He suspected the Ontari would find it difficult to return in spring. One mindless statue couldn’t hold off an army, not even when the only way into the valley was the Erantem Pass. A living, thinking statue, however, was an entirely different matter.
Perhaps the Ragan would one day have the freedom that Ishtara had dreamed of.
Gama Ray Martinez lives near Salt Lake City, Utah with his wife and three kids. He moved there solely because he likes mountains. He collects weapons in case he ever needs to supply a medieval battalion, and he greatly resents when work or other real-life things interfere with writing. He secretly hopes to one day slay a dragon in single combat and doesn’t believe in letting pesky little things like reality stand in the way of dreams.
Find him at gamarayburst.com.
In Defiance of Death
Rebecca E. Treasure
Fanny Bertrand waited for the pirate on black rocks that swallowed light. Rain drizzled down the slippery shore. Thin yellow light from the approaching lantern failed to penetrate far into the storm. The night was cold, the last whisper of winter clinging to the wind. She shivered despite the heavy woolen cloak shrouding her shoulders and her tight brown curls.
Saint Helena had its beauty—a beauty Fanny had come to appreciate in six years of exile with Emperor Bonaparte—but in the dark and rain it was every bit the torturous rock she’d imagined when first learning of their destination. She’d tried to throw herself into the sea to avoid Saint Helena.
In the last moments before the light illuminated her, she considered the sea’s embrace once more.
Then the man reached her. Lantern’s glow revealed dark eyes sparkling like gemstones in a smooth face that nevertheless gave the impression of great age. He wore loose breeches with cuffs flapping like palm fronds in the hissing wind, a leather overcoat running with rivulets of rain, and a free-slung sword glimmering with menace in the darkness. “Madame Bertrand?” His accent was rounded, unfamiliar, but his French well-pronounced.
Wishing her heart would silence its thrashing, she nodded. “I am.” She did not ask his name. Her instructions had been clear.
He thrust an apple-sized glass jar at her. The shifting lantern light splashed across his hand, revealing thin black tattoos running along his fingers and up his forearm. “Mix this with his blood before he dies. Before. Then, when the mask is made, stir the mixture into the plaster.”
Fanny held the jar to the light, studying the powdery flakes within. “That’s all?”
“Bring a lit lantern to this place when they seal the mask upon his face. Swing it three times and hurl it into the sea. We’ll be watching. The woman will do the rest.” He grinned, revealing tobacco-stained teeth. “Blood magic.”
Fanny shuddered. She had little interest in the occult workings that would trap the Emperor’s soul in his death mask, but she did have an interest in the other magic she’d been promised. “And my payment?”
The pirate laughed. “She told me you’d be impatient about that. You’ll get what’s been promised when you deliver the mask to her in Paris.”
Fanny’s free hand went to her waist, where a tiny bulge pressed against the dress. “No, I need it now. I cannot wait. She promised—”
The pirate’s hand drifted to the hilt of his sword. “You’ll do it. She said to assure you of her word. You’ll bear a living child again. Once she has the mask.”
Fanny slumped, her temper muted by the threat of the blade. Left in its place was the ache of a half dozen miscarried babies, the terror that the tiny life within her would meet the same fate. “What of this child?”
He shrugged and drew his leather jacket tight around his body. “Get to the woman in time. Or hope your God can save the babe.” He left her shivering in the rain.
The weak lantern light disappeared into the darkness. Fanny slipped the little jar into her cloak. She kept her fingers curled around the cold glass, around the promise she would never again have to endure the loss of her hope and love, little bundles carried away in the night like something shameful.
Napoleon’s allies wanted to save him from death, but Fanny had a precious life of her own to save.
She hurried toward Longwood House and the cottage she shared with her husband, Comte Henri Bertrand, and their four living children—including little Arthur, the one baby to survive since they’d come to Saint Helena. Pain in her pelvis grew with every step, a clawing ache as sharp as the one in her heart. Before meeting the woman with the gold watch, Fanny had lost all hope. One baby, five losses. Her last, only three months before, had nearly killed her.
