The Lion of Senet (33 page)

“Why?” Johan called after him.

Dirk turned to look at the exiled king. “Why what?”

“Why do you care what I think about you? You’re the son of the man who stole the woman I loved. You’re the favored pet of my worst enemy. Why do you care about my opinion?”

Because I’m your son,
Dirk wanted to say.

But the words wouldn’t come, so he said nothing, just turned on his heel and slammed the door behind him.

PART FOUR

THE BUTCHER OF ELCAST

Chapter 54

Belagren’s mood was ugly when Ella and Madalan bowed before her in the small audience chamber in the Hall of Shadows, which was normally reserved for more formal meetings with visiting dignitaries. The High Priestess always used formalities when she was angry, Marqel had quickly learned, and the angrier she got, the more formal the occasion.

Each of the acolytes took turns serving the High Priestess. It was considered part of their training. Today it was Marqel’s turn to stand at the High Priestess’s left hand, ready to do her bidding. The earlier rain had cleared, and sunlight flooded the room through the large arched windows that lined the western wall, making the Shadowdancers squint as they tried to focus on the High Priestess. She usually met with them in her office, but today she was trying to make a point, Marqel thought. The High Priestess was extremely displeased, and she intended to make certain that her underlings knew it.

Marqel had not been sure what to expect when she arrived in Avacas. After they had docked, Marqel, the High Priestess and the other Shadowdancers who had traveled on the
Calliope
had made their way to the Hall of Shadows, on the outskirts of Avacas. Ella Geon had returned to Antonov’s palace with Misha.

Her first view of the Hall of Shadows took her breath away. Some five miles outside the city, the palace sat high on a narrow promontory that jutted into the ocean and made the building appear as if it had sprouted out of the sea of its own volition. It was built of a smooth white stone that Marqel could not name, which blushed pink in the light of the evening sun, its eight evenly spaced and elegant spires tipped with the red-and-gold pennons of the Shadowdancers, and one solitary yellow flag, acknowledging the Church of the Suns. That Belagren and her cult of Shadowdancers were merely a subordinate branch of the Sundancers didn’t seem to matter much to either side.

They were welcomed into the palace by Issian Lore, the housekeeper. If Issian was curious about Marqel’s inclusion in their party, she gave no sign. She merely assigned a servant to show her around, and then ignored her.

The room to which the servant led Marqel proved to be a long dormitory in the north wing that housed another fourteen young women, all of whom were training as Shadowdancers. The other girls, for the most, ignored her, except for a tall blonde named Caspona, who spent a great deal of time complaining to her friends that the High Priestess must have lowered her standards considerably if they were now allowing Dhevynians to join the Shadowdancers.

The following morning Marqel was escorted to the Library with the others. She was tired from a restless night spent in an unfamiliar bed surrounded by the various snores and grunts of her roommates, and was still yawning as she finished her breakfast in the vast dining hall. Afterward she followed the other girls through the bewildering network of corridors that led to the Library.

The Library was massive. Everywhere she looked there were shelves and shelves of books; more than she could count, more than she could guess at. She stared at them, open-mouthed, until one of the girls poked her from behind.

“Goddess, you look like somebody’s just murdered your favorite aunt! They’re only books!”

Only books
. The size of the place terrified her and, for a dreadful moment, Marqel wondered if she would be expected to learn everything here.

“Ah, you must be the new girl, Marqel.”

Marqel blinked and turned to the man who had spoken. He was a Shadowdancer, younger than she expected, his cheerful face and unruly fair hair unable to hide a pair of bright, birdlike eyes.

“How do you know who I am?”

“You walked in groaning. The High Priestess said you’d only just learned to read.” That was news she didn’t want broadcast, but the Shadowdancer looked away before she could voice her displeasure. He turned and led the way into the Library through the islands of long, polished tables that filled the center of the room, then stopped and glanced over his shoulder. “I am Fraken. I’ll be responsible for you for the time being.”

“She’s probably overwhelmed by her surroundings, being so young and all,” Caspona suggested tartly from behind them. “And she is foreign.”

The scholar smiled. “I’m glad to find you so understanding of Marqel’s feelings, Caspona. Perhaps she should study with your group this morning.”

This was obviously not the outcome the blond acolyte was hoping for. Sunlight streamed through the high windows as Caspona shot Marqel a look that could have been bottled and sold as liquid venom.

