Champion of the Rose

by Andrea K Höst

  "A straightforward sort of diversion," she told him, glad her voice didn't betray the knocking in her chest. This wasn't the moment to analyse why being close to this Rathen stranger made her so apprehensive. "If someone spots me riding toward The Deeping with a babe in a sling, they won't keep scouring the Tongue for the Meddescalfs. And they'll have no reason to watch the road between here and Tor Darest."

  He paused before replying, and his tone was a touch less scornful when he did. "Riding? The stables are guarded."

  "It's difficult," Soren agreed, rather hoping he'd produce a better plan. The horse was one of the many holes in her own. "But so would escaping on foot be, after being spotted."

  "True." The admission was grudging, as if he wanted to be angry, to find fault with her. "Wait here," he added, and thrust a heavy leather object into her hands. Her other saddlebag. Before Soren could object, he strode away toward the inn, not bothering to keep out of the light cast by the crescent of moon.

  Biting her lip, Soren silently cursed the man to whom she was supposed to devote her life. There was nothing she could do but sit and hope that he didn't get himself captured. This Rathen, whoever he was and however he had suddenly appeared in Teraman, did not seem a tractable sort. Shepherding a baby definitely would have been easier.

  Thoughtfully, she replaced the doll in its sling. The unease which had gripped her lessened with his departure, leaving her another thing to worry about. Why this impression of not-quite-threat? For all he was a mage, she hadn't expected to feel scared of the Rathen she was supposed to protect. Or whatever it was she was feeling. Imminence.

  Her intense awareness of his breathing had dropped away, so she closed her eyes, trying to recapture it, trying to focus. The wind played on her skin, and skirled noisily through the trees. A distant something rattled, and she heard a woman's voice speaking soft and low. But nothing out of the ordinary.

  Then, muffled but unmistakable, the sound of a horse. Disbelieving, Soren stood up as her Rathen rounded the corner of the icehouse, Vixen in tow. He'd even saddled her. And in no more time than if he'd been collecting his own horse, without any difficulties about guards at all.

  Rathens were mages. It was a point she'd do well to remember.

  "Give me time to get to the eastern edge of the clearing, then ride out. I'll wait in the forest on the right side of the road." Without another word, he dropped the reins and walked off.

  Soren decided not to be exasperated. The man was going to be King, after all. An efficient sort of King, if this was any example. Obnoxious arrogance was something she'd just have to learn to ignore.

  Sighing, she turned her attention to Vixen, who reached forward a questing nose. "Hello to you, too," she said, catching up the dangling reins. "Miss me?"

  Vixen snorted wetly onto Soren's neck, then abandoned her investigation to sample a grassy tussock.

  Duly dismissed, Soren loosed the saddle so she could strap the saddlebags in their rightful place, then played with Vixen's mane until her Rathen could have walked twice as far as he'd specified. She still didn't have the least idea who he was, or how he came to be alive so long after the death of the last Rathen. At least he seemed to have quickly grasped the importance of this diversion. An infant Rathen could have one day denied Aristide Couerveur the Regency. A fully grown Rathen need only have his Champion proclaim him beneath the Rathen Rose to take the throne.

  Soren doubted Arista Couerveur would be pleased.

  Chapter Six

  As she turned onto the road to the eastern edge of the clearing, an astonished shout told Soren she'd been spotted. Urging Vixen into a canter, she searched among the sharp-edged shadows for the source of the cry and found a pair of swear-swords directly ahead. Two men, who stared at the pale sling made so visible by the moonlight. Despite knowing she carried only a doll, Soren still felt an urge to shield her midriff protectively. And to apologise for her deception.

  Surprise gave the advantage. As she passed, one man made a half-hearted snatch at Vixen's bridle but missed by inches. She caught a glimpse of his expression, full of confusion and shock, and felt like the worst of villains.

  Resolutely, Soren focused on the looming forest, which could not look more black and unwelcoming. As soon as she was in the shadow of the trees she slowed Vixen but didn't stop, in case the men she'd just passed noted the abrupt cessation of hoof beats. She trotted a short distance down the road before reining in and sliding from the saddle, her pulse only a trifle frantic. Vixen snorted and bumped against her in the dark, no doubt wondering what all this start-stopping was about.

