Tales of the Crown

by Melissa McShane

  The front door opened. “Who is it?” Zara called out, trying not to feel irritated at the new intrusion.

  “It’s me,” Jeffrey said, stepping into the kitchen. “I’m sorry.”

  “I thought I told you to get out. I distinctly remember saying that, your Highness.” She invested the last two words with as much disdain as she could muster.

  “I know. But I couldn’t leave without telling you one more thing.” He took a deep breath. “We’ve never forgotten you,” he said. “Mother and Father talk about you so often I feel like I know you—I know that’s an impertinence, but it’s how it is. I can’t imagine what your life is like, but I know how I’d feel if I had to be separated from my family. Even Sylvester, who mostly makes me want to punch him. So I wanted you to know….”

  “What?” Zara snapped when it seemed he’d run out of words.

  “That you’re not completely alone. That every solstice, we know you’re alive and now I’ll know to think of you. I know it’s not much and it can’t make up for your isolation, but I hoped it would matter to you.”

  “You’re right. That’s an impertinence.” His mouth was set in a firm line, as if he’d resolved on an unpleasant task and was seeing it through despite his reluctance. He looked so like Anthony it made her heart hurt worse, and unexpected compassion led her to say, “Thank you.”

  Jeffrey looked surprised at this. “I just wish things could be different.”

  “So do I.”

  “Where will you go?”

  He’d seen the truth, then. “Don’t know yet. Maybe I’ll see Eskandel for a while. But I don’t need to tell you, do I?”

  He grinned. “No. Does it bother you to know I’ll know where you are?”

  “A little.”

  “I promised I wouldn’t tell.”

  “I believe you.”

  Jeffrey ducked his head. “You want to know what I remember?” he said. “I had a horse—a wooden horse with wheels for feet—and Sylvester stole it and threw it down the stairs from the north wing and two of the wheels came off. I was crying, and I remember…you came along, probably on your way to work, and you sat down beside me and asked me if crying was going to put the wheels back on. Then you took me to your office and showed me how to fix it—I can’t remember how, except that it was with something you took out of your desk that wasn’t an axle, but fit. And you said something about sometimes the best solution was the wrong tool for the right task. I didn’t understand it at the time, which is probably why I remember it. It makes a lot more sense now.”

  She didn’t remember that at all. “That’s a lot of years to carry a memory.”

  “It’s one of my earliest ones. You’re not alone, Aunt Zara, and maybe someday you won’t have to hide anymore.”

  “That’s unlikely.”

  “I’d prefer to think of it as…hopeful.”

  For just a moment, her pain fell away, and she saw a future in which she was reunited with her family. Then the moment passed, leaving her with that aching emptiness again, but it wasn’t quite so bad. “You go ahead and hang onto that hope for me,” she said quietly.

  “I will,” Jeffrey said, and put his arms around her. It startled her so much that she reflexively returned his embrace instead of pushing him away, which was her second impulse, and a cruel one. “Goodbye, Aunt Zara.”

  “Goodbye, Jeffrey, and…tell your parents I love them.”

  Jeffrey nodded and released her. “Do you need anything? I brought a little money.”

  “I’ll be fine, nephew. Now…go home.”

  She followed him to the door this time and stood motionless in the hall for a few moments after he’d gone. Then she went to her room and began taking Hank’s clothing out of the dresser drawers. She hadn’t been able to bear it before, but now it felt like a proper farewell. “So that’s your nephew,” she said to the air. “Last I saw him, he was a chubby toddler, and now he’s a man grown. Did it bother you to reach ungoverned heaven and discover the secret I kept from you? I assume that’s how it works. Maybe I’m wrong. But I like to think I don’t have to hide from you now you’re gone. I’m sorry I never told you. I thought it was safer that way, but maybe I should have believed you could keep the secret.”

  She straightened the folds of his spare trousers and patted the neat bundle of cloth. “I love you, Hank, and someday we’ll be together again. I know I’m not much for religion, but you were, and maybe I can hang onto your faith for a while.”

