The Lion of Senet (26 page)

“Do you really think a bit of public humiliation could hurt any worse than what I’m feeling now?”

“Dirk, this has nothing to do with your tender feelings. Don’t you understand that your life is at stake? There are a great many people in Dhevyn who would try to use you, should the truth be known, and a great many people in Senet who think the only good Thorn is a dead one. I’ve no doubt you’ll come to terms with the knowledge in your own time, son. Whether or not you ever forgive your mother will be up to you. Right now, I’m more concerned that you understand
why
she lied to protect you. And that you have the wits to do the same for yourself.”

“I’m not stupid, Father.”

Wallin smiled. “No, Dirk, you certainly are not. But you’re hurting. I understand that. And you’re angry with your mother. Trust me, nobody on Ranadon understands how that feels better than I do. I just want to make sure that you don’t let your desire to hit back at her outweigh your common sense.”

Dirk stared at Wallin with a puzzled look. “Why did you take her back? After what she did . . .”

“She was the mother of my son, Dirk.”

“She betrayed you.”

“She did what she thought was right. It’s not quite as sinister as you think. Your mother knew Thorn long before she met me. And believe it or not, while Antonov is my friend, and I don’t hold with your mother’s views, I have my concerns about the practices of the Shadowdancers. It’s why I didn’t object when she wanted to stop the Landfall Festival from being held on Elcast.”

“Well, those happy days are over,” Dirk informed him sourly. “I hear Rees has become quite enchanted with the idea.”

Wallin didn’t seem surprised. “It’s not an uncommon reaction to the rite.”

Dirk stared at him. “Are you going to let them? Are you really going to let them sacrifice somebody next year to appease the Goddess?”

“One day, when you’re older, you’ll take part in the Landfall Festival yourself. You’ll see things differently then.”

Dirk thought that highly unlikely.

“Have you ever taken part in it?”

“I have to be going. There’s a lot to be done with Antonov leaving. Shall we see you at dinner?” It was clear he did not intend to answer Dirk’s question. The duke rose to his feet, glancing around the room.

“Maybe.”

“I know it’s difficult, but if you can bring yourself to do it, see your mother before you leave. She’s worried about you.”

“I’ll try.”

Wallin appeared suddenly uncomfortable, as if there was something else he wanted to say, but couldn’t bring himself to voice the words. “Well . . . I’ll see you at dinner then.”

“Yes, sir.”

He walked to the door, but stopped with his hand on the latch. “Dirk ... I couldn’t be prouder of you if you were my own flesh and blood, you know that, don’t you?”

Dirk nodded silently.

“You have a gift, lad. A gift from the Goddess. Whatever you do once you leave here, don’t waste it.”

“I’ll try not to, sir.”

Wallin nodded. “Good ... well, see you at dinner then.”

Dirk sat motionlessly for a long time after Wallin left, thinking about what he had said. His eyes misted with tears, which he brushed away angrily, bumping his swollen nose. He let out a howl of pain, but it was as much from his mental anguish as it was from the relatively minor agony of his bruised and battered face.

Chapter 41

Kirsh was already dressed and ready to leave. He shook Dirk rudely awake just before the second sun rose. Dirk blinked owlishly at the prince in the red light of the early morning, wincing at the pain the movement caused in his swollen, battered face.

“What?” he demanded grumpily.

“We’re leaving this morning,” Kirsh reminded him cheerfully.

“So let me enjoy my last few moments of peace,” Dirk begged, pulling the covers up over his head.

“You and I have a score to settle,” Kirsh said as he ripped the sheets back.

Dirk rolled over and glared at him. “Score? What score?”

Eryk was standing beside Kirsh and seemed firmly on the prince’s side. “You have to race Prince Kirsh up the staircase before we leave, remember?”

Dirk closed his gummy eyes with a groan.

Kirsh shook him by the shoulder impatiently. “You’re not going to wheedle out of this, Dirk Provin. Come on, out of bed! Lanon’s already on his way up to the top to act as referee.”

Dirk asked. “Why Lanon?”

“He was the only one willing to climb to the top of the damn staircase.”

Dirk stared at Kirsh with despair. His face was aching, his eyes were gummed up and his nose was congested. He was in no mood and no condition to race anyone up eight flights of steep stairs—especially not Kirshov Latanya, who was competitive to the point of obsession. It was not as if he could just let Kirsh win, he realized. If the Senetian prince thought he had given the race anything less than his best effort, he was just as likely to demand they run it again.

“Kirsh, I really don’t feel like...”

“A pact is a pact.”

“But I can’t even breathe properly! You’ll win just on that alone!”

“You can breathe, Dirk. Besides, if anything, your injuries just level the playing field. You’re used to those damn stairs. You’ve been running up and down them all your life.”