  Wasting no time, Soren headed into the trees on the right side of the road. The ground was very uneven, and she stumbled in a muddy hole, then had her ankle scored by a fallen branch as it cracked beneath Vixen's hooves. A horse wasn't exactly a subtle animal and as soon as she was ten trees in, Soren stopped. Vixen nosed her, and tugged back toward the road.

  "Just a little while," Soren murmured, though she wanted to shriek and then sit down and gasp. It was the first time she'd ever done anything like this – the sort of thing that would make enemies, which would effect people's lives, which wasn't...right?

  She scratched the mare's soft neck to take her mind off the consequences to Captain Sharwell's career, and was thankful when Vixen stayed still while a trio of riders raced past. They'd been quick off the mark, and more were sure to come.

  Continuing to reassure Vixen, Soren edged past a few more trees, wincing at every twig which snapped and cracked. The light of the waxing moon turned the forest to pitch and diamond, highly disorienting. Travelling along Nina's stream had been a great deal easier.

  A fallen tree at the edge of a narrow band of moonlight presented a tempting seat, but, wary of snakes, Soren gauged Vixen's opinion before approaching. When the mare paced to the full length of her reins and dropped her head to crop at grass beside the exposed root bole, Soren was encouraged enough to seat herself on the rough trunk, then close her eyes and listen.

  The three riders were still at full gallop, hoof-beats distant and receding. Insects chirred and scuttled, with Vixen and the wind-busy trees a distracting accompaniment. A dog barked, but she couldn't hear anything else from Teraman.

  She could hear breathing.

  He was some distance west of her, moving steadily in almost the right direction, and without any of the hesitation which should accompany a stealthy search in the dark. Fascinated, Soren followed his progress as he moved to roughly the spot where she'd entered the forest, then began methodically casting inwards. She knew the very instant he saw them, because he stopped halfway through taking a breath, then exhaled and began walking straight toward her. Soren stayed where she was until he was just on the far side of the strip of moonlight.

  "Do you want to wait till dawn before going on, Highness?" she asked. It came out all stifled, because she'd again been squashed by an impression of a hammer waiting to fall. It wasn't a very pleasant sensation, and filled her with doubt about just what sort of man was to be Darest's next King, and how in the world she was supposed to live up to being his Champion.

  "Not likely." His tone was abrupt, impatient. "Sharwell's not nearly as incompetent as I'd like him. There's no–"

  He stopped as Vixen lifted her head, and a single horse came galloping back down the road between Teraman and the garrison. Returning to report their failure to immediately catch up.

  "Time to get well away from here."

  -oOo-

  The forest seemed less threatening now that she was travelling through it. With Summer shifting to Autumn, the coin-shaped leaves of the lorams were beginning to pale to yellow, and the choked remnants of Darest's orchards were heavy with fruit. Birds gossiped cheerfully as they plundered the trees' bounty, and occasionally a rabbit or some other small animal would scuttle to safety. As the sky grew brighter, the wind dropped, and now that Soren could see enough to not be falling over every second branch, the walk was surprisingly pleasant. The Tongue's rep
utation for danger had so far gone unfulfilled.

  Much of Soren's attention was, of course, devoted to surreptitiously watching her Rathen. He walked on the far side of Vixen, and just a little ahead, moving with a controlled, easy stride. She had so far observed that both his hair and eyes were black with a hint of blue. The hair was fine but thick and looked like it might have a soft curl if it was not clipped so severely, while the eyes were peculiarly long. His jaw was firm, neatly defined rather than heavy, and his nose had a suggestion of a hook. These were features which corresponded to the portraits which hung in the Old Palace, back in Tor Darest.

  For all his ease in the forest, it did not look as if he'd spent his life outdoors. The tan was too light. Vertical lines were just barely etched on either side of his mouth, and there was a developing crease between his brows. Late twenties, Soren guessed, but with mages it was always hard to be sure. His clothing was sturdy quality, black from boots to collar, and he was carrying no weapons, no pack, and no clue to just who he was and how he'd come to be in Teraman.

