The Gypsy King (23 page)

Azriel rolled his eyes. Then he, Tiny and Fayla bade farewell to Cairn and the other Gypsies, who responded with heartfelt cries of goodbye and good luck.

“And good luck to you,” said Cairn as she watched Persephone peel Sabian's chubby little arms from around her legs. “I shall look forward to our next meeting.”

If good luck is with me, you shall never see me again
, thought Persephone.

But, of course, she didn't say this. Instead, she murmured something to Cairn about sharing her sentiment, whistled for Cur and followed Azriel and the others into the darkness of the tunnel.

SIXTEEN

T
HAT FIRST DAY of the journey, Azriel set such a pace that by the time they finally stopped for the night, Persephone was almost indecently excited by the thought of a few bites of hot food and some much-needed rest. Most unhappily, before they could even pluck the two fat grouse that Fayla had brought down with her bow, it started to rain.

“Oh,
no
,” groaned Persephone as the light sprinkling rapidly gave way to a torrential downpour.

With a cry of dismay, Azriel shouted for them all to run for the shelter of a nearby rocky overhang. Though Persephone was fairly certain that Fleet was not included in the “all,” he insisted upon joining them anyway. Unfortunately, his steaming bulk took up most of the shelter provided by the overhang, so his human companions were reduced to crowding around him while they supped on strips of dried meat, soggy cheese and biscuits hard enough to crack teeth. After washing down their meagre meal with a few sips of tepid water from their water skins,
they huddled together waiting for the chill rain to ease up so that they could lay out their bedrolls with some hope of not having them instantly drenched.

“This reminds me of the night afore we found Azriel,” said Tiny gruffly.

“
Found
Azriel?” said Rachel in surprise.

“That's right,” said Tiny. “Found him huddled at the edge of our cook-fire pit. A well-fed, comely lad of about seven years, he was dressed better than an Erok lowborn but not as well as a nobleman. He was mute for the first year or so, and once he started talking he couldn't tell us a single thing about himself. It was as though he hadn't even existed before that morning we found him! Isn't that right, Azriel?”

“That's right, Tiny,” agreed Azriel impassively as he stared out into the darkness.

Persephone—who'd long believed that memories were the only things that
couldn't
be stolen away—felt an unexpected rush of sympathy for Azriel. Reaching out, she laid a hand on his arm. As she did so, something occurred to her. “But if you don't know who you are or where you came from,” she said, “how do you know you're a Gypsy?”

At her words, Tiny gasped and began choking on a sip of whatever it was he'd been sneaking from his hip flask, and Fayla threw Persephone a cold look.

“He has the look of one, and whoever left him knew how to find us,” said the beautiful Gypsy girl. “And even if it weren't for those things, he came to us as a child, was adopted and willingly received the mark as a man and that's the same as blood to us.”

Stung by Fayla's rebuke and feeling as though she owed Azriel something for having questioned whether he really belonged among the only people he'd ever known, Persephone mumbled, “Well, uh, as it happens I don't really know who I am or where I came from, either. I lived in a manor house near the slave markets of Wickendale until five summers past when my master lost me in a game of dice.”

“A game of dice?” said Azriel softly, turning his gaze upon her.

Looking up at him, Persephone nodded. “He lost me to a tavern owner who insisted upon collecting payment that very same night. I … did not go quietly,” she faltered.

“So the ‘true owner' you spoke of was a tavern owner,” murmured Azriel.

“No,” Persephone told him. “The tavern owner sold me after just six months. Well, he gave me away, actually. To the man I stabbed.”

“Oh, Persephone, you
stabbed
a man?” squeaked Rachel, her eyes wide and her breath a frosty cloud.

Having forgotten that there were others listening besides Azriel, Persephone started at the sound of Rachel's voice. “I only stabbed his hand,” she clarified as she hugged herself for warmth, “and only after he tried to stick it up my skirt.”

“So the ‘true owner' you spoke of was
this
disgusting beast,” growled Azriel.

“No,” she replied. Now it was her turn to stare out into the darkness. “The man I stabbed sold me to an overseer at the Mines of Torodania. I was locked in one
of the restricted sections of the mine. The other children and I were not allowed aboveground at all, and we were only given food and water if we delivered our quota of gemstones. Many were unable to do so, of course. Some of them died and rotted where they fell, while others grew feral. They were vicious and they would eat … anything.” She looked down at her hands. “They ate my only friend.”

“They
what
?” exclaimed Rachel.

Persephone smiled thinly. “F-Faust wasn't a human being, Rachel,” she explained as a sudden, violent shiver racked her body. “He was a rat.”

At the memory of the clever creature who'd kept her from descending into madness in the mines, Persephone's throat closed up without warning. As though sensing how close she was to tears, Azriel chose that moment to announce that he thought the rain had eased up enough for them to unpack their bedrolls. Giving him a quick, grateful smile, Persephone hurriedly fetched hers, curled up next to Rachel on the cold, soggy ground, closed her eyes and tried to stop remembering—and shivering. Moments later, she felt someone tucking something heavy firmly about the two of them.

