Strake glanced up once, eloquently casual. The man who had taken so much was less than fifty feet away, no sign of excitement or fear in his even breathing. It would surely seem the perfect chance. A quick dash down the hill, a single blow, and then the empty beach stretching south. How could they stop him, after all?
"NOW!"
Every crossbow came up, Aristide spoke softly, Strake's sword was in his hand, and–
Dawn. A flare of light so intense the seashore was bleached beyond Summer's height, though no heat touched them. It was like ten thousand mageglows had escaped their orbs, white knives stabbing into vulnerable eyes.
Soren's attention had been on Strake, not on the stump-shaped rock central to the burst. Even so she gasped in pain and clapped hands to her face, for the moment seeing only colours. But she could still hear. And concentrating around the tumult of a Rose suddenly beyond frantic, she found the quick breath of one no longer moving at a slow and steady pace, but running along the slope of the hill, angling down toward the beach. Toward her.
For the first time she drew the Champion's Sword without catch. It sang as it slid out of the scabbard and her breath sobbed in her throat as she whipped it over her head, the muscles in her forearm straining with the effort of not simply slamming it to the ground.
He moved so quickly! No human could run like that. She barely had time from realising where he was heading to grab hilt of sword and get it between them, blinking desperately to clear her vision. And then another breath, with a shameful measure of squeak, as she stared through streaming eyes at a beach where her partners in this mislaid trap stood or stumbled, clustering toward Strake because that's who they thought was at risk. And the thing, the sound of breathing, the assassin, moon-deadly, songless killer was right in front of her.
Only Aristide turned at the noise she made, to find her standing with Kittredge's sword outstretched, point at throat height confronting a nothingness which made footprints in the sand. The assassin didn't cut her down, didn't leave her slashed and bleeding to follow Vixen, Vahse, all the others into the Moon's embrace. Just stood there.
Another ragged breath. The blunt tip of the sword shook. A length of dull metal she was completely unable to use, except that somehow it held the killer at bay. She stared past that wobbling tip at Aristide, his hands sketching the beginning of some casting, face deadly serious. The Rose had gone as still as a rabbit before a snake. Another breath.
The light didn't change. There were no clouds to cast a shadow across the waning moon. And yet, between that moment and the next, he was there. Dark hair, a pale face, her own height. Dressed in black specked with dried rust. Vixen's blood. A carter's. Perhaps, she thought with slow dread, even Vahse's blood.
Jansette had said he was young. Beyond understatement, for this was a boy. Fourteen, fifteen at most. Fae blood to be certain, with a human adult's height and that child's face. Delicate bones contoured with shadows, eyes moon silver framed by improbable lashes. A smudge of dirt on one side of his mouth. No sign of claws.
Noise, voices, gathering reaction made no impact on her as she found the strength for another breath. Her arm ached, the sword an unsteady fingernail from the killer's chin. Monster, murderer. Child.
"Tuath," he said, though monsters surely should not speak, let alone with such a light voice, made husky with urgency. "Tuatha, secra del."
As she struggled to make some sense of this, the Rose stirred abruptly back to life, not in reaction to the words but to bring her a breath, a presence suddenly falling into existence above her. Despite herself she turned her head in reaction to the coil of unease shooting through her, looked up the hill and saw the outline of a figure, almost certainly Fae from the height, drawing back a bow.
Soren didn't see the shaft released, and the boy she held at sword-point had vanished before it struck home. But she heard its meaty penetration, and the tiny noise he made before he ran.
She turned, and watched the line of footprints appear until they reached the rock and grass of the hillside. Then there were guardsmen everywhere, three galloping past her to chase the invisible, another pair scrambling up the hill toward an archer she felt she should tell them had already gone, vanished as mysteriously as it had arrived. But she needed to stay upright.
A hand on her back came as silent support. Aristide, his spell forgotten as he shifted his attention between the doubled pursuit. He was saying something, and she forced herself to concentrate on the calm reply of the Tzel Aviar as he and Strake came up the sand.
