Lord of the Shadows

by Jennifer Fallon

  Misha only began to fully appreciate how much he had angered Tia later that day when it came time for the daily massage Helgin had prescribed.

  Over the past weeks, Tia had been a conscientious student, as she learned under Helgin's careful guidance how to mix the oils, how to warm the muscles gently before working them, and how to ease the knots and twists that half a lifetime of being bedridden had wrought on his body.

  He had been reluctant at first. Master Helgin had stood over Tia, instructing her in the correct techniques, while he lay on the table like an undressed side of beef. He was self-conscious about his lopsided body, and while he didn't have a problem with Master Helgin's professional gaze, there was something extremely unsettling about Tia Veran's touch. She had been very businesslike about the whole thing, however, and three days before, Master Helgin had declared her sufficiently competent to continue without his supervision.

  But there was nothing gentle or considerate about her touch today. She was brutal. Her strong hands, which he usually found so soothing, were not easing his muscles, they were pulverizing them. Her fingers felt like iron bars, and she seemed to be seeking out every sore spot on his back and making it her mission to bruise it even more.

  “Ouch!” he yelped, as she found one of the pressure points at the base of his spine and applied far more pressure than was necessary.

  “Don't be such a baby.”

  Misha was lying on his stomach so he couldn't see her expression. He turned his head to look at her. “Do you mind? You'll break something if you keep on like that.”

  “Stop complaining. This is good for you.”

  Misha snatched at her arm with his good hand to prevent her doing him serious damage. “Don't take your anger at Dirk out on me, Tia.”

  “Let me go,” she ordered coldly.

  Misha kept hold of her arm and twisted himself around into a sitting position. The mere fact he could manage such a thing was a testament to how much he had improved, but he didn't have time, just then, to savor his achievement.

  “Tia, I don't know what happened between you and Dirk—”

  She snatched her arm free of his grasp. “That's right, Misha, you don't know. So just mind your own damn business!”

  “Tia, if you hate him as much as you claim, why are you letting him get you like this? He's not here. He's not even on the same continent. Despise him for what he's done, if you must, but don't let him ruin your life by turning you into a bitter old woman. That's giving Dirk far more than he deserves.”

  Tia's eyes blazed angrily for a moment, and then she sighed, as if her rage had exhausted her and she no longer had the will to sustain it.

  “I just can't help myself, Misha,” she said, leaning on the table beside him. “Just the mention of his name makes me want to kill something.”

  “I noticed,” Misha said with a thin smile.

  “I'm sorry. Did I hurt you?”

  “The bruises will fade eventually.”

  She was silent for a moment and then looked at him with a smile. “I hope Master Helgin doesn't come in and catch us like this.”

  “Like what?”

  Tia bent down and picked up the towel that had fallen to the floor when Misha had pulled himself up. He felt his face warming with embarrassment as he snatched it from her hand and hurriedly threw it across his lap.

  “You're blushing!” Tia laughed.

  “Don't be ridiculous.”

  “You are too! There's no need to be embarrassed, Misha. It's not as if I haven't seen plenty of naked men before.”

  “Really?” he asked with a raised brow.

  She rolled her eyes. “I didn't mean that the way it sounded …”

  Misha smiled. “Now who's blushing?”

  “Just lie down and shut up, Misha, so we can get this finished.”

  “I'll bet you didn't say that to all the naked men you've seen before.”

  Tia scowled at him, shoving him none too gently in the chest to force him to lie down. He fell backward, banging his head painfully on the table.

  “Ow!” he yelled, although he did have the presence of mind to keep the towel in place.

  “You're such a girl,” Tia told him unsympathetically.

  “What is going on in here?” Master Helgin demanded, opening the door with a disapproving frown. “I can hear you yelling all the way down the hall.”

  Misha turned his head to look at Helgin. “There's no problem, Master Helgin. Tia just seems to think a slight concussion might speed my recovery.”

