“I hardly think you need an heir from Alenor and me now that you’ve got Dirk Provin back,” Kirsh retorted bitterly. Perhaps he was drunk enough to say something truly stupid after all.
Antonov’s expression darkened. “Just do what you’re supposed to be doing, Kirsh, and let me worry about Dirk Provin.”
“I hope you can handle him,” Kirsh said, and then turned and left the room before his father could take him to task for his insolence.
Freshly bathed and dressed in clean clothes, and certainly feeling much more sober than when he confronted his father, Kirsh was let into Alenor’s room just on second sunrise. He was shocked when he saw her. The darkened room was hushed and reeked of lavender. She looked tiny and pale against the sheets, her eyes puffy and red from crying. As Dorra stood back to let him into the bedroom, Olena was heading out carrying an arm-load of blood-soaked sheets. The amount of blood startled him. Could you lose that much and still live?
Yuri Daranski looked up when he heard Kirsh enter, his face a portrait of stern disapproval. “You’re here,” he remarked unnecessarily.
“I’d like to be alone with my wife,” Kirsh announced.
The physician nodded and, with Ella and Dorra, he silently left the room. Kirsh crossed the rug to the bed, his earlier anger fading a little in the face of Alenor’s obvious distress.
She turned to look at him as he approached, her eyes welling up with tears. “You must be pleased.”
“I never would have wished such a thing on you, Allie,” he said, sitting on the bed beside her.
“Well, at least you’ll be spared the shame of having to raise another man’s bastard.”
“My father said you nearly died.”
“I wish I had,” she whispered, as the tears spilled onto her cheeks.
He took her hand in his and held it for a moment. Despite what had happened between them recently, he felt for her, although he had to admit he was feeling relief as much as sympathy.
“Allie, you didn’t . . . I mean, this was an accident, wasn’t it?”
“You think I did this?”
“Not really,” he admitted. “I just couldn’t help but wonder.”
“I wanted this baby, Kirsh.”
“Even though it wasn’t mine?”
“Especially because it wasn’t yours.”
He found himself unable to meet her accusing gaze.
“How did we ever get into such a mess, Allie?”
She did not answer him.
“Is there anything I can do?” he asked. “Anyone I can . . . get for you, perhaps?”
She smiled thinly. “Nice try.”
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Not consciously, perhaps. But if I had the wit not to call for him when I thought I was dying, Kirsh, I’ve certainly got enough sense not to tell you who it is now.”
“We can’t go on like this, Alenor,” he sighed with a shake of his head.
She wiped her eyes and looked away. “You chose this course, Kirsh, not I.”
That was one argument he was not prepared to get into right now. “We’ll have to stay here in Avacas until you’ve recovered enough to travel,” he told her, looking for a safer subject.
She shrugged apathetically. “It makes no difference. Your father has enough people running my kingdom that they hardly need you or me there.”
“I’ll see to it you have everything you need.”
“Your father’s already done that.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“You can go to hell,” she told him, and then she turned her face away and refused to speak to him further.
Marqel was waiting for him in his rooms when he returned, and he held her wordlessly for a long time, unable to confide, even to her, what was wrong. She kissed him after a time and then searched his face for some hint of what he truly felt.
“I’m so sorry, Kirsh,” she said. “You must be so disappointed that Alenor was too weak to carry the child past the first few months.”
“It’s tragic,” he agreed.
“Shouldn’t you be with her now?”
“I’ve been to see her. She’s still upset. I don’t think she wants to know me right now.”
“She’ll get over that.”
“I doubt it,” he muttered.
Marqel looked at him curiously. “Is something wrong, Kirsh?”
He shook his head. “It’s been a long night.”
“And I shouldn’t stay,” she added, surprising him with her intuitiveness. “Your wife has just had a miscarriage, my love. It wouldn’t look too good if word got around the palace that you consoled yourself that same night in the arms of your mistress.”