"Your casting was clean, Lord Aristide," the Fae was saying. "That at least provided an explanation for some of our difficulty. Another natural defence, for he would have had no chance to consciously turn that spell. Revelation warped became light. Anything cast on him, I think we will find, will turn and mutate."
He stopped, looking down. The tip of her sword had grounded in the middle of a booted footprint. Scuffed, jerking aside to suggest a near-fall. "The question of his immunity to conventional weapons has also been answered."
"And who provided that?" Strake was confounded energy embodied. He looked liable to take a limb off any who came near him, black gaze raking Soren's face before fixing on Tzel Damaris. "What explanation do you have for this?"
"None." Volcanic kings were nothing to the Tzel Aviar. "Evidently you are not alone in wishing this death."
"Tzel Damaris. What does 'tuath' mean?" There was a note in Soren's voice which demanded no prevarication. "It's what he said. Tuatha, secra del."
The Tzel Aviar was not quick to answer. For the first time a ripple in the pool. Surprise. And something she could not read. Then he answered.
"Tuath means 'please', Champion. Tuatha secra del. 'Please stop me'."
Chapter Twenty-Two
Darest was two steps short of severing all ties with The Deeping. The killer was Fair, and another Fae had attempted to kill him. When Tzel Damaris had produced no answers, refused to speculate, asked for time to confer, it had only been a sudden bout of self-recrimination from Aristide which prevented Strake from damning all Deeping aid and closing the borders himself. And since Strake did not believe Aristide's assumption of responsibility for more than two sentences, King had come very close to putting himself at war with his Councillor as well.
Vengeance had not only been snatched out of Strake's hands, it had been hopelessly muddied. An assassin for an assassin, and a child to hate. He would barely speak a word to Soren after, had been curt and cutting to everyone who had to deal with him. Pent up, he'd spent hours walking back and forth in his garden, aching with the need to fly into the worst sort of rage. That made it impossible for Soren to not lie watching him, and she was heartily relieved when he finally came in from the cold and found a particularly thick book to leaf through.
But even a furious king wasn't her true problem. A boy's face. Death standing right in front of her, and the sound of an arrow going home. The tiny choked gasp which had followed.
He had said 'stop me'. That was precisely what they had come to do, but if he'd meant kill, would he have run? He was a murderer, a dozen lives weighing the scales. Wide-eyed youth did not make him less of a monster. More, in truth. She should be cursing lost opportunity, or the archer for not aiming true. And for interfering before any sort of explanation could be got out of the boy.
What difference did it make that he was young? There was no wiping away the blood already spilt, no excuse to be manufactured for risking Strake or the rest of Tor Darest because a killer could say please. Tomorrow, Strake would demand answers from the Tzel Aviar, and the hunt would continue.
If she could only close her eyes without seeing a smudged, shadowy face.
Soren finally managed to sleep despite Strake's restlessness, grateful for once that palace-sight would steal her dreams. Guards trooped through the corridors in her head, and even the most enthused of gossips gave in to the day's toll. Her Rathen returned to his pillows, but lay for hours tossing and turning.
Then he was up again, all mute frustration. Out of his room and through the connecting door to her apartment, and her palace-wrought dream suddenly felt like a nightmare as she struggled to wake before he reached her bed.
Gasping, Soren grabbed a handful of nightrobe as she was plucked from her blankets. Dreaming his approach had made waking all the more disorienting, and her heart thundered with shock and fright. He didn't say anything, just turned and carried her back to his room, dropped her on the bed and climbed across her.
"Strake–"
"Shut up. Shut up, shut up, shut up!"
There was such a note of hysteria in his voice that she choked back protest as he pulled up blankets and wrapped his arms around her ribs, tight enough to hurt. Burying his face in the back of her neck, he squeezed his eyes shut and lay still, gulping a breath. Soren was reminded of nothing so much as a child denying monsters by refusing to look at them, and she with her heart tripping over itself, wanting to turn around and beat her fists against his chest.