  An hour later, she went to Mercy’s pub and begged a couple of leftover crates, and packed up all the things she’d sell or give away. The house wasn’t hers, but the furnishings were, and between that and all the little things she’d accumulated over the years, she should be able to make enough to store the loom for a few months, maybe a year. Or maybe she’d sell that, too. She wasn’t ready to settle down again. Time to travel for a spell and see what the world had to offer. Time for Zara North to begin another new life.

  Owen

  I originally thought Elspeth would be the heroine of what eventually became Rider of the Crown, so I knew some details of what happened to her, one of which was Owen meeting her and Jeffrey. When I came to write this story, it turned out those details were wrong. I don’t know why Elspeth continues to elude me as a POV character, but this story is all Owen’s.

  Takes place from summer 927 to spring 928 Y.B.

  * * *

  Day 1

  The sound of pursuit was closer now. Oujan descended the overgrown slope as rapidly as he dared, leaping and sliding and keeping his footing through skill and desperation. The rich, lush scent of crushed greenery rose up around him, choking him. Good thing Hrovald’s warriors weren’t accompanied by dogs, because Oujan was leaving a scent trail a mile wide. On the other hand, those warriors had caught up to him far faster than Oujan had expected, so maybe it didn’t matter.

  He caught himself at the foot of the incline and ran, casting about in all directions for salvation. This forest, thick with summer’s growth, would conceal him for a while, but however much of a bastard the usurper Hrovald was, his men weren’t stupid. Oujan’s only hope was that he could outrun and outlast them. Since he knew the full amount of the bounty on his head, it was a stupid hope. But if Oujan hadn’t surrendered the night the old king had been murdered, he wasn’t going to give up now.

  Above the sound of his running footsteps and his labored breathing, he heard the rush of running water. A river, here in the middle of the forest? He must be more turned around than he’d thought. The only river he knew of anywhere near here was the Tjorbar, flowing south from the Spine of the World, but he’d thought he was a good ten miles away from its banks.

  Oujan changed direction. If the ground was clearer near the river, he’d make better time, and Balderan willing, there might be a settlement, or, hell, he’d settle for finding an abandoned boat. Anything to stretch his lead on Hrovald’s warriors.

  He couldn’t hear the warriors anymore. That meant they’d made it down from the heights, and Oujan was in serious trouble. He automatically put a hand to the hilt of his sword to keep it from swinging as he leaped a low-growing bush, and cursed when his hand hit nothing but air. He’d left his longsword behind when he’d failed to defend his king, and the short sword that swung at his other hip wasn’t his. The memory tightened his throat, and he pushed himself to run faster, wishing he could outrun his past as he was outrunning his pursuit.

  He came abruptly out of the trees and pulled up short, nearly falling over the riverbank into the Tjorbar’s flood. The forest grew right up to the mighty river’s banks, which dropped a good three feet to the surface of the water. Tree roots protruded from the banks, ready to trip running feet. Oujan would gain no advantage from following the river.

  His other hope, that he might ford the Tjorbar and lose himself on its far side, died a terrible death as he regarded how wide it was. Wide, yes, but flowing as slow as molasses in winter, so swimming was a possibility. For someone
who knew how to swim.

  His feet carried him along the bank downstream as he went over possibilities. Hrovald’s warriors were trained in the art of battle, but none of them had Oujan’s skill at tracking or moving through the landscape. He still had the advantage, even if their numbers meant it wasn’t much of one. They weren’t so much following his trail as covering as much ground as possible and hoping he’d make a mistake. Staying with the river, searching for a ford…that was his best course of action for now.

  Ahead, the river’s course took a sharp bend to the left, and Oujan ducked back beneath the trees to avoid where the riverbank had been eroded by the current. Stumbling, cursing under his breath, he paused to listen. Still nothing but the wind in the trees and the water’s chattering flow. The way his luck was going, he would come out onto the riverbank again to find Hrovald’s warriors stopped for a drink. He shook his head and pressed on.

