Emerging from her rooms into uproar, Soren took a deep breath and strode toward the towering arch which separated Fleeting Hall from the Hall of the Crown. By fixing her gaze on the briar-rose carvings which wound up either side of the arch she was able to avoid anyone catching her eye, but it was not so easy to escape a hand closing firmly on her elbow.
A woman in the livery of one of the Barons. "What is it?" she asked, trying to tread a thin line between polite and brusque.
"Don't you know?" There was an edge of derision, but it was as quickly reined back, replaced with a sudden, cautious courtesy. "Why Champion, I come with–"
"Interruptions," said another voice. "Do you propose keeping the Regent waiting?"
"M'Lady Rothwell," Soren murmured, turning with concealed relief to face a woman of statuesque frame. Another of the power-brokers of the Court, Francesca Rothwell had shown Soren a few moments' kindness when she'd first arrived in Tor Darest, and did her a second favour now, turning Soren back toward the Hall of the Crown.
"Come to me after you've seen the Regent," Lady Rothwell urged, her voice deep and richly persuasive. "There is something I have for you."
"I–" Soren hesitated, then nodded and smiled her thanks. "I will, Lady Rothwell."
"Good girl. Now go."
Soren did as ordered. Others were moving forward, determined or hopeful, but she twisted past them as best she could, and even the most eager did not follow into the Hall of the Crown.
-oOo-
Nothing had changed since the first and last time Soren had ventured into the Rathen throne room. It still felt like a dead place, abandoned and gutted. The dust was so thick on the floor that only faint streaks of pink and gold suggested colourful secrets. Most of the doors were hidden by murky tapestries, the rooms beyond unused since the death of the last Rathen King. Only a faint trickle of natural light crept through the grime miring the windows around the upper gallery, and shadows lurked in all corners, particularly on the twin stairs reaching up and back toward Fleeting Hall. But the blackest reaches were at the far end of the Hall, where the Rathen Throne must stand. All Soren could make out was a vague outline.
When she'd first seen this place, Soren had been perplexed by the neglect. It was true that the enchantments of the palace would prevent any but a Rathen monarch from using the Throne and royal apartments, but why the dust and cobwebs and complete lack of light? Understanding had only come after a few uneasy dreams where she had crossed that darkened hall over and over, hurrying toward the open door to her left where a warm golden glow promised a place without shadows or fear. The effect transported her again, as she stepped over the threshold into the Regent's Court, blinking and inhaling fresh air from open windows, and the scent of flowers and more expensive perfumes.
According to Aspen, what was now the Regent's Court had once been a retiring room for those waiting to be granted an audience, and so was free of Rathen-specific enchantments. It opened onto a private garden and the Regent's apartments, which had similarly once been the preserve of exalted guests. The Couerveurs had created the Regent's Court soon after the death of King Torluce, but Soren gathered that it was Arista Couerveur who had chosen to bring petitioners through dark abandon into a room of light and colour, full of bright tapestries and flowers cut daily.
Adopting as correct a posture as possible, Soren fixed her eyes on the figure sitting upright among a nest of cushions and downy furs on a coppery throne. An audience with the Regent was a chancy thing, for Arista Couerveur had reigned long over ill-luck and decline. In distant Carn Keep, Soren had heard tales of her series of favourites, of her brilliance, her failures, and her inevitable, impending overthrow to her son's ambitions. A month at Court had taught her that the Regent was not mad, nor necessarily inconstant, and that in Darest her will was still law.
She was a small woman, as pale and poised as her son, and looked little more than a decade his senior. Magery. Unlike Aristide, the Regent always dressed in the most sumptuous of robes, all brocade and silk in vivid, glowing colours. Today she wore sunlight on water: white-gold dapples sparkling on myriad shades of blue and green, oversewn with a glitter of her signature emeralds.
"Champion." The Regent spoke before Soren reached the throne, her voice brisk and matter-of-fact. "An animal will be made available for your journey. Do you wish an escort of the Guard?"
