Fool's Errand (5 page)

“And shall we bring your man Azriel with us for protection?” asked Meeka, her ample bosom heaving at the prospect.

Azriel smiled at her.

“No,” said Persephone shortly. “You shall not, for I would have words with him.”

After casting Azriel a look of lust-tinged pity, Meeka followed her sisters and Martha out of the room. As soon as they were gone, Persephone turned toward Azriel. Before now, upon finding himself alone with her after they'd faced certain death together, Azriel would probably have stepped close enough to wrap his powerful arms around her. And maybe he'd have lifted her off her feet and crushed her to him as though he could never hold her close enough—but maybe he'd have waited until the intoxicating nearness of his strength had turned her knees to water and she'd melted against him of her own accord.

Now, however, he took not one step toward her, only stood staring down at her with those eyes like river ice.

Persephone had no idea where to begin. If he'd shown his hurt, she'd have tried to soothe him; if he'd shown his anger, she'd definitely have fought with him. If he'd shown the least tenderness toward her, she knew for a certainty that she'd have collapsed into his arms.

But he showed nothing at all. Except for the shadows moving deep beneath the surface of the ice in his eyes, it was as though he'd gone to a place so far away that she could never hope to follow.

“I … I'm sorry that I lied and ran out on you, Azriel,” she said at last.

“Oh?”

At the coolness of his tone, Persephone flinched and looked down at her hands. “I didn't want to hurt you,” she said. “I was just … I was afraid for you. And for me,” she added reluctantly, in the interests of complete honesty.

“Oh.”

She waited for him to say something more. When he didn't, she lifted her head and looked at him. “Is that all you can say?” she asked, hazarding a tentative smile. “After everything we've been through together, all you can say is 'oh'?”

“What would you have me say, Your Highness?” he asked impassively.

Her smile vanished. “Don't call me that.” “

As you wish, Princess,” he intoned. “

Stop it!”

Scowling slightly, she eyed him askance, this chicken thief who'd bought her like a sow from market, embroiled her in a dangerous tribal prophecy and was currently withholding from her the teasing warmth to which she'd become so accustomed. The teasing warmth that, truth be told, she'd never needed more desperately than she did at this moment.

Abruptly deciding to change tack, Persephone put her hands on her hips and said, “You know, you might do well to remember that you lied to me, too.”

This brought a flush of indignation to Azriel's cheeks, thawing the ice in his eyes just a little. “What are you talking about?” he asked.

Gratified to have finally gotten
some
reaction out of him, Persephone swiftly stepped closer. “
You
told me you'd been abandoned to the Gypsies as a child,” she reminded him as she silently willed him to reach for her. “
You
said you had no memory of your early years.”

Her words—or her sudden nearness—deepened the flush on Azriel's face so that his skin looked hot to the touch. “I never lied to
you
,” he said, stepping away from her.

Persephone opened her mouth to protest, then closed it again as she thought about what he'd just said.

Then her heart began to pound.

“What are you saying?” she asked, pressing her hand against her throbbing chest. “Are you saying that you told me the truth, and you lied to the Regent? Are you saying that … that you are
not
Balthazar's bastard?”

“Yes, that is what I am saying, but—”

“So you don't know for a certainty that the healing Pool of Genezing exists?” she asked, her voice rising. “You have no knowledge of the clues that will lead us to it?”

“No, but—”

Persephone was so horrified by the implication that she thought she would fly at Azriel with her fists. Instead, her eyes rolled back into her head, and her knees gave way without warning. Though she was not in a dead faint, she surely would have hit the floor if Azriel hadn't caught her first.

“Princess—
Persephone
—let me explain!” he exclaimed as he sank to his knees with her in his arms.

In vain she tried to push him away. “You. you lied to save yourself from death, and your lies will cost the king his life,” she gasped as she fought against his embrace. “There is nothing to explain!”

“Yes, there is something to explain,” Azriel whispered harshly as he held her tighter still. “Listen to me! Though I lied to save us
both
from death, my lies bought the king time as well, for I promise you that the Regent will not dare to harm him as long as he believes we may return to him with proof that the healing pool exists!”

Struck by the soundness of this logic, Persephone immediately stopped struggling and lay limp as a child, revelling in the warmth of Azriel's shoulder against her cheek and the strength of his arms around her. “But how can we search for the pool if we don't know whether it exists and you haven't any clues?” she asked, craning her neck to look up at him.

Azriel stared down into her upturned face for so long that Persephone's heart began to pound again. Instead of leaning down to kiss her, however, he shook his head as though to clear it. Easing her off his lap, he helped her to her feet. “I believe that the pool
does
exist, and my people have reason to believe that there
are
clues,” he explained as he strode over to the long table by the shuttered windows and poured two goblets of mulled wine. “Over the years, a few have even gone in search of these clues.”

“And have they found them?” asked Persephone, hoping she didn't sound as dismayed as she felt to find herself standing trembling and alone—again.

“Difficult to say, for none ever returned,” said Azriel lightly. Walking back over, he handed one of the goblets to her before adding, “But that does not mean that we won't return, Princess.”

