Rider of the Crown Page 5

  Now the bout got serious. Karel claimed another point, though without the resounding strike he’d made before, then Revalan tagged the man’s knee just hard enough to send him to the ground. A murmur went through the watching crowd, and they shifted in a way Imogen Imogen feared meant real violence. “You struck his shoulder, he struck your knee, it’s even between the two of you,” she said in a loud voice. Karel didn’t seem angry about it. He continued to grin that nasty smile as he got to his feet. “Match point,” Imogen said. Maybe it would remind them this was a workout and not a fight. Hah. And maybe Hrovald will come out here and spar with me.

  The two had barely resumed their fighting stance when Karel, fast as a snake, lunged and struck Revalan across the ribs with a crack everyone heard. Revalan bent over, trying to catch his breath, as the crowd cheered and Karel smirked. He offered Revalan his hand, which the Kirkellan accepted, though he released it as soon as he was standing upright. The tiermatha muttered angrily among themselves, glaring at Karel. Imogen dismounted and went to her friend. “Are you all right?” she asked in a low voice. Revalan nodded, but his lips were white with pain. She glared at him, exasperated, wondering why he thought such a transparent lie would fool her. “The bout goes to Karel,” she said, an unnecessary afterthought.

  “Your impartiality is appreciated, your Majesty,” Karel said, bending to pick up the sword Revalan had dropped. He contemplated it for a moment, then offered it to her, hilt first, as if it were a real sword. “I’d like to test my skills against yours.”

  Imogen almost took the wooden sword. Having watched his bout against Revalan, she was certain she could defeat Karel, and it would be sweet indeed to let him be bested by a woman. Oh, how she itched to pick up a blade again, even a wooden one. But she’d promised Hrovald, and she was just enough afraid of him, afraid for the tiermatha’s sake as well as the treaty’s, that she meant to keep her promise. She shook her head. “Sorry,” she said, “but I don’t think I should fight the men who are meant to protect me.”

  “Come now, just days ago we were simply two warriors facing one another across the border,” Karel said. His smile had gone from taunting to disturbingly personal.

  “Then you should have asked just days ago,” Imogen said lightly. “But I’m sure any of the tiermatha would be happy to oblige you. Even the women.”

  A murmur went up from the crowd. Karel raised his hand, and the noise stopped. Imogen wondered if he was a warrior of rank, or if it was his personal charisma that controlled these men. “Another time,” he said.

  “I’d be happy to give you time to rest, if you’re worried about an unequal fight,” Dorenna said. Her face was placid, but her eyes were as hard and cold as Hrovald’s ever dreamed of being. Imogen grabbed her by the arm and squeezed. Dorenna ignored her.

  Karel raised his eyebrow. Dorenna didn’t look like a warrior. She was the shortest of the tiermatha and had a delicate face with wide, innocent dark green eyes. She was also a master of the sword and a vicious, ruthless fighter who had an arsenal of dirty tricks up both her sleeves. Imogen closed her eyes. Dorenna was going to humiliate Karel, and then her life wouldn’t be worth a snowdrift in the summer sun.

  “I think we’re done for the day. Thank you for the demonstration, Karel. Tiermatha, please escort me back to the King’s house?” She squeezed Dorenna’s arm until her fingers grated against the bone. Dorenna stared Karel down for a moment longer, then walked back to where Rapier was tethered and mounted in silence. Imogen resumed her seat on Victory, who had observed the bout with the stolidity of an experienced war horse. Imogen wished she could have been as unaffected.

  They rode back to the city in silence. Halfway there, Dorenna said, “Thanks for stopping me.”

  “Thanks for not turning your anger on me,” Imogen said.

  “I wouldn’t do that.”

  “You were pretty angry. I wasn’t sure how much self-control you had.”

  “She could have taken him easily,” Areli said.

  “And then the whole army would have been looking for ways to kill me and make it look like an accident,” Dorenna pointed out.

  “Oh. Right.”

  “Are you all right, Revalan? Honestly, this time.”

  “I think he cracked my rib,” Revalan said, feeling his side and wincing.