It was beyond everything, to be hauled about in the middle of the night and then told to shut up. She preserved her silence only so she could calm herself enough to speak without shrieking, and marshal precisely what she wanted to say. And he fell asleep. Abruptly, completely.
Frozen and indignant, Soren lay in his arms. He had – what? Felt a sudden need for her, but couldn't bring himself to accept it? Thought nothing of jolting her awake, carting her about like some...some rag-doll and shouting her down when she so much as presumed to object?
She wasn't a temperamental person, but she had her limits. If he wanted her in his bed, he didn't get to shout at her. She had excused a lot of his behaviour because she could see it wasn't normal for him. It had only been a month since he'd stumbled out of the forest. The loss of Vahse was a still-bleeding wound, and the betrayal of the Rose a goad to fury. That evening he'd put himself at risk and seen the killer for the very first time, only to have all their plans come to naught. The Tzel Aviar's behaviour had added to the frustration.
Somewhere under the grief and anger there was a person she knew she liked, was drawn to in a way which wasn't simple physical reaction. She liked his cynical edge, and the way he would stop to look at beautiful things. But she wouldn't be able to cope with much more of him like this. Returning to her own bed would be the simplest option and she thought about that, and told herself it was stupid not to want to, until sleep crept up on her as well.
-oOo-
Fisk tapped on the door and came in, stared for a moment, then hastily backed away. This sequence woke Soren, and she blinked, watching the secretary try to hide a grin as he closed the door. To her surprise, he didn't immediately rush to share the news, though his air of keeping a delightful secret soon had the entire royal household whispering. Off in Soren's apartment, a concerned and speculative Halcean was making a related discovery, staring at an empty bed.
Soren shifted so she could look at her Rathen's face with her own eyes. Handsome, vital, and much improved for some rest. Everyone was going to think they were lovers. And she wanted them to be, was despite everything enjoying that he was lying beside her, warm and comfortable. No clear-cut resolution had come to her overnight, but she felt a curious stillness. If he'd asked her to his bed, she'd have gone perfectly willingly. Two nights ago he'd warned her to bar her door, but he hadn't hurt her last night, or even intended to. Just battered her with his anger. It was too much, this back and forth.
Not ready to talk to him, she followed the trail of gossip as Fisk made a great show of refusing to answer questions, then was unable to resist what was obviously a broad hint. From there it was all over the palace before he could take back the words, and she watched Aspen laugh, and Aristide offer no suggestion of interest; the scourers giggled while they waited for the Seneschal, and the debate in the kitchens grew heated. The Champion in the bed of the King. A few, quicker of mind than she, went immediately to the Garden of the Rose. She kept the bud well hidden, and resigned herself to another shift in status. A second letter to her parents would be in order, though it would come too late to beat rumour.
Strake slept late, catching up on too much lost rest. It was well into the morning before he shifted and stretched, brushed a hand along the warm figure beside him, then woke fully, grimacing. She sat up.
"Can I speak now?"
He had the grace to look embarrassed. "Of course."
Soren kept her voice completely even, flat and uncompromising. "Don't do this to me again, Strake. I don't want to start flinching when you come near me."
That made him flinch. "That wasn't my intention. I–" He broke off and sat up, his cheeks shaded a dull red. But he was forthright enough not to try and deny a fault, shaking his head. "I can't excuse it. I just – couldn't convince myself you were still alive. Couldn't sleep, because you weren't there. The only thing for it was to go and fetch you, keep you close so I could be sure you were safe. I spent hours with that thought, rejecting it, circling around it, completely unable to move past it. By the time I gave in, I was – less than polite."
He stopped when it filtered through to him that Soren's expression had shifted closer to dismay than anger. "What is it?"
"That's the Rose." She was sure she was right, and felt a twist of pure frustration. "It does it to me. Puts things in my head, odd certainties. I didn't realise it could do it to you."
"It puts things in your head." He said it slowly, scarcely able to bring himself to repeat the words.
