Jennifer Fallon - Second Sons 02 - Eye of the Labyrinth

There was a door to which I found no key:

There was a veil past which I could not see:

The RubÁiyÁt of Omar KhÁyyam

(translation by Edward J. Fitzgerald, 1859)

PART ONE

A CHANGE OF SEASONS

Chapter 1

The worst thing about funerals was the smiles, Morna Provin thought. The wary, tremulous, uncertain

smiles that never reached the eyes. The hesitant, insincere, I-don’t-know-what-to-say-to-you smiles that

everyone wore when attempting to express their sympathy, while inside they recoiled from this blatant

reminder of their own mortality.

Morna walked behind the carriage bearing Wallin’s body down toward Elcast harbor feeling numb. The

first sun was high in the red-tinted sky. Perspiration stained her black silk gown in dark, unsightly patches

under her arms and across her back.

Why do we wear black in this heat? she wondered idly. Or clothes with so many layers?

What half-witted fool invented the petticoat?

The Duchess of Elcast wore a dark veil over her face, which provided her with some small measure of

privacy, but she knew every eye was on her. Did the onlookers think her dignified in her dry-eyed

composure—or cold and unfeeling? She had not allowed herself to cry or even grieve yet; had not

allowed herself to contemplate the future. Morna simply refused to think about it. Rees Provin, her eldest

son and the new Duke of Elcast, walked in front of her. Beside him was his bride of three months,

Faralan. Rees had assumed his duties as duke with a competence that made her feel proud—and more

than a little obsolete. He had organized the funeral, seen to it that his father’s bequests were distributed in

accordance with his wishes, done everything that needed to be done, efficiently and gracefully, without

once asking for her advice or counsel.

Of Morna’s missing youngest son, Dirk, there was no sign; no news for the past two years. Morna

grieved the loss of her second son more than she could describe. To lose a child was a pain no parent

should bear, she thought. To lose the son she had borne to Johan Thorn had been exquisitely painful, a

fact that undoubtedly gave the Lion of Senet and the High Priestess no end of amusement. There had

been no word of Dirk for so long. There were rumors, of course. Rumors that he had fled to Sidoria or

Galina; rumors that he was in the Baenlands. The only thing she knew for certain was that Dirk had

supposedly raped a Shadowdancer, killed Johan Thorn and then fled Avacas a wanted man. She could

not imagine what had driven him to do such terrible things. Antonov had written to her after it happened,

positively gloating as he described the events that had forced Dirk to flee.

What did you do to him, Anton? What evil did you infect my son with that he would turn from the

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intelligent, thoughtful boy I loved into a murderer and rapist in a few short months? She had thought about

trying to get a message to Dirk, but she had no idea where to find him. Even if she did, the risk was too

great. Dirk would come home one day, she was certain. Morna ran her eyes over the crowds that lined

the streets, half-hoping to see him. She had delayed the funeral for as long as she could, in the hopes that

word would reach Dirk, wherever he was. He would not be able to appear openly, she knew, but surely

he would not miss this day. Dirk had loved Wallin like a father. For most of his life, he was the only father

Dirk had known. Dear, patient, understanding, forgiving Wallin. It was Wallin who had tried to comfort

her when she learned about what happened in Avacas. It was Wallin who reminded her that things were

not always as they seemed. And now he was gone, struck down by the very thing that made him what he

was—his heart. One minute he was sitting at the High Table, sharing a joke with Rees; the next he could

not breathe. He had died in her arms on the floor of the Great Hall of Elcast Keep, and taken a part of

her with him when he left. Morna Provin had not merely lost a husband. Wallin’s death meant she no

longer enjoyed the protection he provided. She had lived these past twenty years because Wallin had

begged for her life, and now he was no longer here to shield her. She glanced over her shoulder as the

funeral procession wound down the steep road toward the town. Tovin Rill walked behind them with his

youngest son, Lanon. His expression was grave. The Senetian governor had done nothing but express his

sympathy so far, but Morna knew she was living on borrowed time. Her fate was inevitable and, in some

ways, she thought, not undeserved. If she felt anything, it was a deep sense of disappointment, mostly in

herself. She had promised to do so much. But in the end I was no better than you, Johan, she admitted

silently. For all my noise about freeing Dhevyn, about carrying on the fight, what did I end up doing?

