Rider of the Crown

by Melissa McShane

  Hrovald sat at the small table, tearing into a roast chicken. “Sit,” he said, using a drumstick to point at the seat beside him. Imogen sat. Her stomach rumbled loudly, and Hrovald laughed. “Food for my wife,” he shouted. “Relax, you make me tired just looking at how alert you are all the time.” Servants brought more roast chicken, piles of fist-sized boiled potatoes, and a mug of dark beer. She gobbled her food, not caring to impress Hrovald with her table manners.

  “I like to see someone enjoy their food,” he said, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “Especially a well-fed woman like you. You didn’t like me calling you fat, did you? It was meant as a compliment. I have no use for skinny wenches.”

  Imogen shrugged. “I like the way I am.”

  “You should do. Even if you are a fighter and an abomination.” Hrovald said this last with no rancor. “You won’t do any fighting while you’re in this house, understand? I won’t be made mock of by my men for having a wife who doesn’t know her place.”

  A thousand possible responses rushed into Imogen’s head. She opted for the diplomatic “I’m not Ruskalder, so I don’t see how it would shame you for me to go on as I’ve always done.”

  Hrovald slammed the table, startling Imogen. “I won’t have you arguing with me, woman. You’ll do as I say or there’ll be consequences.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “That’s a warning. You married me and you’ll behave like a proper Ruskalder wife, or the alliance is null. Don’t think I don’t know you chose this to spare your people more bloodshed. I think you want this strange marriage of yours to work for their sakes and not your own. I’ve already given up my rights to your body, so don’t think I’m going to give up any more.”

  Imogen swallowed hard and unclenched her fist. Screaming obscenities and launching herself at his throat would be stupid. He thought so little of her abilities he’d given her a sharp knife, not thinking of it as a weapon in her hands. And he was right. She was here for the sake of the Kirkellan. She raged and wailed inside at the thought of five years without fighting, without training, but what else was she to do? She still had Victory. He could hardly complain about her going for a ride every day or so. Wasn’t that something women did, even Ruskalder women?

  “I’ll abide by your wishes…husband,” she said, “but my—the women of the tiermatha have to train or they won’t do you any good in combat.”

  “You expect us to go to war again?”

  “I expect you’re the kind of leader who plans for every contingency.”

  Hrovald gave her a narrow-eyed, suspicious glare. “None of my men will fight a woman.”

  “Then they can fight their companions. But they will fight.”

  Hrovald sucked chicken juice off his fingers. “Very well,” he said. “They can bunk in with the warriors. Your quarters are across the courtyard from mine. And stop thinking I’m going to ravish you in your sleep. As if I’d want to bed a woman who thinks she’s a warrior.”

  “Your warriors had better not try it with the tiermatha,” Imogen said, “unless they want to lose their favorite body part.”

  Hrovald laughed. “Serve ’em right, but I think you’ll find they don’t want to be sullied by a female fighter any more than any sensible man would.” He wiped his fingers on his sleeve and pushed back from the table. “I have business to deal with,” he said. “One of these women will show you where to go. Next I see you, you’d better be properly dressed.” He strode out of the room without looking back.

  “Your Majesty?” said a voice near Imogen’s shoulder, and it took her a moment to realize the woman was addressing her. “I’m supposed to show you to your room now.” The woman sounded timid, and Imogen wondered if she was afraid of Imogen’s potential recalcitrance reflecting badly on her. From what she knew of Hrovald, it might.

  She followed the serving woman through a door leading off the great hall, down a hall and into a narrow, low-ceilinged passageway inside one of the adjoining box-buildings. They climbed to the second story—stairs, yet another thing Imogen had never seen before—and went down a hall to a door with posts and lintel carved with five-petaled flowers, the kind that grew across the plains every spring and perfumed the air with their scent. The servant opened the door for Imogen and bowed her inside.

