Strake read with the same expression he wore when watching sunsets. Engrossed, introspective, those long, blue-black eyes still markedly cynical, but the hostile irritability absent. He held himself with a loose-limbed poise, and was attractive in a way which was signally his own. Amazing the mix of sick dismay and pain the sight of him could conjure.
But despite the Rose's efforts, despite her own heart-felt wish not to, she still felt a curl of desire when she looked at him. Even without being King, he'd soon have half the Court after him. She did not think that she would enjoy watching the inevitable attempts, any more than she was going to find any pleasure in talking to him now. Because he was her Rathen, just as the sword was her sword. She kept recognising him in some fundamental way that she thoroughly distrusted. Not dealing with him didn't seem to be an option, no matter how much he went out of his way to make her not want to. No matter how thoroughly she'd failed him.
Memory of that violation was a gaping chasm between them, which no words could possibly mend. If she could undo the last day, if she could have lived up to the role forced upon her– She wished she understood why she was Champion, when she was patently a less than adequate protector, and nothing like a courtier, able to smooth over such a savage rift. But with little choice but to stumble on.
"Does that, by any chance, detail the supposed abilities of the Rathen Champions?"
He looked up, and for a moment barely seemed to recognise Soren in her embroidered black surcoat. But the now familiar anger was quick to follow, a shutter slamming furiously in her face.
Then he sighed and looked resigned. Sitting back, he snapped the book shut and gestured at the chair which faced his. "It's a journal of the last of the true Champions," he said, as she sat down. "Most of them kept some kind of record. This one covers the arrangements made after Torluce's death, but it's circumspect, to say the least. An occupational hazard. I doubt you'll find anything conveniently written down."
Last of the true Champions? She couldn't deny it.
"What did the Champion of your time do?" Soren asked, making herself be glad to be dealing with a person rather than an ill-natured storm. Being alone with him was desperately uncomfortable, but this had to be faced. "What was publicly known?"
Strake shook his head, but then said: "The Champion concerned himself mainly with directing the Captain of the Guard. When my aunt travelled, he would create the ward I showed you, and it's well known that the Rose detects poison. No-one was obliging enough to directly assault my aunt while I was around." He paused, as if entertained by the idea. "Still, he also enforced her rule of peace within the family, which was a challenge given our tendency to offend each other. Lockren would always know when matters had reached the point of daggers-drawn, and find his way to us before we'd managed a fatality. It was impossible to lock him out."
This image of constantly warring Rathens went some way toward explaining how the family had died out, dozens perishing in a few short decades. Soren tried to picture it: mages with blue-black eyes filling every corner of the palace, vying and clashing, kept in order by the Champion. If they'd all had Strake's temperament, it would have been more than a challenge.
"How did he stop you?" she asked, wonderingly.
"His mere presence was usually enough to damp matters down. But he was also a painfully expert swordsman and on occasion we saw the flat of his blade." Strake half-smiled at the memory, then frowned at her. "You're not wearing Kittredge's sword."
"My back is bruised," Soren replied, unwilling but unflinching. It was a question she'd anticipated and he reacted just as she'd predicted. The shutter slammed down, locking them in mortified silence.
The red lines on Soren's wrists throbbed, refusing to let her forget her own anger, the helpless fury at being made a puppet by the Rose, the shame and violation she would have to face. But that assault did not change the political forces shifting to accommodate a sudden King, did not spare her time to recover and reconcile. "What about outside the palace?" she asked, hoping in her blundering way to distract him back on course.
Strake had turned his head so he was no longer looking directly at her. She watched the muscles shift in his face, but could only wait, and curse the Rose. Images of the palace began to infiltrate her thoughts: the scourers hard at work, Aspen sorting through a pile of old books, Fleeting Hall unusually busy, children fighting a battle with fallen leaves in the east garden. Lord Aristide, alone and unsmiling–
She could push the images away and they would become background, a flicker at the far corner of her attention, but it did not seem possible to banish them.
