There was not so much as a shadow of surprise. Soren's guess had been right – no-one as intelligent or frankly suspicious as Lady Arista was reputed to be would have neglected to investigate those she took to her bed. Even Jansette's transparent beauty had not been sufficient to turn this woman's head. But would she answer?
"I am told Lady Denmore has been notably absent from Court, these past two days," Lady Arista commented.
"Recalled," Soren said, offering honesty in hopes of provoking it.
"Having lost access to the inner Court." Lady Arista's reaction was pure Aristide: she looked thoroughly appreciative, nodding to herself. To this woman, knowing her lover was a spy may have only increased the attraction. "Why is this important, Champion?" she asked then, gaze sharpening until Soren wanted to move out of its way. "All the West has spies in Tor Darest. They change them on so regular a basis it's scarcely worth tracking the rotation."
Soren hesitated, aware that Lady Arista marked her indecision. But she couldn't admit to the theft of the trump blade – any mention of Aristide would surely bring the conversation to an inglorious conclusion, even if Lady Arista wasn't directly involved. She had an awful sense of having taken hold of the tail of a tiger.
"I want to test some information Lady Denmore provided," Soren said, stamping on her nerves. "To do that, I need a better idea of her loyalties."
"Jansette Denmore provided you with information?" The tone was intrigued, not threatened. The only answer Soren gave was an uncommunicative nod and the former Regent's gaze became all the brighter, her interest very evidently roused. Then, with the faintest edge of malice, she launched into a tangent. "Tell me, Champion: is the Tzel Aviar to remain long in Darest?"
"I don't believe a definite period has been set," Soren replied, after only a small pause. Wanting to know more about Jansette, she had put herself in a position where Lady Arista could press for answers of her own. She decided to pre-empt matters a little, adding: "He is to capture the Fae killer who has been stalking the King."
"An individual the Darien guard has been ordered not to harm."
"To not approach." Soren looked down, thinking about conspiracies and the nature of her duties, then went on to give Lady Arista a detailed and unadorned account of the events on Vostal Hill. The former Regent was not a woman to be underestimated, and certainly not to be treated as a fool. A clear understanding of the day's sour victory might stave off any plan of Lady Arista's to move against Strake.
When Soren's recital reached the point of Desteret's departure, she stopped, unsure how effective her strategy had been. Lady Arista simply sat back with a contemplative air, and said: "Thank you, Champion. You may go."
Before Soren had done more than take breath in disappointment, she added a single word:
"Sax."
-oOo-
It hadn't brought her any forrader. Watching closely, Soren had seen no sign that Lady Arista was at all perturbed by the thought of Jansette passing on information, as she surely would have been if the Regent had displayed Aristide's knife to her lover. That did not rule out Jansette having seen more than Lady Arista had realised, but was not nearly enough to verify the former Regent's place at the head of their list of suspects.
Could she at least put Sax at the bottom? The kingdom took up much of Darest's western border, and when the mines were at their peak had positively longed to change that boundary. But those mines were known to be failing and Sax's King was a cautiously greedy sort of man, the kind who advanced by increments rather than a sudden coup. Since it was unlikely Jansette would have revealed a plot of her own country, Soren could be at least moderately certain Sax was not behind the disappearance of the trump blade.
Cya was the foremost enemy of Sax, trade rivalry occasionally escalating to diplomatic falling-out, with open war in living memory. If a Saxan spy had a choice of secrets to spill, they would most definitely be Cyan. But how would a Saxan have known a Cyan had stolen Aristide's knife?
Jansette's proclivity for flitting from window to bedroom would have provided plenty of opportunity to discover all manner of things, but that only widened the field of suspects. It could be anyone. Lady Arista, a Cyan spy who had slipped through Aristide's nets, a mage hired by Everett Rothwell before his downfall, or someone she didn't even know to worry about. There were simply too many people to watch.