  The room was dimly lit by the setting sun, and Imogen looked around for a lantern, but was startled by a faint glow that grew into a bright, steady light that filled the room. Imogen turned and saw the light came from a sphere on the wall behind her. The servant was just removing her hand from a wooden knob below the sphere. It had a flower carved into it. Awestruck, Imogen touched the knob and felt it turn under her fingers; the light dimmed. She turned it back and the light brightened. “There’s another one of these on the far wall,” the servant said. Imogen crossed to look at it, then turned the knob herself and watched the sphere begin to glow. “Amazing,” she breathed.

  “You don’t have Devices where you come from, your Majesty?” the servant said.

  Imogen shook her head. “I’ve never seen anything like it before. How does it work?”

  “I’m not really sure. I know it’s the lines of power, the ones connecting us with the gods’ heaven, that provide the energy to make them go. I could bring a Deviser here to explain it better, if you’re interested.”

  “I’d like that. Thank you.”

  Now she looked at the room in the bright light. The bed pillows were huge and square and set on a wooden framework high above the ground. A polished wooden chest stained red sat at the foot of the bed. There was a table and a chair and a round mirror big enough for Imogen to see half her body at once, and a long mirror on the wall in which she could see her whole body at once. A big cabinet stood against one wall; she opened the door and found it empty. The chest contained blankets. She’d never had this much space to herself in her whole life. She felt hollow and excited at the same time. Suppose she got so used to this she couldn’t go back to her comfortable tiny room in the family tent?

  “What’s your name?” she asked the servant abruptly.

  “Anneke, your Majesty.”

  “Anneke, what do you do here in Hrovald’s house?”

  “I wait on the tables, your Majesty.”

  “Do you suppose Hrovald would mind if you helped me instead? I don’t know anything about your culture and I don’t want to make too many mistakes.”

  Anneke’s face lit briefly, then fell. “I don’t want to get above my station, your Majesty.”

  “Then who can I get to help me?”

  Anneke hesitated. “There aren’t any ladies in the house right now. You’ll have to find someone used to helping a lady with…with dressing, and things.”

  “Then why not you?”

  Anneke hesitated again. “I suppose…if you ask the chatelaine, she might give permission.”

  “Then I’ll do that. And I suppose I need new clothes.” Imogen made a face. Being Queen of the Ruskalder was going to take a lot of work.

  Chapter Four

  “I’m not wearing this,” Imogen said flatly.

  “But you have to wear a dress!” Anneke wailed. “And this is the biggest one I could find!”

  Imogen turned and looked at her rear end over her shoulder. “I look like I’ve been poured into this thing like a sausage into a casing. I can’t even raise my arms higher than my chest without the seams tearing. I’m not saying I won’t wear a dress, I’m just saying I won’t wear this dress.” She turned to face the mirror again. The smooth fabric strained across her full breasts and outlined her round stomach. The dress was cut narrow through the upper thighs and flared out a few inches above the knee, which constrained her walk to a hobble. The neckline plunged to reveal her cleavage, which combined with the tightness of her bodice made her feel as if she were only one wrong move away from spilling out of the dress entirely. The only good things about it were that the fabric was wonderfully soft and it was a beautiful red color she thought made her skin
look warm and glowing. It was just too bad it had been made for a woman two sizes smaller than Imogen.

  She presented her back to Anneke and said, “Get it off me.”

  “But—”

  “This can’t possibly be what Hrovald had in mind when he said I had to wear a dress. We need someone to make one that fits me, that’s all.” She carefully removed her arms from the sleeves and let Anneke pull it off over her head. While Anneke hung it up inside the cupboard, Imogen pulled her shirt and breeches back on. “Can you find me a seamstress?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “I’m not wearing the dress. It’s not my fault all the women here are short and skinny.” Imogen knew that wasn’t true, but at the moment she was irritable because she felt like a giant next to Anneke, who was barely five feet tall and might have weighed a hundred pounds fully dressed with big rocks in her pockets. After Anneke left, she decided to go for a ride rather than sit around waiting for her to return. She’d just have to weather Hrovald’s anger if he saw her in her Kirkellish clothing.

