Rider of the Crown

by Melissa McShane

  “It’s called a telecoder,” Imogen said when the man and woman had set up the Device in the matrian’s tent and retreated a short, respectful distance. “They’re usually the size of a horse, but the military has these smaller, portable versions. This bar makes a mark on this paper. The marks are duplicated instantaneously by another telecoder Device, anywhere in the world. This one is set to communicate with a Device in the King’s camp. I have the preliminary document he drew up, and you can read it and send him corrections or, um, argue technicalities or whatever else is part of making a treaty. There’s a code the operators use that’s faster than the alphabet, faster than writing. You could agree on terms within an hour.”

  “That’s incredible. How does it work?”

  “I don’t understand it well myself. You could ask the operators. But…shouldn’t that wait until the treaty is resolved?”

  Mother fingered the arm of the telecoder. It went up and down at her touch. “How do I know what I say is transmitted accurately? I can’t read this code. And suppose the—operator?—doesn’t translate King Jeffrey’s words accurately either?”

  “I don’t have any way to assure you of that,” Imogen said. “But I’ve met the King, and I trust him. I think he wants this treaty very much. And he owes me two lives, so I think he’s bound to deal honorably by me.”

  Mother stared at the Device for another long moment. “All right,” she said. “Show me the document.” Imogen handed her a folded sheet she’d been carrying inside her jerkin, then stepped aside to speak with the operators. Only one of them spoke Kirkellish, but she was reasonably fluent and Imogen was confident she and her partner would do a fine job of communicating with the King’s camp, a hundred miles away. They left the tent to wait for instructions, and Imogen stayed, not sure what her responsibility was now.

  Mother sat at her desk and read. Imogen hadn’t known Mother could both speak and read Tremontanese, but nothing her mother did surprised her anymore. Imogen fidgeted. The King should have sent an actual diplomat along with the telecoder operators. He’d explained that sending a representative uninvited could seem aggressive or arrogant, but on their long ride Imogen had become convinced a treaty between their nations was critical, and how was she supposed to convince her mother of that? She picked at a loose seam of the tent wall. She scraped some unidentified dirt off one of the tent poles. Mother said, “Get out of here before we both go crazy.” Imogen fled.

  The crowd was now less a solid mass than a handful of clots, people greeting the tiermatha, even a few Kirkellan conversing with the Tremontanan soldiers, more with gestures than words. She accepted Victory’s reins from—she stepped back in surprise—her own brother Gannen. “Did I give you Victory’s reins without knowing it was you?” she exclaimed, embracing him.

  “No, you gave them to Regan, but I told her I wanted to play a joke on you. Heaven above, but you look terrible, sister mine. When’s the last time you bathed?”

  “It was before I got divorced, outraced a good portion of the Ruskalder army, killed two men, and had supper with a foreign King, so I think I can be excused for being a little ripe.”

  Gannen’s eyes widened. “Supper with a foreign King? What an exciting life you lead. Seriously, though, you look like you could use a rest. You want to come home and change, at least?”

  “I can’t. I’m waiting on Mother to approve a treaty with Tremontane so I can see if King Jeffrey will accept her terms.”

  “Good heaven. Did you bring him here too? Really, Imo, weren’t you a chubby little girl in plaits just two days ago?”

  “Time you started taking me seriously.”

  “Past time, apparently. So explain what’s going on. Are you going to ride back and forth until Mother and this King come to terms? That seems like a waste of your abilities.”

  Imogen opened her mouth to explain, and Mother called, “Imogen, come back in here and look at this.” Imogen shrugged and obeyed.

  With Imogen’s memory of what the King had talked about and Mother’s formidable intelligence, it took them very little time to work out the changes Mother wanted to make to King Jeffrey’s document. It took a great deal more time for the telecoder operators to encode and transmit the document. Mother and Imogen watched the process with interest at first, then boredom. After a longer wait—the Tremontanans had to decode the document, then the King had to read it, then he had to—

  The key started tapping its arrhythmical beat. Imogen and Mother leaned forward simultaneously, then looked at each other and chuckled. As if their attention could make the message arrive more quickly. The tape sped through the Device and over the fingers of the female soldier, who read off the message for her companion to write. The reply was a good deal shorter than the original transmission, so either it was acceptable or King Jeffrey was furious at whatever Mother had said. The scribe finished writing and handed the page to Mother, who scanned it quickly.