“What is the boy doing?” Belagren demanded of Ella, dragging Marqel’s attention back to the meeting. “I charged you with bringing him to me as soon as possible.”

“If
you
couldn’t get Antonov to release him, my lady, what makes you think I would have any more luck?”

The small, low-backed throne on which Belagren sat was on a podium built up high enough to ensure nobody ever looked the High Priestess in the eye.
She chose this room because
she can look down on everyone,
Marqel noted with a touch of admiration. She had learned much from the High Priestess in the weeks since she arrived.

“Prince Antonov is quite taken with the boy,” Madalan added. “I believe it amuses him to make a friend of Morna Provin’s son.”

Morna Provin’s son? Dirk Provin?
Marqel thought she must be hearing things.
Why would the High Priestess care about him?

“Surely, if you asked Prince Antonov again, my lady...” Ella suggested, her voice fading to nothing as she visibly withered under the High Priestess’s gaze.

“And what should I give as a reason for my interest in the boy, Ella?”

Marqel listened to the discussion with no real idea what the Shadowdancers and the High Priestess were talking about, but her curiosity was piqued.

“Perhaps we worry unnecessarily,” Madalan suggested. “Perhaps Antonov will be able to extract the truth from Thorn about Neris? If we could find him alive...”

“I’d have a mindless madman incapable of telling me anything,” Belagren snapped. “What is so damn difficult about that maze, anyway? For the Goddess’s sake, all we need to do is work out a few calculations, surely.”

“It’s not that simple, Belagren, as well you know,” Madalan reminded her. “Neris has rigged that tunnel into the ruins with some truly fiendish devices. You’ve seen the results yourself. The only way past the gates without somebody dying is to solve those puzzles—puzzles
he
devised, puzzles beyond the understanding of normal minds.”

Marqel studied the High Priestess out of the corner of her eye as the Shadowdancer spoke. She had never had a reason to doubt that the High Priestess was responsible for the return of the Age of Light. This was all quite extraordinary. Ella noticed the direction of her gaze, and looked at her sharply.

“It seems our new acolyte isn’t as fully briefed as I thought,” she remarked.

“You’d do well to worry about finding a solution to this dilemma, rather than worry about my acolytes,” the High Priestess retorted. “This whole nightmare wouldn’t be happening at all, if you’d done what I told you. If
you
had been able to control Neris as well as you claimed you could, I wouldn’t need Dirk Provin.”

“Neris took his own life,” Ella reminded her stiffly.

“And why was that, I wonder?” Belagren asked with the smug assurance of one who well knew the answer. “Explain to me again why Neris threw himself off a cliff, Ella. Was it because he had betrayed us to Johan? Was it because he thought he started a war? Or was it that he couldn’t bear the thought of another night with you in his bed?”

Ella began to tug at her long red hair, a habit Marqel had noticed that she usually fell into whenever she was feeling unsure of herself. “The man was a drug addict, my lady, as well you know. If anyone had suspected he was suicidal...”

“
You
might have noticed he was suicidal, Ella,” Belagren said with venomous sweetness, “if you weren’t so busy trying to find ever more inventive ways of ruining his mind so that he was of no use to us at all. A bit more restraint and a little less experimentation on your part and none of us would be in this mess.”

“All I can suggest, my lady . . .”

Belagren glared at the Shadowdancer. “I’m not interested in your suggestions, Ella. I want Dirk Provin. And I want you to get him for me, because if the Age of Shadows returns and I’m not forewarned, I promise you, the first head I take in retribution for Ranadon turning from the Goddess will be yours.”

“Ella appears to be wavering in her resolve,” Madalan remarked once the redheaded Shadowdancer had left the Hall of Shadows to return to the Lion of Senet’s palace.

Belagren nodded thoughtfully before answering. Marqel filled the High Priestess’s cup with wine and placed the golden decanter carefully on the tray.

“She seems unusually nervous, but that could be because she’s scared of me. She always has been.”

“It more than likely was,” Madalan agreed.

The High Priestess picked up a chicken leg and delicately tore a small piece from it with her teeth. No grease dribbled down her chin as she ate; nothing stained the front of her red silk robe. Marqel, who had grown up around the manners of men like Sooter and Murry, found her fastidious eating habits quite fascinating.

