“Easier if you and me slip away on our own. We know how to do it. We draw Felsan after us and lose him. That way the princess and Sasha will be safe.”
“No.” Penelope had burst out of the dressing room, hastily hooking up the bodice of the old gown Petri had brought her. “I’ll not sit here in this birdcage of a palace while an assassin chases you.”
“We all go,” Damien said. “Petri, you and me, Penelope and Sasha, and Titus and Egan McDonald.”
“And Wulf,” Penelope said.
“And Wulf, since he will not leave your side. Felsan no doubt has hired several colleagues to help him, and drawing his attention would do no good if he is targeting Penelope rather than me. We all go, we slip away, and get ourselves to Nvengaria as quickly as possible.”
He spoke tightly, and Penelope knew he was worried, not only about the assassin, but about making the long journey in time. Midsummer’s Day was fast approaching; Damien had hoped to be well on the way by now.
They told only a few others of the plan. Rufus and Miles were devastated to be left behind, but they brightened when Damien told them what he wanted them to do. Under the cover of darkness, a sumptuous carriage, muffled and heavily curtained, rattled from the gates of the palace and hastily turned east, heading for the Dover road.
Petri said he saw several shadows detach themselves from the surrounding streets and follow the coach. If they caught it, they’d find Rufus and Miles inside, looking innocent and drunk.
Damien did not believe the decoy would draw Felsan for long, but it would give him and Penelope time to leave the palace and begin their journey.
Penelope wore a scarf over her golden hair and a flat hat over that. A brown gown and apron like any kitchen maid’s completed her costume. Damien wore the garb of a stable hand, loose shirt and coat, breeches, and scuffed boots.
He in no way looked odd in these clothes, though they were a far cry from his fine suits and Nvengarian prince’s regalia. She remembered his stories of how he and Petri had worked like farm laborers for years, struggling to survive, and realized he had grown up in clothes like these. He was probably more used to them than the trappings of princes and aristocrats.
Wulf dressed like an errand boy, looking the most comfortable of the lot in his shabby clothes. He clung to Penelope’s hand and stared about in wonder, rather ruining the disguise, but the people of London seemed to ignore small boys by habit.
They walked and rode in carts through Charing Cross and the Strand to the markets at Covent Garden. There, they filled baskets and sacks with food and drink, then broke from the English servants and continued quietly along the Strand toward the city, still looking like nothing more than servants running morning errands for their masters.
At the water stairs near Somerset House, Damien led them down to the Thames, where Egan waited in a small barge. He helped Penelope over the gunwale and down into the cabin that lay below the flat deck.
“I was army, not navy,” he said to Damien. “And I’m already seasick. Why am in I in charge of watercraft?”
“If anyone could procure a boat for a song, it would be you,” Damien replied.
Egan grinned, mollified. They pushed off from the stairs, Penelope peering from a gritty window in the bows as the bank of the Thames flowed by. She thought she saw a gray shadow at the top of the stairs, and she drew a breath to tell Damien.
“I saw him,” he breathed in her ear. He laced his arms around her waist, drawing him back against her. “He’s watching, but has not signaled or made to follow. Soon we will be lost in the crowd hurrying to the sea.”
She leaned against him, closing her eyes. Visions of the previous night swam through her head, his warm body pressing hers to the carpet, the tickle of wool on her back, the hot stroke of his tongue on her lips.
“You will be safe,” he murmured. “I promise I will keep you safe.”
“But will you be safe?” she asked.
“No.” He nibbled her ear. “I am the Imperial Prince of Nvengaria. I have not been safe since the day I was born, and I never will be. If I keep ahead of those trying to kill me, I think that is enough.” He smiled into her skin. “Life is exciting this way. You never live one moment without appreciating it, and every joy that comes your way is that much sweeter. You learn to savor the beauty. Like you.”
She turned in his arms and kissed him, then held him tight against her. Savoring, yes, she had learned to savor what he gave her.
