Tomorrow's Kingdom

by Maureen Fergus

  Upon reaching the bedchamber door, Persephone stood with her forehead pressed against the varnished wood for a long moment, recalling the sights and smells and sounds that had greeted her the last time she’d stepped through it. Then, steeling herself, she abruptly turned the knob and flung open the door.

  Persephone held her breath as she waited for Finn’s spirit to come to her, to envelop her, to wash over her.

  But instead of feeling her twin’s palpable presence, as she’d half expected, Persephone felt nothing at all.

  The chamber was empty save for the beautifully carved canopy bedstead, the recently re-stuffed mattress, the freshly laundered bed linens and half a dozen tapestries.

  Finn was gone.

  With a soft sigh, Persephone turned and looked at Azriel, who was watching her from across the room. Wordlessly, he came and held her in his arms for a moment before leading her over to the door of the outer chamber and out into the corridor beyond.

  As they approached the end of the corridor, Persephone heard someone running toward them from the connecting corridor. Before she could jump out of the way—indeed, even before Azriel was able to step in front of her—a figure in green rounded the corner and barrelled into her with such force that she’d have fallen backward if Azriel had not been there to catch her.

  Heart thumping madly, Persephone scrambled to find her footing.

  “OH, FORGIVE ME, YOUR MAJESTY!” cried the little pageboy, his hands thrown up as though to ward off a blow.

  “It’s … it’s all right,” gulped Persephone, smiling weakly to show that she was not angry.

  With a darting glance at Azriel—whose face was like thunder—the boy bowed awkwardly and bolted down the corridor as fast as his skinny legs could carry him.

  “I don’t know what I was thinking,” muttered Azriel savagely, his blue eyes blazing. “I should have had guards assigned to you the moment we walked through those bloody gates. By the gods, what if that had been a bloody assassin—”

  “But it wasn’t an assassin, Azriel,” said Persephone, slipping her arms around him. “It was nothing but a boy.”

  Azriel looked down at her with something akin to fear but all he said was, “Can I tuck you into bed now, Persephone? Please?”

  “Yes,” she murmured, going up on tiptoes to brush her lips against his. “Now you can tuck me into bed.”

  The first thing Persephone did after breaking her fast the next morning was to command the chamberlain to move her and Azriel to the royal chambers.

  The second thing she did was pen a letter to several key noblemen, including Lord Bartok, inviting them to attend her coronation two weeks hence and also to join her royal Council.

  “You would invite Bartok even though his daughter refused to attend your feast and insists upon continuing to pretend to be with child?” asked Azriel incredulously.

  “Lady Aurelia’s behaviour is cause for concern and caution,” admitted Persephone as she rubbed her belly, which seemed to have doubled in size overnight. “Yet we cannot say for certain that her father supports or even knows about the charade, and I cannot ignore that he’s done everything I asked of him and more. I’ve only been here a day and already armed men are flocking to the city to pledge their allegiance to me. Lord Bartok bought me time to take control of my capital and swell the ranks of my army, Azriel. It is time to find out why he did so.”

  FORTY-FIVE

  “MAKE WAY!” roared the soldier at the front of the small cavalcade of blue and gold caparisoned horses. “I say, make way and be quick about it, you sorry bastards!”

  From high upon his own mount a dozen paces behind the roaring soldier, Lord Bartok looked around him, unable to believe the number of lowborns milling about the streets of Parthania, unable to believe the stench of them all. And there had been more of them crowded up against the city walls outside the gates and more still on the road heading into the capital. Of course they’d all come for tomorrow’s coronation—or, more specifically, for the free wine and meat that were rumoured to have been promised to one and all.

  Lord Bartok pursed his lips. Crowded streets, wasteful promises to nobodies—not to mention cobbling together a ragtag army consisting primarily of the filthy mountain Khan—it was well that the queen had sent for him at last, for it was clear that she needed the firm hand of a strong man to guide her.

  And if the gods were willing, that man would be him.

