"His breakfast room."
"And the Fae?"
"Casting. Communication, I think. He's holding someone's sigil."
"Is he?" Hostility radiated through the lean body half wrapped around Soren. Then it broke, or was put away, and he sighed and pulled her closer. "They can wait an hour. Tell me about something else, something which has nothing to do with any of this. Your family, your home. I saw Carn Keep just after it was built. Talk to me about – oh, Sun, anything but that creature on the beach."
-oOo-
Half the morning had been lost by the time Soren returned to her bedroom. She could hear voices from her receiving room, knew perfectly well it was Halcean and Aspen. Aspen had planted himself there, no doubt hot to tease her about the morning's gossip, and Halcean had been unsuccessfully shooing him for rather too long judging from the tone of her voice.
Soren watched them joust while she washed and dressed and thought that despite Halcean's irritable manner she was in truth enjoying the game. Then she had to laugh at herself. Soren didn't know if what she and Strake had could become love – it was such a damaged thing – but it had felt so good to be able to touch him, to talk about innocuous things, to part with a caress. If that painted everyone else with a rosy glow, then so be it.
It also made it easier to walk into her receiving room and face the first of the many who would see her now as King's lover.
"I'm devastated, Champion," Aspen said as she emerged, starting in style. "Simply shattered. I don't know how you could do this to me." He smirked at her even as he complained.
"It was oddly simple," Soren said, "since I don't recall thinking of you at all this past day."
Aspen made a show of taking a wound to the heart, then rolled his shoulders to set teasing aside and said: "Well, I'm all over envy, but I always suspected myself out of the running. Outclassed in the competition? I will, as ever, declare myself entirely eager should you want something with more variety than a simple pairing."
"You're too kind, Aspen." Soren sat down, adjusting Kittredge's sword. Still too big and tiresomely awkward, but after last night she was far more inclined to wear it. "I'll be breakfasting with the King, Halcean," she added. "No Court business till this afternoon."
Halcean made the appropriate obedient murmurs and left. She'd spent a part of the morning writing a letter to her mother, relaying the news of Soren's pregnancy, but had otherwise shown no sign of sharing that most delicious piece of gossip. And she had not at all liked it when Soren had returned from yesterday's walk pale and unwilling to talk. Feeling slighted, with Soren's secrets standing between them.
"Kindness has nothing to do with it," Aspen was saying. "I've been marked positively seer-like for having had the good sense to cultivate you before you were important. You're a boon to my reputation, Champion."
Soren shook her head, wondering how to extract him without risking another friendship. Though Aspen was hard to bruise. "Dangling about my apartment, you're not doing a great deal for mine," she replied.
"If only I could convince them of that." He grinned outright, then turned serious, glancing to the door Halcean had closed behind her. "But it's not your reputation I wanted to talk about. Do you know what's been whispered this morning?"
"Other than the obvious?"
Aspen nodded. "I know rumours, Soren. I've started them often enough, embroidered them, countered them. They have a life of their own, a way of behaving that you grow to recognise. That fribble Fisk set yours off this morning, and it's gone the usual rounds. Champion in King's bed. Wedding in Spring, baby in Summer, all the rest. They'll have you naming your grandchildren before you can blink."
"This is all very interesting, Aspen–"
But he held up his hand with enough authority to silence her. "Last night, after that very creditable explosion, I heard a whisper which was new. The meaning of the black rose has been going around these past few days, and naturally people are tying that to Princess Sethane's death near Teraman, and whatever it is stalking Dariens. Predictable and unavoidable talk because it's very probably true. I'm not so sure about last night – of a sudden there was a new twist, talk of an offence against The Deeping, or the Moon herself. That these past two hundred years Darest has failed because our delectable Aluster had not paid debt with life. And that our troubles won't be over until he has."
Soren couldn't answer that. "You said a rumour this morning."
"Quite so. Evidently, trysting with you has led our King to a falling out with the Diamond. A noted chill, when half the Court was of the firm opinion that this Spring festival they're planning will see the Diamond given a truly royal reward."
"Oh yes?" Soren merely raised her brows and looked to where Aristide sat beside a sunny window, drawing intricate patterns in one of his books. He did not do this often, but displayed considerable talent, and was quite absorbed. No sign of brooding pique.
"Oh yes." Aspen shook his head at her. "There's all sorts of talk of due justice, an insult to the Diamond. But it's not the content of the rumour, my lovely, though that has its interesting factors. It's the distribution. After last night, I made sure to pay particular attention, and sure enough, soon after Fisk had let the cat out of the bag this little item turned up. From nowhere to everywhere. It's not unnatural for people to speculate about the Diamond's love life and ambitions. Sun knows, I've contributed to that body of work. But everyone doesn't come up with the same idea within moments. It was fed to them, Soren, just as I'd wager that piece about blood price was. There's a few busy little mouths out there."
"Lord Aristide does have enemies."
