Champion of the Rose

by Andrea K Höst

  "Forty years ago, The Deeping cut off all trade with Darest," she continued. "Lord Elling, Lady Arista's father, had been offering inducements to Shapers to try and reproduce some of the Fair's most valuable exports. Not just cloves, but the medicine alums and perfume trees."

  "Any succeed?" Strake asked, absently. He seemed more interested in the attempts of a tiny spotted fish to swim upstream.

  "Not well. Not with viable seed-stock, anyway." Deeping mages were unparalleled Shapers, modifying plants and animals to match their needs. While Darest had been able to produce a variety of enchanted clove which would flower locally, true Shaping was judged in the seeds, in the ability to produce more plants without any magic at all.

  "The Deeping reacted as usual?"

  "There's been no Deeping ambassador in Tor Darest for half a century. The Regent shares Lord Elling's views on The Deeping – that the Fair are attempting to slowly steal Darest back – and her rule has not been without similar incidents. If the Rothwells didn't own half Darest's ships and have Deeping links, I expect we'd still be using the Western Kingdoms as middlemen." Soren lifted one shoulder. "Sax profited well during those years, and Cya prefers Darest to be waning, not least because they're land-hungry. They also draw a great deal on the mines on the Sax-Darest border, and they're not on good terms with Sax. Vereck Basquet had Cyan connections."

  "I'm sure Aristide will surface somewhere in this morass."

  Soren swallowed a mouthful of honey biscuit, and decided to censor any gossip delving into Lord Aristide's keenly guarded privacy. The malicious rumours Aspen delighted in repeating changed with every telling. "Lord Aristide courts The Deeping," she said bluntly. "That's the core of many of his conflicts with the Regent."

  "And presumably Vereck Basquet's downfall." Face intent, Strake was still watching the fish struggle against the current. He was really very attractive when not scowling. There was something about those long eyes, dark and cynical, which was making Soren feel short of breath. And he was the temperamental man she had to deal with for the rest of her life. She hoped he'd stop interrogating and start talking to her, sooner rather than later.

  "Basquet didn't enjoy the outright success he'd hoped for," Soren said, trying to suppress wayward thoughts. "The Rothwells could match his undercutting. But as the year wore on, Basquet began to win out on quality and quantity. Then one of Basquet's ships foundered and an accusation was laid against Francesca Rothwell."

  "And then it was proved to really be the work of the Basquets?" Strake asked, sounding bored.

  "Not quite," Soren replied, shifting uncomfortably. "Lady Rothwell freely admitted that she'd obtained a stone which would scupper a ship unless a counterspell was regularly cast. And then had it concealed among one of her own shipments. Basquet had been buying low-quality cloves and switching them with the Rothwell shipments."

  "We still haven't sighted this Aristide," Strake pointed out.

  Soren nodded slowly. She was feeling dizzy now, as if the world was moving in two directions at once. As if someone was standing above her, about to put down their foot. What was it about this Rathen? "The Regent's judgment was that Basquet pay recompense," she said slowly. "Enough that he would be years recovering. Lord Aristide suggested that the fine be lessened if Basquet could retrieve Lady Rothwell's property."

  Strake snorted, then looked appreciative. Soren could only be glad he didn't glance in her direction, to see her struggling for composure. "A challenge, of sorts," she said, hurrying to the end. "Basquet hired a half-dozen mostly foreign mages, and lost two ships trying to retrieve the cargo and stone. Then he was required to pay the full fine. It ruined him."

  The dizziness was growing worse, as if her mind was being crushed in a fist. Was it Strake, or were they being attacked? She stood up, looking around, and immediately felt better. Relieved and dismayed, she stepped away from the stream, and the oppression vanished altogether.

  She looked back at her Rathen.

  Strake was watching her, but didn't seem to understand her abrupt removal. "And did Lady Rothwell ever mention where she obtained a stone so cleverly enchanted that a half-dozen could not counter it?" he asked. "Do I even need to ask whether Aristide has a singular reputation as a mage?"

  "He does and she did not. But there are none who doubt its origin."