  To be sure, for a time it had seemed as though the gods would not be willing. After receiving the queen’s initial letter commanding him to begin harassing the cripple’s army, Lord Bartok had heard nothing more from her, and as the days of silence had stretched into weeks, he’d begun to question the wisdom of his decision to make a show of loyalty. He’d started to believe that the queen either did not understand or did not care about the respect due him, that he’d therefore never be able to make her see the advantage of selecting him to be her consort and that he’d have to find a different path to the throne, after all.

  Then, a little more than a week ago, her second letter had arrived.

  Even now, Lord Bartok did not like to admit how relieved he’d been when he’d read it. For although it had made passing mention of the need to discuss Aurelia’s “pregnancy”—a potentially awkward matter, to be sure— the queen had lavished him with praise for his success wreaking havoc upon the New Man army. She’d also offered him an honoured role in the upcoming coronation and invited him to join her royal Council. Smiling slightly, Lord Bartok reached up and felt for the ivory king and queen he’d slipped into the pocket of his doublet after reading her words of praise and favour. Nestled together in the darkness, the chess pieces were a constant reminder that if he played the game right, he would bring his family more land, more riches and, above all, more glory than any Bartok man who’d come before him had done.

  Feeling a swell of satisfaction at the thought, Lord Bartok spurred his horse to a canter, giving those in the crowded streets before him the choice of getting out of his way or getting trampled. In short order, he was clattering through the watchtower passageway and into the main courtyard of the imperial palace. Sliding out of his saddle, he tossed the reins to a waiting groom without looking at him or waiting to see if he’d catch them. As he began to stride toward the palace, one of the trusted servants he’d left behind to protect his interests hurried toward him.

  “Greetings, my lord,” said the man, bowing almost as low as if Lord Bartok were royalty. “When I was informed that your party had been spotted on the road, I had food and drink ordered up to your chambers, a bath prepared and a fresh set of clothes laid—”

  “Not now,” said Lord Bartok in clipped tones. “I understand the royal Council meets at two o’clock each afternoon?”

  “Yes, my lord,” mumbled the servant, flushing as though embarrassed for having suggested that after days of hard travel, the first thing his lord might have wanted to do was to refresh himself.

  Dismissing the servant with a look that said he ought to have known better, Lord Bartok strode across the courtyard and up the palace steps. Though he knew he stank of horse and sweat, Lord Bartok would not have missed this Council meeting for anything. The coronation was tomorrow, after all, and having had no nobleman but Belmont to help her learn her part in the long, intricate ceremony or to help her make the thousands of decisions relating to the procession and the feast that would follow, the queen could very well be at her wits’ end.

  And if she is, and if she sees that I am willing and able to ease all her concerns, thought Lord Bartok as he hurried down the corridor toward the chamber where the Council was already in session, surely she will come to see that life as queen would be infinitely easier with a man like me by her—

  The sudden sound of the queen laughing stopped Lord Bartok and his thoughts in their tracks, for it was not the laugh of a young, inexperienced woman on the verge of hysteria—it was the easy laugh of a queen in complete control of herself and everything around h
er.

  Cautiously—and with a distinct sense of foreboding— Lord Bartok walked the last few steps toward the Council chamber and tersely nodded to the liveried guards. Slowly, they hauled open the great doors to reveal a sight so appalling that Lord Bartok would not have believed it if he’d not seen it with his own eyes.

  There, sitting at the very same table at which untold generations of his noble forefathers had sat while giving counsel to the greatest kings Glyndoria had ever known, were not just the queen and Lord Belmont but also two men whose clean shaves and velvet doublets did exactly nothing to hide the fact of their vile birth, a hulking, bushybearded Khan dressed in reeking furs, several women of questionable origin and a sneering, yellow Gorgishman. Worse still, seated at the queen’s right hand was the Gypsy who’d masqueraded as her eunuch slave the first time she’d come to the capital—and one look at the way the two of them were smiling at each other told Lord Bartok that his hope of someday being crowned king was as dust in the wind.

