“As you wish,” Palinov said, backing down with a shrug.
He’s humoring me. He probably thinks I won’t understand a word of it. “Was there anything else, my lord?”
“I merely require your signature on a few other things, your highness,” the chancellor said, holding up a sheaf of official-looking documents. “I can show you where to sign.”
“Leave them on the desk. I’ll read through them later.”
“Your highness really doesn’t need to bother himself,” Palinov advised, as if Misha was just a little bit odd for suggesting such an unheard-of thing. “They are simply administrative matters that your father did not have time to deal with before he left for Elcast. Even he would not waste time going over every little detail.”
“I’m not my father,” Misha pointed out coldly.
The chancellor looked at him strangely for a moment, and then rose to his feet. “No, Prince Misha, you certainly are not.”
Misha wasn’t sure how to take the comment, but he was fairly confident Palinov didn’t mean it as a compliment.
Later that afternoon, one of Palinov’s scribes arrived with a bundle of documents that turned out to be the “supporting documentation” the chancellor had so blithely dismissed as irrelevant to Talenburg’s request for assistance. Misha frowned when he saw the pile, and dismissed the scribe with a wave of his hand. He was not feeling nearly so enthusiastic about looking through the pile of documents as he had been this morning.
“Perhaps you should review them tomorrow,” Olena suggested, when she noticed the look on his face. “Palinov can wait another day for your decision.”
That will just give him another day to find a way to thwart me, Misha thought, but he did not share his sentiments with Olena. If the Shadowdancers had their way, he would not be bothered by Lord Palinov at all. He had argued with both Ella and Olena in the past about his responsibilities as the crown prince. They were firmly convinced that Misha was overextending himself by attempting to take an active part in the governance of Senet, and that he would be much better off if he left it to those paid to deal with such things.
“I’ll look through them later,” he told her. “After dinner, perhaps.”
“Well, don’t stay up too late,” the Shadowdancer warned. “You’re still very weak. You need your rest.”
“You fuss over me like I’m made of glass, Olena. You’re worse than Ella, I swear.”
“You may not be made of glass, your highness, but you’re certainly not made of diamond, either. You’ll suffer for it if you do too much.”
Although she sounded concerned, Misha could not avoid the feeling her words contained a veiled threat. Like Ella, Olena always called him “your highness” when she was peeved with him.
“I know my limits,” he assured her. “Better than anyone.”
“Then let me help you back to bed ...”
“No,” he said, reaching for the pile from Talenburg. “I’ve changed my mind. I will look at these now.”
With shaking hands he unrolled the largest document and spread it out on the desk. Olena glanced at the diagram curiously. “Can you make any sense of that?”
“More than Lord Palinov, I’ll wager. Could you fetch me some tea?”
“I’ll have some sent up,” Olena promised. “Did you want me to send someone to sit with you?”
She meant: Do you want me to send someone to watch over you in case you have another fit? But Misha was feeling reasonably sound, although his trembling was slowly getting worse.
“No. I’ll be fine. Just have the tea sent up.”
“As you wish, your highness.”
They were always saying that to him, he mused as Olena left the room and he turned his attention to schematics of the Talenburg levee wall.
As you wish.
As if his will carried weight, and the title of Crown Prince of Senet actually meant something.
Chapter 20
Alenor was furious when she learned that Marqel was part of the Shadowdancers’ delegation to Grannon Rock for the Landfall Festival. So furious, in fact, that she did something she had promised Kirsh she would never do. She sent for Alexin, and specifically forbade Kirshov from taking part in the Festival.
“Your highness, it might be a bit difficult ...” Alexin began, when she told him what she wanted.
“How is it difficult? You’re the Captain of the Guard. He is one of your officers. I should think it would be a simple matter.”
“Simple, perhaps, but not wise. Kirshov is Senetian. For him, the ritual of the Landfall Feast is very important.”
“And since when do the desires of a foreign prince outweigh those of your crown princess?”
Alexin bowed apologetically. “They don’t, your highness, of course. I’m sorry if I gave you that impression. I will assign Kirshov to the guard escorting you and the queen on Landfall night. That should keep him occupied and out of trouble.”
“Thank you, Captain,” she said with relief. “I don’t suppose I need to point out that I would rather Kirsh didn’t know of my interest in his duties during the Landfall Festival?”
Alexin smiled thinly. “No, your highness, I don’t suppose you do.”
Once the captain had left, Alenor turned to stare out over the lawns. They were deserted, this late in the afternoon, except for the lone figure of a small boy chasing a puppy toward the bathhouse.
The door opened and her mother entered the room, dressed in a dark mourning gown. She had been paying her respects to the Shadowdancers in the temple in town—out of politeness, if not genuine regret that one of them had died so tragically.
“Well, that’s that rather onerous duty taken care of,” Rainan sighed, pulling her gloves off.
“Did you find out what happened?” Alenor asked, turning from the window.
The queen unpinned her veil and tossed it on the side table. “Apparently Laleno was wandering too close to the edge of the cliffs when the ground gave way. The hawkmaster died trying to save her.”
Alenor’s first hopeful thought—that it was Marqel who had plunged to her death—proved to be an idle one.
