Champion of the Rose - Kobo Ebook (14 page)

Ignoring their salutes, Soren strode east through the
dimly-lit palace, fingering the mageglow she'd slipped into her pocket. The double door to
Dathan's
Walk and the stable yard was also guarded, by a less distinctive pair. They saluted just as smartly though, and
opened the doors as she approached. Newfound respect.

Soren walked into sweet relief: the chill, dark nothing of
outside, where she saw only what was in front of her.

She'd discovered this the previous afternoon, after Strake's
marvellously pithy address to the Court. After the briefest of explanations he'd dismissed the curious crowd and
headed out to inspect the changes to the palace grounds. The moment Soren had stepped outside she'd
found herself almost human again.

"Not surprising," Strake had told her over
dinner. "There has to be
limits. It obviously has range outside
the palace, especially where you're concerned, but the constant flow of
information of this 'palace-sight' would be ruinously expensive outside the
area of the enchantment."

Beyond its limits, Soren couldn't summon up the palace at
all, but she walked into the stables listening to Strake's breathing. Sleeping deeply, and she would know when he
woke. That would surely be enough to
allow her a small freedom.

It was pitchy dark inside the first of the long
stables. Soren stood a moment listening
to tiny noises made by unseen animals, and was careful to set the mageglow
she'd liberated from the Champion's apartments to a soft glimmer before taking
it from her pocket. Sparing the eyes of
the horses was as much a consideration as not waking whatever hands or minor
officials infested the stables.

She was not three stalls along before she found what she was
looking for.

"Hello Vixen."

Stupid to go hugging horses, but spending the day standing
at the side of a man who was trying not to hate her had left Soren needy. The bewildering mix of dismay, concern and
desire she felt around her Rathen was not helped by the fascination of the
Court or the weight of the palace. Among
so many, she found herself very alone, and it was with considerable regret that
she'd found time to write her mothers a most circumspect composition which
could be translated as "stay away for now, until I'm sure it's
safe". It was a sensible move, but
not a comforting one.

One thing Strake had said to her cut deeper than anything
else. She'd yet to puzzle out a reason
for the Rose to choose her above all others as Strake's Champion, but he'd
brought a horrid possibility to light when he'd called her Champion Brood
Mare. Little as she wanted to be
Champion, Soren loathed the idea of having nothing more to contribute than any
woman capable of bearing. But, she told
herself, the idea didn't make sense – the urgency of attack had brought on the
Rose's attempt to breed a Rathen, if that was what it had been. She didn't know if she was pregnant, didn't
know the why behind that coupling, and mustn't fall into the trap of making
herself less than what she was.

Indifferent to
riderly
woes, Vixen
tried to eat the apple Soren had wedged into her other pocket.

"Put me in my place," Soren laughed, and pressed
her cheek briefly against the soft hair of the mare's neck. Then she fed her the apple, and looked about
for a saddle.

-
oOo
-

On the maps, the Kingdom of Darest looked like a
shakily-drawn square leaning east. It
was a large, mostly flat country, its few mountains trailing along the border
with Sax and Ceria to the west. The
northern and eastern borders were consumed by trees, slowly being absorbed back
into The Deeping, while south was entirely coastline, deeply notched by the Bay
of Diamonds. Tor Darest spread across
the low hills at the apex of the Bay, where the
Eldavar
ran into sea.

Established by the wealth of Domina Rathen and blossoming in
the security of Rathen rule, it was airy, had wide streets, flowing lines and
few scars. But, like the north-east
borders, the edges of Tor Darest were fraying. As the Tongue slowly licked across Aramond, that region's occupants had
trickled south and west. To Islay, to
Tor Darest, or all the way to another kingdom.

The city had changed to accommodate those displaced from the
north, especially in the flat valley close to the wharves east of the
Eldavar
. These
crowded boxes made stark contrast to the wide orderly streets with their
sewers, ornamental streetlights and large picturesque houses.

