Fool's Errand (18 page)

B
ACK IN THE IMPERIAL CAPITAL
, the feast held in honour of Mordecai's continued regency was proving every bit as magnificent as Lord Bartok had promised it would be. The dishes had been numerous and widely varied, and in the absence of the king—whom Mordecai had ordered not to attend, lest his royal presence prove a distraction—each dish had been presented to Mordecai by a servant on bended knee, for him to taste or not before sending it onward to another table as he saw fit. Mordecai had made the most of this privilege, doling out the dishes with calculation and gloating inwardly at the dismayed (and often anxious) faces of those who received nothing to eat at all.

Later, after the meal was over, the head of every noble family in attendance had come forward with great ceremony to present him with a priceless gift of some sort—a golden chalice inlaid with gemstones, an exquisitely wrought tapestry, a dozen sable pelts, a pair of perfectly matched chestnut mares, a sword of finest steel. Mordecai had not deluded himself into believing that these gifts had originally been meant for him—for he well knew that they'd been intended for the king, to celebrate his official coming to power—but it had not mattered. The only thing that had mattered was that like everything else that would once have belonged to the king, the gifts belonged to him now.

Yet in spite of the food and the gifts, as Mordecai sat alone on the royal dais listening to the music and watching the noblemen and noblewomen perform the traditional court dances for his entertainment, he could not help but feel that something was missing.

Drumming his fingers upon the purple-trimmed white linen that covered the long table before him, he allowed his dark eyes to drift to the table where the Princess Persephone had sat when she'd been Lady Bothwell, fresh to court and his personal guest at the execution of Lord Pembleton's son. She'd excited him, then—so much so that he'd gone to some trouble to have her so-called husband murdered that she might be free to wed again. Though he now knew her for a faithless whore of a princess who'd nearly destroyed him, Mordecai had to admit that he missed her. He missed the warm, young scent of her and the feel of her hand resting lightly upon his withered arm; he missed the way she would curtsey with her breasts thrust forward and hint at the dark appetites that dwelled within her. Most of all, however, he missed her for never once having looked at him the way these dancing sows before him did—as infrequently and dartingly as common courtesy would allow, obviously revolted by the sight of his crippled body and terrified that he might crook his gnarled finger toward them—or worse.

No, the princess had never looked at him like that. She had ever looked at him as though he was a man like any other. A man to be toyed with, amused, flattered, feared or even hated—but a man, nevertheless.

He wondered how she was faring now. He should know soon, for he'd ordered Murdock to send regular reports back to Parthania. Hopefully, his first report would also explain why four members of the princess's cavalcade—a man, two women and a boy—had been discovered supping in a tavern some leagues west of Parthania. A sharp-eyed New Man, suspicious of the quality of the horses the lowborns had been riding, had searched their panniers and discovered a small bag of gold and horse blankets edged in royal purple. When the thieving wretches had confessed to having deserted the princess they'd been summarily executed, their heads stuck on pikes planted in the town square as a warning to others who would steal from their betters.

While he was satisfied with the fate the wretches had suffered, Mordecai had an uneasy feeling that there was more to the story, and he wanted to know what it was.

And may the gods help those headless corpses if it turns out that they caused some mischief that interfered with the princess's quest for the healing pool
, he thought darkly,
for if they did, I shall see to it that every person who has ever known them dies screaming.

His mood abruptly souring at the thought of a handful of useless nobodies ruining his chances of someday becoming well and whole, Mordecai folded his arms across his sunken chest, slumped down in his chair and glowered out at the twirling, tapping, leaping men and women. The ease with which they moved suddenly seemed more like a taunt than entertainment, and Mordecai was on the verge of falling into a genuine temper when he noticed a very young girl in a shimmering gown of mint green standing at the edge of the dance floor.

She was looking at him.

On impulse, he sat up and crooked his gnarled finger at her. A pale wisp of a thing, she froze like a startled fawn. When Mordecai impatiently crooked his finger again and nodded, she looked behind her to see if he'd been beckoning someone else. When she uncertainly turned back around, he jabbed his finger at her and crooked his finger for the last time.

Looking as though she might burst into tears, the panicked girl hastily scanned the crowd for her father—a lord so minor that Mordecai had not even bothered to learn his name. Unfortunately for her, instead of rushing forward to make some excuse as to why his daughter could not go to Mordecai, he glared at her and jerked his head toward the dais before turning to Mordecai and bowing low.

Mordecai's handsome face betrayed nothing, but he inwardly rejoiced at the incredible knowledge that his power had grown so great that a nobleman—even a minor nobleman! —was willing to sacrifice his daughter to him.

The other noblemen and noblewomen in the Great Hall whispered and smothered unkind laughter behind their gloved hands as they watched the girl drag herself up the dais and miserably curtsey to Mordecai. Smiling broadly, he patted the seat next to him and then grandly gestured for the musicians to resume playing and the dancers to resume dancing. Feeling immeasurably better than he had a moment earlier—and missing the Princess Persephone not at all—Mordecai laid his cold hand upon the trembling thigh of the young girl beside him.

One day very soon he would be a king.

He really ought to begin auditioning potential queens.

SEVENTEEN

Ninety-six white beans left in the jar

T
HE NIGHT SKY WAS AWASH with twinkling stars and the air was perfumed with the smell of burning sweet grass. A haunting tune played upon a lone whistle pipe mingled most enchantingly with the sounds of the forest. Coloured glass jars of every size and shape hung from the branches of the trees that surrounded the forest clearing; inside these jars, trapped fireflies flitted and pulsed. Directly in front of Persephone, pitch torches as tall as a man marked a path thickly strewn with the fragrant petals of wildflowers. On either side of the path stood the Gypsies—all dressed in their colourful, layered finery, all smiling at her.