Persephone gulped down some wine. “So you truly intend that we shall seek the pool?” she asked, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

“Yes.”

“And … why would you take such risks for the life of an Erok king?” she asked, holding the stem of the goblet a little tighter.

“Since it sounds as though you do not seek the throne for yourself, keeping King Finnius alive and in power is the best hope my people have of seeing their persecution ended,” explained Azriel with a shrug. “Besides, the healing pool is our sacred legacy, and I wish to see my people living in peace by its water's edge once more.”

Persephone nodded and took another sip of wine. Just a few short hours earlier, she was sure that Azriel's response to that same question would have been to sidle close enough to take her breath away and to murmur in her ear that he would take such risks because he loved her desperately and knew that saving the life of this particular Erok king mattered more to her than almost anything.

But it was clear to her that things between them had changed—or, more specifically, that his feelings toward her had changed. Though he was no longer as cold as he had been, neither was he quite as warm.

Even as Persephone was trying to tell herself that this was probably just as well and that she had enough to worry about without worrying that she would someday break the heart of this handsome rascal who'd once promised her the world, Azriel flashed his old pirate smile and raised his goblet to her.

“What are you doing?” she blurted, feeling distinctly unsettled by his sudden display of fondness.

“Toasting your health,” he replied.

“Toasting my
health?
” she echoed in amazement. “But … but
why?
”

Azriel took a small step backward and smiled again. “Haven't you figured out what day it is, Persephone?”

Mutely, she shook her head.

“If it is the king's birthday today, then it is yours as well. And since we are about to venture forth together into gravest peril, and since I have made a solemn vow to protect your life with my own, and since I have a declared fondness for my own worthless hide, let me be the first to wish you a happy birthday, Your Highness—and to say that I sincerely hope it will not be your last.”

FIVE

A
S MORDECAI MADE HIS WAY
through the crowded corridors toward the king's private chambers, he could tell by the way people stared and whispered that they'd guessed the truth: that the king and the woman known as “Lady Bothwell” were royal twins separated at birth—and that he, Mordecai, had had a hand in separating them.

Beyond enraging him, the stares and whispers made Mordecai more uneasy than he cared to admit. He was accustomed to nobodies treating him with painstaking courtesy borne of abject terror; he was used to noblemen treating him with frosty respect borne of an understanding that he had the power to raise and enrich—or break and impoverish.

Now, nobodies and nobility alike looked at him with morbid curiosity, as though they thought he was finished, as though they believed that when the come-of-age king learned of his past dark deeds he'd be transformed not from “the Great Regent Mordecai” to “Simply Mordecai” but from “the Great Regent Mordecai” to “Mordecai the Doomed.”

Well, he snarled to himself as he came to a halt outside the king's heavily guarded chambers and barked to be announced to His Majesty,
we'll just see about that
.

The guard who'd hurried off to announce Mordecai returned in seconds.

“The king will see you at once, Your Grace!” he cried, rapping the butt of his poleaxe on the floor and clicking his heels together.

With a sour glance at the strong hand that clutched the poleaxe, Mordecai tugged General Murdock's black cloak more tightly around himself and lurched forward into the king's sumptuous, high-ceilinged inner chamber. The walls were hung with priceless tapestries, and the polished floor gleamed in the light of many candles of such quality that they did not smoke or gutter in the least. A desk in one corner was strewn with the untidy evidence of neglected studies; across the room, a golden bowl of rare fruit glinted on the vast, ornately carved mahogany table. Next to the fruit bowl was one extremely small pile of white beans, one extremely large pile of white beans and a deck of playing cards that had been abandoned in apparent frustration. Sitting in a cushioned rocking chair near the fire—her feet propped up on the stuffed head of the great bear whose thick fur now served as a royal rug—sat the insufferable cow who'd mothered King Finnius since infancy. In her lap lay one of the king's gem-encrusted velvet doublets. The sewing needle in her capable hand flew in and out of the fine material with such speed that it was almost a blur; she looked up when Mordecai entered the room but did not stop her mending or rise to her feet.

Mordecai resisted the urge to bare his teeth at her or even to indulge in visions of the skin flayed from her revoltingly sturdy peasant body. She would shortly be beyond the protection of her royal charge, in a location where he, Mordecai, would be able to
personally
assist her in finally coming to know her place in this world.

She could pay the price for her insolence then.

“Your Grace!” cried the lithe, dark-haired young king, striding forward with such purpose that it was hard to believe that only a short while earlier he'd been dancing in his shirt sleeves, smiling and bleary-eyed with drink. “What has happened? Where is Lady Bothwell? I tried to leave my chamber but the soldiers would not let me pass!”

“Your Majesty,” murmured Mordecai in a voice oozing sympathy, “if you will recall, I ordered them to let no one pass, upon pain of death. It was for your own protection—”

“I don't care!” interrupted the king, jabbing his index finger into Mordecai's face so forcefully that the startled Regent took a stumbling step backward. “They should have obeyed my order, Your Grace. I am the king. I am of age to rule, and I
will
rule.”