Tomorrow's Kingdom Read online

  Watching Lady Aurelia now as she turned from side to side before her full-length mirror—cupping her small breasts in her hands, examining her childlike body from every possible angle—General Murdock thought about what he hadn’t told Mordecai. Namely, that the report confirming the destruction of the nest had not arrived in Parthania at the expected hour. Indeed, it had not arrived in Parthania at all. Though it was only a few days late, General Murdock was beginning to think—

  A knock at the door of Lady Aurelia’s outer chamber interrupted his thoughts. Intrigued as to who could be calling upon an unmarried noblewoman so late at night, General Murdock watched as Lady Aurelia wrapped a black satin dressing gown tightly around her tiny body and hurried into the adjoining chamber to answer the door. A moment later, she strode back into General Murdock’s field of vision. Behind her trailed a tall, dark-haired young man dressed in faded Bartok colours. Stopping abruptly, Lord Bartok’s daughter whirled around, stepped toward the young man and took a deep sniff. The expression on her face informed General Murdock—and, no doubt, the young man—that she did not find his scent pleasing. Nevertheless, with a toss of her golden curls, she threw off the dressing gown and climbed between the sheets of her big bed. Lying flat on her back as stiff as a wooden doll, she deliberately turned her face to the opposite wall. The young man hesitated for only a moment before slowly removing his own clothes and climbing in after her.

  As he impassively watched the young man set to work, General Murdock felt pleased to have discovered what part Lady Aurelia was obviously meant to play in her lord father’s plans. Setting aside the question of what to do with this information, he turned his thoughts back to the overdue report from the Gypsy nest. Though the most likely explanation was that the messenger carrying the report had been delayed or waylaid, General Murdock decided to dispatch another battalion of soldiers to the nest immediately.

  He did not wish to give Mordecai cause to question his loyalty, and besides, if all went according to plan, His Grace would shortly return to Parthania with a royal bride.

  And General Murdock could imagine no wedding gift his master would find so welcome as a large pile of glossy scalps and the headless corpse of the Gypsy who’d once dared to call himself husband to the queen.

  TWELVE

  PERSEPHONE WASN’T SURE what she’d expected to find waiting for her inside the forbidding black castle. A pair of rusted manacles dangling above a belching pot full of bubbling oil and deep-fried body parts, perhaps, or a rack upon which Mordecai would stretch her until her limbs popped from their sockets and her young body was broken beyond repair.

  Whatever Persephone had expected, it certainly wasn’t this.

  “Are you sure this is where you’re supposed to take me?” she asked dubiously.

  The one-footed ancient who’d laboriously ushered her up the winding staircase to the top of the turret silently nodded, so Persephone hesitated for only a second more before stepping through the open door.

  The round chamber was as cozy and welcoming as it could be. The rug in the centre of the room was at least an inch thick, snowy white and so soft that it could only have been made from the wool of the Khan’s beloved mountain sheep. From the high, beamed ceiling hung a five-tiered circular candelabra crammed with so many candles that the room was bright, and the sweet scent of beeswax hung heavy in the air. To Persephone’s immediate right was a table in the shape of a half moon. Most regrettably, it was not loaded down with platters of food. Instead, upon its gleaming surface sat the amethyst pendant Mordecai had given her a lifetime ago, two crystal goblets and a heavy crystal decanter filled with red wine. About ten paces past the table were the room’s only windows. Each was as tall as a man and made of heavy leaden glass decorated with criss-crossing strips of black. From where she stood, the only thing Persephone could see when she looked out the windows was the vast, windswept plain at the bottom of the cliff upon which the castle had been built.

  Promising herself that the moment she was alone she’d open the windows and check the outside wall of the turret for handholds, Persephone turned her attention to the left side of the chamber. Next to a generously pillowed canopy bed hung with gauzy white curtains was a privacy screen—also white, save for the delicate design of swirls and teardrops painted upon it in blackest ink. Draped over the screen was a gown of royal purple that shimmered in the light of the fire that crackled in the nearby hearth. On the floor before the fire sat a sturdy wooden tub lined with a white sheet and filled to the brim with steaming water; beside the tub stood three serving women of indeterminate age. One held a silver comb and matching hairbrush, another held several sponges, a washcloth and a drying sheet, and a third clutched a basket of jars and vials that undoubtedly contained soaps, creams, oils and perfumes.

  Abruptly realizing that there could be only one reason Mordecai wanted her bathed and scented, Persephone was struck by a wave of nausea so violent that she was nearly sick on the spot. All at once, she didn’t know if she had the strength to keep on fighting in the hope that, against all odds, things would work out in the end. Though she wasn’t even sure what a happy ending would look like, she could not help recalling the pretty little thatch-roofed cottage Azriel had once promised her—the one with the yard full of scratching chickens, the pond stocked with fish and the oak tree with the swing hung from a low branch so that on warm summer days Azriel could push her—and later, their babies.

  I no longer seek a destiny that belongs to none but me, thought Persephone as her throat tightened and her eyes began to sting, and yet that is exactly the destiny I shall have, for I am in a place where no one will ever find me, and no one but me shall feel Mordecai’s cold hands upon them, and no one but me shall have to endure—

  Steady, m’lady, came Azriel’s whispered voice in her head.