  “Hmm. Tell him…tell him terms will be in abeyance until the immediate threat has passed, negotiations to commence thereafter.”

  More encoding and tapping. Imogen got up to leave and her mother put a restraining hand on her arm. “Sit with me,” she said, “and tell me about this King Jeffrey. What kind of man do you judge him to be?”

  “I’ve only spoken to him a handful of times.”

  Gannen poked his head into the tent. “Imogen, I can’t spend all day watching your oversized pony.”

  “Take Victory to the enclosure and see her settled,” Mother said to Gannen. Imogen made a noise of protest, and she added, “Imogen and I have a great deal to talk about.”

  “But, Mother—”

  “I know perfectly well you have nothing better to do, Gannen, and you should be happy to do a favor for your sister when she’s done so much for all of us.”

  “Well, when you put it that way,” Gannen said, and withdrew.

  Mother nodded at Imogen. “You were saying?”

  “He’s decisive. His men and women admire him. He’s far too young for his responsibilities, but he’s not uncertain or foolish.” Imogen wondered if the operators were listening to this and, if they were, what they thought of an outsider passing judgment on their King. “He’s at war with Ruskald because Hrovald stole his heir, not just because he loves his sister. I don’t think he lets personal feelings influence his actions. He has a sense of humor. And he understands about our horses.”

  “High praise indeed.”

  “It is for me. I liked him.”

  “I can tell.” Mother stood and walked to the telecoder, which lay silent. “You know Tierani is expecting your brother’s child?”

  “Torin? How wonderful for them! Though I thought he had his eye on Gitta.”

  “It seems Gitta had her eye on Briony instead.”

  “Poor Torin. Though I like Tierani better.”

  “So do I. They intend to marry in a month or two.” The telecoder chattered. Mother stood back to let the operators do their work, then again received a sheet of paper from the scribe. “It’s acceptable,” she told the woman. “Tell him the Kirkellan will set out in the morning.” She dropped the paper on her desk, took Imogen’s arm, and said, “Walk with me.”

  Only normal traffic remained outside the great tent. Imogen’s tiermatha had disappeared. Imogen took a few steps toward their family tent next door, but Mother said, “I’d rather not go home just yet, if you don’t mind.”

  They walked in silence toward the outer edge of the camp, Mother frequently saluted by the men and women they passed. “The Ruskalder army is on its way south,” she said. “King Jeffrey’s outriders estimate it will meet the Tremontanan Army in approximately five days. Hrovald claims a soldier of Tremontane entered the King’s house at Ranstjad and killed his heir.”

  “That’s almost entirely true. I’m not sure Owen would describe himself as a soldier of Tremontane, and he was enacting personal vengeance, but I imagine that’s good enough pretext for Hrovald to call up his armies.”

>   “The point is King Jeffrey and I have reached a temporary agreement for the duration of the conflict. They’ll engage Hrovald’s army from the front. We will strike the western flank. Hrovald won’t expect us to throw in with Tremontane, which should give us the advantage and Tremontane a divided foe to attack.”

  “Why temporary?”

  “We don’t have time to work out the kind of details a peacetime treaty would require. I told him I’d be willing to negotiate again once the crisis has passed.”

  “You seem optimistic.”

  “You’ve seen Hrovald’s army. We don’t have better than an even chance, at most. But if things go sour, we’ll withdraw and disappear into the plains.”

  “You mean we’d desert?”

  “I mean if the Tremontanan Army begins to retreat in confusion, I’ll take it as a sign we’ve lost.” Mother shrugged. “My first duty is always to the Kirkellan, just as King Jeffrey’s is to his people. We both understand that.”

  Imogen nodded. “How long will it take the Kirkellan to assemble?”