"We had better luck prosecuting our little feuds outside the palace," he said, sooner than she expected. He was still not looking at her, and the air of quiet ease was gone altogether, but he was talking. "Even then Lockren would too often interfere. He was not a mage, and occasionally we attempted to disguise our activities, but with negligible success. We never attempted to strike at him directly. The reputation of the Rathen Champion was formidable enough."
"But the stories are so unspecific," Soren said, looking at him steadily, refusing to give in to squirming discomfort. "I'm constantly told that the Champion controls the protections of the palace, but the only visible weapon is in the Garden of the Rose itself – the canes strike at anyone who tries to interfere with it. While there are endless murky tales of thieves who have tried to loot the sealed apartments since Torluce's death, never to be seen again, I can't actually see any evidence of...I don't know. Traps doors or spikes, aside from a couple of locks which actually are snares. If there's enchantments set for the Champion to use to eviscerate stray assassins, I don't seem to be able to touch them."
"You said you could keep the cleaners safe," Strake pointed out, at last looking back at her. But the constraint hadn't gone, wasn't ever likely to.
"I think I can," Soren said, struggling with guilt and an overwhelming sense of incompetence. "I'm not altogether sure I could attack them, though." She frowned into the distance, but didn't make the attempt, scared of accidentally killing someone. "Hardly the thing to experiment with."
"I'll try to oblige you with an attack." Dark eyes flickered, and he took a breath before going on. "My aunt's Champion was uncannily omniscient, but since he was so thick with the Captain of the Guard, we could never be certain if that was thanks to informants or the Rose. It seems that you telling me what the Champion can do would be more productive than the other way around."
Soren nodded. "I can see everyone," she replied, watching Lord Aristide cross Fleeting Hall, beautifully indifferent to the ever-increasing crowd. "I can see all of the palace, and even just outside it. Anything within sight of the walls, I suppose." She tried looking out over the city and the bay from the palace roof and shook her head. "No distance. I can see about five feet from the wall, not even to the stables or the New Palace."
"New palace?" Strake repeated, evidently more surprised at this last than anything which had preceded it.
"Built just after Torluce's death," Soren explained. "I suppose because so much of the Old Palace had been sealed off."
"Where?" he asked, looking unexpectedly worried.
Soren gestured generally east. "Past the stables. It's more an extension than anything else, for it's mainly residences and connected to the Old Palace by Dathan's Walk. It has its own kitchens and laundries." She looked in subdued astonishment at the tight, closed expression of pain on his face. "What was there before?"
"Gardens. A small wood, for riding." It was apparent that Strake could scarcely believe they were gone. "Is there anything else I should know?" he asked, with an angry, disgusted bite to the words. "Have they turned the Temple of the Moon into an out-house, perhaps? Planted turnips over the floral clock?"
"Floral clock?" Soren repeated carefully, and his eyes flashed angry-bright before he slumped, and waved a hand in negation.
"I see I shall need to tour the premises sooner rather than later. And the city. What conditio
n are the royal apartments in?"
"Dusty," Soren replied, watching him lock obvious hurt away until he merely looked a little more cynical than usual. "Mould and spider-webs and dirt. I couldn't see signs of mice, though it was obvious moths in plenty had made it their home. Anything of cloth, and much of the furnishings are in a bad way, but the structure itself just needs cleaning."
"It takes something to damage. So, you can see everything within the walls? What's the Regent occupying herself with?"
"Talking with the Lord Marshall," Soren replied. "She's set her servants to cleaning out the room which has served as an alternate throne room." She narrowed her eyes, watching the packing. "It rather looks like she's planning to move to a different part of the palace altogether."
"Saves encouraging her to go. Can you see the Treasury? Or the 'old Treasury' as I've no doubt it's known? Is there anything left in it?"
After surveying the shut-away rooms, which constituted practically a third of the palace, Soren decided the one just south of the Hall of the Crown was the old Treasury. It certainly had a formidable door. "Chests," she said, after a moment. "I don't know what's in them. Tables with things on them, weapons in racks on the walls, some rusting, some not. Why would they leave all these things there?"
