Lord of the Shadows

by Jennifer Fallon

  The Senetian officer bowed, his relief obvious.

  Dirk smiled thinly. “What did you think I was going to do, Captain? Order you to put them to the sword?”

  “They did support Prince Kirshov against Prince Misha, my lord.”

  “They supported the High Priestess against the Lord of the Suns,” Dirk corrected. “The former is treason; the latter is simply a matter of poor theological judgment. So that will be the end of it. Anyway, most of them are here out of a simple geographic accident. If you'd been stationed in Bollow when Antonov ordered the troops north, you'd be surrendering today, Captain.”

  The captain nodded and smiled cautiously. “Your mercy is appreciated, my lord.”

  And rather unexpected from the Butcher of Elcast, I'll wager. That's what the man really thought. Dirk understood the captain's fears. Had Antonov been here to put down a rebellion, it was unlikely any man who dared take up arms against him would have seen the next sunrise.

  But Antonov wasn't the Lion of Senet now. Misha was.

  “See to it, Captain. And then find Rudi Kalenkov for me.”

  “Sir!” the man replied smartly and hurried off to carry out his orders.

  Dirk looked about him, trying to delay the moment when he must step into the tent and confront the consequences of his actions. And he was to blame. He was the one who had set Marqel on this path. Kirsh was right. What gave me the right to decide the path the whole world should take?

  He hesitated again, and then remembered something his foster father had often said.

  Never run from anything, Wallin Provin had taught him. Always face up to your fears; that way they can't sneak up on you from behind.

  He braced himself and stepped into the tent. The scene that greeted him was better than he expected. The interior seemed untouched by the battle. The pavilion was large, its walls paneled with hand-painted red-and-gold silk. The High Priestess lay on the bed, her naked body covered by a blood-soaked sheet, laid out as if the morticians had already prepared her for the funeral pyre. Had Kirsh done that? Probably.

  The scene depressed Dirk, as if some residual trace of Kirsh's pain and anger still lingered in the tent like mist. What had it cost him? Dirk wondered. What had finally convinced him Marqel must die? Whatever it was, even Kirsh had not been able to deny the truth in the end.

  The tent flap billowed out in an errant gust of wind. Marqel was not beautiful in death. Not as she had been in life. And she had been beautiful. So beautiful that she had split Senet and almost brought the nation to its knees.

  Not so superior and self-righteous now, are we? he asked her silently, the same words Marqel had taunted him with that night so long ago in Avacas when she'd spiked his wine with the Milk of the Goddess and then accused him of rape.

  With a shake of his head, Dirk looked away, a little disturbed that Marqel's death relieved him so much. And it wasn't even his doing. It was Kirsh who had destroyed Marqel in the end. And then he'd destroyed himself.

  Dirk hadn't tried to lead the battle, if you could call the short, brutal engagement a battle. Rather, like a good general, he watched helplessly from a rise overlooking the field of engagement as Kirsh threw his life away.

  He hadn't even tried to defend himself. Kirsh wanted to die in battle. He always had. Rees's reasons for joining Kirsh on his suicidal charge were more complicated, Dirk knew. But Kirsh had known he was riding to his death. Rees probably believed Kirsh would win.

  Dirk managed to keep his grief at bay, but he couldn't help feeling responsible. He knew Kirsh well enough to know once he accepted the truth there was nothing left to him. Is that how Kirsh defined honor? Was it better to die gloriously in battle defending something, no matter how fallacious, than admit you were wrong? Kirsh's honor—that strange, indefinable sense Dirk had always found so irritating—apparently allowed no other course of action.

  Was there something else he could have said to Kirsh or Rees that could have ended this differently? If he'd been less impatient, less defensive of his own actions? Kirsh's words haunted Dirk. Who set you up as the moral guardian of Ranadon?

  “Has anything been touched?”

  The officer who stood on guard just inside the pavilion entrance shook his head. “We thought you should see it first, my lord. It's a pity really.”

  “Why?”

  “Would've been better for everyone if she'd been hanged, my lord. Would've put an end to things much quicker.”

