Vonda McIntyre - The Moon and the Sun

“Cast off your pagan ways,” he said. “Accept the teachings of the Church, and you will receive everlasting life.”

Sherzad snarled.

“If you defy me, your soul will never rest.”

Marie-Josèphe ran to the cage. “Let me in!”

Agitated, wild, Sherzad swam back and forth. Louis pushed himself from his wheeled chair. The musketeer unlocked the cage. Marie-Josèphe dashed in ahead of the King, oblivious to etiquette or simple manners.

“Sherzad, be easy, dear Sherzad—”

“Don’t interfere, Signorina de la Croix,” Innocent said. “You ignore my counsel at your peril!”

Marie-Josèphe ran down to the platform, while His Majesty remained at the top of the stairs.

Sherzad saw him. She shrieked.

“Sherzad, no!”

The sea woman propelled herself toward Marie-Josèphe. She swam with desperate speed. She launched herself, snarling, her claws extended, straight toward the King. Marie-Josèphe flung herself at Sherzad. They crashed together and fell in a heap. The edge of the stairs knocked the wind out of Marie-Josèphe. Sherzad lay in her arms. Blood poured from a splintery gouge across her forehead. Marie-Josèphe tried to stop the bleeding. Her hands, her dress, turned scarlet.

“Suicide is a mortal sin,” Innocent said. “She must vow obedience and repent before she dies, or I’ll know her for a demon.”

Marie-Josèphe looked up at the two men, the holy man who thought Sherzad had tried to kill herself, and the King who must believe she had tried to murder him. Perhaps they were both right.

Sherzad raised herself and sang furiously. Blood streaked her face. She looked like a monster.

“What did she say?”

Marie-Josèphe hesitated.

“Tell me!”

“She said—forgive her, Your Majesty—she said, Toothless sharks amuse me. She said, Will a fleet of treasure ships buy my life?”

“Where?”

“She’ll tell me—after you free her.”

“With what assurance?”

“Mine, Your Majesty.”

She thought he would dismiss her, call her a thief, accuse her of lying.

“You do not ask me for leniency? For yourself, for your brother, for your lover?”

Marie-Josèphe hesitated, then shook her head. “No, Your Majesty.”

Sherzad thrashed in the basin, splashing water through the net that restrained her. She cried and struggled, smelling the sea, desperate to reach it.

“Sherzad, dear friend, don’t injure yourself.” Marie-Josèphe worked her hand through the rough mesh so she could touch and comfort the sea woman.

Marie-Josèphe sat beside Sherzad’s basin, under a canvas canopy on the main deck of His Majesty’s flagship. On the upper deck, the King sat in a velvet armchair, shaded by tapestry. He spoke a word to the captain, who shouted to his men. The sailors burst into activity, preparing the ship to sail.

The flagship’s skiff cast off from the dock and rowed toward them. Marie-Josèphe whispered encouragement to Sherzad. She tugged her hand free of the net. The skiff came alongside. Lucien, elegant in white satin and gold lace, handed his sword-cane up the side and climbed the ladder to the deck. Marie-Josèphe ran to him; she caught his hands, fine and strong in deerskin gloves. No one would ever guess he had come straight from prison.

“Lucien, my love—”

“Pardon me,” he said. He walked unsteadily to the leeward rail and was sick over the side.

“The ship hasn’t even raised anchor!” Marie-Josèphe said. She brought him some water. He did not drink, but splashed it on his face.

The anchor cable groaned around the capstan. The sails fell open; the wind whipped them taut.

“It has now,” Lucien said, and leaned over the side again.

“My poor friend,” she said. “You’ll feel better soon.”

“No, I won’t,” Lucien said. The ship rolled a few degrees. He groaned. “I wish I were on the battlefield… in the rain… unhorsed… without my sword. I wish His Majesty had left me in the Bastille.”

“How can you say that!”

“Do me the kindness,” he said, “of leaving me alone.”

On the rough crossing from Martinique, many of Marie-Josèphe’s fellow passengers had been seasick, but none with the marvelous sensitivity of Lucien. The galleon sailed through calm coastal waters with barely enough breeze to make headway, but Lucien’s illness intensified. Marie-Josèphe worried as much about him as she worried about Sherzad. The King showed no sympathy for either of them. Even when the ship sat pitching and yawing at anchor all day while the skiff searched for Sherzad’s rocks, Louis showed no impatience. Marie-Josèphe became convinced that he found malicious enjoyment in stripping Lucien of his position and his blue coat and subjecting him to misery.

She tried, unsuccessfully, to coax Sherzad to eat a fish; she tried, unsuccessfully, to persuade Lucien to drink some broth.

The captain came to her under her canopy. He bowed.

“My respects, mamselle, and His Majesty demands your presence.”

In the King’s luxurious cabin, Marie-Josèphe curtsied.

“Where is this treasure you promised me?” he said.

She fancied that the King felt sick because of the ship’s slow erratic dance, and she felt glad of it.

“Your Majesty, Sherzad can’t see the ocean from the deck. Please free her. If she can hear the ocean properly, she’ll lead me to the right cove.”

“I will see,” His Majesty said.

Sometimes he meant it, but all too often he meant to refuse but did not care to say it. It was pointless to try to change his mind. Marie-Josèphe curtsied again. The King turned away, dismissing her.

“Your Majesty,” she said, pausing in the hatchway. “M. de Chrétien’s of no use to you here. Put him ashore, send him back to Versailles—”

“Where he has too many friends!” His Majesty exclaimed. “He’ll stay here, in my sight, until you find the treasure.”

Marie-Josèphe fled. She understood: His Majesty held Lucien hostage to illness on the flagship, he held Yves hostage under guard at the chateau, until Marie-Josèphe succeeded and the King returned safe to his court.

On deck, she bathed Lucien’s face with a wet cloth.

“I don’t like you to see me this way,” he said.

“You saw me after the surgeon bled me,” Marie-Josèphe said. “If I only stand with you during good times, what kind of a friend would I be?”

He managed to smile. “You’re a friend without boundaries.”

“And without limits,” she said. She took his hand. As yet, they had done no more than touch each other’s hands. She wondered what would happen when they could do more.

My heart can hardly beat faster, she thought.

“Are you otherwise recovered?” she asked. “From your extraordinary situation?”

“There’s something to be said for sea-sickness.”

“What’s that?”

“It takes one’s mind off one’s other misfortunes.”

His Majesty’s guards approached Sherzad’s basin. One carried a musket, another a club. Sailors followed with a net and a coil of rope.

Marie-Josèphe leaped up. “What are you doing? She enjoys His Majesty’s protection!”

“It’s His Majesty gave the orders, mamselle,” the lieutenant said. “Stay back, now.”

“Are you freeing her?” Marie-Josèphe cried, amazed, overwhelmed. “You needn’t threaten her.” She sang to Sherzad, joyously, a simple child’s song. “Lie quiet, Sherzad, as you did when they freed you into the Grand Canal. The King is keeping his word!”

Sherzad obeyed restlessly. The sailors loosened the net and used it as a sling. Sherzad’s hair was dull and tangled, her eyes sunken, the swellings on her face deflated and venous. Pallor greyed her mahogany skin; her wounds were red and swollen.