Champion of the Rose - Kobo Ebook (3 page)

A white pitch of anticipation followed Soren through the
palace, and she was reminded of her first few days in Tor Darest. But then she had only been a curiosity. Now faces turned toward her with avid
fascination, and there were even a few following to see where she went.

The attention made her shoulder blades itch, and in her
gold-embroidered black it was impossible to avoid notice. With a thousand courtly schemes crumbling in
the shadow of a dark flower, few dared show even displeasure when she strode
past their attempts to catch her eye. Pleasant as the prospect was of no longer being treated as a joke,
Soren's imagination simply ran up against a wall when it came to contemplating
her sudden shift of status, the end to her quiet skulking about the political
fringe. The Champion had once been a
force to be reckoned with. The first
Champion, Kittredge, had been Domina Rathen's most trusted guardswoman. Kittredge had stood by the mage-queen's side
as she established her realm, and had been woven into Darest's defences. At Darest's height, to become Champion was
the wish of every Darien child, for it brought power and acclaim and honour in
equal measure, to balance a world of responsibilities. All Rathens were mages, but the Champion
could be friend, adviser, teacher, lover, sibling. Whatever that Rathen needed most, whatever
would make that Rathen stronger. The
Champion was the realm's protector, second in consequence only to the one who
sat the throne.

Domina Rathen had created a process which did not allow for
variation. For every Rathen ruler, a
Champion would be found: proclaimed by magic, some even said shaped by
magic. For the last two hundred years,
there had been no Rathens, but the enchantments continued to find
Champions. The four who had been
proclaimed since the death of King Torluce were nothing but reminders of
Darest's former glories.

And now a single rose threatened to change all that.

So was she to have some kind of mentor role to Darest's next
ruler? Parenting mightn't be that bad,
with the help of the child's mother, but Soren knew little of state-craft. And she had no taste to match swords with
Aristide Couerveur, to be shoved to the centre of Court intrigue.

With this daunting prospect in mind, she was ushered into a
receiving room where Francesca Rothwell waited alone, a long, linen-wrapped
bundle on a table before her.

"Champion." Lady Rothwell smiled her welcome and indicated a seat for Soren. "I will not take a great deal of your
time."

"I'm curious to know what it is you have for me,"
Soren said, though she had not till that moment thought about it. Trying to work out how a Rathen child could
be born without a Rathen parent had proven more engrossing.

"This." Lady Rothwell indicated the bundle which lay between them. "It's been in my family's possession for
a long time now." She gestured for
Soren to unwrap it.

Already uncertain, Soren almost snatched her hands back when
her fingers grazed something which sent a wave of pins and needles through her
skin. Her hands recognised this,
whatever it was. It was like
encountering a lost limb, all unexpected.

Despite wanting to feel such surety for half her life, Soren
was slow to continue. It pulled you
off-balance, something like that, and her head hadn't stopped spinning since Aspen
had made his triumphal revelation. But
she couldn't sit here quailing before Lady Rothwell. Gingerly, she picked the last of the
wrappings away.

The sheath was dull with age and care, the hilt softened by
braided leather strips which had seen the touch of many hands. Soren did not draw it, did not even want to
pick it up, not when it insisted on telling her she'd been missing it all her
life. She had not.

"I'm not a swordswoman, Lady Rothwell." And had no desire to be, whatever protection
a blade might offer.

"Indeed, not all the Champions were. Its power is as much as a symbol as a
weapon. This was Kittredge's
sword."

The first Champion. It was an ancient thing, then, and probably bound up in all the magic
which surrounded Soren's position. Probably. No probably at all. This thing was trumpeting its presence at
her.

"How did it come to your family, M'Lady?" she
asked, trying to control an urge to clasp the sword close. That was far more unnerving than Lord
Aristide and the Regent put together.

"King Torluce's Champion survived him for several years
and he was of the Rothwell line. When
the first
Rathenless
Champion was proclaimed, the
sword was in the hands of the family, and they did not consider it necessary –
did not want, to be truthful – to give it up." Lady Rothwell leaned forward to brush her
fingers against the binding. "So
much history. A symbol of the way things
were."

The way things were during the reign of the Rathen mages was
a popular subject no-one discussed. Not
publicly, at least. The Couerveurs had
not been incompetent regents, but some vital balance had been upset with King
Torluce's death. Encroached upon by The
Deeping to the east and aggressive trade from the west, Darest was unlucky,
cursed, at the very least no longer the power it had once been. Too much had been bound into a single
bloodline, too many treaties, too many enchantments. A wealth of tradition and trust and
inspiration. Without the Rathens, Darest
had begun to fail, had now been altered almost beyond recognition. Few spoke about the decline, let alone put
forward any ideas on how to arrest it. They muttered of Fae curses and did nothing.

How did a new-born Rathen come into this setting? And how in the world was Soren supposed to be
any of the things a Champion was meant to be, when she was neither mage nor
armswoman nor courtier? Just Soren.