"Many. And, well, the throne was as good as his. The question of whether he'd try and take it back is something even I mulled over. But though I may be the laziest creature that e'er was birthed, I do have precocious talent. I know the implications of that pretty knot of lines our Diamond has in the palm of his hand and I can feel the power of it even before he walks into a room. But that won't do him much good if King Aluster is killed, because a saecstra's bound to the one who takes the oath, and the Diamond wouldn't be able to prove it was genuine, after the fact."
"It's not something we haven't anticipated, Aspen. We're keeping an eye on that quarter."
He snorted. "You refer, no doubt, to the twisted schemes of Lady Arista? Please. If our less-than-beloved Lady Regent had the least intention of seeing her son as gallows-bait, it would have happened long ago. That's not her point at all."
"What is then?" Soren asked impatiently.
"To make him fail, of course. To put his utmost into something, just as she did, and watch it slowly sour." He gave her a pitying expression which was a too-emphatic reproduction of Aristide's sweetest smile. "Sun and Sky, Soren! The last thing Lady Arista would do is kill our delectable King, even if that left the Diamond locked away for the crime. The situation's too perfect the way it is. Aristide never able to take the throne and permanently in service to a Rathen King? I don't say that she was entirely ready to step down, but she is getting old and these past few years she's been looking about almost obviously for ways to keep the Diamond from power. If I might be so crude, I'd bet our White Lady creamed herself when she heard about that rose."
Gloating pleasure had indeed been the impression Soren had taken during her interview with the Regent. "I have a feeling I should start paying you, Aspen."
"A detailed description would go some way to settling accounts."
Soren shook her head, exasperated. "But why not just disinherit Aristide? Appoint someone else her heir? It can be done. It's not as if the Regency was dictated by the Rose."
"My darling innocent. You don't understand the game at all, do you? Why not chop off his head and spike it on a pole by the palace gate? The point isn't to be expedient."
"Do you think Aristide knows this?"
He looked at her. "I'm not even going to dignify that."
It was, in fact, almost exactly what Soren recalled Aristide telling them, with merely the
emphasis shifted. He'd never claimed that his mother would try to kill Strake, had simply stated that if it came to that, blame would fall to him. He'd said her goal would be to ruin their plans.
Because it had been Jansette who had warned them about the knife, Soren had been assuming Lady Arista was plotting assassination. There were others she watched, true, but she'd kept Lady Arista at the back of her mind, pictured her pulling strings from behind the scenes. Maybe she was, but Aspen made good sense. Someone else was orchestrating an end for her Rathen.
"Who? Who's behind it?"
"Now if I knew that, I would have at least dropped a hint already. I'm calling in my favours."
"Thank you."
"Ah." He waved a hand negligently. "Fors tells me that now he's no longer Court Mage he can't 'prentice me. Told me to refer myself to the Councillor of Mages. Which is a simply delightful thought, but I didn't get very far before. Unless I improve myself in the Diamond's estimation I'll have to face some less than inspiring choices." He grimaced. "Though I can just imagine the amount of work I'd be buying into. The Diamond's such a perfectionist. Oh, and one last thing..."
"Yes?" Soren turned her attention away from Strake, who was already at his breakfast table and looking more worried than impatient. Imagining her dead in the next room?
"The Diamond's heard these rumours too. This morning's and last night's. Usually he'd have them countered, or at least probed. Keeping track of this sort of thing is part and parcel. But my source says he hasn't. Listened, yes. Caught at least some of the implications, almost certainly. Done nothing. Lingers over breakfast. Puts off a practice session with the Captain of the Guard."
Goes into a sunny room and draws patterns in a book. His face was perfectly composed, the expression very like that he wore when staring at the ceiling each morning. And as ever, Soren had no idea what was going on behind it.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The book was neatly face down, pen and inkwell beside it. Aristide had not risen, but gestured toward the seat opposite him before speaking. "What can I do for you, Champion?"
"The King is planning to speak to the Tzel Aviar shortly, and would appreciate you joining him," Soren said, formally passing on a message. She decided then that with Aristide it was best to be direct. "And I wanted to ask you about trump knives. You said you could not steal one. Do you know who could?"
He studied her, as ever seeming faintly amused by her questions. "It would have been more correct of me to say I don't know a way to accomplish it," he said. "Or did not. I have considered the matter, and suspect that if a person knew me very well, or I had some strong link to them, there might be a way. Not easy, especially in not alerting me, but as with any kind of magic little is impossible if only you know the method. I am not entirely certain I could bring it off, which should give you some guide to the calibre of the thief. Or their luck."
"Who in Darest could?"
"There are some possibilities in the latest batch of spies, few of whom are without some casting ability." Aristide's lips curled, derisive. "Darest has not previously warranted such talent. The ambassadors, too – Celaury is well-known, and Kindraffen. Among Dariens, I would not rate more than a handful so high. Frid Calder is the strongest I've seen outside The Deeping, but directs all her focus into Shaping and has barely met me besides. Choraide, Baron Mirallon, Lessitar – all have the base ability, but I would doubt the learning and the skill. Saman Kitreggar I imagine would be possible, if only barely. But the only method I can see requires not just skill and strength, but a tangible connection to or exacting knowledge of the subject. There is of course my mother."