  "Is he popular?"

  That was hard. "Yes and no. He's–" She faltered. "I wouldn't say Dariens...love him, but they want him. Imitate him, court him, worship him in a way. He is very powerful and formidably competent. There's a great deal of anticipation for his rule."

  "Indeed." The tone was flat.

  Soren stomach twisted, and she moved closer to Vixen, feeling quavery. The mare turned an ear toward her, then permitted Soren to stroke her nose. Why was this happening? She was almost certain it was the Rose making her feel so strange, but she had no idea why it pulled her in two directions.

  She was sure she didn't want to find out.

  Chapter Seven

  South-west of Teraman, roughly in the centre of the Tongue, small grassy hills rose above the trees. Burnished by ample sunlight and specked with flowery clover, they were a bright, airy break from the forest canopy. The trees were widely spaced, so a horse could canter unimpeded, but Soren didn't suggest that they ride. She didn't want Strake sitting up behind her.

  Fidgeting with the reins, she watched the swallows which had come with the afternoon breezes to make precise sorties about their legs. Although that intense oppression had not recurred, there had been moments in the last two days when she'd felt its shadow. Always when she came too close to this Aluster Rathen, to whom she was to devote her life, and who she now carefully avoided touching. She hoped he hadn't noticed.

  It was an irksome, unhappy situation, and all the speculation in the world wasn't going to provide her with a solution. If Strake would be a little more forthcoming about his recent past, she'd feel better able to broach the matter with him. But he brushed aside any probing and treated her as a necessary evil, not a confidant. Nor did he entirely hide that he thought her an inadequate excuse for a Champion, whom he had no intention of trusting. All she'd been able to gather was that he'd only been in Teraman a few days, certainly not two weeks ago, and he wore everything he owned.

  A knowledge of recent history had so far proven to be Soren's most useful contribution as Rathen Champion. As soon as she'd given him a bare outline of Darest's Court, Strake had wanted to know about the formation of the Tongue, then the decline of the Rathen rulers and everything which had happened in Darest since. Between those questions he'd required a run-down on all the neighbouring countries, and even pressed her for detail about Atlarus, far across the ocean to the south and magnificently stable. It felt like she'd been talking non-stop and getting no answers at all.

  Studying Strake had told Soren only a little more. He seemed impatient to get to Tor Darest, but not eager to be there. His reaction to her recital of the accidents, petty feuds and sicknesses which had decimated the ranks of the Rathens had been tightly bound anger tinged with incredulity. So many Rathens had died in the short decades after his hunting trip – a family of fifty or more whittled away until only Torluce remained. But he'd kept what grief he felt well hidden.

  At the moment, he was absorbed with the swallows as they turned about his feet, coming daringly close to snatch up insects startled out of hiding. There was something mesmerising about them, arrow-swift iridescence, purple-black. They skimmed in circles just above the grass, making abrupt, effortless turns so that their pale breasts and flaring underwings, tinted a delicate mouse-brown, were momentarily exposed. Strake had watched them for hours.

  Nor were swallows the only thing to capture his attention. Yesterday he'd stopped to enjoy a stand of loram well into its amber-gold stage, and then lagged behind when he caught sight of a passing stag. That morning, she'd woken to find him watching the sky change shade through the branches overhead. Soren found these intent studies reassuring. An appar
ent appreciation of natural beauty surely made him not...wrong.

  Wishing she could believe that, Soren gazed down the slope into the forest to their right and spotted what must be the remains of the old trade road which had once run from Tor Darest to Elder Garrison. It was interrupted in places by vigorous stands of loram, and most of the remaining stones, wide and flat, were cracked and disrupted by encroaching roots. But as a whole the structure was far more enduring than the rutted east-west road she had travelled to reach Teraman. Soren studied its gentle curving course along the base of the hills and saw in the trees ahead the remains of a roof, then a tumble-down spire.

  "That must be Aramond," she said, and was rewarded with a moment's abstract attention. "I'm not sure just how long ago it went. Eighty years, I think, and half-empty before that. They weren't able to keep the north-east road clear, and traders began taking the long way 'round."