Dirk sat up slowly and swung his legs around so that he was sitting on the edge of the bed. “There’s no way I can talk you out of this, I suppose?”

“Not a chance,” Kirsh assured him.

Dirk sighed heavily. “Very well. Do you want to get ready, then?”

“I am ready.”

Dirk glanced at Kirsh’s clothes and would have frowned, except that it hurt too much.

“You’re wearing that?”

Kirsh was dressed in fine woolen trousers, an expensive and exquisitely embroidered linen shirt and knee-high boots. “Sure. What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing.” Dirk shrugged. “Let me get dressed and wash my face. I’ll meet you downstairs.”

Kirsh nodded and ruffled Eryk’s head with a grin. “Don’t let him go back to sleep, Eryk. If he’s not there in ten minutes, I’m coming for him. We have to leave just after the second sunrise to catch the tide, so we have to get this over and done with, or Father won’t let us finish it.”

That sounded just fine to Dirk, but he knew that Kirsh wasn’t going to be put off by anything as mundane as angering the Lion of Senet.

“I’ll be there,” Dirk promised.

“I’ll be waiting.”

Once Kirsh left the room, Dirk pushed Eryk aside and stumbled to the washbowl to splash cold water on his face.

“You’re gonna beat him, Lord Dirk,” Eryk declared confidently as he handed him a towel.

He glanced down at the boy and smiled. “You think so, Eryk?”

Eryk nodded. “You fixed Derwn up real good.”

“That was actually Kirsh, not me.”

Eryk shrugged. “You’re still gonna beat him. I know it. Here.” The boy tapped his chest, roughly where he thought his heart might be.

Dirk frowned, not sure he wanted to be the repository for Eryk’s noble dreams.

“Will you be disappointed in me if I lose?”

“You won’t lose,” Eryk assured him confidently.

Dirk smiled. “Well, I hope I’m as good as you think I am, Eryk. Are you all packed?”

The boy nodded, a little uncertainly.

“You know, you don’t have to come with me. You can stay here on Elcast with your friends if you prefer.”

“But you’re my only real friend, Lord Dirk.”

Sadly, the boy probably spoke the truth. Dirk glanced around the room, with its bare shelves and empty cupboards, experiencing a moment of doubt.
What am I doing?
he asked himself. Then he remembered why he was leaving Elcast and straightened his shoulders with determination.

I’m not a Provin. I don’t belong here.

Then he splashed his face again, mostly to stop himself from facing the uncomfortable fact that he probably didn’t belong with Antonov Latanya either.

Eryk headed up to the top floor after they left Dirk’s room, preferring to be there for the finish, rather than watch it from below. When Dirk arrived at the bottom of the stairs, he discovered to his dismay that most of the people in the Keep had gotten wind of the challenge between Dirk Provin and Kirshov Latanya, and had turned out to watch. Dirk pushed his way through the crowd, smiling uncomfortably at the wellwishers, who slapped him on the back and offered words of encouragement.

“Quite an audience,” a voice remarked behind him.

Dirk spun around to find Prince Antonov standing behind him.

“Your highness?”

“Kirsh told me about your challenge.” He glanced around at the gathered servants and smiled. “It would seem the pride of Elcast is firmly in your hands this morning.”

“It’s only a race, your highness.”

“It’s never
only
a race, Dirk.”

Kirsh came to stand beside his father, bouncing on the balls of his feet with anticipation. He was itching to get started.

“Aren’t you going to get dressed first?” he asked, taking in Dirk’s loose trousers, bare chest and bare feet.

“I’m dressed enough for this,” Dirk replied.

Kirsh looked at him oddly, then shrugged. “Are you ready, then?”

He nodded. “Let’s get it over with.”

The crowd moved back to give them room. Antonov took it upon himself to act as the starter, and made sure that both boys were positioned below the first step. Dirk took his place on the inside. It might only be by a fraction, but the distance was shorter, the steps a little narrower on that side. Of course, the disadvantage was that if he stumbled, he might plummet to his death, but it was a risk he was prepared to take. Antonov smiled at them, as he pulled a kerchief from his jacket.

“A race to the top of the stairs!” the prince announced loudly, for the benefit of the spectators. “The loser will owe the winner a favor, which may be collected at any time in the future, at the winner’s convenience. Is that right?”

Both boys nodded. Dirk didn’t look at Antonov. His eyes were fixed firmly on the winding staircase. He opened his mouth and took several deep breaths as Antonov spoke. His nose was still swollen and his breathing was already affected. He needed all the wind he could get. He glanced at Kirsh, whose eyes were alight with excitement. The prince cut a dashing figure in his well-cut clothes and his expensive boots, but they would tell on him the farther they climbed the stairs.