“Is Dirk Provin really so important?” Madalan inquired.

“He might be. If he’s as clever as they claim.”

“Are you certain Antonov has no inkling of the boy’s significance?”

“We’d do well to pray that he doesn’t,” Belagren warned ominously. “Why in the name of the Goddess didn’t I
insist
on bringing him straight to the Hall of Shadows when I arrived in Avacas? We’ve lost months tiptoeing around Antonov, trying to be discreet.”

“Don’t you think Johan will find it a bit suspicious that we want Morna’s son? He’ll smell a conspiracy and you can be certain that once he does, he’ll not rest until he’s unearthed it.”

“Our problem is not what Johan Thorn will make of it.” Belagren shrugged. “He is powerless now. I’m more worried about Antonov. He believes that I am the Voice of the Goddess. I can hardly admit that I need the boy to tell me something I’ve spent a lifetime convincing him I already know.” Then she turned to Marqel and studied her curiously. “Don’t you have classes you should be attending, child?”

“I was ordered to serve you, my lady.”

“Yes, well, you’ll serve the Goddess much more effectively if you know what she needs of you. What class are you missing by being here today?”

“Herb lore, my lady.”

“Then go and learn about her gifts, my dear. That will be all.”

“My lady,” she said with a small bow. The discussion was just getting interesting, too. She was quite certain Belagren didn’t care whether she missed the lesson on herb lore—even if Caspona had heard a rumor that today they were supposed to learn the secrets of the Milk of the Goddess. The High Priestess dabbed at her chin with a napkin and waited until Marqel closed the door of the anteroom behind her before she continued. Marqel leaned against the closed door with a frown, more than a little miffed that she had been dismissed. There was something going on, something that involved the insufferable Dirk Provin, and she was itching to learn what it was.

“Damn Neris Veran!”

Marqel heard the curse quite clearly, and turned to examine the door. At some stage, probably during an earlier quake, the frame had twisted slightly. There was a thin, wedge-shaped gap between the door and the frame, just above eye level. Without any thought for the consequences if she were discovered eavesdropping on the High Priestess, she stood on her toes and peered through the gap to observe the rest of what was bound to be an interesting conversation.

“Did he really hate us so much that he’d want to kill us?”

“He wanted to hide the records of Ranadon’s movement around the suns,” Belagren said, delicately laying aside the chicken bone and wiping the grease from her fingers with the napkin. “Killing a few Shadowdancers in the process was just an added bonus.”

“Have you given any thought to Antonov’s likely reaction if he ever discovers there was no need for a sacrifice?”

“Of course there was a need,” Belagren said, picking a grape from the platter on the table. She bit into it daintily. “You need momentous acts to mark momentous occasions, Madalan.”

“And if he suspects the truth?”

“Antonov won’t—can’t—allow himself to confront the possibility that he was duped,” Belagren said. “For his own sanity he must continue to believe that it was the sacrifice of his son that made the sun return.”

Madalan nodded in agreement. “For him to accept the truth would make him a murderer. But I’m still not certain where Dirk Provin fits in to all this.”

“By some extraordinary coincidence, the Provin boy has a similar mathematical gift to Neris. He just might be smart enough to get us through the Labyrinth and tell us what Neris didn’t want us to learn.” The High Priestess took another delicate bite. “I need to know when the next Age of Shadows is due. I must know the time down to the hour, the very minute! Otherwise everything we’ve worked for will be wasted.”

“Rudi calculates it will be years yet,” Madalan reminded her.

Belagren shrugged, before discreetly spitting out the seeds into a small silver bowl. “What would that fool know?”

“At least you have Antonov right where you want him.”

“If Anton was right where I wanted him, Madalan, he wouldn’t be defying me over the Provin boy,” Belagren complained.

“And the Lord of the Suns? What if he decides to interfere?”

“Paige Halyn is a drowning man taking his last few gasps as he tries to save what is left of his tired old religion. The Shadowdancers are the future, Madalan.”

“And what of the future? Suppose it
does
take years? What if Antonov dies and Misha becomes the Lion of Senet? What if the sun disappears and the next Lion of Senet doesn’t believe it was you who made it happen?”

“Misha will never be the Lion of Senet, Madalan. It will be Kirshov.”

“But he’s due to leave Senet. He’s going to join the Queen’s Guard in Dhevyn.”