Tomorrow's Kingdom (46 page)

A
N INSTANT BEFORE
the New Man's spear buried itself in Persephone's belly—as her brain was screaming for her to move and her body was locked in the grips of her labour pain—Persephone felt Rachel's hands shoving her out of the way.

And then she heard the soft, squelching sound of the spear that had been intended for her burying itself in Rachel's back.

The force of the impact caused Rachel to grunt and spun her in a complete circle. By the time she'd come all the way back around again, her face was a sickening shade of grey and her hands were clutching the tip of the spear, which had been driven clear through her chest. Blood had begun to trickle out of the corner of her mouth.

Everything else forgotten in the shock and horror of what she was seeing, Persephone fought through the gradually subsiding pain in her belly to force herself to her feet. On legs that were trembling so badly she was afraid she might collapse, she got behind Rachel and managed
to slide her hands under Rachel's armpits just as the other girl's knees gave way.

“It's going to be okay, it's going to be okay, you're going to be okay,” Persephone babbled, her panicked words tumbling over themselves as she tried to lower Rachel into a sitting position without jostling her too much. Cradling her as best she could given the awkward position of the spear, Persephone frantically scanned the chaotic battleground for someone,
anyone
, who could help. When she couldn't see anyone, she hugged Rachel closer, trying to quell her panic, trying to
think
. Once upon a time, a thousand years ago, when she'd been a slave with nothing to lose, she'd drawn a poisoned arrow from Azriel's shoulder without flinching but this situation was
nothing
like that one.

There would be no drawing out this spear, and she and Rachel both knew it.

Knowing that she had absolutely no right to cry in front of this girl who'd just sacrificed her life for her, Persephone nevertheless began to cry.

“Oh,
Rachel
, I … I am so,
so
sorry …”

“Don't be sorry,” murmured Rachel, sounding very tired. She let her head fall toward Persephone's so that their foreheads touched, and they looked not like two girls but like one girl resting her forehead against a looking glass. “And don't be sad either,” she added.

Persephone made a noise halfway between a sob and a laugh. She was vaguely aware that in the distance, the sound of the fighting was subsiding.

“I'm serious, Persephone,” continued Rachel, letting one hand fall from the bloody spear tip so that she could give Persephone a clumsy, comforting pat on the knee. “My father always believed that I would do something important with my life, and now I have done so. I have saved the life of the queen who carries the prophesied Gypsy King in her belly.” The corners of her pale mouth turned up in a little smile. “It … does not get much more important than that.”

“No, it doesn't,” lied Persephone fiercely, even though her heart was crying out that Rachel getting married and having a baby of her own someday would have been a
thousand
times more important! Forcing herself to smile, she added, “You know, I think maybe you were the girl in the sketch all along.”

“I think maybe you are right,” wheezed Rachel.

Persephone could see that her friend was fading fast. In an effort to keep from completely losing control, she squeezed her eyes shut and gently pressed her lips against Rachel's temple.

Rachel sighed softly at the kiss. “Tell Zdeno that I love him,” she whispered as the trickle of blood at the corner of her mouth became a stream. “Tell him … tell him that he is the handsomest man I have ever seen.”

“I will,” whispered Persephone, biting her lip so hard that it started to bleed.

Rachel closed her eyes for a moment. Then she opened them again and said, “Remember me.”

“Until the day I die,” promised Persephone tremulously as the tears streamed down her cheeks.

Rachel smiled again, then closed her eyes for the last
time. “My mother used to sing me to sleep,” she said, the words hardly more than a puff of air. “Sing me to sleep, Persephone.”

In all her long years of hardship and toil, Persephone had never been asked to do anything remotely as hard as this. Nevertheless, she cleared her throat, and, in a voice that only trembled a little, she sang all three verses of the Glyndorian lullaby that Barka and Mateo had sung together at their happy reunion all those weeks ago.

By the time she'd finished singing the final verse, Rachel was dead.

As Persephone gently lowered her to the ground and stood up, from the mouth of the canyon came the horribly incongruous sound of cheering. Looking over, Persephone saw Azriel—not slit bow to stern but alive as he could be. Numbly, she watched as he raised his hand toward her in victory.

Then the sledgehammer pain slammed into her belly again, and she fell to her knees once more.

SIXTY-THREE

“
Y
OU MUST
PUSH
, Your Majesty,” said Cairn.

Persephone lay in the makeshift birthing bed, too exhausted to answer. Her hair was plastered to her forehead; her shift was soaked with sweat and blood. Time had ceased to exist—there was only the last pain and the next pain and the brief space in between.

Fayla squeezed her hand. “Please, Your Majesty,” she said. “You are almost there.”

