Bones of the Fair

by Host, Andrea K

  "And Frid Calder's strength," Gentian replied promptly, entertained by the censure she detected. "But none of their passion for Shaping. Only for the gardening itself."

  A fractional drop of eyelash dusted amused contempt. "Do they approve?"

  "My parents find any true-mage who doesn't Shape unaccountable, Lord Magister."

  The man's lips made another infinitesimal shift, marking a point scored in the unspoken language of a supreme courtier. Gentian had recognised him from his resemblance to his mother, the former Regent. This was Aristide Couerveur, heir to one of Darest's sixteen baronies, current Councillor of Mages, and owner of a reputation for high magery and ruthless ambition.

  Since Lord Aristide would have ruled Darest if Aluster Rathen had not reappeared, Gentian would have wondered at the King appointing him to any position of power in the Court, let alone to his left hand. But the roaring whisper of another enchantment provided confirmation of the explanation. She could feel the gale-force power of it centred around an intriguing knot of lines curling beneath the skin of his right palm: a saecstra, tightly knotted auditor of intent, and permanent shackle to earn the trust of a King. It would snuff his life if he broke whatever vow he'd made.

  Then Aluster Rathen was back to the fore, brusquely impatient as he announced they would go out on Vostal Hill. Gentian made no objection, trailing the picturesque trio into a cloud-scudded afternoon, listening to the King point out the location of particular features he wanted.

  Aluster Rathen was no gardener. Informed, yes. Perceptive and decided in his opinion of what a garden should be, but he was more a man who wanted a garden about him, finding pleasure in experiencing it rather than in getting dirt beneath his nails. She doubted he'd ever personally put seed to earth.

  "You've viewed the plans?" he asked, when they finally reached the shade of the hill's crown.

  "Yes, indeed."

  King Aluster gave her a sharp look for the bland tone she'd used. "What do you think?"

  "They work in their setting. I would enjoy visiting them. I fail to see why you're consulting me." She glanced up at his still face, and added by way of explanation: "Master Chult is perfectly capable of producing that garden. If you have a design already, why call in a designer?"

  "Because there's something missing." The King spoke with frank frustration, and no sign of offence for her plain speech. "Something I can't capture. I don't know what it is."

  Gentian decided to approve of her new King. Whatever Rathen flair had led to the creation of Tor Darest persisted. He reached.

  Which, for her, was not a good thing. When Chult had shown her the design, irritation had been followed by the realisation that it was the key to walking away from Vostal Hill. Not now. Still–

  "Do one of two things," she recommended, deliberately terse. "Leave it as it is, because standing alone it is a perfectly stark loveliness, and anything you do to the hill will detract from that. Else–" Gentian called will and power into conjunction and set an illusion between them, a globe looking into the vision that had grown behind her breastbone.

  She'd left the crest of the hill untouched, because no frame or embellishment could match those four loram trees. A thick cross of grass interlaced with flat beds and paving, producing a frame of green and sandstone. Clean lines for the beds, filled with dark flat foliage and massed flowering plants hardy enough for a seaside environment. Golden paths and terraces to match the lines of the city, growing ever more complex the further down the hill the eye roved, until finally a sea-foam filigree of arches, trailing vine and covered walks to froth at the hill's base, just above clean white sand and shimmering water.

  Illusion casting required a great deal of concentration to produce unblurred detail, but once she'd settled the image Gentian was able to fix it, and then enjoy the expression on Aluster Rathen's face. Absorbed, intent. No false raptures, just a kind of acceptance that Gentian appreciated more than words. Whatever he'd been reaching for in his design, he'd found it here.

  "You appear to have lost the New Palace," said a silk-smooth voice, and Gentian glanced away from the King to his Councillor, who was looking pleased in the way of a person expecting the worst and meeting it, lips curved into a highly satirical smile.

  "It is, after all, very ugly," Gentian replied. "Nothing done to the harbour area can be anything but lessened by it." Philosophically she adjusted her illusion, replacing the dark, blocky building rising above the palace walls. "There are a few things that might be done to it externally, to mitigate its effect, but really, you should consider just knocking it down."

