Tales of the Crown

by Melissa McShane

  “Flower. Or rose.”

  “And what’s beyond that?”

  “Wall.”

  They were sitting on a bench in the royal family’s private garden, practicing Oujan’s Tremontanese vocabulary. In three weeks he’d gone from barely being able to say “please” and “thank you” and “how do you say” to being able to carry on a halting conversation in a foreign language. Elspeth hadn’t acted surprised, just said, “Being immersed in a language, surrounded by people who don’t ever speak yours, makes learning that language much faster. And you have a knack for languages, too.”

  Now he said, “Not I know what is…I say, this.” He pointed at the soft green grass, cut to an even lawn that looked like velvet.

  “Grass. Or lawn.” Elspeth leaned back and closed her eyes. “It’s such a beautiful day. I hope Jeffrey is free for dinner. He’s always so busy.”

  “He is good King, I think.” To Oujan’s surprise, once he’d started learning the language, he’d discovered he and the King had much in common—a love of hunting, an interest in politics, a fondness for historical epics. And Jeffrey was good at making people feel comfortable around him—when he chose. Oujan had seen him formal and distant, and had seen him unbend, and wished he dared ask Jeffrey what made the difference. They were friends, he thought, but there were things Jeffrey made clear were off-limits.

  “He is. He never expected to be King, so I’m not sure he realizes how good he is yet. He doesn’t like to talk about himself—but you know that.”

  Oujan nodded, though she wasn’t looking at him. “Why do he say Owen and not Oujan?”

  Elspeth opened one eye and squinted at him. “Owen is Oujan in Tremontanese. Like Hrovald is Harold. There are name equivalents of all sorts throughout all the languages we know. In Eskandelic, for example, Oujan is Uvan. And your surname…I know the Ruskalder use occupations for surnames. What would you call yourself?”

  “All the warriors of the king are Hjagar.” Saying the word in his own language felt odd, after speaking Tremontanese for so long.

  “Hjagar. Pursuer…no, hunter. Owen Hunter.” Elspeth smoothed her hair behind her ears, a restless gesture. “It’s such an odd notion. I don’t know why the names change. My teachers say it’s a reflection of how all our languages have a common ancestor. Don’t you think it’s interesting to imagine everyone speaking the same language once?”

  “I think I am Owen—it is to say, I like…” He struggled to find words to express himself, and switched to Ruskeldin. “I feel as if I’ve left Ruskald behind. That I could be condemned for fighting for Dyrak, for doing what I was sworn to do…it’s a betrayal of me, in a way, and I feel as if my own country is alien now.”

  Elspeth sat up. “So, does that mean you want to stay in Tremontane?”

  Owen shrugged. Her eyes were uncomfortably intent on him. “I don’t know. I just know I wouldn’t want to return to Ruskald even if Hrovald dropped dead tomorrow.”

  Elspeth moved closer to him. “I want you to stay,” she said. “Jeffrey wants you to stay. We don’t have many friends like you.”

  With an awkward laugh, Owen said in Tremontanese, “You to have friends, being King and Princess. I am just one man.”

  Elspeth shook her head, not drawn by his levity. “Everyone’s always so…respectful. They always know we’re royalty, and that keeps them at a distance. You…it’s like we’ve known you all our lives, and you’ve just returned after a long absence.”

  Her words stunned him. She was right. He never thought of them as anything but Jeffrey and Elspeth, and whenever he considered moving on, it was with a sense of terrible loss, as if he’d be giving up his family all over again.

  He looked at her, sitting very close now, her head tilted to face him and her long blonde hair shining in the sun, and his breath caught. He was a fool. She thought of him as a friend, and he…damn it, she was completely off limits, and would have been even if he hadn’t become so close to her and her brother. What a betrayal of their friendship.

  “So, you’ll stay, yes?” Elspeth was saying, and he wrenched himself back to the present and smiled in what he hoped was a friendly, non-romantic way.

  “You to ask so nice, I cannot say no,” he said.

  “Good,” Elspeth said, and kissed him.

