Rider of the Crown

by Melissa McShane

  “You’ve lost weight,” Areli said, eyeing Imogen critically.

  “I have not.”

  “You have so. That dress is almost hanging off you.”

  Imogen plucked at the fabric, which was undeniably loose on her. “This dress is supposed to be close-fitting. I’ll have to pick something else.”

  “No, don’t, it’s so pretty, and I know Saevonna will appreciate it.”

  “She’d better. I don’t know how Tremontanan weddings are normally conducted, but we put this one together awfully fast.”

  “Had to,” Areli said, hitching up her skirt and examining her hemline in Imogen’s mirror. “They’re practicing the Tremontanan tradition of celibacy until marriage.”

  “I can’t imagine how hard that is.” Imogen ran a brush through her hair. Areli had helped her dress, but couldn’t put her hair up, and rather than ring for Jeanette, Imogen decided to leave it down, shining chestnut tresses hanging halfway down her back. It made a nice contrast to the deep red of her gown.

  “Can’t you?”

  “Can’t I what?”

  “Imogen, I thought you were going to stop pretending you’re not in love with your King.” Areli took Imogen’s face in both her hands and leaned so close the tips of their noses touched. “It must be so frustrating for you, being the ambassador and seeing him all the time. Have you thought about talking to Mairen?”

  “About what?” Imogen pulled out of her friend’s grasp.

  “Yes, about what?” Dorenna said as she entered the room. She was gowned as haphazardly as ever and looked uncomfortably warm, even though her pink and white dress was suitably light for spring.

  “About Imogen being released as ambassador.”

  “Really?” Dorenna grinned. “So we can go home? Yes, Imogen, talk to Mairen. Nearly getting killed on behalf of a foreign government ought to count for something.”

  “No, Dorenna, so she and King Jeffrey don’t have to hide their love anymore.”

  Dorenna stopped grinning. “And then what?” she demanded of Imogen.

  Imogen shook her head. “Then we go home.”

  “Imogen!”

  “Don’t yell at her, Areli, she’s finally making sense.”

  “She is not making sense. Imogen, what are you saying?”

  Imogen sat carefully on the sofa to avoid wrinkling her gown. “I’m saying love isn’t enough to build a life on.”

  “Which is what I’ve always said.”

  “Shut up, Dorenna.” Areli knelt in front of Imogen and tried to catch her eye. “That’s not what this is about, is it. Something else happened.”

  “Nothing happened. I’m a warrior of the Kirkellan, not a diplomat, and I’m ready to go home.”

  “Imogen, you can’t just throw this away. I think you belong here, with him.”

  Dorenna slapped her hand down on the fireplace mantel. “Stop trying to influence her, Areli!”

  “And you weren’t? Imogen—”

  “Just…stop, all right?” Imogen put her hands over her ears, then took them down when she realized how childish she looked. “We’re supposed to be celebrating Saevonna’s marriage, not arguing over my life and the poor decisions I seem to be making about it. Dorenna, stop gloating. Areli, I don’t want to talk about this anymore. And now we’re going downstairs, and Saevonna’s going to be married by the King, and then we’ll have a party and everyone will stop worrying about the future for a few hours, or by heaven I will start breaking heads!”

  The tiermatha was smaller by four people, Lorcun and Maeva and Revalan having been buried and mourned the week before, Taeron still in the infirmary, but it was still large enough that with the addition of Marcus’s family, the large parlor with its many spindly-legged tables seemed small. Marcus’s parents were both dead, and Saevonna’s family was far away on the Eidestal, so Imogen had asked Jeffrey to officiate, hoping it wasn’t too presumptuous, hoping that whatever had passed between them had left them still friends. She ignored the ache in her chest when he nodded politely and thanked her for the honor. Just like a friend would.