  Victory acted as excited to see her as if their separation had lasted a week rather than thirteen hours, most of them spent sleeping. Imogen laughed and rubbed her cheek against her horse’s smooth nose. “Missed you,” she whispered, and began to saddle her up. It was immediately obvious there wasn’t enough room in the stall to maneuver around the big horse, so she led Victory out into the narrow passage between the two rows of stalls. The stable master came around the corner and took a step back as if surprised to see her.

  “Your Majesty,” he said, “you should let me do that for you.”

  “I can tell Victory to bite you if you try,” Imogen said complacently. The man blanched.

  “I think…his Majesty would prefer I not let his wife do this kind of labor,” he said.

  Imogen paused, headstall in hands. “I’ve already explained to my husband,” she said, “that it is a Kirkellan custom to care for our horses ourselves. You won’t be in any trouble for letting me do this. You might be in trouble if you don’t.”

  The man stepped back, holding his hands in front of him like a warding gesture. “I mean no disrespect.”

  “Would you like to meet her?” The man looked confused. Imogen smiled and took his hand. “Victory, this is—sorry, what’s your name?”

  “Erek,” the man said, his eyes wide. Imogen brought his hand to rest on Victory’s nose.

  “Victory, this is Erek, and he’ll take care of you sometimes, so be nice to him, okay? No biting.” She said the last just to needle the man; Victory had never bitten anyone in her life except the occasional Ruskalder warrior, but that had always been under provocation. Erek pulled his hand back quickly, and Imogen laughed. “I’m only teasing, Erek. She’s very smart, so watch yourself around her or she’ll think she can play tricks on you. Now, I think you and I need to have a chat.”

  Erek looked wary. Imogen had the feeling he was only worried about offending her because it might offend Hrovald. As long as they could come to an arrangement, she didn’t care who he was worried about. “Erek,” she said, “you can see, can’t you, that this stall is far too small for Victory? She needs plenty of room to move around.”

  “I—your Majesty, I don’t think there are any bigger stalls—”

  “Then you’ll have to make one, won’t you? Someone should be able to just knock a wall out between two stalls. But she needs a bigger stall and, Erek, I suggest you get right on that, because I want it ready by the time I get back from my ride.” She finished putting Victory’s tack on and swung herself into the saddle. “And then we’re going to have another chat about her care and feeding. That rusty bucket is completely unacceptable. You do realize Hrovald gained fifty Kirkellan horses as part of the peace treaty? I’m sure most of them will end up here. You might want to think about where you’re going to put them.”

  Erek looked as if he’d forgotten how to breathe. Imogen leaned over and patted him on the back. “I’m glad to know I can trust you to watch out for Victory,” she said. She noted, looking around, that her tiermatha’s horses were gone. So they’d moved over to the warriors’ camp. The empty stalls echoed the hollowness she felt at the idea. “I’m going to ride outside the walls, Erek, and I’ll be back in a couple of hours.” She nudged Victory into a trot before the man could protest.

  She found her way to the gate without any trouble, only taking a wrong turn once. She tried not to look at the Ruskalder she rode past, not wanting to see their anger or disgust at her presence. Outside the city, she turned left and jogged along, paralleling the city wall. Once or twice around the city was what she had in mind, nothing more. Nothing Hrovald could turn into a weapon against her or the tiermatha. Just an easy circuit, and then back to trying to be a Ruskalder lady. She grimaced and urged Victory into a slightly faster gait.

  It was a beautiful summer day, cloudless and blue, and if she ignored the wall of trees circling the city in the distance she could almost imagine herself back home on the plains. It felt good to be alone, just the two of them under heaven. Impulsively, she shouted a command, and Victory took off across the open plain, running as fast as she was able, which was for a Kirkellan horse very fast indeed.

  Soon they came upon the river, probably icy from its source high in the Spine of the World, and Imogen had to rein her horse in or run straight into it. They stood and watched it for a while. In the spring it would flood its banks and be fast and frigid; now, in the heart of summer, it dawdled along, ruffling the tall grass along its bank. There didn’t seem to be a bridge.

