Tomorrow's Kingdom (43 page)

But apparently, Cairn had been right when she'd said that war was
always
death. Because instead of accepting Persephone's offer, Mordecai threw back his head and laughed like a madman. Then he leaned forward in his saddle and shrieked, “I would rather die those thousand deaths you mentioned than
ever
give myself up to a gutter-reared lying whore like you, Your Majesty! I will see you on the battlefield forthwith—and I hope you enjoy the sight and smell of lowborn blood, my queen, because you may depend upon my New Men to spill an ocean of it before they are finally defeated!”

With another insane laugh, Mordecai yanked his horse around and, driving his spurs into the poor creature's flanks, began galloping up the hill. Through the rain that was growing heavier with each passing second, Persephone watched General Murdock and the other soldiers ride after him.

When Mordecai reached the top of the hill, he turned and called to Persephone one last time.

“Did you truly find the healing Pool of Genezing?” his voice drifted to her over the sound of the wind and the thunder and the lashing rain.

Persephone hesitated, the temptation to torment him so powerful that she could almost taste it. But that was not the kind of queen she wanted to be—and not the kind of woman she was.

And so she replied with a simple no.

Mordecai nodded as though he'd ever guessed it was so.

Then he turned, jabbed his spurs into his horse's flanks again and disappeared down the other side of the hill.

Persephone was so staggered by the enormity of what had just happened—and what the consequences would be—that for a very long moment, she sat still as a statue, staring straight ahead through the downpour that had grown so heavy that she could no longer see the other side of the river. Then, abruptly realizing that there was not a moment to lose getting back to camp to prepare the troops for battle, she wheeled Fleet around and was about to urge him into a gallop when Fayla said, “Wait.”

Feeling a sudden flare of irritation toward the Gypsy girl who'd barely been civil toward her since she'd announced her intention to pardon deserting New Men—and in no mood to suffer further recriminations now—Persephone jerked her head around and snapped, “What?”

Pushing her dripping hair back from her face, Fayla said, “I'd never have offered to let him keep his head—”

“Yes, well, you don't have a kingdom of subjects to protect—”

“Which is a very good thing, I think,” interrupted Fayla. “All my life, all I've ever wanted was revenge against those who've harmed me and mine. If we'd done it my way, it would have been a bloody battle to the last New Man.”

“It is still going to be a bloody battle to the last New Man,” said Persephone bleakly.

“Perhaps,” agreed Fayla. “But at least you
tried
to spare our side the horror. One life to spare thousands would have been a good trade, I think—even if it was
his
life.” She paused to flash Persephone a rare smile before adding, “Tiny always said you were going to be a great queen.”

“He did?” said Persephone in a small voice.

“He did,” said Fayla with another smile.

Fayla's words renewed Persephone in the most extraordinary way. During the long, rainy ride back to camp, she led the others in an animated discussion of battle strategy and even spoke a little of the things she'd like to accomplish after the battle was won.

As she, Azriel, Fayla and the archers rounded the rocky outcrop that edged the vast field in which the royal army was camped, however, they beheld a sight that wiped all other thoughts from their minds.

It was Rachel. She was running toward them with a look of unadulterated panic on her face. She appeared to be shouting something, but Persephone couldn't make out what it was.

Without thinking, she smacked the reins against Fleet's neck. As Fleet coiled to lunge forward, Azriel grabbed his bridle.

Persephone rounded on Azriel. “What are you doing?” she demanded.

Azriel didn't even look at her. “Wait,” he ordered tensely.

“I won't wait!” exclaimed Persephone as she watched Rachel slip, fall, jump up and continue to run toward them—this time waving her arms in front of her. “Something is wrong, Azriel. Rachel needs us! Let go of Fleet's bridle this instant, or I swear I'll—”

“
FOR
GODS
'
SAKES
,
YOUR
MAJESTY
,
GET
AWAY
FROM
HERE
,
NOW
!” sobbed Rachel hysterically as she slipped in the mud and fell again. “
THERE
'
S
BEEN
AN
OUTBREAK
OF
THE
GREAT
SICKNESS
!
AND
IT
IS
THE
WORST
I
'
VE
EVER
SEEN
!”

FIFTY-SIX

I
T TOOK THE GREAT SICKNESS
less than ten days to decimate the army Persephone and Azriel had spent months building. According to the hastily scrawled reports delivered by Gypsy carrier pigeon, it was not only the worst outbreak that Rachel had ever seen, it was the worst outbreak that anyone had ever seen. Lord Atticus was one of the first to die; Big Ben followed a day later. Cairn and the other Gypsies saved as many as they could with their potions, but it was scarcely a drop in the bucket. Men healthy at supper were dead by morning—along with every man who'd shared a fire with them. Within days, there were so many dead that it was impossible to honour them with proper funerals or even to record their names that their loved ones might know what had become of them. Some bodies were burnt but most were thrown into giant pits dug by men still healthy enough to hold a shovel.

Many of these ended up digging their own graves.

