Maybe Owen would succeed. He’d taken companions, so he was going to try the plan he’d proposed: walk into Hrovald’s house and offer himself in Elspeth’s place, send her out to the others and have them bring her back. The hell of it was, it would work. Hrovald was so personally invested in seeing Owen die that he wouldn’t care about his captive princess anymore. And Elspeth would lose her husband, and Jeffrey would lose the best friend he’d ever had.
Surprising that they’d all become so close, so quickly; Owen had stumbled into their lives less than a year before, but it was as if he was an old friend they’d merely lost track of. Jeffrey had always been solitary, and his friendship with Owen had been unexpected and desperately needed. The thought that he was going to throw his life away made Jeffrey wish he could transport himself to the shining bonfire that was Elspeth and stab Hrovald through the heart. The resulting confusion as the chiefs of the Ruskalder battled for the crown would be a side benefit.
He sighed, rolled out of his cot, and began to wash and dress for the day. His head ached a little thanks to the sleepless night. Today was going to be miserable, not like the last five months hadn’t been equally miserable.
He splashed cold water on his face, ran his damp fingers through his black hair, and looked at himself in the mirror. He looked too much like his father. Maybe that was a good thing, maybe it meant his councilors and the government officials responded to him out of some residual respect his father had left hanging in the air around him. Or maybe it was a bad thing; maybe they looked at him and expected him to be as good as his father because the resemblance was so striking. Maybe he should grow a beard.
Someone clapped outside the tent door. Jeffrey left his curtained-off room at the back of the tent, buttoning up his coat, and pushed open the flap. “Morning report, your Majesty,” Marcus said, and Jeffrey stood back to let him enter. “Morale is high, maybe a little too high since we’ve had to discipline several soldiers for over-exuberance, but I’d rather cheerful troops than morose ones as long as we’re not actually on the battlefield. Cheerful can turn into dead far too easily there.”
“Excellent. Be prepared to move out again in the morning, if we still have no word.”
“Yes, your Majesty. And I…had another thought.”
Jeffrey braced himself. Marcus’s thoughts often led to more work for him.
Marcus went to the map table and shuffled pages around until he found one of the region. It showed the area they were currently in, with the borders of Ruskald, Tremontane, Veribold, and the Kirkellan territory called the Eidestal. “We’re here,” he said, pointing at a spot within the Ruskald border. He traced a line south. “This is all Ruskalder territory,” he said, “at least on paper. Their borders dip down south between Tremontane and Veribold in this long finger, right?”
“I do know how to read a map, Marcus.”
“Then try to imagine this.” He traced a line from the northern Veriboldan border to the edge of the mountains that formed the border between Tremontane and Ruskald. It cut off that fingerlike extrusion of Ruskald from the rest of the country.
“This area,” Marcus said, tapping the long finger of land, “has always been a nightmare of national security. There’s just too much for Diana’s people to cover, and we can’t let the army mass along this border without making Ruskald—and, frankly, Veribold—nervous. I’ve thought for years that if this were part of Tremontane, we’d be in a much better position to defend against Ruskald.”
“You’re suggesting we just take it? With our army that’s half the size of Hrovald’s?”
“I’m saying that as long as we’re aggressing on their territory, we might as well go for broke.”
“Marcus,” Jeffrey said in an even tone, “you know I respect you like you were my own uncle, but I think you’re insane.”
“It’s not as bad as you think. Most of this territory is unoccupied. Frankly, the only reason Ruskald holds it is that Veribold doesn’t care and Tremontane has been preoccupied with internal issues. But now we’re in a position to stake a claim that’s better than Ruskald’s.”
“And you don’t think this will upset the Veriboldans?”
“Like I said, they haven’t made a move themselves.”
Jeffrey thought about it. “It’s true they prefer having us for neighbors to Ruskald,” he said. “At least that was the impression I got from Bixhenta, the last time we spoke.” He paced the tent, mulling it over. “Do you have a plan for this?”