A little girl.
The doctors had been unable to stop the bleeding for nearly a week—but in sympathy to her new pregnancy, Napoleon had finally allowed the Bertrands to seek permission from the British to leave Saint Helena. Even as she lifted her soaked skirts over the low stone wall surrounding Longwood, the weakness she could not recover from weighed down her legs.
“Halt! Identify yourself!” The shout of a British soldier startled Fanny.
She stumbled, falling into the mud along the wall. “It’s me, Madame Bertrand. I got lost in the storm.”
The sentry stomped up to her, his tall black boots splashing mud onto her face. “You shouldn’t be out at night.”
Fanny wanted to snap at him that after six years of imprisonment on this rock she could hardly have forgotten, but her hand brushed the lump in her pocket. She bit her lip. “I’m sorry. I was frightened and got turned around.”
“Where’s the carriage?”
“I walked. I didn’t know the storm would be so severe.”
A third voice came from the darkness, speaking in rapid French. “Madame Betrand? What’s the trouble?” The figure stepped forward. Marchand, Napoleon’s valet, was tall, with a long straight nose and a cluster of curly hair damp and clinging to his head.
“Oh, Marchand. I walked from The Briars and got lost, and now this soldier is pestering me.”
Marchand helped Fanny to her feet. She kept one hand on the precious bottle in her cloak, the other on the swell in her belly, wincing as a cramp grew into a gnawing pain.
“This woman could hardly be hiding the Emperor under her skirts,” Marchand chided the soldier. “Away with you.”
Convinced she could pose no threat to his imperial charge, the soldier grumbled off into the night.
Fanny smiled at Marchand. “Thank you so much.” She slipped her hand over his arm. “Shall we?”
By the time Marchand left her at the door, Fanny could hardly stand. She dismissed the lady-servant with a wave and locked herself in her bedroom. Henri often stayed at Longwood, taking the Emperor’s dictation and notes long into the night.
Fanny secured the jar in her trunk at the foot of her bed, buried beneath unused baby blankets. Then she stripped her drenched clothes off, tossing them in a pile. As she reached her undergarments, a shiver went through her.
They were stained with blood.
The doctors had told her to rest, to not exert herself. But this was important. If the child could be saved, it would be worth it. She cleaned herself up as best she could and crawled into her bed. By the time she fell asleep, a thin dawn pushed through the storm, promising a beautiful day.
Napoleon was dying. Nothing could stop it, not now. For weeks he had been vomiting blood, splattering bile. Fanny sat at his bedside, reading his memoirs back to him for corrections, while four-year-old Arthur played with blocks on the plush carpet. The room stank of vomit and sweat and the orange-blossom wine he’d insisted on drinking even though he vomited most of it up.
The Emperor lay on his camp bed in the center of the room, the green tenting deepening the shadows cast by his gaunt features. His eyes were two gates to Hell, dark hollows beneath a smoldering gaze. Muted sunlight from tall windows, filtered through the mist that surrounded Longwood House, stretched across the narrow chamber toward the dark fireplace.
He was feverish, sitting up against his pillows and spitting sc
arlet and pale yellow wet onto his dressing gown. He pushed back his blanket, his eyes wild. A series of hiccups wracked his body, and he vomited into a silver bucket.
Fanny stood, shooing Arthur from the room. “Fetch Doctor Antommarchi.” Turning back, she pressed the Emperor gently to his pillows and pulled his wool blanket up to his shoulders. Such a powerful man, brought so low.
Fanny made soothing noises and, taking a cool cloth from a bucket next to the bed, dabbed at the Emperor’s face. “You will live on. The woman with the gold watch promised me it would be so.”
“Live on? I am dying. At least the pain will end. I wish I could see the King of Rome one last time. My son, my son. Damn the English.” He fell into muttering, tossing his head on the pillow. His eyes fluttered open and shut in the thin sunlight.