"Like leaving Tor Darest, after first being proclaimed Champion. I wanted to go home, didn't see the least point in staying at Court to wear a uniform and do nothing. I decided to leave less than a week after arriving. And then I didn't, and whenever I tried to think about leaving, I'd list a great many reason to go and none to stay and – nothing. This blank space, where there should be choices, action. I don't think it's tried to make me do something, though – it's always been to not do something, to do nothing."
"Blank space." That held a note of numb recognition. His reaction so far had been horror rather than anger, and he stared into the middle distance, at a future of choices made for him. Then he shifted his gaze to Soren, whose life stood between him and ridding himself of the Rose.
"I'm sorry," she said.
Surprisingly, he laughed: a queer, bitter exclamation, but still founded on a genuine note of amusement. "I'm the one meant to be apologising to you, Soren," he said. "I'm usually better able to keep my manners."
"The circumstances are rather extreme." She felt out of place, sitting on the edge of the King's bed, pregnant to him, still very much a stranger. Fully clothed, sharing an air of weary loss, they would surely disappoint any gossip's imaginings.
"What was it that stopped you?" she asked. "That night?"
He knew what she meant: the night of Jansette's attempt. "'You'll only make things worse,'" he repeated, with obvious difficulty. "Something Vahse would say. He'd cut me down with a word if I tried to do anything in a rage. Laugh me out of my temper."
There was a pause, and Soren felt awkward, not knowing what to say. Strake just looked overwhelmed, then of a sudden wry. "I should first try to earn your friendship. It's what I've been pushing hardest against." The edge in his voice was directed at himself.
"I'd like that." Strake treating her as friend instead of servant would certainly make a huge difference. But they were both of them avoiding the most obvious of questions, talking about being friends. Had they gone beyond the point where they could separate desire from bitter defeat?
She shook her head. "The Rose is a bad matchmaker, isn't it? If I could see any reason for it, I'd think it deliberately set out to see us at odds."
"It–" He glanced away and then back at her. "What it did not complicate, I hardly...helped." His long eyes were intent, searching her face. "I've given you every reason to loathe me," he said. "But you don't, do you?"
"No."
"I'm luckier than I deserve, then." Almost expressionless, h
e held out a hand, the gesture reminiscent of Aristide's pointed courtesy. It seemed cold, passionless, but when she touched his fingers they closed tightly about hers. Still, he looked more upset than lover-like as he pulled her forward, bending his head.
Impossible not to think of the last time they'd done this, of the fear, fury and disgust which followed. Strake's back was rigidly tense, his grip over-tight, but his kiss was careful, delicate. Soren wanted to hurry him, pull at his clothes, and struggled to let him set the pace. She would not risk sending him into retreat.
Even as she thought this, his head came up. "There isn't any blank space in your mind for this, is there?" he asked, sounding thoroughly appalled.
"No. Gods, no."
"Good."
He'd lost a little restraint to the question, his mouth covering hers more urgently, searching for response. This time she met and matched him, had him on his back so she could watch his face while she pulled off her robe, and finally saw the desire she wanted. A few moments later he had their positions reversed, and they abandoned any measure of moderation.
-oOo-
Strake fell into thoughtful silence after, indulging in slow caresses. There was a sense of resistance gone, and it made a great deal of difference to how she felt being with him. But his expression was more sad than satisfied, and she knew he was thinking of Vahse. Only a month dead, and a new lover as much betrayal as release. A morning tumble was only a beginning to mending the fractures between them.
"Do you like being King?"
"What?" Startled laughter in the response.
"It's what I'd ask a friend." She had liked the idea of them trying to be friends.
He took a while to answer, and thinking about it made him look oppressed. "Yes," he said, eventually. "Like every other Rathen in the past thousand ages, I have always entertained the heartfelt belief that I know the best way to everything. Being King indulges that fantasy – for all it teaches me my limits. I'm familiar with the issues, but I wasn't overmuch trained for rule, never expected to have the weight of that responsibility. And I suffer from not knowing everything that's changed, two hundred years from the Darest I understood. Most of the decisions have been Aristide's, though he makes a nice game of leading me to feed him back what he wants to do." Strake's mouth compressed. "Where is he?"
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