The Red Pearl (21 page)
HIS MOUTH WAS AN OASIS in the desert, a stream of life-giving water, for which Antonia desperately thirsted. She wrapped her arms around his neck, her heart flittering in ecstasy, her spirits sailing on the four winds. “Yes,” she whispered. “Of course.”
Smiling from ear to ear, Rob slid the delicate gold band onto her finger. It was a perfect fit. But even more perfect, Antonia realized, was the marquise stone that punctuated the ring. It was a clear, blue aquamarine.
“Now every time I look upon it, I shall be reminded of your eyes.” She gazed up at him, taking his face between her hands. “Your breathtaking eyes.”
He kissed her again, gathering her into his arms. For a time, they held each other beneath the moonlight, as crickets sang and toads bellowed from across the pond. After a while, they simply stared into the woods, arm-in-arm. Antonia could not recall a more joyous moment in all of her days.
“Annie?” Rob stroked her hair. “I think I’ve decided what I want to do with the pearl. Only, I want the opinion of my bride-to-be.”
She grinned, waiting.
“It was your idea, actually,” he admitted, “about the museum and the traveling exhibition, which inspired me. I think…we ought to loan the pearl out to museums around Otlantica, and beyond. It’s a valuable piece of Ancient Elphysian history, which can educate the public, and ensure the Ispynozas are not forgotten.
“As for the proceeds,” he looked out to the trees, “we should donate the majority to benefit the poor of Axacola.” He shook his head. “There was so much poverty there. If we can do something to help…”
“Rob.” She took his hands. “I think that is a wonderful idea.”
“Yeah?” He met her eyes, hopeful.
She nodded, bringing her nose to his.
“Yeah.”
He pecked her on the cheek, and she giggled.
“You know…” Antonia slipped her arm around his waist. “I’m sure we could squeeze in another adventure before the wedding. There may be other lost treasures still at large. Perhaps in your mother’s home country of Elsland, or up in the Halveas—?”
Rob’s laughter interrupted her. “How I adore your spirit. But truly, I need not voyage up to the Halveas.” He encased her in his arms once more. “My next adventure, Antonia Korelli, is
you.
”
THE END
Axacola:
AX-ah-COLE-ah
Azea:
Ay-ZAY-ah
Elat:
EE-lat
Elphysia:
Ell-FEE-ji-ah
Innía:
In-NEE-ah
Korelli:
Kor-ELL-ee
Kubo:
CUE-bow
Ciqédo:
Sih-KAY-doe
Otlantica:
Ott-LON-tick-ah
Palomona:
Pal-ah-MOE-nah
Pirsi:
PEER-see
Shivana Azul:
Shiv-ON-ah A-ZOOL
Skarsköt:
SKAR-skote
Once again, to Juanita, Denise and Lyndsay: I couldn’t ask for better partners in creativity. I love working with Team 48fourteen! Thank you immensely for your efforts in bringing this manuscript to life. Cheers as well to two dear, lifelong friends: N. Wiltison and Addams S., for permitting me use variations of your names for my delightful villains.
To Dad, for taking me to Mexico in my youth, and thusly inspiring the setting of Axacola—well, for taking me all around the world, really, which is why there’s so much travel in my stories. (Also, I hope the cicada references made you smile. You always said I would use it in a book, someday!) To Mom, Jerry, Jeff, Victor, Michele, Erin, Jake, Becca, Lauren Chon, and all of my siblings and family—I couldn’t do it without my amazing cheerleaders. Gracias!
Lastly, to everyone reading this:
thank you.
I am honored by your readership and hope you enjoyed the adventure. Stay tuned for more!
C.K. Brooke is a stay-at-home mom and author. She has lived all over the U.S., from the east coast to the southwestern desert, but her heart is in the Midwest. When not writing novels or spending time with her husband and young son, she enjoys reading, singing, playing the piano, and long walks with the stroller.
For more about C.K. Brooke,
visit her at:
Like her Facebook page:
THEY WERE CONDEMNED TO DIE. Their heads hooded in sacks of black burlap, each pair of hands bound with rope, the royal family of Jordinia bobbed soundlessly, unseeing in the wooden wagons that carried them into the mouth of the Knights’ Forest. After a nine-month quarantine in the Garden Palace, the monarchs and their remaining loyal staff were enduring the last moments they should ever live on that bitter winter’s morning.
