Champion
of the
Rose
Andrea K Höst
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Champion of the Rose
© 2010 Andrea K Höst. All rights reserved.
V.22-06-2011
www.andreakhost.com
Cover art by: Julie Dillon
Published by Andrea K Hösth at Kobo
World Map can be found at:
www.andreakhost.com/p/etc
All characters in this publication
are fictitious and any resemblance
to real persons, living or dead,
is purely coincidental.
Chapter One
After a morning spent sorting through the previous Champion's library, both Soren Armitage and the aide lent her by the Chancellor were so dust-laden that they were beginning to blend into their surroundings. Grey hair to match grey eyes, Soren thought, tucking usually black strands behind her ears. A grey life.
Without warning, the door crashed open, and the nearest pile of books lost its tenuous grasp on balance and slid into a heap. Three other piles slumped after it, puffing out dust redolent of old paper and slowly decaying binding. Soren sat back with a grimace, while her assistant for the day, Halcean, lived up to her red-headed nature by colouring hotly.
Oblivious, Aspen Choraide whisked into the room and stopped in the centre of the resulting tumble: a handsome blonde set off well by white and icy-blue linen. In all the poisoned throng of the Court, this was Soren's closest excuse for a friend, an apprentice mage not even willing to risk his position with open partisanship while he tried to coax his way into the new-minted Champion's bed. Soren was by turns infuriated and tempted by his trifling. At least he managed to laugh with as well as at her.
Today he was overflowing with excitement, well above his ordinary benign enthusiasm for life. Almost vibrating. "There's a rose!" he said, barely able to get the words out for the sheer delight of them. "A rose!"
"What of it?" Halcean asked, a decided snap to her voice as she rose out of the dust cloud he'd set off. She glanced pointedly about the room, which was festooned with carvings of roses.
"The Rathen Rose!" Aspen shouted. "There's a rose!"
He waited for their reaction, but Soren could only stare.
"That's impossible," Halcean said.
Making an exasperated noise, Aspen grabbed Soren's arm and pulled her to her feet, knocking the few remaining piles left and right. Soren, who tried to set certain limits to her treatment, attempted to free herself, but Aspen only tightened his grip and so she quickened her pace rather than be dragged across Fleeting Hall. The doors to the throne room were thankfully closed, but there were plenty of passers-by to witness their progress.
It was a brief trip, for the Garden of the Rose was only a short distance left of the Champion's rooms – directly opposite the Hall of the Crown. But Fleeting Hall was a palace hub, always busy, and by the time they'd reached the sunlit paving of the Garden a dozen or more people trailed them, scenting drama.
"There!" Aspen tugged her beneath an arch into the sunlight and flung a hand in theatrical accusation. "What did I tell you? Impossible? It's impossible to miss!"
It was indeed. Wound around the grey stone pillars and creeping across the exposed arches of the Garden of the Rose was the Rathen Rose. The leaves were small, black-green, and hid countless thorns. Today, for the first time in two centuries, it bore a flower.
"Sun's Mercy," Halcean managed, staring but making no attempt to approach. She would know the reputation of the Rose. Even Aspen in his excitement did no more than stand at the very edge of the garden.
Soren, her heart knocking against her throat, walked slowly forward and the double handful of people who had crowded to see stepped back to give her room. It was almost respectful. At that moment, she knew that everything was going to change.
For all she'd tried to make the best of being the most important nonentity at Court, uselessness irritated Soren, and she'd been looking about for change. But for there to suddenly be a Rathen? To be Champion in more than name?
The bloom depended from a cane wound around one of the narrow arches of stone overhead: a half-open cluster of petals so dark a red they were almost black, with a hint of richer colour at their heart. The very tip of each petal was rimmed with silver, like the lining of a storm-cloud, and as she lifted her hand it moved in response, dipping to the accompaniment of a dozen indrawn breaths.
The knowledge that it would be wiser not to do this before such an audience made no difference to her hand. Try as she might, Soren couldn't stop her arm from lifting, her fingers from brushing the soft, velvety petals. It was very like her annunciation as Champion, when a pressure behind her eyes had robbed her of all will and dawn had found her in Tor Darest, a week's journey walked in a single night.
"Teraman," her throat said, and a little thrill of power ran down her arm and buried itself somewhere inside her. It felt good. The rose moved away, out of reach.
"Teraman?" repeated Aspen. "What does that mean? Is it the heir's name?"
Soren shook her head and moved further into the small, stark courtyard. Aspen held out a hand, but didn't try to follow. He valued his fine features far too much to risk scratches. Instead, as Soren seated herself on a neglected stone bench, he turned to join the babble of excited conversation, speculating on an event no-one could have anticipated.
The Rose had been planted by Domina Rathen, the first mage-queen of Darest. It had been the core of the royal succession: a flower would bloom for every child of her line, enduring for the span of their life. All the Rathen Kings and Queens had been confirmed before the Rathen Rose. When the Rathen bloodline still existed.
