Champion of the Rose - Kobo Ebook

by Andrea K Höst

  "After," Soren told him, refusing to make it sound like an admission.

  There was no suggestion of triumph in Aristide's manner. "So it becomes a matter of whether you are doomed because the Rose cannot, or will not, protect you. But a setherin construct–"

  "– might have the potential to accrue some semblance of self, after centuries of existence." Strake's unquiet temper showed in those long, dark eyes, and he focused on filling his plate before continuing. "Or perhaps it was the long dormant period after the death of Torluce, when it lay neglected and festering...or starving. The runes are still clear, but it could have warped, or grown beyond them somehow. In either case it would still be constrained by the original bounds of the setherin."

  "If it has awakened." Aristide was sceptical. "What gain in destroying the bloodline? What advantage in seeing you dead?"

  "What cost in saving me?" Strake looked back at Soren, his expression better suited to the study of a canker which must be burnt out. "Suffice to say that we don't know whether the Rose was aware of this morning's attack before the Champion discovered it."

  "But it was definitely aware of the thing chasing us about the Tongue." Soren pushed her plate aside. "And it did not feel at all like a set of conflicting instructions. I think it was terrified."

  "Or trying to terrify you."

  Soren considered that initial dizziness, the trepidation she'd felt whenever she came too close to Strake, and thought that was more likely a side-effect of these conflicting orders. The jangling panic when the creature approached, so much stronger and more obviously alien to Soren's mind, had been overwhelmingly intense. She felt strangely impatient with this conversation, with her own hatred of what the Rose had done, of the myriad problems of Strake's kingship. She wanted Vixen back.

  "At any rate, I felt nothing at all from it this morning," she said tersely. "And can't remember anything unusual during the night. The Rose's motives, or lack of them, seem. less important than finding the thing that killed Vixen – man or monster – and stopping it from killing you."

  "One might lead to the other," Aristide said. His eyes reflected the morning light. "However, my first summation of the black rose has not changed. If the threat is linked to The Deeping, then a solution should be sought there. Contact the Tzel Aviar."

  Strake's mouth flattened. "The same Tzel Aviar who has done nothing to stem the incursion of trees over the border?"

  Aristide smiled, that peculiarly appreciative expression this time. "Before relations with The Deeping soured, the previous Tzel Aviar was called on twice in regard to the Tongue. The trees themselves cannot be proven magical. No overarching enchantment was found to be active." He shrugged, fluid dismissal. "In my lifetime, we have never officially called on Tzel Damaris, although he has dealt with occasional cases which have strayed into Darien territory. Possibly he would deal with the Tongue as ineffectively as his predecessor. And, indeed, every single mage who has made the attempt, including most of the Couerveur line."

  "I do not care to bring the Fair into this matter," Strake said, obstinately. "Tzel Eularin was not able to track the killer." He paused, and looked frustrated. "But I concede that despatching a Deeping creature without the Tzel Aviar's sanction is not a diplomatic start."

  "It will be remembered, at least, no matter how inimical your stalker. There is considerable pressure within The Deeping to close their borders completely." Aristide had taken up his mug once again, and was regarding his own reflection in the steaming liquid. "Queen Desteret does not openly favour the insular factions, but she has long allowed policies keeping humans out of The Deeping to gain strength." He rose abruptly. "If you would excuse me one moment?"

  Strake waited until Aristide had left the room, then turned to Soren. "What do you know of this current Tzel Aviar?"

  Soren looked at him in surprise. "Lord Aristide visited The Deeping during his training. He knows vastly more about the Fair than I."

  "And he considers it important for Darest to have The Deeping as an ally," Strake said irritably. "I don't want circumspect answers trying to point me in a particular direction."

  Soren was surprised at the implied trust, and supposed she should be pleased Strake retained a reserve about Aristide. Then he added: "Besides, I was hoping for another gem of country wisdom from your mother."

  Thinking of her dryly acerbic heart-mother, it was hard not to smile. "My mother says that the Fair are people like us," she said. "Just people who happen to live several hundred years among the kind of magic most of us encounter only in legend. She says avoiding them is the best thing you can do."

