Rider of the Crown

by Melissa McShane

  She shook her head, and smiled. “Let us go home,” she said.

  Epilogue

  One year later

  Imogen woke, stared at the ceiling, then leaped out of bed and dashed for the water closet, where she didn’t quite make it to the toilet before vomiting what little was in her stomach all over the floor. She retched and gagged until she thought she might turn herself inside out. Gentle hands pulled her hair back from her face, but too late; the bitter, sharp smell of bile clung to strands of hair and drifted up from the tiles below. Spent, she wiped water from her eyes and tried to breathe normally.

  “That sounded worse than the last time,” Jeffrey said.

  “It is unfair. Elspeth weighs as much as a wet kitten and she was never ill. I cannot even bear the smell of food. I think I have lost five pounds since yesterday.”

  Jeffrey put his arms around her and pulled her to lean against his chest, heedless of the smell. “It will pass.”

  “You have said that for three weeks. I think I will never be well again.”

  “Give it another seven months. I think childbirth will cure it.” He helped her to stand. “I’ll draw you a bath, and you can wash your hair and then try to eat something. The midwife said keeping your stomach full will help.”

  Imogen made a face. “I cannot fill my stomach with dry toast and cheese.”

  “I don’t blame you. At least by dinnertime you can bear something stronger.” He turned the tap and hot water began to fill the room with steam.

  Clean and dressed, she lay in bed with her wet hair piled on her head and nibbled the hated dry toast and watched Jeffrey dress. “I didn’t realize I was so interesting,” he said, buttoning his coat.

  “You are always interesting to me even when you do boring things,” she replied, and he grinned at her.

  “You are interesting to me when you float naked in the bathtub,” he said, “and I would show you how interested I am if I weren’t late and you weren’t ill.” He brushed crumbs from her lips and kissed her. “You taste of cheese. I won’t be at dinner today—too much to do before the reception tonight.”

  “I cannot believe Bixhenta has been recalled. It will be so different without him.”

  “Strange to me, too. He became ambassador just before I became King. But four years is always the limit of their ambassadorship, so this day was always coming.”

  “I look forward to meeting the new Proxy.”

  “I’m sure Bixhenta has warned her about you.”

  “What about me needs warning?”

  “That you’re not respectful of Veriboldan superiority and you are learning to speak their language.”

  Imogen frowned. “I do not see what is wrong with any of that.”

  “Nothing, so long as you’re Veriboldan.” He kissed her again, and then his eyes went blank for a moment. “Elspeth’s coming,” he said. He’d told her about his magical talent on their wedding night and been irritated that Elspeth had given away his secret months before.

  “She will want to talk. You should go before you are drawn into the conversation.”

  He nodded and opened the bedroom door just in time for Elspeth to walk through it. “Thank you!” she said cheerfully. “It’s as if you knew I was coming.” She winked at her brother, who rolled his eyes and left.

  “You look as if you’ve been sick again. I’m so sorry,” Elspeth said, sinking onto the bed. “Would you like to hold Telaine?” She held her baby out, and Imogen took her, gingerly. She had no experience with infants, but reasoned she should get as much practice as she could before she had a baby of her own. The four-month-old Princess regarded her with unblinking eyes of an indeterminate color. Privately, Imogen thought Telaine looked like a monkey, with her thin face and wispy brown hair, but Elspeth and Owen thought her perfect, and who was she to argue with parental affection?

  “Will you be well enough for the reception tonight?” Elspeth said, picking up a piece of toast and putting it down again with a look of distaste.

  “This always passes before dinner. I will rise soon and go to see Victory.”

  “How is she?”

  “It will be another two or possibly three months before she has her baby. She is comfortable but you can see her belly is swollen. I think she is smug because she will have her baby before I do.”

  “I’m excited to see it. The first cross between Kirkellan and Tremontanan horses. What do you expect it will look like?”

  “I expect it will look like a foal. Beyond that I do not dare to imagine. As pretty as Victory, I hope.”

  “Me too. Let me take Telaine, she needs to go to her nurse.” Elspeth took the baby and perched her on her hip as naturally as if she’d been doing it her whole life. “I’m going for a walk with the Hayneses in about half an hour. What else are you doing today?”