Her eyes popped open at once. “A-Azriel?” she whispered through chattering teeth. “What is this? Is this your cloak?”

“Yes,” he whispered.

“I c-can't let you give us your cloak,” she protested. “You'll freeze to death!”

“If you're sincerely worried, perhaps I could slip in there next to you,” he suggested as Rachel stifled a giggle.
“As you, yourself, have noted in the past, Persephone, I
am
rather hot, and I'm quite sure that our combined body heat would—”

“On s-second thought, it is exceedingly unlikely that you'll freeze to
death
without y-your cloak,” interrupted Persephone, who was feeling warmer already. “But I thank you for your generous offer.”

“You are most welcome,” murmured Azriel as he reached down to brush a lock of hair off her cheek.

Without meaning to, Persephone smiled at the touch of his hand. Then she yawned hugely, snuggled closer to Rachel and fell asleep at once.

Over the next three days Azriel set an even more punishing pace than he had on the first day. But if the going was hard, it was uneventful—they were not set upon by bandits, and though the tranquility of the days was occasionally disrupted by Persephone's animals, even Fayla had to laugh at the sight of Azriel cursing and shoving his broad shoulder against Fleet's rump in an effort to get the traumatized horse to ford even the shallowest of streams.

The only downside to their uneventful travels was the fact that there hadn't been a single moment of distraction in which Persephone could try to convince Rachel to run away with her. This was doubly troubling as she had a bad feeling about what lay ahead. She knew that the actual rescue of the orphan would be fraught with danger, of course, but it was more than this. Something deep inside
her told her that things were about to go very wrong, very soon—and that she and Rachel would best be gone by the time they did.

As she gnawed on some cold roast venison on the morning of the fifth day, Persephone was so wrapped up in trying to figure out a solution to the problem of escape that it took her a moment to realize that everyone but Azriel had left the campsite and that he was perched on a nearby rock eyeing her speculatively.

“What are you looking at?” she asked as she tossed her half-eaten breakfast to Cur and self-consciously wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

“You,” he said. “I am looking at you, and I am wondering why you want to leave us.”

Persephone stared into his very blue eyes for a long moment before deciding that there was no point lying to him. “It is not so much that I want to leave you,” she explained. “It is that I want freedom—for me and for Rachel.”

“Is that what Rachel wants?” asked Azriel.

When Persephone didn't reply, Azriel nodded. Then he reached into the pocket of his breeches and withdrew the key to her discarded fetters. “You forget that I am a Gypsy,” he said, waving it at her, “and that according to the Regent's laws, I haven't the right to own goats, much less slaves.”

“So what are you saying? That I am already free?”

Azriel shrugged and slipped the key back into his pocket. Persephone felt a pang as she watched the bitter symbol of her enslavement disappear, and she stared
after it yearningly until it dawned on her that Azriel probably thought she was staring at his crotch.

Jerking her gaze upward, she scowled at his smile, tossed her head and said, “You imply that I am free, but I would point out to you that freedom isn't freedom if it doesn't include the freedom to refuse to join somebody else's outrageous quest.”

“And what if the quest is not so outrageous?” said Azriel. “Has it ever occurred to you, Persephone, that the child we are trying to rescue might
be
the Gypsy King?”

“Even supposing that he is—and even supposing that you manage to rescue him—how, exactly, do you intend to supplant the Erok king?”

“Who says Finnius is even the rightful king?” said Azriel. “Some people say the true prince was born dead and that Mordecai arranged for a changeling to be placed in the royal cradle in order to preserve the power of the regency. Others say the true prince was born alive and that Mordecai had him strangled so that he could secretly put his own newborn son in the cradle. Still others say there never was a true prince at all—that the Regent somehow forced the queen to fake a pregnancy so he could hoodwink the old king into handing over power.”

“Rumours,” said Persephone.

“It is a fact that all who attended the birth—including the queen herself—died or disappeared before they had a chance to discuss the details of it with anyone,” said Azriel. “You are a great fan of coincidences, Persephone. Does that sound like a coincidence to you?” When she didn't answer,
he got to his feet, took two steps and sank to his knees before her. Ignoring her gasp, he reached for her hand and pressed it against his beating heart. “All I'm asking, Persephone, is that you consider the possibility that things aren't always what they seem. Our quest seems outrageous to you now; give us a chance to prove that it is not.”

“And … if I refuse?” she breathed as she tried not to notice the firm contours of his chest muscles beneath her fingertips.

Without releasing her captive hand, Azriel placed his free hand high upon her thigh and slowly leaned so close that he could have kissed her without leaning closer. “Wherever you go, whatever you do, you will ever feel my eyes upon you,” he whispered. “A path stretches out before us, Persephone, and we will walk it together, whether you like it or not.” Then, before she could even begin to think of a response, he smiled, gave her thigh a pat and said, “Now, be a good girl and go help Rachel dress Fayla in her gown and other things, will you? We'll be travelling through heavily settled country today, and if all goes well, we'll reach Parthania by nightfall.”