The Viking swept from the room, and the sailor who’d been lurking in the shadows by the doorway made his way toward us. I flinched as he pulled a knife from his holster, but then he stepped toward Mary and in a swift motion cut through the binds on her wrists. The rope fell to the ground with a thud.
When he turned toward me, I met his gaze—and almost stepped back in surprise. The boy was younger than I realized, about my age, with dark hair and brown eyes that were surprisingly warm. He wasn’t what I had expected our pirate guards to look like at all.
I studied the knife, wondering if I could make a move for it, wrestle it from him, and turn it to his throat. He was tall, his strength evident in the build of his shoulders, but I would have the advantage of surprise. Could I hold him as hostage and bargain for our escape?
I glanced at Mary. She must have seen my plans on my face because she was shaking her head, her lips pressed together in warning. I knew that look like the back of my hand. She didn’t want me to do anything risky.
“This way,” the boy said, holding the door open for us to pass through. “And don’t try anything, or I’ll have to tie your wrists again.”
He led us through a maze of the tanker’s passageways, turning again and again until I was so confused I almost felt dizzy. It was when we passed a dented doorway for the third time that I realized he was doing this on purpose—deliberately leading us on a rambling zigzag path so that we wouldn’t learn the layout of the ship. He was making sure we couldn’t escape.
Finally we stepped through a porthole in the ceiling and onto the main deck. We were back above the surface now.
The moon overhead was a pale sliver, the ocean black and endless in every direction. I strained my eyes, trying to look out into the open ocean, to figure out where we were. But all I could see was water—no English shore, no English boats, not even an errant seagull.
We were in the middle of the ocean. Even if we managed to get away, there was nowhere we could escape to.
I breathed in the fresh sea air greedily, looking around quickly so that I could take in the surface of the deck. It was large enough for an airplane to land on, with a fiberglass floor and metal side railings. Great columns of steel held up what looked like some kind of black netting material, and yards of thick rope hung off hooks. This ship didn’t look old, or like it had been abandoned at sea. It was well maintained. Where had it come from?
The ship rocked slightly in the waves and I stumbled, losing my footing. The guard immediately took my elbow to steady me. His hands were calloused, his grip firm. I stepped back and he quickly let me go as if I had burned him.
“I brought you up here so you could see for yourselves. You can’t escape,” he said. His voice was low and tense, and he had an American accent. I hadn’t heard one in so long, since before the Seventeen Days, that I had almost forgotten what they sounded like.
“Did you come from
America
?” I blurted out, terrified at the possibility. If this ship could cross the Atlantic, if it was headed to America, then we might never see England again.
“
I’m
American, but no, we didn’t come from America,” the guard answered carefully. “My name is Tanner.”
“Well where did you—”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t say any more. You’ll have to wait for the Master to explain everything,” Tanner said. I couldn’t help noticing that he didn’t seem thrilled to say the title
Master
either. It made me hate him a tiny bit less.
Mary finally spoke, her voice barely a whisper. “We must be a hundred miles from the coast of England.”
“More, actually,” Tanner corrected. “Like I said, there’s no way to escape.” He flashed a look at me, which told me he knew what I had been thinking about his knife.
“Okay,” he said suddenly. “That’s enough fresh air. Back inside.”
“Where are you taking us?” Mary asked.
“Please,” Tanner said, and there was a note of something in his voice that I couldn’t interpret. “Just do everything you’re told and you won’t get hurt.”
* * *
Tanner led us to a gunmetal door that was indistinguishable from the many other doors to its left and right. He knocked hard, twice, and the door was opened by another pirate with a speargun draped around him. Behind him, I could see two girls who looked Mary’s age, maybe a little younger.
“Welcome,” the girls said in unison.
They were both pretty, with long hair plaited in a single braid. One of the girls looked Asian, with shiny dark hair and brown eyes, and the other was fair, blonde curls threatening to escape her braid around her forehead. They wore similar gray dresses and flat leather boots.
The door closed behind us and Mary and I found ourselves alone with the two girls.
The dark-haired one spoke first. “I’m Ami,” she said. “This is Tindra.”
The blonde girl nodded a greeting. “Master Demkoe wants us to offer you clothes that are clean and beautiful.”
Master
. I bristled at that. He wasn’t my master and I wasn’t going to wear their clothes. But before I could protest, Mary stepped forward.
“We’d be very thankful for some fresh clothing,” she said. “My name’s Mary and this is my sister Eliza.”
She looked at me over her shoulder with a warning in her eyes, and I stayed quiet.
The girls picked out dresses for us, similar to their own, with plain long sleeves and buttons in the back. They reminded me of the simple, homemade dresses Polly’s mother used to make after the Seventeen Days.
“Eliza, will you help?” Mary asked, turning so that I could unhook her dress in the back. I couldn’t believe it was just earlier tonight that we were at Mary’s rehearsal dinner. It felt like a lifetime ago. Wesley had been there, I thought, then shoved the pain angrily aside. I couldn’t afford to grieve Wesley right now; I needed to get me and Mary out of this first.
I didn’t even protest when Mary turned to unhook my dress, the once-beautiful blue tiers of it falling around my ankles like a filthy rag, all ripped and torn and still damp with salt water. There was a huge purple bruise forming across my knees, where the Viking had struck me.
“Come here,” Ami said to me before I could step into my new dress, holding a small clay pot in her hand that contained some kind of ointment. With the pads of her fingertips, she spread it gently over my bruises. It felt cool as ice and smelled slightly of pine and sage.