It was there, in the dingy cabin smelling of old potatoes and the brackish mud of the Thames, that she first realized what she had pledged herself to do. She’d given up a peaceful life of spinsterhood in her mother’s house, writing books of folk tales in her plain hand, for a life of tumultuous love and danger. Her days had been lonely, perhaps, but filled with sweet, simple joys, the sort that Damien longed to savor.
She would give him that, she vowed to herself. She would give him sweet simplicity, a respite from his life of fear and tension, a place he could lay his head on her bosom and sleep, free of care.
She would do this for him, she thought, as she lifted her face to his and kissed him, if it took all her resources and all her strength.
“They seem to be on water,” Nedrak said. He held his scrying stone between his fingers and peered into it shortsightedly. “With sails. A ship. Hmm. The captain looks like a veritable pirate. Perhaps they have been captured.”
Alexander turned from the window. The people of the city were beginning to prepare for the Midsummer festival, which would fall on the summer solstice. The festival was usually one of the most frenzied of the year, with the exception of Yule; pagan holidays were soundly embraced in Nvengaria. Things had only now died down from the fertility festivals of May Day, which always meant a fine crop of children at New Year’s.
For Midsummer, there would be fireworks, flotillas on the river, feasting and music, and this year, Prince Damien returning with his new princess, restored from the line of Prince Augustus of old.
The Council of Dukes expected Alexander to banish the entire festival, but Alexander smiled and said it could continue as planned. “The disappointment when Prince Damien fails to arrive will be more exquisite,” he said smoothly.
The Council nodded, some pleased, some troubled.
“Your assassin seems to have let them get away,” Nedrak said.
“No, he has not,” Alexander replied. “He will hunt them until he succeeds.”
“The prophecy, Your Grace, is strong. It protects him. And her.”
“Nedrak.”
Nedrak closed his mouth as Alexander leaned over him. “No more scrying,” Alexander said. “No more magic. All your magic hasn’t done a damn thing to help me. All the fanatics have only succeeded in killing themselves. It is not magic that will solve this, it is money. I hired the very best, and he will not stop until Damien is dead.” He leaned closer. Nedrak’s eyes were wide. “All your chanting and predicting did not save Nvengaria from near ruin. It will not put it back together. I will.” Alexander struck his chest with his finger. “I will.”
“The Council of Mages…”
“The Council of Mages is a pack of fools. This is a new world, Nedrak, one of steam and rifles and fast ships. There are medicines now that keep away smallpox—think of it Nedrak, no one need die of that disease again—and ways to pump clean water to keep away the cholera. Those are ten times better than all your magic, do you not think? I watched hundreds die of smallpox while the old prince refused to let my father send for the vaccine. He believed in the chanting of his mages, and when they could not help, he had them put to death. You remember that, do you not?”
Nedrak, white-faced, nodded. “Yes, Your Grace. But perhaps Prince Damien will be amenable to new ideas.”
Alexander straightened, and Nedrak sagged against the table. “Perhaps he will, Nedrak,” he said softly. “And perhaps not. I looked into his eyes when Misk brought him back, and I saw the monster looking out. He might be filled with visi
ons of the new Nvengaria at first. He might let the pretty princess ease his mind at first. But it will not last. The monster will win out. I will never let that happen.”
Nedrak swallowed, his Adam’s apple a sharp lump in his thin throat. “But what if your assassin fails, Your Grace? What will you do then?”
Alexander actually relaxed into a smile. “It does not matter. The entire prophecy is a sham. There is no Nvengarian princess. And when the people realize that, they’ll tear him to pieces.”
They landed in France after a run across the Channel on a ship called the Majesty, owned by a pirate turned viscount. Damien seemed to be old friends with him, a man with a thick mane of golden hair who gave his name as Grayson Finley. Finley’s children, a twin boy and girl of seven and a boy of five, swarmed about deck, already competent sailors.
Another “old friend,” a swarthy-skinned gypsy this time, met them on the road from La Havre with horses for them all.