  Imogen closed her eyes and breathed deeply. It was either that or scream. “How’s your billet? Any problems?”

  “Other than the thinly veiled hostility and the need for us to go everywhere in packs?” Kionnal said wryly. “Everything’s wonderful.”

  “Have they actually attacked you?”

  “Not overtly. Not yet,” Kallum said, serious for once. “They’re trying to goad us into attacking first, and then they can claim self-defense when they kill us. And the women—”

  “We can handle it,” Areli said.

  “You shouldn’t have to.”

  “I’m sorry I brought you here,” Imogen said.

  “Well, we’re not,” said Saevonna. “Things will get better. They’ll get used to us. And before you know it, five years will have passed and we’ll be sad to say goodbye.”

  “That’s not going to happen, Saevonna.”

  “I know, but it’s such an optimistic thing to say, don’t you think?”

  Imogen stabled Victory—Erek’s men hadn’t finished the new stall, but she reassured him their progress was acceptable—and then the tiermatha walked Imogen to her new home and bade her farewell. She felt miserable watching them ride away. She needed to stop thinking about how long it would be before they could all go home. That would just make it feel longer.

  A young man was seated at the high table when Imogen entered the hall. She recognized him as the spotty, lanky young man Hrovald had slapped at the banrach. “Hello,” she said. The young man jumped up and wouldn’t meet her eyes. “I’ve seen you before.”

  He nodded. “Hesketh,” he said. “You’re my stepmother.”

  This was Hrovald’s son? She couldn’t imagine two people less alike in the world. “Oh,” she said lamely. “How old are you?”

  “Seventeen.”

  Only two years younger than her. Stepmother. Imogen felt dizzy. “You’ll call me Imogen and not Mother, all right? Because I don’t think I’m ready to be the mother of someone as…as mature as you.”

  He shrugged. “It’s up to Father.” He stared at his foot, which began tracing circles on the floor of its own volition. “I’ve never seen a woman dress like you.”

  “All the women dress like me where I come from.”

  “I don’t like it. Women should look like women.”

  Imogen rolled her eyes. “As soon as I get a dress that fits, I’ll look like a woman.”

  “You’re big for a woman, too.”

  “Can’t do anything about that.” Imogen began to understand how Hrovald could so casually abuse this boy. He practically begged to be slapped. She was on her way out the door when he said, “Are you going to give me a baby brother?”

  “Of course not!” Imogen said, shocked. “Your father and I have a…diplomatic marriage. No babies. Not ever.”

  Hesketh looked relieved. “Good,” he said. “I don’t want a brother.” He went back to staring at his foot. Imogen made a hasty exit.

  Anneke was in her room when she returned. She looked as if she’d been there for a while. “I found a seamstress,” she said, “if you want to come with me now.”

  “It’s not as if I have anything else to do,” Imogen sighed. Her tiermatha was being harassed and she had a limp rag for a stepson. Getting fitted for a dress would apparently be the highlight of her day.

  Chapter Five

  Over the next few weeks Imogen fell into a pattern that, if not exciting, at least kept her from being completely bored. In the morning she rose early and exercised as much as the confines of her room would allow. It wasn’t the same as the workout she got from practicing swordplay, but it kept her from falling into despair at how her skills were
slipping away from her. Then Anneke helped her dress in one of the four gowns she’d acquired from a seamstress in town, all of them in bright colors that contrasted wildly with the dun and cream and sable favored by the Kirkellan. She ate breakfast alone in the great hall, the room Hrovald referred to as the skorstala. Hrovald never joined her, though she wasn’t sure whether this was because he rose very early or was still abed. She didn’t much care, so long as she was spared his menacing presence.

  After breakfast she spent a few hours failing to be a well-bred lady. Hrovald was serious about her behaving like a proper Ruskalder wife; he’d hired half a dozen companions for her, each of whom was skilled in some talent Hrovald expected Imogen to learn. Imogen resisted. She saw no point in learning skills that would be useless to her on the plains, warrior or no. But after the first few days of mulishly resenting her minders, Hrovald entered the room set aside for her training, looked at each of the women in turn, then casually struck one of them so hard she fell out of her chair and cried out in pain. Imogen shot out of her seat and ran up against Hrovald’s icy stare. “You’re not learning fast enough. Suppose now they’ll try harder.”

