Rider of the Crown

by Melissa McShane

  “Help me,” the woman repeated, and coughed up more blood. Imogen carefully lifted the woman’s hand away from her midriff and tried not to recoil at the stench of the wounded soldier’s exposed stomach and entrails. The woman whimpered.

  “I can’t—” Imogen began, then scooted around to get her hands under the woman’s armpits and lift her. The woman tried to scream, then fainted. Imogen gently laid her down and felt for a pulse. She found one, thready and weak, and then it was gone. Imogen sagged beside the body and cried. She had gone to war against the Ruskalder for years, had killed their warriors and brought back the bodies of fallen Kirkellan, but she’d never sat on a battlefield beside a woman whose life she had no way of saving. She looked at the distant city gate, lit by a dozen Devices hovering like oversized fireflies, and thought, You had better be worth the sacrifice, without knowing who or what she was talking about.

  She painfully got to her feet and again resumed her slow, limping pace toward the distant lights. Tomorrow they would bury their dead, assuming there was anyone around to do so. The missing armies puzzled Imogen. Hrovald’s might have fled, but where had the Tremontanan Army gone? She saw no camps or even the marks of the passage of a large number of people.

  Imogen realized she was on the ground. She didn’t remember falling. That was a bad sign. She needed to get to a doctor, quickly. She pushed herself up and resumed her journey. No one knows where I am, or they’d have retrieved me by now. Jeffrey will be frantic. He was right. I should have stayed behind. But who would have killed Hrovald if I had? Had it even made a difference? It didn’t seem as if anyone had noticed the King of Ruskald impaled by her saber, stuck to the ground like a bit of paper skewered with a pin.

  Music and shouting and brassy light clamored at her as she neared the city wall. The doors had been cleared of bodies, and she passed through with no trouble. Inside, people danced and sang through the streets, musicians played on every corner, and she could smell alcohol and the sharp, lingering scent of gunpowder. An explosion went off nearby, and she cried out and threw herself to the ground before she realized she wasn’t dead. A shower of blue-white light rained down from the sky, evaporating before it reached the street. Another explosion, and green and red sparks blossomed high above. A celebration, not an attack. How odd, and how beautiful.

  Imogen leaned against a nearby building, stared up at the colorful sparks, and caught her breath. The palace. They have doctors there. Sweet heaven, it’s so far away. She was so discouraged she wanted to cry.

  “Hey, sweetheart, come and have a drink with us!” a man shouted, and Imogen was dragged painfully away from the supportive building and handed from one person to the next until, dizzy and nauseated, she jerked away from their hands and clutched her side, weeping with pain.

  “Oh, heaven, she’s injured. Fellows, we have a war hero here! Ma’am, we’re sorry, had no idea, let us get you a doctor.”

  Imogen shook her head. “I need to get to the palace,” she said through tears and gritted teeth.

  The man’s face swam in her teary vision, but he seemed kind. He shouted, “We need a coach for the war hero, right now!” and soon Imogen was handed from person to person again until she was tucked into the dark, cool interior of a carriage which trotted away over the cobblestones. Imogen wedged herself into a corner, trying to minimize the jolting. The pain was so great she retched and had to lean far out the window to keep from vomiting inside the carriage. Afterward, she sagged onto the seat, clammy drops of sweat erupting on her forehead, a bitter taste of bile on her lips. Just a little farther. He’s going to kill me. Just a little farther.

  She fell into semi-consciousness, waking only when the carriage came to a halt. She opened the door and staggered out, hanging tight to the handle to keep from falling down. She heard running feet, then hands supported her up the steps, then they were carrying her awkwardly, one person on each side, and her head rolled back to watch the ceiling hurry past. Just as the vaulted ceiling gave way to shaped stone, she closed her eyes and knew nothing more.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  She woke in a strange bed with a dark blue canopy speckled with silver. North colors. Sunlight flowed like honey through tall windows opposite the bed. She felt numb all over—no, she felt well all over, completely free from pain for the first time in as long as she could remember. She moved to touch her wounded side and realized she was naked under the blankets. Her side bore a ridged scar that felt as if it was at least six months old. She ran her fingers over the bumpy scar tissue, then over the rest of her body, wondering what other miracles might have been worked on it.