  At the sound of it, Persephone’s heart turned over. Closing her eyes, she saw Azriel gazing up at her as he had the first time they’d entered Parthania—she, dressed as a highborn lady, he, dressed as her servant. She saw his beautiful auburn curls being ruffled by the warm wind; she saw the calm, expectant expression on his handsome face. It told her that he had no doubt that she was brave and strong and clever enough to do what had to be done; it said he was just waiting for her to get on with it.

  Without thinking, Persephone straightened her back and lifted her chin. As she opened her eyes, she reminded herself that a warm bath and a glass of strong wine beat dangling by her wrists from a pair of rusted manacles any day. And though it would seem that Mordecai intended to ravish her, he wasn’t ravishing her now—and many things could happen between now and that future moment when he sought to place his hands upon her.

  Turning to the old man, Persephone said, “I know you are Mordecai’s servant, but I am your queen and I need your help.”

  When the old man said nothing, only gaped at her, Persephone rolled her eyes before striding across the chamber to where the three women stood. Recalling the kindness and great bravery that had been shown by Martha, Meeka, Meena and Meeta—the servants who’d tended her when she’d played at being Lady Bothwell— Persephone smiled encouragingly at the women who stood ready to tend to her now.

  Then she glanced down and her smile froze on her lips when she noticed that, just like the old man, each one of the women was missing most of one foot.

  “What happened to your feet?” cried Persephone.

  Two of the women just looked at her. The third opened her mouth to reveal a gruesomely amputated tongue before pantomiming having her foot chopped off and her tongue snipped out.

  So that no matter what Mordecai does to them, they cannot run and they cannot cry out, thought Persephone with a shudder.

  Thinking that she couldn’t imagine anything worse, Persephone looked away only to see that half-hidden behind the privacy screen, on the floor beside a chair heaped with women’s undergarments, were a pair of impossibly high-heeled purple slippers, a pile of cut rope and a riding crop.

  R
efusing to dwell on the possibility that whatever Mordecai had planned for her might actually be worse than having her tongue snipped out, Persephone considered using the riding crop to try to fight her way past the guard at the bottom of the spiral staircase. Deciding that she’d never get past him without a blade, she turned to the old man and said, “Can you fetch me something to eat? I’m partial to large hunks of meat carved thin before my eyes.”

  Blinking at the oddness of her request, the old man pointed first to the tub, then to the dress, then to the closed door. Then he pantomimed shoving food into his mouth.

  “You’ll bring me food once I’m bathed and dressed?” asked Persephone.

  The old man shook his head and jabbed his finger more insistently at the door.

  “I’m to dine elsewhere once I’m bathed and dressed?” said Persephone.

  The old man nodded enthusiastically.

  “With Mordecai,” she guessed.

  The old man nodded again—though less enthusiastically this time, as though he wasn’t entirely sure he was supposed to be telling her all this.

  Persephone folded her arms across her chest. “And what happens if I refuse to bathe and dress?” she said. “What happens if I refuse to dine with him?”

  The old man pointed first to himself, then to the three trembling women. Then he drew his finger across his throat.

  “You’ll be killed?” exclaimed Persephone, letting her arms fall to her sides.

  The old man nodded and then pantomimed ripping off his own head and jamming it down onto a spike.

  Persephone hesitated—but only briefly. A show of defiance was not worth four lives and besides, if she refused to cooperate, Mordecai was unlikely to respond by sending up a juicy haunch of beef and a nice sharp carving knife. More likely, he’d send up Hairy to strip her, bathe her, dress her and drag her down to dinner.

  Or else he’d leave her to starve.

  And so Persephone dismissed the old man, called for wine and set to work preparing for an evening with her enemy.

  THIRTEEN

  ELSEWHERE IN THE black stone castle, Mordecai sat in one of two red-velvet-covered armchairs set before a blazing fire.

  Shifting in his seat, he absently fingered the locket that held the dewy sprig the queen had given him as proof that she’d found the healing pool—the location of which she’d be forced to reveal to him this night. After a moment, he noticed a particle of dust on the furred hem of his long purple robe. Grunting softly with the effort, he leaned over and brushed it off. When he sat back up, he carefully smoothed and patted down his thick, glossy hair. He crossed his left leg over his right leg. He crossed his right leg over his left leg. He crossed his left leg over his right leg again.

  Then, feeling unaccountably agitated, he pushed himself to his feet and lurched over to the dining table. Though it was long enough to seat forty comfortably, this would be the first evening ever on which it had sat more than one. As usual, he would sit at the head of the table. On this occasion, the queen would sit at his right hand. On future occasions, when they dined in private as man and wife, she would sit at her proper place at the far end of the table. When they dined in the Great Hall at the imperial palace in Parthania, she would sit beside him on a throne he was determined would be no grander than his own as king.

  For tonight, however, Mordecai felt that a more intimate seating arrangement was called for.

