"Lord Aristide?"
"Champion?" Halfway to the door, he looked back at her.
She stumbled over good intentions, because she could not imagine a feat of subtlety capable of opening up so opaque a diamond. Any question she asked would be rebuffed. Why would he admit to weakness, after all? She'd do better to keep quiet.
But that was just her cowardice again. If she had decided Aristide wasn't her enemy, she was damn well going to act like it, and accept the consequences. It would be a novelty for him, at least, to be treated like a person. So she asked, with blunt simplicity: "Are you all right?"
That brought the smile back at least. It bloomed to highly entertained width, his light brows lifting to add an extra leaven of incredulity. Concern became clumsy intrusion, an ignorant donkey prying into the secrets of a unicorn.
"Passing well, Champion." The words were sugar-dusted highly pointed derision. "And yourself?"
Fighting the tide of heat, Soren refused point-blank to be cowed. "Spare me courtier's arts," she said, with an edge of her own. "You haven't seemed yourself. I just wanted to – are you all right?"
He had no intention of being disarmed, offering her a wonderfully judged courtesy in return, a little illustration of grace. "Your concern charms me, Champion. What have I done to warrant it? If you must think me troubled, consider this: our whirlwind King came very close to dying last night, and the action which so exposed him, which left him blind and stumbling at exactly the wrong moment – that was mine." He touched the palm of his hand, the swirling pattern of the saecstra.
"I don't–"
"Don't what, Champion?" The tone had become weary, and his mouth flattened. She had finally stepped too far, and succeeded in annoying Aristide Couerveur. "Did I frown over my breakfast? Fail to keep to routine? Delighted as I am at your interest, your solicitude is misplaced."
It was a momentary flash, in hand even before the last word. He lifted his brows again, the curl of the lips this time suggesting amusement at his own loss of control. "But we must not keep our King waiting, Champion," he said, and inclined his head with every appearance of respect before turning to the door.
Ruefully, Soren followed. She had achieved what she intended, she supposed: shown that she cared about the isolation she was only beginning to see. As reward she was now perfectly clear on how very much he disliked the idea of the Champion's palace-sight. Aristide was a fortress in the centre of the Court's whirlpool, with defences so subtle-fine no-one could pierce them. He did not want nor need her clumsy good intentions.
-oOo-
Her Rathen was waiting in his private audience chamber, and since Soren and Aristide met the Tzel Aviar at the door there was no chance to confer about their approach. Soren hoped Strake was not going to be as icy as he looked.
But it was Aristide who took the floor, serenely himself as he bowed to his King and nodded to Tzel Damaris. "I have been considering the implications of a natural defence which warps magic," he said. "It may provide some explanation for your sudden appearance so many years out of the proper order. In the last moments of your first encounter with the Deeping killer, you said you cast. What was it?"
Strake had become intently focused while Aristide spoke. Now he shifted, putting a hand flat on the back of a chair by the room's central table. "It was scarcely formed. Pure power, shoved in one direction. I knew it was behind me, didn't think I could turn before it struck. Panicked." There was condemnation in the word, and Soren knew Strake would never forgive himself for blindly thrusting Vahse's body away.
"And this was followed by darkness, disorientation. And stories of sightings of a ghostly prince near Teraman. Your casting, barely formed as you say, must have struck the killer. And warped. And pushed you both...away."
"Produced a kind of Walk between years." Strake was staring into the past.
"It fits."
"And brought that thing with me."
Aristide answered with a small movement of one hand. "I doubt that he is immune to the castings he warps, that he is completely unaffected by magic. You spoke for instance of blood at the site of an explosion, when magical traps were set. In that, I think we also discover a reason why he has not attempted the palace."
"Which reeks of the Rose's power, the protections wound throughout. Anyone with the slightest talent can sense it." Strake was thinking rapidly. "I don't think the Rose is capable of making exclusions in its observation. If the killer entered the palace, the entire enchantment of the Rose would be warped."