"The throne isn't the only thing which is Rathen-specific," Strake replied, the edge back. "What else can you do?"
"Open and close locks, doors, windows," Soren said, moving the hall door by way of demonstration. Muscles supplied by the Rose. She could easily have sprung every lock in the palace while lying in the bath. "I think I could turn on those lights in the Hall of the Crown, and the plumbing in the rooms which have it. I stopped the bells. I don't seem to be able to shift anything which isn't meant to be moved."
"What are the Regent and the Lord Marshall talking about?"
Soren shook her head. "I can't hear what people say at all. It's not even like I'm really seeing the inhabitants of the palace. Painted dolls, performing behind a wall of glass. A puppet show." Full of embarrassing detail. She had managed not to watch Strake bathe, refused to even think about the privies, and had enough hard detail on who was sleeping with whom to keep Aspen busy for a year.
And, like any drama with several hundred players, there was far too much going on at once. If her mind was on Aspen, busy admiring himself in a mirror, she did not see what Aristide did until her attention flicked to him and found him talking to one of the Barons – Peveric. A hasty alliance? Aristide was looking as amused as ever, and Peveric solidly commanding. He made some gesture with his hand, and turned away. If they had sealed some bargain, Soren could not decipher it.
"No sound at all," she repeated, then added cautiously: "But I can hear you breathing."
As she'd expected, the shutter slammed up. "Breathing?"
"It's how I knew where you were in the forest," she said, keeping her voice as matter-of-fact as possible. "Wherever you are, I seem to be able to hear you breathe, know where you are. I still can't hear what you say, though," she reassured him. "Sometimes I can hear the breath of other people–" She paused, and tried to locate Jansette Denmore by her breathing, but that did not work. "When you were watching my window, I could hear the other people watching me, and I could hear the thing hunting you–"
"You could?" He sat up straight, as if this was the last thing he was expecting. "Are you certain?"
"Very," Soren replied, not knowing what to make of this latest development. "The Rose was having hysterics. The thing came and looked at me first – it wasn't more than a dozen feet away – and then it went straight after you."
"You're sure?" He seemed only half conscious of her presence, too caught up in rapid thought. "Could you see it?"
"No." Soren was silent, eyes on his. Her expression would say it all. You know more than I do. You need to explain.
She waited.
"We were visiting Aramond," Strake said finally, staring at a point well to Soren's left. Voice, expression, posture: all were eloquent of his reluctance, of the effort it took him to speak. "My cousin, Sethane, was courting the Baron of The Oaks. We'd been there some weeks when a report came of an attack out of The Deeping. A farmer cut to pieces, not two feet from where her husband was preparing dinner.
"A message from Tor Darest came close behind. There had been deaths within The Deeping. The Tzel Aviar had tracked the killer across the border and requested permission to pursue into Darest. A joint hunt was arranged, and we headed for Teraman."
He shifted in the chair, turning the book he held over, smoothing its discoloured cover. The Tzel Aviar, or 'Warden of the Borders', was an official of the Fair who dealt with problems caused by Deeping magic straying into neighbouring territories. Soren only knew that the current Tzel Aviar was a man reputed to loathe humans, and certainly hadn't done anything about the incursion of trees.
"We couldn't track it by magic," Strake said, a small vertical line appearing between his brows. "Even the Tzel Aviar could do no more than hunt the faint physical traces it left, and follow its kills. We could not tell if it was man or beast. Not a troll, as the Tzel Aviar first believed. Its victims were ripped by claws, but it did not feast. No troll would behave so.
"After treating a bullock and a child the same as the farmer, it turned back to The Deeping. And we followed. A frustrating journey – we seemed to constantly blunder past it no matter our precautions, and by the time we would find its track again it would be hours ahead. Eularin, the Tzel Aviar, suspected that it was heading for the citadel of Seldeering, some five days on. She suggested an ambush."