Mockery gleamed as he refrained from pointing out blood tie and long enmity. Soren just nodded. "Do you have any idea how long the knife's been gone?"
"I reset the casting some two months ago, and would need to do so again in another month."
"And could stealing it be accomplished from a distance?"
"Now that I doubt. You are, I collect, wondering whether they may have been visible to you?" He paused, then reached for his book and turned to an early page before handing it to her. "This is the knife. Convenient, I must admit, if you should happen to see it lying about."
Soren turned her attention to the picture, a carefully inked rendering of a thin blade covered by subtle whorling patterns. But the handle was plain, not at all unusual; hardly a weapon which would draw the eye.
Head bent over the book, Soren was very aware of Aristide's face, for she suspected it was precious to him. But the brilliant blue eyes had turned to the window, almost as if he'd lost interest. Distracted.
She had raised Aspen's concern about Aristide over breakfast, but Strake would not be drawn into trying to analyse his Councillor. The most he would say was that no matter the cause, the warped spell which had ruined their hunt would probably weigh on any mage. And shrugged acknowledgment that this was precisely the opposite of the attitude he'd taken when Aristide had claimed responsibility. Soren suspected Strake simply couldn't judge the depths of Aristide's loyalties. The Regent's son might be plotting something so complex it would side-step the saecstra. Or he could be ill, heart-weary, anything. It would never show on the surface.
Whatever else, she was sure news of Champion and King would hardly overset him. No surprise when he had been first to know of the Rathen heir Soren carried.
"And what do they look like? Calder and Kitreggar and the rest?"
With an air of being obliging, Aristide summoned an illusion of a tall, hearty woman with curling brown hair, and then a wispy blond man, another woman, a man she vaguely recognised, then one of the Barons, other people who sparked vague memories, naming each. Soren filed away their images. "And–" How to ask this? "I understand your father is an accomplished mage. And not Darien." A wildly intrusive question, and she was pleased when her voice came out steady. It was about all she knew of the man, for Lady Arista had followed a practice common to mages and contracted a sire for power's sake.
Without hesitation another image appeared, a tall man with the distinctive fair skin and coppery-red hair common in Cya. There was only the faintest resemblance to Aristide, most strongly in the star sapphire eyes. Again it was no-one she recalled seeing, but he had said someone with a tangible connection, and blood was the most obvious thing to pursue.
Still, the question did not seem to have bothered Aristide. She understood why when he said, in a very patient tone: "A not unreasonable deduction, Champion, and he even had links with the Cyan Crown to hang all manner of suspicion upon. I am sure, however, that someone would have told me if he'd risen from his grave."
"I–" She could not keep back the flush.
"Some twenty years ago." Another image appeared, this time a man with darker blue eyes and a deeper red shimmer to his hair. He was tall, broad-shouldered, did not look like Aristide but was oddly familiar in the way a blood relative of someone you knew could be. Closer inspection showed the same shape around the eyes.
"My half-brother, also Cyan, and very active on that land's behalf. I've had his current location checked, but be sure to let me know if you see him lurking about the palace. And I do believe the children of my mother's aunt aspire to word-magery, if you wish to make a catalogue of every relative I can claim who owns some thread of magic."
"If you consider them a possibility," Soren replied, recovering just enough to not look mortified. It was part of her role to ask these things, and she would do it.
"Not in the least." He remained very dry. "I have not forgotten the matter, Champion. Wherever the knife is kept, it seems to be shielded, for I cannot trace it. Using it to strike against the King would see blame nicely muddied, but there is still the difficulty of the actual attack. I will admit to being obliged to the talented Lady Denmore. Knowing a particular weapon allows me to fashion some measure of counter. Not ideal or infallible protection, but a shield on the wall. There is another issue more imminent I think."
That would depend on when the thief
chose to strike, but Soren merely nodded acquiescence when Aristide rose. Strake's meeting with the Tzel Aviar would be difficult enough without delays to try his temper. She would consult with her Rathen before pushing further.
Aristide had cut up at her less than she'd expected, had been quite forbearing in fact. Only a light serving of mockery and no taste of venom. What this meant she could only speculate, but she did not feel it was a good sign, an acceptance of changing circumstances. She felt instead that an edge had been taken from a knife, that he had compacted in on himself somehow. Simple preoccupation?
There was so much, when she spared the time to think about it. What had gone right for Aristide, this last month? A Rathen heir taking the throne. The humbling decision to serve rather than battle. Yesterday rattled by two shocks to a mage's esteem – first the stolen trump blade and then the warped spell. And it was obvious Lady Arista was the prime candidate for thief. How could that be anything but a blow? For, despite everything, the former Regent was Aristide's mother. She had no more attempted to kill him than he her during their years of battle. Was he uncertain whether that had changed?
Sometimes Soren wondered whether Aristide lay in bed each morning steeling himself to face the world.
Surprised by a sudden rush of sympathy, Soren decided to set her doubts aside. She had accepted Aristide as an ally, but not given him her trust, or offered him her friendship. She'd demanded far better treatment for herself, when faced with Strake's pain. Could she be so cowardly as to not hold a hand out to someone because she found them more than a little overawing?
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