  She turned and rode beside it toward the docks, where she stopped to watch the boats being loaded with more of the giant logs and piles of animal skins. The men and women—interesting, they were dressed in trousers just like the men and doing the same work—nearest her stopped what they were doing to watch her in turn. She waved. They didn’t wave back. Eventually Imogen, feeling uncomfortably like a trespasser, turned and rode away. When she glanced back over her shoulder, she saw they’d resumed their work. It was no doubt the reaction she’d get from everyone she met, at least until they got used to her. If they ever did.

  She turned and went back the way she’d come, passed the city gate and went on following the wall to the right. She soon came upon the military camp and decided to take a long detour around it rather than ride straight through. She didn’t like the idea of being surrounded by Ruskalder warriors, even if she was nominally their Queen and they were bound not to interfere with her. But she soon found her detour wasn’t wide enough. She heard the sound of wood clashing against wood, metal on metal, long before she saw the training grounds, which were set some distance from the camp and were clearly in use today. She thought about turning around, but then saw some familiar figures sparring to one side of the field, and trotted toward them, her heart lifting at the sight.

  “Imogen! Come to practice with us?” Dorenna said.

  “Promised Hrovald I wouldn’t, remember? But I’d like to watch for a while.” Surely Hrovald couldn’t object to that. She dismounted and led Victory to where they’d both be out of the way of the fighting.

  Kionnal and Areli faced off against each other, the red-headed Kionnal shifting right to left and back while Areli, tall and lanky, balanced on the balls of her feet and waited for him to attack. “If I’d wanted to dance I would’ve stayed with the camp,” Areli said with a grin.

  “You never want to dance with me,” Kionnal complained.

  “Because you’re a terrible—dancer!” Areli lunged and caught his practice sword in the crossguard of hers, using her momentum to lift his arm out of her way and swiveling in to punch him in the side as if wielding an invisible short sword. “Dead,” she said.

  “Damn. I swore I wouldn’t get caught by that again. You’ll have to show me the block.”

  Areli released his arm and kissed her lover quickly, looking around to see if they’d been observed. “Happy to oblige,” she said. “But I think it’s all about speed.”


  “Find me a javelin, and we’ll see who’s faster.”

  “Get out of the way, you two, and let a real man show you how it’s done,” Revalan said. “Come on, Imogen, I can’t get a good workout without you.”

  “You want to test that theory?” A hulking Ruskalder approached, twirling a wooden practice sword in his left hand. His long blond hair was familiar, and Imogen realized this was the leader of the raiding party they’d turned back from the border days before. “I could use a new sparring partner.”

  Revalan looked at Imogen, then at his other comrades. “I suppose so,” he said. “What did you have in mind?”

  “Straight across fight? Three points for the win?”

  Revalan nodded. “And the judge?”

  The man looked across at Imogen. “I think the Queen can be impartial, even if she is one of you.” His eyes lingered on her breasts, and Imogen clenched her hand on Victory’s reins. She couldn’t attack him for looking, however unwanted his interest was.

  “Agreed.” Revalan began to limber up. The Ruskalder continued to twirl his sword, smiling in a way that made Imogen uneasy. She saw they’d begun to gather an audience of warriors smiling the same unpleasant smile. She wished Revalan hadn’t accepted the challenge and hoped he’d be able to win, or at least hold his own.

  The two men tapped their swords together to indicate the beginning of the bout, and Revalan immediately darted in past the Ruskalder’s guard to tap him on the chest. “First point,” Imogen said. Dorenna made a noise of encouragement, but otherwise the crowd remained silent. It was eerie. Imogen felt it was too soon to celebrate.

  The men circled one another, clashed, separated, and circled again. The Ruskalder feinted to one side, Revalan took the bait, and his opponent hit him hard on the shoulder. Revalan winced and put his hand to the spot. “Watch it,” he warned.

  Imogen said, “First point to—?”

  “Karel,” the man said, grinning more broadly. He twirled his sword again. Imogen wished she could take it away from him and hit him hard across the buttocks. He certainly looked like he deserved a smacking.