Tales of the Crown

by Melissa McShane

  Imogen didn’t wake up for two days. Jeffrey went about his business as if it didn’t matter to him that his love was unconscious longer than Dr. Worthing had said was normal. He asked for regular updates on her condition, which seemed like a reasonable thing for the King to do.

  At night he lay wakeful in his bed and tried to convince himself he’d made the right decision. Imogen had come to Aurilien as ambassador to learn the parts of her that weren’t a warrior. And she’d done that. But in the battle for the palace, and the battle against Hrovald, she’d proved beyond question that however good she was as an ambassador, she was far, far better as a warrior. Leading charges, encouraging the troops—soldiers who weren’t even Kirkellan!—killing Hrovald…it was clear Imogen belonged with the Kirkellan.

  Which meant she didn’t belong with him.

  No matter how he tried, Jeffrey couldn’t get away from that one fact. He wanted her to stay. He wanted her for his wife. But how under heaven could he ask her to give up her whole identity for his sake? It was ludicrous even to think the possibility. And it would be wrong for him to put that burden of choice on her. Which meant he had to let her go.

  But…surely it wasn’t fair for him to make the decision for both of them? That seemed wrong, too, as if he didn’t believe her capable of choice. So maybe what he needed to do was tell her his conclusions and give her the opportunity to decide. Maybe he was wrong in thinking that was too much of a burden. And maybe—he made himself stop thinking along those lines. She wasn’t going to choose him. He remembered their conversation the night they’d first kissed, how much she’d longed to hold on to her warrior self. She wasn’t going to choose him, and he needed not to dwell on other hopes.

  When he heard the news that Imogen was awake, it didn’t do more than depress him further. He finished his daily tasks, ate a quick supper, and excused himself. Mother and Elspeth and Owen were attending a concert, Mairen had business with the Kirkellan, and Jeffrey could be alone with Imogen. He hoped she would be awake. Time to get this over with.

  Unfortunately, she was asleep when he knocked softly on her door and let himself in. The last light of sunset showed her sleeping with her beautiful hair spread out over the pillow and trailing over her bare shoulders. He realized she was naked under the blankets, and his heart beat a little faster before he commanded it not to be stupid.

  He thought about waking her, but the doctor had been clear that she needed as much rest as she could get. So instead he dragged a chair over to her bedside and settled in to wait. The sun set, and darkness fell, comforting him. He could pretend she wasn’t there, that he was simply sitting in the dark the way he sometimes did when it had been a long day and his head ached.

  After about an hour, Jeffrey felt like a fool for sitting there while she slept, like some kind of predator. He had nearly decided to return later when he heard the blankets rustle and the sound of Imogen rolling over. “Don’t get up,” he said, and felt for the Device light switch. The light came on, revealing Imogen half sitting up with the blankets pulled close around her chest, squinting.

  “How long have you sat there?” she said.

  “Longer than I’d like to admit,” he said. “I apologize for the intrusion. Are you well?”

  Imogen’s dark eyes fixed on him. “I am hungry again.”

  “I can have someone bring you food.” He made no move to pull the bell rope. “No pain? The healer said you should be perfectly recovered.”

  “I am not in pain. I do not feel tired now either. Just hunger.”

  Jeffrey rested his interlaced fingers on his knees and studied them. How much small talk did he have to endure before dealing with what would cut his heart out of his chest? “That’s good. I—we were all very worried. Victory wounded, your saber left behind…it was as if you’d simply vanished.”

  Imogen scooted up, and the blanket shifted. Jeffrey kept his eyes fixed on her face. She leaned back against the headboard. “Thank you for tending to Victory. She is my dear friend.”

  More small talk, though at least Victory was someone who mattered. “Well, yes. I know how much she means to you, so I didn’t think she should suffer.”

  Silence descended between them. “I am sorry,” Imogen blurted. “I do—did not listen and you were right.”

  Startled, Jeffrey said, “Right about what?”

  Imogen bowed her head and twisted the blanket around her fingers. “That I am too injured to fight. I killed Hrovald because I was lucky. He nearly killed me. I should listen to you. Please do not be angry.”

