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  Smiling slightly, Tutor did as he was bid. As they began climbing, Persephone clutched Tutor’s right arm as though it were the last piece of flotsam in a storm-tossed sea.

  “Mordecai said that your hairy friend was punished for his beastly behaviour toward me,” she grunted as she laboriously dragged herself up onto the landing at the top of the stairs.

  “He wasn’t my friend,” said Tutor.

  “Nor mine,” Persephone said as they stepped up to the chamber door. Still clutching Tutor’s arm with her left hand, she casually held her right hand out in readiness as she said, “Still, you must’ve felt something when you learned that he’d been punished.”

  “Not really,” shrugged Tutor, pushing open the door and stepping into the deserted chamber. “In fact, I was the one who beheaded him.”

  Though she’d already made up her mind to do whatever she had to in order to save her baby, Tutor’s heartless words made Persephone feel a good deal better about stepping into the chamber after him, snatching up the heavy crystal wine decanter from the half-moon table and smashing it down on the back of his head with all her strength.

  Unfortunately, the sigh of relief Persephone heaved upon seeing Tutor crumple to the ground was cut short when she heard a distant shout of alarm. The blast of the hunting horn that followed lasted no more than a few seconds, but by the time it was over, the castle was alive with the sound of doors opening and slamming and many men running.

  Not knowing what was going on but guessing that it wouldn’t be long before someone came looking for her, Persephone looked toward the chamber windows. If a climber was especially strong and lucky, she just might be able to descend the outer wall of the turret without slipping and plummeting to her death on the jagged rocks far below.

  Persephone’s breath came faster. She was desperate to escape and save her baby, but was she desperate enough to try that?

  FIFTEEN

  A QUARTER OF AN HOUR after the hunting horn sounded, the door of the cramped closet in which Mordecai had been stuffed for his own safety opened without warning.

  Lifting his hand to shield his eyes from the flickering light of the torches that lined the corridor, Mordecai squinted up at the man who’d recently been promoted to commander of castle security—the man whose head would shortly adorn a wall spike as punishment for allowing the castle defences to be breached.

  “Well?” snapped Mordecai, biting back a groan as he staggered to his feet and shuffled out of the closet. “Is it over?”

  The brawny young commander nearly tripped over his own feet in his haste to get out of Mordecai’s way. “The intruders have been overpowered, Your Grace,” he replied with a weak but ingratiating smile.

  Pursing his lips at the fool’s eagerness to please, Mordecai demanded to know if any of the intruders yet lived.

  “One,” said the commander. He hesitated before adding, “It is … well, it is Lord Atticus, Your Grace.”

  “Lord Atticus?” exclaimed Mordecai. “Bartok’s son?”

  The commander nodded and said, “He was apprehended in an alcove off the main corridor leading to the kitchens.”

  “What in the name of the gods was he doing there?”

  Fidgeting in a way that made Mordecai want to slap him, the commander replied, “My soldiers say that after getting separated from those of his men who’d managed to fight their way into the castle, he somehow got turned around.”

  “It would appear that my ruse with the empty carriage didn’t fool Bartok, after all,” murmured Mordecai. Then, careless of the throbbing pain in his neck, he threw back his head and let out a bark of laughter that echoed up and down the corridor. “Oh, how furious Bartok is going to be when he learns that his plan to rescue the queen has failed! How utterly horrified he is going to be when he realizes that in addition to retaining possession of the queen, I have now taken possession of his only son and heir!”

  The commander said nothing in response to these exclamations of delight, and it wasn’t until the last echoes of laughter had faded that Mordecai noticed the expression of pure dread upon the man’s face.

  “What is it?” he snarled, his own happy countenance vanishing at once.

  The commander swallowed hard. “I … I—”

  “WHAT IS IT?” bellowed Mordecai, raking his fingernails down the fool’s cheek.

  The not-so-eager-now commander cringed. “Your Grace,” he practically whimpered, “the queen is gone.”

