Tomorrow's Kingdom

by Maureen Fergus

  The cow did not seem the least bothered by the revelation that she’d been sacrificed and forgotten. On the contrary, she actually seemed to glow at the knowledge that her beloved king had fought the enemy of his people to the very end.

  “His Majesty was kind and brave,” she said with quiet satisfaction. “I hope he was given a proper state funeral.”

  “He was, but only because the great lords insisted upon it,” replied Mordecai, his mood darkening dangerously. “If it had been up to me alone, I’d have dumped the fool’s naked corpse onto the slag heap and been done with it.”

  “And what of His Majesty’s twin?” asked the nursemaid, her chains clinking softly as she shifted upon her bed of rotting straw. “Does she yet wander the kingdom seeking the healing pool, or did the poor thing return empty-handed only to watch her brother die?”

  At the mention of the healing pool, Mordecai’s dark mood vanished, and his spirits soared. Clutching the locket that contained the miraculous leafy sprig that showed no signs of wilting, he said, “The queen returned to watch her brother die—but she did not return empty-handed.”

  “Perhaps not empty-handed—but not with a map to any healing pool,” guessed the cow.

  “Oh?” said Mordecai, striving to sound nonchalant. “What makes you so sure?”

  “Besides the fact that you’re still crippled, the queen loved her brother,” replied the nursemaid. “If she and her Gypsy lover had found a pool of waters with the power to cure his cursèd cough, His Majesty would be alive today.”

  Mordecai’s dark eyes bulged with outrage. “How many times do I have to tell you that the cockroach is not … the queen’s … LOVER!” he shrieked, kicking out at the silver platter so hard that it overturned with a clatter, scattering grass and clover across the muck and slime.

  Startled, the cow jumped; in the shadows, unseen things scuttled about, squeaking in distress. Pushing himself to his feet so violently that he wrenched a muscle in his back, Mordecai snatched the cow’s own crochet needle from the pocket of his robe and started toward her. She turned her head and shrank against the wall, but it was no use. With the aid of a nearby bar of iron, Mordecai knocked her over. Then, grunting with exertion, he knelt heavily upon her bleeding temple and pressed the crochet needle against her fluttering eyelid.

  “And even if the queen has defiled herself with the cockroach,” he hissed, his guts twisting with the hateful knowledge that she almost certainly had, “it matters not because she will soon be mine, and he will be DEAD!”

  The cow started to struggle. “What do you—?”

  Her words were cut short by a hideous, high-pitched scream from a nearby corridor.

  “Do not be alarmed—it is only the sound of General Murdock delivering instruction to a certain red-headed imbecile on the subject of what happens to servants who fail to take proper care of the belongings of their betters,” soothed Mordecai as he ground his knee harder into the side of her head. “Between you and me, I confess that I once doubted Murdock’s loyalty and had thoughts toward destroying him, but that is all behind me now—for the moment, at least. Now, what were you asking?”

  “I was asking … I was asking what you meant when you said that the queen will soon be yours,” stammered the cow, panting with pain.

  “I meant that within the hour I shall board a ship that will take me to her,” explained Mordecai. “On the very day of our joyful reunion, she shall take me as her wedded husband in a union so ironclad that even the great Lord Bartok will not be able to tear it asunder.”

  “And … and if she will not take you?”

  “As you, yourself, have come to learn, obedience can come easily or with great difficulty,” murmured Mordecai, applying so much pressure to the crochet needle that he could feel the eyeball beneath getting ready to pop. “The queen will take me—one way or another. And then she will take me—and she will do so with vigour and enthusiasm, or I will know the reason why.”

  “I pray the gods help her,” whispered the cow as a single tear squeezed out from under her eyelid.

  Mordecai laughed loudly. Then he leaned very close and said, “Save your prayers for yourself.”

  Later that same night, while the rest of the palace’s inhabitants slumbered, Murdock rowed Mordecai out to a nondescript vessel that had quietly sailed into the royal harbour less than an hour earlier.

