Tales of the Crown

by Melissa McShane

  “It’s all right!” the young woman shouted. “He’s with—”

  A shout, a wooden clap, and something struck Oujan, knocking him backward. The girl lost her seat and fell, and he turned and made a grab for her even as pain blossomed around the crossbow bolt sticking out of his chest. She screamed, and for the first time, she sounded afraid. Oujan rolled awkwardly out of the saddle and crawled to put himself between her and the soldiers, but his hands weren’t responding, and his legs felt numb. He collapsed on his side, breathing heavily and watching the butt end of the bolt rise and fall with his breathing, like it was a part of his body.

  The girl was above him—above him? When had he fallen?—and had him by the shoulders. Her lips moved slowly, but no sound emerged, which was sad because he’d come to like her voice. He blinked at her. “Don’t let them shoot you,” he said, and the Tjorbar River swelled over him, pulling him down into its black, freezing depths.

  * * *

  Day 2

  Oujan woke to the sound of something whistling, a thin, high-pitched sound that came and went like wind blowing over a hollow reed. He drew in a deep breath, and the whistling stopped; let the breath out, and heard a longer, slightly deeper whistle that ended when he ran out of air. He lay flat on his back on a bed whose mattress was softer than he was used to and smelled of lavender. A bed. He couldn’t remember how he’d gotten there.

  His chest hurt with a sharp ache, and he reached to touch it and discovered his hand—both his hands—were tied to the bed frame. Terror shot through him, and he jerked hard at his bonds and felt them give not at all. His feet were bound as well, as he found when he tried to roll over. No. He’d been captured, and Hrovald—

  Oujan made himself lie still, though his heart beat fast enough it made the ache sharper. Whoever had captured him, it wasn’t Hrovald’s men, because they wouldn’t have taken him alive. Or was he wrong, and Hrovald’s anger and humiliation were so great he’d ordered Dyrak’s last warrior brought back to Ranstjad so he could torture and murder Oujan himself? Oujan closed his eyes and sniffed. The air was still clear and fresh, warmer than summer in Ruskald, and it smelled of juniper and rainwater. This was Tremontane, not Ruskald.

  He wasn’t sure that was much better. If he hadn’t been captured by Hrovald’s men, the only other possibility was that the girl’s friends—those green and brown soldiers, whoever they were—had drawn the wrong conclusion about his sudden appearance with her. Which meant he might be in even worse trouble, if she was as important as he was starting to believe she was. Some Tremontanan Count or Baron’s daughter? He tried to remember what little he knew of Tremontanan geography. This was Barony Marandis, he thought, but that was all he knew.

  He opened his eyes and craned his head. He was naked from the waist up, and his chest was bandaged. The room was small, but clean, with a couple of windows too small for anyone but a child to climb through letting in watery post-storm light. Its walls were painted a light cream, contrasting with the heavy black beams crossing the ceiling. If he stretched his neck, he could see a door across the room from his bed, also of the same black wood.

  He relaxed and stared up at the ceiling. They’d tied him up and treated his wound? That made no damn sense. Why not just let him die, if they thought he was dangerous enough to be bound? Or, alternatively, why lock him in here if they wanted him to live?

  The rasp of the door latch opening made him tense against his bonds again and jerk his head up as far as he could manage. The door swung open, and the girl entered. She wasn’t alone. A tall, dark-haired man a few years younger than Oujan followed her in. The girl looked worried. The man’s face was so expressionless it made Oujan nervous. Someone that committed to not giving anything away might do…anything. Oujan was painfully aware of his helpless condition, but he kept his own face still. Showing fear might be fatal.

  The girl said something in Tremontanese that the young man responded to with an off-handed gesture. To Oujan’s surprise, the girl scowled at her companion and said something else that sounded sarcastic. Then she turned to Oujan. “I’m really sorry about this,” she said. “Jeffrey is being irrational. I told them you were protecting me, but they didn’t believe you weren’t a filthy kidnapper.”

  “Let me go,” Oujan said.

  “I told them that, too.” The girl let out a sound somewhere between a grunt and a snort. It was such a perfect sound of angry derision Oujan almost smiled. “They’re ‘investigating.’ They want to know why you attacked us. You and your warband.”