  A rush of passion swept over him, and without thinking twice, he drew her into his arms and returned her kiss. It was better than he’d dared dream, holding her and kissing her and feeling her respond as if she, too, had been waiting for this moment. The realization was like a slap to the face, bringing him back to himself. He disentangled himself from her and said, “Elspeth, no.”

  Her lips were still curved in anticipation of his kiss, and the sight inflamed him further, but he scooted back and took hold of her hands to stop her touching him. “This is wrong,” he said. “You know and I know it is wrong.”

  “Why is it wrong? Because you’re not Tremontanan? Or because you’re not noble?” Elspeth glared at him. “None of that matters.”

  He switched to Ruskeldin. “Because I’m ten years older than you. You’re just starting out in life, Elspeth—”

  Her glare intensified. “You said you’d never treat me like a child. I’m an adult by both our countries’ standards, Owen. And I know what I want.”

  “Well, it’s not what I want,” he lied.

  Elspeth recoiled, and the hurt in her expression made him again feel as if he’d been slapped. “But you kissed me,” she said. “I thought…”

  “I reacted as any man would.” Owen released her hands and stood. “Elspeth, it’s impossible. I’m sorry. This is just…I’m just an interesting stranger, that’s all, and what you feel will pass—”

  She rose to her feet in one swift movement and struck him hard across the face. The sound of the slap cut across the burble of the fountain. “Don’t you dare tell me how I feel,” she snarled. “I’m not some starry-eyed waif who falls in love with every mysterious stranger who crosses her path. I love you, Owen, and I think you care about me more than a little. And I don’t…I don’t give a damn about anything else.”

  Owen drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I don’t feel the same. I’m sorry.” His heart ached as if he’d once again been shot, but he kept his face impassive. He would be the worst of friends if he took advantage of her youth and inexperience, no matter how his heart cried out for her.

  “You’re lying,” Elspeth said flatly.

  He shrugged. “Believe what you want. I think I should go.”

  Her anger faded, replaced by uncertainty. “Go…where?”

  Anywhere would be better than here, looking at her. “I don’t know. Eskandel. I can’t stay here.”

  “Owen, you don’t have to leave.”

  She was so beautiful. And she loved him. It was more than he could bear. “Thank you for your hospitality,” he said, resorting to formality, “but I shouldn’t impose any longer.” He turned and walked away, heading for the garden door. She didn’t follow him.

  Inside, he climbed the many steps to the east wing, where the royal family lived and where he’d stayed the last three weeks. Cursing himself, he went to his room and sat heavily on the sofa in the sitting room. Most of the east wing rooms were the same, Jeffrey had explained—little groupings of sitting room, bedroom, dressing room, and bath. It was more luxury than Owen had ever had even in the king’s house in Ranstjad, more luxury than he’d seen in his whole life. And he’d have traded it all away to be able to hold Elspeth again and tell her how much he loved her.

  It was simply impossible. Age, rank, nationality were all against them. He would be taking advantage of her if he gave in to his feelings, and he couldn’t bear to treat her that way. So he had to leave. Maybe he didn’t have to go as far as Eskandel…no, remaining in Tremontane would be too painful so long as it meant he was anywhere near Elspeth.

  He rose, feeling like an old man, and went into his dressing room. He had clothes—Jeffrey had pressed money on him,
saying, “It’s nothing much, and you can hardly go around half-naked. What would the servants think?—and he thought about leaving them behind, but that was a stupid, juvenile gesture, a rejection of their friendship. He emptied his rucksack that he’d carried with him all the way from Ruskald and began packing. What could he do in Eskandel? He’d figure some way to support himself.

  He fastened the straps and shouldered the bag, taking one last look around the bedroom. It had started to feel like home. He shuddered and turned away.

  When he pushed open the door to the sitting room, Jeffrey was there, sitting on the sofa with his arms extended across its back and one ankle crossed over his opposite knee, the picture of a young man at his ease. “You were going to leave without saying goodbye?” he said, arching one dark eyebrow.

  “No,” Owen said automatically. “It is to say…no, I give—say goodbye. I leave now.”

  Jeffrey lowered his arms and sat forward. “Why are you leaving?”

