Rider of the Crown

by Melissa McShane

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Map

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Epilogue

  Glossary and Pronunciation Guide

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2015 Melissa McShane

  ISBN-13

  Published by Night Harbor Publishing

  All rights reserved

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any way whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Night Harbor Publishing

  3016 Kronborg Circle, Salt Lake City, UT

  www.nightharborpublishing.com

  Cover design by Yocla Designs

  North sign and shield designed by Erin Dinnell Bjorn

  For Jana

  PiC and Tremontane’s biggest fan

  Chapter One

  Imogen shielded her eyes and looked out across the plains. The dry grass, tall and burned yellow by the summer sun, bowed before the warm, gusting wind that whipped strands of Victory’s mane into her face. “That’s a Ruskalder warband out there,” she said. “A raiding party, I think.”

  Dorenna followed her gaze. “They don’t look like they’re going anywhere. I think they see us, too.”

  “We’re not exactly hiding. Still, I think we should move in that direction. See what they have in mind.”

  Revalan, on Imogen’s left, reined his excitable mount in. “I suppose it might come to blows.”

  “Which I would deplore, naturally,” Imogen replied, her eyes still fixed on the distant group of men. They were Ruskalder; they would all be men.

  “Naturally,” Dorenna said with a grin.

  Imogen looked around at the men and women of her tiermatha. “Let’s just wander in their direction. They’ll probably cut and run if we force the issue. Hrovald wants to at least look like he’s upholding the truce.”

  The riders nudged their horses into a trot—a nonchalant trot, Imogen hoped—in the direction of the intruders. She wasn’t really certain they were intruders, here on the uneasy, ill-defined border between Ruskald and the Eidestal, but by the furtive way the Ruskald warband was moving, they certainly believed they were. Victory strained at the reins, wanting to run free across the grassy plain, and Imogen thought about giving her her head, letting her trample the unmounted Ruskalder under her huge hooves, but it was a whim she would never indulge. Someday, Imogen would be Warleader of the Kirkellan, and she didn’t need a reputation for rashness. She’d leave that to her little sister, who wasn’t destined to be anything in particular. Imogen had never envied her.

  The Ruskalder raiding party, seven men in leather armor and armed with both short and long swords, stood their ground as the tiermatha approached. “You’re in Kirkellan territory, friends,” Imogen called to them in Ruskeldin. “Hrovald’s truce binds you to return to your own lands.”

  The men looked at each other, then at her. They all wore the same expression, and although Imogen had rarely met a warrior of Ruskald she wasn’t trying to kill, and didn’t have much experience reading their expressions, she knew what they were thinking: who let a woman lead this troop? One of the men, his blond hair falling halfway down his back, said, “It’s you who are trespassing.”

  “Prove it,” Imogen said. Her mother insisted the Ruskalder preferred aggressive interaction, that their warlike natures were as much because of their love of conflict as Hrovald’s spurring them to battle, and this was the best way to interact with them. She hoped the matrian was right.

  The man grinned, white teeth shining in his short blond beard. “Don’t need to. Who’s to see, all the way out here?”

  “I will. And we outnumber you. And we’re mounted. That’s three marks in my favor.”

  “We’re just a hunting party,” the man shrugged. “Your boss lady never said we couldn’t hunt the border. If we cross, well, no harm done.”

  “I’m sure whatever you’re hunting will appreciate your use of military weaponry.”

  The rasp of metal on leather sounded from the back of the group. Without looking around, the speaker said, “Stand down.” He bared his teeth at Imogen.

  “Your King and my m—my matrian are negotiating a treaty between our people,” Imogen said. “You don’t want to step on that before the ink’s even dry, do you?” If he attacked, they’d fight, and though she wasn’t afraid of this lot, she was afraid of her mother’s reaction if Imogen were responsible for setting Ruskalder at Kirkellan throats once more.

  The man locked eyes with her for a moment longer, then gestured at his men to retreat. The one who’d loosened his sword began to protest, and the speaker casually punched him in the stomach. “Pity our people will no longer go to war together,” he said as the man doubled up over his fist. “The Kirkellan are formidable, even if half of them are girls.”

  Imogen wanted to point out that half the Ruskalder were girls too, but she took his meaning; the Ruskalder only respected warriors, and as far as they were concerned the Kirkellan warriors were the Kirkellan people. She and her warriors watched the Ruskalder retreat, if you could call it that; they strolled across the plains as casually as if they were the only ones under the sun, their long hair flying like pennants in the brisk wind. When they’d dwindled to mere specks, Imogen gestured, and the tiermatha turned and rode back in the direction of the war camp.

  Even though her group was the last to return from riding the borders, the matrian’s flag still didn’t fly over the great tent with its many-peaked roof, so the negotiations at the midway camp were going on far longer than the matrian had anticipated. Imogen rode to the enclosure where Victory was stabled, inhaled the sour-musk smell of dozens of horses sweating in the summer heat, and dismounted. The tall mare twisted her head around and butted Imogen in the forehead. “Impatient?” Imogen said, laughing, and stroked her horse’s nose. “Let’s get you settled.”

