Tomorrow's Kingdom (29 page)

With a derisive snort, Robert said, “All the more reason not to trust Bartok.”

“I'm not saying that I
do
trust him,” said Persephone. “I'm saying that I don't know for an absolute certainty that I
can't
trust him—and also that our chances of victory over Mordecai just
might
be improved if we were able to call upon thousands of trained fighting men outfitted with the best equipment money can buy. Besides, though my attempt to contact the noblemen through Lord Pembleton was not a raging success, the fact remains that uniting the realm means uniting
everyone
. I am fighting to sit upon the Erok throne—do you expect me to reject the Erok nobility without even giving them a
chance
to prove their loyalty? Would you have me win my crown only to preside over an empty court?”

“No,” said Robert swiftly. “I would have you preside over a court filled with deserving men—”

“And women,” chorused Cairn and Rachel.

“And I would have the same thing,” said Persephone as Cur and his mate, Silver, nosed their way into the tent and loped over to sit one on either side of her. “That is why I wish to give Lord Bartok and the rest of the great lords a chance to prove themselves.”

“How do you propose to do that?” asked Miter with a sneer.

“Not by having the great lords fight your battle with Mordecai for you, I hope,” said Robert, sounding alarmed.

“Not exactly—”

“Not by having them come before you and swear fealty, I hope,” said Cairn, sounding even more alarmed.

“Of course not,” said Persephone. “I will command Lord Bartok to undertake a mission that will require him to take risks, get dirty and serve without the promise of glory or reward beyond the satisfaction of knowing that he has obeyed his rightful queen.”

Robert looked dubious. “There
may
be a
few
noblemen who might be willing to obey such a command, Your Majesty, but I'd bet my last copper that Lord Bartok will not be among them.”

“That is exactly why I will issue the command to him before all others,” said Persephone, pretending not to notice that Cur and Silver were
both
watching Azriel as though itching for an excuse to rip him to pieces. “Lord Bartok is the most powerful nobleman in the realm—he will either be a tremendous ally or a formidable enemy, and it is time that I knew which. If he obeys—and willingly accepts the gift I have had made for him—we will know where he stands.”

“A thing we will know just as well if he does
not
do those things,” grumbled Robert. “And if he does not, in one fell swoop your fight for the throne will have gotten harder, more complicated and infinitely more dangerous.”

“Yes,” said Persephone, feeling Azriel's gaze upon her. “It will have.”

THIRTY-SIX

L
ORD BARTOK STOOD
in his war room surveying the large map spread out on the table before him. Frowning slightly, he shifted two intricately carved ivory pawns and a single knight to the spot on the map marked “Bartok Estate.” In addition to a lone ivory king, this spot already boasted a small crowd of pawns and knights. Each pawn represented five hundred foot soldiers; each knight represented five hundred mounted soldiers.

The king represented one man: Lord Bartok himself.

The addition of troops did not please Lord Bartok as much as one might have expected. For one thing, Lord Tweedsmuir's recently arrived brother-in-law had clearly spent significantly more coin ensuring that he and his close companions looked splendid upon their dazzlingly caparisoned mounts than he had outfitting his actual fighting troops. For another thing, even with the addition of fifteen hundred men, Lord Bartok's force was still not of a size that he could be assured of defeating Mordecai's
New Man army in battle. This was especially worrisome given that Lord Bartok's scouts had been reporting large enemy troop movements over the last few weeks. That Mordecai should be gathering his army to him at this time could only mean one thing: he'd learned that he'd lost the capital, his general and his influence with the nobility, and that he intended to use force to take back what he could and destroy the rest.

Truly, the game was about to begin in earnest.

His hair ruffling slightly in the breeze that blew through the open window, Lord Bartok picked up the ivory queen that stood alone among the uncomfortably large crowd of ebony pawns and knights that occupied the space on the map north of Syon. As he regarded the tiny queen's intricately carved face, Lord Bartok wondered how the real queen was faring. Mordecai had surely been enraged when he'd learned what he'd lost, and Lord Bartok knew how bloodthirsty the former regent could become when in such a state. Lord Bartok hoped that Queen Persephone had been spared his abuse—or, if she had not, that she'd not been abused in a way that would leave permanent scars. Even more than this, however, he hoped that the cripple had not managed to impregnate her. With each passing week, the chances that he'd done so increased, for unlike Aurelia—who'd failed to conceive a child by the stable boy and who was now parading her padded belly through the halls of the imperial palace— Queen Persephone had always had the look of a woman as fertile as a field seven years fallow.

As he carefully placed the ivory queen back among the troops of their mutual enemy, there came a knock at the door.

“Come,” called Lord Bartok.

The door opened to reveal a middle-aged servant in Bartok livery. In one hand, he held a letter; in the other, a package tied with a string. Briskly, the servant strode across the room and handed both items to Lord Bartok.

“My lord, these were just delivered by a man who was quite as grubby as he was rude,” said the servant, pursing his lips in an unconscious imitation of Lord Bartok at his most elegantly disdainful. “The ruffian insisted on planting himself in the courtyard—
insisted
, mind you! He said he'd been instructed to wait in case you chose to send a reply to the letter. He also said that I was to tell you that you needn't get any ideas about torturing him for information on the whereabouts of the letter writer because the message had changed hands many times and he hadn't the foggiest notion where she might be.”

Shaking his head slightly at this bizarre message, Lord Bartok glanced down at the folded letter in his hand and saw something that made him freeze.

Imprinted in the red wax seal was the crest of the Erok royal family.

