Rider of the Crown

by Melissa McShane

  “Shouldn’t you tell Hrovald what’s going on?” Kionnal said, brushing Revelry’s mane while Imogen looked on.

  “And say what? His most trusted, most experienced warrior keeps looking at me in a funny way? I think Karel would have to assault me in front of witnesses for Hrovald to care.”

  “He thinks of you as his possession. Maybe he’d be jealous.”

  “I’d rather not put myself in his power any more than I have to. Going to him to solve my problems would be…a debt I don’t want to incur. Besides, I think Karel is trying to unsettle me more than actually threaten me. If I could just stop shuddering every time he looks at me, he might stop.”

  “Good luck with that,” Kallum said. He and two of the tiermatha were just returning from a ride and had caught the tail end of the conversation. “Karel gives me the shivers and I’m not even his type.”

  “And I bet he’s not your type, either,” Imogen teased him.

  “Not at all. I like ’em slim and dark.” Kallum dismounted and led Darkstrider to his stall. “Not that I’m interested in any of the Ruskalder, slim or fat. I’d always be wondering if my lover was waiting his chance to stab me in the back.” The other members of the tiermatha murmured agreement.

  “Have things gotten easier, in the barracks?” Imogen asked.

  The tiermatha exchanged looks. “A little,” Kionnal said. “But we always knew it would take months for them to get used to us and possibly years for them to get used to the women.”

  “You’ll notice we still travel in packs,” Kallum said. “They may not be as hostile anymore, but there’s no sense giving them a chance to jump a lone Kirkellan warrior.”

  Imogen laid her face along Victory’s cheek and heard the horse breathe noisily out her mouth with a harrumph sound. “I wish we could—no, forget I said anything. I’m glad things are getting easier for you.”

  “What about you, Imogen? It must infuriate you that Hrovald won’t let you practice. Aren’t you worried—” Kionnal elbowed Kallum sharply in the ribs to shut him up, but Imogen could complete the sentence for herself.

  “Yes, I’m worried. Riding Victory isn’t enough for what I’m giving up in losing the daily practice. But it’s not like I’m going to forget how to fight, and I’ll still have plenty of good years as a warrior ahead of me.” They all knew what she would never say—she was losing the prime years of her fighting career, she would have to work hard to make up the loss five years from now. Imogen hadn’t realized, when she’d agreed to sacrifice herself, that this was the sacrifice she’d be expected to make. She tried not to think about it. Think about Neve, she told herself at night, alone in her bed at three o’clock in the morning when the homesickness was worst, think about the Kirkellan overrun by Karel and his men. It never worked.

  “Hrovald only said you couldn’t fight. He didn’t say no practicing tactics,” said Kallum.

  “I thought of that, but—” Imogen lowered her voice—“I know they’re not the enemy any more, but I’d rather not hand them our tactical maneuvers.” Kallum’s lips went tight with anger, but he nodded. Looking at her tiermatha, so eager to find a way to help her, made her want to cry. She wasn’t alone in this horrible place.

  Three months passed, and she told herself the softening of muscle she felt was imaginary. She wrote letters home and received letters in return, which she had to read in the privacy of her room because they made her cry until her throat hurt. She’d become friends with her ladies-in-waiting and with Anneke, who turned out to have a good sense of humor and no fear of Victory. Imogen would take Anneke up in front of her on the uncomfortable saddle and the two would have leisurely rides across the plains. Autumn was coming and the green grass had turned yellow and dry, which didn’t stop Victory from lipping at it whenever they stopped. They followed the river to where it entered the forest, whose green shades stood out even more against the yellow grass and the cloudless blue skies and the gray-green swirling current of the river.

  “Watching the river makes me miss my family,” Anneke said.

  “Aren’t you from Ranstjad?”

  Anneke shook her head. “My family lives in Hvartfast, south of here. I came to Ranstjad to earn money. That was before Hrovald came to power.”

  Anneke didn’t look to be more than sixteen. “How long ago was that?”

  “Three years. Don’t you know the story?”

  Imogen stretched out on the dead grass, felt moisture creep into her thin wool gown, and thought better of it. “I only know Hrovald defeated the old King,” she said, sitting up.