  “Lord Bartok!” called the queen when she saw him.

  “Your Majesty,” he said, tasting dust.

  The queen did not seem to notice his lack of enthusiasm. “I’m pleased that you were able to make it here in time for the coronation,” she said. “Come—join us.”

  The thought of sitting at any table with so many people so far beneath his station caused Lord Bartok’s flesh to crawl, but since he could not think of a way to graciously refuse, he forced himself to walk over to the chair he’d occupied since the death of his noble father. As he flipped his blue and gold cape over his shoulders and sat down, the Gorgishman—who was seated nearby—slowly reached up and pinched his nostrils shut.

  With an audible sigh, the queen said, “Lord Bartok, my Council and I were just discussing—”

  “Your Council?” he spluttered.

  At the incredulity in his voice, the Khan glowered and folded his meaty arms across his chest, and the ruffian in the chair next to him slammed his hand down on the table so hard that everyone jumped.

  “Yes, my Council,” said the queen. “I do not want a Council composed of none but noblemen. Honourable men like you and Lord Belmont”—she smiled briefly at the fat nobleman, who beamed back at her—“shall certainly have a place at the table, but so, too, will deserving Erok women and lowborn men, as well as representatives of the other tribes of Glyndoria who’ve pledged friendship to me and mine—”

  “Miter has not pledged friendship!” reminded the Gorgishman shrilly. “Miter has pledged nothing but his eternal enmity if you take this tiresome war of yours anywhere near his beloved valley!”

  “Oh, stop,” said the Gypsy dryly. “You’re making me feel all choked up inside.”

  At these words, several people—including Lord Belmont—chuckled. The outraged Gorgishman looked around as though in search of something to fling at the Gypsy, who smiled so seductively in response to the queen’s murmured admonishments that she flushed like a harlot.

  Lord Bartok wondered if his noble father was rolling over in his grave. “With respect, Your Majesty,” he said carefully, “while I am sure that the sorts of people you describe have many fine qualities, they simply don’t have the … breeding required to participate in the running of a kingdom.”

  “I wasn’t bred to scrub out pots, and yet I always made a fair job of it when set to the task,” said the queen, before anyone else could say anything. “Shall we continue the meeting now, Lord Bartok, or do you feel that this Council is not one that you wish to be a part of?”

  While everyone else at the table stared at Lord Bartok, he stared at the queen, wondering why Lord Belmont did not seem to be able to see how utterly unfit she was to rule. “Forgive me, Your Majesty—I meant no disrespect by my comments,” he lied smoothly. “Of course I wish to be a part of your Council. Indeed, as I have already demonstrated, I am content to serve in any way you see fit.”

  “Excellent, my lord!” said Lord Belmont, seeming genuinely pleased. “Then perhaps you could remind us of the precise wording that is traditionally used when announcing royal marriages and pregnancies, for I fear I have quite forgotten it.”

  Feeling sick with foreboding, Lord Bartok turned his eyes upon the queen. “Why do you need to be reminded of that?” he asked, his lips so numb they could barely form the words.

  “Because Azriel and I are married, and I am with child, and I feel the time has come for all my subjects to know it,” she replied.

  A charged silence filled the Council chamber.

  “Who is Azriel?” asked Lord Bartok softly, even though he was sure he knew the answer.

  “I am Azriel,” said the Gypsy, just as softly.

  Ever so slowly, Lord Bartok’s eyes swivelled toward the tribal nobody who’d planted his worthless seed in the queen’s belly.

  “Congratulations, my prince,” he said, favouring him with a smile. “This is a joyful day indeed.”

  The Council meeting lasted almost an hour after that—an hour in which Lord Bartok’s smile never faltered. On the contrary, he made many useful suggestions regarding the announcement of the marriage and pregnancy, he agreed to everything that was asked of him with respect to the coronation the following day, and he expressed pleasure at the news that the dead king’s nursemaid was recovering nicely.

  And all the while he privately and repeatedly assured himself that neither the unborn Gypsy half-breed nor his mother would ever rule the kingdom.

