Tomorrow's Kingdom (35 page)

“
T
HE DAY BEFORE
you left on your quest for the healing pool,” began Meeka, “Mordecai kidnapped and imprisoned the king's nursemaid—”

“What?”
exclaimed Persephone in horror.

Meeka nodded grimly. “Mordecai locked her in the dungeon, and His Majesty could think of no safe way to rescue her,” she explained. “When King Finnius realized he was dying, he made me swear I'd see her saved. The only thing I could think to do was to get myself assigned to the task of delivering bread to the dungeon, find Moira and hope you'd return before it was too late.”

“And it is not too late?” said Persephone hopefully, clutching the other girl's sleeve.

“Not quite,” said Meeka. “But almost.”

That was all that Persephone needed to hear. Throwing off her hunger, thirst and exhaustion, she sent Martha and Meeta running with orders to ready another chamber, prepare a bath, send up food and summon the court physicians. Then she grabbed a torch and quickly
led Azriel and Meeka out of the palace and across the back courtyard to the small outer building that housed the dungeon entrance.

“Persephone—” began Azriel.

“I know I can't go down there,” she interrupted, thrusting the torch at him. As fiercely as she wanted to be the one to unlock Moira's fetters, she did not need to be told that to descend the slippery winding staircase to the filthy, rat-infested depths would be to foolishly and needlessly risk the life of the baby.

Seeming immensely relieved that he'd not had to fight her on this, Azriel flashed her a smile that was almost as good as a kiss and then followed Meeka down into hell.

Her folded arms pressed hard against her belly, Persephone paced back and forth before the open dungeon door. Every few seconds, she paused to anxiously peer into the inky darkness, and it wasn't long before she began to worry that something had gone wrong. Then, just as she was about to go down after them, Meeka's voice floated up from the depths. A moment later Azriel climbed up out of the darkness with Moira cradled in his arms.

At least, Persephone
assumed
it was Moira. It was difficult to say for sure because the poor creature wrapped in the blanket that Meeka had thought to bring along bore no resemblance whatsoever to the sturdy, smiling woman of Persephone's memory. This woman was caked in filth, starving and covered in oozing sores. What hair she had left hung in grey rat tails. Her right eye was nothing but a sunken socket and her once-capable hands were curled
into claws—the nails badly torn and at least one of the fingers missing.

Persephone—who'd known that Moira would be in terrible condition but who'd never imagined anything like
this
—took a stumbling step backward. Almost immediately, however, she forced herself forward and laid her trembling hand on Moira's arm.

“Moira?” she said softly, trying not to shudder at the grotesque thinness of the arm beneath her hand.

With agonizing slowness, the woman who'd mothered Finn since birth turned her head. When she saw Persephone, a single silvery tear fell from her remaining eye.

Blinking back tears of her own, Persephone swallowed past the lump in her throat and hoarsely said, “Let's get you inside.”

Even though she had plenty of capable servants she could have assigned to the task, Persephone insisted upon personally assisting Martha and Meeka in tending to poor Moira. She'd been too late to properly care for Finn in his hour of need; she'd be damned if she'd miss the chance to do so for the woman he'd loved like a mother.

And so, after distractedly handing her silver crown to Azriel and telling him not to wait up for her, she helped remove Moira's foul rags, ease her into the tub and sponge the filth from her poor, broken body. She washed and combed Moira's hair as best she could; she trimmed her ragged nails. She helped her into a nightgown of softest cotton and saw her laid gently upon the bed. Then, after categorically refusing to allow the court physicians to bleed Moira, she watched like a hawk while they applied salve to and bandaged her many wounds.

It was very late when the physicians finally departed. After asking Martha and Meeka to do the same, Persephone tucked warmed blankets around Moira and fed her spoonfuls of broth by the light of the single candle set on the bedside table. At length she set the broth aside and ate some bread and cheese herself. Then she sat with Moira through the night, holding her hand and gentling her back to sleep whenever her moans and twitches told of the torment of nightmares.

Shortly after dawn the next morning, Martha slipped back into the chamber and quietly offered to take over watching Moira. Reluctant though she was to accept the offer, Persephone knew that a queen with an army to raise, a coronation to arrange and a battle to plan for could not afford the luxury of devoting herself solely to one woman's convalescence, no matter how beloved that woman might be. So, with a whispered command to Martha that she was to notify her if Moira took even the tiniest turn for the worse, Persephone rose, tiptoed across the chamber and slipped out into the hall.

When she got back to her chamber, instead of finding Azriel lying half naked in a tangle of sheets with a sleepy, come-hither smile upon his handsome face (as she'd rather hoped she would), she found him wide awake and pacing worriedly before the long table that was now loaded down with platters of meat and cheese, baskets of buns and breads, and bowls of jellies, jams, custards, eggs and fruit. The instant he saw her, Azriel bounded toward her and swept her into his arms. As he did so, Meeka and Meeta— who'd been standing by the claw-footed tub—dashed out the back door.

“Where are they going?” asked Persephone, feeling suddenly, inexpressibly weary.

“To fetch more hot water for your bath,” replied Azriel.