  “Resting. I will sew in the afternoon and be read to. I am tired all the time.”

  “Oh, I’d join you, but that sounds so boring I would just drive both of us crazy.”

  “I enjoy it.”

  “Warrior of Tremontane, wielding a needle instead of a sword.” Elspeth smiled. “Rest well, sister dear, and I’ll see you at dinner.”

  When Elspeth had left, Imogen pushed her tray to one side and stared at the ceiling again. It was white and high above and showed no signs of curving in on her. What with the vomiting and the constant tiredness, her activities were limited, and she resented her weakness. She had given up being the warrior, had embraced being the Consort, but she hadn’t realized how much of her was still Kirkellan until she had to give up riding, however temporarily. She couldn’t tell Jeffrey, but sometimes she felt like a stranger to herself. There were nights when she woke, tears in her eyes, remembering the Kirkellan and fearing she’d made the wrong choice. On those nights she tucked herself against her husband’s side and listened to his soft breathing; he was a heavy sleeper and never woke, but in his sleep put his arms around her, and she would drift off again, comforted. Then she would wake in the morning to feel his hands caress her body, and they would lose themselves in each other, and she would know she’d made the right choice after all.

  Her stomach felt as settled as it was going to get. She pushed the blankets aside and stretched. Victory, then dinner, then sewing. Then the reception. Elspeth was right, her life was boring. She smiled. Boring wasn’t so bad.

  “Will not the nobles be angry?” Imogen asked. The smell of roast beef nauseated her, and she had to content herself with green beans and stewed peaches, soothing to her stomach.

  “Not if they don’t find out,” Jeffrey said. He took another bite of beef, then added, “They all spy on each other anyway. I’m just late to the party.”

  “If it means you aren’t surprised by the next person who wants to take the Crown, I’m in favor of your spy network,” Alison said.

  “Thank you, Mother. It’s a complicated process, but Micheline is fully behind it—actually, Internal Affairs has been nagging me for more than two years to set up something like this. We have confidential agents in the other countries, even Ruskald, but it was hard for me to accept there might be a need for it here.”

  “It is because you want to believe everyone is as honorable as you,” Imogen said.

  Jeffrey grimaced. “That’s true. I never believed I’d become so suspicious, but being nearly overthrown by a power-crazed Baroness will do that to you.” He pushed back his chair. “It’s later than I thought. Imogen, we should probably dress for the reception. Mother, you’re not coming, are you?”

  “I am not. I intend to settle down with a book, but I promise to think fondly of you all in your stiff and uncomfortable formal wear.”

  Alison was only partly right; Imogen’s gown was soft and flowing and only slightly uncomfortable for being too loose. Jeanette fastened it up the back and said, “You’ll need new clothing soon, milady Consort.”

  “I know. Julian can talk of nothing else. I am tired of being described as a challenge.” She settled Ghen
tali’s diamond around her neck. She didn’t care if it was an inappropriate gift; she wore it as a trophy, a sign of vindication, and if Jeffrey sighed and shook his head when he saw it, he never told her to take it off.

  She and Jeffrey wore North blue and silver tonight and made, she thought, a striking couple as they entered the reception hall. The new ambassador was not there, but Ghentali and the harem were. “Madam ambassador!” he exclaimed, holding out both hands to greet her. He’d never grasped the change in her status, and after several months Imogen gave up on trying to correct him. “Beautifulest in this tonight! And a diamond lovely as you!”

  “Thank you, Ghentali.” He’d also forgotten he’d given her the diamond. She’d long ago worked out how it was his harem “guided” him so easily.

  “I not have met this Proxy who is the new, and you? She like Veriboldans is by herself alone.”

  “I have not met her either. I am curious about her.”

  “The curiosity I have too.” He bowed to her. “Speak again, will we?”

  “I hope so, Ghentali. Good evening to you.”

  “And you, madam ambassador.”

  Giavena stopped to speak to her as the rest of the harem moved on. “May I congratulate you on your condition?”

  “Thank you, Giavena.”