  “What? Imogen, I’m not angry with you.” She sounded almost afraid. He couldn’t understand why she would think he would ever be angry with her.

  “Then what are you angry at?” Now she sounded confused.

  He wished he dared reach out to her. “I’m not angry at all. It’s just been a long couple of days, not knowing when you’d wake up. We’ve all been so worried.”

  “I am glad you care.”

  Her words were so civil, so polite, and so lacking in deeper feeling he wondered if he’d been wrong about everything, and she didn’t actually care for him. Pain drove him to exclaim, “Of course I care! Imogen….” His words trailed off into silence.

  A flash of misery crossed her features, so swiftly he wondered if he’d imagined it. “I think the Kirkellan will return to the Eidestal soon,” she said. “I am looking forward to the hunts.”

  Jeffrey went still. “You’re going back with them.”

  “I am a warrior of the Kirkellan. It is my home.”

  “I see.” It was what he’d told himself to expect, what he knew would happen, and he felt nothing but a dull ache inside. “It’s true, you’re a natural commander. I’ve had the reports of Colonel Haverson and Major Randulf. People look to you for orders and they trust what you tell them to do. You’re going to be the greatest Warleader the Kirkellan have ever had.”

  She looked sad again. “I think not. There is no more war for me to be Warleader.”

  Jeffrey shook his head. “The Ruskalder won’t stay peaceful for long. Ingivar is strong, but there are others who see his progressive policies as a threat and will do whatever it takes to stop him. I give it another five, possibly seven years before Ruskald becomes a threat again. And your current Warleader—Kernan is a strong leader, but Mairen told me he’s getting to an age where he’s ready to lay down his saber. After what’s happened in this war, no one’s going to question your qualifications to take his place.”

  Imogen nodded. “I…think you are right.”

  She was so beautiful, and looked so miserable, that he understood finally that this conversation was as painful for her as it was for him. He cast about for some way to express his feelings. “Thank you for wielding your sword on my behalf. I would be dead now if not for you.” That was wrong. It was too formal.

  “It is what I want to do.” Imogen sounded too formal, too. She met his eyes once again. “I do not belong here,” she said.

  Jeffrey nodded. “I know. I think I’ve always known.” He stood. “I don’t know if we’ll have another chance to speak before your warriors leave—there’s a lot to do still—but just in case, I want you to know I…feel honored by your presence here in Tremontane. Madam ambassador.” That was better. It was the closest he dared come to I love you.

  Imogen scooted back down to lie flat. “I think I must sleep again now.”

  “I thought you said you were hungry,” Jeffrey said.

  “I was wrong. I am just tired.”

  “All right. I’m glad you’re well. Good night, Imogen.”

  “Good night.”

  He let himself out. The light vanished before the door shut behind him. The sitting room that lay beyond Imogen’s bedroom was only dimly lit by a Device that burned on the mantel. Jeffrey leaned against the door and rubbed a hand across his face. It was over. They’d both said the right things. So why did it feel as if nothing would ever be right again?

  Jeffrey: A final decis
ion

  Waking before dawn had become a habit, these last three weeks. With the drapes pulled across the windows and no light burning by the bed or the door, Jeffrey’s bedroom was as still and dark as if it had been sealed. No air moved except for his light breathing, and the darkness meant it didn’t matter if his eyes were open or shut. That seemed like a metaphor for something, but he didn’t want to pursue it in case the meaning was something dire.

  He drew in a deeper breath and released it slowly, willing the knot in his stomach to untangle. That, too, was a habit—no, not a habit so much as an unwelcome guest. No matter what he dreamed or how soundly he slept, he always woke to the tense, burning feeling of his guts trying to twist their way out of his body. His mother, if she knew about it, would tell him to see the palace healer. He knew that was pointless. He knew what was causing it. And he knew no treatment would make it go away.