  "That is a solution, certainly." Edged amusement again, but the look Aristide Couerveur was giving his king held careful assessment. Aluster Rathen was evidently not so mindful of the purse strings as his Councillor.

  Gentian glanced at the Champion's face, to gauge the third of the trio's reaction, and found her wry, tolerantly listening to the by-play between the pair. Her focus was not on the garden.

  Suddenly weary of this always-tiresome stage, when patron weighed up purchase and usually tried to modify a design already complete, Gentian unrolled the plans they had given her, and began speaking in the language of power.

  Each syllable, produced with craftsman's care, eased its way out of her mouth like glowing, expansive gas that doubled, tripled in size even before escaping the gate of her lips. An elegant little casting she'd learned in the East, it sent the illusion sinking onto the reverse of the plans, light staining paper in gradual steps until she had a perfectly rendered image she could roll up and present to the King.

  "I will be travelling to my parents' steading, and returning around the time of this spring festival. You could, perhaps, give me your decision then?"

  "I'll do that," Aluster Rathen said, with just the faintest shift of his eyes toward Aristide Couerveur. It was not the decision, but the detail he would need to settle.

  About to bow and make the usual polite noises, Gentian was distracted by a pinpoint of power blooming at the King's right elbow. Both King and Councillor reacted to it, drawing power automatically into shields, then relaxing them once again when it became clear it was sigil-communication, not an attack.

  Gentian politely withdrew to stand with Chult on the far side of the pavilion, studying the thrones fashioned from living trees. Certainly some kind of maple. Occasionally she glanced back at the King, engrossed in conversation with the air, but for the while she allowed herself to construct the possibilities of her garden, her frame for this pavilion.

  When the solid hum of the communication magic died as abruptly as it had sprung to life, King, Councillor and Champion fell into terse discussion, faces set. Evidently not good news. In dumb show she watched a plan of action formulated, decided upon. Then, to her surprise, the King turned in her direction.

  "Magister Calder – you said you were about to leave for Goldenrod Steading?"

  "Well, yes." Gentian was aware of a sudden stiffness in her voice. Had something happened to her parents?

  "We've just had news of a Saxan barge gone missing in the Galassas. They've asked for our help searching for the passengers. As you are travelling in that direction, I would appreciate you assisting Magister Couerveur in the search."

  It was a command couched as a request. "Of course," Gentian said, blankly. The Galassas was the river which ran out of the Skorese Mountains, then along the border between Sax and Darest. It would mean a dog-leg in her journey, but no great detour.

  He nodded curtly, and then turned to take his Champion's arm, escorting her back down the windswept hill. Gentian wondered vaguely why a wedding wasn't included in the festival's arrangements, and then shifted her attention to Aristide Couerveur.

  "Fleeting Hall in an hour, if you would," he said. "We should make Estharos before dark, at the least."

  "Who was on the barge?" It had to be someone important, to provoke this response.

  "The Atlaran ambassador. Chenar and Rydan of Sax. Aloren of Ceria. Kestia and Jura
sel of Cya. Half the heirs of the western kingdoms, vanished without a trace."

  "What were they all doing on Darest's border?"

  He was barely listening, thoughts obviously on the task ahead. But then the corners of that superb mouth lifted, curved up into a smile of singular sweetness. It was not at all a nice expression.

  "That is a question to answer."

  Chapter Three

  At the precise moment the palace bells struck the allotted hour, Aspen Choraide snapped shut an exceedingly tedious treatise on the formulation of permanent enchantments and turned to the immeasurably more fascinating task of choosing just the right thing to wear. The divine Aluster's love of unembellished black had seen the demise of the lush and sumptuous fashions of Arista Couerveur's regency, and with the Court slavishly following the new Rathen's lead, or cleaving to the Diamond's pristine whites, the new styles were all too predictable. Of course, due homage was half the point, and Aspen was tall and fair and could bring all that black and white off to his advantage. But how, how to stand out?