Once on horseback, they made good time under fair weather, angling across France toward the German states. English people took this journey as part of their grand tour, to study art and architecture across Europe, but Damien led Penelope and his people at a brisk clip, avoiding cities and fine estates in favor of middling sized towns and tawdry inns.
One night put them far from any town, and they slept in a loft over an enclosed stable yard, breathing the odor of pungent hay and the horses below them. Petri brought them all a bite of bread and warm stew from the farmer’s kitchen. Then they rolled into blankets and tried to sleep.
“Just like old times, sir,” Petri said as he lay down next to Damien.
“Not quite,” Damien rumbled. He put his arm around Penelope and drew her back against him, covering them with one blanket. “Life is much better now.” He kissed her hair and soon fell asleep.
Penelope had little opportunity to lie with Damien as his wife on the hurried journey. The few times they found themselves alone together—and sometimes Petri would stand against the outside of the door to keep everyone out—Damien took full advantage, quickly shrugging off his clothes and taking Penelope fast and hard on whatever surface presented itself.
But there was no more lazing in bed together, no games, no wickedness, only basic, quick lovemaking, and endless roads with the saddle hard under her backside. Wulf rode on the saddle in front of her, much to her horse’s distress, but the boy behaved himself.
They rode out of France, through Wurttemberg and into Bavaria, ever eastward, until they reached the waters of the Danube. In a little town with narrow houses pressed together into narrow streets, they traded the horses for a small watercraft and a man to guide them.
Penelope huddled in the stern of the boat as they pushed away from the banks and drifted between highcut hills, bright green with summer. It seemed as though there was a castle around each narrow bend of the river. They came in the forms of a squat, square tower of an ancient fortress, now in ruins; the stern, upright walls of a later castle with round battlements; or a lacy palace glittering with windows, the summer home of some sprig of German aristocracy. They had to stop interminable times for tolls, but Damien paid them without a word.
Penelope watched the world slide by without tiring of it. She had never been out of England, and around every corner was a new sight. Wulf gazed about with the same wonder, though the men, including Titus, slept against the gunwales as though uninterested in all this splendor.
Sasha, on the other hand, kept up a running monologue on the prophecy and the importance of arriving in Nvengaria at the precise moment, until Petri threatened to gag him. They were running behind already, and the atmosphere was tense.
The mountains rose, and Penelope bathed her senses in the beautiful, craggy hills that fell to the river. It was full summer, which meant that stiller parts of the river teemed with tiny flies, determined to make a meal of everyone in the boat. They passed a few miserable nights besieged by gnats, except Wulf, who happily ate them.
“Make him stop that,” Egan complained.
Damien shrugged, swatting away the swarm about his face. “He is hungry. At least they are encouraged to look elsewhere for a meal.”
Egan was white to the lips. “Have pity on me. I’ve not had a drop of whiskey in days.”
“It will be good for your soul,” Damien said.
“I haven’t got a soul. Not anymore.” He groaned and laid his arm over his eyes.
“Is he all right?” Penelope whispered later to Damien. “He looks in a bad way.”
Damien leaned close to answer. “He has taken to a bottle more since the war ended. He feels useless. ‘At a loose end,’ as you English say.”
“Perhaps he should marry.”
Damien gave a soft snort of laughter. “Not he. He is in favor of marriage, but for everyone else, not himself.”
“Very likely because the woman he loves is married to another.” Penelope sighed, both feeling sorry for Egan and liking a good romantic tale.
Damien gave her a puzzled look. “The woman he loves?”
“Someone called Zarabeth. He told me at the ball the Regent gave for us, the night that…” She broke off, blushing. She’d behaved shamelessly, and the trouble was, she was not ashamed.
He sent her a smile full of hot promise. “When we are off this boat and in a bed…” He pressed his lips to her temple. “I will show you so much more than I did that night.”
She shivered. “There is more?”
“Oh, yes, Princess.”