Kirsh glanced at the window. The second sun was almost fully risen. “It’s not night any longer.”
“I should still leave. I’ll come back later, when things aren’t so . . . fraught.”
He smiled at her understanding. “I love you.”
“I know you do.”
“I wish . . .” he stopped the thought from even forming in his mind. What he wished for could never be, and it served no useful purpose to hope that it might.
“You wish what?”
“Nothing.”
“It’ll all work out for the best, Kirsh,” Marqel assured him. “Just you wait and see.”
Kirsh kissed her again and then let her go. As she slipped from the room, he wondered where she got her confidence from. Perhaps it had something to do with being a Shadowdancer. Maybe it was her faith in the Goddess that made her so certain that things would fall into place as she willed them.
Right now, Kirsh could feel the start of a tremendous hangover beginning to form, and all he wanted to do was crawl into bed, pull the covers over his head and sleep it off.
Maybe, when he awoke, he thought wistfully, he wouldn’t be married to a woman he didn’t love, in love with a woman he could never marry, pretending to grieve the loss of a child he had fervently wished was dead.
And that was the hardest thing to deal with, Kirsh realized. Before losing himself in the taverns of Avacas, he had stopped for a moment in the Goddess’s temple that his father had built in the grounds of the palace.
He had prayed—begged, almost—that she would make the problem go away.
It seemed the Goddess had answered his prayers, but for some reason, it didn’t do anything to ease the guilt he felt for asking.
Chapter 74
Tia reached Tolace some ten days after she escaped the High Priestess’s convoy. They were ten days of hiding and living off the land, of dodging other travelers and trying to look inconspicuous whenever she could not avoid them. Fortunately, Kirshov Latanya had kept his word, and provided her with enough food that she was able to go for days without having to hunt. He had also, she discovered with delight, returned her bow and quiver of arrows, which she found hidden in the bedroll.
She was still at a loss to explain the Senetian prince’s behavior, even after days of doing little else but think about it. It was suspiciously out of character, from what she knew of him, and she was certain the Lion of Senet would be furious to learn that Tia Veran had once again slipped through his fingers. All she could conclude in the end was that he really meant it when he said he thought Dirk’s actions were repellent, and with some sort of honor-twisted logic, had decided to let her go, in an attempt to redress the injustice.
It was raining when she finally reached the outskirts of Tolace, with its long Hospice wall and its tall granite cliffs. The rain was warm, however, and it didn’t really slow her down much. She had decided it was safe enough to use the road, this far south of Avacas, and had covered the last ten miles in half the time it had taken her to cover the previous five.
The market was winding down for the evening when she trotted into town. It was past first sunrise and the heavy rain clouds were bloody and oppressive in the light of the red sun. Most of the stallholders beneath the wall had closed up for the evening, the rain driving
away the few customers who ventured out this late in the day.
Boris Farlo, the Brotherhood man she knew in Tolace, had a small shop opposite the Hospice wall, which sold a large variety of woven baskets that his wife and five daughters made in a small workshop out the back of his shop. The wares were expertly crafted, ranging from small wicker baskets useful for little more than storing trinkets to the huge trunks favored by the nobility for traveling. And the odd dead body, Tia speculated, thinking of the cheerful little man’s other occupation. His goods were renowned for their craftsmanship, and were shipped all over Senet and Dhevyn, which made the harmless-looking little Senetian basketmaker very valuable to an organization whose prime function was smuggling.
It was almost closing time when she dismounted outside a shop selling flowers some way down the street. She walked past the basket shop twice, as casually as she could manage, waiting until the last customer had left before she stepped inside. It was cluttered with all manner of wickerwork, and she had to duck under some of the baskets hanging from the ceiling as she neared the counter. Boris looked up, with his best new-customer smile, which changed to a much more genuine smile when he recognized her.
“Tasha!”