  The main thing which had stopped Soren from asking a thousand questions was his expression. He so plainly did not want to be in this place, dealing with pursuing guards and Rathen Champions, that she held her tongue as the sky turned colours, then faded and brightened to a cheerful blue. Tramping steadily in his wake, Soren alternated between regretting the substitution of this sour-tempered man for Helena, and growing increasingly concerned about why she felt so strange in his presence.

  It was possible that the racing pulse, the mashed feeling in her chest, was because of the Rose. She hadn't felt its presence so strongly since her annunciation, when she'd been pushed to the back of her mind while her body walked to Tor Darest. There was a certain similarity to the sensation she was experiencing now. But then she'd been in some kind of trance, so overwhelmed by the force of Rathen power that she'd been a watcher in her own body, and hadn't felt anything at all until she was in the Garden of the Rose.

  Perhaps, after so long without a Rathen, the Rose was anticipating the moment when this one was proclaimed King. If it was going to do this all the way to Tor Darest, Soren thought it likely she would go completely insane. And she didn't understand why she'd have such a sense of foreboding, if she were merely suffering from too much Rathen power.

  Unless the Rose knew of some problem with this Rathen, and was having doubts. If it was capable of such complexity. The histories never made the Rose's abilities clear, but they'd been explicit about the workings of the succession. The eldest child of the direct line ruled, with no room for variation. They would be proclaimed even if they were a babbling idiot, or a depraved murderer. Could she really go ahead and crown, then protect, a killer? What if the Rose gave her no choice but to Champion him?

  The question made Soren smile. He was a bad-tempered mystery to be certain, but there was no cause to denounce him as a monster just yet. She did need to stop pussyfooting around, and find out just who and what she was dealing with.

  Fortunately for Soren's patience, the cloud lifted from her Rathen's face before mid-morning, and he began to look less like an argument waiting to happen. "What name should I call you?" she asked, as soon as she judged it wise.

  He glanced at her and for a moment that inexplicable anger flashed in his eyes. Then he shrugged, subsiding into irritability. "Strake will do."

  That told her precisely nothing. "Are there any precautions we should take? For travelling through the Tongue?"

  He glanced around, as if forest dangers hadn't occurred to him. "I suppose there's a possibility that we'll fall across something not already running to get out of our way. Do you have any hope of wielding the sword?"

  "No training," Soren replied, wondering why he thought it necessary to be so scornful.

  "Are you mage?" He grimaced when she shook her head, looked as if he was about to say something scathing, but changed his mind. Instead, he gestured ahead. "In Darest, at least theoretically, you're only slightly less immune to Deeping roamers than the current King. The Covenant is bound through the Champion and if there's one thing the Fair will do, it's keep to the letter of a bargain. So every stray Deeping beast, enchantment or meal-worm should bend over backward to avoid so much as inconveniencing either of us. But unless The Deeping's changed beyond recognition, Faerie magic will also twist everything in its favour, and the Covenant covers a Rathen ruler, not a Rathen heir." He made a face like he'd tasted something nasty. "Treat it like The Deeping. Avoid circles, pools, the oldest trees, all the animals and anything resembling a nest or cave. There's a lot you should be able to do with the sword in the way of protections, even without a decent arcane grounding. I'll see to that later."

  He picked up his pace, and for a few moments all Soren could do was stare. How could this man Strake know so much, speak so authoritatively about the terms of the Rathen Covenant?

  "Who are you?" she asked, when she found her tongue. "Other than Rathen?" She ignored the impatient look he threw back at her. "It's something I'll need to know if I'm to proclaim you, after all."

  "True enough." It was a grudging admission, and he paused as if he didn't want to go on, then sighed. "Aluster Veristace Rathen."

  When Soren showed no sign of recognition, his mouth turned down, then took on a wry twist. "Son of Chenath Rathen, sister to Queen Tiarmed."