  “I have heard you in the mornings ill are. I wish a medicine that will very well cure your symptoms to give you.”

  “Giavena, if you can make me stop vomiting I will be in your debt.”

  Giavena smiled. “It is a thing our doctors use often, very safe, and I happy to help am. I used it with all my pregnancies and it made better my life. I will send it to the east wing in the morning with instructions.” She patted Imogen’s arm and followed her sisters.

  “Milady Consort, the new Proxy is here and wishes to meet you,” Miles Thorpe said. Thorpe, Burgess’s successor as chief of Foreign Affairs, always seemed nervous around her, as if he thought she might blame him for his predecessor’s sins. Smiling at him only made things worse, so she simply nodded and followed him through the crowd.

  The new Proxy sat beside Bixhenta in his usual place, near the King’s seat, which was currently empty. She was in her late thirties and wore robes of blue and gold, and her long nails were lacquered a deep blue that matched Imogen’s gown. Both stood as Imogen approached. Bixhenta’s Voice, a much nicer woman than her predecessor, came to meet Imogen and bowed to her; Imogen, now the equivalent of a queen in Veriboldan eyes, inclined her head.

  “Milady Consort, the Proxy of Veribold greets you and wishes to introduce his successor,” the Voice said.

  Imogen again inclined her head, this time toward Bixhenta. “We are sorry to see you go, Bixhenta,” she said.

  Bixhenta said something to the Voice that included the words “sorry” and “impertinent.” She knew that last word well because Bixhenta often used it in regard to her, usually with a smile. “The Proxy is pleased with the success of his embassy here and hopes milady Consort will travel to Veribold one day. He is certain she will make an impression on the court.”

  Imogen smiled sweetly at the Voice. “Perhaps someday. May I know the new Proxy’s name?”

  “She is called Catalhin, milady Consort.”

  Imogen nodded at the new Proxy. “On behalf of my husband, I welcome you to Aurilien, Catalhin. I hope we may deal as well together as we have with Bixhenta.”

  Unlike Bixhenta, Catalhin had a humorless face. Imogen guessed she did not see this posting as an honor. She spoke briefly to the Voice, who looked shocked, but said, “The Proxy thanks you for your consideration and wishes you good health in your expectant state.”

  Imogen stayed expressionless. The Voice hadn’t correctly translated a single word of Catalhin’s comment, which had been rude nearly to the point of unforgivable offensiveness. Veriboldan women were cloistered from the moment their pregnancy became known to the day they gave birth, and what Catalhin had said about Imogen’s character for appearing in public in her state, even as little as Imogen had understood of it, was both crude and vicious.

  Bixhenta himself remained as expressionless as Imogen hoped she was, but she knew him too well to miss the deepening of the wrinkles around his mouth and eyes that said his muscles were tight with anger. He said something in a pleasant-sounding voice, but spoke too rapidly for her to make out any words other than “Consort.” Catalhin responded dismissively, “I will (something) shames herself (something) no respect for Veribold (something else, including a rude word Bixhenta probably thought she didn’t know) should leave now.”

  “I have great respect for Veribold, Catalhin, or I did before I met you,” Imogen said pleasantly, hiding her anger, which surged through her with a wild joy as if she were going into battle. In a way, I suppose I am. “I did not realize ambassadors were allowed to speak so of the Consort of Tremontane.”

  Catalhin’s eyes went wide with surprise. Bixhenta was smiling and didn’t trouble to hide it. Imogen continued, “I am sorry for you to leave us so soon. I think when my husband hears what you have said he will agree with me that Veribold is not well served by your presence here. I am certain your government will understand you wanted only to allow your customs to override those of your host country.”

  Now Catalhin’s eyes were wide with terror. She gabbled something in Veriboldan Imogen couldn’t understand. The Voice, who was shaking slightly, said, “The Proxy wishes…requests…she would regret giving up this assignment so soon—”

  In clear and precise Veriboldan, Bixhenta said, “If Catalhin were to return to Veribold under these conditions, she would never hold public office again and her career would be destroyed.”

  “That is pity. I no care,” Imogen said in the same language.