  “Those were not my men!”

  She made the sound again. “Obviously!” She turned and addressed her companion, flinging up her hands and speaking rapidly. The young man listened, his expression not changing at all. When she wound down, he spoke a few words, gesturing at Oujan. To his astonishment, the girl blushed.

  “I forgot we weren’t introduced,” she said. “My name is Elspeth. This is my brother Jeffrey. What’s your name?”

  “Oujan,” Oujan said.

  “Oujan,” the girl repeated. “Jeffrey wants to know why you’re here, if you didn’t intend to kidnap me.”

  Oujan looked at Jeffrey, whose calm demeanor was starting to grate on him. “Untie me, and we can pretend to be civilized,” he said.

  “You’re not really a captive,” Elspeth said. “They tied your hands because you fought the doctor who treated your wound, and they tied your feet because you kicked me.”

  Oujan’s eyes widened. “I…I am so sorry. Did I hurt you?”

  “A little. But it’s all right, I know you didn’t mean to. It just didn’t help matters any because they already thought I was your captive.” She turned to Jeffrey and spoke at length. When she finished, Jeffrey examined Oujan’s face. The young man had the brightest blue eyes Oujan had ever seen. Then Jeffrey drew a belt knife and cut Oujan’s hands and feet free. Oujan rubbed his wrists and tried to sit up, but Elspeth put a restraining hand on his shoulder.

  “You’re still injured,” she said, “and it’s better you lie still, or so the doctor says. And now I really would like to know who you are and why you were being chased by all those warriors.”

  Oujan tried to sit up again, felt the sharp ache in his chest increase, and lay back instead. “I should go,” he said, and felt stupid—but it was true; his presence here would only bring down more trouble on Elspeth and her impassive brother.

  Elspeth laughed as if he’d made a joke. “You’re safe at The Junipers,” she said. “The soldiers killed five or six of the Ruskalder, and the rest fled. They won’t try that again, not if Dyrak wants to maintain the peace.”

  That made no sense. Oujan wondered if he wasn’t still addled from being shot in the chest. “They’ll keep coming. You can’t protect me forever.”

  Elspeth sat on the edge of his bed. “Oujan, did you do something to Dyrak? That was a lot of warriors chasing just one man.”

  Did he do something to Dyrak. Oujan laughed, winced, and touched the bandage. “It’s not a short story,” he warned her.

  Elspeth spoke to Jeffrey, who turned away and returned carrying a chair, which he set nearby and seated himself in. “We like long stories,” she said.

  Oujan nodded. “Dyrak is dead,” he began. “How much do you know about Ruskalder politics?”

  Elspeth said something to Jeffrey that included the word “Dyrak.” Jeffrey’s eyes widened, and he spoke forcefully to Elspeth, who waved his words away. “Jeffrey knows a lot about Ruskalder politics,” Elspeth said. “Go on.”

  With many pauses for Elspeth to translate, Oujan told the whole story. How King Dyrak of Ruskald had been betrayed by his chieftain Hrovald, who had attacked Ranstjad in the night and slaughtered the king and his family. How Oujan, one of Dyrak’s elite warriors, had fought until there was no hope left, then fled. He didn’t go into detail about how he’d humiliated Hrovald in his flight; he was almost embarrassed about that, and these two Tremontanans didn’t need those details. And how Oujan had made his escape so
uthward over the Spine into Tremontane, followed by Hrovald’s warriors.

  “Tradition is that anyone who fights for the old king is a traitor to the new one,” he concluded, “and Hrovald fears if he leaves any of us alive, we will be a rallying point for anyone who wants to challenge him. So he needs me dead.”

  Elspeth translated this for her brother, who was leaning with his chin propped on one hand, intent on Oujan as if he could understand Ruskeldin. He said something to Elspeth, who said, “Those warriors who ran, they’ll tell Hrovald where you are.”

  Oujan nodded, sending a twinge of pain through his chest. Jeffrey stood and spoke at length. Elspeth began translating before he was finished speaking. “You’re not safe, not with that injury,” she said, “and Jeffrey apologizes for the misunderstanding that wounded you. He says we owe you my life—”

  “How is that?”