  Now she stood just behind him on his left, Marcus’s older sister and his aunt and uncle standing to the right, and translated the words of the ceremony for Saevonna and the tiermatha. When it came time for the two to make what Jeffrey called their hearts’ oaths to each other, Saevonna hesitated. “Imogen, I want to say this right. Will you translate for me?” So Imogen, in her best and most careful Tremontanese, told Marcus that Saevonna would love and honor him and be the strength to his weakness, all the days of her life, and she found herself crying out the tears she hadn’t the night she made her decision, hot, bitter tears of regret for a life she couldn’t live. Since half the tiermatha was crying, too, no one had any idea anything was wrong.

  Jeffrey left after the ceremony, though Imogen asked him to stay. “This is a family matter, and I’d just make things awkward,” he said.

  “I do not think so,” Imogen said. “I think they like you.”

  “Yes, but I think poor Marcus is overwhelmed. He’s far more class-conscious than you Kirkellan are. It’s refreshing, being surrounded by people who don’t care that I’m the King.”

  “It is that you are not their King, I think.”

  “I’ve seen them behave the same way toward your mother. I think it’s a Kirkellan trait.” He nodded to her and stepped into the waiting carriage, leaving her grasping for something else to say.

  Mother arrived just after Marcus and Saevonna had departed for their wedding trip, the details unknown even to Saevonna, who’d told Imogen, “I made Marcus promise not to tell me, so there was no chance of it leaking to the rest of the tiermatha. I want my wedding night to be private, with no nosy Kirkellan hanging around offering advice.”

  “I suppose it’s a good thing you have servants,” Mother said, gazing around the two parlors, littered with the detritus of the celebration, china plates and wine glasses of crystal and gold and a very relaxed tiermatha entertaining Marcus’s relatives with Kirkellan dances and songs. “It’s all lovely, but it makes me yearn for the simplicity of our family tent, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “I suppose,” Imogen said, absently, thinking, How much longer do we have to stay here? I wish I were home already.

  “I meant to ask you what Ingivar wanted,” Mother said.

  “What? Oh. It was about Hrovald’s fortune. Seems I earned it by right of conquest. I told him to give it to Elspeth as reparations. I won’t have much use for it, and he certainly abused her enough.” She picked up an empty wine glass and tilted it, watching a last pale rosy bead trickle down the inside toward the lip.

  “You seem distracted,” Mother said.

  “I—what? I’m just thinking about Saevonna, I suppose. Wondering what kind of life she’ll have. In three days she takes oath as a Tremontanan citizen and officially joins the Army. It’s just so different here.”

  “She seems content with her choice.”

  “She has someone who loves her. That makes a difference.”

  “Indeed.” Mother looked around again. “I’d like to talk to you about something. Can we go somewhere private?”

  Imogen led the way to her suite, where she sat across from Mother, who took the sofa. “Before I say anything else, I want you to know I’ve been satisfied—more than satisfied—with your work as ambassador here. You’ve opened the way for us to build relations with other countries, and both the Veriboldan and Eskandelic ambassadors speak highly of you.”

  Imogen sat up straight in her chair. “What do you want me to do now, Mother?”

  “Imogen, calm down. This isn’t that kind of conversation. Well, actually, I suppose it is, in a way. But this time it’s entirely up to you.”

  “I’m not joining the Serjian harem. I know it’s an honor, and I like the women, but…no.”

  Mother laughed. “Harem? No, daughter, I have no intention of forcing you to do anything, nor do I plan to manipulate you into doing something you’ll hat
e.” She cleared her throat. “I’m told you were thinking of asking me to release you from your ambassadorial duties early.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “More than one person, actually, but that’s not important. Is it true?”

  Imogen hesitated. “I’d…considered it, yes.”

  “Would you like to tell me why?”

  “No.”

  “So it doesn’t have anything to do with the fact that you’ve fallen in love with the King of Tremontane?”

  Imogen’s mouth fell open. Mother laughed. “Give me some credit for having eyes, Imogen. And based on what I observed when you were missing, he’s more than a little in love with you.”

  She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. I’m a Kirkellan warrior, not a Tremontanan lady. There’s no room for me in this society. I just don’t want to spend the rest of the year being constantly reminded of that fact.”