  Had he spoken to Elspeth, or not? Owen didn’t know what to say. He settled on, “I am heal, I am well, I do not stay longer. It is danger.”

  “Not for me. For you, certainly, if you leave Aurilien. Unless you think Hrovald has given up searching for you?” Jeffrey tilted his head to look up at Owen. “But that’s not the reason, is it? Owen—”

  He thought about protesting that Elspeth had kissed him first, realized that was a dishonorable response, and said, “I do not belong.”

  Jeffrey’s face went still, closed-off the way it did when he was suppressing a strong emotion. “Owen,” he said, “you’re my friend. I…it’s probably stupid and sentimental to say this, but I think you’re the best friend I have. That means you belong here. I don’t—” He turned his head away, looking at the bare fireplace. “But I won’t make you stay if you really feel you shouldn’t.”

  Owen looked down at Jeffrey, wondering how much it had cost his proud, self-sufficient friend to say that. He dropped his rucksack and sat on the chair opposite Jeffrey. “Do Elspeth say to you what happens?”

  Jeffrey glanced his way. “She just said you insisted on leaving. But I can tell when she’s hiding something. You fought, didn’t you?”

  Owen shrugged. Fighting had been part of it, yes, and he didn’t want to tell Elspeth’s brother that he’d fallen hopelessly in love with her. “It does not matter.”

  Jeffrey raised an eyebrow again. “Whatever passed between you, you can make it right. Owen, if you go…look, just don’t go, all right? I don’t have so many friends that I can afford to lose one of them. Even if he is a proud and bloodthirsty Ruskalder warrior.”

  “I do not know what is bloodthirsty. You mean I drink blood?” Owen made a face.

  Jeffrey laughed. “It’s just an expression. And a joke. You are the least bloodthirsty man I’ve ever known.” He rose from his seat. “Stay for supper at least. Talk to Elspeth. Whatever happened, I’m sure she doesn’t want you to leave.”

  A hundred protests rose up in Owen’s chest. Jeffrey walked to the door and paused with his hand on the frame, not looking back. “And, Owen,” he said. “If you’re afraid I’ll be angry that you’ve fallen in love with Elspeth, don’t be. I’d rather you than any of the nobles of Tremontane.” He left, shutting the door quietly behind him.

  Owen sagged back against the sofa and closed his eyes. So it was obvious, was it? He had to admit it was a relief that Jeffrey didn’t hate him, because if he was honest with himself, Jeffrey was the best friend he’d ever had, too. But Jeffrey’s approval didn’t change anything. He was still an unsuitable lover for a Princess of Tremontane, and he really ought to leave before things became any more awkward.

  But he didn’t want to.

  Setting aside the fact that the thought of leaving Elspeth made his heart contract painfully, he didn’t want to lose Jeffrey’s friendship. He also wasn’t keen on the idea of putting himself within reach of Hrovald’s warriors again, though he wasn’t so much of a coward that he’d hide in the palace for the rest of his life. So the question was, could he stay here, seeing Elspeth every day and treating her with casual friendliness?

  He let out a deep breath. Elspeth’s attraction to him had to be a passing thing. He wasn’t handsome, didn’t have a title or a fortune, and this was just because they’d met in such a spectacular fashion. If he stayed, if he went on treating her like nothing more than a friend, she’d eventually lose interest, and they could go on as they had begun. He could endure that if it meant not losing what he’d begun thinking of as home.

  He stood and carried his rucksack back to the dressing room and returned his clothes to the wardrobe. He’d give it three days. If being near Elspeth was impossible, he’d know by the end of that time and he could make a different decision then. And if not… He paused with his hand on the wardrobe door. Home. It wasn’t such a strange idea, after all.

  * * *

  Day 72

  Owen leaned his wooden practice swords against the rack and wiped sweat from his forehead. His recent opponent did the same. “That Ruskalder two-weapon style is tough to defend against,” the man said. “Thanks for the lesson.”