Unpredictably and probably catastrophically. The examples of warping so far had mainly consisted of the spell unravelling, the caster's sudden death, or a large explosion. The appalled look Strake turned on Soren brought that thread of thought to the worst conclusion possible for a man who'd just bedded the focus of the Rose's enchantment. It was the same reason why they couldn't destroy the Rose themselves. All the Deeping killer need do – an effortless feat for an invisible man – was step inside the palace, simply touch its outer wall, and Soren would die. Small wonder the Rose had hysterics whenever the killer came near.
"But casting does work on him," she blurted, in a hasty attempt at denial. Everyone was at risk, according to this interpretation. "The Rose tracks him when he's anywhere near Strake or me. Your theory has to be wrong, or he must be able to control it somehow, or that could not happen."
"It can." Tzel Damaris, speaking at last. Not a hint of regret or apology shaded the words, no sense that he was aware how furious he'd made Darest's ruler. "The power of that enchantment is focused on Champion and those of Rathen blood. It does not act upon anybody else – a sensible precaution to prevent its detection. From the rune transcription we know that it works by making audible a particular kind of sound, with filters in place to add meaning. And it appears the killer's protective warping does not extend to his breath."
"Does that mean–" Strake broke off, frowning, his hand tightly wrapped around the top of the chair's back. "If we transmuted the air around the killer to a gas which was not in itself magical, he could not counter it?"
"Very likely."
That was news Strake had been hoping to hear. He let go of the chair at last and turned with a kind of instinctive affirmation toward Aristide, who nodded once. Something they could do. But 'very likely' wasn't a guarantee, and the beginnings of a plan of action would founder unrealised when there were so many other answers needed. Boy killers and Fae assassins. The look Strake turned on the Tzel Aviar was a full return to icy resolve. And was forestalled.
"I have been instructed to request your presence at the Court of the Fair," Tzel Damaris said.
Strake's brows came together. Soren felt her mouth sag and saw that even Aristide could not quite hide surprise. Even when The Deeping had not been drawing away from contact with humans, the Court of the Fair had been closed to outsiders. It was said that Domina Rathen had been so honoured, but it had been an extraordinarily long time since humans had been invited to the Queen's Court at the heart of The Deeping.
Strake managed not to gobble at the travel involved, and didn't waste time questioning the purpose of the meeting, simply boiling his response down to: "When?"
"Midday." The Tzel Aviar's eyes never wavered. "Vostal Hill would be an ideal venue, if it is permitted."
"Very well." Strake had shut surprise away, and inclined his head rather than question how such a thing would be possible. The entire Court of the Fair, coming to Darest in a matter of hours? Fae truly did live among the kind of magic others only encountered in legend.
Without another word, the Tzel Aviar left. Soren flicked her attention after him, out into a palace still buzzing with the morning's gossip, and stirring at new interests. She felt her face go stiff.
"I don't think I'll even speculate," Strake said. "Tell me whether you think it possible for us to track the killer as the Rose does."
But Aristide didn't answer, was studying Soren's face. "Are you all right, Champion?" he asked, but mockery was blunted by his frown.
Soren knew her expression had gone awry and corrected it, all the while wishing that these things would not come at once. And said: "I didn't know Lady Arista had returned to Tor Darest."
Chapter Twenty-Four
Aristide hadn't known. Or, at least, his star sapphire eyes were briefly veiled, then the corners of his mouth drew up in that smile of pointed appreciation.
"I am remiss in paying my respects," he said. "If Your Majesty will excuse me?"
Strake's expression revealed faint exasperation as he watched his Councillor go. "Like a compulsion," he said. "Can't help but run to sting and dart."
Surprised, Soren turned her attention away from Lady Arista's entourage. "She has been his major opponent for – well, for his whole life. And might well be ours."
"Might be. Has been. She's not the one who set that boy on me, whatever else. And I don't see what reason you have to act like an army was at the gate, just because one of my Barons comes to the palace."
