Tomorrow's Kingdom (30 page)

He was the most powerful nobleman in the realm, after all. Who better to give her the sons she would need to see her bloodline carry on?

Very well, then: for the time being, he would prove himself as loyal a subject as the queen could hope for. He would set his dignity aside and order the knights and foot soldiers under his command to split up and go forth like a band of lowborn bandits.

Carefully setting the ivory king back in its place on the map and setting the queen to one side—since he did not know where she was—Lord Bartok called for the servant he'd earlier dismissed.

The man appeared at once.

“You say that the man who delivered these things is still here?” asked Lord Bartok.

“Yes, my lord,” replied the servant stiffly. “As I said, he rudely informed me that—”

“Take him to the kitchens and see him well fed,” interrupted Lord Bartok. “Tell him that by the time he has finished eating, I will have a reply for him to carry to his mistress.”

THIRTY-SEVEN

P
ERSEPHONE STARED AT
the gift that the camp blacksmith had presented to her earlier that day.

“Well?” said Rachel. “Aren't you going to try it on?”

Persephone shrugged without taking her eyes off the crown in her hands. Unlike the crown that awaited her in Parthania, this one was not heavy with precious metals or inlaid with gemstones. Instead, it was a simple circlet of hammered silver. Each of the five identical peaks that rose up at the front represented one of the five tribes of Glyndoria—all of equal importance, all standing together.

It was exactly the crown that Persephone would have chosen for herself, and yet for some reason she could not seem to bring herself to—

“I'm almost certain that thing is meant to sit on your head,” came Azriel's voice from the entrance of the tent.

In unison, both girls turned. Persephone felt her heart quicken at the sight of her handsome husband. Though he was dressed quite as well as any lord in the realm— Robert having pointed out that it would not serve for
her to look like a queen and her husband like a pirate— somehow Azriel's new clothes did not make him look like a prince consort. Somehow, they only made him look like a particularly
well-dressed
pirate.

“Zdeno is looking for you, Rachel,” said Azriel, flashing the girl a knowing smile.

“Oh!” exclaimed Rachel, two spots of pink appearing on her cheeks. “Oh, well, I, uh … I'd better go, then.”

Hastily dipping Persephone a curtsey, the flustered girl hurried from the tent. After she'd gone, Azriel lingered at the threshold a moment longer. Folding his arms across his well-muscled chest, he cocked his head to one side and let his gaze travel down the length of Persephone's body and back up again. Then, smiling in a way that was only a
little
bit wicked, he started walking toward her.

As she watched him approach, Persephone was forcibly struck by two thoughts. The first was that if she lived to be a thousand years old, she was quite sure she'd never tire of the feel of his eyes upon her. The second was that she hoped that the baby looked
exactly
like him.

“Persephone?” murmured Azriel when he was standing just a few inches away from her.

“Yes?” she said breathlessly, staring at his lips.

Instead of answering her, Azriel used the tips of his fingers to brush the hair back from her face and to tuck every last stray strand behind her ears. Then he gently tugged the crown out of her hands and stepped behind her. Ever so slowly, he lowered the crown onto her head, wrapped his arms around her and gave her a kiss behind the ear.

“It fits nicely,” he murmured.

“The crown?” she asked, leaning back against him.

“No, the suit of armour,” he teased, reaching down to give the steel strips of her skirt a twitch. “You look quite delectable in it—in an utterly terrifying way, of course.”

Smiling, Persephone turned in his arms and looked up at him. “And how do I look in the crown?” she asked, more timidly than she'd intended.

At once, Azriel's expression grew serious. “Magnificent,” he said. “Like a queen.”

Flushing with pleasure, she said, “And … you're sure you don't want one? A crown, I mean? Because if you do—if you think you'll not be content being known only as prince consort and not as king—I'm willing to share the throne with you, Azriel.”

It was not a lie, for Persephone
was
willing. Nevertheless, she found herself giving a tiny, inward sigh of relief at Azriel's reply.

“I have already told you that I do not want to be king,” he said. “I want to know that you are happy, and that you love and respect me, and that you and the baby and I will be together forever—”

“We
will
,” said Persephone, hoping it was true.

“Then I am content that you should rule alone,” said Azriel, rocking from side to side with her in his arms. “Indeed, I think it would be a mistake for you
not
to rule alone, for there are many men who'd prefer a king to a queen, and I think you'd not take kindly to being overlooked, and I
know
I'd not take kindly to seeing the equipment of the men who'd dared to do so dangling from
every chandelier in the palace. Besides all that, the hard seat of a throne would bruise my tender backside, and a crown would flatten my beautiful curls, and I could not abide either.” He smiled
very
wickedly before continuing. “No, far better that I should simply remain your Master of Bath—ever armed with soap and sponge, my entire being devoted to ensuring that in the whole of the realm, there is no woman with a cleaner pair of—”

“
YOUR
MAJESTY
!” bellowed Robert, bursting into the tent. Briskly striding forward, he waved a sealed letter over his head and said, “My man has just now returned with a message for you from Lord Bartok!”

At once, Persephone pulled away from Azriel, took the letter and broke the seal:

Most Gracious Majesty,

I cannot express to you how profoundly relieved I was to receive your message. To know that you are safe and beyond the clutches of the former regent does much to assuage my grief and pain that my only son was taken during the rescue mission, and it fills me with great joy to know that you have already raised an army and that you intend to return to the imperial capital to take your throne. As for the mission that you have set for me, rest assured that the only thing a man of my station need concern himself with is obeying without question the commands of his sovereign. Therefore you may depend upon me to rally the other noblemen to join me in mercilessly harassing the army of the former regent. And when the
day finally comes that you call for me to stand beside you in a true battle against our common enemy, that together we might restore proper order to this great realm, know that the gods themselves will not be able to keep me from your side.