“I wonder if that will dent their enthusiasm for the Landfall Feast.”
The queen shrugged. “Somehow I doubt it. The Sundancer in charge of the temple spent much of the day making arrangements to ship poor Laleno’s body back to her family in Versage, but I’m quite certain the Shadowdancers won’t let the inconvenient death of one of their sisters get in the way of the Landfall Feast.”
“At least this unfortunate incident has spared us the need to socialize with them.”
Rainan smiled sadly. “You’re becoming a cynic, my dear. Was that Alexin I saw leaving?”
Alenor nodded. “I was just checking on the arrangements for Landfall.”
“You mean you were checking on Kirshov.”
“Is that so wrong?” she asked, a little defensively.
“Not wrong, Alenor, but foolish. He doesn’t want your interference, and Antonov won’t appreciate you trying to manipulate circumstances to suit yourself.”
“Antonov does nothing but manipulate circumstances to suit himself,” she pointed out sourly.
“All the more reason not to let him catch you at it.” Alenor glared at her mother. “Why do you put up with him? Why do you let him dictate to Dhevyn? He should have no say over what we do!”
“Don’t you think I would defy him if I could?”
“I don’t know. Sometimes I think you give in far too easily.”
The queen sighed again and walked to the window to stand beside her daughter. “Johan tried defying him, Alenor, and more than half the dukes of Dhevyn sided with Senet. I won’t start another civil war.”
“I still don’t understand how that happened, either. You should have hanged them all for treason. They should have backed Johan.”
“By the time Johan tried to rebel against the yoke of Senet, the damage was already done. The reality is that by the time they
met on the battlefield, Johan was already fighting a lost cause. Only people like Johan and Morna Provin refused to admit it. And then Antonov sacrificed his son, and that very morning the second sun appeared in the heavens for the first time in a decade. We had no chance after that.”
“You threw away our independence,” Alenor accused. “We’re nothing more than a subject province of Senet now.”
“Perhaps,” the queen conceded. “Temporarily. But once you and Kirshov are married and Misha rules Senet ...”
“Antonov is expecting the opposite. He thinks my marriage to Kirshov will seal Dhevyn to Senet forever.”
“Then it will be up to you to prove him wrong.”
Alenor looked at her mother, suddenly understanding what she was getting at. “Which is why you don’t want me doing anything to interfere with Kirsh and the Landfall Festival, isn’t it? You don’t want me to tip my hand. Should I countermand the order I just gave Alexin?”
“No. The damage is done. In truth, I would rather Kirshov didn’t take part in the Festival, either. Just be more cautious in the future, my dear. Until you’re married, we are treading a very thin line.”
Alenor sighed. “Will I ever stop making such blunders?”
“It’s not a blunder,” she assured her. “Well, not a serious one. You’re young and in love. The chances are Antonov would see it as nothing more than the childish interference of a young woman jealously protecting what she considers her property.”
“Kirsh would be furious if he found out.”
“Then hope he doesn’t, Alenor.”
“Is it always like this, Mother?” she asked, turning back to stare out of the window. “Will I never be able to take a breath without considering the implications?”
“Not if you plan to remain Queen of Dhevyn for long.”
“How do you bear it?”
“I try not to think about it,” Rainan shrugged. “But it’s not so bad. And it does have its compensations.”
“I hadn’t noticed any.”
Rainan smiled. “Well, at the very least, it means you always get served first at dinner.”
Alenor smiled at her mother’s wan attempt at humor. If only it were that simple, she thought wistfully. But it was nice to share a private moment with her mother. They had so few of them.
“Mother, about Alexin’s offer to meet with—”
“I told you, Alenor, I won’t discuss it.”
“Why not? Shouldn’t we at least consider the idea?”
“No. And that is my final word on the subject. I will not risk everything just to meet in a seedy back room somewhere and have a bunch of fanatical exiles tell me how I should be running my kingdom.”
“You let Antonov tell you how to run it.”
Her mother glared at her. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Alenor.”
“Then explain it to me, Mother. In a few weeks I’m going to be sixteen. I will be married and a queen, with a regent whose every move will be dictated by Avacas. On that day you’ll lose your damn kingdom anyway, because the day I marry Kirsh, we effectively hand ourselves over to the Lion of Senet. Haven’t you seen the people he’s placed in our court already? Why are you so determined to do this?”
“I am determined not to cause our people any more suffering, Alenor. I am also determined not to hear any more about alliances with the exiles in Mil. Now please, do not mention it again.”
Alenor knew it was futile to discuss the matter any further, but she could not help wondering if, just for once, someone in the Dhevynian royal family should take a risk.
Then she sighed. If someone was planning to take a risk, it certainly wasn’t going to be her.
Chapter 21
Morna Provin found herself spending much of her days lost in thought. There was precious little else to do as she counted down the sunrises until the Landfall Festival. She thought a great deal about the past, and tried very hard not to think about the future.