Taken aback, Soren instinctively shook her head, then searched for a justification for her reaction. Stupid decision, when she had no combat training whatsoever, but how could she say no and then yes? And, truly, she didn't want an escort.
"Thank you, Lady Regent," she said, abandoning any attempt at a reason. "That won't be necessary."
"As you will." Arista Couerveur's lips curved, and Soren realised that the Regent was not in the slightest way upset by news of the rose. She seemed almost...smug. Pleased by the prospect of an heir to the throne she held in custodianship?
"This is a Writ of Passage," the Regent said, holding out folded parchment bound with red ribbon. "Use it to command any assistance you require."
"Thank you, Lady Regent." The Writ felt stiff and crisp in Soren's hands, and smelled of fresh ink. Soren fidgeted with the ribbon as she found herself being surveyed with more attention than Arista Couerveur had ever before directed her way. It was a little like the sun coming out on a cloudy day, that bright, piercing gaze washing over Soren from head to foot. A judgmental god, weighing and measuring this untried Champion.
"Go make ready," the Regent ordered, not revealing whatever conclusion she'd reached about Soren's capabilities. Soren just bowed, eager to retreat.
"Bring the child back safely, Champion," Arista Couerveur added, as Soren reached the door. There was steel in this command, and Soren was left in little doubt that the Regent wanted the new Rathen heir intact.
Of course, unlike Lord Aristide, the Regent was not truly threatened by a new Rathen. At least another twenty years before the child could take the throne, and that might well encompass the rest of Lady Arista's life. Immortality was not granted to mages, just a lingering youth. It was Aristide Couerveur who had the greatest stake, who would surely do anything and everything he could to prevent the day a Rathen returned light to the Hall of the Crown.
-oOo-
Lady Rothwell's chambers were in the New Palace, built after King Torluce's death and lacking the sense of swooping grandeur provided by high ceilings and arches. Soren had initially thought that residence in the New Palace was a mark of disfavour, that the Regent kept her friends close and accommodated those less pleasing in the compact, utilitarian New Palace. But it was more complicated than that. Arista Couerveur kept her enemies as close as her allies. Lady Rothwell's New Palace apartments were a sign that she was not pivotal to the Court's machinations, despite her family's power and wealth. Neutral.
A white pitch of anticipation followed Soren through the palace, and she was reminded of her first few days in Tor Darest. But then she had only been a curiosity. Now faces turned toward her with avid fascination, and there were even a few following to see where she went.
The attention made her shoulder blades itch, and in her gold-embroidered black it was impossible to avoid notice. With a thousand courtly schemes crumbling in the shadow of a dark flower, few dared show even displeasure when she strode past their attempts to catch her eye. Pleasant as the prospect was of no longer being treated as a joke, Soren's imagination simply ran up against a wall when it came to contemplating her sudden shift of status, the end to her quiet skulking about the political fringe. The Champion had once been a force to be reckoned with. The first Champion, Kittredge, had been Domina Rathen's most trusted guardswoman. Kittredge had stood by the mage-queen's side as she established her realm, and had been woven into Darest's defences. At Darest's height, to become Champion was the wish of every Darien child, for it brought power and acclaim and honour in equal measure, to balance a world of responsibilities. All Rathens were mages, but the Champion could be friend, ad
viser, teacher, lover, sibling. Whatever that Rathen needed most, whatever would make that Rathen stronger. The Champion was the realm's protector, second in consequence only to the one who sat the throne.
Domina Rathen had created a process which did not allow for variation. For every Rathen ruler, a Champion would be found: proclaimed by magic, some even said shaped by magic. For the last two hundred years, there had been no Rathens, but the enchantments continued to find Champions. The four who had been proclaimed since the death of King Torluce were nothing but reminders of Darest's former glories.
And now a single rose threatened to change all that.
So was she to have some kind of mentor role to Darest's next ruler? Parenting mightn't be that bad, with the help of the child's mother, but Soren knew little of state-craft. And she had no taste to match swords with Aristide Couerveur, to be shoved to the centre of Court intrigue.