Exactly what you did, my love. I hunkered down somewhere safe and let the world pass me by, fooling

myself into believing that I was just waiting for the right time, the right circumstances, before I acted.

Even worse, I gave birth to the son you never knew you had, and then raised him so well, he killed

you...

The procession reachedElcastTown, wending its way through streets lined with mourners. Wallin had

been a good man, a good duke, and his people genuinely grieved his passing. Some of them threw petals

on the carriage as they passed; a few smiled those uncomfortable smiles Morna had come to loathe. She

kept her eyes fixed on the back of the carriage. It was easier not to look them in the eye.

When they reached the harbor, the procession came to a halt and the Guard of Honor stepped forward.

They lifted Wallin’s body from the carriage and bore it down to the water to the mournful beat of a lone

drummer. The guard placed Wallin’s body on the floating bier that was anchored near the beach. Rees

stepped forward, accepting a flaming torch from the Sundancer Brahm Halyn, who waited by the bier.

Her son waded into the shallows, hesitated for a moment as he said a silent farewell to his father, and

then touched the flame to the pyre. The wood had been drenched with oil so it caught immediately. Rees

waited, to make certain the flames had taken hold, and then, with the help of two of the guard, pushed

the bier out into the water. The silence would have been complete, but for the monotonous drumbeat, the

distant squawking of gulls and the crackle and hiss of the flames as they consumed Wallin’s body. Morna

wished she could cry. She wished her numbness would go away and leave her free to feel the pain.

Wallin was a good man. He deserved to be mourned properly.

They watched the bier floating on the harbor, the tall column of thick smoke pouring from the oil-soaked

wood. Morna found herself fascinated by the smoke. It was an allegory for her whole life. An angry fire

that had burned so brightly for such a short time until eventually, like her dreams and ambitions, her whole

existence ended up as nothing more than a smoky haze that dissipated into the red sunlight, gone and

forgotten.

“My lady?”

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Morna looked down at the beach. Rees was wading back to shore, his expression grim, his shoulders

stiffly set.

“My lady?” Tovin Rill repeated from behind her.

So soon, she thought. They’re not even going to wait until the fire is out? Rees walked up the beach and

stopped in front of her. He was so like Wallin to look at—solid, stocky and dependable— but he did not

have Wallin’s heart. Or his compassion.

“I’m sorry, Mother.”

So Rees had known about this in advance. She heard Tovin Rill snap his fingers behind her, heard the

guards moving to surround her. “Please go quietly, Mother,” Rees begged. “Don’t make a scene.”

Morna lifted the veil and looked around. There were a dozen or more Senetian soldiers waiting to take

her into custody. Tovin Rill was looking at her expectantly.

What does he think I’m going to do? Whip out a sword from underneath my skirts and fight my way to

freedom?

Young Lanon Rill refused to meet her gaze, obviously uncomfortable with his father’s role in this. Faralan

was crying silently. The townsfolk looked on in wordless dread, too afraid to object. Or maybe they

don’t want to object. Maybe they feel I am finally getting what I deserve.

“Where are you taking me?”

“To the garrison in town, my lady,” Tovin informed her. “You’ll be held there until Landfall.”

Landfall. They’re going to burn me alive.

Faralan bit back a sob. “I’ll have your things brought down to you, my lady,” she promised, as if having

her own hairbrush handy would somehow ease the terror of knowing she was to be executed.

“Thank you, Faralan,” she replied graciously, and then turned to the captain of Tovin’s guard. “Captain

Ateway? Could I lean on your arm? I seem to be a little unsteady this evening.”

Why aren’t I screaming? Why am I not afraid?

Ateway glanced at Tovin Rill, who nodded his permission, and then stepped forward to offer the

dowager Duchess of Elcast his arm. “This way, my lady.” She didn’t know what to say to him. What

does one say when they are being led away to die? Why don’t I feel anything?