  Anneke plucked blades of grass and began plaiting them. “Hrovald built support for himself in the army,” she said. “He attacked Ranstjad in the night and killed Dyrak and as many of his guard as he could find. The rest—there’s an old tradition, says anyone who fights to defend the old King is guilty of treason against the new King. So some of them fled. And nobody wanted to challenge Hrovald.”

  “But did that really make any difference? We kept on fighting the Ruskalder—sorry—without noticing a change. It wasn’t until my matrian made peace overtures that we even knew Dyrak was dead.”

  “Dyrak was a good King,” Anneke said. “Hrovald…he changed a lot of things. We’re not all as warlike as you think. Yes, I know, we wanted your territory and your horses, but Hrovald turned it into a sort of…male privilege ritual.” She tossed her plaited mat of grass into the air and watched it drift to the ground. “We’ve never had women warriors, but Dyrak would have let you fight. I’ve heard he respected the Kirkellan warriors regardless of what sex they were.”

  Imogen hugged her knees. “I always thought Ruskalder fought because they love fighting.”

  “Well, I always thought Kirkellan slept with their horses and never bathed,” Anneke shot back, grinning. Imogen laughed.

  “I guess we both had some wrong assumptions,” she said, standing and dusting off her rear end, which was damp.” She offered her hand to Anneke and pulled her to her feet. “Shall we ride a little farther before we go back?”

  The first snow fell that afternoon. Watching the snow through her window, Imogen felt the first genuine pleasure she’d had since coming to Ranstjad. Snow in the Eidestal was a cold, miserable thing that forced the Kirkellan to huddle inside their tents around camp-stoves and wait impatiently for clear weather, horse-riding weather. Now she stood in her bedroom, which was heated by another of those ingenious Devices, warm and cozy with a glass of wine in her hand, watching the puffy flakes fall over the courtyard, and thought, This isn’t so bad, and felt guilty at thinking it. But not much.

  The snow was less exciting the more there was of it. In the Eidestal, snow blew in from the roof of the world and passed straight through to Veribold, never drifting more than a few inches high. Here, so close to the Spine, the snow fell and fell and didn’t go anywhere, piling high against the wooden houses of Ranstjad and heaping in the corners of the courtyard as the weeks passed. Anneke told Imogen the few passes south, which at the best of times were impassable to more than small groups of travelers, would soon be closed to all but the most foolhardy; even the river was too dangerous to travel at this time of year. Imogen couldn’t see that it made any difference, since Ruskald and Tremontane were now only a heartbeat away from war and were unlikely to have a good trading relationship. Traffic between the Kirkellan and Ruskald continued unhindered, and as long as she still got letters from home, the condition of the passes meant little to her.

  Victory loved the snow. Imogen forgot this every year, and every year she was surprised again at how eager her horse was to get out into it. With her shaggy winter coat, the cold bothered her not at all, and when after three days of no riding Imogen finally gave in to Victory’s big pleading eyes, the horse romped through the shallow drifts like a three-month-old filly, bouncing Imogen until she had to pull her up sharply with a stern word. Eventually she dismounted and watched the silly creature trot around, throwing up her head like a girl tossing her hair in the w
ind. It was ten minutes before Victory tired of her game, at which time Imogen was trotting in place and blowing on her fingers to keep warm. She mounted, took the reins in her numb fingers, and decided it was time to go home.

  There were two strange horses in the stables when she rubbed Victory down, but aside from noticing they weren’t nearly the quality of her own horse, she didn’t pay much attention to them. She kissed Victory’s broad nose and strolled across the courtyard to the small door that led to the wing where her room was. There was more activity in the courtyard than usual, warriors rushing from the great hall out of the courtyard, horses being saddled up, but nobody paid her any attention.

  Back in her room, Imogen quickly stripped out of her riding dress and struggled into a green dress that was, all right, maybe she’d gained a few pounds, but they looked good on her even if they did make her clothes a bit too tight. Where was Anneke? She reached her arms around to her back and concluded there was no way she was going to get it fastened up by herself. She sat on her bed and stewed. If she were in charge of clothing, all dresses would fasten up the front so a woman could put her own clothes on and not be dependent on someone to dress her, as if she were an infant.