  Soren was relieved to hear a name she at least recognised. Queen Tiarmed's reign had ended about two hundred and forty years ago, during the decline of the Rathens. She'd been King Torluce's great-aunt, or some such. And mother of the Crown Princess Sethane who'd died at Teraman.

  From there it was an easy path to follow. A Rathen, a contemporary of Princess Sethane, suddenly appearing in Teraman. She'd even found him in the Inn of the Lost Prince.

  "So one of the hunting party survived."

  Instantly, a shutter slammed down. "After a fashion." And he walked away.

  "Oh, for pity's sake," Soren muttered, as he strode off through a stand of loram. How did this help? If he really was a Rathen prince, why was he so hostile toward the Rathen Champion? What had she done except obediently turn up to collect him? Why did he sometimes look at her as if she were the proverbial red rag before the bull?

  He was going to be King. Her role was to protect and advise him, but she supposed that didn't give her the right to demand answers to questions. If he wanted to stalk about scowling at her and acting like she was some terrible imposition, then that was his prerogative. No-one said a King had to be polite, and objecting might only make him surlier.

  Soren suspected that the Rathen Champion was not permitted to smack the future King across the back of the head, either.

  -oOo-

  Around midday, he started asking questions.

  "Tell me about the Regent," he said, after they'd forded one of the myriad shallow streams which criss-crossed the Tongue. He sat down on the bank and pulled off his boots, emptying a trickle of water out of each. Soren, who had avoided getting her feet wet through the simple expedient of riding Vixen across, dismounted and looped Vixen's reins around a branch within reach of the water. She was still wearing the sling and the doll Nina had contributed, and took the opportunity to pack them in her saddlebags before making a proper inventory of the bags' contents. This was as good a time as any for lunch.

  "What do you know already?" she asked, wishing she'd thought to stock proper trail rations instead of relying on the towns along the trade road.

  "That there's a Regent."

  Soren glanced at him, but he was busy rinsing and wringing out his socks. The tone hadn't been sarcastic.

  "Arista Couerveur," she said, glancing between him and her meagre stock of food. There was only a couple of days' worth of dried meat and flat bread, and a compacted mash which had once been honey biscuits. Vixen swung her head about when this was unwrapped, questing with her mobile upper lip, and Soren couldn't resist feeding her a fragment.

  Naturally her Rathen was now watching with that bar
ely-tolerating-fools expression. Soren refused to be flustered, and concentrated on explaining Lady Arista. "She's past seventy. One son. She's very clever, and very...strict. A quick but cold temper. Early in her rule she did much to strengthen textile production, to increase value from the hemp and flax crops. Lately, she's...focused more on the Court." Played with her favourites and sparred with her son, but how to put that in words that didn't sound petty?

  "Who was Regent before her?"

  "Lady Arista's father. The Couerveurs have been Darest's Regents since King Torluce's death."

  "So, Queen in all but name."

  "Yes."

  "And this son is heir apparent. Teraman was full of Lord Aristide, and how he'd see the innkeeper's whelp dead before Harvest Festival."

  "Lord Aristide has a reputation for–" Soren hesitated, trying to decide just how Aristide Couerveur's reputation portrayed him.

  "–efficiency."

  "Oh, very circumspect." Strake flipped a fragment of bark into the stream, mouth twisting. "Disposing of rivals is a habit, is it?"

  Soren didn't answer immediately, sitting at what she hoped was a safe distance and spreading out a cloth for their sparse selection. For the moment at least, she wasn't suffering that fear-flight reaction to his presence.

  "Lord Aristide doesn't, I think, seek conflict, but he's not merciful to his enemies," she said, selecting her words with care. "I suppose the best known example is the Basquets. Vereck Basquet was a spice merchant who supplied out of Atlarus. Cinnamon and pepper, mainly, and wanting to expand into cloves."

  "With The Deeping across the border?"

  "Mm. It's almost cheaper from Atlarus. Lady Rothwell has had a monopoly ever since the embargo." She paused, because the embargo had been only forty years ago, and she was beginning to realise the scope of what she'd have to explain. He'd known a different Darest, a vigorous prosperous kingdom where his extensive family had ruled. In context, his ill-humour was more than understandable.