  “Lilia,” her mother said, and Imogen looked and saw Mother seated a short distance away, holding a book. She set the volume down face-first and rose, her arms outstretched.

  “Mother,” Imogen said, and then her mother enfolded her in her arms, and they were both crying, though Imogen wasn’t sure why—she wasn’t dead, was she? Mother stroked her hair, and Imogen sobbed tears of relief and joy.

  “You must be starving. You slept for two days,” Mother said, releasing her daughter and pulling the bell rope. “The healer said it’s as if your body experiences the normal healing process at an accelerated rate, and it exhausts you, but when you didn’t wake up right away…we were all worried, as you can imagine.”

  “Where is this place?”

  “One of the rooms in the east wing. King Jeffrey insisted, when it became clear you couldn’t be moved to the embassy. He’s been very accommodating. Yes, thank you, would you ask the kitchen to send something for the ambassador?” The servant who’d appeared in response to the bell bowed and shut the door behind him. “Any pain? Dizziness?”

  Imogen shook her head. “Nothing but hunger. I feel as if I…well, exactly as if I hadn’t eaten for two days.”

  “The healer says you’re to eat as much as you want and sleep as much as you can. No visitors for another day or so, but you have many friends who are worried about you and would like to see you back on your feet.”

  Imogen sat up straight and had to adjust the sheet to cover herself. “Victory. Is she all right? Mother, Hrovald stabbed her, the bastard, and—”

  “Shh, shh, she’s fine, the healer’s seen to her too. He was almost stunned—I don’t think he’d ever worked on an animal before, but the King said she was no less a hero than you.” Mother’s eyes grew misty. “They found your saber, stuck through Hrovald’s heart, and you nowhere to be seen. We were just about to send out a second search party when those soldiers came in carrying what everyone thought was your body. It was….” Mother shook her head and wiped her eyes. “I’m just glad you’re well. What happened?”

  The door opened and the servant came in, laden with two trays bearing several covered dishes. Imogen’s stomach growled. “Put them here,” she instructed the servant in Tremontanese, patting the bed next to her and diving onto the dishes almost before he’d set the trays down. “Oh,” she moaned, “roast beef and baked potatoes and butter and…I can’t talk, Mother, you’ll have to tell me about the battle instead.” Her last four words were indistinct, her mouth full of meat.

  Mother laughed. “Don’t choke, Imogen, I’m not sure the healer can fix that. Well. I should start at the beginning, a month ago.” Imogen made an incredulous sound, and Mother waved her to silence. “After that battle, I was approached by Ingivar—oh, I see you know him. He brought me an intriguing proposal. He told me Hrovald was unstable, which I knew, and that he was mismanaging the country, which I’d guessed, and that he, Ingivar, wanted to overthrow Hrovald, which was a complete surprise. I’ve always considered Ingivar an honorable enemy, and the idea of dealing with him instead of Hrovald had great appeal. So we sent messengers back and forth, and the result was, when Hrovald called up his army a second time, Ingivar and three other chiefs pleaded indisposition and refused to come.”

  Imogen looked an inquiry at Mother. “What are you asking? Who were they? No. What did Hrovald do—oh, yes. Not much he c
ould do without displaying weakness, even though he knew they were in rebellion against them; he was trying to fight a war against Tremontane and he was either unwilling to give that up or didn’t feel he could maintain his reputation if he had to force the issue with his rebellious chiefs. So I suppose he just pretended everything was well. He still outnumbered the Tremontanan Army even without those four chiefs.

  “The thing he didn’t know was that Ingivar, as soon as Hrovald was committed to the march on Aurilien, brought the other three chiefs and added his forces to the Tremontanan Army the way we Kirkellan did.”

  Imogen swallowed. “I saw it. I didn’t know what was different, but I thought the Army was bigger than it had been before.”

  “Yes. With Ingivar’s forces, we were easily able to overcome the Ruskalder army, aided by the fact that someone had skewered Hrovald and left him to rot on the battlefield. Ingivar took control of the remaining chiefs, told them he was the King now, and that was it. The war is over.”