  “If you’d left me in the forest, and those men had found me…” Elspeth shrugged. “Anyway, it’s our fault you’re in a weakened condition, and we owe it to you to protect you while you heal. But that means you have to come back with us. We’re leaving for Aurilien in a few days, and you’re welcome to stay with us until you’re healed.”

  Oujan stared at Elspeth. “That’s very kind, but it’s unnecessary. I’ll be on my way as soon as you give me back my clothes.”

  “Your clothes are ruined. And that’s beside the point.” Elspeth leaned forward, her shining blonde hair swinging free past her shoulders. “I don’t want you falling into those warriors’ hands just because our stupid soldiers overreacted. You won’t be well for a long time. Please, Oujan. Let us help you.”

  Oujan looked past her at Jeffrey, who had sat upright and was tapping his fingers on his thigh as if deep in thought. He said something to Elspeth, who brightened and turned back to face Oujan. “That’s a good point! Jeffrey says, if you want to strike at Hrovald—and I think you do—you have a better chance of doing it if you let us help you. Jeffrey’s never liked Hrovald, and he says he owes you a debt for revealing that Ruskald has a new king for him to deal with.”

  “I don’t understand. Why would Jeffrey care?”

  Elspeth’s eyes widened. “Oh, I forgot,” she said. “I don’t think I said…Oujan, my brother is the King of Tremontane.”

  A sharp pain that had nothing to do with his injury shot through his chest. Oujan stared at the beautiful girl who had, just like that, become a stranger again. “Then,” he managed, “that means you are…”

  “Crown Princess Elspeth North,” Elspeth said.

  Why her words filled him with a sense of loss, he didn’t know. “Your Highness—”

  “Just Elspeth. Please.” Elspeth’s cheeks were pink again. “You see why we can protect you?”

  Oujan struggled upright and managed to prop himself on his elbows. His breathing became labored and his chest hurt worse. Elspeth was right; he didn’t stand a chance on his own. “Hrovald will not be happy if he finds out you’ve sheltered me,” he said. “I don’t think you understand how vindictive he is.”

  Elspeth repeated this to the King, who shrugged and said something that made Elspeth laugh. “He says Hrovald will have enough trouble bringing the rest of the chieftains in line, and it’s not as if Tremontane and Ruskald were friends before,” she told him. “Don’t worry about Tremontane. Just—come south with us. Until you’re healed.”

  Oujan looked from Elspeth to Jeffrey—the King, why hadn’t Elspeth mentioned that sooner?—and back again. Elspeth’s enormous brown eyes pleaded with him. He wondered how many men she’d turned that look on, and a flash of irrational jealousy shot through him. “I’ll come,” he said.

  Elspeth smiled and put her hand over his. “Lie back and rest. I’ll have someone bring food in a bit. We leave for Aurilien in three days.”

  Oujan nodded and lowered himself back onto the mattress. Jeffrey said something, nodded at Oujan, and left the room. “What was that?” Oujan asked.

  “He said ‘welcome to Tremontane,’” Elspeth said. “I think he was being funny.”

  “I can imagine,” Oujan said. Some welcome. A crossbow bolt to the chest. Heathen Tremontanans challenging the gods’ prohibition against projectile weapons. But it meant he was safe, for now. “Thank you.”

  “I really am sorry they shot you.” Elspeth patted his hand. “Dr. Worthing didn’t come with us, or you’d be healed already.” Her smile went mischievous. “But that means you’re stuck here, and I can’t say I’m sorry about that.”

  She turned and left the room. Oujan stared after her. What did that mean? A rush of warmth spread over his face. He barely knew the girl, and she was treating him like an old friend. She fascinated him more every minute. Fascinated, and… He scowled and closed his eyes. Forget that she was a princess; she was far too young for him, and he had no business being attracted to her. He’d recover eventually, and head farther south, and she would become a pleasant memory. He made himself relax into sleep.

  * * *

  Day 5

  Three days later, he rode beside Elspeth and the King as the procession headed south. His chest still hurt, but he’d pretended to Elspeth he was better than he was, and she hadn’t made him ride in the wagon like an invalid. Elspeth chattered like a bird about everything that caught her fancy. But it wasn’t idle chatter; she was bright, and clever, and Oujan found himself fascinated all over again by her.