Tovin Rill was holding her in the cells of the Senetian Garrison on the outskirts of Elcast Town. Built hastily after the return of the Age of Light, it was not a particularly aesthetically pleasing fortress, its functionality taking precedence over its appearance. Her small cell was in one of the outbuildings, constructed of roughly dressed stone, the only light provided by a tiny barred window, too high in the wall to offer a view of anything but a small patch of sky. Her bed was a straw pallet, her toilet a wooden bucket in the corner.
For the most part, her guards were considerate, and for all that she was trapped in a cell normally reserved for thieves and murderers, she had not been unbearably uncomfortable. Captain Ateway had brought in some debtor slaves to clean the cell before incarcerating the dowager duchess, and he made sure the bucket was regularly emptied. Faralan had also sent down quite a few of her personal possessions, and she had been allowed writing materials to enable her to put her affairs in order. All in all, the whole thing was being handled in a very civilized manner, except for the fact that at the end of it lay a burning pyre and inevitably, her death.
Morna had always thought that she would have to be dragged kicking and screaming to her execution, but now that she was actually faced with it, she found herself quite philosophical about the whole idea. The reason, she concluded, was that she had little to live for any longer. There were no sons left to raise, not even a decent fight left to fight. Johan was dead, and so was Wallin. Dirk had vanished. Rees no longer needed her, or wanted her, it seemed. Her purpose in life was gone. In a few weeks, Alenor D’Orlon would marry Kirshov Latanya, and Dhevyn would have a Senetian regent.
Antonov and Belagren had won.
If Morna regretted anything about her life, it was that she did not perish in the last great battle at the end of the Age of Shadows. Those who died in that fight at least went to their graves believing that they were dying for something worthwhile. She understood now the futility of what she and Johan had attempted. She thought a lot about Johan these days. It was almost as if she could feel him waiting for her on the other side.
How much harder it had been to live on, to learn the bitter truth that good did not always triumph over evil. She had discovered the hard way that right was not enough when people were frightened and hungry. And who got to judge what was “right,” anyway? In the eyes of Antonov Latanya, she was evil personified. Her story, told from his perspective, cast her as the villain. They had lost that last dreadful battle, in part, because at least half the dukes of Dhevyn had preferred the Lion of Senet’s version of right over Johan’s.
Morna smiled faintly, thinking it would have been so much easier if Antonov had been short and fat, or ugly, or horribly scarred, or drooled when he ate. But there was nothing about the man that hinted at the darkness in his soul. No outward manifestation of evil that made it simple to look at him and say “Beware!”
Then she wondered about her own reasoning. If there is no Goddess, does that mean humans have no soul?
“My lady?”
Morna looked up from the small desk they had provided for her in the cell. She had been composing letters to be read after she was gone; hence her rather maudlin train of thought. She welcomed the interruption.
“Yes, Captain?”
“Lady Faralan is here to see you.”
“Thank you, Captain. Please show her in.”
We’re all being so polite, so terribly courteous about this. Perhaps that was the true measure of nobility, this remarkable gift for accepting everything with grace and elegance, when any normal, rational person should be howling in protest.
“How are you today, my lady?” Faralan inquired as Ateway opened the cell door for her. He locked it again once she was inside, but moved to the other side of the guardroom to give them at least the semblance of privacy.
“I’m well, Faralan. And you?”
Faralan lifted the basket she was carrying onto the bunk. Morna glanced at it, wondering if Ateway or one of his men had searched it before allowing her daughter
-in-law to bring it to her.
“I brought you some food. Welma baked herb bread for you.”
Welma had been the baker in Elcast Keep since before Morna arrived on Elcast as a seventeen-year-old bride during the Age of Shadows. The brusque, unforgiving baker had been very understanding of a young princess raised for a life of luxury and leisure who suddenly found herself married to a complete stranger, and mistress of an enormous keep that required an army of servants just to ensure it ran smoothly from one day to the next.
“Does she worry that I’m not thriving on a steady diet of gruel?” Morna asked with a small smile.
Faralan returned her smile cautiously. “I’d quite a job assuring her that you weren’t down here being stretched over a rack. She’s very loyal to you, my lady.”
“Then do something for me, Faralan. Tell Welma to forget me. It will do none of us any good if she voices her displeasure in the hearing of the Lion of Senet.”
“I will,” Faralan promised. “He’ll be here tomorrow.”
“Antonov? He’s cutting it a bit fine, isn’t he? It’s only a few days until Landfall.” She said it without even thinking about what Landfall meant to her. Faralan looked away, unable to speak so calmly or openly about the perilous future that awaited her mother-in-law. Perhaps she should have said, “It’s only a few days until I die.” What would poor Faralan do then?
“I suppose there’s little chance that Rees is planning to petition Antonov for my life?”
“I’m sure he will,” the girl hurried to assure her. “I’ve spoken to him about it on a number of occasions.”
“Faralan, don’t you think it odd that Rees needs to be coerced into asking for his mother’s life?”
The poor child looked away in shame. “It’s not that he doesn’t want to ...”
“No. It’s that he’s studied his options and decided prosperity lies with following Antonov. I’ve no one to blame for that but myself, I suppose. He never said anything to me directly, but I know he thought Dirk was my favorite.”
“Is it true? ...” Faralan began, and then she appeared to change her mind, obviously embarrassed.
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