  As the rowboat came alongside the hull, Mordecai stood, grabbed the rope ladder the soldiers had let down and awkwardly began to climb. By the time he reached the top (having almost slipped twice), he was trembling so hard that one of the soldiers had to drag him over the deck rail by the back of his robe. Tight-lipped with rage and humiliation, Mordecai said not a word but lurched after the captain to the cabin that had been prepared in anticipation of his arrival. It was stuffy and small and not nearly as sumptuously appointed as the living quarters to which Mordecai had become accustomed.

  “Will there be anything else, Your Gr—”

  Mordecai closed the cabin door in the captain’s face. Exhaling heavily, he let his head droop and gave his aching neck a useless massage. Then he shuffled over to the tiny window. As he pulled open the shutters, he heard the captain quietly calling out the orders that would see the ship on its way.

  Mordecai felt the cool breeze upon his hot face; he watched the starlight play upon the rippling water of the open sea.

  Absently lifting his hand to the locket about his neck, he decided he would not think about how he’d just been dragged over the deck rail like a useless cripple. Nor would he think about the nursemaid’s haunting assertion that if Queen Persephone had truly discovered the healing pool, the king would yet be alive.

  Instead, he’d think about the woman he’d shortly take as his bride. He’d recall how she’d made him feel in those first heady days after he’d found her hiding in the alley pretending to be the intrepid Lady Bothwell—how she’d tantalized him by flaunting her unusual appetites and treating him as a man like any other. He’d remember the sight of her being forced to the floor at his feet and the way her breasts had heaved as she’d struggled and begged—even if it was for the life of the cockroach. He’d savour the memory of how she’d promised him that she’d do anything—and he’d indulge himself in imagining that she’d willingly do anything and more, once she could be made to see how much the two of them actually had in common and how great they could be together.

  And he’d believe that Queen Persephone had found the healing Pool of Genezing and that the only reason she’d not saved her brother, the king, was that she’d returned to Parthania too late to do so. He’d believe that the royal fool who’d thought to thwart him had thus died in agony, knowing that if he could’ve clung to this world for just a few days more, the long life of health and happiness he’d ever dreamt of would have been his.

  For the sake of his beautiful bride-to-be, Mordecai hoped this last part was true.

  For if it was not, not even the gods themselves would be able to save her from his wrath.

  TEN

  AFTER SEVEN DAYS on stormy seas, the ship on which Persephone was sailing finally dropped anchor in a deserted cove.

  Flinging open the door of the small cabin in which she’d been imprisoned, Hairy ordered Persephone to follow him. When she refused to comply until he told her where they were going, he shoved her face first onto the bunk and sat on her while he bound her flailing hands and kicking feet. Then, ignoring her threats and insults, he carried her up the steep stairs to the ship’s deck, tied a rope around her and lowered her down to Tutor’s waiting arms. By the time Tutor had gotten her safely stowed in the bow of the small rowboat, Hairy had made his way down the slippery rope ladder that hung from the ship’s rail. Throwing off the rope that tethered the rowboat to the ship, he seized the oars and rowed through the choppy water until they slid up onto a sandy beach. Tutor immediately reached for Persephone, and when she tried to bite his hand, he slapped her hard across the side of the head.

  �
�You shall pay dearly for that someday,” she vowed in a voice that she hoped was dripping with menace.

  In response, Tutor dragged her out of the rowboat by the scruff of her neck and—whistling cheerfully—hauled her over to a waiting carriage. Dumping her onto the bare floor, he slammed the door, consigning Persephone to the gloom. She felt the carriage lean sharply to the side as the two New Men climbed up onto the driver’s seat and then, with the crack of a whip, they were off.

  The road along which they travelled was so badly rutted that Persephone had to clench her teeth to keep them from rattling. It wasn’t long before, company notwithstanding, she longed for the moment they’d stop for the night. They didn’t stop for the night, however, but travelled onward through the gathering darkness and the ever-deepening chill. Cold, hungry, thirsty, fearful of what Mordecai had planned for her and haunted by the lonely sound of the wind that never stopped blowing, Persephone slept fitfully. Sometimes she dreamt. Mostly these were nightmares—fleeting images of a tiny blue baby lying discarded on a dirty tabletop with its translucent hands clutching its raggedly cut umbilical cord, or flashes of auburn curls sodden with blood and blue eyes that stared unseeing at the screaming black carrion birds that circled overhead.