Dispirited, Soren made her way back to her apartments. Lady Arista stayed enthroned, head resting on one fist. Mogath was writing innocuous-seeming letters, and Peveric, various other barons, were all doing things she couldn't call suspicious. The Tzel Aviar was reading Laramae of Seldareth's notebook, as he had been all afternoon. Aspen had found an adventurous girl to chase about his cramped room, and the ambassadors were making Soren dizzy with their comings and goings.
Strake and Aristide had abandoned lists and diagrams to talk to each other with frowning absorption. It seemed to Soren she would be best served taking a bath.
To her faint surprise, soon after she'd returned to her apartment her Rathen bid Aristide good night and left to join his Champion in soapy caresses, urgent and intense, with not a word between them until they were tangled damply in his bed.
"Feeling better?"
"Immeasurably." But he looked tired, and again more regretful than pleased. Her Rathen had given in to wanting her, but he didn't like himself for it.
She told him what little she'd learned, and he listened with brooding attention. "The blood-price will be paid to Darest, with or without me. They'd be best advised to get rid of both of us."
"And who rules then?"
He lifted himself onto an elbow, looked down at her face.
"Lady Arista?" Soren asked, not flinching.
"I'll have to suggest that to Aristide." Amusement flickered, then was lost. "She may well be a good choice, if he were gone. She'd at least not be promoting her heir in our child's stead." He touched a hand to her stomach, eyes darkening. "Sun. Go to sleep, Soren. I can't talk about this just now."
She didn't protest, but sleep was not easily won for either of them. The palace marched through Soren's mind until, an hour or more before dawn, her dreaming sight showed her the Tzel Aviar moving through the shadows of Fleeting Hall. His hands were empty and his face grave as he walked into the Garden of the Rose and looked at the black bloom which represented Strake's life. Then toward the concealed cluster of leaves which heralded a Rathen child.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The steady gaze of Damaris of the Wryve turned toward the focus of Soren's palace-sight and fixed there. Tangled up in Strake, Soren struggled into full consciousness, and found that it definitely wasn't a dream. The Tzel Aviar stood in the Garden of the Rose. Waiting for her?
Confused and curious, she worked her way carefully out of the bed, managing to not disturb her Rathen. After a brief stop in her apartment to dress, she slipped out into Fleeting Hall, where it was cold enough to steam breath and goose-pimple skin. Glancing toward the guarded entrance to the Hall of the Crown she briefly considered an escort, rejected the idea, and then was filled absurdly with guilt, as if she went to some clandestine assignation. It would help if she could begin to guess what the Fae wanted.
Palace-sight showed Tzel Damaris turn his head as she walked into the garden. Her own eyes could only make out shadows: the upright of walls and curve of arch, the dark mass of vines dripping in the wake of the rainstorm. The smudge beneath all this which might be a man. The storm had left not so much as a breath of wind to stir the leaves, and Soren discovered an odd reluctance to speak, to break the black silence. The place was cold and close and crushingly still.
Vision apparently unhindered, Tzel Damaris was studying her face, gauging something she was not certain she wanted to know. In the dark he was a more concentrated kind of man, as if something had risen out of that bottomless well and was looking at her over the rim. She felt like she'd never met him before, and wished she hadn't now. Even in this place, where she had so much power, he h
ad somehow become a thing which made the hair on the back of her neck stand up.
"I have completed my perusal of Laramae's journal," Damaris said then. Decorous, formal, pure Warden of the Borders. It almost made things normal again.
Soren took a breath, dismissing fear and trying not to show her discomfort. Business. Like Aristide, he was always and ever focused on business. Standing expectantly about the Garden of the Rose had been a clear message, but why did he suddenly want to speak to her? He should be reporting his findings to Strake. What was she supposed to do?
What should the Rathen Champion want to do?
To ease the increasingly awkward silence, she said: "I wished to ask what Moon-cast meant."
His gaze shifted to the waning moon above. "Moon-sourced," he explained. "The power supplied outside the caster, thus making possible very strong and, more usually, long-lasting enchantments. While the Moon endures, so will the spell."
"Oh." Soren knew enchantments had to either be maintained or renewed to prevent them simply wearing off. That was one of the many reasons Shaping was considered so superior.