  A pleasant interlude followed, leaving Aspen's ordinarily tidy room strewn with a good deal of expensive linen. Still, nothing quite satisfied. He would have to find something new for the Festival Ball.

  Restlessly he looked outside. He had of late moved his mirror over by the window so that when he dressed he could see the exercises in the barracks yard, and watch the faces of the guards when they noticed him. Guards were great fun: so stern and serious and determined to be correct. There was one in particular, a tall woman who would survey him coolly and then make a point of ignoring his window...but she wasn't there today.

  Dissatisfaction was cut short by a sharp rap on the door. Aspen spun across the room and pulled it open on a man dressed in grey, a nondescript creature with regular features and a permanently unobtrusive manner. Born to live in the background, and yet one of the most powerful servants of the Court. Aristide Couerveur's factotum.

  "Well, Vaselte!" Aspen watched with quiet glee as Vaselte's eyes flicked from the whirl of clothing about the room to their absence from the room's sole occupant. There was a little matter of a stolen kiss between him and Vaselte, and it was about time he took up that chase again. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

  Vaselte was no easy target, his face resuming that bland lack of personality all the Diamond's servants affected. And then all thought of baiting the man went out of Aspen's mind:

  "Lord Aristide is journeying to the Saxan border," Vaselte said. "And would be obliged if you would join him. He leaves in an hour. Wait in Fleeting Hall."

  "What?!" Aspen caught at Vaselte's sleeve before he could turn away. "The Diamond, going to the border? Why?"

  "Perhaps you should ask Lord Aristide." Vaselte tugged his arm free, nodded with an echo of his master's pointed courtesy, and walked off.

  Aspen stood in the doorway staring after him, and then caught the appreciative eye of a passing matron, dropped into a flourishing bow, and retreated. His mind was awhirl, all disbelief and anticipation. Travel to the border with the Diamond? The invitation was almost as surprising as the journey itself. Aristide Couerveur had scarcely budged from Tor Darest since he'd returned from his 'prentice tour. Something particularly momentous must have happened, for him to go off on an hour's notice, a scarce month before a festival he'd been planning since the previous autumn. And Aspen for some reason had express permission to tag along, to observe the Diamond Couerveur outside his natural environment. To perhaps finally realise a long-held ambition.

  What to wear suddenly took on a whole new light. Aspen stared around at the chaos of his room, and slowly shook his head.

  ooOoo

  "Hello, Nixie."

  "Aspen." That slow smile, touched with warm amusement. Soren would know why he'd gone straight to her. No doubt she'd waited in her book-lined receiving room in anticipation of his visit, for he and the Champion were friends, allies: they went to each other for comfort and support and, most importantly, information. Between them they had a straight line to all the palace gossip.

  She still turned her head toward the person she was talking to, even though the spell that let her see had nothing to do with direction. But it was becoming more and more a perfunctory gesture, leaving her oriented on something just a little to one side of the person she was talking to. Aspen hated that, loathed the reminder of what she'd sacrificed. He fully understood why King Aluster's darkest moods followed those occasions when his Champion's sight spell lapsed while he wasn't around to immediately renew it.

  The person least bothered by her loss of sight seemed to be Soren herself. She'd expected to die destroying the Rathen Rose, had told Aspen how astonished she still was to be breathing. When she said things like that it always left Aspen with an impulse to wrap her tight in his arms and regret missed chances. But the King was sadly territorial, leaving Aspen to languish in the role of devoted friend, taking comfort from the delights of the Court. Which, as Soren had once pointed out, was exactly how he liked it.

  "Well?" Aspen demanded, when Soren didn't immediately Tell All. "How, what, when, why? No particular order, I'm not fussy."

  He loved that he could make her laugh, but her amusement was short-lived and she frowned as she gestured for him to sit down.

