The Gypsy King (38 page)

Then she saw it.

Directly ahead, beyond the trees, was a narrow cliff top—and far below it, the sparkling blue waters of the sea.

The out-of-control beast beneath Persephone did not see the edge of the cliff, did not understand what it meant
or did not care. Covered with sweaty foam and breathing raggedly, it continued to gallop as hard as it could.

There was nothing Persephone could do. She couldn't make the horse stop and she couldn't get free of it.

They were going over.

And with the fleeting thought that she'd never imagined it would end this way, Persephone twined her fingers deeper in the horse's mane, hunkered down and prepared to die.

THIRTY

A
LL AT ONCE, a fearsome, filthy, four-legged creature with bared teeth and matted fur leapt out of the trees. With a wet snarl, it planted itself directly in the path of the horse's deadly, pounding hooves.

“Cur!” screamed Persephone, her heart bursting with terror and joy.

The deranged horse emitted a shrill squeal, swerved to the left and continued to gallop hard, dangerously close to the crumbling edge of the cliff top. Far below, jagged rocks and a pounding surf promised death to the unlucky, but Persephone was not afraid, for she had never felt luckier in her life. Narrowing her eyes against the biting wind, she tossed her wild, dark hair out of her face and laughed aloud with the happy knowledge that Cur had come back to her.

Abruptly—and possibly inspired by the fact that Cur was hot on his heels—the horse veered away from the edge of the cliff and plunged back into the thicket. There, it thrashed about wildly for some time before finally
slowing to a plodding walk and making its way back to the open parkland on the other side. Beyond the trees at last, Persephone was surprised (and extremely relieved) to see that they'd somehow backtracked nearly the entire distance the hunting party had covered that morning and that the palace gates were close at hand.

“This way,” she commanded, trying to lead the horse to a nearby path.

Ignoring her completely, it ploughed through a patch of thorny brambles that further shredded the hem of her once-beautiful gown. It then clip-clopped over the drawbridge, through the watchtower passageway and past the open-mouthed, staring guards.

“This way,” Persephone commanded again, trying to lead it to the royal stables.

Again ignoring her completely, it turned in the opposite direction, toward the immaculately trimmed hedge that encircled the vast royal garden. Upon reaching it, the horse stood patiently waiting for Persephone to work her boot out of the stirrup, and as soon as she'd done so, it tossed her over the hedge and wandered away.

As luck would have it, Persephone landed unhurt in a thick bed of fragrant white lilies. The next moment, Cur (who'd crawled beneath the hedge) was upon her, licking her face and wriggling like a puppy. Hugging him close without a care for who might see, Persephone stroked his matted fur, scratched his smelly ears and thanked him profusely for saving her life.

Then, feeling more like herself than she had in days, she stood up, shook out the tattered skirts of her destroyed
gown, ran her fingers through her horribly tangled hair, pinched the cheeks of her branch-whipped, mud-splattered face and began searching for a way out of the deserted garden. Since the hedge over which she'd arrived was impassable (unless she wanted to wriggle beneath it on her belly, which she did not), she turned and followed the path that lay before her.

The carefully tended flower beds on either side of the path were filled with exotic blooms, and trees dripping with ivy provided perches for a host of vividly plumed little songbirds. Bushes cunningly shaped into porpoises and sea turtles and mermaids overlooked tiny bridges spanning ponds inhabited by emerald-green frogs and little darting fish whose rainbow scales flashed in the sunlight.

Persephone was enchanted. Deeper and deeper into the garden she strolled with Cur, her purpose entirely forgotten in her delight at the thought of what might be waiting for her around the next bend in the path.

Then she rounded a bend and saw a sight that not only stopped her dead in her tracks but very nearly caused her heart to stop beating as well.

It was Ivan! Her Ivan—dear, brave, funny Ivan! And he was
alive
!

Alive—but tethered and perched on the arm of a tall, dark-haired man. She could not see the man's face, for his back was turned to her, but she could clearly see that he was trying to command Ivan to do something that he did not want to do.

Incensed at the sight of her proud friend alive but
enslaved, Persephone all but flew at the man, who was as yet blissfully unaware of her presence.

“In the name of the Regent Mordecai I order you to let that creature alone
this instant
!” she shouted recklessly and so loudly that she badly startled Ivan, who responded by pecking the man hard in the side of the head. “Are you such a beast that you cannot find other amusements for yourself but that you must torment the poor thing?” continued Persephone, as the man grunted and hopped about in obvious pain. “Can you not see that he is wounded and suffering? Is it not obvious from his bearing that he is not meant for such sport in any event? Stop your tiresome theatrics and show yourself, sir, that I may know what low manner of person has offended me so!”

At this, the man—whose head appeared to be bleeding rather badly—began to laugh so hard that he drove himself into a coughing fit. When it finally subsided, he bravely turned to face Persephone and her wrath.

Luckily for him, her wrath evaporated the instant she laid eyes upon him. About as tall and as old as Azriel, and with eyes nearly as blue, there was something strangely compelling about him—something that made Persephone think she should know him.

“I am the king,” he said helpfully, after a moment.

Mortified to the point of horror, Persephone gasped, clapped one hand over her mouth and dropped into a curtsey so low that her legs promptly gave way beneath her.

With Ivan still perched on one carefully outstretched arm, the smiling young king reached out his free hand
to help her up. Cur—who was watching from nearby— growled softly.

“Your Majesty!” squeaked Persephone as she staggered to her feet. “I apologize for—”

“Calling me a beast?” he suggested. “Chastising me for my ‘tiresome theatrics'? Causing my new bird to peck me in the head?”