  “It’s not their fault!” Imogen shouted.

  “It is if I say it is,” Hrovald said. “Or maybe you’re the one needs to try harder. Don’t force me to come back in here, wife.” He left the room without looking back. The other women gathered around their fallen companion, and Imogen strode to the window, blinking back tears of fury. He was going to make her comply by threatening those helpless women, was he? Damn him. It worked. Imogen couldn’t let them come to harm no matter how much she resented and despised what they were trying to teach her. She turned back from the window and resumed her seat. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Why don’t we start with spinning?”

  Spinning and weaving turned out to be beyond her, though she became skilled enough to satisfy Hrovald, who didn’t seem to care how good she was at anything so long as she was doing it. She didn’t like reading any more now than she had as a child, especially now she was expected to do it aloud, and with feeling. But to her surprise and faint horror she discovered she liked needlework. More than that, she had a talent for it. Her companions were all so delighted at her progress Imogen thought they might have begun to despair at ever turning their oversized barbarian charge into a lady. She liked watching flowers and trees and horses come to life with just a few stitches, and found half an hour spent working a tapestry soothed her the same way riding Victory did.

  Riding Victory took up most of her afternoon. The battle over this with Hrovald had been as fierce as she’d expected. “Damned Kirkellan savage,” he’d shouted. “I should never have let you keep it.”

  “Ruskalder women ride,” Imogen said, trying not to lose her temper. If Hrovald decided to separate her from her horse…how far would she let Hrovald push her? Even for the sake of her people? “I’ll wear a dress. I’ll use one of those strange saddles. I won’t do anything unwomanly. I just want to ride in the afternoons.”

  Hrovald swore again and turned away. “Do what you want, just don’t bother me with it,” he said, and Imogen had sent Anneke to obtain a saddle that would accommodate her Ruskalder gowns, then hid in her room and cried in embarrassment and anger. Her fear of what Hrovald might do to the people she loved was starting to wear on her. If only she could strike at him…but she couldn’t, and all that was left to her was to obey his whims and try not to count the days left of her captivity.

  She was preparing to ride out one afternoon when a flurry of activity in the courtyard turned into half a dozen Ruskalder horses being led into the stables. “Excuse me, your Majesty,” Erek said, leaving Imogen to saddle Victory alone, not that this was a hardship. She soothed her horse, unnecessarily since Victory was placid among other horses unless she was in battle.

  One of the men leading the horses approached her. “You’re to go into the skorstala, your Majesty,” he said. “The King commands it.”

  “Why does he want me?”

  “He doesn’t give reasons, just orders. Now, your Majesty.”

  Imogen released Victory into Erek’s care, shoving aside the man he was speaking to. She tried not to be rude to Erek, who was quick to anticipate Victory’s needs, but today Hrovald’s peremptory summons irritated her. Probably it would turn out to be some trifling thing he’d come up with just to exercise power over her. Her palms itched for her saber, which she’d left behind with the Kirkellan, fearing Hrovald might think it, too, was a “wedding present.” Let him dismiss her when she had him up against the wall of the skorstala with her blade to his throat.

  The high table had been removed, and in its place were two ornately carved chairs, one larger than the other. Hrovald sat in the bigger one, wearing a clean jerkin and a sour expression. He jabbed his thumb at the smaller chair. “Sit,” he said.

  “What is it?” Imogen said.

  “State business. You just sit there and look like a Queen. None of this will matter to you.”

  Imogen sat, feeling even more irritated. He could at least give her an explanation. It was more of his nonsense about what a Ruskalder lady was supposed to do. If this took too long, she might as well not bother with a ride. She tapped her toe impatiently, then stilled it when Hrovald glared at her.