  “Two, three days. We’ll be cutting it close to arrive when Hrovald does, but I can’t make our warriors move any faster than they do.” She paused, then added, “I’m putting you in charge of a company.”

  “You are? Why me?” They’d walked a quarter of the circuit of the camp and were in sight of the track. A horse and rider came around the bend toward the hurdles and came up short, to the amusement of the bystanders.

  “It’s time you had some experience leading more than one tiermatha into battle.”

  “Thank you. I promise I won’t let you down.”

  “I wouldn’t give you the command if I didn’t think you were ready.” The rider dug his heels into his horse’s sides and steered him around the hurdles toward the straightaway. Imogen would have to take Victory for some much-needed practice at the track.

  Mother nodded. “I’ll have to start summoning the companies. It’s tricky timing, getting there just as Hrovald does, but I’ll leave that to Kernen. I’ll be following with the bulk of the camp.” Kernen was the Warleader of the Kirkellan. Imogen intended to hold his position someday.

  “I’ll have to tell my tiermatha, but I’ll join the family for dinner shortly.”

  Mother laid her hand on her daughter’s cheek. “I feel as if all I do is send you away.”

  “At least I’m not going very far. And I’ll be doing what I was born to do.”

  “Oh, Imogen,” Mother said. “I hope that’s true.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “I don’t like going to war allied with people whose language we don’t speak,” Rhion said, peering ahead with her eyes shaded against the bright morning light. She and Imogen stood on a low rise, waiting for the rest of the companies to strike camp. They’d made good time the first day and Imogen estimated they’d be united with the Tremontanan Army by noon in two days. “Who knows what kind of confusion that might create?”

  “I’m sure they use signals,” Imogen said. “And I imagine they expect us to operate independently. It’s not as if we’ll have time to discuss strategy with them when we arrive. The Warleader thinks the battle might be underway when we get there.

  “Yes, and I hate leaping into battle without time to assess the enemy’s position,” Rhion said. She was a dark-featured, dark-haired woman in her mid-thirties, lean to the point of skinniness. Imogen had never ridden with her before, but knew her to be precise and fond of details. She wouldn’t be happy until she could see the Ruskalder spread out before her.

  “Just five minutes more,” Fionna said as she crested the rise. “They made good time.”

  “I wish we’d left five minutes ago,” Rhion said.

  Fionna shrugged. “Should’ve helped break camp if you’re so eager.”

  Rhion snorted. Fionna tossed her short brown hair and stroked her horse’s mane. She was of an age with Rhion and nearly as tall and thin. They had been best friends since childhood and had co-captained their company for nearly as long.

  “So is it true the Tremontanans don’t use cavalry?” Fionna asked.

  “They have cavalry, they just don’t fight the way we do,” said Imogen. “They couldn’t, really. Their horses are lighter and faster than ours, which suggests they use them for quick strikes rather than breaking the enemy line.” She petted Victory’s head so she wouldn’t feel bad for not being a slim, speedy horse with thin legs and a narrow flank. “It’s not like I know anything about their strategies, but I doubt they’ll have us working together. Our strengths are too different. But it will be interesting to see them work.”

  Rhion looked around. “More interesting for them to see us work, I’d think.”

  “Chauvinist,” Fionna said.

  “When will any of them have had the chance to see a Kirkellan tiermatha thundering down on the foe? It has nothing to do with how much better our horses are. Which they are.”

  “Let’s not be too vocal about that,” Imogen laughed. “Remember, some of the Tremontanans speak our language.”

  “I’ll be polite. I don’t have to say we’re better. I just have to let Charity prove it.”

  Imogen rolled her eyes, then prodded Victory ahead to join her tiermatha. They hadn’t objected to riding out again so soon, were even cheerful about it, and were, if anything, more cheerful this morning, eating bread and cheese in the saddle, Dorenna tossing bits at Revalan who caught them in his mouth. “All right,” she said as she rode up where Saevonna and Lorcun were making their horses dance together. “I want to know what the quartermaster put in your food. Nobody is this easy-going. And the odds against twelve people all being equally easy-going about the same thing are…I don’t know what they are, but something ridiculously high.”