"Champion!" Jansette Denmore, an engaging ninny who had recently become a favourite of the Regent, squeezed her way through the crowd and blithely brushed aside trailing, thorn-heavy canes to reach Soren. "Champion, who is it? Who is the new Rathen? How can this have happened?"
"I suppose that's what I must find out," Soren said. She was beginning to recover from the shock of seeing the rose, to think of what would come next. How wasn't really important, but who would be everything. Somewhere, a child of Rathen blood had been born, and Soren, as Champion, would have to find that child and protect it. She'd never felt more dismayed.
A sudden hush brought Soren's attention sharply back to her surroundings, and she looked up to see everyone sinking into obeisance. The depth of the courtesies told her who it was even before enough people had moved aside to reveal a medium-sized man clad in a snugly cut demi-robe of pristine white. He was far paler than Aspen, white-blond hair brushed sleekly back from a delicate brow, and it was a current fad of the Court to compare his skin to alabaster. His eyes were sapphire rimmed with dark, made br
illiant by a crystalline blue-white radiating from the pupils, and they missed nothing.
Aristide Couerveur, the Regent's son. She'd never met a man more suited to his position in life. He already wielded as much power as his mother, and when he took the throne he would rule without wavering. Soren wondered who had run to bring him the news that this was no longer true, that the Rathen Rose proclaimed an heir to keep him from rule. There were not many who would have the nerve.
She'd only suffered a single interview with Lord Aristide, the day she'd arrived in Tor Darest. He'd asked her about her background and seemed amused by her answers. Afterwards he'd left her alone, setting a precedent for Soren to be ignored by the power players of the Court just as the previous Champion had been. Duly dismissed.
Whatever the reason, Soren had been eternally grateful for her failure to attract his interest. Darest might adore its Diamond Couerveur, but beneath the open worship was a strong thread of caution. His manners might be mild and exact, his face and figure attractive, but the sweet smile which accompanied his commands did nothing to diminish the consequences for those who crossed him. He might be considered even-handed, primarily interested in the fortunes of the kingdom, but he was also a powerful mage who did not tolerate enemies. And he was never at a loss.
The intense self-possession which characterised the Regent's son had not failed him. The glance he gave the dark rose was only brief and his gaze dropped immediately to Soren and fixed there. There was no sign of displeasure. He even retained a hint of a smile, though he was accounted to want the throne more than life. Then he turned his head a fraction, eyes keeping hold of Soren's as he addressed those who stood behind him.
"You may leave us."
The words were soft-spoken, and had immediate effect. Aching to stay, but not daring to risk provoking even the mildest displeasure in Lord Aristide, the onlookers shuffled back, all but Jansette. Secure in the Regent's favour, or oblivious to the Court's undercurrents, she remained standing at Soren's shoulder.
"You have something to say to me, Lady Denmore?" Lord Aristide asked.
"Not just at this moment, M'Lord," Jansette said, in her unaffected way. "I wish, rather, to ask the Champion about the new heir."
"I see why it is my mother admires you, Lady Denmore." Lord Aristide made some minor adjustment of his demi-robe, so that it fell in perfect folds over his white linen breeches. The steady sapphire gaze shifted from Soren, to her private relief, and took minute catalogue of Jansette. From the tip of the pink embroidered slippers peeping beneath a sheer full robe of figured azure and rose, to the girdle of silver links and modestly high bodice of a demi-robe beneath the near-transparent full robe, Jansette was exquisite, and had a face to match her finery. Physically, she was just the sort of woman Soren found most compelling, but every time she opened her mouth, attraction went out the window.
Lord Aristide showed no sign of being at all undone by artful confection. "Leave us, Lady Denmore," he said, apparently deciding a direct repellent was necessary. "You may question the Champion another time."
"I hope so," Jansette said, turning the corners of her mouth down in a pretty display of confounded will. "You are unaccommodating, M'Lord." She dropped into an elegant courtesy, bobbed politely to Soren, then turned and trailed away. Lord Aristide waited until she had passed through one set of the wrought iron gates which separated the garden from Fleeting Hall, then turned back to Soren, who had risen cautiously to her feet.
"Sorting the former Champion's collection must be a formidable task," he commented, nothing in his voice or manner revealing his feelings about the rose suspended a short way above his head.
"It is indeed, Lord Aristide," Soren replied, having no particular desire to discuss anything with him. There was something inhuman about this man, and she felt a need to show neither pleasure nor fear in his company, no matter how nervous he made her. "Anestan's additions to the Champion's library ranged far outside the traditional lore of her role," she said, the words sounding false and unreal to her. The library? What about the Rose? "I'm trying to winnow it back to the original purpose of the collection."