“Two plans, contingent on whether we meet Hrovald in a pitched battle. But they both start with us moving to…this position.” His finger stabbed down on the map. “That will give us the best chance of controlling the territory no matter what happens with Hrovald.”
Jeffrey traced the imaginary line Marcus had minutes ago. “Talk to Diana,” he said. “If this works, she’ll be the one whose boundary extends into the disputed area.”
“That’s not a good idea. Daxtry would be county sized, then. Bigger than county sized.”
“I’m not going to think about how to divide up territory we don’t have yet,” Jeffrey said. “Diana’s still going to be on the border and it will be her soldiers at the head of the line if Hrovald comes after us. Consult with her, and prepare to move out tomorrow morning.”
After Marcus left, Jeffrey continued pacing. Annexing territory when he didn’t even know if he could get his heir back. At least it gave him something to do. He resolved to stop staring at the little bonfire in his head until she was back. It would only drive him crazy. Though one could argue that he was already crazy for listening to Marcus’s plan in the first place.
“Owen hasn’t come back, and neither has Elspeth,” Jeffrey told his advisers two evenings later, his heart like lead in his chest. “We’re going to act as if his mission has failed. Tomorrow I will send messengers to Hrovald requesting Elspeth’s return, authorized to negotiate on my behalf. There’s no way to know what his response will be, but I predict it will not be positive. The army is to stand in readiness to advance. If Hrovald refuses to return the crown princess, we will march on Ranstjad and attack.”
“What about the territory?” a man asked.
Marcus replied, “If the princess is returned unharmed, we’ll go home. If not, when we’ve defeated the Ruskalder army, we’ll maintain a presence in this area—” he pointed to the map—“in preparation for permanent settlements.”
“When we defeat the Ruskalder army?” Diana Ashmore said under her breath.
“I try to think positively, Diana,” Marcus said frostily.
“I’m trying to think practically, Marcus. Do we have a plan of attack?”
“Of course I have a plan of attack—”
“That’s enough,” Jeffrey said, silencing both of them. “Tomorrow, after the messengers are—”
The tent flap opened. Jeffrey, who’d given orders that they weren’t to be disturbed, looked up angrily and saw Owen, whose face was emotionless. “Owen,” Jeffrey began, a hundred possible angry words rising up inside him. Then Owen’s small companion, someone too thin with short blonde hair, stepped forward, arms outstretched, and all those words vanished into the distance. “Sweet heaven,” he whispered as she walked into his arms, “Elspeth.”
Jeffrey: Chapter Two
“Elspeth,” Jeffrey repeated, and bent to kiss her shining hair. She felt like a bundle of bones in his arms, far thinner than he remembered her being, and he was afraid to hold her too close in case some of those bones snapped under his hands. “Sweet heaven, what have they done to you?”
“She was very sick,” said a woman who stood at Owen’s side. Her accent was thicker than Owen’s and her Tremontanese more tentative. “She is still not well completely. I promise that I cared for her the best—as best as I could. We had to cut her hair because of the fever. I am sorry.”
Jeffrey looked more closely at her. “Who are you?” he asked. She was tall, as tall as he was, plump and heavily built. Direct hazel eyes met h
is. She looked as if she’d been in a fight, as did Owen, who had a trace of dried blood in his hair.
“This is Imogen of the Kirkellan,” Owen said. “It’s because of her that we escaped Hrovald’s city alive.”
Jeffrey looked from the young woman to Owen and then down at Elspeth’s bowed head, tucked into his shoulder. There was no way Hrovald would simply have let them walk out of his house. Whoever this woman was, she had worked a miracle.
Jeffrey came around the map table, his hand outstretched. His leaden heart had turned lighter than his sister’s golden hair. “I owe you everything,” he said. “Anything I can do for you—you brought me my sister and my best friend—anything at all, it’s yours.”
She took his hand reflexively, her eyes once again locked with his. “I need nothing,” she said, sounding a little overwhelmed by his intensity. “I cared for Elspeth because she needed me. I must go to my mother soon. She will want to know how Hrovald wanted to take the Crown of Tremontane.”