  "Not unreasonable. But not entirely practical. What of this Tzel Aviar?"

  "They call him the Indifference." Strake quirked an eyebrow, but Soren's attention was momentarily drawn by Aristide in his bedroom, leafing through a number of books. Many of the pages were covered in intricate patterns, others with neat writing. He'd taken them from a panel concealed within the head of his bed.

  "Indifferent to his duties?" Strake prompted, ever impatient.

  "Suitors. He's said to be out of the ordinary, even among the Fair." She shrugged. "Carn Keep isn't exactly on The Deeping border, so I've barely seen any Fair at all – but there's a great many rumours about the man. Said to be a superb mage. Said to despise humans. Said to have been made Tzel Aviar as a punishment."

  "For?"

  "Feel free to ask him." Soren shook her head, watching Aristide leaving his room, book in hand. "He's held the position for something like eighty years. Whatever happened, it was long ago."

  The wrong thing to say. Strake's face closed, just in time for Aristide's return. Soren regretfully watched Aristide survey their expressions, then turned her attention back to shredding her breakfast. She couldn't worry herself to the bone every time she upset Strake. He was only her King.

  "This is the Tzel Aviar's sigil," Aristide said, placing the book on the table. It was open to a page dominated by a complex knot of Deeping writing, with 'Tzel Damaris' beneath it in Aristide's compact hand. "The request would best come from you."

  Strake seemed still inclined not to make the request at all, but picked the book up without protest and rose to stand by the window. Fingers resting on the symbol, he frowned down into the garden as he cast.

  Difficult to guess how long this would take. Soren stared at her Rathen's intent face and tried to remember the peace the Moon had brought her.

  "Is my table so displeasing, Champion?"

  Startled, she turned back to Aristide. He tilted a glance in the direction of her plate of bread-crumbs.

  "No insult meant, Lord Aristide," she responded shortly. "I have no appetite."

  "Understandable. And the Court will greatly appreciate the drama of a fainting Champion."

  Soren wondered if Aristide had some misplaced idea of a pregnant woman needing to eat constantly. Or if he was just entertaining himself, baiting her. To get him to turn that blandly solicitous expression somewhere else, she took a piece of fruit and began to dissect it, but that only brought a spark of unholy amusement to his eyes.

  "Does Baron Mogath have cause enough for treason?" she asked then, but did not have the satisfaction of surprising the Diamond.

  "Mogath is not likely to involve himself in something as risky as regicide," he replied promptly. "For all he stands to lose if The Deeping thaws to us." An eyebrow quirked. "Everett Rothwell is under observation."

  He was bland again, but Soren thought she heard the condescension of a master not interested in fencing with beginners. What was she to Aristide, after all, but some coastal girl who'd been transplanted out of her element? She was nothing but a conduit for the Rose's power; a vessel. Champion Brood Mare.

  On the other hand, she'd be underestimating Aristide in turn to think he'd discount her. More than likely he was looking to the long game again, beginning to prepare the ground for working with her after Strake's probable demise. Soren sighed inwardly, wishing herself well away from this place whe
re everyone's motives had to be second-guessed.

  Then Strake turned from the window, handed the book to Aristide, and said: "He is coming."

  Chapter Seventeen

  Even a Deeping mage could not travel to Tor Darest in moments. The Tzel Aviar had told Strake three days, which palace security hurried to fill with patrols, searches and impressive energy. So far the result was precisely nothing, but that nothing at least included no more corpses. Soren spent less time following Strake about and more watching him and the palace in her head, trying to settle on how the Rathen Champion could meet the threat of murder.

  "Are you absolutely, positively certain you wouldn't like me to carry you off for an afternoon of lust and abandon?"

  "Do you think you could lift me?" Soren was by no means small or delicate.

  "With the right motivation I expect I could stagger all the way to the couch," Aspen said, and shook his head when she laughed. "You do my pride no good at all, nixie."

  "You're beyond injury."

  "Cruel, cruel."