  What little sky he could see through the great oaks’ leaves was leaden with the weight of an oncoming summer storm. If it had arrived an hour earlier, it might have been his salvation, obscuring his trail enough for him to evade his pursuers. As it was, he was just going to die wet. He headed for the riverbank again, hoping the curve of the river’s course would reveal a ford where there wasn’t one before. Which was the same as hoping for a miracle. Given that he was the last of King Dyrak’s warriors, the only one to survive the massacre, Oujan feared Balderan thought he’d already had one more miracle than he deserved.

  He burst out of the forest to find himself unexpectedly on clear ground. The river’s sharp bend had curved back on itself, a much slower, shallower turn to the right, and the riverbank sloped gently down to what was almost a pool carved out of the river’s course.

  And he wasn’t alone. A sorrel mare, bright against the dark trunks of the oaks, bent her head to drink from the pool. Crouched nearby was a young woman, her hands cupped and overflowing with water. She looked up in surprise, but didn’t move. She didn’t seem afraid of him at all. Her large brown eyes watched him curiously, as if he were a woodland creature she’d never seen before.

  Oujan’s feet carried him forward without stopping. A horse. His pursuers were on foot. Thank you, Balderan, for my miracle.

  The young woman stood as he drew nearer and said something in Tremontanese. “Sorry,” Oujan said. “I’d promise to bring her back, but we both know that’s a lie.”

  “Bring her back?” the young woman said in perfect Ruskeldin. “You’re stealing my horse?”

  Startled, Oujan came to a stop a few feet away. “You speak my language?”

  “I speak several languages. Did you need me to say it in Eskandelic? Why are you trying to steal my horse?” The young woman—hell, she was barely more than a girl—still showed no signs of fear. She put out a hand to stroke the mare’s nose, calming her.

  Oujan stepped forward and reached for the reins. He didn’t have time for a conversation in any language. “You’ll be fine,” he said. “I need this horse.”

  The girl grabbed the reins first and stepped out of Oujan’s reach. “You look awful,” she said. “You’re not a bandit, are you? Mercier swore there weren’t any bandits—oh, heaven, Jeffrey will be furious with him if I’m in danger.”

  Oujan’s head spun. Who was this girl, that she could talk about bandits as if they were a minor inconvenience, like mosquitoes? “I’m not a bandit,” he said helplessly. “I just need your horse.”

  “But you’re running from something, I can tell.” The young woman stood on tiptoe to peer past his shoulder. She was tiny, he realized, and beautiful, with shining fair hair that hung straight over her shoulders nearly to the small of her back. “Which means—”

  A shout rang out through the trees. Oujan whipped around, scanning the forest. He saw nothing, but then someone else shouted, and he knew his luck had run out. He took two swift steps and grabbed the girl, ripping the reins from her hands. He had to go, now, before it really was too late.

  The young woman gasped and struggled out of his grip. Oujan shoved her to the side and mounted. He looked down at the young woman, whose mouth hung open in astonishment but not fear. She would be fine. Someone like her couldn’t be far from her companions, and she’d be facing a long walk, but nothing more dangerous than that.

  Unless.

  Unless Hrovald’s warriors were better trackers than he’d thought. Unless they followed him closely enough to stumble upon this young woman the way Oujan had. Oujan examined her again, took in her slim figure, her beautiful face, and his heart sank. However intent Hrovald’s men were on finding him, he had no doubt they’d be willing to take an hour or so to amuse themselves with this girl.

  He wheeled the horse around and leaned down to grab her arm and haul her up behind him. “Hold on,” he said, and kicked the mare into a gallop. The girl gasped and flung her arms around his waist, pressing herself close to him. Any other time, that would have thrilled him. Now, he could clearly hear the sound of shouting, and all his attention was on the ground before him.

  The damp ground squelched beneath the horse’s hooves as Oujan urged her onward. The open space narrowed, taking them beneath the trees again, and then widened out as the forest fell away and turned into broad, grassy fields. It was so unexpected Oujan turned to look behind him, wondering madly if he’d dreamed the great forests that bordered the Spine of the World. He half expected to see Hrovald’s warriors burst out of the tree line, screaming and waving their swords. But the forest stared placidly back at him, the only movement a flock of gray birds that rose from the canopy and swooped and darted in a swirl before flying north.