Fanny frowned. Did he want to live on? She thought of Henri, who had devoted his life to the service of the Emperor. Then she recalled the tens of thousands of men who had died, scattered across Europe in the endless Coalition Wars. Her hand found the bump beneath her skirt, another life clinging to the precipice. Did the good of Napoleon outweigh so much death?
She thought back to the moment in Jamestown when the woman with the gold watch approached her. Middle-aged, tan, but beautiful in a wild way. She’d worn a red dress, cut low in the Imperial style, drawing the eye of every man in the room. Fanny had been jealous.
Taking Fanny aside, the woman leaned close to her in the corner of a salon and whispered, “I know what you want most in the world.”
Another wave of pain left Fanny gasping, and she bent in half, squeezing at the ache. So many deaths. The men who followed Napoleon—and his enemies—chose their fates, knew the dangers. What choice did her little baby have?
No, Fanny couldn’t forget the whispers of the woman, her knowledge of Fanny’s pain and hopes, and that pirate on the shoreline.
The Emperor had fallen asleep, fitful and tossing, hiccupping. Her eye fell on the spittle streaked with scarlet.
Before he dies.
Arthur’s call echoed, warning that Antommarchi approached. Fanny scooped the moist foulness into an empty teacup, wrapped it in a kerchief, and tucked it into a pocket. Antommarchi and Marchand hurried into the room.
Antommarchi scarcely nodded to her, hurrying to the bedside of the Emperor. Before long, the room was crowded. Henri stood staring down at the man who had controlled his destiny. Arthur had his little hand on the camp bed, his face confused. Hortense—Fanny’s only daughter—had buried her face in Fanny’s lap—from grief or discomfort at the sight. The British doctors, too, were silent and contemplative, crowding around the death bed. Fanny’s heart raced.
The Emperor mumbled, Antommarchi and Marchand leaned close, and then Napoleon exhaled with a crackling sigh.
The Emperor was dead.
His skin, yellow and thin, sagged in slack wrinkles over his face. Fanny did not grieve for the man. She had never quite forgiven him for trusting the British and dragging her family to this speck in the Atlantic. He had ravaged Europe for a decade and more, accomplished great things, and failed spectacularly. Few lived a life as full as he had in a mere fifteen years. More, he had a chance at immortality.
No, she did not grieve. It did not matter what Napoleon intended, Fanny decided. The fate of the world was not her concern. Napoleon could stay dead or live on forever. She could not bear the loss of another baby, not again.
Fanny stroked Hortense’s hair, chewing her lip. When would the mask be made? And how could she slip away to send her signal?
Henri straightened. To Marchand he said, “Louis, have him cleaned tonight. Doctors, you will perform the autopsy tomorrow.”
Antommarchi grunted. “I will be ready.”
Fanny smiled at the reaction of the British and French. They were educated men, powerful in their own ways, but Henri’s battlefield-trained voice had them shuffling away in moments. She stood, smoothing her gown. “Hortense, take your brother home.”
Henri came around the bed and squeezed her hand.
She smiled up at him. “I am sorry. He was a great man.”
Henri’s jaw tightened, the only outward showing of his pain. “The greatest.”
“Go, do what needs doing.”
As soon as Henri left, Fanny slipped through Longwood House. Noise seemed inappropriate so she stepped lightly and opened doors with care. She hurried home to secure the blood in the mixture locked in her chest. Napoleon had lived the past six years trapped on Saint Helena, and now his ghost was trapped as well.
Fanny would free him, whether it had been his wish or not.
Two days later, Fanny paced in front of Longwood House. Hidden in the folds of her skirt was the glass jar of promise. Her loins ached and there had been more blood that morning. The fog surrounding Longwood had dissipated for once, and the sun beat down. Today, Antommarchi and the British doctor, Burton, would make the mask.
Antommarchi strolled up the path toward her. “Good morning, Madame Bertrand. You’re out early.”
She smiled into the warming sun, searching for a glow of hope within. “Enjoying the weather. Longwood is often so gloomy, especially lately.”