  Helgin stared at both of them with a puzzled frown, and then turned away, muttering to himself as he closed the door behind him.

  Misha looked back at Tia, who was silent for a moment, and then, like guilty children caught doing something naughty, they both burst out laughing.

  After that, Tia's mood was much improved. Misha was not sure if he'd been responsible or not. Perhaps it was pointing out that Dirk still had power over her while she was angry with him. Or it might have been that she had seen him—all of him— and was still laughing about that.

  Whatever the reason, even Oscon remarked on the change in her.

  Tia Veran fascinated Misha. She would laugh wholeheartedly if she thought something was funny, but could explode into fury at the slightest provocation. She could argue politics better than Lord Palinov and play chess better than anyone he knew (not counting Dirk). She was tougher than a drill sergeant when he was exercising, but when Master Helgin began to taper the dose of poppy-dust and Misha became so skittish he couldn't sleep, she would stay up all night talking to him so that he did not have to suffer alone.

  He had never met anyone so blunt, so honest or so open. She was equally passionate about those she loved and those she hated. Raised at court, and surrounded all his life by people who played political games to advance themselves in his father's favor, he found her frankness enchanting.

  Misha knew he was more than a little bit in love with Tia Veran, although he made no attempt to act on it. For one thing, she was still aching over Dirk, and he was certain the last thing she was interested in was another man.

  The second reason was simple pride. If he ever declared himself to Tia, he could not bear her accepting his love out of pity.

  So Misha settled for silence, and turned his mind to fighting the poppy-dust that seemed determined not to relinquish its grip on him. As the doses he took were reduced, some of his earlier symptoms reappeared. He was trembling and quite often nauseous, but he had not suffered any fits and was stronger than he had been in years, so it was easier to deal with the symptoms than it had been in the past.

  The long, languid days in Garwenfield blurred into one another. He lost track of time; did not know if he had been here for weeks or months. Each day was more difficult than the day before as the drug reluctantly loosened its hold on him, but each day he survived made him stronger and more determined. Helgin often warned him the worst was yet to come, but Misha found the prospect less daunting than it had been in the past.

  For the first time in many years, he had hope, and he discovered that was almost as powerful a narcotic as poppy-dust. In spite of his illness and his unrequited love, Misha was the happiest he could ever remember being.

  And then a bird arrived sent by Lexie from Mil. Oscon came down to the main hall to inform them the Baenlands had been invaded and it was Dirk Provin who had led the Senetian forces.

  he had no idea how Jacinta managed it, but less than a week after the lady-in-waiting's visit, Madalan informed Marqel she was to attend a banquet at the palace in honor of the Dhevynian queen. Not only that, but she was also to stay the night at the palace, returning the following morning to the Hall of Shadows. Marqel made a point of appearing less than pleased with the interruption to her work—so effectively that Madalan actually scolded her for her lack of enthusiasm.

  She took great pains with her appearance, brushing her fair hair to a shine, and wearing only those pieces of jewelry she could not recall seeing
Belagren wear in Antonov's presence. There was no guarantee Antonov would not recognize some of them, but she shied away from the more familiar pieces, hoping to give the impression she was frugal as well as pious and divine.

  The dinner itself proved tedious beyond belief. The food was excellent, naturally, but the discussion around the table centered almost entirely on Dhevyn's economic woes, in which Marqel had no interest. She was seated at the foot of the long table opposite Antonov, and could barely even catch his eye through the forest of silverware, crystal and bowls of flowers covering the table.

  After dinner, things improved a little when they retired to the terrace to enjoy a nightcap and to watch the heat lightning streaking the red sky over the Tresna Sea. Marqel managed to extricate herself from an awkward conversation with the Galinan ambassador, and made her way to where Alenor was talking to Antonov. The queen saw her approach and smiled at her warmly.

  “My lady! Please, won't you join us?”

  “I've no wish to interrupt a private conversation, your majesty.”