  “Perhaps,” Dirk conceded. “But there'll be no civil war now, Captain. No further resistance. That's what we came here for.”

  And the end justifies the means, he heard Kirsh say.

  And then another thought occurred to him. Perhaps Kirsh had not killed Marqel to spare her the hangman's noose.

  Perhaps he had killed her because he knew he was going to die and even in the afterlife, he could not bear to be without her.

  It was sometime later that Dirk entered the tunnel, walking through the torchlit darkness to the cavern beyond. It was empty when he arrived and for a fleeting moment, that same feeling of awe that had overwhelmed Dirk the first time he stepped into the hall came back to him. But there was no lingering darkness here now. No shadows concealing the truth. The cavern was brightly lit, the eye reflecting the torchlight with an accusing, unblinking stare.

  “Come to read the prophecies, my lord?”

  Dirk turned to find Rudi Kalenkov entering the cavern behind him.

  “I wish I could read them.”

  Rudi stopped a few paces from him and eyed him quizzically. “You can't read them, my lord?”

  “You know damn well I can't, Rudi. No more than Belagren heard the voice of the Goddess in here. No more than Marqel could translate these walls.”

  “Prince Antonov and Prince Kirshov believed she could,” he pointed out cautiously.

  “One was mad, the other was in love. Neither of them was thinking clearly.”

  “And what about you, my lord? What is your position? Is this place to be sealed again, to hide the truth?”

  Dirk shook his head. “Far from it. I want to know everything this place can tell us. And not just this cavern. There must be other buildings here in Omaxin that can shed some light on who these people were. And this time we'll do it properly. Systematically. We'll bring people in from the universities in Avacas and Nova to study the ruins.”

  Rudi was shocked. “You'd open the ruins to scholars, my lord?”

  “What's a lion, Rudi?” Dirk asked, instead of answering his question.

  “It's a cat,” the Shadowdancer replied, rather puzzled by the odd question. “A very large cat. It's the emblem of the Latanya house.”

  “Have you ever seen one?”

  “Of course not. It's a mythical creature, like a dragon or a fairy.”

  “How do you know that?”

  Rudi shrugged. “It's … just one of those things everyone knows, my lord.”

  “That's what I said to Neris when he asked me the same question.”

  Rudi stared at him doubtfully. “For a man sworn to guide the people of Ranadon to the Goddess, you have a strange attitude, Dirk Provin. You talk like a scholar, not a cleric.”

  “I want to know, Rudi. Better yet, I want everyone to know the truth, not just a few people who can use the truth to manipulate the ignorant.”

  “Are you accusing me of something, my lord?” he asked, sounding a little worried.

  “I probably should have you burned at the stake, actually,” Dirk scolded. “I'm sure if I thought about it, I could come up with something plausible.”

  “I've done nothing wrong!”

  “You were here when Neris first learned the truth. You knew what Belagren was up to. And you did nothing to stop her. Nothing to stop Marqel, either.”

  “I tried,” Rudi assured him. “Not at first, I'll admit. But I tried to throw doubt on Marqel's prophecies. Before then … well, I was much younger and much less cynical when Belagren first started us on this path.”


  “You're fortunate you know these ruins better than anyone else on Ranadon,” Dirk informed him. “That makes you more use to me alive than dead.”

  The Shadowdancer seemed genuinely surprised. “And I appreciate the sentiment, my lord, more than you can imagine. But to turn these ruins from a holy place into an archaeological dig would be heresy.”

  “I'm the Lord of the Suns, Rudi. My definition of heresy is the only one that matters, and I say we have an obligation to find out everything we can about the people who once lived here.” He studied the Shadowdancer curiously for a moment. “Of course, if you intend to remain here in charge of the excavations, then you'd better have a moment of divine clarity pretty damn quick and decide you'd rather be a Sun-dancer again. The Shadowdancers are to be disbanded and anybody who insists on perpetrating their lies will be declared a heretic.”

  Rudi smiled. “I feel the presence of the Goddess calling me to my new vocation even as we speak, my lord.”

  “I thought you might,” Dirk agreed wryly.