  Aspen was a welcome distraction, outrageously flirtatious as he attempted to turn her thoughts from death. When a faint clink of crockery heralded Halcean's arrival, he broke off, then adopted a sprawling and over-comfortable position in his chair. Eyes dancing with unconcealed glee, he held a hand out imperiously for a steaming, spice-scented mug. Taunting Soren's aide had become his latest fad.

  "Join us, Halcean," Soren ordered, accepting her own mug. While Halcean went to fetch another, she pulled a face at Aspen and murmured: "Stop it."

  "No need to take up cudgels, my delight. She's well able to fight her own battles." But he sat a little straighter in the wing-back chair, and made a demure play of devotion to his cider as Halcean returned.

  "You move rooms tomorrow?"

  "Sadly. Too much to hope the Diamond would allow me to lurk about the wainscoting much longer. His sterling Robar has tidied me off to some remote corner of nowhere, quite as far from anything interesting as it's possible to be. And all my dreams of a sudden midnight encounter came to naught. I'm fated never to know if half the things they whisper about the Diamond are true." He tossed up a hand in mock despair, then sobered. "No news on other fronts. Endless speculation, but no-one willing to accuse, let alone put their hand up to slaughter. Not even a popular candidate, beyond this Deeping hobgoblin.

  "The only change–" He made a moue of distaste. "There's been a revelation among the more poetic that our divine Aluster's rose is a very black shade of red, which does not at all fit with the descriptions and pictures history's left us. There's no limit to the speculation around that. The wisest heads have concluded that it reflects the nature of our new ruler, and predict dire events and calamities."

  That would teach Strake for his thunder-cloud humours.

  "You knew that one already," Aspen said, watching her closely. "I see I'll have to scare up something truly original for you."

  "Or concoct it," Halcean murmured, softly enough that Aspen could pretend he hadn't heard. The look he gave her suggested their game of rivalry was about to be taken up a notch.

  "Aspen, can you tell if a person's a mage?"

  The quiet, grim tone almost drew corresponding gravity. "Not casually. Not unless they're casting, when I'd be able to feel the current of worked power. You can test a person you suspect of being a mage, if you've the time and energy and they don't hit you for your insolence, but since magic is everywhere, in everything and everyone, even tests can be wrong. The simplest way to know a mage is to keep track of the children of mages, the students of mages, and everyone who's ever cast publicly."

  "And if I wanted to keep an eye out for mages casting? Could I tell?"

  "Not a true-mage. I presume you don't mean a word-mage or, Sun forbid, a blood-mage?"

  "Would I always be able to tell if one of them were casting?"

  "If you were in the room, surely. No-one can mistake the sound of spoken magic, and I'd hope you'd notice if someone started etching runes about the place or sacrificing some hapless creature for summon-price. They could use a trigger spell, but trigger spells are hard, and unless you're really good they tend to...swell. They want to finish themselves, you see, and they push at you and unless you've said every word just right and left absolutely no wriggle room, you can't keep them in order too long."

  "But still, I need to be able to tell if someone's casting – whether they're a true-mage or a word-mage with a trigger spell or whatever. Could you teach me?"

  "You–" Aspen was imperfectly hiding his sympathy. "I suppose – yes and no. It's within the bounds of possibility. Anyone with a tongue can learn to be a word-mage, after all, and a spell could give a word-mage something of the senses of a true-mage. I could look for one, could even try to write one. How long it would take you to learn to cast it... It's a truly bad idea to cast without comprehension. No-one ever really finds a scroll, reads it and has the spell work. You have to pronounce everything just right, and what you think you're saying has an immense effect on your result. For such an exact language, there's a lot of shades of meaning in elachar. I could cast and maintain the spell for you. But–" He stopped, let his breath out. "You serve a Rathen mage, Soren. The Diamond supports him. Half the mages in Darest are in the palace, ready to point a finger at any intruding mage. Don't you think the threat of magic's sufficiently covered?"

  "Do you? Truly?"

  He wrinkled his nose at her. "Don't ask me for honesty when I'm trying to be reassuring."

  "Even if all the known mages in the palace were going to leap to the King's defence, you just said that anyone could be a mage. Anyone could be Vixen's killer. Or another killer. The King certainly has a better chance of spotting a spell-caster than I, but I'm not always with him. And I want to–" Contribute. She didn't say it, didn't want to know how well Aspen thought the title of Champion fit Soren Armitage.

