“But if her brother, the king, is truly dead—”
“Then the need for us to proceed with caution and wisdom is all the greater.”
“But I made a vow—”
“To protect her with your life,” snapped Rachel, her own fear for Persephone rearing up without warning, “not to make her a seventeen-year-old widow by embarking upon a foolhardy suicide mission that has absolutely no chance of seeing her rescued!”
At Rachel’s uncharacteristically sharp tone, Azriel’s broad shoulders sagged and the wild look in his eyes slowly turned to one of bleakest despair.
“You’re right,” he murmured, wincing as he palpated a particularly long cut on his arm. “We need to proceed with caution and wisdom. We need to figure out who took her and where they have taken her and then we need to come up with a plan to rescue her. And we need to do so quickly, for I fear … I fear she is much weakened by the mysterious illness that has plagued her o’er these last weeks.”
“Illness?” said Rachel, hoping she sounded perplexed.
Eyes crinkling in a painful parody of amusement, Azriel said, “Do not attempt to play the fool, Rachel—you’re not very good at it, and it doesn’t become you, anyway. You know exactly what I’m talking about.”
Rachel opened her mouth to dispute this but closed it again at once. Because the truth was that she did know what he was talking about. It was him who didn’t know what he was talking about. And though she didn’t like the thought of telling Persephone’s secret, and though she didn’t like to give Azriel more cause to judge himself harshly, she liked even less the idea of letting him torture himself with thoughts that on top of everything else, his beloved wife was slowly succumbing to some mysterious illness.
So, offering up a quick prayer to the gods that she was doing the right thing, Rachel took a deep breath and said, “Persephone isn’t ill, Azriel.”
“Don’t lie to me,” he flared, jabbing his finger at her with such vehemence that Zdeno calmly but deliberately reached out and pushed his hand aside. “There’s been something wrong with her ever since we left the Island of Ru and maybe even before that. I didn’t say anything because I knew she’d only deny it, but I have eyes, Rachel. I know what I saw! The unnatural exhaustion, the nausea, the bloating—I’ve been half-sick myself with worry. And now she’s gone and who knows how she’s being treated and—”
“Persephone isn’t ill, Azriel,” repeated Rachel, who cringed only slightly before adding, “she’s pregnant.”
FOUR
FROM HER SPOT high upon the crates, Persephone held her breath as she watched the two pairs of black boots descend into the rat-infested hold.
To her surprise, she recognized the men who wore the boots. They were the same New Men who’d delivered a battered Azriel to her palace chambers following the dreadful feast held in celebration of the execution of poor Lord Pembleton’s son. On that long-ago night, Persephone had sent the two of them scurrying with a frosty bearing and the threat of the Regent’s displeasure.
She highly doubted that such tactics would work this time, particularly given that Mordecai had almost certainly given the order to kidnap her.
As she was trying to figure out what tactics would work, the New Man who looked like a Latin tutor lifted the grimy lantern in his hand higher.
“Where is she?” he asked in a voice that sounded more puzzled than alarmed.
“Don’t know,” muttered the other one, snatching the lantern from him. The wiry chest hair that spilled from the open collar of his limp, pit-stained shirt looked like a bushy black beard that had mistakenly attached itself to his chest instead of his face.
“We left her on the floor, right there by those crates,” reminded Tutor, pointing to the crates upon which Persephone was crouched.
“I know where we left her!” exploded Hairy, rounding on him. “I also know that I said we ought to bind her wrists and ankles and gag her. You said binding her wrists would be sufficient. You said she’d not regain consciousness until we were well underway.”
“I didn’t say she’d not regain consciousness,” corrected Tutor mildly. “I said I didn’t think she’d regain consciousness. And I never said that binding her wrists would be sufficient. I said that I saw no need to bind her ankles because there was nowhere for her to run and that I was reluctant to gag her for fear that if she started retching she’d choke to death on her own vomit.”
A pleasant notion, thought Persephone, grimacing.
“Ye gods, I shudder to think what will happen to us if she has escaped,” whined Hairy.