  “Kidnapping me is a bad idea,” the girl shouted. “I thought I should warn you.”

  Oujan nearly fell off the horse trying to look down his own shoulder at his small companion. “What?”

  “Whatever you’re afraid of back there, I can promise there’s much worse waiting for you if you don’t let me go.”

  This was the strangest girl he’d ever met. “I’m not kidnapping you,” he said. “I’m just borrowing your horse.”

  “What are you running from?” The girl sounded curious and, again, not even a little bit afraid.

  Oujan laughed despite himself. The strangest girl, and the strangest conversation. “A lot of bad men who’d do worse to you than I have.”

  “I see. Turn right up there, away from the river.”

  “What?”

  “It’s the road to The Junipers. On the right. We’ll be safe there.” The young woman leaned past him and pointed. Oujan saw where the grassy plains were beaten flat into a pale dirt road that extended left and right. On the right, the road curved to follow an incline that rose to become a hill topped by more trees. On the left, the plains continued into the distance until they came up once again on the banks of the Tjorbar River.

  Oujan glanced down at the young woman again. She was looking past him at the hill. Oujan couldn’t see anything there that might be a protection. Worse, if her friends were hidden there, Oujan could be riding into greater danger.

  Then a howling cry rose up behind them. Oujan twisted around to cast a swift glance at the distant forest. Tiny figures emerged from it, their swords glinting in the gray light. They ran as if they hoped to outpace the horse. Oujan cursed and urged the mare faster.

  “What are you doing? I said, go right!” the girl shouted.

  Oujan ignored her. Whatever waited for them on the top of the hill was no match for a full Ruskalder warband. Not to mention her friends might not be interested in hearing his side of the story, when it looked for all the world as if he’d kidnapped this girl.

  He gazed into the distance, straining to see anything that might let him elude their pursuers. Aside from the tree-topped hill, the plains were bare and featureless and looked to extend all the way through Tremontane and into Eskandel beyond. Eventually, he would have to stop or kill the horse with riding, and he was under no illusions about the tenacity of his fellow Ruskalder. Hrovald’s
bounty was enough to keep those men chasing him forever.

  Something shifted at his side, and to his astonishment, the girl drew the short sword from its sheath. “What are you—” he demanded.

  Cold steel pressed into his side. “Go right,” the girl said. “Do it now.”

  He almost laughed. Her grip on the sword was all wrong, and it would take nothing for him to knock it out of her hand. But the sheer bloody nerve of her gambit amazed him. He’d never known anyone like her. Balderan, if this is Your miracle, far be it from me to reject it. Oujan wrenched on the reins and turned right.

  The road didn’t go straight up the hill; it curved around its base and took a gentler path that nevertheless brought them ever closer to the summit. The slowness of their ascent made Oujan’s heart beat painfully hard with fear. Every time they changed direction, he saw the Ruskalder advancing, silent now, their swords sheathed and their boots thrumming across the sodden field. Thunder rumbled as if the gods approached as well, interested in seeing how it all worked out. Oujan cursed inwardly. This wasn’t a miracle, it was his final mistake, and he was going to get this extraordinary girl killed alongside him.

  The road swerved to pass between the trees, which swallowed the two of them up. Oujan heard the mare’s labored breathing and cursed aloud. The poor animal wasn’t big enough to carry both of them, certainly not at speed. They were going to die sooner rather than later. Oujan urged her on anyway. They were going to have to take him by force. And he intended to kill every one of them if it meant saving the girl.

  Then the road broke through the trees into a clearing, and Oujan nearly fell off the horse in astonishment. A great stone turreted castle rose up before him, filling the clearing as if the gods had dropped it there. Men in green and brown rushed toward them, shouting. Oujan brought the mare to a halt just as the first rank of soldiers formed up and brought an array of crossbows to bear on him. “Wait, no—”