Jeffrey released her and turned to Owen. “The Crown?” he said.
Owen glanced around the room. “This should be private,” he said. Jeffrey nodded, then gestured to his officers and advisers. They filed out of the tent without a word. Jeffrey seated Elspeth on a camp stool and knelt in front of her. She did look as if she’d been ill. She was so thin and pale it broke his heart to look at her.
Owen stood behind Elspeth and put a protective arm around her. “Swear to me you will not yell, or rage, or tear around throwing things until you hear all,” he said.
Jeffrey made an exasperated face. “You went off against my express command and it’s sheer luck you made it back alive, let alone with Elspeth,” he said. “Don’t think that succeeding at your insane mission means I won’t rip you a new one.”
“That is not what I mean,” Owen said. “Swear.”
“Fine. I swear not to throw a fit. What is so dire?”
Owen lowered his voice. “Hrovald’s son raped Elspeth.”
For a moment, Owen’s words made no sense. Then their meaning was entirely too clear. His ears rang with them until the sound of his own blood pounding through them deafened him. He stood in a swift movement and opened his mouth to shout, to swear, to somehow give voice to the fury that pulsed in his veins. Owen glared at him, and he shut his mouth and looked down at his sister. Elspeth’s chin quivered, and her eyes filled with tears, and he had to turn away from her devastated face. And all this time he’d thought she was safe.
He wished he’d marched on Hrovald’s house the second he knew where Elspeth was. Never mind that that was impossible; his little sister, this sweet, clever, funny girl who had never hurt anyone in her life had…he couldn’t finish the thought.
Behind him, he heard Elspeth having a conversation with the young woman, Imogen, in what sounded like Kirkellish. Then he heard Elspeth laugh. If she could still laugh, maybe she could heal. It eased his heart, somewhat. “Did you kill him?” he asked Owen. Owen nodded, and that eased his heart a little more. If Hesketh couldn’t die at his hand, it was fitting that he die at Owen’s. He cleared his throat, and said, “Are you telling me this has something to do with Hrovald trying to conquer Tremontane?”
“He planned to say that Hesketh’s…physical relationship with Elspeth meant they were married, and then wait for her to give birth to Hesketh’s child, who would then be an heir to the throne.”
“It doesn’t work like that.”
“If he was able to kill you in battle, it would have.”
Jeffrey glanced at Elspeth again. “So is she…”
Elspeth buried her face in her hands. Owen’s arms tightened around her. Imogen said, “She is not carrying a child.”
Jeffrey looked at her, startled. He’d forgotten she was there. “How do you know?” he asked.
Imogen rolled her eyes. “She had her…” She seemed to be looking for the right word. She switched to Kirkellish and said something to Elspeth that made her gasp in relief.
“She says I had my monthlies while I was ill. That was after Hesketh…it means I’m not pregnant!” She hugged Owen tightly. Jeffrey sagged onto a camp chair and rubbed his face.
“I don’t know if I can stand any more surprises,” he said, and one of the guards stuck his head through the door and said, “Your Majesty, there’s a fight going on near the horse lines.”
Imogen said something harsh in Kirkellish and ran out of the tent. Jeffrey, mystified, followed Owen and Elspeth, who hurried after her. They ended up at the enclosure, where a maddened Kirkellan horse that looked to Jeffrey to be about eight feet tall screamed and thrashed, tossing a woman who was clinging to her reins back and forth over the ground. Imogen, completely heedless of the danger, ran into the enclosure, picked the woman up off the ground, tore the reins out of her hands, and tossed her to one side as if she weighed no more than a child.
Jeffrey watched in amazement as the Kirkellan woman threw herself over the horse’s back and lay full length along her neck and body, her face near the mare’s head. Jeffrey could see her talking into the horse’s ear, stroking her mane, holding on even as the horse reared a little and shook her head. Jeffrey was sure it was only a matter of time before the horse sent Imogen flying, but instead it began to settle down, stopped screaming, and went from stamping its feet to moving restlessly and then, finally, standing still. Imogen kissed the side of the mare’s face and continued to stroke her mane. She said something soothing in Kirkellish, then slid off the horse’s back and laid her cheek against its neck.
