. People were already speculating about the executions, and it wouldn't take long, Kirsh guessed, before people started putting the pieces together. Once a good rumor took hold, there was no way of stopping it; no way of preventing it reaching Avacas, and eventually, his father's ears.
He still had another dozen people in custody, and it was his unenviable task to decide which of them was to die next. He was leaning toward the basket maker and his wife. Although they continued to protest their innocence, it seemed a little too coincidental that it was Gilda Farlo who had brought Tia Veran into the Hospice, and Boris Farlo who happened to pay a late night visit on the flimsy pretext of finding a special basket the same night Misha disappeared. They were not directly involved in Misha's addiction, but that didn't really bother Kirsh. They had helped Tia abduct his brother, and that made them guilty enough for him.
Their deaths were more about vengeance than justice.
How they had gotten Misha out of the Hospice remained a mystery. It seemed logical to assume that Boris Farlo had hidden Misha in his cart, but how had they spirited him out of his room without his permission? Had they drugged him and carried him off? How had they managed such a feat without disturbing the guards in the next room? The alternative—that Misha willingly left the Hospice with Tia Veran—was inconceivable.
Or was it? Kirsh wondered. If Misha were an addict and feared discovery, would his fear be enough for him to consider fleeing Senet? Was he so far gone in the drug he would prefer to abdicate his responsibilities as the crown prince, rather than be without it? Kirsh could not believe that of Misha. But then, neither could he believe his brother was nothing more than a pitiful addict.
It just seemed easier to keep killing everyone who might have been involved.
He tossed the list of captives onto the desk and turned to look out over the Hospice gardens. Hidden among the beautifully landscaped grounds was such a conspiracy of silence and deceit, Kirsh thought his head might explode from trying to unravel it. He had a hangover, which wasn't helping his thought processes much. He had been drinking a lot lately, and mostly alone. His rank and tendency to execute anybody who even hinted he suspected Misha was an addict isolated him from both his men and his captains.
A knock on the door disturbed his rather jerky train of thought. He called permission to enter, hoping it was not Alexin. He didn't think he could face the look of wordless condemnation Alexin usually wore.
It was not Alexin who entered, however, but Sergey. The Senetian captain was one of the few who did not seem bothered by what Kirsh was doing. In fact, Kirsh had a sneaking suspicion the man enjoyed it.
“What is it, Captain?”
“The ships have arrived from Avacas, your highness. There's been a longboat lowered from the command vessel. It's the Tsarina, I think.”
The Tsarina had been his father's fla
gship before the Calliope, reinstated after the loss of his new ship in Elcast.
“Do we know who's in command?”
Kirsh knew most of the men his father was likely to send in command of the fleet, and he wasn't particularly looking forward to having any one of them looking over his shoulder.
Sergey shook his head. “I suppose we'll find out as soon as they land. I've sent a party down to the beach to wait for them.” Tolace did not have a dock to speak of, certainly not one large enough to cater to the Tsarina.
“Well, whoever he is, make sure you bring him straight here as soon as he lands. We've wasted enough time here in Tolace.”
“Of course, your highness,” Sergey promised, with a sharp salute.
Kirsh picked up his half-empty cup of wine—his third since breakfast—and turned to stare out over the gardens as Sergey departed. With a heavy sigh, he went back to wondering if he should order the execution of Boris and Gilda Farlo.
A little over an hour later Sergey returned with the fleet commander. He opened the door and stood back to let the man enter.
Kirsh rose to his feet to greet his father's admiral. He was prepared for almost anything but the figure that appeared in the doorway. The man who stepped into the Hospice administrator's office was Dirk Provin.
The two young men stared at each other for a moment, and then Kirsh glanced at Sergey. “Leave us.”
The captain saluted and closed the door behind him on the way out. Kirsh turned his attention to Dirk. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Delivering your fleet.”
Kirsh hurled the pottery goblet he was holding at Dirk, who ducked the missile nimbly. He glanced at the spreading stain on the wall for a moment before turning to look at Kirsh.
“It's nice to see you, too, Kirsh.”
“You smug little bastard. This is your fault.”
“My fault?” he asked. “What's my fault? I only just got here.”
“You made me let her go. You knew what she planned.”
“Ah,” Dirk said, with dawning comprehension. “You think I asked you to let Tia go so she could kidnap your brother? Is that it?”
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