“I’m sorry,” he whispered, and kissed her forehead lightly. “I need you to endure this for just a few hours more. As soon as I find out what Max is planning, I’ll send for you. I promise.”
“You must do it soon,” she whispered back, “because I think I cannot tell what is real anymore.”
He turned her in his arms to face him, and kissed her again, his lips lingering on hers. “That is real,” he said, “and I will think of you every moment until this is over, and then I will go on thinking of you because you make me happy.”
She smiled at that, a wavery, uncertain smile that made him inwardly curse Burgess yet again. “I will remember that, and not how you looked when you say those things to me. It is better to remember, kissing is.” She touched his cheek gently. “And you must shave before you kiss me again,” she said, her smile becoming more genuine.
“I make no promises,” Jeffrey said. “I don’t know if I could help myself if you go on looking at me that way.”
“What way is that?”
Words failed him. Her bright eyes, the smile on her lips, the way her hair fell over her forehead and cascaded down her back and over her shoulders—it was all too much. “As if those other men really do mean nothing to you,” he managed, and stood, clasping her hand in both of his. “I’ll send for you soon, all right? Just—be patient.”
He pounded on the door and shouted, “I’m done here,” all the while staring at her, wanting to memorize how she looked so he could carry the image with him until the moment she was by his side once more. When the guard unlocked the door, he walked away without looking back.
In his office, he straightened the stacks of papers and then dragged one of the chairs flanking the fireplace to a position directly in front of his desk. Then he summoned Arthur, who looked disgustingly alert and cheerful. Now that his time with Imogen was over, weariness had begun to descend upon Jeffrey, but he had no time to indulge in it.
“Ask Maxwell Burgess to join me,” he said. “We need to have a talk.”
Jeffrey: Checkmate
“Hold,” Diana said. The men and women in Tremontanan Army uniforms lowered their weapons and made way for her. Jeffrey didn’t relax. She walked past Fred Williams’ body, collapsed on the map table, without even glancing at him, as if they hadn’t been friends. Maybe that was true.
Diana stopped five feet from Jeffrey’s remaining guards. “You don’t have a chance, you know,” she said. “I’ve already won.” She was breathing heavily and her bloodstained coat, not military issue, was torn along one side.
“We’ve both lost,” Jeffrey said. He stepped past the guards and paused within striking distance of her as she brought her sword to the ready. His guards twitched, but he ignored them, giving them the signal to stand down. If he couldn’t convince her of Hrovald’s threat, it wouldn’t matter what she did to him. “Hrovald is marching on this city, thanks to…” He resisted the urge to scream at her for her stupidity and greed. “We have to join forces to hold him off until the main Army arrives.”
Diana smiled. It was a coy, knowing expression completely inappropriate to the moment. “Desperate words from a desperate man about to die. Did you really think I’d believe you?”
He wanted to strangle her. How had he thought they had ever been friends? “I’m not lying, Diana. Lay down your weapons, and this can all be over.”
“And I suppose you believe your Kirkellan allies will make the difference? Your foreign lover?” Diana’s smile turned into a snarl. “She’s dead, Jeffrey. I killed her, and I’m going to kill you, too.”
Shock made him temporarily numb. “I didn’t think you’d stoop to lying, however low you went,” he managed.
Diana ran her finger down the flat of her bloody sword. “Lying isn’t nearly so satisfying as the truth, not when it’s a truth like this one,” she said, displaying the blood on her finger. “Some warrior. She fell to my sword just like you will.”
“Impossible.” Imogen. She couldn’t be dead. She was far more experienced a fighter than Diana. And yet Jeffrey knew that swooping, lilting sound to Diana’s voice, the one that meant victory for her and a crushing defeat for her enemy. He pushed his anguish aside and focused on what mattered. There was no way he could convince Diana, but her officers had been his, once, and they were military. They would see sense.
He switched to addressing the man at Diana’s left shoulder, who wasn’t as impassive as the others. “You’ve seen Hrovald’s army. You know what we’re capable of if we—”
“Don’t be a fool, Jeffrey,” Diana said, “and don’t try to sway my men. Even if you’re right about Hrovald, you know what I’ve done is treason if I let you live. It’s too late for any other solution.”
