Tomorrow's Kingdom

by Maureen Fergus

  “Oh, it is so good to see you again!” she cried.

  All three curtseyed a second time—Martha primly, Meeta excitedly and Meeka without even a passing glance at Azriel, the sight of whom had heretofore ever set the girl’s ample bosom heaving.

  The instant they rose up again, Meeka started to say something but Martha—who’d always been the most proper of Persephone’s servants—quieted her with a sharp look.

  Then she turned to Persephone and said, “It is good to see you too, Your Majesty. I have ordered the cooks to send up your supper at once and have arranged for the delivery of fresh linens with which to make up your bed.” Martha cleared her throat before delicately asking, “Shall we, uh, also make up a bed on the floor as in times past?”

  Persephone glanced at Azriel, who shrugged as if to say that she could reply any way she liked so long as she remembered that he and his broad shoulders would be joining her in the big bed, come what may. Flushing with anticipation—and knowing that she could trust Martha and the sisters with the truth, at least part of which they’d figure out for themselves the first time they helped her dress—Persephone said, “A bed on the floor will not be necessary, Martha, for as it happens, Azriel and I were married some months ago, and I am with child.”

  “OH, CONGRATULATIONS, YOUR MAJESTY!” shouted Meeta excitedly.

  “Thank you, Meeta,” laughed Persephone. “But you mustn’t shout because we’ve not yet officially announced our good news.”

  “Oh! Yes, Your Majesty!” whispered the girl, wideeyed.

  Looking pleased and relieved, Martha said, “We’ll only make up the bed, then. In the meantime, shall we prepare a bath for you?”

  Persephone sighed deeply. “Oh, Martha, that would be—”

  “No,” interrupted Meeka. “You can’t bathe, Your Majesty—not yet.”

  “Meeka!” gasped Martha. “How … how dare you presume to tell your queen what to do!”

  “I’m sorry,” said Meeka unrepentantly. “But there is something the queen needs to do. Now.”

  FORTY-THREE

  “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 t
he 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

  AFTER 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.”

  After ending the Council meeting and checking on Moira, Persephone spent the rest of the day receiving the legions of Parthanian citizens who were eager to be among the first to pledge themselves to her. Azriel and the other Councillors, meanwhile, rode out into the city to assess the supply situation and to determine all that must be done to protect the city and ready themselves for war.

  That evening, a great feast was held in honour of Persephone’s return. Since nearly all of the nobility had long since departed the city, and since Persephone did not intend to favour lords and ladies above all others in any event, she commanded that all manner of subjects be invited to the feast. Therefore members of the royal Council, Khan warriors, Gypsies, merchants, farmers, lowborns and even slaves all sat side by side in the Great Hall, enjoying the marvellous and exotic dishes that were presented to Persephone by servants on bended knee, that she might taste and praise them before sending them onward to be shared by all. The atmosphere was undeniably strained as people from different tribes and stations struggled to find common ground. However, this struggle was much eased by the continuous flow of good wine—so much so that by the end of the meal when six kitchen servants carried out the giant confection that had been so cunningly wrought by the royal pastry chefs, the bleary-eyed revellers were as one in their roar of approval. Barka, in particular, was delighted by the edible re-creation of Persephone and her army marching through the city gates, though he later ate so many little almond-paste Khan warriors that he gave himself a bellyache.

  After supper, the music and dancing lasted until late into the night. Finally, when half the people in the hall were slumped face first in their platters, and Persephone could hardly keep her eyes open, Azriel leaned over and whispered, “Is it finally time to tuck you into bed?”

  “N-n-not quite,” replied Persephone, yawning enormously. “There is one last thing I would do this day.”

  Persephone stood silent and still at the threshold of the royal chambers.

  She was barely aware of Azriel quietly walking around the room lighting candles; instead, she was smiling slightly as she recalled the first time she’d stood at this same threshold. How nervous she’d been to greet Finn as brother for the first time, how she’d curtseyed so low that her legs had given way beneath her. How, instead of taking Finn’s hand when he tried to help
her up, she’d scrambled to her feet like a slave girl knocked off her milking stool. If she listened closely, she could almost hear the echo of Finn’s beautiful laugh … and his terrible cough.

  Could she really have known her twin for only a few weeks? She could have sworn that they’d shared a lifetime of memories.

  As Azriel continued to light candles and the chamber steadily grew brighter, Persephone’s gaze fell upon the desk in the corner. Tiptoeing across the polished floor, she frowned down at the immaculate desktop that should have been strewn with the untidy evidence of Finn’s neglected studies. Absently opening one of the drawers, her breath caught at the sight of a worn deck of playing cards and a pathetically small pile of white beans. Reaching into the drawer, Persephone turned over the top card and was somehow not surprised to see a joker. Sliding the drawer closed, she wandered over to the mahogany table at which Finn used to take his meals in private. The golden fruit bowl in the middle of the table was empty and for some reason it made Persephone vaguely uncomfortable to know that the snap of her fingers would see it filled to overflowing with the rarest, most perfect fruit in the kingdom. Setting this thought aside, Persephone next let her gaze drift to the bearskin rug by the fire. Though it briefly called to mind the memory of the mother bear that had tried to eat her on the Mountains of Khan, the more vivid memory was that of her and Finn eating supper on the floor by the fire as they might have done when they were children—and later, playing cards by moonlight for so long that her charmingly disgruntled twin had been left with but a single white bean to his name.

  “Oh, Finn,” whispered Persephone, feeling tears well in her eyes.

  Azriel came up behind her then but did not touch her. “Are you all right?” he asked quietly.

  When she nodded shakily and started toward the bedchamber door, Azriel did not move to follow. Persephone felt as though her heart might burst with her love for him, this husband of hers who understood her well enough to know when she needed him there and not there, all at the same time.