Penelope and Prince Charming (Nvengaria #1)(99)
Alexander turned from the window. The people of the city had begun preparations for the Midsummer festival, which would fall on the summer solstice. The festival was 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 would return with his new princess, restored from the line of Prince Augustus of old.
The Council of Dukes had expected Alexander to forbid the entire festival, but Alexander merely said it could continue as planned. “The disappointment when Prince Damien fails to arrive will be all the more exquisite,” he’d said smoothly.
The dukes had nodded, some pleased, some troubled.
“Your assassin seems to have let them get away,” Nedrak said behind him. Was there a note of glee in his voice?
“No, he has not,” Alexander replied without concern. “Felsan will hunt them until he succeeds.”
“The prophecy, Your Grace, is strong.” Nedrak sounded admiring. “It protects him. And the princess.”
“Nedrak.”
Nedrak popped his mouth shut and looked up nervously as Alexander came to the table and leaned his fists on it.
“No more scrying,” Alexander said, slowly and firmly. “No more magic. Your magic hasn’t done a damned thing to help me. All the fanatics who went to stop Damien have only succeeded in getting themselves killed. It is not magic that will solve this; it is money. I hired the very best, and Felsan will not cease until Damien is dead.” He leaned closer, and Nedrak’s eyes widened in fear. “All your chanting and predicting did not save Nvengaria from near ruin. Magic will not put it back together. I will.” Alexander struck his chest with his forefinger. “I will.”
“But the Council of Mages …”
“The Council of Mages are 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 prevent the cholera. Those things are ten times better than all your magic, do you not think? I watched hundreds die of the smallpox while the old prince refused to let my father send for the vaccine. The old prince believed in the chanting of his mages, and when they could not help, he had those mages 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, as though relieved to no longer have Alexander’s face hovering in front of his.
“Perhaps he will, Nedrak,” Alexander said softly. “And perhaps not. I looked into Damien’s eyes when Misk brought him here, and I saw the monster looking out at me. Damien might be filled with visions of the new Nvengaria at first. He might let the pretty princess ease his mind. But it will not last. The monster will win out. And I will never let that happen.”
Nedrak swallowed, his Adam’s apple a sharp lump in his throat. “But what if your assassin fails, Your Grace? What will you do then?”
Alexander actually relaxed into a smile. “It does not matter. This is why I will win. The entire prophecy is a sham—there is no Nvengarian princess. And when the people realize that, they’ll tear Damien to pieces.”
Chapter 28
Damien, Penelope, and their party 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—Penelope reflected that Damien must know every person in the world, respectable and otherwise. The viscount gave his name as Grayson Finley and had a thick shock of golden hair. Finley’s children, a twin boy and girl of seven, a boy of five, and a beautiful young woman with black hair, swarmed about deck, all of them competent sailors.
Another of Damien’s friends, a Romany this time, met them on the road from La Havre with horses for them all, including Penelope. A carriage would draw too much attention, Damien said.
Damien led his small group in a swift pace 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, Penelope mused, but Damien avoided cities and fine estates in favor of middling-sized towns and tawdry inns.
One day’s journey put them far from any town in the middle of France, and they slept that night 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, the two of them snuggling under one blanket. “Life is much better, now.” He kissed Penelope’s 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—when they could take a private room at an inn, for instance—Damien would quickly shrug off his clothes, help Penelope from hers, and make love to her fast and hard on whatever lumpy bed the inn provided.