Rider of the Crown

by Melissa McShane

  Imogen laughed, a hoarse, disused sound. “We’ll have you back in fighting shape in no time,” she promised. “It’s going to be a while before you can walk out of here, but…I’m so glad you’re awake.” She got heavily to her feet. “I’m going to give the tiermatha the good news. Everyone’s been worried.”

  With Dorenna’s recovery, the entire tiermatha recovered its spirits. Imogen wanted to rejoice with them, but there was still one patient under her care, and that one stubbornly refused to get well. Imogen’s nightmares were now haunted by the King of Tremontane, who in her dreams was a blond giant with Hrovald’s face who stalked her, crying out to avenge the blood of his sister. Elspeth’s illness had passed into a new phase, one that none of the other patients had exhibited: delirious ravings about being attacked, pleas for help, babblings in languages none of them understood, though occasionally Imogen heard Tremontanese and was absurdly proud of being able to understand her. Her face was so thin her cheekbones stood out sharply and her wrists were so small Imogen could circle them with her hand and have her fingers nearly overlap her thumb. Imogen bathed her forehead, and fed her gruel and febrifuges, and prayed to heaven she would survive. And then she slept, and dreamed, and woke in a sweat.

  She had just woken from one of these nightmares when Inger appeared beside her. “The King is looking for you,” she said. Imogen thought for a wild moment that Elspeth’s brother had come to Ranstjad to seek her out, then remembered there was another King closer to hand.

  “Then he can come in here if he’s so interested.” Elspeth hadn’t coughed for several minutes. Was that good, or bad?

  “You know he won’t come in here. He doesn’t look happy.”

  “I don’t give a damn about his happiness.”

  “You should, if you don’t want him laying into some innocent person.”

  Imogen rubbed her eyes and groaned. “Would you give her her next dose? I’ll be right back.”

  Hrovald waited for her in the skorstala. “Where have you been?”

  “Taking care of your hostage. She’s been ill.”

  “Stop wasting your time on her. You have duties.”

  “Hrovald, I don’t think anything you want me to do is more important than making sure that young woman lives to be returned to her royal brother.”

  Hrovald slammed his fist down on the high table. “You will do as I command!”

  Imogen stared him down. Her fear for Dorenna and for Elspeth had drained her ability to fear anything else. “Think again, husband,” she said softly. “You have no right to force me. I am your wife because I choose to be. I follow your rules because I choose to do so. You may think of me as a Ruskalder wife, but I swore oath to a Kirkellan husband, and no Kirkellan husband has the right to insist I not follow my conscience when someone’s life is at stake. So, husband, I intend to return to that room and continue caring for Elspeth North, and you should think very carefully about how far you’re willing to go to stop me.”

  Hrovald glared furiously at her. His fingers curled into a fist, and briefly Imogen remembered the banrach, and the Kirkellan, and Ruskalder warriors slaughtering her people. If she didn’t back down, what might he decide to do? Enough, she thought. I’m not going to be a hostage anymore. If he breaks the treaty, it’s on his head, and we Kirkellan will just have to endure. As we always do. She straightened her spine. She wasn’t some frail Ruskalder woman. She was a warrior of the Kirkellan, and she would show this man no fear.

  Hrovald continued to glare, but his rage was fading. “Keep her alive,” he finally said. “She’s still a valuable…guest.” He turned and left the skorstala, leaving Imogen feeling as weak as if they’d wrestled physically instead of verbally. Well, she’d have won either way.

  When she went back to the sick room, Inger had Elspeth in her arms and looked at her with an expression Imogen didn’t understand. She had just enough time to become afraid before Elspeth raised her head and looked at her with those enormous brown eyes. “Imogen,” she said, her voice raspy as if her throat were raw, which it probably was, “I’m so hungry.”

  Chapter Ten

  Elspeth ate like a starving person, which, Imogen thought, she probably was. Inger supervised her food carefully so Elspeth didn’t vomit; Imogen, relieved beyond words that the girl was well, would have given her anything she wanted. They kept her in the room downstairs for a few weeks; she still had coughing fits and was prone to fever if she exerted herself more than to use the chamber pot. Imogen knew she was truly well when she started griping about being bored and was willing to accept knitting needles and yarn to alleviate the boredom.