Side-to-side the royals were lined against a row of pines, as the Revolutionary soldiers drew their rebel swords. The Emperor of Jordinia, Dane Ducelle, was the first to be run through, followed by his wife, the Empress Néandra, weeping wildly for her children. Their royal staff was screaming; there was scrambling, shouting, blood everywhere. Many tried to run, but the soldiers chased after them, swords aloft.
Next to be struck down were the three young dukes, who fought valiantly despite their bound wrists. The soldiers bellowed to the staff and to one another, their orders contradictory, their sword-work inaccurate, their actions disorganized.
In the midst of the wailing and bloody turmoil around him, rebel soldier Francosto Eco found himself facing the youngest Ducelle, wee Eludaine, the three-year-old Duchess. There she stood on the frigid, dormant winter’s grass, her head enshrouded, chubby wrists bound before her.
Eco squinted and slowly raised his sword. He then exhaled, unable to summon the will to lower it. He glanced about at the surrounding chaos. His comrades were shouting at one another and to their dying victims, dodging attempted attacks from members of the royal staff, wrestling their swords through the bodies of those not perishing swiftly enough. Blood pulsing in his ears, he looked again to the tiny Duchess. His heart ached in his breast. This was not possible. He could not murder the child.
His opportunity was imminent. He had to act now, lest her innocent blood stain his hands, and that of his comrades, forevermore. With one last surreptitious glance about him, the soldier made up his mind and snatched the child up into his arms. Unseen, he slipped into the woods and broke into a run.
He did not know how long he’d been running when he finally came to a narrow precipice hovering over a deep, wide creek. Eco slowed, stepping through the sparse clearing with uncertainty. To his astonishment, he spied a flimsy, mossy boat ambling its way toward him. Inside sat two dark-skinned women, manning the oars leisurely as their hanging fishnets skimmed for craw crabs and other aquatic delicacies. Heppestonians, Eco felt sure.
Hastily, he removed Eludaine’s hood and unbound her wrists. He waved frantically at the drifting boat until the two women noticed him. “Where are you going?” he called out to them.
“Home, to Heppestoni,” they replied, confirming his suspicions.
Leaning over the bank, Eco offered them the crying Duchess. “Please,” he implored them. “She is not safe here. You must take her.”
The women exchanged glances. And then slowly, they rose in their boat and reached across the clearing to rescue the girl from Eco’s clutches. His breathing steadied as they busied themselves with shushing the girl’s cries, wiping her tears, and pressing her to their dark and plentiful bosoms. The Duchess would now be safe.
“You must leave with haste,” he insisted, trying to convey his urgency while keeping his voice low as possible. “Go, or she will be killed!”
The women nodded vigorously to show that they understood, and began rowing away, Duchess in tow, with graceful speed.
And that was the last Eco ever saw of Eludaine Ducelle.
He hurried back through the woods, returning to the execution site. There he rejoined his fellows, albeit fairly removed, and made a show of digging a small grave. No one questioned him, or checked to ensure that the pit indeed contained her body. Eco imagined that the others wished for no further role in the murder of a small child.
He never felt guilt, as he knew he should have, for betraying his comrades and the New Republic of Jordinia in this manner.
AS HER SOLE SURVIVING KIN
, Eco wrote presently, fifteen years later, his mouth dry as the parchment across which he dragged his quill:
you deserve to know, Comrade Gatspierre, that your niece was not killed that day.
He moistened his lips and heaved another shuddering cough before continuing his script.
Where she is now, I know not. But it is likely somewhere in Heppestoni.
By candlelight, Eco penned his scroll to Hessian Gatspierre, elder brother to the deceased Empress, and uncle to the Duchess Eludaine, divulging all that had transpired on that fateful morning when the royal family was assassinated. Having succumbed to the fatal gray fever, Eco’s remaining time in this world was limited. But his secret could not die with him. God willing, and despite his aching fingers, he would finish his scroll tonight, and his rider would deliver it with haste to Hessian Gatspierre’s place of exile the following morning.
Pray for Jordinia
, he wrote, weathered hands trembling.
Pray for Eludaine, wherever she may be. And may the Eternal God have mercy on my soul.