  “Where did the armies go? I was so confused, wandering around the battlefield and seeing nothing and no one.”

  “The Tremontanan Army, and our warriors, are camped around on the east side of the city, near the barracks. The Ruskalder made camp on the far side of the forest. Well out of sight of the city—truce or no, nobody in Aurilien wanted to see Ruskalder camping just over the fields. And out of sight of the battlefields. It will be grim work, burying the dead, and far too many dead at that.” Mother looked grim herself. “But I think the truce is holding.”

  “Ingivar struck me as honorable, too. I think he’ll be a much better neighbor than Hrovald.”

  “He has some things to discuss with you. He won’t say what. If you want, I can tell him to negotiate with me instead.”

  “No, why shouldn’t I speak to him? But later. Let me tell you what happened.” She gave her mother the complete story, beginning with the siege of the palace that had led to her being wounded, then her part in the battle up to Hrovald’s death, then her return to the palace. Mother listened intently, and when Imogen was done, said, “For an ambassador, you make an excellent warrior.”

  It was a joke, but it made Imogen uncomfortable. “I make an excellent ambassador, too,” she protested.

  “I know. I should never have sent you those troop movements. I should have realized how they could be used against you.”

  “It was my good fortune Jeffrey didn’t believe I would betray him. Anyone else, it might have meant my head.”

  Mother nodded. “I’m looking forward to meeting these other ambassadors. From your few letters—” she glared in mock-severity at her daughter—“they seem fascinating characters.”

  “I’ll be sure to introduce you.” Imogen pushed away the last of her dishes, feeling over-full and slightly sick, but far preferring that condition to hunger. She also felt sleepy. “Mother,” she began, but Mother was already pushing back her chair from the bedside.

  “I should go spread the good news,” she said. “Someone will fetch the dishes, and then you should sleep.” She kissed Imogen on the forehead. “Welcome back, daughter.”

  Imogen snuggled back into the pillows and pulled the blankets around her chin. But despite her weariness, sleep didn’t come. She stared up at the canopy. North colors. She’d fought Hrovald and nearly died for the sake of what those colors represented. The saber in her hand, the horse beneath her, the ground rushing past—it was who she was, who she was meant to be. Could a diplomat have stabbed Hrovald through the heart? A diplomat wouldn’t have been on the battlefield at all.

  She thought of Bixhenta and Ghentali, of treaties and receptions, thought of Jeffrey and what he’d said the first night he’d kissed her—something about how there was nothing wrong with giving up one dream in favor of a better one. He was right, though he’d been talking about a different dream. What she’d done in Tremontane…she had so many skills she’d never dreamed of, but none of them could compare to her abilities as a warrior. As a commander of troops. She could never be truly happy here, no matter how much she loved Jeffrey; she was a Kirkellan warrior, and that was where her destiny lay. As if her resolve had turned a switch inside her, she began drifting off, waking only when the servant returned to collect the dishes, then falling deeply asleep.

  When she woke again, it was full night. Imogen rolled onto her side and began feeling around for the light Device switch. “Don’t get up,” Jeffrey said from the darkness at her side. Imogen pulled the blankets close around her chest just as light bloomed, blinding her briefly.

  “How long have you sat there?” she said.

  “Longer than I’d like to admit,” he said. “I apologize for the intrusion.” He’d shaved and was dressed in clean clothes, but he still looked tired. The lamp cast unattractive shadows across his face. “Are you well?”

  “I am hungry again,” she said.

  “I can have someone bring you food,” he said, but made no move to pull the bell rope. “No pain? The healer said you should be perfectly recovered.”

  “I am not in pain. I do not feel tired now either. Just hunger.”

  Jeffrey rested his interlaced fingers on his knees and studied them. “That’s good. I—we were all very worried. Victory wounded, your saber left behind…it was as if you’d simply vanished.”

  “Thank you for tending to Victory. She is my dear friend.”

  “Well, yes, I know how much she means to you, so I didn’t think she should suffer.”