  “I’m tired of being in bed,” Elspeth complained in Tremontanese when Imogen carried her up the stairs and settled her in her own bed. “There aren’t any books in this place and I can’t believe I agreed to the knitting.”

  “I cannot believe it either. Perhaps you are still—” Imogen didn’t know the word for delusional, so she simply made a spiral motion with her finger near her temple. She helped Elspeth change out of the disgusting nightgown she’d worn for three weeks and put on a fresh one. Elspeth sighed with happiness.“Amazing how much a clean nightgown can cheer you up,” she said.

  “Into bed,” Imogen said, and settled her sitting upright with the blankets drawn to her waist. “I should to let you do what you want. Then I can say I tell you so when I carry you back after you fall down.” Elspeth was still so thin it hurt to look at her.

  “I’ll stay put, but will you keep me company?”

  “As much as I can. Hrovald is angry I am not there for him to yell. Or I get Hesketh. You are friends, to spend so much time together before you became ill.”

  Elspeth flinched and wouldn’t meet Imogen’s eyes. “Not Hesketh.”

  “Not being the friends—it is to say, you are not friends anymore?”

  Elspeth shook her head. “I don’t want to see him.” Tears welled up in her eyes.

  Imogen looked at her in concern. “What’s wrong? Did Hesketh do something?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it. It’s not important.”

  Imogen shrugged. “Then I will not talk. Do you want food?”

  Elspeth shook her head again. “I want to sleep.”

  “You want to do things.”

  “I changed my mind. You were right, I feel tired. Will you come back in a few hours and I can eat then?”

  “Yes. Now I will talk Tremontanese at people who do not understand and pretend not to understand the Ruskeldin.” She’d hoped to make Elspeth laugh, but the girl just scooted down in her bed and rolled on her side to face away from Imogen. Imogen shrugged and shut the door behind her.

  Elspeth was a terrible liar. Whatever had caused their falling out, Hesketh would know the truth. Unfortunately, Imogen couldn’t find him anywhere. She concluded he was avoiding her, and decided she’d just have to wait for him to slip up and then—hah! she’d have him. She was slightly disturbed at how much glee she felt about tracking down the worthless little weasel, and decided she hadn’t had enough exercise in the last two months. So she went to find Victory.

  The horse was ecstatic to see her, though not as restive as she expected. Questioning Erek revealed the stable master himself had given Victory some exercise every day, even if it was just a couple of laps around the courtyard. Imogen thanked him so profusely he blushed, then she saddled her horse and went for a nice long ride on the plain. It was a beautiful day that matched her mood—clear, cloudless, sunny, and with a hint of spring in the air. The snowdrifts were smaller, blown away by the early spring wind, and yellow winter grass showed through in places. Victory turned up her nose at it. “I think Erek must have spoiled you, you great beast,” Imogen said, patting her horse’s neck. They trotted as far as the tree line and back again, then detoured to see how the tiermatha was doing. Aside from being too thin, Dorenna looked as if she’d never been ill. Imogen promised to come back the following day and then set off for the stables. She’d been gone much longe
r than she’d wanted to be, and Elspeth was probably waiting for her dinner.

  Elspeth’s door was open, and Imogen could hear her talking to someone, someone male. Hesketh. She crept up on them, but Hesketh’s voice abruptly cut off. Accustomed as he was to avoiding his father’s wrath, he seemed to have unnaturally acute hearing, or maybe he was just good at knowing when he was in trouble. He burst out of the room and shouldered past Imogen so quickly she couldn’t stop him. “Hey!” she shouted, but he was down the stairs and gone.

  “What was that?” Imogen said as she entered Elspeth’s room, forgetting to speak Tremontanese.

  “Nothing,” Elspeth said, but she’d been crying again. “It was nothing.”

  “You don’t cry over nothing.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Elspeth, if something’s wrong—”

  “I said I don’t want to talk about it!” she shouted, and flung her pillow at Imogen’s chest. Imogen was so startled she didn’t try to grab it.

  “All right. We don’t have to talk about it,” she said. She picked up the pillow and handed it to Elspeth, who hugged it to her chest and tried so hard not to cry it was painful to watch. Imogen itched to sit on Elspeth until she gave up whatever secret she was clinging to, but that might break her, and Elspeth could be stubborn when she wanted. So instead she said, “What would you like to eat?”