So she smiled at him.

She smiled at them all. She smiled at Tovin Rill, who had sat like a vulture for the past three years,

waiting for an opportunity like this. She smiled at her son, Rees, who wore Wallin’s face, but had

inherited nothing of the man. She smiled at her daughter-in-law, Faralan, who was just eighteen and far

too inexperienced to assume the responsibilities of a duchess. She smiled at Lanon Rill, who had once

been Dirk’s friend. She smiled at the townsfolk, who did nothing but stand and watch her being led

away. It was one of those I-don’t-know-what-to-say-to-you smiles.

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Chapter 2

Kirshov Latanya turned on his bunk with a muffled groan as the Kalarada trumpets announced rising of

the second sun. Every muscle he owned was aching, and he was sure his body must be a mass of black

and purple bruises. He pulled the pillow over his head, wishing for just a few more moments of blessed

sleep before his day began again.

All his life, Kirsh had been looking forward to joining the Queen’s Guard. He had dreamed about how

proud he would be as he rode at the side of his queen, ready to give his life for her in some noble and

glorious cause. Of course, in his dreams, the queen had been some faceless, vague and regal

figure—nothing like bossy little Alenor. And he had never had to deal with politics. The dream had been

his driving force for as long as he could remember. Reality was proving to be vastly different.

Kirsh had always reasoned that if he kept out of the political games his father delighted in, he could

somehow escape their consequences. He didn’t really care about the High Priestess Belagren, or the fact

that she and the Queen of Dhevyn were frequently at odds. It made no difference to him at all that his

father was admired and despised in almost equal measure. The power struggles between the islands of

Dhevyn and the mainlandkingdomofSenetheld no interest for him. What had happened in the past had

happened, and there was not a damn thing he could do about it. Kirshov wanted to be a soldier. He

wanted to make a name for himself so that he would be something more than a superfluous second son.

Dirk had tried to warn him, on more than one occasion, that he could not maintain such a position for

long. He’d had several heated arguments with him when they were both in Avacas, as his cousin from

Elcast had tried to awaken his political conscience. Kirsh would have none of it. He was going to join the

Queen’s Guard. He was not going to be a ruling prince, so it didn’t matter what he did. Dirk had called

him a fool. He had tried using Alenor as an excuse. Dirk had even given him several very eloquent and

logical reasons why, as prince consort, he would at least need to make an effort to understand what was

going on around him.

Dirk had been ignorant of the true role of a consort, Kirsh reflected bitterly. As he was frequently

reminded by his brothers-in-arms in the Queen’s Guard, his role was to stand at stud, nothing more.

It was obvious that they considered him barely up to even that task.

It was two years since Kirsh had presented himself to the Lord Marshal the day he arrived on Kalarada

after an awkward reception held in the palace, to (supposedly) welcome him to Dhevyn. The Lord

Marshal had droned on, explaining his duties in the Queen’s Guard and the training regime he would

undergo before formally being given a commission as an officer. “You’ll find things a little different here

on Kalarada, your highness,” Rove Elan had explained to him. “You’ll be just another soldier, I’m afraid.

Rank is earned on merit in the Queen’s Guard. Your civilian rank, that of the Princess Alenor’s consort,

or even our future regent, counts for nothing here.” “I know that, my lord. I expect no special

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consideration because of who I am or who my father is.”

Rove Elan smiled faintly. “Oh, you’ll find yourself judged on who your father is, your highness, but it may

not be the reaction you imagine. This is the Queen’s Guard. The Queen of Dhevyn, not Senet, and you

would do well to remember that.”

“I’m not ignorant of the political situation, my lord,” he said, which was not entirely accurate, but neither

was it actually a lie. “You’re likely to be sorely tested here, until the others have accepted you. You will

be judged on how you react to that testing.” “I believe I can look after myself, my lord.”

Rove nodded. “From what I hear, you’re more than capable of taking care of yourself, but we’re not

like your father’s Palace Guard, full of mercenaries and men seeking fortune and position. Here, you are

expected to put your comrades and the protection of the queen above personal glorification.” “And you

think I can’t do that, sir?” he asked, a little offended.