Smiling so benignly it was easy to forget that he’d sworn an oath to kidnap, rape and butcher on command, Tutor said, “She cannot possibly have escaped. There is no way out of the hold but one, and we’ve had two guards posted there since the moment we carried her down here. If she’s not where we left her, she must be hiding somewhere.”
Visibly relieved by this logic, Hairy undertook a thorough exploration of the hold. He looked behind every barrel, bale and crate. He looked into every nook and cranny. Then he happened to look up and see Persephone perched on top of the crate like an avenging angel about to deliver a message from unhappy gods.
After letting out a yelp of surprise, he demanded to know how she’d gotten up there.
“I flew,” she replied, striving to sound scornful in spite of her madly beating heart.
“You did not fly,” retorted Hairy.
“I did too,” insisted Persephone, who could think of nothing cleverer to say.
Looking a little nonplussed, Hairy turned to his comrade as though seeking his opinion.
“I’m almost certain she didn’t fly—” began Tutor in a low voice.
“Oh, for gods’ sakes, I know she didn’t fly,” snarled Hairy, shoving the lantern at him. Turning back to Persephone, he jammed his hairy hands on his hips and said, “We’ve orders to take you aft.”
“So?” said Persephone, lifting her chin.
Hairy scowled. “So you must come down from there at once.”
Persephone was about to tell him no when, without warning, a monstrous rogue wave smashed against the ship’s starboard side, causing the ship to list so sharply that Hairy and Tutor were thrown backward. All over the hold, cargo went tumbling. Though the crate beneath Persephone didn’t crash to the floor, it did lurch sickeningly, pitching her forward. She braced herself for a hard landing.
Instead, she had the dubious luck to land directly on top of Hairy.
Gagging at the reek of the bushy chest hair in which she suddenly found her face buried, Persephone rolled off the flailing New Man at once. Staggering to her feet as best she could with her wrists yet bound, she made a dash for the open hatch. She had no idea what she’d do if she made it up the ladder, but if life as a slave had taught her to assume that the unknown was a place of deprivation and hardship, it had also taught her that if one was quick, resourceful and just the tiniest bit lucky, solutions often presented themselves.
Unfortunately, before she’d gone even three steps, Tutor—who’d somehow managed to stay on his feet the whole time—grabbed hold of her biceps with his free hand. Instead of struggling against his grip as most girls would have done, Persephone drove her body backward in the hope that the unexpected blow would throw Tutor off-balance, thus giving her a chance to shake free of him.
Her plan half-worked. Tutor was thrown off-balance— enough to come within a hair’s breadth of smashing the lantern against a rather flammable-looking wooden barrel—but not enough to loosen his grip on Persephone’s biceps.
“Let go of me,” she grunted, as Hairy—who’d since lumbered to his feet—took hold of her other arm.
They did not let go of her. Instead, they dragged her up out of the ship’s hold. Mercifully, they did not immediately drag her off to face Mordecai as she’d feared they would. Nor did they fling her overboard—a treatment she’d received on a prior sea voyage and had not cared for in the least.
Instead, th
ey hustled her across the deck, through an archway and down six steep stairs. At the bottom of the stairs, Tutor flung open a door, and Hairy produced a nasty-looking blade. Jerking Persephone around, he used it to slice through the ropes that bound her wrists. Then he shoved her into the lantern-lit cabin and slammed and locked the door behind her.
Persephone warily surveyed her new accommodations. The cabin was tiny but the air was fresh on account of the open window. The bedsheets looked coarse but reasonably clean. The table was small and heavily scarred, but it was set with an empty mug, a jug of drink and a platter heaping with meat and bread.
Striding over to the window, Persephone grabbed the splintery sill and peered out. A twilight horizon empty of anything but water and sky informed her that however loud she might scream now, there was no one to hear her, and that even if she somehow managed to escape, there was nowhere to go.