  “Imogen, I asked you to learn—”

  “I know. I did. And you were right, there’s more to me than being a warrior. I was a good ambassador. I’m just far, far better a fighter than I am anything else, and I think I’ve just proved that on Hrovald’s body. I know what I want now, mother. Tremontane isn’t it.”

  Mother regarded Imogen so steadily she had to look away. “Are you certain that’s what you want?” she said. “Because I’m inclined to grant your request, but I don’t want you to choose rashly. This isn’t something you’ll be able to come back from, daughter.”

  “I know.” Imogen drew a deep breath. “I want to go home, if you’ll let me.”

  “I will. I’ve missed you. Your family has missed you.” Mother stood. “I’ll need to name another ambassador before I can relieve you of your duties, but you can make preparations to leave. I imagine your tiermatha will be happy to go home as well.”

  “Dorenna’s been ready since we arrived.”

  “Ah, Dorenna. She doesn’t much care for Tremontane, I hear.”

  “She was very upset about Saevonna’s marriage, too.”

  “No doubt she sees it as a desertion.”

  “Yes.”

  “And how do you see it?”

  “Saevonna’s more herself than she’s ever been,” Imogen said. “She’s going to make a wonderful life for herself with Marcus. How can that be a desertion?”

  “It’s hard to leave everything you know behind. Frightening, even. But when you leave it for something better—”

  “And now we’re talking about me again.”

  “Merely making conversation. You’ve made your decision, and I’ll support you.”She kissed her daughter’s cheek. “I’ll be at the palace if you need me. The King and I have some things to work out.”

  Imogen sat back down on the sofa after her mother left and studied her clasped hands. The thought of joining the tiermatha downstairs wearied her. She’d take Victory for a ride outside the city instead. She might even come back.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  “We wish you safe journey, matrian of the Kirkellan,” Jeffrey said, saluting Mother. He stood a few steps up from the foot of the palace stairs, their black granite glinting in the noon sun, putting himself at eye level with the matrian on her horse. He wore a formal coat and dress boots that were probably too hot for this weather and looked like a stranger. “Good fortune to you.”

  “Thank you for your hospitality, your Majesty,” Mother replied. “I look forward to many years of good relations with Tremontane.”

  Imogen looked at the back of her mother’s head, at Victory’s ears, anywhere but at Jeffrey’s face. Three weeks had passed since the battle, three long weeks of waiting for their wounded to be well enough to travel, and she’d seen him at a handful of official functions and once at supper when he’d invited her and Mother to dine with his family. Elspeth had chattered, oblivious to the silence between her brother and her dearest friend; Owen had glanced between Jeffrey and Imogen, puzzled, but said nothing. Alison had been silent for most of the meal, but Imogen had caught her looking reflectively at Jeffrey, then had to turn away as Alison transferred her gaze to Imogen. She felt guilty somehow, as if she should have chosen differently, been a different person, and that made her angry.

  “Madam ambassador,” Jeffrey said, and Imogen, startled, realized he was addressing her. “Thank you for your service to Tremontane on behalf of your country. We owe you a great debt.”

  “I am pleased to do it,” she said stiffly. “I love Tremontane and it is dear to me so I am happy to keep the country safe.” Elspeth wasn’t there, had refused to see her off when she realized Imogen really meant to go, and Imogen was torn between wanting to say goodbye to her friend and being grateful that Elspeth’s presence wouldn’t make things worse.

  Mother called out a command, and their little party turned down the long driveway toward the city. They would join the rest of the Kirkellan warriors outside the gates. Imogen focused on the space between Victory’s ears, which flicked first in unison, then separately, then in unison again. She stroked her horse’s mane and tried to block out her surroundings…the smell of fresh pastries told her they were passing her favorite bakery, which meant Julian’s shop was just beyond that down the street to the left. Running water to the right…that would be the inn whose drains never worked right, so when the stable master sluiced out the stalls the overflow ran into the street. The innkeeper had been fined for it, but nothing had changed. Behind her, the tiermatha exchanged loud greetings with Ed Veres, owner of the Box of Roses tavern where they’d spent several evenings drinking and starting friendly brawls. Imogen had only gone once before deciding it wasn’t something the ambassador ought to do, but it had been a memorable evening.