“I’ve no idea if you can do it or not, your highness,” Rove said with a shrug.

“But it will be up to you to prove that you can.”

The training grounds of the Queen’s Guard were located inside the small keep that guarded the steep

access road to the palace. The shadow ofKalaradaPalaceloomed over the keep, its bulk concealing the

sun for a good part of the day and most of the night. Kirsh had found the gloom a little disconcerting at

first. He still remembered the first time Rove Elan had led him toward the high paling fence that

surrounded the fighting arena in the shadow of the gray stone outer wall.

There were two hundred or more men present, training in pairs with blunted practice swords, thick

quarterstaves or short, broad-bladed spears. Kirsh looked around with interest and the professional eye

of a man who had been trained to handle weapons as soon as he was old enough to pick up a blade. The

men of the Queen’s Guard were competent, he decided, but not outstanding. There was not a man he

could see that he did not feel he could best. “So this is Antonov’s cub.”

They stopped and turned toward the voice. The man who had spoken was about the same height as

Kirsh, but of a much heavier build. He had tossed his shirt aside to train, and his well-developed muscles

glistened with sweat. He had a head of thick dark hair and a scowl that made Kirsh wonder if he

practiced it in the mirror each morning when he shaved. He glanced around to find all activity in the yard

had come to a halt. Everyone was staring at him. “This is our master-at-arms, Dargin Otmar,” the Lord

Marshal explained with a nod to the other man. “He’s all yours, Dargin. Try not to break him. Or

damage that pretty face of his. I believe the Princess Alenor may have a use for him someday.”

Kirsh stared after the Lord Marshal as he turned and headed back to the barracks.

“I hear you think you’re pretty good,” Dargin remarked, wiping his hands on his discarded shirt and

throwing it aside.

“I never claimed to be anything of the kind,” Kirsh answered, glancing around warily. The other men had

abandoned their training and were leaning on the railing of the yard, watching him with interest. He smiled

disarmingly. “Perhaps my reputation has preceded me.”

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“Oh, your reputation has preceded you, Latanya, I can promise you that.” Kirsh grinned and flexed his

fingers in anticipation. “What’s this then? The traditional let’s-beat-the-crap-out-of-the-new-boy

ceremony?” “No,” Dargin replied, “it’s more along the lines of a

let’s-make-certain-the-Lion-of-Senet’s-cub-knows-his-place ceremony. We’ve no room in the Queen’s

Guard for cowards, boy. It’s time to see if you’re a better man than your father.”

Kirsh’s grin faded. “I may be sworn to serve the Queen of Dhevyn, sir, but I’ll not allow you to insult my

father.”

“You’re not sworn to the queen, boy. That’s a privilege you’ve yet to earn. All you’re sworn to do is

stand at stud for the crown princess.” The rest of the guard roared with laughter. Kirshov looked around

him, hoping to see even the slightest hint that one of these men was on his side. It was an idle hope. Kirsh

looked back at Dargin and then nodded and began to unbutton his coat. “Very well. Which one of you is

it to be?” Dargin laughed harshly. “Either you really are as good as you think, or you’re a damn fool,

boy.”

Kirsh threw his jacket over the railing and shrugged his shoulders a few times to loosen them up, before

smiling coldly at the master-at-arms. “Let’s find out, shall we?”

Dargin’s fist was like a sledgehammer. It took Kirsh completely by surprise. He staggered backward,

blinking back the white spots that danced before his eyes, derisive laughter ringing in his ears. His jaw felt

as if it had been relocated on the other side of his head. Kirsh shook his head groggily, quashing the

anger that threatened to make him lose his temper, and turned to face Dargin. The metallic tang of blood

filled his mouth.

“That wasn’t fair. I wasn’t ready.”

The master-at-arms was standing with his arms crossed, grinning broadly. “It’s fair you want, is it? Is

that how they fight in Senet?” Dargin moved again, faster than Kirsh would have believed possible for

such a big man, although this time Kirsh was ready for him. He blocked the blow with his right arm and

struck back with his left, scoring a hit in the older man’s gut, hard enough to make him grunt. That small

sound was enough to satisfy Kirsh. Dargin could be hurt. It was just going to take an awful lot to do it.

