Tomorrow's Kingdom

by Maureen Fergus

  And he vowed to rectify that error as soon as may be.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  PERSEPHONE STARED ACROSS the river at Mordecai. She recalled their first meeting—he, sitting high upon his black horse staring down at her with his fathomless dark eyes; she, curtseying low on trembling legs, desperately hoping that her lies and her beauty would be enough to save Azriel, Rachel and Cur from discovery and death.

  Even from across the river, Persephone could feel that Mordecai lusted for her now as he had back then. Unlike back then, however, now he also hated her—hated her to the deepest depths of his twisted black soul, hated her so intensely that she could feel it coming off him in waves.

  In the sky overhead, dark clouds roiled and Ivan circled and screamed. Lightning flashed without thunder sounding. In her heavy belly, the baby shifted restlessly.

  Persephone shivered and resisted the urge to look at Azriel.

  “You wish to discuss terms of surrender?” she called to Mordecai as the wind whipped her hair.

  “I am willing to explore the possibility,” he replied, sounding almost coy.

  Persephone gritted her teeth. “Very well,” she shouted. “Here are my terms: surrender at once and I am willing that you should not immediately be beheaded but shall be granted a fair trial.”

  Mordecai made a great show of pondering her offer— furrowing his brow, rubbing his chin, conferring with General Murdock. After a few moments, however, he shook his head—as Persephone had known he would— and called, “I’m afraid I need better terms than that, Your Majesty.”

  In spite of his regretful tone, Persephone knew that he was enjoying himself. She also knew that Mordecai would be content to toy with her for a while yet—and that the longer they stood there, the more nervous Azriel was becoming.

  So, eager to snuff out Mordecai’s enjoyment and be away before Azriel had apoplexy—or Fayla gave in to the urge to turn the New Men across the river into bloody pincushions—Persephone cupped one hand around her mouth and called, “I thought you might be interested to learn that Lord Bartok has been arrested.”

  Mordecai stiffened so abruptly that he could not entirely suppress his grunt of pain.

  “His son, Lord Atticus, told us of your plans to sandwich my army between your New Man army and the sworn swords loyal to Lord Bartok—pardon me, Ned Bartok,” continued Persephone.

  Mordecai let out a bark of laughter—presumably at the news that the greatest of the great lords had been reduced to a commoner—then his smile vanished. Sneering, he shouted, “Let me guess—Bartok’s soldiers and the other noblemen are now under the command of that insufferable drunken worm he fathered.”

  “No, they are now under my husband’s command and entirely content to be so,” replied Persephone as the first fat droplet of rain pinged off her arm guard. “I confess that Lord Atticus was not best pleased when he realized that by stripping his father of his title, land and wealth, I’d also stripped him of his inheritance, but he cheered up remarkably when I told him that he’d be granted a suitable allowance and also be allowed to keep his head.”

  Mordecai was breathing so hard now that Persephone could see his wasted chest heaving.

  Lightning flashed again. This time it was followed by a crack of thunder so loud it seemed to shake the earth.

  “I’m sure I do not need to tell you that without a second fighting force, you cannot make a sandwich,” Persephone shouted over the rising wind. “If we meet on the battlefield now, your army’s defeat is a virtual certainty—as is your death. And if there has ever been a man who deserves death for his crimes it is you, Mordecai. Nay, you deserve a thousand deaths—each more hideous than the last.” She paused and pressed her hand against her belly before speaking the words she’d not discussed with her Council—or even with Azriel. “Nevertheless, if you surrender now, I … I will better my previous offer. Upon my word of honour, even if you are found guilty at your trial, you shall not be beheaded. Though you will be imprisoned for the rest of your days, like Lord Atticus, you will be allowed to keep your head.”

  Behind her, Fayla hissed angrily.

  Beside her, Azriel stiffened and whispered, “What are you doing?”

  Persephone didn’t look at him because she knew his eyes would be blazing with anger, and she didn’t reply to him because she knew that he knew exactly what she was doing. She was looking for a way to save everyone; she was looking for a way to avoid having to answer the question of who and how many would die by her command.

  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 ro
yal 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

  IT 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.”

  For an instant, the pain on Azriel’s face was a living thing. Then he flashed Persephone one of his heartbreaking lopsided smiles and said, “Have I ever told you that you can be most infernally
persistent when you want to be, wife?”

  “Many times,” she replied, trying hard for a smile of her own.

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  IT WASN’T LONG BEFORE Persephone, Azriel and the others were riding into camp.

  The place was swimming with muck, and the smell of death hung so heavy in the air that it took all of Persephone’s considerable willpower not to start retching. Rachel greeted them with a dirty face and a wan smile. As soon as she’d been lifted down from the saddle, Persephone hugged her friend so tight that she could hear the THUD THUD THUD of their two hearts beating in perfect unison. She was intensely grateful for the courage Rachel had shown in spite of her terror of sickness—and fiercely glad that both she and Zdeno had survived.

  Within moments of their reunion, the other royal Councillors had been rounded up to discuss options.

  “We have no options,” said Azriel bluntly as he unrolled a map of the realm and laid it on the table in the meeting tent. “The only thing we can do is to retreat.”

  “Retreat to where?” asked Cairn, examining the map. “Even if we were to leave the sick and the weak behind—”

  “Which we won’t,” interjected Persephone as she gave her painfully tight belly a soothing rub.

  “We’ll never be able to outpace Mordecai for long enough to make it back to the protection of the imperial capital,” finished Cairn.

  Miter clapped vigorously at Cairn’s assessment of the situation, earning himself eye rolls from those who’d been in camp during the outbreak and baffled looks from those who hadn’t.

  “Well,” said Robert, “we can’t retreat into the Great Forest for the same reason—it’s too far away.”

  “As are the mountains,” said Barka, eyeing the map. “And even if they weren’t, the march north would take us straight into the arms of the New Man army. And even if it wouldn’t, the appetite of the mother goddess is a fearsome thing, indeed.”