  Silence descended between them. He was so distant. Could he really be so angry that she’d ignored his warning and nearly gotten herself killed? But if he was, why was he here? “I am sorry,” she blurted. “I do—did not listen and you were right.”

  “Right about what?” He sounded startled.

  “That I am too injured to fight. I killed Hrovald because I was lucky. He nearly killed me. I should listen to you. Please do not be angry.”

  “What? Imogen, I’m not angry with you.”

  His words should have been a comfort, but they only deepened her confusion. “Then what are you angry at?”

  “Nothing. It’s just been a long couple of days, not knowing when you’d wake up.” His tone of voice substituted “if” for “when,” and Imogen felt a pang of compassion for him.

  “I am glad you care,” she managed.

  “Of course I care. Imogen….” His words trailed off into silence. Compassion turned into a stomach-churning dread. She had to tell him quickly, before he said something that would make this situation truly heartbreaking. This was far, far worse than the Spring Ball.

  “I think the Kirkellan will return to the Eidestal soon,” she said. “I am looking forward to the hunts.”

  Jeffrey’s face went very still. “You’re going back with them.”

  “I am a warrior of the Kirkellan. It is my home.”

  “I see.” He didn’t look angry, or sad, or anything but completely emotionless. “It’s true, you’re a natural commander. I’ve had the reports of Colonel Haverson and Major Randulf. Haverson says you roused the troops against the Ruskalder when our own commanders didn’t know what to do. Randulf told me you took command at the west gate and brought down one of the enemy banners with no help from anyone else. People look to you for orders and they trust what you tell them to do. You’re going to be the greatest Warleader the Kirkellan have ever had.”

  “I think not. There is no more war for me to be Warleader.” The ache in her stomach had turned knife-sharp. She’d expected…what? Whatever it was, she hadn’t expected him to agree with her.

  Jeffrey shook his head. “The Ruskalder won’t stay peaceful for long. Ingivar is strong, but there are others who see his progressive policies as a threat and will do whatever it takes to stop him. I give it another five, possibly seven years before Ruskald becomes a threat again. And your current Warleader—Kernan is a strong leader, but Mairen told me he’s getting to an age where he’s ready to lay down his saber. After what’s happened in this war, no o
ne’s going to question your qualifications to take his place.”

  “I…think you are right.”

  “Thank you for wielding your sword on my behalf. I would be dead now if not for you.”

  “It is what I want to do.” Everything seemed distant now, Jeffrey’s voice, his face swimming in front of her, her hands clutching the blanket. “I do not belong here,” she said.

  Jeffrey nodded. “I know. I think I’ve always known.” He stood. “I don’t know if we’ll have another chance to speak before your warriors leave—there’s a lot to do still—but just in case, I want you to know I…feel honored by your presence here in Tremontane. Madam ambassador.”

  The sharp pain moved upward to her chest. “I am glad I came,” she said, knowing it was a lie. “I think I must sleep again now.”

  “I thought you said you were hungry.”

  “I was wrong. I am just tired.”

  “All right. I’m glad you’re well. Good night, Imogen.”

  “Good night.”

  He switched off the Device, then the door opened and closed again, and Imogen was alone. She realized she was still sitting up with the blanket wrapped tightly around her chest and relaxed her fingers until it fell away, then lay back and closed her eyes. Of course Jeffrey wouldn’t try to change her mind. It was why he was such a good King; he saw the truth beneath all the irrelevant details that clouded it and he had the courage to act on what he saw. She was a Kirkellan warrior, above all else. The wind in her face, the horse beneath her, her saber in hand, those things made sense. They were what she was born to. Nothing about her was shaped to fit into Tremontanan society; she barely spoke the language, for heaven’s sake. She ran her fingers over the ridged scar on her belly. No Tremontanan lady would have the scars of a warrior.

  Here in the darkness, staring blindly at the invisible canopy above, she could admit to herself she loved Jeffrey, she’d started to dream of a life with him, but he couldn’t follow her to the Eidestal and she wouldn’t let him if he was able to. Love couldn’t solve everything, not for either of them. She hugged her pillow to her chest and stared into the darkness until dawn touched the tall windows, when she finally fell asleep.