“Sad times, indeed. Excuse me, I have work to complete.”
“Oh, let me help you.”
“Shouldn’t you be resting? The strain of the past few days, your ordeal …”
Fanny shook her head. He didn’t need to know that the bleeding had returned, that she felt weak and dizzy, or that the pain in her body squeezed and flashed with heat when she moved. “I am fine. It is good to stay busy.”
He grunted. “Very well.”
She followed him into the house. Napoleon’s body lay under a sheet on planks in the front room. Fanny averted her gaze, afraid to see cuts or other evidence of the grim autopsy work done the day before.
Antommarchi poured the plaster powder into a large metal pot. “Can you fetch a servant to bring water?”
That would not do at all. She stepped forward, taking up the wooden spoon he’d brought to mix with and settling on a stool in front of him. “Perhaps you could fetch the water?”
He scowled at her but left. As soon as he quit the room she drew out the jar. Fingers trembling, she struggled to unscrew the lid. Finally it came free. She mounded the white powder over the glittering, pungent mass and had barely resettled to her seat when Antommarchi and Burton returned, followed by a servant carrying a large pitcher.
Fanny stood, blocking the pot so Antommarchi would have to shove her out of the way to stir. His jaw shifted, but he stepped to the side. “Pour the water in slowly. Madame Betrand, please stir with broad strokes to break up any clumps.”
The mixture had, perhaps, more flecks in it than it should have, but Antommarchi was busy arguing with Doctor Burton about the cause of Napoleon’s death and did not notice. As soon as the mixture had congealed, Fanny left. No time to spare, she had to get to the shore. She grabbed a lantern from the cottage and ran down the path next to Longwood.
Fanny picked up her skirts and trekked east toward the shoreline. The ground was damp, of course, and she slipped down the densely wooded paths toward the stony shore. Cabbage trees and dwarf ebony scattered the sunlight into slivers. The flashes of brightness only worsened Fanny’s dizziness. She fell, jarring her back against an incline. The lantern bounced down the path ahead of her.
Fanny clawed her way to her feet, mud edging under her fingernails. The lantern’s glass had shattered, but the candle within was intact. Although a ship could hardly see a candle from a distance, the pirate had said to light the flame. As long as she could get it alight in the wind on the coast, it would work.
Finally, the sun high overhead and the sea air whipping at her muddied skirts and her cheeks, she reached the shoreline. After three tries with her flint, the candle caught. Gasping, weak, she stumbled to the edge of the rocks, swung the lantern in three arcs, and tossed it into the sea.
Fanny turned, looking up at the hills of Sain
t Helena and her long walk back to Longwood—where she had yet to steal the mask. So far to go. She gritted her teeth, determined to believe. It would work, it must work. She had to go on. She took a step. Pain radiated out from her middle, and her vision closed in. The world went dark.
Fanny awoke in her bed. Henri stood to one side, staring out the window. The echo of children playing thrummed through the closed door. A slant of light came through the blinds from the evening sun.
“Henri? What happened?” Her hands clenched at the too-small bump beneath the sheets. “The baby?”
He turned, his face drawn. “Oh, praise be. I worried you would not wake.” He crossed and sat next to her on the mattress. “The bleeding has slowed. When I could not find you midday, a search was formed.” He sighed. “Why didn’t you tell me you were ill?”
“You had enough to concern you with the Emperor’s illness. I will be fine.”
“The doctors told you to rest, they warned you. I could not bear to lose you, not now.”
“Nor I you.” She smiled into his eyes. When they’d married, she had seen him as old, boring, and plain. Yet Henri was a perfect match for her fiery temper and determined will. “I am sorry to have worried you.”
He cleared his throat. “Doctor Antommarchi is almost finished at Longwood. He will then come to see you again.”
Fanny sighed. “What can he tell me that I do not already know? Rest.” She rolled her eyes. “And recover.”
“The King will grant my pardon. We will leave for London, and you will finally be free of Saint Helena.”
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