Her Rathen was feeling very uneasy, was annoyed out of concern. Soren touched his shoulder, enjoying the freedom to do so, and he gripped her hand briefly.
She told him of her conversation about possible thieves. "Would it really be as hard as he says? To take the knife?"
"Oh, yes. I've been puzzling it over and it seems to me that what you'd have to do is get into the structure of the spell's trigger and modify it so that it obeys you and not him. You could have the knife delivered into your own hand. To do that without alerting the owner is challenge enough, but to access the trigger you'd need to convince the casting that you were the one who set it up in the first place."
"You'd need to pretend to be Aristide?"
Strake's suddenly sharpened attention told Soren she hadn't kept her voice under control. "What is it?"
"I–" She pulled a face at herself. "Nothing. The rate I'm going I'll suspect the whole world. Aristide already said he wasn't capable of the casting." The look Strake gave her told Soren she couldn't leave it at that, so she went on reluctantly. "Aspen Choraide. I know he's a true-mage, and a strong one, but he's not worked at it. Aristide discounted him as a suspect."
"For all he apes the man in dress and manner, and probably knows him as well as – as anyone is able to. And you'd rather not consider him a suspect."
"It's just not the sort of thing he'd do. He's no reason for it. Besides, Aspen's more interested in you both alive, not dead."
"You know him so well? Strake managed derision and jealousy in the same five words.
"He's a friend," Soren said, helplessly. "And–" She thought of Aspen, glorying in the games of Court, chasing pleasure, gossiping and teasing her. What did she know of him, beyond his deliberate cultivation of the Rathen Champion, and the fact that he had a finger in every pie in Tor Darest? "Aristide discounted him," she repeated, falling back on her belief in the Diamond for want of better argument.
"If you say so." Strake was hardly mollified. "It's knowledge of Aristide which is the critical factor. It's no real challenge for a mage to look like someone else – but what you'd need to do is taste like someone else. You'd need to know how a person acts, thinks, is. And–" He leaned back. "And better still if you've blood to work through. Choraide might be a possibility – if he'd hold of a piece of Aristide – but Lady Arista is the prime and probably only person I think could pull off such a theft."
And Lady Arista was now back in the palace.
"Could the Rose detect when someone's casting? If the knife was taken since your return, would it have known?"
Strake shrugged. "There's a limit to the amount of divinations Domina Rathen could practicably establish. It might be capable of knowing something magical was being cast within the palace, but it simply doesn't have the facility to pinpoint who was casting or what was being cast. I'd have a better chance, especially when you – when the Rose's focus is not a mage. If it were sigil casting, blood magic, something the Rose could visually identify–"
"How did Rathens protect against magical attack, then?"
"Rathens are mages." He said it quietly, looking toward her stomach. Tiny creases pulled at the corners of his mouth, and he went on with deliberate focus. "The palace's enchantments do make it hard to detect casting, though. Something like this theft – the modification of that trigger – I'm less than likely to have caught that. The challenge would be keeping it from Aristide, since the pocket where the knife was kept would follow him around. It would help to be close, it would help if he was asleep. If you have enough time, and enough strength, you can do a lot to hide any trace of casting." He paused. "What's Lady Arista doing?"
"The Chamberlain mustn't have known she was coming," Soren remarked. "He's hastily evicted someone and given her apartments in the residences. Aristide's just reached her and they're being polite to each other."
"Very useful."
The exchange proved a short one. "They're heading toward the Hall of the Crown now."
Strake grunted. "You'd better tell Fisk to cancel what's left of my morning. And the afternoon as well, given our midday excursion. I'll see her in here."
There was just enough time before the two Couerveurs arrived to dismay Fisk, and for it to occur to Soren to wonder whether they would be expected to host the Court of the Fair for more than a meeting on Vostal Hill. The palace was already close to capacity.
Aristide came in ahead, that faint appreciative smile playing about his lips as he said: "I believe my mother wishes to present an opposing view."
"About?" Strake said, but didn't wait for an answer, gesturing impatiently for Aristide to bring her in.