  Rudi studied him thoughtfully for a moment in the torchlight. “You know, when I came back to Omaxin with Belagren to find you'd opened the Labyrinth, I had a feeling then, you'd end up changing everything.”

  “I've only just begun,” Dirk warned. And then explicably, he decided to fix something else that had always grated on his nerves. “And will you stop calling it a labyrinth, Rudi? It's a damned tunnel, that's all. The sooner we start demystifying this place, the better.”

  “And so we step out of the Age of Light and into the Age of Enlightenment,” Rudi remarked.

  Dirk hadn't thought about it like that. It sounded rather grand.

  Almost as if it was worth the lives it had cost to achieve it.

  hey burned Kirsh's body on Lake Ruska, the pyre floating out across the blood-stained water in the dim red light of the first sun. Marqel lay beside her lover, a gesture Jacinta thought both touching and foolish. Dirk should have tossed her into a shallow unmarked grave. The world needed to forget Marqel almost as badly as it needed to forget Belagren.

  He stood by the water's edge for a long while, watching the pyre float on the lake, still clutching the torch he had used to set it alight. Jacinta ached for him. Dirk may seem a tower of implacable strength to everyone else, but she knew he was hurting. She knew he blamed himself for Kirsh's death, knew he was grieving for his brother. But there was nothing she could do to console him. Nor was it her place to try.

  Dirk had already emptied Omaxin of many of the troops Antonov had gathered, along with those he had brought with him to confront Kirsh. There were only a few dozen of them left now. Jacinta suspected Dirk had deliberately delayed the funeral until most of them were gone. Watching Kirsh's pyre burn was heartbreaking, even for Jacinta, who had never really liked him much. For the men who would have willingly followed Kirshov Latanya to war, the specter was just too disturbing to risk letting them witness it.

  There were quite a few Shadowdancers still in Omaxin, but not a red robe in sight. Dirk had given them a clear choice. Change their allegiance to the Sundancers and stay here to continue studying the ruins, or go back to Avacas in chains as condemned heretics. Not one of them had opted for the latter. They had shed their robes and gone back to doing exactly what they were doing before Dirk arrived: trying to puzzle out the writings in the cavern at the end of the Labyrinth … or rather the tunnel, she corrected absently. Dirk got quite annoyed if anybody called it the Labyrinth.

  The smoke from the pyre hung over the water in the still air. The evening was clear, the red sky vast and bloody; a fitting backdrop for the death of a prince. Behind Jacinta stood a small guard wearing the black and green livery of Bryton and the reason she was dressed in her riding habit rather than mourning clothes. Her father had sent an armed guard to escort her home.

  Her father's men had arrived a few days after the surrender bearing a very abrupt and annoyed note from her parents and a rather more sympathetic letter from Alenor. Both letters reminded her of the same thing. She had a duty she had managed to avoid until now. The time for prevaricating was over. Dhevyn was free and needed all the stability the union of the Seranov and D'Orlon houses would bring. Raban Seranov was waiting for her. The wedding was arranged and set for just over two months from now. She dreaded the future before her, but knew her duty to Dhevyn. She could argue with her mother, but not her queen.

  Jacinta would leave as soon as the funeral was over.

  She had learned something recently that made her feel older for owning the wisdom. The greater good sometimes came at a high personal cost. She needed only to look at Dirk to remind her of that.

  After a few more moments of hushed reverence, Dirk turned and headed back toward her. The gathered troops began to disperse, although Jacinta did not move. She wanted to say good-bye.

  Dirk handed the torch to one of his captains and walked up the slope a little farther before he bowed politely to her.

  “My lady.”

  “My lord.”

  “You're all set to leave then?”

  She nodded. “I think it's best.”

  “You'll give my regards to your parents? And my apologies for asking you to undertake the duties that kept you away from them for so long?”

  “Of course.”

  He was saying that for the benefit of her escort. Always the politician, aren't you, Dirk? She was grateful, but a little hurt.

  “Will I see you in Avacas before I sail for Dhevyn, my lord?”