"Which can be accommodated without the need to stack the shelves three deep and bury the furniture." He inspected Soren as he had Jansette, reminding her of the dust and grime she had accumulated over a morning of sorting. She was wearing leggings and shirt in the dark grey she'd practically been forced to wear by those who oversaw Court regalia, but had left off her surcoat. Countrified and underdressed, she supposed, but there was no point being embarrassed about how she looked. It was what she did which would matter.
"Such a task is beneath your dignity, Champion," she was informed. "I am sure there are others within the Court whose time would be better spent. I will see to it that the collection is returned to its core content during your absence."
"Thank you," Soren said, resisting any impulse to echo "in my absence?", as only a fool would. "It will be useful to be able to find the books it seems I must read."
"Not must, surely? The example of the past might give guidance, but the Champion-Rathen coupling appears to have reinvented itself each time. Absolute loyalty works in many ways."
Impossible to guess what he meant by that, he who had the most to lose by a new-born Rathen heir. Nor was it easy to produce an appropriate response. "A number of the treatises and histories are very dry," she extemporised, still trying to accept the prospect of behaving like a true Rathen Champion.
He made some slight movement, which Soren was hard-put not to react to by stepping back. Then she froze, for a tendril of the Rathen Rose had descended with languorous speed to wrap itself around the slim, white column of his throat. Aristide lifted his chin, but did not seem even surprised by the circumstance. True, the Rose was known to react to attacks, but she had never before seen it execute what appeared to be a quelling threat.
"It will be more than interesting to see the defences of Tor Darest active," Lord Aristide said, still unperturbed. If anything, he seemed perversely entertained by the situation, his eyes glittering. "Much of the palace is bound in magic, enchantments which have lain dormant since the death of King Torluce. Quite impossible to use or modify without the participation of a Rathen."
"Do you want to modify them?" Soren asked, annoyed and dismayed by this contribution from the Rose. How could she bring the conversation to an end with Lord Aristide in a noose? The Rose was not helping in the slightest by reacting to entirely unspoken threats.
To Soren's surprise, the tendril obligingly decamped, unwinding from Lord Aristide's neck and lifting back into the canopy. A thorn had left a scratch, very red against his pale skin, but not deep enough to produce more than a tiny, thread-like droplet.
"Thank you," he said, with a slight inclination of his head, and Soren could not think of a way to convincingly deny any involvement. "Your predecessor showed no sign of being able to effect the palace enchantments," he went on, delicately blotting his throat with the back of one hand. "But perhaps the existence of an heir makes all the difference. Did the Rose react to your will before today?"
"I don't know that it's reacting to me now, Lord Aristide," Soren said. She did not even begin to sound convincing.
"Do you not?" He treated her to the purely sweet, almost rueful smile which made the Court's blood run cold. As if he was chiding some clumsy stratagem which neither impressed nor disturbed him. "When you return with the heir, you should experiment."
"I – perhaps." Soren was starting to feel sick, totally out of her depth. She was far too blunt a person to make embroidery of words. "My apologies, Lord Aristide. It seems I have a great deal to do, and should start immediately." She bowed, employing what skill she had learned since arriving in Tor Darest.
"Of course." He returned her courtesy and stepped aside.
Soren didn't allow herself any unseemly haste as she headed to the gate, though she wanted to hurry, the back of her neck itching. She would have to see the Regent as well, and Arista Couerveu
r was as unnerving as her son. Then–?
"Champion."
"M'Lord?" She stopped and turned, but found it difficult to meet the bright, amused gaze.
"Teraman is a small township in the north-east," he said, with the air of one doing a favour. "Deep in the forest bowers. You will probably find it mentioned in the histories, for several Rathens died near there."
"Thank you, M'Lord." Soren bowed again, feeling none of the gratitude such help should inspire. Lord Aristide knew the birthplace of the child who threatened to displace him. She would have to get there before another Rathen died in Teraman.
Chapter Two
There was something to be said for the conflicted anger tightening Soren's stomach. At least it was familiar. Soren didn't consider herself weak, but she knew her failings. All her life she'd dragged her feet and stumbled through the opportunities her mothers had sent her way because they inspired no spark of certainty, did not draw or repel her, made nothing inside leap up. Nothing fit.
The irony of having the choice made for her by the Rathen Rose had dismayed but not overset her, at least when the future it laid on her involved nothing in particular. Being made Rathen Champion had been a shock, but she'd never questioned her ability to be a living anachronism, for all she resented the worthlessness of the role.
Now a life belonged to her. There was a baby out there she was supposed to protect and support and guide. And Darest. Hardly something she could abandon halfway through because it "didn't feel right". But of all the things she'd thought to be, a true Rathen Champion fit worst. Even starting on the task seemed ludicrous.
Concentrate on the moment. No possible way to put off going to formally notify the Regent. And then–? Go to Teraman. Be Champion. Rise to the occasion. She shook her head at the absurdity of it, then made a brief visit to her rooms to clean off the dust and don one of her surcoats – black with a restrained border of climbing roses in silver and gold thread. It was as close as she could come to girding her loins.
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