'Tor Darest is like a splendid Queen with mud on her
face.' Soren couldn't remember who had
said that to her. Aspen's tutor Fors
Cabtly, perhaps. It was a not inaccurate
description. Even in the domain of the
wealthy 'on the hills', fading whitewash and weeds creeping out of pavement
cracks spoke the same message. Darest
was in decline.

West of the river's mouth was the royal preserve, with the
palace on Seduna Hill and only the wealthiest private residences to the
north. Soren rode south, to a hill which
sloped down to the beach and formed a kind of parkland open to all.

People claimed that if you stood on Vostal Hill on a clear
morning, it was possible see Atlarus reflected in the sky above the Sumaric
Ocean. Cities of towers and fountains,
populated by firebirds, dragons and the coal-skinned mages who rivalled the
Fair for their complex nobility. All
Soren saw were gulls, swirling up in a column as they followed the fishing
fleet out to sea.

Turning back, she looked up at the palace, wondering why it
faced away from the beauty of the south. Toward the forest. Her domain,
the world which filled her head. When
she was inside, it was hard to believe there was anything beyond the bounds of
the Rose, and the ocean could very well be a world away.

Her King still slept, and the beach stretched empty and
tempting along the western shore of the Bay of Diamonds. Shafts of sunlight were just breaking over
the far hills and soon the choppy water would begin to sparkle and earn its
name. Vixen shifted eagerly, ears
pricked as she contemplated the possibilities of the surf.

"Let's go," Soren murmured, allowing the nebulous
beauty of the moment to wash away roses and Rathens. Weeks with Vixen had taught her that there
was more to horses than a slow plod, and she rode down to the beach and raced
the waves along the damp, tight-packed sand. A throat-swallowing gallop through the thin sheets of foam, with the cry
of gulls and the shush of surf her only accompaniment.

And breathing.

The bubble of exhilaration burst. Abruptly exposed, Soren slowed Vixen and looked
around. Up ahead, where Vostal and
Seduna met in a tumble of dark, angular rocks, two
somethings
were breathing.

They reacted to her searching stare. Soft gasps, something she thought must be
hurried whispers, though it was difficult to be sure without the words. Then, sheepishly, two ten-year children
emerged from behind one of the larger rocks. They carried a bucket and a rake, and bowed clumsily. Collecting mussels.

She inclined her head, smiling to show she was not annoyed
by their presence, then rode on, wondering why she had been able to hear two
children who plainly posed no threat. Experimentally, she attempted to call up the breathing of Lord Aristide,
whose activities she had watched carefully all the time she'd stood beside her
King.

Nothing.

By the time Soren reached the stables, she had decided that
the Rose allowed her to locate anyone – and anything? – which watched her or
Strake from hiding. It was an
explanation which matched her previous experiences, though it did not quite
account for the way she had followed the progress of Strake's pursuer through
the forest. Still, a theory to start
with.

During her absence, the stables had been overrun by thin,
scruffy boys and girls in their early teens, busily removing the night's
deposits. Without compunction, Soren
handed the salt-spattered Vixen over to the first one who looked her way.

"Have tack ready in her stall at all times," she
said, trying to sound assured without being as curt and dismissive as
Strake. Then she went back into the
palace.

It came over her in a wave. The kitchens were a hive of activity, the Seneschal had already rallied
and was lecturing her forces, fresh guards were in the process of relieving
those who had stood through the night. Energetic children demanded attention or played quietly, the most
enthusiastic lovers discovered each other anew among tumbled blankets, and
every second person made more work for the night-soil attendants. Less than an hour past first light and
hundreds were awake.

Soren had been braced for it, but still her step faltered
just within the east door. She picked up
her pace, gazing for a moment on Strake's continued slumber, finding Lady
Arista coldly surveying the progress which had been made packing her
belongings, and then checking on Lord Aristide. The Regent's son was still in his bed. He lay relaxed and quiet, blinking occasionally as he stared up at the
ceiling. Just looking at him made her
deeply uneasy.