“That feels better. Thank you,” I admitted.
Ami gave a single nod to acknowledge my appreciation.
Once Mary and I were dressed and had our hair brushed and braided, the girls led us out the door. “The Master is waiting for you,” Tindra said. “And he must not be kept waiting.”
They brought us to a double set of polished mahogany doors, intricately carved with the faces of cherubs and gargoyles. They clearly had come from a house somewhere, but where?
“Master Demkoe,” Tindra announced as we entered. “Our guests are ready for you.”
Demkoe eyed us coldly as we were brought before him. He was leaning back on a lush sofa, his long legs casually crossed, his posture relaxed. Ami and Tindra joined the line of young women flanking him on either side. They ranged in age from about seventeen to thirty, and were all dressed in the same long dresses, with their hair pulled back in single braids.
I glanced around the room. It was ornate with decorations, heavy embroidered tapestries hiding what must be the plain metal walls of the tanker. Oriental rugs and pillows were heaped on the floor. In the corner was a full bar with crystal glasses and bottles of wine and liquor. There were even several paintings and statues. And at the center of it all was Demkoe, tall and menacing in his dark clothes and leather boots, the sword resting across his knees.
“Welcome,” he said, rising from his chair. “What an honor to host the English queen and her sister, the lovely Princess Eliza. Thank you both for joining me.”
He gestured for us to sit before him on the chairs provided.
“It’s not like you gave us much of a choice,” I said under my breath.
My interruption brought contempt to his pale blue eyes. For a few seconds nobody spoke or moved.
Then Demkoe smiled a strange, crooked smile and continued as if I’d never spoken.
“My name is Demkoe Ryker, and we are the Rykers,” he began.
These people have named themselves after him?
I thought, stunned. “I was born in Valdrachen, Sweden, and was raised by a very poor family. I was working on our farm by the age of five. Not that either of you know what it means to work.”
I started to open my mouth again, but Mary squeezed my arm threateningly, and I bit back my reply. Demkoe paused, as if waiting for me to slip up, then smiled again, and reached for a wineglass on the table. He sipped it slowly, clearly relishing this moment.
“When I was a child,” he continued, “my mother used to read all the magazines about the British royal family, admiring the pictures of you in your bright-colored dresses, your mother’s jewels. I think it was her escape from the hardships of our daily life. I myself was mesmerized by those photos. By their beauty. But I was also confused by it. Every night, I would pray to God, asking why life was so unfair to me and my family, and so kind to yours.”
He took another careful sip of his wine.
Whatever was going to happen, it was clear that it would not be good for us. This man despised me and Mary, and always had. Of course it was true that we were born into immense privilege, but we had not asked for that. We had no sooner chosen the family we were born into than he had.
“When I was sixteen, I left home to go work on the oil rigs.” Demkoe signaled to one of his men for more wine. “The droughts in Sweden were terrible that year. Our farm was collapsing. I started at the bottom, as a cabin hand on one of the rigs. But over the years, I worked my way up the ranks.”
The soldiers each gave a respectful nod, and his many women smiled evenly.
“And then God finally answered my prayers.” Demkoe took a breath, to allow his audience to understand the weight of his words. “When the first earthquake struck, we were out on the Red Sea. I was commanding a supertanker of oil just leaving Saudi Arabia. I thought we were doomed—we all did.”
He set down his glass of wine and dabbed at the corners of his mouth with a napkin, where the red liquid was beading like blood.
“But as the devastation continued around the world—the endless days of storms, hurricanes, volcanoes, and fires—we continued sailing in a path of complete safety. There were storms to the north and south, east and west of us, but somehow, we escaped them all. And on the seventeenth day, I understood why my ship was the only one to survive. It was God’s will. To build a new world, first he had to destroy the old. And he chose me among all men to lead the new world.”
I turned then to look at Mary. Her face was still and white. We had both realized at that moment that we were dealing with someone even more dangerous than Cornelius Hollister had been. This man was delusional with power.
“Only half a dozen men were on my ship,” Demkoe went on. “For years we sailed the oceans searching for other survivors, for signs of life. The people you see here today I rescued from lost ships and barges, from ruined villages around the world. Some of them I found half-frozen in the ocean, clinging to floating debris. I saved each of them, and they are all eternally grateful to me.”
He looked around the room, and everyone bowed their heads in gratitude. I tried to read the faces of the young women. Were they pretending just to stay alive? Or did they really believe this man was their savior?
Demkoe smiled a narrow, dangerous smile. “Now there are three hundred of us. But life on the sea is hard and we’re running out of supplies. We want to settle down, to grow crops and build houses. And we want to do it in England.”
He wanted to claim England as his own.
Mary breathed in sharply. I gripped her hand in mine.
The reconstruction of the broadcasting tower had been Mary’s most ambitious project. Never could she have imagined that her good intentions, to find and contact other countries that were damaged during the Seventeen Days, would have backfired in this way.
I hadn’t realized I’d been shaking my head until I noticed every pirate in the room had their weapons trained on me.
Demkoe looked down, his hands clasped in front of him. Then he turned to Mary, arranging his face into a falsely sympathetic expression. “Your sister is going to make things very difficult for you, I’m afraid.”
He gestured to two of his men, standing by the door. They walked over to me and pulled me up from my chair, then quickly bound my hands behind my back. I didn’t say anything. If this was really it, I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of watching me cry.
“Take her to the plank,” Demkoe ordered.
“No!” Mary screamed, her voice hoarse. “I’ll do whatever you say. I promise. But don’t hurt my sister.”