  “You do well,” Owen said, nodding. He’d been surprised at how readily the Tremontanan soldiers stationed at the palace had accepted him. It was tempting to imagine Jeffrey making it a royal command—be nice to the King’s friend, even if he is a filthy Ruskalder—but he guessed it was just that Tremontanans saw things differently. No Ruskalder would admit to weakness, even in the form of not knowing a particular fighting style; no Ruskalder would approach a practice bout as anything but a serious battle. But these Tremontanans worked together with no sign of jealousy or pride, one soldier showing another a move that had defeated the second, individuals breaking down a battle strategy for a small group, none of them afraid of having their knowledge turned against them. It was so different from Ruskald.

  He stood and watched the practice field for a few minutes, admiring how well the Tremontanan soldiers drilled together. That was another thing Ruskalder didn’t do; in battle, it was every man for himself. Owen could see benefits and drawbacks to each approach. Maybe he should suggest some things to George Donaldson, who had the charge of the palace soldiers. Donaldson always gave him skeptical looks when he came to the practice field, but he looked that way at every new soldier, so Owen didn’t think it was personal.

  After a while, growing bored, he returned to the east wing, where he bathed and changed his clothes. It was still a few hours until supper, so he thought he might go to the Library and make progress on his reading. Jeffrey and Elspeth’s mother, Alison North, had been teaching him over the past month and a half, and the reading had improved his Tremontanese considerably.

  When he passed through the east wing drawing room, with its many comfortable sofas and the giant fireplace of river stones, unlit at this season, Elspeth looked up from where she sat. The sight of her made his heart beat faster. He gave her a pleasant smile that concealed his emotions and said, “I am going to the Library, what is it you do?”

  She eyed him for a moment before staring back into the empty fireplace. “I was going to a party, but I changed my mind.”

  “Oh? It is not a good party?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m just not in the mood to socialize.” She rose and stretched. She wasn’t dressed for a party, wore trousers and a loose green shirt, but she was beautiful whatever she wore. “Do you mind if I go to the Library with you?”

  Owen’s heartbeat sped up even faster. “Of course I do not mind. You will choose for me a new book.”

  “I’m sure Mother can do that.” But she followed him out of the east wing anyway.

  They walked together, side by side, down the varied corridors of the palace. Owen never had any trouble finding his way around, what with how different the halls were. They were as good a beacon as if they’d had directions written on the walls. He wanted to ask Elspeth, as he often did, why the palace construction was so erratic, but despi
te her superficial friendliness, the closeness they’d once had was gone.

  He’d done his best. He’d treated her like a sister and hoped she would take the hint. But they’d never regained the friendship they’d had before the day she had kissed him. And no matter what he did or said, his feelings for her hadn’t changed. He still loved her.

  He glanced furtively at her, at the curve of her profile, at her slightly furrowed eyebrows that said she was thinking about something, and wished he could kiss her. But no, even if all the other objections were swept away, she was no doubt angry that he’d rejected her, and he had no hope at all. He told himself it was for the best, but he was having trouble believing it.

  They crossed the Rotunda, a vast empty space with a tiled floor that rose several stories to a domed roof. The roof was painted with scenes from some past King’s life, someone who’d been powerful, to judge by the many deeds depicted. Owen suspected they were fictional. No one was that amazing.

  Elspeth stopped, and Owen went on a few steps before realizing she wasn’t with him. “Is something wrong?” he asked.

  “It’s the Ruskalder ambassador, Jafvran,” Elspeth said in a low voice. “I think he’s seen you.”

  A jolt of fear went through Owen before he reminded himself Jafvran was no danger to him. He looked in the direction Elspeth faced and saw a white-haired Ruskalder man staring back at him. He was surrounded by warriors, and as Owen watched, Jafvran muttered something to them. Every one of the warriors came to attention and strode in Owen’s direction.

  Owen put Elspeth behind him. He was unarmed, but he wasn’t helpless, and if those warriors wanted a fight, he would give it to them.

  “Owen, stop,” Elspeth said, sounding like herself for once. She stepped out from behind him. Exasperated, Owen grabbed her arm and once more put her where he could protect her.

  The warriors, all eight of them, circled Owen and Elspeth. “Traitor,” one of them said in Ruskeldin. “And coward. You hide in the Tremontanan King’s palace like a rat cowering from the hawk. You should face us in battle and win an honorable death.”