  “I can think of nothing further we need to discuss at present,” the queen finally said, “so if the rest of you would kindly take your leave, I’d like a word alone with Lord Bartok.”

  Everyone pushed back their chairs and headed for the chamber doors—even the Gypsy husband, who was apparently content to be commanded by his own wife. Lord Bartok folded his elegant hands together, placed them on the table before him and stared at them while he waited to hear what the queen would say.

  “I am glad that news of my marriage and pregnancy pleases you, Lord Bartok,” she said as soon as the doors closed behind the last so-called Council member. “There were those who thought it would not.”

  “The news was unexpected but most blessed,” said Lord Bartok, a courtier of such skill that he could have convinced a three-legged hog of its beauty and grace. “I will pray the gods bring you a son.”

  “Thank you,” said the queen, her hand straying to her belly. “And … how fares your own son?”

  “Atticus?” said Lord Bartok. “As far as I know, the boy remains Mordecai’s captive. However, I know nothing of the conditions of his captivity.”

  “I’m very sorry to hear it.”

  “As am I, Your Majesty,” said Lord Bartok. “It is a heavy thing to lose a son—heavier still, an only son.”

  “I can imagine,” said the queen, with feeling. She frowned before reluctantly continuing, “It is one of the reasons I deeply regret having to broach the subject of your daughter’s pregnancy with you but—”

  Lord Bartok held up his hand. “It is I who must express regret, Your Majesty,” he said quietly. “For if, as you say, Aurelia is not actually with child then she has behaved monstrously—even treasonously—to pretend to all of us that she is.”

  The queen appeared most surprised by these words. “You did not know the truth about your daughter’s pregnancy?” she said, sounding almost hopeful.

  Lord Bartok looked at the queen, his mind filled with visions of three-legged hogs. Then he bowed his head and murmured, “It grieves me beyond words to know that you thought for an instant that I did.”

  “Grieving you was never my intent,” assured the queen. “You will order your daughter to abandon her charade?”

  “It shall be my first order of business upon taking my leave of you,” replied Lord Bartok, who cleared his throat before adding in a faltering voice, “And … if it is your desire to see Aurelia punished or … or even executed for her behaviour as a further demonstration of my absolute loyalty to you, I … I volunteer to be t
he one who—”

  “No!” blurted the queen, recoiling in horror as he’d expected her to. “No,” she repeated, more calmly. “Just … just get her to stop pretending.”

  “I will,” said Lord Bartok, heaving a shuddering sigh of relief to show the queen how grateful he was that she’d not commanded him to behead his own daughter. “And after the coronation, if it pleases Your Majesty, may I suggest that I take Aurelia away from Parthania? Not only to ensure that she does not attempt to cause more trouble for you, but also to teach her that such behaviour will not be tolerated?”

  After readily agreeing to this, the queen rose and bid him good day. With a fleeting glance at her belly— the swell of which was obvious to anyone who knew to look for it—Lord Bartok bid her the same, then quickly departed.

  As he strode through the palace corridors toward his daughter’s chambers, Lord Bartok made eye contact with no one—in part because there was no one worth making eye contact with, in part because he was thinking so furiously. He’d lied when he told the queen that he had no knowledge of the conditions of Atticus’s captivity. Several of the raiding parties had gotten close enough to the cripple to see that Atticus was with him and was apparently being treated as befitted his noble station. This pleased Lord Bartok because the new plan he’d formulated worked better if Atticus was in one piece.

  Striding up to his daughter’s chamber door, he rapped his knuckles sharply against it. As he did so, it suddenly occurred to him that the teardrop on the banner the queen had sent him wasn’t a symbol of womanish grief for a brother lost, at all. It was the Mark of the Gypsies! Of course he’d known the Gypsy mark was a teardrop but it had never occurred to him that this had been the meaning of the teardrop on her banner. She’d bastardized the symbol of the Erok royal family with a tribal mark—and she’d tricked him, the greatest of the great lords, into riding beneath it!