  “Nonsense! We were just admiring the lightning, weren't we, your highness? Do you think the Goddess means anything by it, my lady, or is she just showing off?”

  The question caught Marqel unawares. She was here to seduce the Lion of Senet, not get into a theological discussion.

  “I …er…I think she's reminding us she controls the weather,” Marqel suggested warily.

  Antonov raised his glass in her direction. “You've gone right to the heart of the matter, my lady. I feel more and more easy with the Goddess's choice each time I see you.”

  Marqel smiled coyly. This was better.

  “Then I'm glad someone does,” she replied. “Every time I see another pile of dispatches, I fear the Goddess is punishing me for something, not rewarding me, your highness.”

  Antonov smiled. “Belagren often said the same thing.”

  I know she did, Marqel replied silently. That's why I said it.

  “I trust the troops I sent to Omaxin to sort out the Sidorians were sufficient.”

  For a moment, Marqel had no idea what he was talking about. Then she remembered the letter Madalan had drafted in her name her very first day on the job. “They were most appreciated, your highness.”

  “Well, I've left orders they should stay up there for a while, just in case the Sidorians haven't gotten the message yet.”

  Alenor saved her from having to come up with something that sounded like an intelligent answer.

  “Would you excuse me, your highness?” the queen asked. “I'm still not feeling all that strong. I'd like to retire. I'm sure the High Priestess will be happy to keep you entertained.”

  “Of course you may go, my dear. Retire as soon as you wish. Nobody will be offended.”

  “Thank you, sire,” she said with a small curtsy, and then she walked back toward the dining room, leaving Marqel alone with Antonov.

  “So, my lady, you've been let out for the evening,” Antonov remarked, turning to face her.

  “Your highness?” she asked with alarm. Did everyone in Avacas think she was a prisoner?

  “I was referring to Lady Madalan's numerous refusals to my previous requests for your presence in the palace.”

  Marqel sighed. “Dear, dear Madalan. She's very protective of me. Please don't be angry with her. She's just trying to make things easier for me. She's been such a tower of strength. I don't know what I'd do without her.”

  “She was a great help to Belagren, too,” Antonov agreed.

  She nodded sagely. “I believe the Goddess never burdens us with more than we can bear, your highness. And when she does, she puts people like Madalan in our path to help us carry it.”

  “Wisely spoken, my lady. You appear to have undergone a remarkable change since we first met.”

  “I would hope so, your highness. I was but a foolish girl back then.”

  “You were also a thief, as I recall.”

  Marqel smiled. She had known this would come up even tually and had spent quite some time perfecting her answer. “I know you thought I was lying, your highness, but the truth is, I never stole Rees Provin's dagger. The girl I shared my wagon with was the thief, but I was too afraid to say so.”

  “Afraid of me?”

  “Afraid of Mistress Kalleen. Had I betrayed a member of the troupe, your worst punishment would have seemed merciful by comparison. But when I look back now, I see the Goddess at work, even then. Without my arrest, without you deciding to hand me over to Lady Belagren, I would never have joined the Shadowdancers. I believe the Goddess arranged the whole thing.”

  “Perhaps she did,” Antonov agreed, although she could not tell if he accepted her explanation. “I supposes she arranged for you and Kirsh to become … friends…as well.”

  “No, your highness, that was Lady Belagren.”

  Antonov stared at her in shock. “Are you saying the High Priestess arranged for you to become my son's mistress?”

  “You can ask Madalan if you doubt it, your highness. At the time, I was quite horrified by the suggestion, but I believe I now know the reason.”

  “And I'll bet it's a good one,” Antonov remarked, clearly skeptical of her revelation.

  “I've had the opportunity to examine some of her personal journals, your highness,” Marqel explained. She got the idea from Dirk. He'd made Madalan believe this whole High Priestess thing was Belagren's idea. There was no reason why she couldn't do the same. “I believe the Goddess spoke about me to the Lady Belagren, indicating I was to become the consort of the ‘Son of Senet.’ At least that's what she wrote in her journal. The High Priestess assumed I was destined to be consort to one of your sons, and as Misha was so ill, it left only Kirshov. I don't think it ever occurred to her the Goddess thinks of you as her son, not your heirs.”