He felt so weary. “Diana, we have a common enemy here. Don’t you be a fool. Hrovald will destroy the city if we don’t stop him, your forces and mine together.”
“But with you still in command and your ass firmly placed upon the throne.” Diana let out a short bark of a laugh. “You think I don’t know what it means if I give in to you now?”
“You don’t have to die. You can go into exile. I’ll even pardon your officers. Just let this end.” Once more he focused on the officers standing behind her. Two of them shifted uncomfortably. Impossible to tell what they were thinking, but he refused to give up hope. Imogen had taught him that.
Diana laughed, a horrible, cheerful sound. “You forget who has the upper hand here.”
Jeffrey shrugged. “I’ll admit you have me outnumbered. I’m counting on your officers—my officers—being unwilling to murder their King.”
“My officers are loyal to me, not to you, Jeffrey. It’s what happens when you fight together, day after day, for years on end.” Diana’s sword lowered, and she took a step forward, making Jeffrey’s guards come alert. He signaled them again to stand down. If he was going to die here, he wouldn’t let anyone else go with him.
Beyond Diana and her officers, the door swung open slightly. A figure appeared in the gap. Jeffrey’s gaze flicked that way briefly before returning to focus on Diana. Then shock rooted him to the ground once more. “Imogen,” he said.
Diana laughed. “The fat bitch is dead, Jeffrey. That’s a pathetic ruse.”
“The fat bitch is right here and thinks your aim is bad,” Imogen said. For all her voice was faint, she sounded as confident as if she weren’t clinging to the door frame to stay upright.
Diana’s head turned. Faster than thought, Jeffrey thrust with his sword. The blade plunged into Diana’s stomach, angling upward until it met the resistance of her ribcage. Diana’s head came back around. The look of amazement on her face, pure stunned confusion, set his heart thudding. He had never taken a life before. Surely it ought to be more momentous than this. And yet he had never felt so certain of any action in his life.
Diana looked down at his hand on the hilt of the sword, spotted with her blood. Her own sword fell from her hand, its tip catching in the carpet and making it sway. Then she sagged at the knees. Jeffrey withdrew his sword and let her collapse atop her fallen weapon.
He aimed the bloody blade at the five Army officers, who looked as stunned as Diana had. “This ends now,” he said in a voice that promised a short, painful future to everyone who failed to obey it. “Drop your weapons and you won’t hang for treason. One chance. Now.”
Swords thumped to the floor, bouncing hollowly as they struck the soft carpet. “Good,” said Jeffrey. “Go out there and tell your soldiers to stand down. They won’t suffer for their leader’s idiocy either, but if the killing doesn’t stop now, they’re going to suffer for their own. Go!” he shouted. They scrambled to flee.
One of them bumped into Imogen, who rocked unsteadily, then collapsed. Jeffrey dropped his sword and rushed to her side. She was covered in blood and her eyes were closed. “Imogen, Imogen, sweetheart, look at me,” he said, putting his arms around her to lift her up. She opened her eyes and blinked at him. “She said you were dead. It’s all
right, it’s not so bad, just—how stupid, I was going to say ‘stay right there’—”
He set her down gently and raced across to the window, snatching up his sword as he went. With a slash, he tore away a swath of heavy silk and hurried back to her side, pressing the cloth into the deep wound. “Can you hold that?”
Imogen nodded heavily, her head flopping as if she could barely hold it up, and put her hand over the cloth. Jeffrey looked up at his guards. “You, yes, both of you, get her to the infirmary immediately. Now!”
The two men crouched to help Imogen to her feet—oh, good, she could walk, or at least stumble along. Jeffrey stood in the doorway and watched until she was out of sight. He felt too numb to fear for her. She was strong; she would survive this. And there was nothing more he could do to help her.
He turned and bent to pick up his sword, feeling like an old man with joints stiff and aching. His gaze fell on Diana’s body, lying awkwardly where she had fallen. What an ending to their friendship, such as it had been.