  Hesketh didn’t try to talk to Elspeth again for the next few days. He went to ground so thoroughly Imogen knew she was never going to find him until he decided she’d stopped looking, so she did. Hrovald, on the other hand, was now underfoot all the time. He didn’t mount the stairs to visit Elspeth, but he grilled Imogen on her condition, her appetite, and her recovery. He’d gone from being indifferent to Elspeth’s survival to being very concerned about her health. It was unnerving. Imogen couldn’t think what had made such a change in him, except he must be ready to exchange her for whatever it was he wanted the King of Tremontane to give him, and wanted to be sure his hostage was in perfect condition—or as perfect as she could be after nearly dying of lung fever. The man only cared about Elspeth, or any woman, for that matter, because of what she could do for him. Imogen’s hands itched to wrap around his throat.

  After a week, Elspeth had recovered enough to totter around under her own power and sit for a few hours in a comfortable chair. Despite her new independence, she pleaded with Imogen to stay with her at all times, and Imogen, remembering those mysterious tears, agreed. If Hesketh was bothering Elspeth somehow, and he was avoiding Imogen, then Imogen staying near Elspeth would keep Hesketh away from her. She watched Elspeth, her bright, shorn hair bent over her needlework in deep concentration, and remembered how she had looked lying flushed and feverish in her sickbed, and felt an unexpected love for her. She’d never had another person depend on her the way Elspeth did. Yes, her tiermatha looked out for her, and she looked out for them, but they didn’t need her to take care of them. It felt good, knowing she could care for someone else like that. Elspeth was like a younger sister, only not one like her younger sister Neve, who roamed wild over the plains and had been known to bite unsuspecting people.

  That evening, Elspeth came to the supper table for the first time since falling ill. Hrovald held her chair for her and complimented her appearance, and kept reaching across Imogen to offer her choice bites from his own plate. Elspeth was confused, Imogen suspicious. Hrovald had never been this solicitous of her. Of course, she hadn’t fallen ill and nearly died, either, and she wasn’t of strategic value…no, she was, actually, but she also wasn’t tiny and delicate and needy-looking. Imogen thought the last without any rancor. Elspeth was what she was, and Imogen had discovered she liked caring for people far more than she enjoyed being cared for.

  The meal was nearly over when the door crashed open and a messenger stood, panting, in the doorway. “He’s coming,” the man said.

  Hrovald threw his knife down and climbed over the table, clipping the edge of Imogen’s plate and making gravy drip over the side. “How soon?” he asked as he strode toward the messenger. They had a low-voiced conversation, then Hrovald shouted, “Clear the room! All of you, back to the barracks and await my command! And summon my tiermatha!”

  Warriors fled. Hrovald shouted, “You, clear the table!” Servants snatched serving dishes and plates and mugs away, even though Imogen wasn’t finished eating yet. “Faster! Damn you, stop dancing around like it’s a celebration and get this out of here!” Imogen rose to leave the table, and he barked, “Sit down, wife! You’ll want to be here for this.” Then he looked at her, and at the table, and shouted, “The throne, the throne! Get this table out of my sight!”

  Imogen and Elspeth backed away as servers took the high table to one side of the room and brought the ornate chair to set in its place. Imogen’s smaller chair went beside it, and Hrovald gestured to Imogen to sit there. Elspeth looked confused and tired, and Hrovald shouted for someone to bring a chair for the Princess, which they put to Imogen’s right. They all sat, and Hrovald looked around, then cursed and left the room, returning minutes later dragging Hesketh, whom he shoved in Elspeth’s direction. “Stand over there,” he said. Elspeth looked warily at Hesketh, but showed no sign of bursting into tears.

  They waited. “Hrovald, what—” Imogen began, and Hrovald shushed her impatiently. Imogen subsided, irritable. The doors swung open again to admit the tiermatha, impeccably turned out and armed as usual. They took up their accustomed positions around the room. Imogen caught Areli’s eye and raised her eyebrows in silent question. Areli gave the tiniest shrug and went back to being a statue.