Mutinously thinking that this was probably the reason they’d let her out of the hold, Persephone sat down on the edge of the narrow bunk, poured herself a mug of ale and drank deeply of it. Then, mindful of the need to keep up her strength, she picked up a piece of meat and gingerly placed it in her mouth. Unfortunately, the meat turned out to be mostly fat and gristle, and after chewing it for several minutes, Persephone’s already-queasy stomach gurgled and turned over.
Hastily spitting out the meat, Persephone felt a familiar flutter of panic as she suddenly realized that it wouldn’t be long before her belly was gurgling for a different reason altogether. After all, most babies started moving in the fourth month, and it had been about three since she and Azriel had made love on the beach on the Island of Ru.
Though Persephone tingled every time she recalled the feeling of Azriel’s bare skin against hers, she fiercely regretted the consequences of what they’d done. When she’d missed her courses the first time, she’d put it down to inclement weather, eating too much fish and the strain of trying to find the healing pool before Mordecai murdered Finn and took over the kingdom. When she’d missed them for the second time, she’d known the real reason for it, of course, but had stubbornly refused to acknowledge it. She was not a girl who’d grown up caring for a boisterous gaggle of younger siblings and yearning for the day she’d have babies of her own. She was a girl who’d grown up knowing all the hardships and terrors it was possible for an overworked, underfed, orphan slave child to know—a girl who’d grown up yearning for nothing but freedom and a destiny that belonged to none but her.
The night Cairn had first shown Persephone the sketch of the girl who was supposedly going to help set the prophesied Gypsy King upon his throne—the girl who so resembled her and Rachel—Persephone had seen her dream of freedom without entanglements put at considerable risk. But that risk was nothing compared to the risk posed by a baby. For what was a baby but a lifelong entanglement—a crying, hungry set of fetters?
Unhappily, the knowledge that Azriel would likely be thrilled by the prospect of becoming a father brought Persephone no comfort at all. On the contrary, it made her feel guilty—just as Rachel had made her feel guilty when she’d hinted that Persephone was being irresponsible venturing into the dangerous Valley of Gorg while pregnant. If Azriel hadn’t been right there, Persephone would have shouted at Rachel that if the baby was meant to be, the Fates would keep her safe no matter what. It was a foolish notion but one that Persephone had clung to, reasoning that if she came to harm and lost the baby as a result, she’d be able to console herself with the thought that the Fates had never intended him to be born in the first place.
It wasn’t that she’d wanted to lose the baby—it was more that she’d wanted the whole situation to just … go away.
As she bit into the small loaf of dark bread, it occurred to Persephone that even if she’d been willing to imbibe a potion meant to flush a baby from the womb, it was far too late for such measures now. The only way a girl three months along could make her situation “go away” was to employ one of those filthy backstreet hags armed with the needles and knives of her gruesome trade. And one such as that was as likely to kill the mother as the baby …
Shuddering at the thought, Persephone crammed down the rest of the bread, shoved the platter to one side and pulled from her pocket the rusty key, scrap of lace, rat tail and auburn curl that she carried with her always. Besides the silver necklace that had belonged to her mother and the ruby ring that bore the seal of the Erok royal family—both gifts from Finn—these were her most prized possessions.
After carefully laying them on the table, she reached out and touched the keepsake curl with the tip of one finger. Back when she’d cut it from Azriel’s head, Persephone had believed that she’d never see the handsome rascal again or even know if he lived or died. The notion that this might yet come to pass was so unbearable that she hurriedly turned her thoughts to others she had loved. Unfortunately, this only made her feel worse. She hadn’t seen Cookie in years. She had no idea if she’d ever again see Ivan, Fleet or Cur. At best, Rachel was a fugitive on the run.
And Finn was dead.
He’d hoped she’d succeed in her quest to find the healing pool so that he might be cured of his terrible cough. The Gypsies had hoped she’d succeed so that Finn—a Gypsy by virtue of his blood connection to her and her marriage to Azriel—might live to become the embodiment of the prophecy the Gypsies had waited so long to see fulfilled.
But she had not succeeded.