"To successfully draw power from the Moon is by no means easy, so Moon-casting remains a rarity. But the link once forged is extremely durable. That is what I wished to speak of to you."
"The link?" She sounded like a cowed fool, and wished that she could rid herself of this ridiculous sense of threat. It helped to look at him only through palace-sight, and focus on the measured calm of his words. He had no reason to want to hurt her, was just a man who would live for centuries, who looked human but was not. Like the boy.
"Enchantments can be lifted, Champion. While the Moon is waning, the link will be weaker. It should be possible to break the casting, removing both the boy's need to kill and the abilities which make him so difficult to capture. Along with the drive to hunt Rathens."
This was better than good news. Soren looked up at Strake's rose, hoping for the first time to see it some other colour. But–
"I'm no mage, Tzel Damaris. What would you have me do?"
The question was full of unease. Above their heads the Rose uncoiled, sending icy drops of water to patter down around them. But there was no ripple of response from the Tzel Aviar, even when a tendril descended to pass just behind him. He had returned that unflinching gaze to Soren, did not seem even to have noticed the movement.
"Laramae conducted many experiments to discover the limits of the child she had created," he told her. "Although not truly Shaped, placing the enchantment beyond the blood gives the effect of making the boy a child of the Moon herself. The death-urge is one part of that. But the Moon is Death and Life."
He stopped, and above them the Rose coiled again as Soren realised what it was he meant, why she could help where Aristide could not. "The baby."
"The boy has approached you twice. That which impels him should have been overwhelmingly urging him to strike you down for the Rathen you bear. That same child is what affords you protection."
"How would he know?" Soren, after all, had not. She could scarcely have been pregnant, the first time. That had been less than half an hour after Strake had run from her.
Thoughts tumbling over timing, Soren took a slow breath. How much did the Rose know? Had it known pregnancy would protect her? Had that been another factor in whatever reasoning had led it to force her and Strake together? And–
It didn't matter, not right now. The Tzel Aviar was standing here, his steady gaze saying as clearly as any words that if he knew she was pregnant the boy certainly did. Child of the Moon, death and life welded into one. Killer of a previous Tzel Aviar, a Crown princess, Strake's Vahse, too many others. Did Damaris really expect Soren to risk her own child to aid someone whose purpose was to cut down her Rathen? Someone who had stood before her, silver eyes wide, and asked her to stop him?
"What is his name? The boy – did the book say?"
"A name is power, Champion. A foothold for resistance against imposed will. He was not given one."
The northern lord had treated her children like tools, Soren thought. Her insides were knotted with sick confusion, anger leaking into fear and all bound up in uncertainty and an intense desire to be anywhere but here. "Why did she use people?" she asked, the question a protest. "Why not an animal?"
Damaris had turned his face slightly away from her, although palace-sight showed her that his expression had not changed. "Laramae of Seldareth did not record her reasons," he said. "Only her results. Perhaps because the Moon is more responsive to the People, or because a mind is the greatest weapon a hunter can own." He looked now towards Strake's rose, black with impending death. "There are other ways I can approach this problem, Champion, but this places the fewest possible in danger. Your enchantments allow you to detect his presence. And it was to you the Moon-cast child made his appeal."
And you the Queen gave the task. But Soren was torn by the memory of silver eyes, a feeling of being on a precipice, about to take a step over the edge. "What – what is it exactly you want me to do?" she asked.
"Hold him." That assessing gaze had returned. "I believe I can strike at the enchantment where it lies on him, beyond the blood and outside the defence which warps casting. But it will not be a quick thing, and I will need to be touching him, drawing the Moon. You he cannot harm, and you are also powerfully bound to this land by the enchantment of the Rose, which will offer some measure of protection against any side-effects of my attack."
He was making no attempt to hide that there was danger. How could Soren possibly do as he asked? Strake had only just accepted his desire for her, he was – after all the loss he had suffered, this would be the last thing he would be able to bear. Quite aside from the threat to herself, she was carrying his child. Heir to Darest. Involving herself directly in trying to rescue the nameless Fae killer was simply out of the question.
