Eye of the Labyrinth Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Praise

  PART ONE - A CHANGE OF SEASONS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  PART TWO - OF DECEIT AND VENGEANCE

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  PART THREE - NEW FRIENDS, OLD ENEMIES

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  PART FOUR - BETRAYAL

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  ChapTer 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  PART FIVE - A LITTLE TASTE OF THE SHADOWS

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Chapter 89

  CHARACTER LIST

  Read the explosive conclusion to the Second Sons Trilogy,

  About the Author

  ALSO BY JENNIFER FALLON

  Copyright Page

  For Amanda,

  and as always, Adele Robinson

  Acknowledgments

  We have some interesting discussions in my house, usually late at night and frequently incomprehensible to the casual observer. We talk, argue and agonize over worlds that don’t exist and the people who populate them as if they are real. It is not possible to quantify the value of these discussions when it comes to populating the world of Ranadon.

  I wish to thank my son David for the idea of diamond blades and for reminding me that sometimes you have to take a risk to change the world you live in. I cannot thank my daughters enough: Amanda, for being my sounding board and for providing so many bright ideas that it would be impossible to list them all; and TJ, for her constant reading of draft after draft of this series and for reminding me that some stories are too big to tell in a single volume.

  I must also thank Peter Jackson for his help in defining the world of Ranadon, and Doug Standish for working out the physics of Ranadon’s solar system. If there are mistakes or inconsistencies, they are totally mine, because I kept rearranging the universe to suit my imagination instead of the other way round.

  Special thanks must go to the gang from Kabana Kids Klub, especially Ella Sullivan for keeping me on the straight and narrow regarding the geology of Ranadon, and Erika Rockstorm, for her assistance in ironing out some details of this world. I must also thank Ryan Kelly for his advice, his mathematical prowess, and for helping Dirk appear so clever, and Stephanie Sullivan, Analee (Woodie) Wood, Fi Simpson and Alison Dijs for being such economically viable (it sounded better than cheap) proof-readers.

  Once again, I have Dave English to thank for helping me look like I know something about ships and sailing, and my good friends John and Toni-Maree Elferink for knowing way too much about the human body and what happens when you do terrible things to it.

  I would also like to acknowledge Fiona McLennan and the Phantophiles from the Voyager Online community for their enthusiasm and support, for keeping my spirits up and for providing quite a few of the names that crop up throughout the series.

  Last but not least, I wish to thank Lyn Tranter for her help and support, and the staff at ALM for being so wonderfully patient with my eccentricities and Stephanie Smith for giving me so much leeway with the story, when all she wanted was for me to “tidy up the last chapter a bit ...”

  Praise for THE LION OF SENET

  “The Lion of Senet is one of those rare hybrids, an SF plot

  compounded with the in-depth characterization of

  a good fantasy tale. It is a book that recognizes the old

  saw, any sufficiently advanced science is

  indistinguishable from magic, and makes good use of

  the premise. Jennifer Fallon mines the rich

  borderland between fantasy and SF to produce a tale of

  deception and ambition in a battle between science and

  religion. Well-rounded characters and conflicts that

  are ethical as well as adventurous make for

  an intriguing read.”

  —Robin Hobb

  “In The Lion of Senet Jennifer Fallon has created

  a fast-moving and exciting fantasy saga of betrayal and

  deceit, peopled by an engaging cast of characters. I

  can’t wait to see what new twists she will bring

  to the plot in Book Two!”

  —Sarah Ash, author of Lord of Snow and Shadows

  and Prisoner of the Iron Tower

  There was a door to which I found no key:

  There was a veil past which I could not see:

  THE RUBAIYAT OF OMAR KHAYYÁM

  (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 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 reached Elcast Town, 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?”

  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.

  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 mainland kingdom of Senet held 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.