  Victory having been groomed, fed, and petted, Imogen left her in the company of several other horses and walked back through the camp. The truce had come none too soon. So many gaps among the tents marking the dead by their absence, so many stones waiting to be transported to the tinda to be added to the memorial. Even the usual noise of the camp was subdued, with little of the good cheer the Kirkellan usually exhibited whether they were celebrating or arguing or just having a conversation about the weather.
The Kirkellan were fierce, but they’d always been small by comparison to the Ruskalder, who under Hrovald’s leadership had pressed the kinship hard, and for what? A few more square miles of grassy, treeless Eidestal that meant nothing to them and everything to the Kirkellan? When she was Warleader, she’d regain those lost miles.

  She let the noise of the camp calm her spirits, called out greetings to the men and women she passed, and rolled her shoulders to release the tension of the encounter with the Ruskalder. She passed the matrian’s vast brown tent made of dozens of reindeer hides stitched together and ducked into a smaller one adjacent to it, the hides dyed imperfectly in dozens of shades of black that gave it a patchwork appearance, like a piebald gelding if its colors were black on black. “Afternoon, Father,” she said, and bent to give the man sitting cross-legged on the ground a kiss on the cheek.

  Father laid tack and round punch down and returned the greeting. “Anything exciting happen on your ride?” he asked.

  “Nothing special. Scared off a Ruskalder raiding party.” Imogen flung herself onto a pile of multicolored down cushions. “Did Gannen go to the negotiations with mother?”

  Father shook his head. “Just Caele. The boys are out riding and Neve is…actually, I don’t know where Neve is.” He picked up his work and continued mending the worn leather. “I’m surprised to see you back so early.”

  “I wanted to tell Mother about the raiding party. Not that it matters, if we work out the treaty. I wish I’d gone with her. It has to be more exciting than riding in endless circles and arguing with Kallum about which of several mutually boring directions we should go next.” She lay back on the pillows, eiderdown cased in jewel-toned silks, and stared at the tent roof. Wooden ribs radiated from the central pole like a cartwheel, holding the skins taut. “It’s hot in here. Should I raise the walls?”

  “If you like. I find it comfortable.” He fastened the last strap and shook out the harness. “I think I may test this out, if you wouldn’t mind giving me a hand up.”

  Imogen stood and helped her father to his feet. Father got his weak right leg steady under himself and thanked her. “Do you need an arm?” she said. “You look as if you’ve been sitting on the ground for far too long. Why didn’t you use your stool?”

  “Stop nagging, daughter, you sound like Caele,” Father remarked amiably. “I just need to stretch it out a bit. This warm weather eases the old wound somewhat.”

  “Well, when you fall over, remember I offered.” Imogen stepped back and watched him stretch. Even leaning to one side, he was a tall man; fully upright, he was a few inches taller than Imogen, who was herself nearly six feet tall, though he was thin where she was plump. His gyrations made her need to stretch as well, so she did. “There’s nothing to do. Thundering heaven, but I’m bored.”

  “You could go for a ride. You could tidy up the tent. You could read a book.”

  Imogen groaned. “Boring. I mean the last two. And if I get back on Victory I’m going to ride all the way to the midway camp and burst in on the proceedings. Mother specifically said I wasn’t to do that.”

  “Well, you can’t say I didn’t give you options.” He grinned at her and limped in the direction of the horse lines. Imogen flung herself back on the cushions and grumbled.

  The Kirkellan had been losing, everyone knew that, but the Ruskalder had suffered heavy losses as well. A peace treaty was a good idea for everyone involved. Heaven knew she wasn’t hungry for war, or the bloodshed that followed its banners. But a Warleader in peacetime had nothing to do, which meant Imogen, Warleader in training, had nothing to do either. As much as she loved Victory, there was only so much riding a person could do, even if that person was Kirkellan. She wasn’t bookish and, like every sensible person, hated chores. She remembered the Ruskald warrior, and despite herself agreed with him: it was a pity their people wouldn’t go to war against each other anymore. Why couldn’t someone come up with some form of conflict that didn’t entail bodily harm?

  She rolled off the cushions and stood. She could take Victory out to the track and run a few courses. It might bleed off some of her energy and keep her from bursting in on the peace negotiations, and if she could convince Kallum to join her she could prove Victory was a much better jumper than his Darkstrider. She decided to look for him, wondered where the rest of her tiermatha had got to, and walked out of the tent directly into one of the matrian’s bodyguards. She apologized to the woman, who grunted, but stepped aside. So Mother was back. Imogen changed her mind about the track, ducked inside the great tent, and crossed its expanse to where her mother stood.

  Imogen’s mother Mairen, matrian of the Kirkellan, was a short, round woman with dark hair and expressive blue eyes the color of a winter sky. She ignored Imogen and said to the younger woman next to her, “I think we can trust Hrovald’s greed to keep him honest. He wants our horses.”