Except that anyone else would be more at risk, and if they did not move quickly the boy's need to kill would grow with the Moon. He had slaughtered the Rathen hunting party effortlessly, and was quite capable of turning Tor Darest into a charnel house. He would remain a threat to all Rathens, unless this was done. He had looked at her out of those unnatural silver eyes and said 'please'.
And Soren was Champion.
"I need to ask." Ask her Rathen to risk his Champion, his lover and his child. She couldn't even say it.
Tzel Damaris simply nodded. "It must be done before the Moon is black."
She wondered how he expected to find the boy, have him conveniently to hand for the attempt. They couldn't just go continually walking on Vostal Hill in the hope that he would turn up. But those were details, and nothing beside the hurdle she had to take first. Strake. An argument, unavoidable and potentially terrible. Why had Damaris had to ask for her help and put her in this position?
Staring at the shadow beneath the dripping Rose, Soren found herself full of angry distrust. His priority was the boy, not Rathens. The Fair had been willing to let Darest founder over a secret. How could they be trusted?
"What happened to the Fair who once lived in Darest, Tzel Damaris?" The words were forced through stiff lips. "What is the taint which lies beneath all this?"
"That is not spoken of outside the People."
The words were as quietly unperturbed as anything else he had said to her. And yet foreboding crawled beneath Soren's skin, took her by the spine and pulled her back. It should not be possible to feel this isolated, here where she was strongest. But she did and it was only despite knees which threatened to knock together and a throat inconveniently frozen that she managed to ask a question which had been at the back of her mind since the Council on the hill.
"Were they Shaped?"
Damaris of the Wryve simply turned and walked away.
-oOo-
"A midnight stroll?"
Soren's stomach dropped. Caught up in sick anger transmuting to queasy relief, she hadn't been paying attention to Strake's breathing. He lay in his bed, still curled aro
und the space where she had slept, watching her walk toward him from the door.
"The Tzel Aviar wanted to see me."
Blunt, because he was not going to like anything to do with the Fae, no matter how she couched it.
"He asked me to help him," she went on, as Strake sat up. "Laramae's notes say that because he's tied to the Moon, the boy can't attack someone who's pregnant. The Tzel Aviar wants me to hold the boy while he tries to break the casting." She sat down on the edge of the bed, meeting Strake's eyes. Her stomach sank further at what she found there, but she managed to take a deep breath and add: "I think I should do it."
"Do you?" Incredulous, scathing.
"It's what I'm here for," Soren explained, determined not to cringe. She felt odd inside. Her title had been awarded for reasons she thoroughly disliked; only by her actions could she earn the right to bear it. "Rathen Champion: protector of King and country. If I don't help him, how many might die before he captures the boy?"
"He can find some other woman." There was no room for compromise in her Rathen now, and Soren bowed her head under the beating force of his anger. She was making him hate her again and it felt even worse than before because he'd only just started to see her as something other than a trap. Wasn't it also her duty to support him, to be there for him? And didn't it make far more sense to find someone whose child wasn't heir to the kingdom, who wasn't Soren's own child, to make the attempt first?
"I can't do that." The words were wrung out of her. "How can I send some random pregnant woman into danger when I have all the protections of the Rose?"
"The Rose places you at greater risk!" The mattress jerked beneath Strake from the recoil of his body. "That Moon-forsaken monster disrupts enchantments. You're the last person to send out after him!"
She could argue at least on points of accuracy, even as the half-contained explosion blasted away at her resolution. "He disrupts spells cast on him," she said, holding her head high. "I'm not about to do that. And we don't know if the Rose was a factor stopping him from striking at me before. We do know that he's stood as close as you are to me now, and not raised a hand to me." Her voice wobbled, but she swallowed, determined at last to be Champion in more than name. She made herself still inside and stood firm, refusing to crumble. "I couldn't live with myself, Strake. If it's the Rose which protects me, and someone gets killed because they were sent in my place – I just couldn't."
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