“So, the cub has teeth,” Dargin laughed, dodging away from Kirsh’s next blow. Kirsh did not rise to the

bait. He was not that easily provoked. Anger led to foolish mistakes, and one mistake with Dargin could

prove fatal. He stood his ground, consciously controlling his breathing, balanced on the balls of his feet,

waiting for Dargin to move again.

The master-at-arms came at him, this time a little more cautiously. The one hit that Kirsh had managed to

land was apparently enough to convince Dargin that he would be in trouble if he let his guard down. But

with that cautious respect came the knowledge that if he really meant to prove his point, he had to win,

and that the young man he faced was unused to defeat. Not because he was arrogant or cocky, but

because Antonov had made damn sure his son was more than capable of taking care of himself.

Dargin feinted to the left and caught Kirsh with a glancing blow to the side of his head, which he dodged

at the last moment. Kirsh struck back, landing a solid punch under Dargin’s jaw, then, with his right leg,

he swept the bigger man’s feet out from under him. Dargin landed heavily on his back, but rolled clear

before Kirsh could press home his advantage. He gained his feet quickly, slamming his fist into Kirsh’s

chest so hard Kirsh could hear his ribs breaking. He staggered backward, but Dargin gave him no

respite. He hammered the younger man mercilessly. Kirsh managed to land a few more blows, some of

them even making an impression, but every time he breathed in a sharp pain stabbed at his left side.

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Relentlessly, Dargin pushed him back until he struck Kirsh’s broken ribs again. With a cry of sudden

pain, Kirsh dropped to his knees. Dargin immediately stepped back, panting heavily. “You’re hurt.”

Kirsh bit back the sarcastic urge to say: “No? Really?” He looked up at the master-at-arms through

pain-filled eyes, breathing as shallowly as possible. “I can keep fighting,” he gasped.

Dargin smiled. Kirsh was rather pleased to notice blood dripping from a cut over his eye and a large

bruise beginning to manifest itself on his jaw. At least he’d given a good account of himself.

“It’s not my intention to kill you, boy.”

“You could have fooled me,” Kirsh muttered, grimacing as he took a breath that sent a sharp spear of

pain through his side.

“You’re too used to fighting men who pull their punches. That’ll not happen here.” Dargin turned to one

of the men who had been watching the fight. The spectators’ reaction disturbed Kirsh almost as much as

Dargin’s obvious desire to beat him to a pulp. They had not cheered and chanted the way men did,

watching a fracas. They had stayed silent and observed the entire exchange with the detached interest of

men watching some sort of scientific experiment. “Alexin, get him to the physician. He’ll need to bind up

those ribs of his if he’s to be of any use to anyone.”

Dargin stepped forward and offered Kirsh his hand. Kirsh studied it for a moment warily, before

accepting it and letting Dargin pull him to his feet. “You’ve got guts, boy, I’ll grant you that.”

Kirsh didn’t answer. It hurt too much to speak. He eyed the men surrounding him with caution, but there

was no malice in their expressions. They simply thought he needed taking down a peg or two. The

realization was something of a shock to him.

“Come on,” said Alexin. Kirshov accepted his assistance reluctantly and let himself be led away. He

didn’t look back, but he could feel every eye in the yard on him. He had no idea what they were thinking.

“You shouldn’t feel too bad,” Alexin assured him once they were out of earshot.

“You didn’t shame yourself.”

“Does he do that to every new recruit?”

Alexin grinned. “Only the ones he thinks are going to be trouble.”

“Did he do it to you?”

“No.”

“What makes me so special?”

“Dargin just wants to make sure you know where your loyalties lie.”

“By beating the shit out of me?” he asked doubtfully. Alexin hesitated before answering. “You must

know how unpopular the decision was to appoint you Regent of Dhevyn when you marry Alenor.” “I

suppose.”

“Then get used to it, your highness. If you plan to be regent for long, you’re going to have to win these

men over.”