Diana’s arm twitched, sending a jolt of surprise through him. He crossed the room and crouched at her side. Diana’s eyes were closed, but her mouth moved as if she were trying to speak. Impulsively, Jeffrey reached out to straighten her limbs, but let his hand fall before touching her. She was responsible for so many deaths, and she might be responsible for many more if they couldn’t fight off Hrovald. She deserved no pity, even in such a small way as that.
“Jeffrey,” Diana said. Her voice was barely more than a whisper.
“Diana,” Jeffrey replied. He couldn’t think of anything else to say.
Diana’s mouth worked again as if she were chewing something hard and gristly. “I…was wrong,” she said. Blood stained her lips. “You…king.”
Jeffrey stood. He remembered striking Diana down, how he’d felt nothing but certainty even as he knew Diana had to die. How he’d stared down those officers, heard confidence ring through his words as he commanded them. He hadn’t doubted himself and he hadn’t thought about what his father would have done. “I am the King,” he said. “And you should never have challenged me.”
Diana let out a sigh. More blood trickled from her mouth. She didn’t move again.
Jeffrey wiped his sword on the back of her coat and sheathed it. He cast another long look at Fred’s body and cursed under his breath. Too many good men and women were dead, and there was no time to mourn them. Now Jeffrey had a kingdom to save.
Jeffrey: Saying goodbye
The palace ballroom was as brightly lit as ever, but instead of the scent of perfumes and flowers, the air was filled with the smell of blood and antiseptic. Jeffrey stood at the top of the stairs and surveyed the many, many bodies lying on cots or pallets throughout the vast room. He tried to remember that this was good, that these people were going to survive, but with the sounds of moaning and quiet cries of pain echoing off the walls, it was hard not to see this for the disaster it was.
He descended the stairs and made his way around the suffering wounded to where the palace healer, Dr. Worthing, knelt beside someone who lay so still Jeffrey at first thought her dead. But the doctor clasped her hand, bowed his head, and the woman cried out through clenched teeth before controlling herself. Jeffrey knew almost nothing about magical healing except that it could hurt terribly, but he had faith in Dr. Worthing’s abilities.
After about half a minute, the doctor’s head came up, and he gently laid the woman’s hand across her chest. “You should rest for another hour,” he said, “while your body regains its strength.”
“Thank you,” the woman said, her voice still weak.
Dr. Worthing stood and gestured to Jeffrey to walk with him. “That’s the last of the critical cases,” he said. “The other physicians are treating the wounded, and Dr. Gillan is resting.”
“Are you…exhausted, then? Unable to heal more?” Jeffrey asked.
Dr. Worthing shook his head. “I’m not at the limits of my magic, but there are wounded still coming in, and I should conserve my strength, just in case.”
Jeffrey reflexively looked at the ballroom entrance. It was empty. “Just in case,” he agreed.
“I take it there’s been no word of the ambassador,” Dr. Worthing said.
The ache that had been Jeffrey’s constant companion for the last twenty-four hours redoubled. “No,” he said. “They’re going to send out another search party shortly.”
The doctor put a reassuring hand on Jeffrey’s shoulder. “They’ll find her. You should rest.”
Jeffrey nodded absently. He wasn’t going to rest until he knew what had happened to Imogen.
He wandered through the ballroom, greeting soldiers, doing his best to comfort them. Why the presence of their King should matter, he didn’t know, but the wounded did seem heartened by a few words from him. He barely knew what he said. All his heart was focused on one horrible fact: Imogen was missing. They had found her saber stuck through Hrovald’s heart, found Victory, who was badly wounded, standing nearby in the patient way of a good warhorse, but Imogen was nowhere to be seen.
She was almost certainly dead.
There was no way she could have survived without returning. Jeffrey knew this. But his stubborn heart refused to believe it. Until he saw her body, he would go on being certain she was alive somewhere, wounded but alive.
“Your Majesty.”
Jeffrey looked up to see the matrian of the Kirkellan kneeling opposite the wounded soldier—no, it was a Kirkellan warrior he’d been speaking to. He hadn’t realized. “Matrian,” he said. “How are your people?”