With Deepest Affection, Greatest Respect and Kindest

Regards,

Your Most Loyal Servant,

Lord Bartok

“I cannot believe that Lord Atticus was kidnapped that night,” murmured Persephone pensively.

“
I
cannot believe that Lord Bartok signed his letter ‘Your Most Loyal Servant,'” said Azriel in a mock disapproving voice. “Does he not know that
I
am your most loyal servant?”

“No, nor does he know that you've married and fathered a child upon his precious queen,” said Robert. “And it is my very,
very
dearest wish in life to be there when he finds out.”

Smiling faintly as she shook her head at him, Persephone said, “At least it sounds as though Lord Bartok intends to do as commanded. If he does, and if New Men continue deserting in the numbers being rumoured, the coming weeks should see the size and strength of Mordecai's army significantly—”

The sudden sound of frenzied barking and faraway shouts of alarm interrupted their conversation. As one, Persephone, Robert and Azriel drew their swords.

Robert stepped out of the tent first. Recoiling slightly, he said, “What is that
smell
?”

Persephone stepped around him, gave a tentative sniff and recoiled, for mingled with the fresh, woodsy smells of the forest were the smells of wet wool, dung fires and too few baths.

Even as it occurred to her what the source of these smells must be, a bandit scout came charging out of the forest to the north of the camp.

“
YOUR
MAJESTY
,
IT
'
S
THE
KHAN
!” he cried, his eyes as big as trenchers. “They're coming! And they're hairy! And … and …
and there are thousands of them
!”

Heart pounding with excitement, Persephone watched as the Khan slowly began to materialize out of the misty gloom. All were large, all had long, tangled hair poking out from beneath their horned helms, all carried water skins and food pouches, all had battle-axes jammed into their heavy leather belts. Some had great bushy beards; others did not. Some wore long shaggy coats, some wore animal skins, and some appeared to have stripped off their shirts altogether—though it was hard to say for sure because all of these had arms, bellies and backs that were quite as hairy as their heads and chins.

As the Khan gathered at the northern edge of the camp, Cur, Silver and the other dogs continued to bark and snarl and strain against the men who were holding them back. The Gypsies and bandits, meanwhile, warily began to congregate at the southern edge of the camp. A few wore expressions of curiosity; most wore expressions
of either nervousness or belligerence. All stared mutely at the great hairy horde that was staring back at them.

Robert adjusted his grip on his sword. “My men and I have never seen even one Khan before,” he said edgily as his eyes flicked from side to side as though trying to assess the magnitude of an approaching threat. “You're quite sure they come in friendship—even though they once tried to kill you?”

“The avalanche wasn't
necessarily
meant to kill us, Robert,” said Azriel lightly as he laid a steadying hand upon the bandit leader's shoulder.

“And even if it was, it happened
before
my champion won us our lives and the everlasting friendship of the tribe,” added Persephone as she scanned the horde for Barka and Fayla.

Unable to spot them but knowing that something had to be done quickly to diffuse the escalating tension, Persephone strode into the gap between the two groups and made a deliberate show of sheathing her sword. As Azriel stepped forward to stand beside her, she turned to the Khan, spread her hands wide and called, “Welcome, my friends!”

In response to a gruff order barked from somewhere in the middle of the horde, those Khan at the front— warriors who perhaps formed part of a protective guard— stepped aside to allow Barka to walk forward. At his side was Fayla, looking well enough in spite of appearing rather battered and bruised. The Khan prince grinned broadly at Persephone and Azriel, but before he could do more than
this, his attention was caught by something—or rather, by
someone
—behind them.

“Mateo!” cried Barka in delight. “Mateo, it's me, lad—Barka!” He thumped himself twice on the chest. “I'm the Khan prince what taught you to sing so sweetly! Remember? Back in the dungeon in Parthania?”

As if to remind the boy, Barka began to sing, loudly and quite as tunelessly as if he was utterly tone deaf. Smiling slightly, Mateo hesitated for only a few seconds before joining in with the voice of an angel. Together, the hulking Khan and the little Gypsy sang all three verses of a well-known, much-beloved Glyndorian lullaby. By the time they'd finished, nearly everyone on both sides of the camp was smiling, and the tension that had filled the air earlier had all but vanished.

Persephone took advantage of the moment by swiftly calling for the Gypsies and the bandits to make their guests welcome. Once she was satisfied that the various factions were getting along (or, at least, that they were not trying to kill each other), Persephone invited Barka and Fayla to join her, Azriel and the other members of her Council in the Council tent.

After settling himself down onto one of the roughhewn stools, Barka gruffly introduced himself to Cairn, Robert and Zdeno and greeted Rachel as an old friend. Then he turned to Azriel and Persephone and said, “Condolences to you both on the passing of those you've recently lost. May the mother goddess of the mountains grant them afterlives rich in wine, women and wonderful woolly sheep.”

“Thank you,” said Persephone, privately hoping the gods would spare Finn an eternity plagued by the Khan's over-sensitive, spoiled, high-strung sheep. “I'm so pleased that you and your tribesmen have come, Barka.”

“Your Majesty, I once promised you the everlasting friendship of my people and all that implied,” he reminded. “You ought to have known that would mean that we'd come as soon as we'd dug Fayla out of the snow and—”