  "You may be certain I'll leap to the divine Aluster's defence, at any rate," Aspen said, draining his mug. "How could I pass up the chance to win his gratitude? Let alone yours?" He stood, and bowed elegantly enough to rival the Diamond. "I must off. Do send word if you reconsider." With a final pert flourish for Halcean's benefit, he left.

  "Lord Aristide's factotum found him rooms overlooking the barracks practice yard," Halcean said, when they were safely alone. "Noisy, but with a view."

  Soren grinned. Aspen was sure to wax poetic about the morning exercises. But the time for lightness was past. "And have you narrowed on any candidates?" she asked.

  "No." Halcean met her eyes with characteristic directness. "But I still don't think it's this monster out of the past. One that creeps into palace grounds unseen, kills a horse, then leaves just as quietly? There's no reason at all to believe the thing survived into the future as King Aluster did. You're right to concentrate on mages."

  Not keen to discuss night-time encounters, Soren sipped at her cooling cider, inhaling apple and spice. "I'm told there's few capable of turning divinations."

  "In Darest." Halcean's tone was derisive, and she caught herself up, ducking her head. "You'd only need one, true enough."

  "Have you heard the same as Aspen about the black rose?"

  Her aide hesitated, then said: "Yes. More that it's a doom-sign. That he's to die, and soon."

  Truth had a way of uncovering itself. Soren could only hope no-one came up with the bright idea of announcing her pregnancy to allay concern.

  That speculative gaze had been turned on her again, hastily redirected as Soren looked back up. When Soren made a wry face, Halcean laughed, adding a shrug to admit her curiosity. "You don't like this at all, do you? No, not whatever murderous wretch butchered your horse – the palace, the Court."

  "The Court isn't the nicest of places."

  "Oh, it's not too bad. King Aluster – well, he's high-tempered I own, but I haven't seen any malice in him, which is an improvement on the Couerveurs. And even Lady Arista didn't over-stock the jail-houses with those who looked at her the
wrong way, let alone line their heads along the docks. There's a lot of pointed conversation, and jostling for position, the occasional fortune staked on some political manoeuvre, but that's half the fun, isn't it?"

  "If you say so."

  "You come from a place where there's no gossip, no scuffles for precedence?"

  "Well, no–"

  "Everyone's kind and generous and well-intentioned?"

  "Hardly."

  "Then what's the problem?"

  "The stakes are higher here. And–" Soren sat back, resting her mug on her knee, staring across the palace. The Rose's barbed contribution wasn't something she was willing to share with her aide, any more than her less-than-perfect relationship with her Rathen. "What I'm expected to do is different. I didn't have to involve myself in those kind of games, back home. Didn't like them, wasn't any good at them, nobody really cared if I didn't play."

  "Power, prestige, position. A lovely apartment, free meals–"

  "Delightful people to work with, and a horse to call my own. It's all part and parcel, Halcean."

  "There's many who'd change places with you in a moment."

  "I expect so." Soren smiled a little lopsidedly. "Until they knew what it was like." Then she laughed at the expression Halcean didn't try to hide, reminded of her sense of proportion. "That does sound pettish, doesn't it? Maybe I'm just homesick. Even with all your successes, don't you miss your family?"

  "My family wants me here," Halcean replied matter-of-factly. "The useful youngest child, purpose-built for courtly machination. I've spent so long learning how to get every advantage out of Tor Darest that I doubt I'd know what to do with myself anywhere else. Nor," she added, with a conspiratorial grin, "is my family the kind you miss."

  "I'm sorry."

  As Halcean shook her head at misplaced sympathy, Soren's attention was pulled away by the sight of Aristide Couerveur, the Captain of the Guard and Lady Rothwell in the corner of one of the ballroom antechambers. Just what was going on? Aristide had been studying a transcription of the Rose's wall of runes, and was due to visit her to try and probe the Rose's secrets. Nothing had been said to Soren about Francesca Rothwell. And why were they just sitting silently in an empty room?