  Mordecai gaped at him. “What do you mean she’s gone?” he spluttered. “A moment ago, you told me that the intruders had been overpowered! You said that only one yet lived! Are you telling me now that one escaped with the queen?”

  “No!” cried the commander, who did not even seem to notice the rivulets of blood running down his face. “No, Your Grace, no, I swear to you, no! The very instant the hunting horn sounded, I raced to the tower chamber to see to the queen’s safety and security. It would not have been possible for one of the intruders to get to her before I did!”

  “WELL, SOMEONE GOT TO HER, YOU BABBLING MORON!” shrieked Mordecai, raking his fingernails down the commander’s other cheek. “What does the soldier who was supposed to be guarding her have to say for himself?”

  “He’s gone too, Your Grace,” whimpered the commander, wringing his hands like some old woman. “But I cannot believe he had anything to do with the queen’s disappearance. I know the man personally. He’s not one of those conscripted wretches whose loyalty must ever be suspect—he was a volunteer. A career soldier enriched and raised far above his lowborn station by the opportunity to serve in your army. I swear he’d sooner cut off his own nose than fail to carry out an order!”

  “We’ll see about that when we find the deserting bastard,” snarled Mordecai. “In the meantime, I want every man, woman and child in this castle searching for him and the queen. No one sleeps until they are found, do you understand me? Do you? If Bartok’s lackeys didn’t get to them then they must to be around here somewhere.”

  “Y-yes, Your Grace,” faltered the commander. “Only …”

  “Only what?” demanded Mordecai, disgusted by the overpowering stench of the fool’s terror.

  “When I entered the queen’s chamber, I noticed that the windows were open and … and that there was a pair of high-heeled shoes lying on the floor nearby,” said the commander, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Your Grace, I fear she may have tried to escape by climbing down the outside of the turret.”

  Mordecai’s cold heart went into freefall as he suddenly realized that he should have anticipated something like this. No one knew better than he that the gutter-reared queen was as reckless as she was fearless. Faced with the choice of seeing the little cockroach cut from her womb or risking her own life to save them both—

  “Proceed with searching the castle and grounds tonight,” barked Mordecai. “At first light, you will look to the rocks at the bottom of the cliff.”

  “And what shall I do with Lord Atticus, Your Grace?” asked the commander, the relieved expression on his face belying his hope that being issued orders to carry out upon the morrow meant that he had a future, after all.

  “Put him somewhere dark and cold,” said Mordecai, hating the fool for daring to have hope at a time like this. “I’ll deal with him tomorrow—and then I’ll deal with you.”

  Exhausted though he was from the long, hard journey north, the draining events of the evening and the pain that never gave him a moment’s respite, Mordecai did not sleep at all that night.

  Instead, he returned to his bedchamber, dismissed his body servants, wrapped himself in a thick blanket and settled into a comfortable armchair by the fire. Hour after hour he stared into the flames. He wracked his brains for another explanation for the open tower windows, the discarded shoes and the disappearance of the queen. He tried not to picture her crouched on the windowsill, her dark hair and skirts whipping around her, her violet eyes fixed on the ground so far below. He tried not to imagin
e how her heart would have hammered in her chest as she’d slid onto her belly and edged backward over the sill, how her bare feet would have scrabbled for a toehold. He tried not to think about how desperately she’d have clung to the damp bricks of the turret, how insistently the wind would have tugged at her body. How surprised she’d have been when the inevitable finally happened—and how graceful she’d have looked as she’d fallen.

  He tried not to believe that, having forgotten to ask the queen the location of the healing pool, the locket around his neck might be as close as he ever came to finding the pool—and to finding himself well and whole at long last.

  Most of all, however, Mordecai tried not to think that the tightness in his chest might mean that he felt something besides rage and disappointment at the prospect of the death of the beautiful, bold, brazen young woman who’d never caused him anything but trouble.