  “And I say we’ve given him far too many concessions as it is,” Imogen’s sister Caele said. Caele resembled a shorter, paler version of Father, and right now her lovely mouth was scowling. “I want a peace treaty as much as anyone, but not at the cost of our sovereignty. And before you repeat, again, that we aren’t subordinating ourselves to him, I have to remind you, again, that as long as he thinks we are, he’s going to behave like our liege lord.”

  “And what do you suggest we do, Caele? Take a stand that gives him the opportunity to walk away entirely? Sit down, Imogen. We can let him do a little chest-pounding if it keeps his warriors off our flank.” Mother took a hearty swallow from a flask at her left hand.

  “What about the other matter?” Caele said, looking at Imogen. “I say it’s slavery.”

  “And I say you exaggerate.” Mother looked at Imogen as well. Imogen, who’d taken a seat on a convenient camp chair, looked from one to the other, eyebrows raised. Caele still looked like she’d eaten something bitter. Mother had the calculating expression she wore when she was working out the best way to convey unpleasant news. Imogen’s eyes settled on Mother as the more dangerous of the two. Mother’s expression made her uncomfortable.

  “Caele,” she said, “let me have some time alone with Imogen, please.” Caele’s bitter expression turned into exasperation, and she threw up her arms and left the tent.

  “Are you trying to make me nervous? Because it’s working,” Imogen said.

  Mother dragged another camp chair next to Imogen’s and sat, not speaking. The silence stretched out. Imogen, trying to fill it, said, “You promised the King of Ruskald something I’m not going to like, didn’t you?” A pit opened in her stomach. “You didn’t give him Victory, did you? Mother, she’s not yours to give! Even if she was, that would be so unfair when we have all those horses—”

  “It’s not Victory, love,” Mother said. She cleared her throat. “You know what a banrach is, don’t you?”

  “Of course. But I—” She suddenly felt as if she’d been punched by that Ruskalder warrior. “No,” she breathed. “Oh, no. You did not sell me into slavery—”

  “The banrach is not slavery and you know it,” Mother said coldly. “It’s a limited-term marriage of convenience. The Ruskalder feel very strongly about kinship ties. The King insisted our two, as he put it, ‘houses’ be joined in some kind of family relationship. I argued him down to the banrach. He wanted to marry Neve.”

  Imogen’s heart revolted at the idea. “She’s only fifteen, barely an adult. How could he think that was an acceptable match?”

  “Precisely.”

  “And you’re comfortable sending me off to live in this man’s house for five years?”

  “You’re older, you’re stronger, you’re a better fighter, and you won’t let Hrovald intimidate you. Think, Imogen. It can’t be Caele, it can’t be Neve, and he would only take Gannen or Torin by adoption, which would be permanent. And he refuses to even consider anyone of another family.”

  “But, Mother—this gives him so much power over us! You know whatever we say, I’ll be going as a hostage f
or your good behavior!”

  Mother looked tired. “I didn’t make any promises. If we do this, it will be your choice.”

  “Thank you for not pressuring me at all,” Imogen said mulishly.

  “I’m serious. If you say no, we’ll find another way.”

  “You said there were no other ways.”

  “I will find another way.” Mother took Imogen’s hand and squeezed it. “Think about it, but don’t think too long. We’re meeting in the morning and I’ll have to give him an answer then.”

  Imogen didn’t squeeze back. “I have to go,” she said, rising. “I—I’ll think about it.”

  “Thank you.” Mother released her. “Have a good ride.”

  Imogen crossed the camp, ignoring anyone who hailed her, and saddled Victory in silence, barely acknowledging her horse’s greetings. It was true, she did her best thinking on horseback, but right now she needed a distraction more than she needed to think. So she headed for the track.

  The third thing the Kirkellan always did when they made a new camp, after settling their horses and pitching tents, was to build a racing track that was part obstacle course, part speed track, and one hundred percent training course for the renowned Kirkellan war horses. Someone had put a lot of effort into this one. Bales of hay marked out the curving loops of the obstacles; some of those turns were surprisingly sharp. The straightaway was longer than Imogen was used to, and there were four hurdles instead of three. She recognized Saevonna of her own tiermatha coming around the last bend, her horse Lodestone taking it wide and fast. Other riders milled around the starting point, waiting their turns.

  Imogen sidled up to the group, glad she didn’t know any of them well, because she didn’t feel much like talking. It was too hard not to remember the dead when you were standing where they’d used to laughingly challenge you. Einya and Darah of her own tiermatha, killed in the last great battle two weeks ago; Einya had been her friend since before either of them were warriors. The thought of more fighting sickened her.

  The afternoon sun wasn’t quite low enough to interfere with her vision, but she closed her eyes and let the sunlight pour over her before the wind whisked it away. The banrach was ancient, outdated, so old it came from the days when both men and women could lead the Kirkellan and people still believed in gods rather than an ungoverned, impartial heaven. Mother must want this alliance badly to be willing to entertain the idea at all—but she was right; however distasteful it was, it was a lot less binding than the alternative. Even so, it was five years out of her life, and if Imogen didn’t have to share the King’s bed she still had to share his house, and who knew what challenges that might mean.