It was odd to see them standing side by side, both so pale and shining, one all in white, the other splashed sapphire and emerald. Their relationship was visible in colouring, build, the shape of their faces, the small, exquisitely shaped mouths. They shared most of all that extreme self-composure; in Lady Arista's case it became an imperiousness which was a tangible echo of thrones and power. Decades of rule.
"Please be seated," Strake said neutrally, when she stopped at the far end of the table to subject him to a highly critical survey. Aristide moved to a chair opposite, but Lady Arista remained standing, pale eyes coldly shifting to Soren then returning to Strake.
"You are being taken for a fool," she said.
"Very likely." Directness didn't trouble Strake. "I hope you have something more useful to say to me than that, Baroness."
Lady Arista inclined her head, looking perfectly equal to facing down the Sun, let alone a Rathen king. "You have invited the Tzel Aviar into Darest." She made no attempt to keep condemnation from her pale blue eyes. "The situation with The Deeping has always been caught on lack of proof. The Tongue appears an obvious encroachment, but no-one has been able to discover any form of enchantment. There has been for centuries talk of a curse, but if it exists, it is so amorphous it cannot be divined. Opinion varies wildly over whether the Rathen line was directly attacked."
"Are you leading somewhere?"
Strake's tone had chilled, but Lady Arista did not so much as flicker. Reaching into the folds of her robe, she withdrew a thick sheathe of paper and placed it on the table in front of her. "The Fae would take back Darest. Don't aid them in that."
She turned and left. It was quite five breaths after the door had shut before any of them moved. The roll of paper was more eloquent than any argument.
Face exceedingly blank, Aristide stood and collected the folded sheets. He passed them on to Strake, "No sign of enchantment," his only comment. His eyes seemed darker than usual, but he sat back down and managed to look entirely unconcerned. Strake turned the first few pages, paused, then divided the bundle into three and handed Soren and Aristide each a share. It was impossible to interpret the expression this provoked in his Councillor, but Soren thought it possibly the most diplomatic thing her Rathen had ever done.
Looking down at the top of her pile, she saw that it had been written over sixty years ago. A report to Lord Everett, Lady A
rista's father, little more than an outline of suspicion gone nowhere. The failure of Shaping experiments with perfume trees was, according to the writer, related more to the delicacy of the species than any interference from outside Darest.
The next document was only ten years old, and just as unhelpful. Weather patterns had been disrupted all over Sumica. Darest had suffered most of all because it had comparatively few mages to shift the situation in its favour. There was no indication of any other factor.
It was all like that. Reports of deaths and accidents, failure and misfortune. Even the plague had been investigated, more than two centuries ago when Rathens still ruled. And there was nothing at all; just suspicion and frustration. After her initial surprise, Soren felt cheated. That shifted to a bruised kind of anger, though she wasn't sure whether at the Fair or Lady Arista.
Having exhausted his papers, Strake shuffled them neatly into a pile, face neutral. "A clever woman, your mother."
It was acknowledgement of the force of the presentation. Basing an argument on such an extensive lack of proof would have been fatal. But in the same way Aspen had powerfully brought home Lady Arista's relationship with her son, simply handing over this history of investigation had given weight to suspicion even as it repeatedly went nowhere. There was just so much.
"Has she convinced you, then?" Aristide sounded merely curious, turning over another sheet.
Strake's mouth twisted. "What need? I was already well served with doubts about the Fair. She's given me nothing I can fling in their faces."
Pragmatic restraint was perhaps not what Aristide expected from his whirlwind king. He wore a very thoughtful expression as he handed back the papers.
"And what of you?" Strake asked. "Has all this nothing shifted your views?"
"No." Fine lips curved into a curiously peaceful smile. "I have never been a great believer in coincidence."
It took a moment to register what he meant. The papers had not convinced him because he too was already converted to their argument. They both stared at him. But Strake didn't fire up, just blinked, then looked supremely sour. "So glad to have earned your trust."
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