  "Strangled to death," Strake said, his voice muted. Then he scowled. "What an idiotic waste."

  "Do you expect resistance from The Deeping to your return?" she asked, while he scanned the distance for more of the ruin. She had found he would occasionally answer direct questions when distracted.

  "Not once I'm crowned." He glanced at her. "But I'm sure North and East would be less than sorry to hear that I'd met an unhappy accident on the way. And unlike the obliging Captain Sharwell, they won't have believed for a moment that baby was Rathen."

  'North and East' were the two Deeping lords who had long ago disputed the land which was now Darest. 'When North and East meet' was an old way of saying 'near enough to never'. When the Tongue had reached Aramond, never must have stopped seeming so far away.

  It was unlikely the original Fair were still alive. There'd even been a change of Queen in The Deeping since Domina Rathen had been granted a kingdom, but the little gossip which leaked over the borders suggested that the two families maintained the old animus and were behind the influx of trees. Only the Fair could take centuries to invade. Or to exploit a loophole in a contract.

  "I may as well look it over, see what can be salvaged," Strake was saying. "Tomorrow morning. We won't reach it today. Can I hope that Islay hasn't been abandoned?"

  "Not yet. It's up against the trees, and lost a lot of trade with the close of the north-east road, but the orchards there are flourishing, and the hives."

  "With any luck, they'll have a spare horse."

  They followed the road to the end of the line of hills and set up camp, a process somewhat hampered by Strake's interest in the chorus of birds paying homage to the setting sun. But at least he was not above fetching firewood or searching for ripe fruit.

  "So we've covered a few of the people who'd like to kill me," he said, after whispering for a moment to a carefully constructed pile of dry twigs, which hastily whuffed into flame. "What about allies? Any outside the borders?"

  "Skrem, perhaps," Soren said, doubtfully. "Sax. Neither are in the position to take Darest themself. Neither would like to see Cya do so. No-one would."

  Strake nudged a twig further into the fire with his boot as she piled an armful of wood within reach. "And is Cya poised and ready?"

  "Not this year or next." She shrugged. "Maybe not this decade, if Queen Rithana continues to distract herself with Atlaran affairs."

  He nodded, gazing west at the hazy apricot sky. She watched his hands clench and relax and wondered what he was thinking. Nothing about Cyans, she was certain.

  Feeling dizzy again, Soren stood, wanting to get away. Then, entirely without meaning to, she reached up and slid her hand around the back of his neck.

  -oOo-

  At the moment of the previous Champion's death, Soren had been sorting through old bottles in the stillroom. She distinctly remembered pulling the cork from a squat bottle of clouded red glass and up-ending it so that a few grains of powder fell out. Then there'd been an overwhelming rush of something which had pushed her to the very back of herself. She'd been no more than witness as she put down the bottle and walked through a dark uncertain place. Until she found herself in the Garden of the Rose, she'd felt nothing at all.

  Like now.

  She could see the muscles in her forearm shift, but had only the faintest sensation of effort. She watched, completely detached, as Strake's first flash of surprise was replaced by anger. He had gone very still, and she could feel rather than see his struggle, just as she'd been aware of his initial displeasure at her arrival in Teraman. He was straining with every ounce of will to not bend his head. And the anger had become fear.

  Then his face went blank. The implacable force crushing Soren had surged forward and simply quashed all resistance. There was no emotion in what followed. Strake and Soren weren't participating, and if the thing which joined their bodies felt anything of passion or triumph, the tiny fragment of awareness which was Soren could not sense it. She watched, listened to the evening chorus and the tossing of leaves, but there wasn't enough of her left free to react.

  Then, of a sudden, the stifling wealth of power departed. Sensation, feeling of every sort, returned.

  Strake's weight was pressing the scabbard and harness of the Champion's sword painfully into her back. For a brief moment he lay like any lover, lips pressed to one side of her throat, shuddering from the aftermath of exertion. Then an elbow pinned her upper arm, and in a flurry of movement he was off her. Gaining his knees, he paused momentarily, trembling with furious horror as he clutched at the ground. Struggling to sit up, Soren gasped as the man she was supposed to protect threw a rock and a handful of leaf litter at her, flinching as he did so, as if she were a snake or a water-mad dog. Then he was gone, scrambling to his feet and stumbling into the trees.