Aristide Couerveur had attended Strake's address to the
Court, standing to the back of the crowd. Now only a Baron's heir, he had not been included on the list of people
Strake wished to speak with. Abruptly
relegated from the Court's centre to the margins, he had made no attempt to
approach his new King since their first encounter. Soren wondered how many people who had firmly
been in the heir's camp the previous morning would abandon the pale precision
he preferred to follow Strake's tastes? The Court would look as if it were beset by crows.

True to form, the Diamond showed every sign of finding
twisting circumstance a source of immense entertainment. Contemplating him prompted Soren to abruptly
alter her course as she crossed Fleeting Hall, and head for the door of the
Royal Mage's apartments, which lay between her apartments and the Garden of the
Rose. She glanced toward the garden as
she did so, but had no wish to look upon the black petals which blotted
Strake's future.

There were a few spectators to watch with interest as she
turned the door's handle, but none were close enough to hear the double-click
as she released the lock at the same time. Inside was an apartment very similar to her own, and almost as
over-stacked with books as hers had been before the advent of the rose. The Court Mage, Fors Cabtly, was still in his
bed, cuddling close to the equally plump figure of his wife. But that only suited Soren's purposes the
more.

Aspen's room was as fastidiously neat as the man
himself. He even slept in the exact
centre of his bed. Soren studied the
remarkable symmetry of the room, then sat down beside Aspen and touched his
arm.

His first response was a long, deep inhalation, then his
eyes cracked open. He breathed in again,
and smiled, still mazed with sleep. "Sea-foam, sweat and sand. I
can smell the beach on you, nixie."

Soren sat back. "Are you always this poetic first thing in the morning?"

"Only when someone lovely comes to seduce me," he
replied beatifically, then rubbed his eyes.

"I wanted to ask you some questions."

"I thought you would." A little more awake, Aspen gave her a
cat-with-cream smile. "On the
desk."

Surprised, Soren moved across to the neat stack of books
positioned in the exact centre of the spotless desk. Places were marked with strips of blue
ribbon. Histories. "I see you've been busy."

"Currying your favour, my sweet. Though, really, why I should be at all
helpful when you've gone and let that fribble Fisk worm his way into the King's
good graces, I don't know."

"You didn't happen to be there at the precise moment he
decided he needed a secretary," Soren replied, absently. For a time Strake had asked Soren questions
before interviewing each of his officials, but had soon tired of her ignorance
of Court minutiae and appointed a random footman to be his personal
secretary. The man was barely out of his
teens, and still looked stunned by his sudden change of circumstance, but he
had proven to be a rival for Aspen's crown of gossip.

She opened the topmost book and found a record of Strake's
birth. Aluster Veristace Rathen. Nearly two hundred and eighty years ago.

"There's not a great deal on him," Aspen put in,
watching her speculatively from the bed. "A very obscure Rathen you've found for us. But, Sunshine!, he's a stunner isn't he? No portrait could do justice to those
eyes."

Aspen waxed lyrical about Strake's looks while Soren opened
book after book, discovering only mentions of a long-ago prince, child of the
Queen's sister. He'd had a brother
called
Domaril
, a sister named
Kassandia
,
seemed uninvolved in the politics of the time and was not famed for skill in
sword or sorcery. Barely a blip in
history.

The last two books covered the time after the disastrous
hunt: the annunciation of
Kassandia
as Crown
Princess, the investigations which had followed and led nowhere. It did not sound as if The Deeping had been
helpful. Soren was held captive not by
speculation and accusation, but rather a list of just who had been part of the
hunt. Princess Sethane and the Baron of
the Oaks. Prince Aluster, and Prince
Aluster's betrothed, Vahse.

"Another cousin," Strake had called him. He had been subdued and factual and kept
completely to himself the importance of the man who had stood pressed against
his back, and died.

"They're made for each other, of course," Aspen
was saying.

"What?" She
felt blank and numb, struggling to fit this news into the situation. Strake had lost the man he loved, and then
himself. And when he'd won free from
whatever enchantment had thrust him out of the past, he'd discovered he'd lost
everyone else. It was Vahse, the deepest
hurt, he'd kept to himself.