  He wondered how far the Kirkellan had gotten in their travels the previous day. Not far, probably, since they were slowed by all those wagons full of still-healing warriors. That meant—

  He swore and rolled onto his front, burying his head beneath his pillow. He had to stop thinking of Imogen. They’d both made the right choice, her in deciding to return to her people, him in not begging her to stay, so why did he keep torturing himself with the memory of her kisses? It didn’t matter if she was five miles away or fifty; she was gone, and he needed to come to terms with that.

  He made himself go over his plans for the day. Meeting with the Council. Meeting with the new Devisers’ Guild leaders. Meeting…sweet heaven, were there nothing but endless meetings in his future? Imogen would tease him about never leaving time for himself… He groaned and squeezed his eyes shut as if that would block his memories. But, as always, he returned to thinking of her, helplessly, like a falling man grasping at a rope.

  It still astonished Jeffrey that he had so many memories of her when they’d known each other barely more than two months. Imogen racing Victory, leaping hurdles and pounding along the straightaway. Imogen sitting next to him with strands of her hair blowing loose in the breeze. Imogen sitting hunched and defensive in the tiny cell. Imogen lying nearly unconscious, covered in blood. Imogen sitting up in her bed—he cut that memory off ruthlessly, not wanting to dwell on saying goodbye to her forever.

  He was suddenly angry with himself. Why was he giving in to these sentimental, stupid emotions? Yes, he loved her, but who was to say she was the only woman he would ever love? He needed to throw his heart into finding a Consort here in Tremontane. Surely there were other women—

  He sat up and flung the pillow away. Time to stop wallowing. Meetings, dear heaven, so many meetings, but then he would set about courting in earnest. And Imogen could remain a fond memory. He was the King of Tremontane; he owed it to his country to be strong. He’d proved that on Diana’s body and he would prove it to his Council. He spoke, and they listened, even when he said things they didn’t like. Someone had told him that—Mother? No, some other person.

  Oh. It had been Imogen.

  Unexpected longing struck him so hard he couldn’t breathe. For once, he remembered not his physical desire for her, but the simple joy of being in her presence, of telling her things and knowing she understood him in ways no one ever had. She was clever, and wise, and a natural diplomat…She’s a warrior, it’s what she’s best at, he told himself.

  And in that moment, he knew he didn’t give a damn what she was best at.

  He was up and dressing before his brain could override his body. This was stupid. She’d only tell him what he already knew—that she wanted the Kirkellan more than she wanted him. But he’d never asked. He’d never actually come out and said Imogen, I love you, I want you to marry me. And if he never asked, how could he ever come to terms with her refusal?

  He donned a plain shirt and comfortable trousers, pulled on riding boots, scribbled a note that he left on his sitting room table, and swiftly strode through the east wing, hoping his family would continue their habit of sleeping late because he didn’t want to explain himself to any of them. At the door, he told the guards, “I’m going to the barracks for a workout before breakfast. Don’t bother summoning my bodyguards,” and hurried away before either of the men could comment on his inappropriate footwear.

  Few people were about at this hour, and when he took the passage that led to the barracks, it was completely empty. Even so, he strolled casually around the turn before the barracks entrance, pretending it was normal for the King to go to the stables unescorted.

  The stables, by contrast, were as busy and bustling as ever. The sky had begun to lighten, going from black to North blue in the east, and the warm murmuring of dozens of drowsing horses would have calmed Jeffrey’s nerves on any other day. He walked to Harlequin’s stall and waited for the black gelding to come forward, whickering a welcome.

  “Saddle my horse,” he told the young woman who approached him tentatively, as if she weren’t entirely sure who had come into her domain that morning. “I’m going for a ride before breakfast.”

  “Yes, your Majesty.” The woman hesitated again. “Shall I…arrange for horses for your guard?”

  “They’re waiting for me at the front door,” Jeffrey said. His heart beat rapidly, and he sternly told it to calm down. He was the King; nobody was going to challenge his eccentricities. Certainly not this young woman. The stables were large enough she would assume some other ostler had provided horses to the nonexistent guards.