“Our losses were not as heavy as yours, I think,” Mairen said. She patted the warrior’s hand and said a few words in Kirkellish before standing and indicating Jeffrey should walk with her. “Still, every loss is a tragedy.”
“I can’t express my gratitude for your assistance.” Jeffrey stopped in a clear space away from the wounded. “I’ve spoken with Ingivar. He will make a much better neighbor than Hrovald.”
“For now,” Mairen said. “I don’t know how long he’ll maintain his power.”
Jeffrey nodded. “I choose to be warily optimistic. There are too many chieftains interested in gaining power for Ingivar to sit easy on his throne.”
“Very wise.” Mairen looked out over the wounded as Jeffrey had done.
“I’ve assembled another search party,” Jeffrey said.
“Thank you. It seems impossible that she—” Mairen’s mouth closed sharply.
“We’ll find her,” Jeffrey said. “Don’t worry.”
Mairen looked at him. “You,” she began, seemed to change her mind about her words, and went on, “She is your friend, I think.”
The ache in his chest throbbed as if she’d stabbed him. “Of course,” he said, trying to sound casual. “She fought and nearly died for Tremontane. It’s more than anyone asked of her. I owe her a great debt.”
“I see,” Mairen said. Her tone of voice told him she wasn’t fooled. Jeffrey was suddenly aware that this was the mother of the woman he loved, and he wasn’t doing a very good job of acting as if Imogen meant nothing to him. But after the events of the last few days, the last thing he wanted was for Mairen to know about his hopeless feelings.
A commotion at the doors drew his attention. It was probably another wounded soldier, which was terrible, but he welcomed the distraction.
Two men appeared in the doorway, carrying a third between them and shouting for Dr. Worthing. The wounded soldier was female…she was Kirkellan…Jeffrey drew in a sharp breath and hurried toward them. It was Imogen. She wasn’t moving, sweet heaven, she was dead after all, and Jeffrey thought his heart might crack in two with grief.
Dr. Worthing made it to Imogen’s body first and snatched up her hand before the soldiers could lay her down. Jeffrey prayed as he never had before. Just one more miracle, just one.
“She’s alive,” Dr. Worthing said, “but only just. Set her down anywhere, but be quick about it. Your Majesty, ple
ase stand back.”
Jeffrey realized he had reached Imogen’s side and taken her other hand, squeezing it tightly in the hope she could feel it. He released her and stepped back. The soldiers set Imogen down practically at the foot of the stairs, and Dr. Worthing knelt beside her. Jeffrey waited for her to tense, or scream, or react in some other way to the pain of healing, but she lay unconscious, her mouth slack and her eyes closed.
He became aware of Mairen standing next to him, her whole body intent on the scene playing out before them. Something so momentous ought to be as dramatic as the fight that had wounded Imogen; she was bloody from half a dozen wounds, including the one Diana had given her that she’d sworn to Jeffrey she wouldn’t tear open again. But no one moved, no one spoke. Jeffrey couldn’t even hear breathing, not even his own.
Then Imogen’s chest rose and fell once as if she’d sucked in a tremendous breath and expelled it. Dr. Worthing rocked back on his heels. “I can’t get her to wake up,” he said, “but that’s not unusual. She’ll sleep for a while as her body restores itself, creates new blood to make up for the quantities she lost. She should be removed to somewhere private.”
“There is a suite in the east wing I’ll have made up for her,” Jeffrey said. “I don’t think she should be moved to the embassy.”
The look Mairen gave him convinced him that he’d given himself away. He returned her gaze coolly, daring her to make an issue of it. But she only said, “Thank you, your Majesty, that would be appreciated.”
He spoke to the housekeeper himself, saw Imogen settled in a room not far from his own—a coincidence—and then extricated himself as quickly as was polite and hurried to his office, where he closed the door, sank to the floor in front of the empty fireplace, and wept tears of relief and sorrow. She was alive, but she was lost to him. It was almost worse than if she’d died.
Tales of the Crown Page 29