Tia rarely used her own name in Senet, and certainly not since there had been a price on her head. Boris probably knew it was not her real name; he might even know her true identity, but they kept up the fiction that he did not. He was a short man, with a well-rounded belly, the result, no doubt, of his wife trying to teach five daughters how to cook.
“Hello, Boris.”
“This is a surprise! I wasn’t expecting to see you!”
What he really meant was there were no Baenlander ships in port at the moment. Tia had thought that would be too much to hope for. Life rarely worked out so neatly.
“I’m just passing through,” she explained. “I need somewhere to stay until I can get a message to my brother.” The “brother” she referred to was Reithan. Had she said “father,” Boris would have known she meant Porl Isingrin. Her “uncle” was Dal Falstov, the captain of the Orlando.
Boris nodded. “Somewhere discreet?” he asked knowingly.
“The discreeter the better,” she agreed, wondering if there was such a word.
“Why don’t you go out back and say hello to Gilda and the girls? As soon as I close up the shop, we can have a nice long chat and you can tell me what you need.”
Boris’s wife Gilda was like a female version of her husband: short, round and jolly, although Tia knew that she was just as highly placed as her husband in the Brotherhood, and far more dangerous when crossed. There was a story that Tia had heard once, claiming Gilda Farlo had castrated an amorous sailor with her trimming knife when he tried to get fresh with one of her daughters. Tia didn’t know if the story was true, and decided it probably wasn’t prudent to ask.
The kitchen was full of the smell of boiling cabbages and beets, as Gilda ordered her small army of daughters around the kitchen like a little general. She offered to help, but Gilda would have none of it, insisting that Tia get out of her wet clothes and sit by the fire to dry off, even though it was quite warm and the fire did little more than make her sweat.
Boris came through from the shop about a half an hour later, as Tia was sitting in front of the stove, wearing a borrowed skirt and blouse that belonged to Caterina Farlo, who was at least three sizes bigger and a head shorter than Tia.
“Now we can talk,” he announced, taking a seat at the scrubbed wooden table with a sigh of relief. He lifted his feet up and without being asked, the youngest girl—a chubby blonde about fourteen—hurried over with a footstool and placed it under his feet.
“Tea, Mother!” he ordered cheerfully.
“On the way,” Gilda assured him, a few moments before placing a steaming cup in front of him. “Would you like some tea, Tasha?”
“No thanks, Gilda. I’m fine.” Given the opportunity, Tia knew from her past visits to this house, Gilda would pour tea down her throat endlessly, until she was all but drowning in it.
“So when did you slip into Senet?” Boris asked, taking an appreciative sip from his cup.
“Just after Landfall,” she explained, seeing no point in lying to him. He would have known the Makuan was in Senetian waters then, anyway, and rather ironically, for a bunch of criminals with no discernable morals, the Brotherhood had a very dim view of liars.
“And now you need to get out of Senet?” he guessed.
“The sooner the better,” she agreed. “Do you know where any of our ships are at the moment?”
“The Orlando’s tied up in Paislee, so that would be the closest. I’ve not seen the Wanderer for a while, and the last I heard the Makuan was in Derex.”
“Then I should head for Paislee,” she suggested.
Boris shook his head. “It’s a long way to Paislee, lass, and she could easily sail before you get there. It’ll be quicker if I send a message to our people by bird, and they can let Dal Falstov know you’re here. He can then decide whether he wants to pick you up here or have you meet him somewhere safer.”
“Somewhere safer?”
“Tolace is crawling with the Lion of Senet’s Guard at the moment,” Gilda informed her.
“Why?” Tia asked cautiously. Surely they’re not here looking for me already?
“Misha Latanya has been brought to the Hospice,” Boris explained. “There’s talk that he’s dying.”
“Dying?” she asked in surprise. How could he be dying? Tia wondered. He was just another poppy-dust addict, and they were either lost in the dust or dead from it. There was no middle ground.
“Aye,” Gilda agreed. “It’s a sad state of affairs. I hear he’s quite an amiable young man.”