  He waited, stilling his impatience, while the woman took her own sweet time about readying Harlequin. It was only his imagination that any minute now Micheline Branton and half of Internal Affairs would come pouring out of the palace, shouting at him to stop and return with them.

  He accepted the reins, mounted as gracefully as he was able, and wheeled Harlequin around to walk at a sedate pace toward the stable yard exit. When he was out of sight of the woman, whom he could feel watching him as if her gaze were a burning brand, he urged Harlequin into a trot, kicking up gravel until they reached the paved courtyard. Then it was down the cobbled drive and into the streets of Aurilien.

  Even at this hour, Aurilien was lively with men and women going to early-morning jobs or returning home from late-night ones. Produce wagons ambled through the streets to market, not making way for him. It cheered him to know he was anonymous for once. He refused to consider that this was stupid, traveling without his usual escort. It might be slightly dangerous—though if no one knew he was the King, who would be inclined to attack him?—but he had no desire to bring a retinue along to witness this meeting, especially since he had almost no hope she would accept him.

  He reached the south gate just as the soldiers were opening it for the day and joined the small crowd of wagons and pedestrians waiting to leave the city. Screaming inside with impatience, he maneuvered his way through the crowd, politely avoiding his fellow travelers, until he’d passed all of them and could give the horse its head. He’d never ridden Harlequin faster than a canter, and the gelding’s turn of speed surprised him. He crouched against the horse’s neck and let him run.

  Color seeped into the world around him, changing the trees from shades of charcoal to browns and greens. It felt as if the land itself were waking, and Jeffrey, too, felt like he was waking from a terrible nightmare. It didn’t matter if Imogen rejected him—well, of course it mattered, but now that he was taking action, the dreadful burning pain in his stomach and the ache in his heart had vanished.

  He calculated in his head how far the Kirkellan might have gotten the day before. Left Aurilien around noon, traveled no more than eight miles per hour, probably a lot less if those transport wagons were as ponderous as he imagined, so if Harlequin could keep up this speed for a while, if the Kirkellan didn’t get an early start, he might reach them by noon. His stomach rumbled, reminding him he’d forgotten to eat. He didn’t have much of an appetite.

  Ahead, he saw a lone rider approaching, appearing at a break in th
e forest cover and then vanishing into the trees. He hadn’t thought about other traffic on the road. With luck, he wouldn’t get caught in someone’s caravan. Every little delay would be torture.

  The sound of Harlequin’s hooves soon doubled as the other rider drew near enough to be heard. He was traveling almost as fast as Jeffrey. A post horse rider, maybe? Jeffrey twitched the reins to guide Harlequin to one side, not wanting to slow at all to dance around the other person.

  Then the rider came into view around a corner. Jeffrey realized it was a Kirkellish horse just as the rider pulled up short several yards away.

  It was Imogen.

  Jeffrey jerked on the reins, confusing Harlequin for half a dozen steps until the horse finally came to a stop. “Why—Imogen, what are you doing here?” he said, too startled for politeness.

  Imogen looked at him with her so-familiar steady gaze. “I am…coming to see you. To talk. Why are you here?”

  She was coming to see him.

  She wanted to talk.

  He’d thought of what he might tell her, of the smooth words he might use to convince her to stay. Every one of them deserted him. He blurted out, “Don’t leave. Stay with me. I love you, Imogen, and I don’t want to lose you.”

  Her hands closed convulsively on Victory’s reins. “You do—did not want me to stay.”

  How had he been such an idiot as to let her believe that? “No, I did. I desperately wanted you to stay. But you so clearly belonged with the Kirkellan I felt like a fool asking you to give all that up just to be my wife. Then I woke up before dawn today the way I have every morning for the last three weeks, trying to convince myself we’d done the right thing, and I knew I didn’t give a damn what you were best at.” He drew in a deep breath. “I know it’s selfish and I have no right to ask it of you, but I want you to marry me and I don’t want you to leave me ever again.”

  Imogen stared at him. Then she dismounted, letting Victory’s reins fall, and took a few steps toward him. “I came to tell you I am not leaving,” she said. “I do not give a damn either.”