It dawned on Jeffrey that there were several more horses here than usual, and that they were all enormous. “There are a lot of Kirkellan horses here,” he said aloud, and Imogen turned to look at him.
“This is my tiermatha,” she said in Tremontanese, gesturing at several Kirkellan warriors standing nearby. “They are also—were also ones who brought Elspeth home.” She turned back to face them and said something angry in Kirkellish. Jeffrey thought it wouldn’t be pleasant to be yelled at by the formidable young woman, but she didn’t seem angry with them. One of the Kirkellan women started explaining something, pointing at the horse and then making a gesture and a buzzing sound—she was talking about that experimental grooming Device, the one the stable mistress was so enthusiastic about. Imogen replied in a calmer voice and pointed at him, and twelve Kirkellan warriors turned to look directly at him. What was she telling them?
The stable mistress, who’d been the woman hanging onto the horse before Imogen had tossed her out of danger, came limping up to Imogen at that point. “Your horse is dangerous,” she said. “She shouldn’t be with the rest of the animals. Who knows what she might do? I want you to—”
“What is your name?” Imogen said, cutting her off.
“You have no right to make demands of me—”
“What did you put on my horse?”
“It was a simple grooming Device. What kind of creature overreacts like that?”
“The Kirkellan do not use the Devices,” Imogen said, raising her voice. “The Kirkellan take care of the horses with the own hands as heaven intends it to be. You put a buzzy thing on my horse and scared her and you are now wanting to make it her fault that she is scared? I will find this buzzy thing and I will make you eat it unless you apologize to Victory right now.”
Jeffrey grinned. This was a woman he wanted to get to know better. She’d rescued Elspeth and Owen, had dragged a terrified horse back to earth with nothing but her own two hands, and now she was threatening the stable mistress in her own domain. She didn’t seem to be afraid of anything.
The woman was red with fury. “Apologize? Me, apologize?”
Jeffrey decided it was time for him to intervene. “Madam, for a stable mistress you seem remarkably ignorant about Kirkellan horses,” he said with amusement. “You should know better than to use a Device that I happen to know is untested outside the field on a horse that doesn’t belong to you. I suggest you do as the lady tells you and apologize to the hors
e.”
The woman looked confused. “The horse?”
Imogen glared at her and nodded in Victory’s direction. The horse nodded as if she understood the conversation.
The woman looked from Victory to Imogen and back again. “I’m sorry,” she said in a stunned voice. “It won’t happen again.”
“Thank you,” Imogen said, and led Victory to where her stable mates waited, patting her on the neck. Jeffrey watched her for a while until it became clear she and her friends were talking about him. One of the men was eyeing him with a frankly sensual appraisal that made him feel uncomfortable. He turned and bumped into Owen, who had Elspeth under his arm. “Would you invite Imogen to eat with us?” he said. “I know she said she didn’t want anything for bringing you home, but I’d at least like to speak to her a little more.”
“I’ll ask, but she might not want to leave the tiermatha,” Owen said. “They’re a close-knit bunch. I think she’s in charge, but it’s hard to tell with the Kirkellan; rank isn’t nearly as important to them as it is to either of our people.”
“Well, make an effort,” Jeffrey said, “and you, Elspeth, are coming with me to lie down before supper. You look exhausted.” Elspeth started to protest, but at a look from Owen she went with Jeffrey without complaining. Apparently there were things she’d do for her betrothed that she wouldn’t do for the brother she’d known all her life.
He took her to his own room inside the king’s tent and made her lie down on the cot, covered her with a blanket and pushed her short hair back from her face.
“Stay with me,” she pleaded when he made as if to leave. “I don’t like being alone.”
He dragged a chair over and sat beside her, holding her thin, light hand. “We were all so worried,” he said. “It took a week for us to even learn you were still alive. Mother and I were frantic.”
“I was safe. Imogen took care of me. She is my dearest friend.”
Tales of the Crown Page 15