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“I know,” he agreed, unhappily. “It’s just...”

“What?”

“I don’t know. I guess I was hoping all it would take is a few rounds of drinks.”

Alexin looked at him, trying to determine if he was joking, then he smiled and shook his head. “I hope

you’ve still got your sense of humor by the end of the week, your highness.”

“Could you stop calling me that?”

“What would you prefer to be called?”

“Kirsh. All my friends call me Kirsh.”

“Kirsh it is, then.”

Kirsh smiled, thinking that when all was said and done, he had made a good start. He had survived

Dargin’s beating and made the first tentative steps toward friendship with Alexin.

How bad could it get? ...

Chapter 3

Very bad, Kirsh discovered over the next two years. The beating he had received that day was merely

the first of many. Every time he stepped into the training arena, somebody managed to get the better of

him. He was not badly trained, he knew that, but the men of the Queen’s Guard were superbly trained,

and none of them stood to lose his position if Kirsh broke a few bones. He realized now that training with

his father’s guard was a world away from training every day, all day, with a squad of men whose

dedication to their queen was inspired by true loyalty, rather than a fat purse at the end of the week. If he

had a friend at all in the Queen’s Guard, it was Alexin Seranov, the second son of the Duke of Grannon

Rock. The young man was as universally liked as Kirshov was universally despised. He seemed to hold

no prejudice, one way or another, about his Senetian comrade, and he was often the only one who

bothered to explain rules that the rest of the guard expected him to have been born knowing. Alexin had

bailed him out of trouble on more than one occasion, but Kirsh was never certain if it was because he

was a friend, or that Alexin was simply a political creature, who was hedging his bets against the future.

The wake-up trumpets had long since faded when his door flew open. He must have been lying

daydreaming for the better part of an hour. “Hey! Latanya! Wake-up was sounded ages ago! Get that

lazy arse of yours out of bed, or you’ll be mucking out the stables with your dinner plate for the next

week!”

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Kirsh groaned again and rolled out of bed. He opened his swollen eyes and glared balefully at the man

who had so rudely awakened him. “I heard the call, Tael.” “Then why aren’t you on your feet, boy?”

Tael was the second son of the Duke of Derex, a small, impoverished, insignificant island. The Queen’s

Guard was the only place a second son of Derex would be in a position to lord it over a Prince of Senet.

Kirsh gained his feet, a little unsteadily, and squared his shoulders. He was not going to let Tael see how

much pain he was in. “I’m awake. Satisfied?” Tael laughed sourly. “It’d take more than seeing your ugly

face first thing in the morning to satisfy me, Senet. Rove Elan wants to see you. You’re to report to him

before breakfast.”

“Did he say why?”

“I’m not his damn secretary, or yours either. You want to know what the Lord Marshal wants, you’re

going to have ask him yourself.” Tael left his room, slamming the door with a thump that made Kirsh

wince. He sank down on the side of his narrow bunk and, for a moment, let the aches and pains of the

past two years wash over him, wondering if the reason Rove Elan wanted to see him was that he had

finally decided to throw him out of the guard.

By midmorning, Kirsh had finished his interview with the Lord Marshal and was on his way to the

palace, summoned by the crown princess. Kirsh had grimaced when Rove delivered the order,

determined to throttle Alenor when he saw her for reminding his comrades that he was her betrothed and

very soon to be Regent of Dhevyn. He was so sick of the barbs. So sick of hearing men laugh at him. He

had privately sworn to kill the next man who made a snide remark about “damaging that pretty face.” He

was going to tear the heart out of the next man who made a comment about not harming his reproductive

organs. As he stewed on it all the way up to the castle, the anger built in him like a slow boiling kettle. It

was all Alenor’s fault, he concluded. If not for their betrothal, if not for that wretched agreement between

his father and Alenor’s mother over the Regency of Dhevyn, they would have nothing to taunt him with.

By the time he dismounted in front of the palace, he was ready to give Alenor a piece of his mind she

would never forget.