“He is,” Tia confirmed absently.
Gilda and Boris both looked at her in surprise. “You know him?”
“I met him once,” she told them, silently cursing her loose tongue. “I’m surprised to hear he’s dying, though. Did you hear what was wrong with him?”
“Not really,” Gilda shrugged. “It’s just one of those unfortunate things, I suppose. Some people are just born with weak blood.”
Weak blood, my arse, Tia thought skeptically. Weak-willed is more like it.
“Why don’t you visit with him while you’re here?” Gilda suggested brightly.
“Pardon?” Tia gasped.
Boris chuckled. “Don’t listen to Mother, Tasha, she’s teasing. What she means is that we have a safe house in the grounds of the Hospice. You can stay there until we hear from the Orlando.”
“In the grounds of the Hospice?” she repeated doubtfully. “I thought you said it was crawling with Antonov’s guard.”
“Which is what makes it so safe,” Gilda explained. “The last place they look for people hiding from them is right under their noses.”
“Never fear, Tasha,” Boris assured her. “We’ll not see you come to any harm. Unless, of course, you don’t like Mother’s cooking, in which case she’ll probably whack you over the head with her spoon, tie you up and hand you over to the guard herself.”
They all laughed. The five Farlo daughters pushed and jostled each other good-naturedly as they took their places at the table. Gilda hefted the heavy cauldron of borscht onto the table and began to dole it out into large, glazed pottery bowls.
Tia took her place at the table and joined in the laughter warily, not entirely certain that Boris was joking.
Chapter 75
It was almost a week after Alenor’s miscarriage before Dirk was able to see her, and when he did, he was shocked by her appearance. Always a small girl, she now seemed so thin and fragile that a stiff wind might blow her away. He stepped into the room as Dorra announced him, leaving his ever-faithful escort waiting in the hall. He looked at Alenor with concern. The room was dim, the windows covered to keep out the bright light of the second sun, and the air was heavy with the scent of rose petals that smoldered in a small dish by the bed. Alenor sat propped
up on a mountain of pillows, her pale face almost as white as the silk sheets she lay on.
“Dirk!” Alenor said with a weak smile as Dorra closed the doors and stood in front of them like a sentinel.
“How are you?”
“Feeling a little better,” she assured him. She looked past him to her lady-in-waiting. “Could you arrange some tea, Dorra? And when Captain Seranov gets here, send him straight in.”
“Your majesty, it’s not appropriate for you to be alone with . . .”
“Oh, Dorra,” she sighed. “Dirk is my cousin, and we’ve already had numerous discussions about the captain of my guard.”
“Very well, your majesty,” Dorra agreed with a great deal of reluctance. She opened the doors behind her and headed into the other room, pointedly leaving them open.
Dirk walked to the bed and sat down, taking Alenor’s hand in his. It was so small, so thin, he was afraid it might crumble in his grasp if he held it too tightly.
“I spoke to Yuri. He says you’re coming along nicely.”
“Master Daranski would probably say that even if I was gasping my dying breath.”
Dirk smiled. “Well, at least you haven’t lost your sense of humor.”
“But I lost my baby.” She sounded so small and frightened.
“There’ll be others,” he lied, with an encouraging smile. “A miscarriage is just nature’s way of telling you that this child wasn’t meant to be.”
Dirk felt a little guilty for the lie. Yuri had told him the damage to Alenor’s womb was severe. It was unlikely that she would ever carry another child. That news worried Dirk a great deal, and not only for the effect such knowledge might have on Alenor. If Antonov suspected that Alenor could no longer bear him the heir to Dhevyn he so desperately wanted, then his only alternative heir was Dirk. He had begged Yuri to keep his suspicions to himself for Alenor’s sake, hoping that Yuri would not realize Dirk had another reason for being so considerate of his cousin’s delicate state of mind.
“Nature is very perceptive,” Alenor remarked in an odd voice, turning her head away to avoid meeting his eye.
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