  After carefully examining the place settings to ensure that all was to his satisfaction, he lurched back over to the armchair and sat down. Taking a deep breath to expand slightly his sunken chest, he straightened his back, squared his thin, uneven shoulders and held his head as high as he possibly could. After only a few moments, however, his neck began to ache so badly that he slouched over again and let his head droop. It would not serve to look as though he was trying too hard, and besides, he was already exhausted and needed to ensure that when the time came he’d have the strength and vigour to—

  A soft rustling sound across the room caught Mordecai’s attention. Looking over, he inhaled sharply at the sight of Queen Persephone framed in the arched entranceway of the dining hall. That she did not look surprised to see him did not surprise him at all; that she was bathed, dressed and coiffed did. Knowing that she had a defiant streak in her a mile long, he’d rather expected her to balk at the idea of doing his bidding. Perhaps grief and terror had finally broken her; then again, perhaps she’d found out what would happen to her servants if she failed to do his bidding. The latter explanation would not surprise him, for he’d always suspected that she shared the dead king’s weakness when it came to protecting useless lives.

  Scowling slightly at the thought, Mordecai let his dark eyes travel upward to the hair that had reportedly been a wild mess when she’d been dragged from the coach earlier that day; since then, it had been brushed to a glossy shine, twisted, curled and neatly pinned atop her head. She was wearing the gown that he had chosen for her from among her dead mother’s things. Shimmering royal purple with real gold stitching, the generous skirts and cloth-of-gold underskirts were pinned in cunning swoops and frills. The sleeves were snug as a second skin at the shoulder but flared so dramatically at the elbow that they hung far below the exquisitely shaped forearms over which they were draped. As for the bodice, it was cut low and set with diamonds. That the gown seemed to fit a bit tight across the chest surprised Mordecai but it did not disappoint him in the least. Indeed, he let his gaze linger upon the queen’s bosom for even longer than he normally would have before letting it wander down the length of her body. Though he could not see her feet, he knew she must be wearing the high-heeled slippers he’d set out for her. However, it was impossible to say which of the silken undergarments she was wearing—or, indeed, if she was wearing any at all. The possibility that she might not be caused Mordecai’s breath to quicken. He did not really believe she’d be so lewd as to appear before him naked beneath her gown but he could not be sure. Though she’d been born a princess, she’d been raised in the gutter. Anything was—

  “Aren’t you going to offer me a glass of wine?” she asked.

  For a moment, Mordecai was too startled to reply. He’d hoped that the queen would sound terrified and broken; he’d thought she might sound strained and desperate. He’d expected her to sound belligerent and hostile.

  The one thing he hadn’t even considered was that she would sound composed and … and … civil.

  “Wine?” she repeated now as she absently fingered the amethyst pendant that lay against the hollow of her throat—the pendant that he had given her.

  “What? Oh, yes,” blurted Mordecai, feeling flustered. Jerking his head around so fast that his spindly neck screamed with pain, he snarled for wine. Instantly, one of the liveried servants who’d been standing in the shadows by the wall hobbled over to the long dining table. Filling two goblets from the decanter that had been set out earlier, he carried them over to where Mordecai sat. Mordecai hardly noticed his presence, so transfixed was he by the sight of the queen gliding toward him. Brushing past him and around the servant, she swung her hips gently to settle her skirts and then gracefully sank down onto the cushioned seat of the second armchair. Leaning forward so that her ripe breasts seemed in imminent danger of spilling out of the bodice altogether, she reached for a goblet of wine.

  “Thank you,” she murmured, favouring the servant with a small smile.

  Luckily for him, the wretch knew better than to smile back at her. Ducking his head, he silently handed the second goblet to Mordecai. Then, after bowing deeply, he backed away until he was once again swallowed up by the shadows.

  Mordecai watched him go in order to buy himself time to compose himself. He’d dreamt of this moment for weeks—indeed, he’d rehearsed what he was going to say and do a thousand times!—but now that the moment was finally here, it wasn’t unfolding at all as he’d anticipated. Regardless of the reason, the fact remained that the queen had dressed at his behest, in the clothes and jewels th
at he had selected for her. And instead of having to be dragged down here by her hair and tied to a chair that afforded her an excellent view of the severed heads of her murdered servants, she’d come down quietly of her own accord and was now sitting so near to him that Mordecai could feel his wasted chest tightening at the scent of her perfumed skin.

  Of course, he knew that she was a lying whore and that he should not be fooled by her tricks—indeed, he was not fooled by her tricks. It was just that he could not entirely forget that when she’d been Lady Bothwell, she’d fluttered her eyelashes at him and flushed at his touch. And he could not entirely believe that it had all been an act. And he could not entirely help hoping that a lifetime of slavery had made her sufficiently pragmatic that once she understood that she had no choice in the matter of their marriage that she’d reconcile herself to it—or even embrace it. And why shouldn’t she? He was rich and powerful and handsome, and as soon as she revealed to him the whereabouts of the healing pool, he’d have the body of a god and prowess enough to make even a nubile young queen forget any other man she’d ever—

  “Why have you brought me here?” she asked now, taking a small sip of wine.

  Mordecai watched the movement of her slender throat as she swallowed. Then, slowly lifting his gaze, he looked deep into her beautiful violet eyes and said, “You know why.”

  She did not say anything, but she did not look away either.