At Rachel's harrowing warning, Persephone, Azriel, Fayla and the archers had hastened back to the copse of trees by the river. As they'd galloped along, the lightning had flashed and the thunder had crashed, and Persephone had been unable to think of anything but her hubris in telling Mordecai that the defeat of his army was a virtual certainty. In pushing him to accept that he could not win, she had convinced him that he had nothing left to lose.

Even now, he and his soldiers could be crossing the river
, she'd despaired as she'd bent her head against the driving rain and clung to the dripping pommel.
Even now, they could be coming for us.

These dark thoughts had consumed Persephone right up until she'd reached the copse of trees and discovered that a miracle had occurred. Namely, the river that had been broad but shallow barely an hour earlier had become so swollen from rains that it was now broad, deep and so fast moving that any man trying to cross it would've been swept to his death.

Using the back of her hand to impatiently wipe away what might have been tears, Persephone had silently reminded herself that while there was breath, there was
always
hope. Then she'd said this same thing aloud for the sake of the others, and then she'd made them say it, that the words might imprint on their hearts and souls. Finally, she'd commanded Fayla to split the archers into three watches and to shoot down any New Man who tried to cross the bridge.

At that point, Persephone had complied with Azriel's request that she sit and rest awhile to ensure that she did not drive herself into early labour, for though her pregnancy was far enough along that the baby stood a
good chance of surviving, she was quite unable to imagine anything worse than giving birth beneath a thundering sky in the pouring rain.

None of Mordecai's New Men tried to cross the bridge on that first day, nor on the second. On the third day, several dozen of them had suddenly appeared on the crest of the hill on the other side of the river. Sounding a hoarse battle cry, they'd charged down the hill and rushed the bridge. Fayla and her archers had dispatched them in a single hail of arrows. Every day thereafter it had been the same thing, and if these attacks had kept Persephone and the others on tenterhooks, they'd also given them the comfort of knowing that by keeping Mordecai's army at bay, they were giving those of their comrades who'd not succumbed to sickness a chance to survive.

For nine long days they huddled in the rain without shelter or a fire, eating raw meat and trying to keep their bodies warm, their spirits up and their hope alive. Every few days, a carrier pigeon would arrive with news so grim that it kept Persephone firmly tethered to reality. During the long, cold nights, however, she could not help dreaming about how different things would have been if only she and Azriel had found the mythical healing pool. Finn would be alive, for one thing; for another, legions of her loyal subjects would not be dying hideous deaths while she stood helplessly by.

“D-do you really think it is out there somewhere?” she asked Azriel on the ninth night as she lay shivering in his arms. “Do you think Balthazar really did find it or was he just telling stories?”

“I don't know,” replied Azriel in low tones. “Maybe he
did
find it, but it dried up again.”

“Again?” asked Persephone through teeth clenched to keep from chattering.

“According to legend, the first pool dried up after a Gypsy spilled the blood of a trusted companion at the water's edge,” reminded Azriel, hugging her tighter.

“What an imbecile,” muttered Persephone, closing her eyes.

Sometime that night, the rain finally stopped. The next day dawned with sunshine, birdsong and the sound of something crashing through the trees toward them.

“Hold your fire, Fayla!” bellowed Robert. “It's only me!”

“The sickness—” said Azriel in alarm.

“Abating,” reported Robert. “The danger is past.”

“Thank the gods,” sighed Persephone as the erstwhile bandit leader reined up in front of her.

“Don't thank them just yet, Your Majesty,” said Robert grimly. “One of my men spotted the New Man army less than a day's march north—on
this
side of the river.”

At these words, Persephone's belly tightened so painfully that she had to bite her lip to keep from gasping aloud.

“There must be some mistake,” said Fayla flatly. “My archers have seen to it that not a single one of those black-clad bastards have made it across the bridge.”

“I'm sure they have,” said Robert. “But while you've been occupied taking care of the decoy, it appears that the main body of the army marched north in search
of another place to cross. And by the looks of it, they found one.”

Without giving herself time to ponder this new and terrible threat, Persephone brusquely called for the horses to be saddled at once. She was about to hurry over to assist with the ordeal of saddling Fleet when Azriel reached out and grabbed her hand. Turning toward him, Persephone looked up into his handsome face and felt her heart go into freefall. For a forever moment, Azriel just stared down at her, his lingering gaze like a caress—wandering over her brow, her cheeks, her lips. Then, with the utmost gentleness, he took her face in his strong hands and opened his mouth to speak.

All at once, she knew what he was going to say.

“Don't,” she said more fiercely than she'd intended. Stepping away from him, she wrapped her arms around her belly. “Don't tell me to flee while I still can, Azriel. Don't remind me that I promised to have a care what risks I would take. Don't say that the baby and I are the only family you've got. Don't tell me that you could not bear to lose either of us,” she said in a choked voice. “We could not bear to lose you either, but I cannot run away. I cannot abandon the thousands who rallied when I called—the thousands who showed me faith and loyalty and love before I'd done a single thing to earn it. Whatever the consequences, Azriel, I cannot.”