Fool's Errand (42 page)

Roark nodded uncomfortably without looking at her. “We've never welcomed strangers to our island because too often strangers are New Men seeking slaves. Yet you do not look like New Men and I see no ship anchored beyond the reef,” he said to Azriel. “How did you and your … wife come to find yourselves on our island?”

“We swam to shore several hours ago after having been tossed off the ship upon which we'd been sailing,” began Azriel.

“But your island was ever our intended destination,” put in Persephone, who was torn between feeling royally irked by the way Roark was ignoring her and utterly mortified by what he must think of her. Pushing back her thick dark hair (which had long since come loose from its plait), she tugged open the collar of her shirt in a way that made the man holding the stringer of fish squeak like a startled mouse. Gesturing to the exquisitely crafted silver necklace Finn had given to her before leaving Parthania, she said “I would not expect you to recognize this, but it was given to my mother—”

“Ambassador Dakkar's daughter Fey,” said Roark in surprise, casting his first darting glance at Persephone's face.

Persephone felt a leap of excitement. “Yes!” she exclaimed, stepping forward in her eagerness to tell him more.

Roark took such a hasty step backward that he nearly tripped over the man holding the spears. “Though you are the very picture of Fey, you cannot possibly be her daughter,” said Roark uncertainly. “All know that Fey endured the travails of childbirth only once and that was to bring forth the boy king, Finnius, in whose name the Regent Mordecai has ruled these many years.”

Pushing aside the thrill she felt upon hearing that she resembled her mother—and resisting the urge to pepper this man who appeared to have known Fey with questions about her—Persephone said, “The night my mother gave birth to the king, she gave birth to me, as well.” Roark's fair eyebrows flew up in surprise at this, but Persephone pressed on. “Royal twins did not fit into the Regent's plans so he ordered me disposed of at once. The Fates spared me and later reunited me with my brother. It is for his sake—and for the sakes of all people in Glyndoria—that my husband and I are here. For you see, Mordecai holds King Finnius captive against our return with knowledge of the healing Pool of Genezing. Years ago, the Gypsy ambassador, Balthazar, claimed to have found it, and we have reason to believe that he gave my mother a gift that proved its existence. Our hope is that he also told her something of its whereabouts—and that before she died, she passed this information along to someone in your tribe.”

The man with the spears started to say something but Roark cut him off with a raised hand. “If Fey told anyone anything, it would have been the Elders,” he said impassively. “And before they consider telling
you
anything, the Elders are going to want to know what possessed the Regent to set a half-Marinese Erok princess and her husband upon a quest for the healing pool of Gypsy lore. What made him believe that the two of you would even know where to begin?”

It was a reasonable question, but one that made Persephone's heart start pounding, for the only answer was—

“Because I am a Gypsy,” said Azriel—fearlessly in spite of having no weapon to defend himself in the admittedly unlikely event that they tried to scalp him on the spot. “And because I told the Regent that I was Balthazar's bastard.”

None of the Marinese attacked upon hearing that Azriel was Gypsy, but the man holding the stringer of fish did recoil in horror.

“You're a
bastard?
” he gasped.

“No,” replied Azriel, flashing him a grin. “I'm a liar.”

After giving Azriel the kind of look one might give a dinner guest who'd just broken wind in the middle of grace, Roark excused himself to confer in private wit his two tribesmen. As soon as they'd stepped away, Azriel reached for Persephone's hand. She shivered with pleasure at his touch but snatched her hand away when she saw the man holding the stringer of fish cast a furtive glance in her direction.

“What's wrong?” murmured Azriel, sliding his arm around her and pulling her close.

“Nothing!” whispered Persephone. “It's just …”

Too embarrassed to spell out she'd rather not give her dead mother's people more reason to think her an utter
whore
—and feeling that Azriel really ought to have been able to guess as much for himself, anyway—Persephone settled for trying to wriggle away from him.

“Ahem.”

Azriel let go of Persephone so abruptly that she staggered slightly as she turned to face Roark, whose lips were pressed together into a painfully thin line of disapproval.

“As I told you,” he said. “We have never welcomed strangers to this island.”

Persephone began to protest, “But—”

“But you are not a stranger,” continued Roark without looking at her. “You are the daughter of a daughter of the tribe and therefore kin. We will take you and your Gypsy husband to our village on the other side of the island. There, it will be for the Elders to decide what you are or are not told—and what is to be done with you until such time as you can find passage back to the mainland.”

The hike across the island took several hours and Persephone's heart was in her throat every step of the way. Not only had the bank of dark clouds blotted out the moonlight and a good deal of the starlight by the time they set out, but the uneven, rocky trail took them up jagged cliff faces, down steep ravines, along crumbling ridges and over fissures at least a dozen hands wide.

By the time they reached the village, Persephone was exhausted. Still, she could not help exclaiming in delight at the sight of it. Set in a vast clearing sheltered from the nearby restless sea by bushy trees growing in such neat rows that they must have been deliberately planted, the village consisted of a surprising number of circular huts with pointy, shingled roofs. The huts were set on either side of spiralling pathways paved with flat, black stones. Outside the door of each hut hung a set of chimes that tinkled prettily in the breeze that was growing brisker with each passing moment. Some huts were smaller and some were larger; the largest of all were found in the centre of the village, clustered around what Persephone assumed was the village square. As the hour was late, the square was deserted. Even so, it was ringed with glowing lanterns that hung from what looked to be intricately carved ivory tusks.