And waiting for her at the end of the path, looking wilder and more beautiful than ever:

Azriel.

“Move!”
whispered Rachel, giving her a nudge from behind.

But Persephone didn't know if she
could
move. The very fact that it seemed like a dream made it seem all the more real. Fireflies, flower petals and gowns of liquid sunlight did
not
accompany transactions of necessity. And she and Azriel had agreed that this marriage
must
be a transaction of necessity because … because …

“You're not going to throw up, are you?” murmured Rachel.

Shaking her head so violently that she made herself dizzy, Persephone closed her eyes and forced herself to take several deep calming breaths—and to focus on why she was doing this and to remember that it had nothing whatsoever to do with any feelings she might have for Azriel, whose very presence even now seemed to be tugging at something deep inside of her.

Then she opened her eyes and determinedly stepped onto the path.

The moment her beaded slipper touched the delicate petals, a soft sigh went up from the Gypsies. Smiling in spite of her nervousness—or perhaps
because
of it—Persephone took another step, and another. She took strength from the knowledge that Rachel was right behind her; she trembled at the feel of Azriel's eyes upon her—watching her, drinking her in.

Indeed, it wasn't until she was standing by his side that she dared to look up at him.

As she did so, the rest of the world fell away.

“You are so beautiful,” he said softly as he stared at her with eyes like ice on fire.

Persephone had never been as aware of him as she was in the moment. Though they weren't touching, it
felt
as though they were touching; though her eyes never left his face, she could see every part of him. Unbidden, images flashed through her mind—Azriel standing at the edge of the hot spring pool, bare-chested and about to unlace his breeches; Azriel describing a pretty little cottage with a yard full of scratching chickens, a pond stocked with fish and a thousand happy tomorrows shared with a clever wife. Azriel risking his life to linger within the Regent's bedchamber that he might find her something beautiful to wear—something that would make this day just as special as it could be.

The images made Persephone feel helpless, like she was falling, falling with no way to stop herself and no knowledge of when or where the fall would end.

Or even
if
it would end.

When she finally managed to tear her gaze away from Azriel's face, Persephone noticed that Fleet and Cur were standing on his far side like a pair of freakish groomsmen—Cur looking mutinous with his freshly brushed fur and crisp new bow, Fleet torn between rolling his eyes with pleasure at the sight of her and contorting his big, horsey head in an effort to devour the gorgeous wreath of wildflowers that hung about his neck.

“You did this for me?” Persephone asked Azriel as the sensation of falling grew even more intense.

“Well, I certainly didn't do it for me,” he smiled, gesturing to a couple of fresh scratches she hadn't noticed before.

Cairn started to speak then. At first, Persephone could hardly see or hear her. All she could see was Azriel; all she could hear was the pounding of her own heart. Then the pounding faded and Azriel was promising to love and cherish none but her. To be the wings that lifted her higher in times of joy and the rock upon which she might stand in times of trouble. To respect and honour her, to devote himself entirely to her happiness and contentment, to be fearless in his protection of her and any children the Fates might see fit to bless them with. To commit his soul so completely to hers that not even Death itself would be able to part them, that their union might last beyond this mortal world and into the next world and into the next after that, unto forever.

Then Persephone heard herself vowing the same in a voice that hardly sounded like her own, and then Cairn was smiling and saying, “Azriel, you may kiss your bride.”

Persephone's breath caught at these words—and caught again as Azriel reached for her. He moved so slowly that she could easily have stepped back or ducked away, but she did neither of these things.

Instead, she closed her eyes and waited for his kiss.

As their lips met, Rachel sighed rapturously, Cur snarled menacingly, Fleet neighed with indignation, and the Gypsies sent up a tremendous cheer. Though Azriel's lips were yet pressed against hers, Persephone could not help laughing at the odd confluence of sounds. At her laughter, Azriel abruptly pulled away from her and gave a loud cheer of his own. Then, spinning her in his arms, he dipped her so far back that her veil and her dark hair swept the ground. As he kissed her again, the Gypsies cheered again, Fayla grabbed Fleet's bridle to prevent him from trying to trample the passion out of Azriel, and Tiny stepped forward just in time to block Cur, who'd launched himself into the air, clearly intent upon taking a juicy chunk out of the amorous groom's backside.

At the feel of Azriel's strong arms about her, his kiss deeper than the deepest ocean, Persephone gave up trying to stay focused on why she was doing this and instead allowed herself to get lost in the dream. As though sensing her capitulation, Azriel kissed her more deeply still—so deeply that she could not resist reaching up, twining her arms about his neck and kissing him back.

Cairn let them indulge themselves for an almost indecent length of time before conspicuously clearing her throat. When the newlyweds gave no sign of having heard her, little Sabian trundled forward, propped his hands upon his chubby knees and bellowed in Azriel's ear that it was time to
“THTOP KITHING
!” Persephone was so startled that she gasped and clung even more fiercely to Azriel, who held her tight and whispered into her hair that he would
never
let her fall.

He straightened up then, and the next instant Rachel was dragging Persephone out of his arms, hugging her and sniffling that it had been
such
a romantic ceremony. And then someone was shoving a brimming goblet into her hand, and several dozen wildly excited Gypsy children were herding her and Azriel past a nearby bonfire to a raised dais. The dais was just large enough to accommodate a small, rough-hewn table and a bench for two, and it was covered by an arch fashioned out of young branches bent, tied together and hung with yet more wildflowers and more captive fireflies.