“So, just to make it interesting, I have decided to throw in a purse of one hundred gold dorns for the winner!”

The crowd gasped at the news. A hundred gold dorns was more than any of them earned in a lifetime. Even Dirk was stunned by the offer. He had never even seen that much money at once.

“Are you ready?”

Dirk nodded and took a final deep breath. Kirsh said something that brought a laugh from the gathered spectators, but Dirk was too focused on the task ahead to hear. He watched Antonov out of the corner of his eye, saw the kerchief rise and then fall, and then, without any conscious act, he was running up the stairs.

Kirsh streaked ahead, as Dirk knew he would. The Senetian prince was both taller and stronger than Dirk, and he didn’t know the meaning of restraint. Kirsh would give the race every ounce of strength and energy he had. Dirk’s only hope lay in the fact that he was lighter, he wasn’t carrying the added weight of leather boots, and he’d climbed these stairs every day of his life since he’d learned how to walk.

The crowd cheered them on as they reached the first landing. Kirsh was well ahead of him, reaching the second landing while Dirk was only a few steps above the first. Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of Morna and Wallin on the landing, but he paid them no mind, too focused on the task at hand to even notice if they were cheering for him. He tried to pace himself, to leave himself something for the latter stages of the race, when he was counting on Kirsh tiring, but the temptation was strong to try to catch his opponent. He forced himself not to look at Kirsh, to concentrate on putting one foot above the other.

The cheers above him told him that Kirsh had reached the third landing while he was barely past the second. His face was aching and he could feel his lungs straining for air. He passed the third landing as the crowd cheered Kirsh ahead of him on the fourth. Dirk felt a surge of annoyance.
Why are they cheering
Kirshov? You’d think they would want to see me win.
But everyone loved a winner, Dirk knew, and Kirsh had endeared himself to the folk of Elcast Keep in the short time he had been on the island.

The fourth and fifth landings passed in a blur, and Dirk’s lungs began to burn. His breathing rasped and his swollen nose felt like it was on fire. He risked a glance ahead and was relieved to find Kirsh had yet to reach the sixth-floor landing. He was gaining on the prince—slowly—but gaining nonetheless. His concern now was that he’d left his final push too late. Kirsh was pounding upward and didn’t seem to be flagging much at all.

Dirk’s legs were heavy as he ran doggedly upward. By the time they reached the seventh-floor landing, he was only a few steps behind Kirsh.

Now was when it really counted, he knew. Kirsh’s thighs would be burning, but he just might have the strength to see it through. With a determined effort, Dirk gave it everything he had. He was breathing through his mouth now, his nose unable to supply the wind he needed to sustain his effort. Fifteen steps from the top he drew level with Kirsh, who glanced at him in surprise. They ran neck and neck for a few steps, then Dirk surged ahead, his lungs crying out in protest, his bare feet chaffed raw by the granite, his thighs on fire.

Kirsh drew level with him three steps from the top. Dirk risked a glance out of the corner of his eye and saw the look of glee on Kirshov’s face. Lanon stood on the top step, cheering them on. The roars of the crowd were muted and lost in the distance.

Three steps to go and Dirk knew Kirsh was going to beat him.

Two steps left and he glanced up. Eryk was next to Lanon, jumping up and down as he cheered his master on. His face shone with the inalienable belief that Dirk would triumph.

The thought of letting Eryk down was suddenly intolerable. With one last desperate surge he took the last step a heartbeat ahead of Kirsh and collapsed on the cold stone of the landing, as wild cheers erupted all around him. Dirk rolled onto his back and lay there taking deep, rasping breaths with his eyes closed. He was too exhausted to relish his victory, too drained to think what it meant.

“Con ... grat ... ulations.”

Dirk opened his eyes and stared at Kirsh. He was bent double, his hands resting on his knees as he gasped for air. Dirk didn’t answer him. He didn’t have the breath in him left to speak.

Kirsh managed a wan smile. “You’re tougher . . . than you . . . look . . . Dirk Provin.”

“Faster, too,” Lanon remarked with a laugh.

He felt a small hand on his shoulder and turned his head. Eryk was kneeling beside him, a look of supreme smugness on his face.

“I told you you’d win,” he said happily.

“I ... owe you . . . a favor ...” Kirsh added. He didn’t seem to mind that he’d lost. “Name... it...”

“Some . . . other . . . time . . .” Dirk managed to gasp. At that moment, Dirk couldn’t think of anything he needed or wanted of Kirshov Latanya.

“When . . . you’re ready.”

Dirk nodded and closed his eyes, better to concentrate on breathing.

It was only later that it occurred to him that he had won a small fortune. He was leaving Elcast a rich man.