Persephone felt herself blush. “I am
terribly
sorry about all of those things, Your Majesty,” she mumbled. “It's just that … well.…”

“Yes?” said the king, leaning closer.

Looking up into his blue eyes, Persephone felt a sudden desire to touch his cheek. “Forgive me,” she murmured, tucking her hands behind her back, “but you really ought not to use this particular bird for hunting.”

King Finnius gaped at her. “You run at me in my own garden—unkempt, unchaperoned, in the company of a flea-bitten mongrel, and now—knowing that I am your king
—
you
still
seek to correct me?” he said incredulously. “Madam, who
are
you?”

Lifting her chin, Persephone made a fine show of smoothing her filthy, shredded skirts and plumping up her tangled hair. “I am Lady Bothwell of the Ragorian Prefecture,” she said with great dignity. “Some weeks past, my dear husband gave his blessing that I might travel to Parthania. There were troubles along the way that I do not wish to dwell upon. This morning, I joined a noble hunting party. For reasons unknown, this ‘flea-bitten mongrel' saved my life when the horse I borrowed from Your Majesty's stables went berserk and tried to kill me.”

The king's blue eyes widened at this. “Was this horse you speak of a mare?” he asked, punctuating his inquiry with the touch of his hand to her elbow. “Was she large, black, disagreeable and deaf?”

“Yes,” said Persephone, who rather enjoyed the warmth of his touch. “She was also deranged.”

The king nodded as though this confirmed his suspicions. “Her name is Lucifer,” he said.

“That is a boy's name,” said Persephone.

“And yet it suits her remarkably well,” said the king. “I have never warmed to her, myself, and had left orders that none should ride her. Rest assured that I shall find out from my Master of Horse how she came to be saddled for you—and that I shall
personally
see to it that Lucifer receives a stern lecture on the subject of her behaviour.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” smiled Persephone, thoroughly charmed by the image of this richly dressed young monarch perched atop a weathered milking stool delivering a fiery harangue to a deaf horse.

The king smiled too. “Now, tell me how you knew that my ‘early birthday surprise' was wounded,” he said, “for I would hardly have known it myself if Lord Atticus hadn't told me so when he gave it to me.”

For a moment, Persephone just gaped at him, cursing herself for a fool. “O-oh,” she finally stammered. “Well, uh, I suppose there was just something about the way he was perched upon your arm. You know, as if … as if there was something wrong with him.”

“There is something wrong with him, all right, and it is that he has a poor attitude,” said the king, surreptitiously
coughing in the sleeve of his doublet. “Why else would a trained hunting hawk wilfully ignore such a fine meal in plain sight?” he asked, gesturing to the dead chick that lay on the ground not far from where Cur was sunning himself.

“Perhaps he is so well trained that he disdains having his meals served to him,” suggested Persephone. “Or … perhaps he has been brought so low by his tether that he cannot bring himself to eat. Perhaps you would have more luck with him if—”

“I removed the tether?”

Persephone nodded.

“You do not like the idea that this creature should be my captive,” observed the king shrewdly.

“I do not,” admitted Persephone, with feeling. “Some creatures were meant to be free, Your Majesty, and I think he is one of them.”

King Finnius looked at her for a long moment. Then he looked at Ivan. Then, wordlessly—and with infinite gentleness—he unlaced the tether that bound Ivan's leg. Ivan blinked several times, screamed once at Persephone, then exploded into the air with such force that it would, indeed, have been impossible to guess that his wing had been pierced mere days earlier.

As Ivan flew off with an air of great purpose, there came the sound of someone bellowing the name of “Lady Bothwell.” As one, Persephone and the king looked around to see Azriel sprinting around the corner of the nearby palace turret. Upon spotting Persephone, he raced toward her—eschewing the path in favour of nimbly leaping over
ponds, hedges and flower beds that he might reach her the sooner.

Skidding to a halt before her, Azriel was so obviously relieved to find her safe that for one heart-stopping moment Persephone thought he might sweep her into his arms and crush her against him as he'd done the previous night. Then he noticed her companion and, recognizing him as the king, quickly swept him a low bow.

“Pardon, Your Majesty,” he panted, studiously ignoring Cur, who'd begun growling in earnest at the sight of him, “but when your Master of Horse sent word to my lady's chambers that her mount had returned to the stables by way of the garden—and that she had not returned with it—I feared the worst and came looking for her at once.”

“You are a most devoted slave,” said the king approvingly.

“His name is Azriel and he is a eunuch,” said Persephone, for sheer devilment.

“Really!” said the king, who seemed much pleased by this news. “Well, you needn't have worried, Azriel,” he said. “Lady Bothwell
did
have a rather harrowing experience with a horse of ill repute but I have assured her that I am going to deal with the brute in a manner she won't soon forget.”

He and Persephone shared a private laugh at this. Azriel watched them laugh with the expression of one who'd just swallowed a bug.

Then he let out an ear-splitting shriek as Ivan swooped down and dropped a dead rat on his head.

“Ha!” cried the king excitedly, his blue eyes shining with delight. “Look what my hawk has brought me!”

“Congratulations, Sire,” said Persephone, smothering a smile at the sight of Azriel's own blue eyes bulging in outrage.

The king hunkered down to get a closer look at his prize. “Of course,” he said, wrinkling his nose slightly, “black rats are not
precisely
the kind of game one hopes to bring down with a hawk, and one prefers to have the kill delivered directly to oneself, but
still
. It is a remarkable start, and I have you to thank for it, Lady Bothwell, for it was you who saw that this creature was meant to be free.”

Persephone's heart swelled at his words and at the sudden realization that she—a slave born and bred, an emptier of chamber pots!—was standing in the beautiful garden of the imperial palace listening to the king himself thank her for her advice on the subject of freedom.