They said nothing for a time. As Penelope resumed her study of the mountains and other craft on the river, she asked, “Who is this Zarabeth?”
“My cousin. She has the title of ‘princess’ although her family is from a distant branch. I knew Egan was fond of her, but he never professed love.”
“Perhaps not to you,” she said. “But he loves her.”
Damien looked thoughtful, but “Hmm,” was all he would say.
They didn’t see any sign of Felsan or other assassins. The river journey was uneventful.
“The mark of an excellent assassin,” Petri said. “He’ll find us, and at just the right moment, he’ll pounce.”
Petri’s predictions did not make for a relaxing journey. They left the boat in Vienna, where the river clogged with huge barges and ships traveling east from Bavaria and west from as far away as Russia and the Black Sea.
They stayed the night at an inn, far from the fashionable world of opera and music and the brilliant Imperial Palace. There, Lady Anastasia found them. She met them in the private parlor Damien had taken and pushed back her cloak to reveal ballroom finery and diamonds in her hair.
“I will not offer you the inferior wine,” Damien said. “You journeyed quickly.”
“A fast carriage, frequent changes of horses, and a haughty manner works wonders,” she said in her clear voice. She spoke English with little trace of accent, and Penelope knew she’d chosen English so Penelope could follow the conversation. “I was followed all the way. Alexander is taking no chances.”
“And here?” Egan broke in.
“I was not followed,” she said calmly. “But word was waiting for me. Alexander has dissolved the Council of Mages.”
Sasha gave an anguished cry. “He cannot do such a thing. The Council, they have been formed for eight hundred years. They study and regulate magic and work for the good of Nvengaria.”
Anastasia glanced at him with her lovely brown eyes. “Alexander has called them an annoying body of old mumblers.”
“The people will never stand for it,” Sasha declared. “They will rise up.”
“I am afraid the people rather agree with him,” she said. “They jeered Nedrak as he rode away to his daughter’s house in the north. The only magic they want is the prince and princess.”
Damien studied her a moment, then lifted his brows. “You agree?”
She flushed. “Nvengaria needs to be modernized,” she said. “Without losing itself. That is what you must do. And
I will do anything to help you.”
Penelope remembered that Damien had said Anastasia worked for Nvengaria, not him. She would do what was best for Nvengaria. If Anastasia thought that meant ridding the country of Damien, she realized, the woman would work to do so.
“Go back to the palace and flirt with Metternich,” Damien said. “Keep him busy while I put down this coup and restore the people’s faith. Alexander always knows just how far he can push them.”
“Alexander is not a bad ruler,” Anastasia said, “if a trifle ruthless.”
“I am Imperial Prince,” Damien said. His eyes held a hint of ice, and the room grew chilly. “Nvengaria belongs to me.”
Anastasia hesitated a long moment. She and Damien studied one another, then her flush deepened. “I beg your pardon, Your Highness.” She dropped into a curtsy.
Damien’s tone remained quiet for the remainder of the conversation, then Anastasia took her leave. He spoke as usual to the rest of them after her departure, but the atmosphere remained strained.
Chapter Twenty-one
The next day they took passage in a larger craft bound for Budapest. The water teemed with barges large and small, moving upstream and down. The going was slower, because as the river broadened, the number of towns with unloading barges and boats grew.
Penelope watched Damien’s impatience grow; Midsummer’s Day was now a scant week or so away. Damien planned to hug the river all the way beyond Transylvania, and in the cold mood he’d lapsed into after his conversation with Anastasia, no one argued with him.
He seemed to change as they moved eastward. The carefree prince dropped away, and he became more and more foreign—to Penelope at least—as he moved into the lands of his ancestors.
In Budapest, he left them behind at an inn while he met with a contact somewhere in the city. He refused to answer questions about it when Egan admonished him for going out alone.
“This city was my school,” he said bluntly to the Scotsman. “I spent three years here learning how to move from mere survival to living on my own terms. I know every street intimately and slept in not a few of them.”