  She had almost decided to put her Kirkellan clothes on so she at least wouldn’t be trapped in this room, and Hrovald be damned, when Anneke hurried in, flushed with excitement. “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” she exclaimed, going to fasten Imogen’s dress. “It’s just that everything’s a madhouse down there. Did you see her? They must have passed you, if you were out riding.”

  “See who?”

  Anneke fastened the last button and spun Imogen around to face her. “The Princess of Tremontane,” she said, her eyes wide. “Four of Hrovald’s riders pulled her out of a carriage wreck and brought her back to Ranstjad. Elspeth North is in the great hall right now.”

  Chapter Six

  Imogen ran down the stairs as quickly as she could, then stopped to catch her breath before entering the skorstala. A North in Ranstjad. What under heaven was she doing this far from home? Why hadn’t the riders taken her south? Her presence in Ruskald, even if perfectly innocent, could be pretext for the King of Tremontane to march to war. Heaven only knew what Hrovald had in mind.

  Having recovered her composure, Imogen swept through the door and into the skorstala. Hrovald and a slender blond girl seated at the high table looked up at her entrance. Hesketh, standing near the fireplace, kept his gaze on the floor as usual.

  “Wife!” Hrovald shouted. “Come and meet our guest. Your Highness, this is my wife, Imogen of the Kirkellan. Wife, meet Elspeth North.”

  “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance,” the blond girl said in perfect, unaccented Ruskeldin. She was short and slender and altogether the kind of girl who made Imogen feel like a giant, which irritated her. Elspeth looked young, no more than sixteen, and had delicate features like Dorenna, huge brown eyes like Kallum, and porcelain skin like no one Imogen had ever met. Her smile when she extended her hand to Imogen was shy, but her gaze was direct, and she showed no fear at being in the heart of an enemy stronghold.

  “Her Highness was traveling from Veribold when the last storm came up and caused her carriage to go astray,” Hrovald explained.

  “My driver went for help,” Elspeth said, “but I’m afraid she was lost in the snow.”

  “Terrible storms we get up here,” Hrovald agreed. “It’s fortunate for you my riders were patrolling the border. I hope you weren’t too inconvenienced.”

  “No, they were very kind. I really am most grateful.” Elspeth sipped her wine. “I just hope I can return home soon.”

  “Impossible,” Hrovald said, looking downhearted, which told Imogen he was faking. Downhearted was not an emotion Hrovald entertained. “The passes through the Spine of the World are dangerous even in good weather. With winter upon us, they’re closed to all traffic until spring. The only people who get through, this time of year, are my runners, and they take their lives in their hands every time they go. I’ve sent one to your brother the King—wouldn’t want him to worry—but I couldn’t allow you to try that route, not after we’ve gone to all this trouble to save you.” He laughed heartily.

  Elspeth looked dismayed. “But I can’t stay here all winter! I’m going—I mean, I have so many things I’m responsible for, back home!” She now looked as if she were trying very hard to hold back tears. Imogen’s irritability increased. The girl’s helplessness seemed exaggerated, her tearfulness a weapon to induce sympathy in everyone around her. Wait until you’re stuck here for five years, Princess.

  “Don’t take it so hard, your Highness. We’ll make you as comfortable as we can. Wife, see to our royal guest’s needs. Two outlanders like you, you should get along well.” Hrovald drained his cup and slammed it down on the table, making Elspeth jump. He shoved his chair back. “Until suppertime, then,” he said, and strode out of the great hall to the courtyard.

  Elspeth stared into the fireplace as if it were a window on her southern home. After a few moments of this, Imogen cleared her throat, and Elspeth jumped again and turned to look at her. “What am I to do, your Majesty?” she said in a quiet voice. Her brown eyes brimmed with tears.

  “You can call me Imogen, for a start,” Imogen said, “and we’ll see about a room for you, your Highness.” Far from garnering her sympathy, the girl’s tears annoyed her. She might be a hostage against the King of Tremontane’s good behavior, but eventually he’d give Hrovald what he wanted, and the girl would be back with her family. Hardly any time at all.