Finn had died—and with him the Gypsies’ hope that he was the prophesied Gypsy King who was to end the persecution of their tribe and set things to right for all people.
All that was left was grief, regret and Persephone’s reluctant promise that she would fight for the throne that was hers by right of her birth—a promise she had scant hope of fulfilling while she remained a captive of Mordecai, a monster who would stop at nothing to seize the throne for himself.
Indeed, a quick death at his gnarled hands was probably the best she could hope for.
As she sat at the edge of her bunk listening to the waves slapping against the hull and feeling the ship rise and fall beneath her, Persephone spent a moment contemplating those she’d lost, those she might yet lose and the impossible path that stretched before her. Then she slipped her treasures back into her pocket, blew out the lantern, lay down on her side and closed her eyes. And without really thinking what she was doing, she laid her hand against her tiny belly, sighed softly and gave herself up to the sweet oblivion of sleep.
FIVE
AZRIEL SAGGED AGAINST the wall of the crumbling crypt, his blue eyes wide with shock.
“PREGNANT!” he all but shouted.
Her eyes never leaving his face, Rachel nodded anxiously, while Zdeno calmly gestured for him keep his voice down.
Wildly, Azriel scanned earth and sky as though in search of the answer to some unuttered question. Then his eyes drifted back to Rachel. “So you’re saying … you’re saying that Persephone is going to have a baby?” he spluttered.
Concerned as she was for him, Rachel could not help smiling just a bit. “Yes, Azriel,” she said. “That is what being pregnant means.”
“And you’re sure about this?” he pressed, grabbing Rachel by the shoulders and giving her a little shake. “Persephone told you she was with child—told you but not me?”
Rachel felt Zdeno tense when Azriel grabbed hold of her, so she threw him a quick, reassuring smile to let him know that she was fine. Then she looked back at Azriel and said, “You needn’t fret that she told me of her condition but did not tell you because she didn’t tell me anything. She didn’t have to. I know a pregnant girl when I see one, Azriel. Besides, the queen nearly bit my head off when I mentioned it. Why would she do that unless she was pregnant and not ready to talk about it?”
Abruptly letting go of Rachel, Azriel flung his hands up. “I don’t even know what you mean when you say ‘not ready to talk about it,’” he said harshly—but not harshly enough to mask his bewilderment, frustration, hurt and fear. “What
is there to talk about? And why would she not have been ready to do so?”
“There are many things to talk about,” replied Rachel, wondering if Azriel was being deliberately obtuse. “As for why she might not have been ready to do so, try to recall that her platter has been rather full of late, what with searching for a mythical healing pool, surviving any number of near-death experiences and trying save her brother’s life. Moreover, even at the best of times, these situations can be … complicated.”
At these words, Azriel’s breathing got deeper and slower, and he seemed to grow larger, fiercer—and wilder. “Persephone is my wedded wife, Rachel. She carries my child, and I have made a solemn vow to protect them both. There is nothing complicated about that,” he said, the intensity of his feelings coming off him in waves. “The only complication I see is that my pregnant wife has been kidnapped by unknown villains for unknown reasons to meet an unknown fate in an unknown destination!”
Stricken by the grim, almost hopeless picture he painted and unable to think of a single word of comfort to offer in response, Rachel stared at the ground and said nothing at all.
After a few moments of heavy silence, Zdeno cleared his throat and said, “So, I’ve been thinking that if we’re going to save the queen, the first thing we need to do is get out of Parthania.”
“Get out of Parthania?” echoed Rachel, feeling a rush of gratitude that he should speak so matter-of-factly of rescuing Persephone. “But … but isn’t this the best place to start looking for answers?”
“It is,” said Azriel, who likewise seemed to have been jerked back from the precipice of despair. “But though we are safe enough at the moment, you can be sure Mordecai’s soldiers are not going to stop looking for us.”
“The longer we remain in the city,” added Zdeno, “the greater the danger to us—and therefore to the queen, for we are the only ones who know she’s been kidnapped and is in need of rescuing.”
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