  "A message came from the Saxan King while we were out on Vostal Hill. His sons were hosting some sort of boating party on the Galassas River, with ambassadors and neighbouring royalty along for the ride. They were sleeping on a barge, with enough guards camped along the bank to take a small city. It's foggy along the river near dawn, but the barge was within hailing distance and there was a lantern set into the bow which could be seen through the mist. The mages in the guard party had no warning of someone casting. They felt a surge of power and saw the lantern was gone, the barge was gone. No trace."

  Aspen had not expected his love of drama to be so bounteously fulfilled, and struggled not to gape. "This was this morning?"

  "Yes. They scoured the riverbank, cast whatever one would cast in the circumstances. Nothing. Part of the search party headed upstream, but they've run up against the point where the Galassas leaves the Saxan border and heads up into the Skorese mountains. So they wanted permission to cross into Darest." Soren shook her head. "We gave it, of course, and sent word to the nearest guard post to assist wherever possible. King Meneth was all very polite, made no accusations, but, well, it's Darest. The Fair might have given it over to humans centuries ago, but even Dariens are convinced there's Faerie sorcelment at every turn. And those mountains have a reputation."

  "Sun." The possibilities unreeled in Aspen's mind. "No wonder the Diamond's bolting to the scene. The entire West will think Darest has stolen their best and bravest. We can talk about haunted mountains, and they might even accept that our re-found Rathen has nothing to do with it–"

  "But they'll blame us all the same." Soren's hand absently touched the swell of her stomach. "Aristide will mainly be fielding the diplomatic crisis. He'll investigate, of course, but the West has a dozen mages for each of ours, and if the guard party's mages have been searching all morning with no result, what chance do we have of finding the lost?"

  "You'd be surprised." It never paid to underestimate the Diamond Couerveur. Aspen's thoughts hit a snag there and he lifted his head sharply. "Why has he invited me along?" For while Aspen had an excess of magical strength and a modicum of talent, he was still no more than a Maistrice, an apprentice, and far less advanced than he should be. All those tomes of word-magic it was necessary to plough through to be passed up to Maja or Magister rank had never held much attraction, and it was only a cunning plot to get closer to the Diamond that had seen him tediously studious these past few months.

  "The King ordered it. You and this gardening mage both. Protection, don't you see?"

  "Gardening mage?" Momentarily diverted, Aspen lifted his brows. "Do you mean this consultant Chult called in about the King's garden? She's a mage?"

  "Apparently. Her parents
are some people called Laeth Varpatten and Frid Calder. Aristide was being rather pointed about them, from which I gathered that they and this gardener must be fairly powerful."

  "I didn't even know the Goldenrod Shapers had children," Aspen admitted, a shade annoyed. "They're a married couple with a steading in the northwest, Shaping exclusively with plants. Incredibly boring stuff like frost-resistant apples and flax that comes out in a different colour than off-white. The daughter must have the strength, at least, if she's to fly to the border with us." Then he thought it through a little more and laughed. "She won't be popular with the Diamond. The only reason he's held out this carrot of possibly-maybe-sometime taking me on as 'prentice is because he's trying to stop Darest haemorrhaging mages. A powerful Darien true-mage who gads about making gardens! That won't go down well at all." He grinned. "No competition for me."

  "You are nothing if not persistent," Soren said. "I'd wish you luck, but, really, I dread to think what would happen if you actually sparked some interest from Aristide."

  "Happen?" Aspen gave her a pitying look. "My dear child, what have you and the King been up to for the last six months? Hours of lustful abandon, that's what would happen. The shrieking of my name in ecstasy. A good deal of parading about naked, and many tender confidences where he tells me all his secrets."

  "Are we talking about the same Aristide Couerveur?" She was giving him that tolerant and doubtful look, the same one she'd worn before the King showed up, when Aspen had been trying to get her to take him just seriously enough. But then, Soren could be stubbornly earnest, and Aspen had never been able to make her see bed-games for the sport they were.

  Before she could start telling him not to get in over his head he abandoned his chair and bent over her hands, relishing her embarrassment as he kissed them. "Now that I've a better idea of what to expect, I can start packing. Take care of yourself, O Champion. I'm holding you to that promise of a dance at the Festival Ball."