“Leave the chamber but stay close,” ordered Lord Bartok without looking up from the letter.

Wordlessly, the servant did as he'd been bid.

The instant he was gone, Lord Bartok strode over to his desk and sat down. Using a knife, he carefully separated
the wax seal from the parchment. He then unfolded the letter and began to read.

Greetings My Dear Lord Bartok,

Please accept my sincerest apologies for not having contacted you sooner. As you presumably know, within moments of the death of my brother, the king, who named me his successor, the traitor Mordecai abducted me. I do not wish to dwell upon that which he hoped to accomplish by his treacherous act, but I do wish to express my deep gratitude to you for having sent your son, Lord Atticus, to rescue me. I can truthfully say that if it had not been for him and his men, I do not know exactly how I would have escaped the walled fortress in which Mordecai had imprisoned me. Unfortunately, your son and I did not get the opportunity to speak on the night in question. However, you may rest assured that I look forward to someday having the chance to tell him exactly what I think of him.

You may also rest assured that I have every intention of returning to Parthania to sit upon my throne as soon as it is safe for me to do so. To this end, I require something of you, my lord. Having determined that Mordecai has evil intentions toward many in this kingdom, I have come to the conclusion that until he is stripped of all power and his New Man army is destroyed or disbanded, life in this realm cannot be as it should be. My army is not yet entirely battle ready, but my intelligence network informs me that you and the other noblemen have been gathering your fighting forces to you for some weeks now. To buy me time to more adequately prepare my own fighting forces, I would have you mount a campaign of harassment against Mordecai and his New Men. Your objective will be to cause widespread confusion, destruction, frustration and fear enough to drive his soldiers to desertion. Be advised, however, that under no circumstances are you to engage in a full battle with or kill Mordecai. The people of this realm need to see none but their rightful queen triumph over the traitor, that they may know who truly rules the kingdom.

Lord Bartok, I understand this is an unusual mission to give to a man of your great station. However, if you show yourself to be my true and loyal subject in the weeks and months to come, I promise that when the war has been won, you shall find me as gracious and grateful a queen as you could ever have hoped to kneel before.

Regards,

Queen Persephone

P.S. I would henceforth have you ride beneath the banner that I have provided. Prove yourself, and this banner will be the first of many gifts you shall receive from me.

Lord Bartok let the letter drop from his hands. As it fluttered to the desk, he seized the package and tugged the string so hard that it snapped. Out of the coarse, brown packaging slid great handfuls of white silk; spreading it out on the desk before him, Lord Bartok saw that it was, indeed, a banner. He was not surprised to see the red circle that was the symbol of the Erok royal family but he wondered at the addition of the blue teardrop, which could symbolize anything from the queen's grief at the death of her brother to her anguish at having wasted so many years living so far below her own high station.

Smiling faintly at the thought that only a woman would be so sentimental as to add a
teardrop
to her crest, Lord Bartok pushed the banner aside and picked up the letter once more. If it was genuine—and Lord Bartok saw no reason to believe it wasn't—it meant that Queen Persephone was not in the possession of the cripple, after all. She was free and had been since the night Atticus stormed the walled fortress in which she'd been imprisoned. For the first time since receiving the duplicitous letter from his son—for the first time in many years, truth be told—Lord Bartok felt a flicker of warmth for the boy. Amazingly, although Atticus had obviously gotten himself captured in the process, it appeared as though he'd actually aided in the queen's escape. It was not precisely what he'd been told to do, of course, but it was better than having bungled the mission completely. This was especially true given that the queen rightfully credited
him
with having sent Atticus to rescue her.

Letting the letter drop from his hands for a second time, Lord Bartok leaned forward, rested his elbows on the desktop and pressed his clasped hands to his mouth. The letter raised as many questions as it answered. The biggest question it raised was how he ought to react. To say that the mission was an unusual one to give a man of his station was a gross understatement. Great lords did not
harass
their enemies. They did not scurry about setting fires, pilfering supplies and sabotaging equipment. They met their enemies on the battlefield with sword in hand! It was an insult to have been asked to do otherwise and yet … the inexperienced queen upon whom he hoped to get a fresh crop of sons had suddenly become an unknown commodity. One who spoke of armies and intelligence networks almost as though she knew what she was talking about—one who made no bones about her intention to sit upon her throne. If he ignored her letter, it was reasonable to assume that she'd make contact with some lesser nobleman in the hope that the man would show more loyalty. If she did that, the other great lords would learn of
his
disloyalty, and he'd lose their support. Without it, he'd not only lose the game, but for failing to obey a direct command issued by the sovereign to whom he'd publicly pledged himself, he'd run the very real risk of losing his title, his lands and even his head.

The thought of being reduced to a
nobody
—of being known to a thousand future generations as the man who'd reduced the great Bartok family dynasty to ashes—caused a violent shudder to run through Lord Bartok's body. No.
It was too great a risk to take at this point in the game. Many things could happen in the weeks to come. The queen could change her mind about seeking the throne and abdicate it to the infant Aurelia was pretending to carry. She could suffer a mishap or wound and die. She could contract the Great Sickness and die.

Or … she could find herself so impressed with the fervour with which Lord Bartok carried out her first royal command that upon finding herself pressed by her Council to produce an heir, she might ask him to be her consort.

Heart beating fast, Lord Bartok rose to his feet and walked back over to the table with the map. Picking up the ivory king and queen, he held them together in one hand. As he stared down at them, he told himself that it was not impossible that she would choose him to be her husband.