“How is it that your lanterns shine so bright and steady?” asked Persephone in amazement. “And where on earth did you get the ivory?”

“It is not ivory—it is whalebone,” explained Roark shortly after sending the man with the spears running off with a whispered word. “The lanterns shine so because they are filled with oil rendered from whale blubber. This island is nowhere near as rich as the lands surrounding Syon were. We are able to harvest timber enough to build our domiciles, but the wooded areas are too sparse to provide fuel for cooking and heating, and we've no adequate sources of wax or tallow for light. Luckily, soon after we relocated we discovered that once a year, whales return to breed off the northern tip of the island. The hunting of them is dangerous beyond measure, but they provide oil for our lamps and stoves, meat for our plates and bone for sculpting.”

By the time Roark had finished speaking, the man with the spears was hurrying back toward them. In his wake was a blond wisp of a girl. She was wearing a plainly cut white shift that covered her from neck to toe, and she looked to be about three years younger than Persephone.

“This is Ekatarina,” said Roark, gesturing toward the girl.

The girl said nothing, only dipped a demure curtsey.

“Ekatarina shall be your wife's companion for the duration ofyour stay in our village,” Roark informed Azriel. Turning to the girl, he said, “Ekatarina, this is Persephone—daughter of Ambassador Dakkar's daughter Fey, sister of the Erok king, Finnius, wife of the Gypsy Azriel. After finding her something
suitable
to wear, see that she receives food and drink, then take her to your domicile and let her share your sleeping pallet. Tomorrow morning—”

“Wait!” interrupted Persephone and Azriel at the exact same time.

Roark looked at Azriel. Azriel looked at Persephone. Pleased that Azriel had noticed the irksome way Roark tended to treat her and was sensitive enough not to fall in with it, she gave him a quick smile. Then she turned to Roark and said, “I thought we were going to see the Elders.”

Roark pressed his lips together again. “The Elders meet when the Elders meet—and they do not meet now,” he said. “When they are ready to grant you an audience, Daughter of Fey, you shall be summoned.”

Though this was not the answer Persephone had been hoping for, she nodded reluctantly before gesturing toward Azriel that it was his turn to give voice to whatever it was he wished to say.

Smiling in a way that made Persephone's breath catch—and with all the sensitivity of a thick wooden post—Azriel said, “I was rather hoping that the princess might share
my
sleeping pallet, Roark. She is my wedded wife, after all, and it has been many days since we've enjoyed the comfort of lying together in a real bed.”

At these words, Persephone's mouth dropped open, and her face felt as though it had burst into flames. Roark looked like he'd swallowed his lips.

“Among our people, men and women are housed separately and only come together to couple for the sake of making children,” he said stiffly. “Do you … seek to couple with your wife this night?”

Though Roark was too polite to say “do you wish to couple with your wife
again
,” Persephone knew that this was what he was thinking. And she knew what Azriel's answer to the question would surely be. Indeed, she could tell by the way he was holding his hands that it was all he could do to keep from reaching for her on the spot. And though the very thought made her knees weak, she could not bear the scandalized look on Roark's face and so she hurriedly said,

“Of
course
my husband does not seek to, uh, couple with me this night.” Then, before Azriel could offer protest (or rip off her clothes right there and then to prove that he did
so
wish to couple with her this night), Persephone turned to Ekatarina and rather breathlessly said, “Let's go.”

The girl immediately bowed her blond head in acquiescence, turned and started walking. With her hands modestly clasped before her and a gait that made it seem almost as though she were floating, she silently led Persephone to a very large domicile not far from the village square. Lifting the glowing lantern that hung next to the chimes outside this particular domicile, she pushed open the door and stepped inside. Persephone followed and was immediately surprised—not only by the steamy warmth but also by the peculiar sound.

“What is that?” she asked, cocking her head to one side. “It sounds like …
chewing
.”

“It
is
chewing,” replied Ekatarina with a bright eagerness that did not seem to fit with her heretofore diffident comportment. Pointing to the vast shelves that took up at least half of the domicile—shelves that on first glance appeared to contain nothing but trays of leaves—she said, “When we left Syon, our Elders ordered silkworms brought along in the hope of establishing a healthy colony.”

“It looks as though you succeeded,” commented Persephone as she followed the girl across the domicile.

“Day and night the worms feed upon mulberry leaves and our looms are ever busy,” agreed Ekatarina contentedly as she set down the lantern and began carefully rummaging through a trunk on the floor. At length, she held up a shift that looked exactly like the one she was wearing. “This is a kjole, the traditional garment of the women of my tribe.” She cleared her throat and bowed her head before continuing in an embarrassed mumble, “Your, um, gaping shirt and tight breeches are, uh, very fine and lovely, the perfect outfit for an Erok princess as beautiful as you, I'm sure, but. but Roark said. that is to say I think all the Elders—and, indeed, all my people—would be, um, more comfortable if. if—”

“If, during my stay in your village, I were to dress as a modest young woman instead of a harlot—or a boy?” suggested Persephone dryly.

“
Yes!
”cried Ekatarina, looking up with such a relieved smile that Persephone had to smile back.

“Well,” she said, reaching for the long, shapeless kjole, “I've played a noblewoman, a dungeon slave and a fancy boy. Let us see if I have it in me to play a soft-spoken, obedient, decent young girl.”