  Blankly, Soren lifted a hand to wipe at her mouth, and found blood where the rock had struck her. For a moment all she could do was sit there, all grit and bruises, with her leggings around her ankles and her shirt wrenched open. She looked down at the sword's harness, cutting directly into the skin beneath her breasts, and began to shake.

  This was impossibly wrong. The Champion was supposed to protect. Protect and guide and uphold and– The Champion was the person the King could trust above all other. The purpose of the Rose and Champion was to support the Rathen ruler. That was what they were for.

  Soren stared down at her hands, at the delicate sketch of veins at her wrists. It did this. It was inside her, wound around her bones, and she was nothing more than its tool. It had reached out and done that to Strake and used her to do it, violated them both, and she didn't know why and she didn't know how to stop it if it chose to do it again and–

  A blur of white and red made her blink, and she jerked. She'd been clawing at her wrists, trying to tear the Rose out. It stung, a couple of the scratches deep enough for blood to be trickling freely.

  It was suddenly important to stand up, to snatch her clothes into some semblance of order. A noise kept trying to escape her throat and she choked when she tried to swallow it back. Reaching over her shoulder, she grabbed the hilt of the Champion's Sword. She still hadn't mastered the trick of freeing the weapon in one easy draw, and jerked at it savagely when it caught.

  A cry, an angry shriek, burst from her throat as she threw the sword after Strake. It spun in an arc toward the trees, briefly reflecting apricot sky before it fell out of sight. Soren staggered, and fetched up against Vixen, who snorted, but didn't object when Soren flung arms about her neck.

  "A puppet," Soren breathed into the short, soft hair of Vixen's neck. "I'm a puppet!"

  Puppet, monster, anything but a true Champion. She could hear Strake breathing. He was running, very quickly, and was already at least a quarter mile away. He ran and ran, and then he stopped, and made a choking noise and coughed. She thought perhaps that he was being sick. He coughed again, and this time it came out as a sob. Then he began to weep.

  Grimly, Soren tried to shut him away, pushing blindly at a sense she didn't know how to control. The sound of tearing breath faded and she gulped, h
ugging Vixen tighter. The mare was a marvellously solid thing. Warm and alive and as dependable as Soren was meant to be.

  She wasn't altogether sure how long she stayed there, hanging around Vixen's neck, feeling false and wrong and soiled. The sky paled, and tiny insects rose to whine and bite. The rush of wind through leaves replaced the evening chorus, only occasionally punctuated by the rising call of a star-chaser. Vixen grew restless.

  Then Soren heard breathing, slow, soft and even, just within the trees to the north-west.

  It wasn't Strake.

  Chapter Eight

  Every hair on the back of Soren's neck rose as she slid her arms free and turned, staring. The moon had not yet risen, and the black blobs of trees could well hide an army. Wobbling, she took a step, trying to focus the Rose-given sense. Whatever was out there was little more than fifty feet away, moving at a slow walking pace, toward her.

  Immediately, she was overwhelmed by a sense of peril, nerves all over her body coming alive. If the Rose had screamed aloud, it couldn't have made its warning clearer.

  Jolted into action, Soren ran – directly toward whatever was approaching. She was desperately trying to remember the course of an arc into the trees, with a flash of apricot at its peak. Strake had shown her a basic way of creating a protection, simply by inscribing a circle into the ground. She couldn't do it without the sword.

  Guided unerringly by the connection which had existed ever since she'd gone to Lady Rothwell's rooms, Soren plunged down the slope into the trees. Only fifteen feet separated her from the unseen presence as she reached, spine crawling, for a lump of metal she barely knew how to use. She was panting in tiny rapid gasps, convinced that at any moment a nightmare would leap out at her: red, slavering tongue, claws like sickles, and teeth whiter than stars. It was so close.