  “Probably not,” he told her. “There's a great deal more to do here before I leave. And I have to escort Rees's body back to Elcast. Faralan is going to need some help sorting out his affairs. Besides, I think Misha might appreciate not having me around for a while. Tia certainly will.”

  “Shall I give the queen a message from you?”

  “Give her my love,” Dirk said. “And tell her I said thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For trusting me.”

  Jacinta nodded. “I'll make certain she knows how much you appreciate her support.”

  “And you can tell her Alexin is no longer considered a heretic by the Church. As to whether or not her relationship with him still constitutes treason, that will be up to her to decide since now she's a queen in her own right.”

  “I can't imagine her decision will be anything less than favorable for Alexin.”

  He nodded in agreement. “Your new father-in-law will be pleased by that news.”

  “I'm sure he will be,” she agreed. “He's very fond of both his sons.”

  An uncomfortable silence fell between them.

  “I would ask another favor of you, my lady.”

  “I'm yours to command, my lord,” she announced formally, shattered by the cold formality of their parting.

  “I would ask you take care of Lady Lexie and her daughter, Mellie.”

  “I give you my word they will both be accorded the full respect and privilege their rank deserves,” she assured him.

  “And give Mellie my love, too,” he asked. “Tell her I'll try to get to Kalarada to see her as soon as I can.”

  “I'm sure she'll anxiously await your arrival, my lord.”

  “You'll like Mellie,” he added, as if he was looking for a reason to drag out their conversation. “And she'll need friends at court.”

  “Then I will be certain she has them,” Jacinta promised. “Although I will be in Nova for much of the time, I fear. But she and Alenor are not so far apart in age. I'm sure they'll become firm friends.”

  Dirk smiled. “Perhaps, once you're the Duchess of Grannon Rock, they'll finally let you into the university.”

  “I'm not sure what my husband will have to say about that.”

  “I'm quite certain you could persuade Raban to agree to anything, my lady.”

  “You vastly overestimate my powers of persuasion, I fear.” If they were any good at all, I wouldn't be leaving.

  He hesitated for a moment and then bowed
politely. “I wish you well, my lady. I hope you'll be content.”

  Content, he said, not happy. At least he hadn't been so cruel as to suggest that.

  “I'm sure I'll come to terms with my fate in time,” she agreed. “As you seem to have done.”

  “Good-bye, Jacinta.”

  She couldn't bear to return his farewell. Jacinta curtsied as elegantly as she could manage on the loose slope. He stood there watching as she turned and walked up toward her waiting horse and the rest of the escort of Senetian troops Dirk had provided for her journey back to Avacas.

  No sooner had she mounted than he turned and strode back toward the ruins. She couldn't tell if it was because he couldn't bear to watch her go, or if he was just too busy to care.

  lenor waited for Jacinta when she returned from Senet in the throne room of Kalarada Palace, the first time she'd ever felt the need to meet with her cousin in formal surroundings. But with Lady Sofia waiting in Jacinta's rooms, her own mother starting to develop grandiose ideas about taking back her throne and everything else that had happened since the day of the eclipse, she clung to whatever symbols of her position she could claim.

  The Queen of Dhevyn was feeling the need for a little protocol.

  Jacinta seemed a little surprised by the formality when she was escorted into the queen's presence by Dimitri Bayel. Alenor sat on the Eagle Throne, the heavy crown giving her a headache, her expression determinedly neutral. It was a form of protection. She hoped the weight of her crown would force down the other emotions that she was afraid might undo her perfect imitation of a reasonable and controlled monarch.

  “Welcome home, Lady Jacinta,” she said when her cousin stopped before the throne and curtsied politely. “I trust your journey from Avacas was not too rough?”

  “No, your majesty,” Jacinta replied, looking a little puzzled by Alenor's stiff tone. “The seas were quite smooth for this time of year.”

  “You bring us news, I take it?”

  Jacinta glanced around at the courtiers surrounding the queen. There were no Senetians left in Alenor's court, but Rainan was standing just behind the throne on Alenor's left and several other underlings were hovering about the bright, sunwarmed chamber, listening to every word.