Another pause. He was gripping the book tightly now, its boards cutting into his fingers. "There was one logical point, a trail up an escarpment. We set wards and laid a web of spells which would hold fast anything larger than a rabbit. And waited.
"Two days later, the escarpment exploded. No warning at all, just a loud noise as rock flew in all directions. I was one of the few not injured. The Tzel Aviar was killed outright, some of the horses, two retainers." Those long dark eyes were bleak, but he continued the story in the same forced, flat tone. "We found traces of blood where we'd laid our trap, but no corpse. No blood-trail. No way to tell whether the hunt had achieved its aim. We had too many injured to continue. We set out for Teraman.
"Four days from the border, we woke to find the Baron of The Oaks spread in pieces around the camp. No sign at all of the guardsman set to watch. Or our horses." He looked at her then, for the first time since he'd started speaking. Just a quick glance, to check her expression perhaps. Soren was sure she was pale, her face as set as his. She had no idea what to do or say.
"The blood was still wet," Strake went on. "Still warm. Sethane summoned keleyards. You know what those are?"
Soren had heard of them. "A weapon of spirit," she faltered. "Will and magic."
He nodded. "They look a little like hawks. Or blades. Or sunlight. They circled out from the camp, ready to strike anything which moved. Vanished among the trees." He paused, lips forming a word, then he lifted one hand, fingers splayed, spoke soft words. An image spun into existence, a woman standing among golden trees. Her face was bruised, and tears streaked her cheeks, but her eyes, long and blue-black, were full of cold, furious determination. A hunter's resolve.
Then her eyes widened and she threw up one hand. And fell, crumpling into a heap, her image melting into a glimmer of light on the rug.
"We could not revive her," Strake said, and his voice shook with an effort he could not hide. He was sweating, sitting as if he endured some torture, an ordeal far greater than words.
"She was cold, as if she had been dead for hours. While we covered her body the last two retainers broke and ran. There was a sound, a branch breaking, a scream cut short. I stood with Vahse, another cousin. Back to back, swords at ready. There were no trees close, no way for anything to approach unseen. We heard another scream, far distant, then...birdsong.
"Birdsong?" Soren repeated, unable to help herself. She ha
d to fight down the need to tell him to stop, to apologise for asking, to reach out.
Long eyes closed, opened. For a moment she thought he wouldn't go on, then, in a thread of a voice: "The forest did not care what was happening, did not seem to notice. Birds called. There was a lark. Not close, but very clear. We stood there, waiting for something to find and kill us, listening. There is an almost frantic elation to the song of a lark. I could feel the press of Vahse's shoulders, warm against mine. The trees were in Autumn dress, the wind only light as it rattled the leaves. Vahse made the smallest sound, as if he had choked, and jerked against me. His elbow hit my ribs."
He hung there, on that memory, staring into the past as if it were about to fall on him. Then he hurried to the end, plainly bent on getting the tale over with. "I could smell the blood even as I spun. I cast as I turned, pushing everything behind me away, panicking. I caught a glimpse of Vahse's body, split and tumbling among whirling leaves. Golden. Red specks, liquid shining. I did not see what killed him. Not at all." The words choked to a stop.
"What happened then?" Soren asked, when it seemed he would not go on.
"I don't know." Strake was white. He reached down to place the book on the top of the pile, and she could see marks on his palms from where he had been gripping it. Then he straightened, as if that simple action had put everything at a distance, and his voice was stronger after.
"Everything around me kept changing, dark and light. Trees of every sort. I don't remember walking, but I always seemed to be in a different place. There were people, a dozen or so, just glimpses. It lasted a handful of moments, no more. Then–" He shrugged. "I'd lost the sword, had a scattering of coin in one pocket. No blood, no bodies, no creature. I wandered several days, then found the road to Teraman. Found myself a Champion."
The words were incalculably bitter. He gazed across at her, a muscle jumping in his jaw. "Are you carrying my child?"
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