  Elspeth nodded. Then her face crumpled and the tears spilled over her cheeks, and her shoulders shook as she tried to suppress her sobs. Despite herself, Imogen felt a pang of sympathy and knelt on the floor and grasped the girl’s shoulders. “There’s no need for tears,” she said. “You’ll be comfortable here and the time will pass quickly.” It was a lie, but no sense making the oversensitive Princess cry harder.

  “I know you’re not stupid,” the girl said, as quietly as she could between sobs. “The passes are closed, but farther west the way south is open all the way through the Riverlands. You know Hrovald won’t let me go until Jeffrey gives him what he wants. That messenger sent his terms to my brother. I’m not a guest. I’m a hostage.”

  Her quiet words startled Imogen, who’d forgotten that however delicate the Princess might seem, she couldn’t possibly be ignorant of the political realities of her situation. Based on what Jafvran had said, Tremontane was only inches from being at Ruskald’s throat, and Hrovald was ruthless enough to take any advantage he could, even if it was in the person of a sixteen-year-old girl.

  “What does Hrovald want?” she asked. Elspeth shook her head, but her sobs intensified, and Imogen had the feeling Elspeth knew very well what Hrovald wanted, and it was something that would be very hard for the King to give up, sister or no. Maybe Elspeth wasn’t exaggerating her misery, after all.

  She looked down on the shining blond hair and felt some of her resentment fade away. She stroked Elspeth’s head and murmured, “Shh, shh, it will be all right. Hrovald won’t dare hurt you, and I’ll watch out for you, and the time will pass before you know it. And for all we know, your brother will think of a plan to get you back without paying ransom. So dry your eyes and let’s see about finding you a place to stay. I think there is a room across from mine that’s empty. They have Devices and everything.”

  They went up the stairs, where Elspeth looked at the room Imogen showed her with dismay. “It’s…rather rustic, isn’t it?” she said, picking at the gray wool blanket covering the bed as if hoping it might change into something else. Imogen could only imagine the luxury of the palace in Aurilien, if Elspeth could turn up her nose at two light Devices and a heater and even a Device that went inside the mattress to warm the bed at night. Imogen felt defensive of her adopted home, which surprised her, and prepared some responses for any disparaging comments the Princess might make. But the girl had good manners and didn’t complain at al
l.

  Imogen sent Anneke in search of some clothing Elspeth could change into, her own being wet and stained from her journey, and sat and talked to the girl while they waited. Imogen was surprised to learn Elspeth was actually eighteen and a student of languages—“I have a gift for it, it’s why I speak Ruskeldin so well”—at the University of Kingsport. Imogen wasn’t sure what a university was, but she gathered it was a great honor to attend it. Elspeth, for her part, was horrified by the banrach and only imperfectly concealed her horror. But she blushed when Imogen said, “I wish I was back home, but if I can prevent a war, then I think I can endure it for five years,” and replied, “I feel silly, now, for protesting a wait of only a few months.”

  Anneke brought back armfuls of clothing, including undergarments and nightgowns. “No, please stay,” Elspeth begged when Imogen would have left her to change, so Imogen sat facing the door to give the girl—young woman, really, but though she was only a year younger than Imogen, she seemed much younger—some privacy. Some of her irritation returned. The Princess was so needy. True, she was in the house of her enemy, but so was Imogen, and she didn’t need company in her dressing chamber. Then she was ashamed of herself. Elspeth had been coddled and protected her whole life; she couldn’t be expected to face challenges the way a warrior of the Kirkellan would. And she was bearing up well, all things considered. Perhaps she did cry a bit more than Imogen would have, but she remembered sobbing over her letters from home and the tears she shed in the privacy of her bedroom at three o’clock in the morning and felt like a hypocrite. She determined to be kind to the Princess and ruthlessly chased away her irritation.

  “Will you help me button this?” Elspeth said. Imogen turned around and began fumbling with the tiny buttons.

  “Maybe Anneke should do this,” she said.

  “No, please, I’d rather have you—unless it’s beneath you. I’m sorry, I forgot you’re the Queen.” Elspeth sounded so dismayed that Imogen laughed.