A groom stepped forward to take his mount. Kirsh handed over the reins gratefully, careful not to turn

his back on the beast. The gelding’s name was Sunray, and a more unlikely name had never been

bestowed on such an ornery creature. He was a slender chestnut with intelligent eyes and a mean streak

as wide as the Bandera Straits. Kirsh had been issued the mount on his third day in the guard, and had

been fighting with the beast ever since. Sunray snapped at him as he dismounted, but let the groom lead

him away as if he was a child’s pony.

“Traitor,” Kirsh muttered at the beast as he trotted meekly beside the groom.

“Your highness?”

Kirsh turned to find Dimitri Bayel, the Kalarada Court Seneschal, standing in the open doorway of the

palace.

“My lord.”

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“If you would follow me, your highness, I shall take you to the princess.” Kirsh followed Bayel, still

angry with both Alenor and his treacherous horse. He knew he had been given the beast as some sort of

test, and he was damned if he was going to let the ugly, four-legged fiend defeat him. Kirsh carried more

than his fair share of nips from Sunray’s sharp teeth, and his shins were bruised from his unpredictable

hooves. But he had not been thrown yet, and Kirsh had not asked for a different horse. They were both

minor victories that he clung to. Dimitri Bayel led him through the palace and left him waiting on the

terrace overlooking the Queen’s Garden. The second sun was shining brightly overhead, and he was

forced to squint painfully as he looked around the carefully manicured gardens. Alenor was not there,

which angered him even more. It was bad enough that she had summoned him like a servant, but he did

not expect to be kept waiting like one. He paced the flagstones like a caged cat, silently rehearsing the

scolding he planned to deliver.

“Oh, by the Goddess! What have they done to you, Kirsh?” He looked up to discover Alenor and her

lady-in-waiting walking toward him from the gardens. She was wearing a long blue gown with a

close-fitting bodice, her dark hair caught up in a jeweled clasp, the curls arranged artfully over one

shoulder, leaving the other enticingly bare. Her companion stepped back discreetly as she approached

him, staying in sight, but not so close that she could hear what was being said. The days when he was

allowed to be alone with Alenor were long past.

It was weeks since he had seen Alenor last, and every time he did, he was struck by how much older

she seemed. She was still tiny—she always would be—but she had matured in these last two years. And

filled out in some rather interesting places, another, less noble part of him noticed with approval. But even

that observation did not soften his mood. He was still angry with her. “It’s nothing,” he scoffed

impatiently, jerking his head away from her touch as she tried to reach for him. “Why did you summon

me?” Alenor seemed surprised by his abruptness. She glanced over her shoulder at her lady-in-waiting

and slipped her arm through his. “Let’s walk. The gardens are looking particularly lovely this morning.”

Kirsh allowed her to lead him down the red brick patio into the shade toward the splashing fountain in

the center of the garden. Within moments, the lady-in-waiting was out of sight, although he was quite

certain that if she called out, Lady Dorra would be on them in an instant. “The Lord Marshal told Mother

that you were ‘surviving’ your tenure in the guard,” she remarked, her arm comfortably linked with his. “I

wonder what you’d look like if you weren’t.”

“Is that why you brought me here? To gloat?”

She stopped and turned to look up at him. Alenor knew him too well to be offended by his tone.

“Self-pity ill becomes you, Kirshov.” “That’s because I’ve never had much reason to feel sorry for myself

before,” he admitted.

She smiled and ran her fingers gently over his puffy, swollen eye. “You look like you’ve been run over

by a wagon.”

“I feel like it, too. I’m sure they’re trying to kill me. Or drive me out of the guard, at the very least.”

To his surprise, she did not scoff at his suggestion. “The latter, probably. They wouldn’t dare kill you,

but they don’t like the idea of you being in the guard. They like it even less that you’re going to be regent

soon.” “I figured that out the day I arrived.”

“Yet you continue to take everything they throw at you. You’ll have earned their respect, if nothing else.”

He smiled crookedly, his earlier anger fading. Alenor, first and foremost, was a friend, and he could talk

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Jennifer Fallon - Second Sons 02 - Eye of the Labyrinth

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