  Antonov said nothing for a moment, and then he glanced around the terrace. Most of the dinner guests were still there, standing in small groups discussing whatever it was nobles stood around discussing at dinner parties. Alenor and her party were gone, but the rest of them were waiting on the Lion of Senet to retire before they could leave without giving offense.

  “I have a number of matters I must discuss with the High Priestess in private,” he announced. “Please, stay as long as you like, but forgive my rudeness.” He turned to Marqel and offered her his arm. “My lady?”

  Doing her best to hide her triumphant smile, Marqel accepted his arm and walked from the terrace with the Lion of Senet at her side.

  Somewhat to Marqel's disappointment, Antonov didn't take her upstairs to his suite, but escorted her along the hall to his study. She looked around, thinking the rug by the unlit fireplace was probably good enough to get the job done, and then she turned and looked at him, wondering when he would make the first move. But Antonov wasn't staring at her lustfully. He was pouring himself a glass of wine from the sideboard.

  “Could I have one of those?”

  Antonov handed her the glass and turned to pour another for himself, and then he leaned against the sideboard, sipping his wine, and studied her curiously.

  “You know, somebody told me once he never ceased to be amazed by my gullibility, and I must admit my first reaction to the news the Goddess had spoken to you was that you're a devious little minx who had somehow found a way to make the whole world believe she's something she's not.”

  “Surely you suffered the same doubts when Belagren first came to you?”

  “Belagren wasn't a thief picked up off the streets of Elcast, my lady.”

  “Nor is the Goddess only a Goddess of the highborn, your highness,” she responded.

  He nodded. “And when I remembered that, I realized the Goddess was simply testing my faith. It's frightening how close I came to denying her. It's fortunate I received a message today from Kirshov.”

  Marqel held her breath. Her very life depended on the contents of that message.

  “Your instructions were correct. They got through the delta witho
ut incident. So it seems the Goddess has chosen you.”

  Marqel could have cried with relief. “You should have had more faith, your highness,” she advised with a smile.

  “I will when you stop lying to me.”

  “But they got through the delta,” she protested. “I spoke the truth!”

  “I wasn't referring to that. I was referring to your rather fanciful story out on the terrace. I knew Belagren longer than you've been alive, Marqel. She never kept a journal.”

  Marqel realized her error immediately, but she knew instinctively it wasn't so much the lie she had told him. She was pretending to be somebody she wasn't and Antonov Latanya was far too sharp to fall for anything so transparent. She was going about this all wrong. What did Dirk keep telling her? Make his faith work for you. It's Antonov's one great strength and his one great weakness. He'll do anything you want, believe anything you want, if he believes it is the will of the Goddess.

  “The Goddess sometimes needs a helping hand, your highness.”

  “I don't believe she expects you to lie to me, Marqel. I'd not like to begin our time together with lies.”

  Our time together. Marqel smiled. “Perhaps I did get a bit carried away. But you're an honorable and devout man, your highness. You're old enough to be my father. You have sons older than me, one of whom I've been sleeping with. I feared I would not be able to fulfill my role as High Priestess if you thought …” She let her voice trail off. She hoped she had said enough. It was time for him to make the next move. And he'd better do it soon. She only had tonight. If she couldn't get into Antonov's bed before second sunrise tomorrow, it would be back to the Hall of Shadows and Madalan Bloody Tirov.

  Marqel swallowed her wine, walked across the rug and placed the empty glass on the sideboard. Antonov made no attempt to move out of her way, nor did she make any pretext of trying to avoid touching him. She stood only inches from him and looked up into his eyes.

  “I would not ask anything of you that you would not willingly give, my lady.”

  “I am the Voice of the Goddess, your highness,” she said softly. “It is my duty. And my pleasure.”