  SIXTEEN

  FOR PERSEPHONE, the quarter of an hour after the hunting horn sounded passed like this:

  For half a heartbeat she just stood at the threshold of the turret chamber—clutching the handle of the shattered decanter, listening to the ragged sound of her own breathing and looking toward the windows through which she might escape if she was strong and lucky enough not to slip and plummet to her death.

  Then, abruptly deciding that she’d probably used up her luck knocking Tutor unconscious with one blow, she tossed the decanter handle to one side and shut the door of the chamber. Taking care to avoid the shards of shattered crystal, she dropped to her knees beside Tutor, rolled him onto his back and pressed her ear against his chest. When she heard the steady beat of his heart, she sat back on her heels and considered her options. Though the idea of finishing him with his own sword strongly appealed to her, she reluctantly settled upon a less permanent way of ensuring that he could not interfere with her escape. Hurrying over to the chair behind the privacy screen, she snatched up three pairs of silken panties and several lengths of rope. As she did so, it occurred to her that half a dozen snowy petticoats, a voluminous gown and high-heeled dancing slippers were not exactly an ideal escape ensemble. Before she could even begin to curse the fact that the servants had taken away the grubby lowborn garments she’d been wearing when she arrived, however, she noticed that Tutor was not much bigger than she was.

  And that he was suddenly looking just a tad overdressed.

  It took Persephone longer than she would have liked to strip the unconscious New Man, and she was nearly knocked over by the stink when she tugged off his boots, but at last she had him down to his badly stained underpants. Too revolted by the prospect of seeing him completely naked to give in to the urge to yank off his underpants and stuff them halfway down his throat, she settled for tying his hands behind his back, binding his ankles together and using the panties to stop his mouth.

  Slipping behind the privacy screen, she hurriedly wriggled out of her own clothes and pulled on Tutor’s smelly black breeches, shirt, doublet and boots. None of them fit well, but none of them fit so poorly (she hoped!) as to be conspicuous. To her delight, she found her own little dagger in the inside pocket of the doublet. Giving it a small but noisy kiss, she slipped it into the scabbard at her thigh through a conveniently located rip in the outer seam of the breeches. Shoving the bit of lace, the rat tail, the key and the curl into the pocket of the doublet, she then tossed aside the amethyst necklace, put back on her own silver one and began yanking hairpins out of her updo as fast as she could. Lock after wavy lock of dark hair tumbled down until she had a glossy mass rippling halfway down her back. Though she knew that such hair was rather likely to tip people off to the fact that she was not actually a soldier—or even a man, for that matter—instead of cutting it, she plaited it into a messy braid, turned up the collar of her doublet and tucked the braid down the back of it.

  Whatever path lies before me, I shall not walk it bald, she thought fiercely as she stepped out from behind the privacy screen to make her final preparations.

  Using the beautiful purple gown, she mopped up as much of the wine and blood as she could. When she was done, she crammed a pillow into the bodice of the gown, tucked her creation under one arm, grabbed the damaged high-heeled shoes and strode across the chamber. Dropping the shoes, she flung open the windows and expertly ran her hand along the outer wall of the turret. A grim smile came to her lips when she discovered that, as she’d hoped, the stones jutted out from the mortar just far enough to entice an especially daring and desperate prisoner to attempt to climb to freedom.

  “Godspeed and good luck,” she sang to the crudely fashioned dummy as she heaved it out the window.

  It won’t fool them for long, she thought as she turned away without closing the windows, but it might fool them for long enough.

  Returning for the final time to where Tutor yet lay unmoving, Persephone swept the shards of crystal under the snowy carpet, which—mercifully!—had not been stained by his blood. Then, deciding that she had no need for Tutor’s heavy sword, she tossed it onto his chest, grabbed him by the wrists and dragged him over to the bed. Panting with exertion, she sat down and used her booted feet to unceremoniously shove him beneath it. If he awoke and started moaning or thrashing about, he’d be found at once by whoever was in the chamber, of course, but until then, Mordecai’s soldiers would have no idea that they should be looking for her dressed as one of them.