  Once, though, she dreamt that Azriel was not dead but as alive as he could be and lying on his side right behind her. The dream was so real that Persephone could feel the weight of his strong arm holding her close against his broad chest, could feel his warm breath tickling the back of her neck. With a soft sigh, she felt the tension and apprehension begin to leech out of her, felt herself responding to his nearness.

  Safe, she thought as she rolled over and tilted her head for a kiss. We’re—

  The coach hit a particularly large rut then, jarring her awake.

  She didn’t sleep again after that. Instead, she lay awake in the cold darkness, trying not to think at all. After what seemed like an eternity of doing so, an almost imperceptible thinning of the darkness beyond the coach’s one tiny window heralded the arrival of a new day.

  Still the coach raced on.

  Mile after dreary mile, hour after exhausting hour, all through that second day they travelled, stopping only once, briefly, to allow Persephone to eat, drink and (mercifully!) tend to the call of nature.

  Nigh about dusk that day—just when Persephone had begun to wonder if Hairy and Tutor meant to drive her around until her teeth rattled right out of her head—an agitated voice from somewhere up ahead shouted for them to halt and state their business. The coach slowed; Tutor called out that they’d come to deliver a package of royal sweetmeats. Sounding considerably more agitated than before, the voice bade them enter at once. The whip cracked and the coach started forward again. A moment later, it passed beneath a gate that must have been ponderous judging from the way it creaked and groaned as it was cranked up.

  As it crashed shut behind them and the sound of hooves on cobblestones filled her ears, Persephone’s already pounding heart began to pound harder. Suddenly deciding that she didn’t want to face her unknown fate lying down, she flopped and wriggled her way into a sitting position. Manoeuvring herself as far from the door of the coach as she could, she pressed her back against the wall and pulled her knees up to her chest.

  If I am quick, resourceful and just the tiniest bit lucky, a solution will present itself, she reminded herself as the coach clattered to a halt. I just need to be patient and wait for it to do so.

  The next instant the door was flung open. Grabbing Persephone by the legs, Hairy yanked her forward so roughly that her skirt rode up. Gripping her naked thigh hard to keep her from squirming, he cut the rope that bound her ankles. Then he hauled her out of the carriage and into the deserted courtyard.

  So much for a solution presenting itself, she thought grimly as she beheld the sprawling castle that rose up before her. Built in the shadow of a barren mountain at the very edge of a high cliff, it was constructed of blackest stone. Except for along the cliff edge, it was protected by a wall so thick that a brace of oxen could have pulled a wagon along the top if it hadn’t been for the iron spikes set every few feet. Several of these spikes were topped with heads that appeared to have been dipped in tar to slow the process of decay; the rest stood empty and waiting against a backdrop of low clouds scudding across a stormy sky.

  The shiver that swept through Persephone at that moment had nothing to do with the cold.

  “He … he’s here, isn’t he?” she asked, fighting to sound brave.

  “No,” replied Hairy as the massive iron door at the top of the granite steps slowly and silently swung open as if by its own accord. “But he will be. Soon.”

  ELEVEN

  BACK IN PARTHANIA, General Murdock was doing his best to adjust to his temporary role as ruler of the city.

  “I’m sorry, Lord Bartok, but I cannot permit you or anyone else to leave the imperial capital at this time,” he said for the umpteenth time. “As I have already told you, His Grace Mordecai ordered me to keep the city gates shut until he returns with the queen.”

  “And as I have already told you, your orders mean nothing to me,” replied Lord Bartok, casting a sweeping look around the Council table at his fellow noblemen. “Mordecai’s right to power died with my royal son-in-law’s final breath. Who is he to think that he can tell the great lords of this realm what they can and cannot do? Who are you to think that you can do so?”