With this daunting prospect in mind, she was ushered into a receiving room where Francesca Rothwell waited alone, a long, linen-wrapped bundle on a table before her.
"Champion." Lady Rothwell smiled her welcome and indicated a seat for Soren. "I will not take a great deal of your time."
"I'm curious to know what it is you have for me," Soren said, though she had not till that moment thought about it. Trying to work out how a Rathen child could be born without a Rathen parent had proven more engrossing.
"This." Lady Rothwell indicated the bundle which lay between them. "It's been in my family's possession for a long time now." She gestured for Soren to unwrap it.
Already uncertain, Soren almost snatched her hands back when her fingers grazed something which sent a wave of pins and needles through her skin. Her hands recognised this, whatever it was. It was like encountering a lost limb, all unexpected.
Despite wanting to feel such surety for half her life, Soren was slow to continue. It pulled you off-balance, something like that, and her head hadn't stopped spinning since Aspen had made his triumphal revelation. But she couldn't sit here quailing before Lady Rothwell. Gingerly, she picked the last of the wrappings away.
The sheath was dull with age and care, the hilt softened by braided leather strips which had seen the touch of many hands. Soren did not draw it, did not even want to pick it up, not when it insisted on telling her she'd been missing it all her life. She had not.
"I'm not a swordswoman, Lady Rothwell." And had no desire to be, whatever protection a blade might offer.
"Indeed, not all the Champions were. Its power is as much as a symbol as a weapon. This was Kittredge's sword."
The first Champion. It was an ancient thing, then, and probably bound up in all the magic which surrounded Soren's position. Probably. No probably at all. This thing was trumpeting its presence at her.
"How did it come to your family, M'Lady?" she asked, trying to control an urge to clasp the sword close. That was far more unnerving than Lord Aristide and the Regent put together.
"King Torluce's Champion survived him for several years and he was of the Rothwell line. When the first Rathenless Champion was proclaimed, the sword was in the hands of the family, and they did not consider it necessary – did not want, to be truthful – to give it up." Lady Rothwell leaned forward to brush her fingers against the binding. "So much history. A symbol of the way things were."
The way things were during the reign of the Rathen mages was a popular subject no-one discussed. Not publicly, at least. The Couerveurs had not been incompetent regents, but some vital balance had been upset with King Torluce's death. Encroached upon by The Deeping to the east and aggressive trade from the west, Darest was unlucky, cursed, at the very least no longer the power it had once been. Too much had been bound into a single bloodline, too many treaties, too many enchantments. A wealth of tradition and trust and inspiration. Without the Rathens, Darest had begun to fail, had now been altered almost beyond recognition. Few spoke about the decline, let alone put forward any ideas on how to arrest it. They muttered of Fae curses and did nothing.
How did a new-born Rathen come into this setting? And how in the world was Soren supposed to be any of the things a Champion was meant to be, when she was neither mage nor armswoman nor courtier? Just Soren.
Why had the Rose chosen her to be Champion? She'd never had a calling, never shown a particular talent for anything. Unlike brother Romadin, she'd been an indifferent student, capable of following their two mothers along the musty path of scholarship but not of devoting herself to it. Nor had she felt the urge to join her sister Rain and their father plying the sea-routes. Soren had never excelled, never loved anything enough to want to do it her whole life. She had a level of learning, after so many conscientious lessons, and knew her way around boats and trade-logs, but they were not her vocation, any more than the herding or the herb-craft or the fishing which she had tried as her blood-mother sought a pigeonhole to fit her in. Competent at many things, master of none, she'd been Carn Keep's maid-of-all-work, neither satisfied nor disconsolate with her lot. She knew how to bind a book and cast a line, and had no interest whatsoever in politics.
And would get nowhere trying to out-fish Aristide Couerveur.
Soren picked up the sword, her eyes half-closing at the unexpected and quite physical pleasure which flowed through her grip on the hilt. Her entire body tingled. The thing was most definitely hers; now what was she going to do with it?