  “It’s obvious, Imogen,” Saevonna said, keeping her eyes on Lodestone’s enormous, agile feet. “We spent nine or ten months trapped in a Ruskalder city, barely able to spar, hated and persecuted, and now someone tells us ‘hey there, you’re going to war, and by the way it’s against those jackasses who hated and persecuted you.’ I’d have volunteered for this.”

  There were nods all around. Kallum added, “Besides, I might have needed to get away from the camp for a while. A little misunderstanding about whose bed I was supposed to share two nights ago.”

  “Kallum, you’re going to get in trouble someday, and then you’re going to drag us into it,” Dorenna said.

  “Kionnal and I got married,” Areli said.

  A moment of stunned silence turned into exclamations and complaints. “What? When? You didn’t tell anyone! We wanted to be there!” cried Imogen.

  Areli and Kionnal exchanged a smug glance. “The night before we left. We thought this would be more fun, seeing you all excited,” Kionnal said. “And we’ll have a real celebration when this is all over.”

  “Aren’t you even the least bit superstitious about getting married just before going into battle?” Revalan asked, throwing a hunk of bread at Kionnal’s chest. He caught it and took a huge bite.

  “You mean, now we’re married one of us is going to be killed? Not really,” Areli said, seeing her husband’s mouth was full. “Our being married doesn’t change how we feel about each other and it doesn’t make us any more likely to put each other’s welfare above the tiermatha’s than we were before. We’ve been talking about it for a while, but I was far more superstitious about getting married in that frozen Ruskalder city than now. Besides, I want to be married when I have my baby.”

  In the sharp silence that followed, Areli grinned and said, “Kidding.”

  She ducked and laughed beneath a hail of bread chunks.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Imogen saw movement. The great banner rose above the Kirkellan host, giving the signal to move out. Imogen raised her fist and gestured to her company to fall in. They had a lot of ground to cover that day, and a battle to win the next.

  By the curve of the land, King Jeffrey had moved his Army farther north and west since they’d las
t seen it. Like the border between Ruskald and the Eidestal, this land lay empty and unpeopled as far as Imogen could see, and she imagined its emptiness stretching all the way north to the pole, then spreading out just as empty from here south to the distant sea. It didn’t look like anything anyone might want to fight over, though if Owen was right, the land was the reason they were here, Kirkellan, Tremontanan, and Ruskalder, whatever Hrovald might say about revenge.

  Her company rode on the far right of the Kirkellan, loosely grouped behind Imogen, Rhion and Fionna. They rode without speaking, javelins couched at their right sides, long, straight sabers sheathed on their left. Imogen turned in her saddle to survey them; their expressions were solemn, but not fearful, and their bodies were loose without being too relaxed. Imogen judged them ready for battle, and she hoped they’d meet the enemy soon, before they became complacent.

  The banner signaled a halt, then waved to summon the company captains to conference. Imogen nodded at Rhion and Fionna, then kicked Victory into a trot and swept around the front of the warriors to join the Warleader.

  Kernan stood about fifty feet ahead of the body of the Kirkellan warriors, looking into the distance, while his aides cut a square of turf about four feet on a side from the ground at his feet. Imogen joined the growing circle of captains, ten men and women of whom she was the youngest and least experienced. Not that this intimidated her. Of course not. The aides removed the turf and Kernan squatted to draw in the moist earth it revealed.

  “The scouts have found the armies, about a mile and a half from where we stand,” he said. “The Tremontanans have already engaged the Ruskalder in battle, but they haven’t been fighting long. I estimate we will make a timely and dramatic entrance.” He grinned up at his captains, who grinned back. “The Tremontanan Warleader chose his ground well. The battlefield is at the base of a low rise that circles part of the field, like so—” and he drew with his finger an arc off-center in the square of earth. “Here lie the Ruskalder, grouped loosely. The scouts say they are drawn out into a long line and are trying to encircle the Tremontanans, who are here, here, and here. The Tremontanan cavalry are on their far right and won’t interfere with us.