  “I think I am the man who commands the thousands of soldiers who patrol the city and guard the gates,” replied General Murdock as he reached up to give his long, thin nose a scratch.

  Lord Bartok’s eyes narrowed imperceptibly but all he said was, “There are rumours of an outbreak of the Great Sickness in the slums. My daughter Aurelia carries the king’s son in her belly; if she were to fall sick and the child were lost, the realm would surely suffer.”

  Recalling Mordecai’s command that he at least attempt to be diplomatic in his dealings with the nobility, General Murdock refrained from asking Lord Bartok why the royal midwives had not yet been called upon to confirm the so-called pregnancy. Instead, he said, “Such a loss would be a tragedy for you and yours, of course, my lord. However, you must understand that it would not be an event of consequence for the realm. The late king named his sister Persephone as his successor, and your fellow lords have publicly declared for her.”

  “Some have privately declared to me their belief that if the king had been aware that his wife was pregnant, he’d have set his unborn child before his sister,” said Lord Bartok.

  “But he did not set his unborn child before his sister,” said General Murdock as he carefully smoothed a stray strand of thin, colourless hair back from his sloping brow, “and so the princess is queen, and my lord Mordecai shall be prince consort—or king.”

  “We shall see,” muttered Lord Bartok with a shrug.

  At these words, General Murdock gave the greatest of the great lords the same calm, blank-eyed stare that had preceded death for so many. “Careful, my lord,” he said softly.

  Lord Bartok held his stare without flinching. “I only meant that many things can happen between the death of a king and the anointing of his successor.”

  “Indeed,” said General Murdock, smelling liver.

  The late evening Council meeting did not last long after that.

  As he moved through the torch-lit palace corridors toward his next appointment, General Murdock kept to the shadows as much as possible to avoid the unwelcome feel of eyes upon him. He thought about how much more difficult it was to be a man of words than it was to be a man of action—and about how much riskier it was.

  Coming to a halt before the door of a storage closet not far from the chambers assigned to the more distinguished members of court, General Murdock checked to make sure no one was watching, then opened the door and slipped inside. Navigating across the closet easily in spite of the darkness, he crept behind a stack of old barrels, slid aside a loose piece of panelling and stepped into th
e low passageway beyond. The passageway smelled of worms and mice, was dark as pitch and was so narrow in places that he was forced to turn sideways to carry on, but none of this bothered General Murdock in the least.

  Indeed, the passageway was the kind of place in which he’d always felt most at home.

  At length, he arrived at the location of his next appointment. Pressing his beady eye against the pinprick hole in the wall, he watched the dead king’s birdlike little widow flit about her chambers issuing orders to the harried servants who were helping her prepare for bed.

  General Murdock had watched Lady Aurelia often of late. He did not believe she was with child but he did believe that her lord father was up to something and that she had a part to play in it. As he pondered what that part might be, he watched her stand still for long enough to allow her maids to undress her.

  General Murdock felt no stirrings of desire at the sight of the young noblewoman’s naked body because he was not a man to feel stirrings. He was not a man to feel desire either—except perhaps for the desire to fulfill his duty.

  Duty.

  For General Murdock, it ever came back to duty.

  As he listened to Lady Aurelia dismiss her maids, General Murdock frowned at the memory of how the men under his command had recently failed in their duty to capture the queen’s husband. He did not like to think what Mordecai would have done if he’d not been able to assure him that the Gypsy was doomed anyway. Years of hunting Gypsies had taught General Murdock that in times of danger, they always returned to the safety of their hidden nests. Unfortunately for this particular Gypsy, his nest was no longer hidden or safe. General Murdock had discovered it while tracking the queen during her quest for the healing pool. Its secret location had almost died with him when he’d suffered a ghastly belly wound in the Great Forest, but he’d somehow managed to survive, and prior to returning to Parthania a fortnight past, he’d sent a dozen highly trained soldiers to slaughter and scalp every man, woman and child in the camp.