Whether she was the stuff of Champions, or capable of wielding a sword, Soren had no option but to at least attempt to save the Rathen child. Despite the machinations of the Court, she would have to mark her own course. And believe it wouldn't end in disaster.
Chapter Three
"Her name's Vixen, Champion."
Soren looked the mare over dubiously. A far cry from the sturdy former plough-horse she'd been permitted to ride back at Carn Keep. Not so many hands high, but Cob had been an imperturbable mound of a horse who would never think of shying or bolting. This showy bay pranced about the stable yard, tossing her head and apparently attempting to master the latest dance step. Being thrown was not how Soren wished to start her attempt to fulfil the role of Champion. Just starting was bad enough.
"She don't buck," put in the stableboy, apparently delighted to witness the Rathen Champion setting out. "She'll see you halfway to the Tongue before you know it."
And save the kingdom before afternoon tea? Perhaps, if she'd just stop still long enough for a horse-clumsy Champion to get on board.
To Soren's surprise, the boy proved right. Though peculiarly sensitive to anything which rattled, Vixen was well-trained, with an even gait kind to riders long out of practice. Her worst fault was an inclination to try and work open saddlebags left too handily in reach.
The first thing Soren did, once through the palace gates, was thrust her surcoat to the very bottom of those bags. She had no intention of riding about the countryside in clothing which announced her identity to every passer-by. The charcoal-grey shirt and leggings would serve her well enough, and she could purchase other clothing along the way.
After that, Soren tried to deal with the sword, but it refused point-blank to stay settled on anything but Soren, falling loose or poking stubbornly from every other place she tried to fasten it. She eventually gave in and used the harness Lady Rothwell had provided to strap it across her back, feeling boastful. It was heavy, but at the end of the first day she found herself reluctant to take it off, despite how little she liked its continued insistence that it was hers and that she was terribly glad to have it.
Planning for the future became a matter of working out everything she should do and then drawing a line through the things which she'd be stupid to attempt. The first item she'd eliminated was returning to Tor Darest. Soren was tolerably certain she wouldn't be able to protect herself in the capital, let alone a child with a claim to the throne. Even if she credited Aristide Couerveur with every virtue in the world, he was not the only interest at Court with a stake in a Rathen child's sudden death. The few allies
she thought she could count on – Lady Rothwell and possibly Aspen – would not be enough to ensure the child saw its first birthday, let alone twenty and the Crown.
Which meant the best thing Soren could do was find this new Rathen heir and then somewhere to hide. For a very long time.
Going home was out of the question: she would not bring Court intrigue to a scholar's retreat, and Carn Keep was the first place anyone would look. For a moment she amused herself with the thought of descending on Tscharen, babe in arms. But Tscharen had a son of her own now, and would hardly welcome an old lover with a kingdom's worth of enemies in tow. It would have to be some anonymous place where a young woman and a child could lose themselves, in a crowd or a wilderness. A crowd would probably be better. She would have to leave Darest.
The prospect was both exciting and appalling. So many places she'd never seen, so many things which could go wrong.
There was a great deal of choice to the West. Sax and Ceria, Darest's nearest neighbours and probably too close. Jutland, beyond the northwest mountains, was out of the question. Raising the next ruler of Darest as a nomadic plainsman was surely not a good idea. Korm was too clannish, Skrem too violent. Perhaps Cya? But Cya and Sax were pushing hard against each other and Darest. She'd be mad to take Darest's heir into their territory.
South across the ocean would be too risky during the next few months, when every port would be watched. To the north and east, Darest was bounded by The Deeping, where few humans were permitted to live. Even if she could gain permission, there would be little safety to be found in the sprawling realm of the Old Race, called the Fair or the Fae or elves or a half-dozen other things. They had their own games of politics, and enchantments which made the Rathen Rose seem tame. And for all their rules and laws, she'd heard too much about Fae curses and their wish to reclaim their gift-kingdom to trust them with its heir.
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