  The skorstala door opened, admitting a handful of men who approached Hrovald rapidly. They wore tunics bearing the emblem of Ruskald, a howling crag-wolf, that looked like they’d been hastily donned over dirty white shirts and trousers stained with the grime of many days’ hard travel. Their leader was a white-haired man with rosy cheeks that would have made him look cheerful if his mouth hadn’t been drawn down into a grim frown. “Your Majesty,” he said, going to one knee before Hrovald and bowing his head briefly.

  “What happened?” Hrovald said.

  “Our embassy was expelled,” the man said. “King Jeffrey North learned of our actions along the Snow River.”

  He held out a rolled sheet of parchment to Hrovald, who took it and scanned its contents, then crumpled it and threw it at the man, who didn’t flinch as it bounced off his chest. “Damned puppy,” Hrovald snarled. “He thinks he can make demands?”

  “No more than King Anthony did,” the man said.

  “Are you making excuses for him, Jafvran?”

  “Of course not. I’m saying there was never any chance the Tremontanans were going to turn tail just because Dyrak—”

  “Do not say that name again!” Hrovald shouted, leaping to his feet and shoving his throne back a few inches. “Dyrak was a fool and a coward. He’d have given up our rights to the Snow for the sake of a few useless trading concessions. I’m not going to let that whelp Jeffrey dictate my actions.”

  “We’re not in any position to declare war against Tremontane, Hrovald. Unless you’re willing to consider importing gun Devices from Eskandel.”

  “They’re an abomination against the gods. If we can’t defeat our enemies using our wits and our swords, we don’t deserve to win. Let the heathen Tremontanans blaspheme.”

  “Then we’re still at too much of a disadvantage against them.”

  “I’m not planning to declare war. Yet. For now….” Hrovald sat again and put both his hands flat on his knees. “It’s unfortunate those settlements along the river keep being attacked by Ruskalder raiders. I condemn the incidents, but I can’t be expected to control everyone in the country. Nothing I can do.”

  Imogen made a noise in the back of her throat. Hrovald really was a bastard, if he could plot the deaths of innocents just for the sake of needling another country. “Did you have something to say, wife?” Hrovald said, irritably.

  “Nothing,” Imogen said. He’d been right; none of this mattered to her. She was Queen in name only.

  “Jafvran, this is Imogen of the Kirkellan, my new wife,” Hrovald said. “Jafvran is—was—ambassador to Tremontane. Guess we’ll have to find something else for you to do, eh? Wife, fetch drink for us! Let’s show our guest hospitality
!”

  Imogen left the room, more annoyed than ever. She’d lost her chance at a ride and had to play serving maid to a handful of despicable men, one of whom never let her forget her obedience was the price for her people’s safety. She wished more than ever that she dared saddle Victory and just ride away from Ranstjad. Today she almost felt reckless enough to do it.

  She had to dine with Hrovald and his officers in the evenings; there was no getting around that. She was the only woman at the high table and the only woman in the room who wasn’t a server. It made her sick to think of how many of her people these men had killed, until she remembered her people had killed any number of Ruskalder too. Her new role had changed her perspective, and not, as far as she was concerned, for the better; she didn’t want to see things from the Ruskalder point of view.

  And yet…it probably should have occurred to her that Ruskald had its share of women and children and families, and most of them had lives they tried to live as war raged around them. Her minders were all kind and didn’t treat her like an enemy, though they occasionally laughed at her mistakes—but then Imogen laughed at her mistakes, too. Anneke was gradually relaxing around her and might, Imogen thought, turn out to be a friend.

  But Hrovald’s officers, particularly Karel, made Imogen nervous. She knew she was the Queen of Ruskald in name only, that her marriage was a diplomatic fiction, but most of the Ruskalder treated her as if her rank was legitimate. Karel, on the other hand, looked at her as if he were thinking about what she looked like without her clothes on and what he might do to her if he ever encountered her in that condition. It was the dress, she thought, that made her feel so vulnerable. Dressed in her usual clothes, armed and armored, she had no doubt she would be able to give the big man a workout he wouldn’t soon forget. But sitting gowned at the high table with his leering attention fixed on her, she almost wanted to duck under Hrovald’s arm for what little protection that might afford.