Yes
, thought Persephone confusedly before she drifted away again.
But I have been almost there for so long now.

I begin to think that I shall never get there at all.

More pains. More space between the pains.

And then:

“If this goes on much longer you may have to choose between the life of the mother and the life of the child or risk losing them both,” she heard Cairn whisper to someone.

Persephone did not need to ask which life Cairn would choose to sacrifice. And for once, the two of them
were in agreement as to who should die that the other might live. Sacrificing herself for the sake of the baby was as Persephone knew it should be—perhaps even as it was meant to be. Perhaps she and Rachel had
both
been the girl in the sketch made by the long-dead Gypsy Seer— perhaps both of them had ever been meant to die that the baby might live.

Though she would very much have liked to have seen and held and known her son, Persephone was at peace knowing that at least he would live. Her heart ached at the thought of leaving Azriel, of course, but she would rather have had their brief time together than to have had a hundred lifetimes with someone else.

For all that she had endured, for all she had lost, for all she would miss out on after she was gone, Persephone felt like a woman blessed indeed.

Even as she thought that she needed to speak to Azriel to make sure that he understood what must be done, he was there by her side. He held her hand through another wracking pain, and when it was over and she'd caught her breath, she licked her parched lips, turned her face toward his and said, “You … you must listen to me, Azriel. There is no sense losing me and the baby both. We are the only family you've got, remember? Therefore you must be strong and … and choose. And it must be the baby who lives. Do you understand? It must be him.”

Azriel bowed his head and said nothing for a very long moment. Then he looked up and, in a very quiet voice, said, “Persephone?”

“Yes?” she replied faintly.

“All the times I've listened to you carp at me to get going when I've been on the brink of death—do you truly imagine I'm going to let you give up that easily?”

Persephone felt the dangerously weakened flame of life within her leap at these unexpected words.

“Azriel—”

“Moreover,” he interrupted. “I would remind you that when we wed, you vowed to obey me in all things.”

“I vowed no such thing,” she retorted with a gasp, the flare of indignation she felt at his words causing the flame to leap a little higher still.

“Even so, you are exactly right when you say that you and the baby are the only family I've got,” concluded Azriel. “And by the gods, I do not intend to lose either of you. So call upon that infernal stubbornness you've so often seen fit to plague me with, and push that baby out.
Now
!”

With the last of her strength—and with the fleeting thought that if she somehow managed to survive her ordeal that she'd give Azriel a goodly pinch to show him what she thought of the way he'd just spoken to her— Persephone laboriously pushed herself up onto her elbows. As the pain began to build, she fought her fear and tried to concentrate on breathing. And when the pain was at its peak she took a deep breath, held it in and then pushed as hard and for as long as she could.

Indeed, she pushed so hard and for so long that her whole mind exploded with a pain beyond anything she'd thusfar endured.

And then—just like that!—the pain was gone.

But the effort had cost Persephone dear—so dear that she couldn't have said if the tiny cry she heard just before she lost consciousness was real or if it was a dream.

Eight Days Later

SIXTY-FOUR

P
ERSEPHONE DID NOT
awaken as much as she gradually became aware of her surroundings. She did not keep her eyes shut and stay perfectly still because she feared lurking danger but because she did not seem to have the energy to do otherwise. She half-heartedly wondered why she felt battered beyond belief but was too groggy and disoriented to do more than wonder.

After a time, she became aware of a presence close by. Forcing her eyes open the tiniest of cracks, she beheld Cairn sitting on a stool at her bedside.

“How are you feeling?” asked the Gypsy woman.

Persephone muddled over the question for a long moment before finally croaking, “Thirsty.”

Cairn smiled, then lifted up Persephone's head and held a goblet to her lips. It was as Persephone was drinking deeply of the strong wine that she suddenly remembered. Shoving the goblet away with such force that it clattered out of Cairn's hand, she spluttered and gasped, “The baby—”

“A healthy boy, Your Majesty,” said Cairn, her joy lighting up her whole face. “Small, of course—having been born early—but as healthy as any Gypsy baby.”

Persephone felt a surge of energy she'd not have imagined she possessed an instant earlier. “Where is he?” she demanded breathlessly, wincing as she pushed herself into a sitting position. “Can I see him? Bring him to me— no, wait, have Azriel bring him to me! He should be with me when I meet our son for the first time!”

“Of course,” smiled Cairn, rising to her feet. “Only, I caution you not to overexert yourself. Your fever broke only a few hours past, and you've not eaten for more than a week—”

“I've been unconscious for more than a
week
?” exclaimed Persephone in shock.

“You have, Your Majesty,” said Cairn. “But you are better now. Calm yourself—I will fetch Azriel at once.”