  They waited some more. Imogen was dying to know who was coming and why they were waiting in such state to receive him. Hrovald tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair, crossed one ankle across the other and fidgeted. She couldn’t tell if he was anxious or excited. Elspeth looked as if she needed a rest. Hesketh hovered near her chair as if he wanted to touch it, but as usual kept his eyes fixed on his shoes.

  The door opened. Hrovald straightened, uncrossed his ankles and put both his hands on the armrests of his chair so quickly it was as if the nervous Hrovald had never existed. The servant who opened the door stepped back to let another man enter the room. Imogen heard Elspeth make a tiny noise in her throat, but when she looked at the young woman, her face was expressionless.

  The stranger was Ruskalder, tall and brown-haired, with an unmemorable face and broad shoulders. He wore a dark green cloak that brushed the floor, a leather jerkin and sturdy trousers and boots. He appeared to be unarmed. He crossed the floor in silence until he stood about ten feet in front of Hrovald, then took a parade rest position with his hands crossed behind his back. He stood there, silent, and stared at Hrovald with an expression that gave nothing away. Hrovald stared back. They remained that way for so long Imogen began to feel the urge to shout, jump up, anything to break the tension.

  Finally, Hrovald said, “Well. Oujan. I didn’t expect you to come yourself.”

  “Seemed like it would save time, all around,” the man said. His voice was deep and smooth. “And I prefer Owen, now.”

  “Gave up your warrior’s name, did you?”

  “I gave up the name of a country that betrayed me.”

  “The country you deserted when you fought against its rightful King?”

  “That’s a conversation that will get us nowhere, Hrovald.”

  “You will address me as your Majesty!” Hrovald shouted, rising explosively to his feet. The man, Oujan or Owen or whatever his name was, seemed unimpressed by Hrovald’s show of rage.

  “As you wish, your Majesty, though we both know I’m no longer your subject.”

  “And yet you’re here.” Hrovald took his seat again. Now he was almost purring. Imogen heard Elspeth move beside her, looked at the girl and saw her face was so blank it had to be intentional. This man had to be what Hrovald wanted from the King of Tremontane. She wondered what was so special about him that Hrovald was
willing to give up his considerable bargaining position with regard to Elspeth.

  “You sent your terms. I’m here to fulfill them. I brought five riders to take the Princess back to Tremontane. They go. I stay.”

  Elspeth made another involuntary sound. Owen glanced her way, looked back at Hrovald, then jerked his head back to stare at Elspeth. “What did you do to her?” he whispered as if he couldn’t believe what he saw. Then he shouted, “You dared treat her so poorly!” and made a move in her direction. Lorcun and Kallum shifted position, and Owen looked at them as if noticing the tiermatha for the first time. He froze in place.

  “Sir,” Imogen said, standing so she would have his attention, “the Princess has been very ill. There was a lung fever epidemic, and she was struck particularly hard. She is only just recovered. I realize she looks ill, but I assure you I cared for her myself and have not allowed any harm to come to her.”

  “It’s true,” Elspeth said in a small voice. Owen’s face was agonized, and Imogen thought, Sweet heaven, he’s in love with her. And I’ll wager she’s in love with him too. No wonder the idea of being trapped away from her home all winter was so devastating. Imogen resumed her seat. There was nothing she could do. Poor Elspeth.

  “You’ve heard my wife assure you she’s well,” Hrovald said. Imogen saw he was smiling, and her hatred for him increased. Did he know how Owen felt about Elspeth? Did it make his victory sweeter? “So, you’ve brought an escort for the Princess, and you’ll stay in her place. I suppose you think that’s an acceptable exchange. Dyrak’s last warrior for the Princess of Tremontane.”

  “It’s the exchange you asked for,” Owen said, but he looked uncertain.

  “Things have changed,” Hrovald said. He pointed at Hesketh. “You see, the Princess is married to my son.”

  Imogen gasped and swiveled in her seat to look at Elspeth, who was crimson and again on the verge of tears. Was this what she’d been hiding, all this time? “But we haven’t—isn’t that something we should all have witnessed?”she said faintly. She couldn’t bear to look at Owen. What must he think? This was some ruse of Hrovald’s. There was no way Elspeth would consent to marry Hesketh, even if she’d been madly in love with him, and Imogen was certain that wasn’t the case.