  Catalhin stood and bowed deeply before Imogen. To Imogen’s amazement, she said in heavily accented but intelligible Tremontanese, “I humbly beg your forgiveness. I should not have been so rude simply because our customs are different. You deserve the respect we would expect you to give to our King and I have failed utterly to show that respect. Please allow me to continue to serve my country as ambassador.”

  Bixhenta looked shocked. The Voice was in tears. Imogen wondered briefly if it was because Catalhin had just made her unemployed. “I choose to forgive you because of the goodwill Bixhenta has created between our governments,” Imogen said. “He is a model you would do well to follow.”

  “Thank you, your Majesty,” Catalhin said, her head still bowed.

  “Bixhenta, I will speak with you again before you leave for Veribold, if that is agreeable,” Imogen said.

  Bixhenta laughed and shook his head ruefully. In Tremontanese, he replied, “I look forward to it, milady Consort.” He winked at her, and she winked back.

  She had only gone a few steps when someone grabbed her elbow and steered her toward the far end of the room. “I want to know what just happened there,” Jeffrey said. “You made the Voice cry and I’m almost certain I heard the new Proxy speak our language.”

  “You did.” Imogen told him the whole story, leaving out the specifics of the insult Catalhin had given her. When she was about halfway through, Jeffrey started having difficulty not laughing. By the end, he had covered his mouth with his hand and was making little snorting noises.

  “I do not think it is all that funny,” Imogen said.

  “It’s hilarious.”

  “Well, maybe it is very funny. But I do not know what will happen now.”

  “The Veriboldans will have trouble maintaining their superiority. Our relations with them may cool somewhat. On the other hand, the Proxy is going to be very respectful and the Voice will be out of a job.”

  “I am sorry for that. She is much nicer than the old one.”

  “They’ll find something for her to do. Veriboldans aren’t wasteful.” He looped her arm through his and they began to walk the circuit of the room. “You don’t still have doubts, do you?” he said abruptly.

  “Doubts about what?”
>
  “About this choice. Imogen, it’s not like I’m complaining, but I can guess what it means when I wake up and you’re clinging to me like you’re afraid you’re going to fall.”

  “I will not change my mind.”

  “Of course not. But I hate to see you uncertain of who you are.”

  She thought of Bixhenta and Catalhin, of pregnant Victory and the life growing inside her own body, of the family she’d left behind and the family she embraced now, and the last of her doubts faded. “I know who I am,” she said. “I am Imogen. And this is my home.”

  He squeezed her arm. “Don’t forget that.”

  “No,” she said, “I won’t.”

  Glossary and Pronunciation Guide

  balaeri (BAH-luh-ree): a Kirkellan musical instrument, a reedy kind of flute.

  banrach (BAHN-rock): a marriage in name only that provides kinship ties but does not allow sexual relations. Outdated.

  cadhaen-rach (CAD-en-rock): Inherent magic, as opposed to magic manipulated by outside forces or Devices.

  kurkara (kur-KAH-rah): a Kirkellan musical instrument, similar to an oboe.

  matrian (MAH-tree-ahn): leader of the entire Kirkellan people. Always a woman.

  skorstala (skor-STAH-lah): a large central room in a Ruskalder chieftain’s house, used for eating and entertaining.

  tiermatha (teer-MAH-tha): a combat unit/clan group of thirteen Kirkellan warriors.

  tinda (TIN-dah): a memorial ground for fallen Kirkellan warriors.

  vojenta (voh-ZHEN-tah): the leader of an Eskandelic harem.

  About the Author

  Melissa McShane is the author of the novels of Tremontane, including SERVANT OF THE CROWN and RIDER OF THE CROWN, as well as EMISSARY and THE SMOKE-SCENTED GIRL. After a nomadic childhood, she settled in Utah with her husband, four children, and three very needy cats. She wrote reviews and critical essays for many years before turning to fiction, which is much more fun than anyone ought to be allowed to have. She is currently working on the third Tremontane novel, AGENT OF THE CROWN. You can visit her at her website www.melissamcshanewrites.com for more information on other books and upcoming releases.