Persephone sagged in his arms. “You … you had them prepare a bath for me?” she asked in a tiny voice, wondering why she felt like she might burst into tears.

“I did indeed,” replied Azriel, leading her over to the fire and tenderly settling her into one of the armchairs. “I am your Master of Bath, after all.”

“Oh, Azriel,” said Persephone as she watched him sink to his knees before her and begin easing off her boots. “You are so,
so
much more than that.”

Azriel proved himself to be a Master of Bath quite without equal.

As soon as the bathwater was warmed and scented to his satisfaction, he dismissed Meeka and Meeta, stripped down to his breeches and then stripped Persephone—so slowly and sensually that Persephone half-forgot there was a bath waiting for her. Once he had her undressed, he lifted her into his arms, carried her over to the tub and gently lowered her into the hot, fragrant water. Leaving her to soak for a moment, he fetched her a plateful of food and a goblet of watered wine. Setting them down on a nearby table so that she could eat and drink at her leisure, he then set to work—soaping and massaging her tired limbs, washing and oiling her hair, shaping and buffing her nails. He was so remarkably skilled that aside from the fact that he paid an inordinate amount of attention to certain parts of her anatomy, Persephone would almost have believed that he'd been trained in the art of soap and sponge in very truth.

When he was satisfied that no square inch of her body had escaped his attentions, Azriel helped her from the tub and carefully patted her dry with a warmed sheet.

“Shall I tuck you into bed now, wife?” he asked in a seductive voice, draping a second warmed sheet around her shoulders and drawing her close.

Smiling slightly, Persephone shook her head. “No, husband,” she said, giving his bare chest a little kiss. “Tired as I am, this is my first day in my imperial capital, and I would not waste a minute of it.”

FORTY-FOUR

A
FTER CALLING FOR MEEKA
and Meeta to help her dress (Martha being occupied tending to Moira, Meena having been reassigned to Lord Belmont, and Azriel having confessed that his talent for undressing women far exceeded his talent for dressing them), Persephone sought out Lord Belmont. The nobleman seemed enormously pleased to be invited to join her royal Council, and though he was initially thrown by the news that his fellow Councillors included tribal barbarians, lowborn bandits, Gypsy outlaws and women, he adjusted with remarkable ease.

“So, we are all in agreement that our first order of business must be to send messengers to every corner of the realm with an urgent call to arms for all subjects loyal to the crown?” he asked as he stared at the heaping platter of pastries before him.

Everyone nodded but Miter.

Sucking air through his crowded teeth, Miter rolled his eyes and sniffed, “Miter has already informed you that
no warrior worth his salt would follow a pregnant female into battle.”

“I disagree,” said Azriel, glaring at the little Gorgishman, who yawned theatrically and looked away.

“I do too,” chorused Rachel and Cairn.

“As do I,” said Lord Belmont as he reached for a particularly delectable-looking cream-filled pastry. “Yet it matters not what anyone thinks, for the messengers shall not be informed of the queen's delicate condition.”

Frowning, Persephone said, “My lord, I will not lie to my subjects.”

“And I would not ask you to,” replied Lord Belmont diffidently. Pausing to demurely wipe a dollop of cream from his lips, he said, “With respect, Your Majesty, there are protocols for announcing such momentous news as royal marriages and pregnancies, and I can assure you that your subjects would be
most
distressed if you did not follow them.”

“Very well,” said Persephone, ignoring Miter's derisive snort. “But the messengers must inform people that if they arrive within the fortnight, they'll be treated as honoured guests at my coronation. And they must also let it be known that I shall spare the lives of any New Men who desert Mordecai's army before we meet on the battlefield.”

“
WHAT
?” exclaimed Fayla, leaping to her feet.

Knowing that she must be remembering the New Men who'd murdered poor Tiny, Persephone did her best to explain. “Some of those New Men were forced into service after having terrible things done to them and their families,” she said. “I won't slaughter them without at least giving them a
chance
to make amends. Besides, the more we can do to weaken Mordecai's army, the smaller the army
we
will need to defeat it.”

Not the least mollified by this explanation, the Gypsy girl shot Persephone a scathing look before turning and stalking out of the Council chamber. Gritting her teeth against the urge to holler at Fayla to come back and
sit down
, Persephone turned her attention back to the table only to find Robert, Barka and Cairn looking almost as outraged as Fayla had.

“The deserting New Men will not be granted a full pardon,” said Persephone, trying not to sound as exasperated as she felt. “Though their lives shall be spared, they'll be stripped of any property or riches they've obtained during their military service. They'll be forced to confess to their crimes in public. They'll be required to make what amends they can to those to whom they've done injury.”

“Many will think that is not enough,” warned Robert, who clearly counted himself among the many.

“I know,” said Persephone shortly. “But whose head would ever
truly
be safe around a queen who'd remove thousands of heads simply to appease the many?”

“Not mine?” guessed Robert, after a long moment of silence.

“Probably not,” agreed Persephone, who imagined there were many in the realm who'd like to see the infamous bandit's head parted from his body.

“Well, in
that
case, Your Majesty,” said Robert grandly.
“I wholeheartedly support your decision to allow the deserters to keep their heads.”

“Yes,” said Persephone. “I thought you might.”