  With Tutor safely stowed, Persephone jumped to her feet, hurried over to the chamber door, eased it open and ran down the winding staircase. Just as she hit the bottom step, the door at the end of the corridor to her right burst open and a dozen black-clad New Men came charging toward her.

  Instinctively throwing herself against the right wall of the stairwell so that at least one of her flanks would be protected, Persephone was about to draw her dagger when she realized that the soldiers were not running at her but past her. Unable to believe her good luck, she held her breath and averted her face. And when the last of them had swept past her, she jumped off the step and fell in behind them. She’d have felt safer by far slipping away unseen and unnoticed, but with the castle in an uproar that was simply no longer an option.

  The soldiers Persephone was following moved swiftly toward the front of the castle, collecting every soldier they met along the way with the exception of one who was running hard in the direction of the turret chamber. As they drew closer to the entrance hall, the sound of fighting grew louder and more distinct. Not wanting to get caught up in a melee with nothing but a dagger to defend herself— and not at all confident that her disguise would stand up to any real scrutiny—Persephone surreptitiously ducked into a shadowed alcove to plan her next move. From her hiding spot, she watched as the soldiers drew their swords and plunged into the entrance hall. A moment of even fiercer fighting was followed by a high-pitched shriek and the sight of several rumpled, blood-splattered men not dressed in black staggering through the archway and into the corridor. Persephone gasped when she glimpsed the face of the one in the lead for she’d have known those fleshy lips and bloodshot eyes anywhere.

  Lord Atticus!

  The noble buffoon who’d been seconds away from ravishing her on more than one occasion, the one who’d once threatened to turn her scalp into a dog collar.

  Persephone drew even farther back into the shadows. Whatever reason Lord Bartok’s son had for being here— and she could well believe the reason had something to do with her—she knew that to throw herself upon his mercies might very well be to jump from the frying pan into the fire.

  So instead of calling upon him to do his duty and save his rightful queen, Persephone watched silently as he and his companions dashed off down the corridor. Seconds later, the soldiers in the entrance hall managed to hack their way through the men Lord Atticus had presumably left to hold the archway. Wild-eyed and panting with blood lust, they took off after the intruders.

  When the last of them had rounded the corner at the far end of the corridor, Persephone cautiously stepped out
of the shadows. Making her way over to the archway, she peered into the entrance hall. It was in complete disarray. Curtains and tapestries had been torn down, tables and pedestals had been knocked over, priceless vases and busts had been smashed to bits. The polished floor was littered with the wounded, dying and dead; the air was filled with the terrible sounds and smells of them. The great iron door was ajar; a body lay face down across the threshold, a bloodied hunting horn at its side.

  Persephone didn’t hesitate but headed straight for the open door. As she lifted the torch from the nearest wall bracket and stepped over the body that lay across the threshold, an angry, rasping voice behind her demanded to know where she thought she was going. She didn’t answer or look back but instead plunged forward into the darkness.

  Descending the gleaming granite steps into a soup of fog so thick that even with the torch she could barely see past her own nose, Persephone cautiously struck out across the cobblestone courtyard in the direction of the high castle wall. She recalled how impenetrable it had looked but she could not believe that even Lord Atticus would be fool enough to invade Mordecai’s stronghold without some means of escape.

  At least, she hoped he wouldn’t be fool enough, for she was counting on his means of escape to be hers as well.

  By the time her outstretched hand touched the damp castle wall, the sound of calmly shouted orders from within the castle told Persephone that the New Men were over the initial shock of the unexpected assault and were rapidly getting organized. Forcing down her panic at the knowledge that her disappearance would surely be discovered any moment, Persephone turned and, keeping a guiding hand on the wall, stumbled toward the gate. She didn’t really believe it would be open, but she couldn’t think how else Lord Atticus and his companions might have gotten into the courtyard.