  “I’m a student at the University of Kingsport,” she told him, “studying languages. I have a knack for them—is my accent all right? None of my instructors are Ruskalder.”

  “Your accent is perfect,” Oujan said. “I would have assumed you were Ruskalder if you hadn’t spoken Tremontanese when we met.”

  She smiled more broadly. “Thank you. Maybe I could teach you my language! I’m sure Jeffrey would like to speak to you. He only speaks Veriboldan in addition to Tremontanese.”

  The King, riding on Elspeth’s other side, turned his head at the sound of his name. Elspeth spoke briefly to him, and he nodded, smiling slightly, and replied.

  “Jeffrey says he ought to speak Ruskeldin, since we’re so often at odds with your country.” Elspeth shrugged. “I think it’s ridiculous that we have to fight all the time, though less ridiculous if it’s Hrovald who’s the King. He—or maybe I shouldn’t criticize.”

  “Hrovald murdered the true King, so criticize away,” Oujan said.

  “He wanted Ruskald at war with Tremontane, Jeffrey says.” Elspeth’s lovely face scrunched up in a scowl. “Why would he want that? I’ve heard that Ruskalder all love war and battle and want to conquer the world, but I don’t know if I believe it.”

  “That’s not true. Balderan wants us to honor our battles, and to face challenges head-on. That’s not the same as loving war.”

  “That’s what I thought. Is Balderan your god, then? I’m afraid I don’t know enough about religion to know the names of the lost gods. I realize your beliefs are different from mine.”

  “Balderan is one of the Three. I suppose you don’t believe in anything, if you think the gods are lost.”

  Elspeth shook her head. They’d come out of the forest and were crossing the wide plains, and insects chirred and leaped around their horses’ hooves. “We believe in ungoverned heaven binding our families. No one knows what happened to the gods, why they left, or were taken, but that doesn’t mean we don’t respect their memory.”

  The conversation made Oujan uncomfortable. He’d worshipped the Three his whole life, but in a casual, off-handed way, and Elspeth sounded as if her beliefs were more grounded than his. “That seems so strange. I’m sure my religion is as strange to you.”

  “I have friends who study history, and religious history is part of that. They say we have more in common than we realize.” Elspeth looked more closely at him. “Your eyes are glassy, and you’re sitting awfully still. Are you sure you’re well?”

  He wasn’t feeling well, but he didn’t think he would fall off his borrowed horse. “Well
enough for this.”

  “You’d better be honest with me. There’s no shame in riding in the wagon.”

  Oujan would rather cling to this horse than ride in the wagon. “I know. I’m fine.”

  Elspeth said something in Tremontanese. “That means, ‘I am too stubborn for my own good.’ Here, now you say it.”

  Oujan laughed and repeated the syllables. The King twitched, then burst out laughing. He said something, smiling wryly, and Elspeth said, “Jeffrey says he understands stubbornness because he’s lived with me for seventeen years. I think that’s rude, don’t you?”

  “You’re seventeen?” She was older than he’d thought, though not by much. He quashed the irrational hope that rose up inside him. That still made her ten years younger than him. And she was still a princess.

  Elspeth nodded. “I know, I look young for my age. I hate it. People are always underestimating me, or treating me like a child.”

  “I promise not to do that.” Promise, where did that come from? He was leaving in a few days; what he said or did wouldn’t matter.

  Elspeth smiled more brightly. “You never have. It’s why I like you.”

  “You barely know me.” The irrational hope was harder to ignore when she looked at him that way.

  “I don’t think it takes long to decide if someone will be your friend. Now, let’s continue.”

  “Continue? With what?”

  “Language lessons. Jeffrey wants to be your friend, too.”

  Oujan looked at the King, who was watching their conversation curiously. Friends with a King. He wanted to laugh at the strange turn his life had taken. Instead, he said, “All right. How do you say ‘Thank you’ in Tremontanese?”

  * * *

  Day 26

  Elspeth pointed at the fountain spraying water ten feet in the air. “That?”

  “Fountain,” Oujan said in Tremontanese.

  She pointed at a rosebush. “That?”