  “Imogen! Tell Areli Tim Overson still wants to marry her!” Ed shouted. Imogen smiled and waved at him, pretending not to hear.

  “What did he say?” Areli asked. “He said my name.”

  “Just that that drunken blacksmith you won a bet from is still in love with you,” Imogen said.

  Areli laughed. “That’s one person I won’t be sorry to leave behind. Made it nearly impossible to have a quiet drink in there.”

  “You should have let me beat him up,” Kionnal said. “I think it’s my husbandly duty.”

  “He was harmless. And I can beat up my own drunks, thank you.”

  “Imogen, tell Areli to let me defend her honor.”

  “Imogen, tell Kionnal not to meddle.”

  Imogen ignored them. She twined her fingers in Victory’s mane and prayed they’d stop talking to her. The sounds of merriment died away in the face of her silence. She transferred her gaze to Mother’s back, ahead and slightly to the left. She’d never realized her mother had sloping shoulders and a very short neck. With her hair wrapped into a bun low on her head, it looked as though her head sat directly on her shoulders. What an odd optical illusion.

  “Imogen?” She realized Areli had addressed her directly and, by her tone, had done so several times already. “What?” Imogen said, and knew she sounded surly.

  “Never mind,” Areli said. “Sorry.”

  Kallum struck up a traveling song that faltered when everyone remembered Revalan had always sung the low part. Imogen was sorry that her bad mood had soured the trip before they’d even passed the gates, so she said, “I wonder where the hunts will take us this year.” The others gratefully took up this conversational thread and pulled to see where it might lead. Imogen fell back into silence. The hunts. That was something to look forward to. Her family. Maybe Torin wasn’t married yet, maybe she hadn’t missed that. She ought to practice with the javelin more, now that the Ruskald border didn’t need to be patrolled—but then, what was the point, if the war was over? Unless Jeffrey was right about the possibility of renewed hostilities in a few years…but then that’s what she was going home for, wasn’t it? She gripped Victory’s mane so hard the horse tossed her head in protest, and Imogen let go and wiped her palm on her trousers.

  Outside the gate, the air carried the s
cent of wildflowers and hundreds of horses, a warm, pleasant musk so familiar Imogen bent low and sniffed Victory’s skin, inhaling a thousand memories. Victory didn’t deserve to be cooped up in the city, she should be free to ride the plains like a Kirkellan warhorse instead of trotting through the nasty cobbled streets like some rich woman’s pampered pet. Imogen looked to the far distance and pretended she could see the Eidestal already. “What are we waiting for?” she asked Mother, who turned in the saddle to look at her. An expression passed over her face too quickly for Imogen to read it.

  “We have to wait for the wounded to arrive,” she said. “You know how slowly they travel. Imogen, what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong. I’m impatient to get home, that’s all.”

  Mother brought her horse around and came forward so her knee pressed against Imogen’s. “Go check on the wounded,” she told her daughter. “It will give you something to do, if you’re so anxious to be moving.”

  Imogen left her place in line and trotted past the main body of the Kirkellan. She didn’t realize she had a companion until she reached the long, high-sprung wagons that had been a gift from Tremontane for the transport of those Kirkellan still too injured to ride. The palace healer had done his best, but even the cadhaen-rach had its limits. “Going to check up on Taeron?” Dorenna said, referring to the last member of their tiermatha still badly injured.

  “Yes,” Imogen lied. She hadn’t even remembered Taeron was here until Dorenna brought it up. “And to see if there’s anything I can do to help move them along.”

  “I’ll keep you company,” Dorenna said, and stuck to Imogen’s side like a short, well-armed burr throughout Imogen’s visit to Taeron and her conversation with the woman in charge of the wounded, who didn’t conceal her annoyance at Imogen’s presence well. Imogen hovered, annoying the woman further, in the hope that Dorenna might get bored and leave, but eventually the woman’s irritation flowered into hostility, and Imogen had to go.