Why had the Rose chosen her to be Champion? She'd never had a calling, never shown a
particular talent for anything. Unlike
brother
Romadin
, she'd been an indifferent student,
capable of following their two mothers along the musty path of scholarship but
not of devoting herself to it. Nor had
she felt the urge to join her sister Rain and their father plying the sea-routes. Soren had never excelled, never loved
anything enough to want to do it her whole life. She had a level of learning, after so many
conscientious lessons, and knew her way around boats and trade-logs, but they
were not her vocation, any more than the herding or the herb-craft or the
fishing which she had tried as her blood-mother sought a pigeonhole to fit her
in. Competent at many things, master of
none, she'd been Carn Keep's maid-of-all-work, neither satisfied nor
disconsolate with her lot. She knew how
to bind a book and cast a line, and had no interest whatsoever in politics.

And would get nowhere trying to
out-fish
Aristide Couerveur.

Soren picked up the sword, her eyes half-closing at the
unexpected and quite physical pleasure which flowed through her grip on the
hilt. Her entire body tingled. The thing was most definitely hers; now what
was she going to do with it?

Whether she was the stuff of Champions, or capable of
wielding a sword, Soren had no option but to at least attempt to save the
Rathen child. Despite the machinations of
the Court, she would have to mark her own course. And believe it wouldn't end in disaster.

Chapter Three

"Her name's Vixen, Champion."

Soren looked the mare over dubiously. A far cry from the sturdy former plough-horse
she'd been permitted to ride back at Carn Keep. Not so many hands high, but Cob had been an imperturbable mound of a
horse who would never think of shying or bolting. This showy bay pranced about the stable yard,
tossing her head and apparently attempting to master the latest dance step. Being thrown was not how Soren wished to
start her attempt to fulfil the role of Champion. Just starting was bad enough.

"She don't buck," put in the stableboy, apparently
delighted to witness the Rathen Champion setting out. "She'll see you halfway to the Tongue
before you know it."

And save the kingdom before afternoon tea? Perhaps, if she'd just stop still long enough
for a horse-clumsy Champion to get on board.

To Soren's surprise, the boy proved right. Though peculiarly sensitive to anything which
rattled, Vixen was well-trained, with an even gait kind to riders long out of
practice. Her worst fault was an
inclination to try and work open saddlebags left too handily in reach.

The first thing Soren did, once through the palace gates,
was thrust her surcoat to the very bottom of those bags. She had no intention of riding about the
countryside in clothing which announced her identity to every passer-by. The charcoal-grey shirt and leggings would
serve her well enough, and she could purchase other clothing along the way.

After that, Soren tried to deal with the sword, but it
refused point-blank to stay settled on anything but Soren, falling loose or
poking stubbornly from every other place she tried to fasten it. She eventually gave in and used the harness
Lady Rothwell had provided to strap it across her back, feeling boastful. It was heavy, but at the end of the first day
she found herself reluctant to take it off, despite how little she liked its
continued insistence that it was hers and that she was terribly glad to have
it.

Planning for the future became a matter of working out
everything she should do and then drawing a line through the things which she'd
be stupid to attempt. The first item
she'd eliminated was returning to Tor Darest. Soren was tolerably certain she wouldn't be able to protect herself in
the capital, let alone a child with a claim to the throne. Even if she credited Aristide Couerveur with
every virtue in the world, he was not the only interest at Court with a stake
in a Rathen child's sudden death. The
few allies she thought she could count on – Lady Rothwell and possibly Aspen –
would not be enough to ensure the child saw its first birthday, let alone
twenty and the Crown.

Which meant the best thing Soren could do was find this new
Rathen heir and then somewhere to hide. For a very long time.

Going home was out of the question: she would not bring
Court intrigue to a scholar's retreat, and Carn Keep was the first place anyone
would look. For a moment she amused
herself with the thought of descending on
Tscharen
,
babe in arms. But
Tscharen
had a son of her own now, and would hardly welcome an old lover with a
kingdom's worth of enemies in tow. It
would have to be some anonymous place where a young woman and a child could
lose themselves, in a crowd or a wilderness. A crowd would probably be better. She would have to leave Darest.

The prospect was both exciting and appalling. So many places she'd never seen, so many
things which could go wrong.

There was a great deal of choice to the West. Sax and Ceria, Darest's nearest neighbours
and probably too close. Jutland, beyond
the northwest mountains, was out of the question. Raising the next ruler of Darest as a nomadic
plainsman was surely not a good idea. Korm was too clannish, Skrem too violent. Perhaps Cya? But Cya and Sax were pushing hard against each other and Darest. She'd be mad to take Darest's heir into their
territory.

South across the ocean would be too risky during the next
few months, when every port would be watched. To the north and east, Darest was bounded by The Deeping, where few
humans were permitted to live. Even if
she could gain permission, there would be little safety to be found in the
sprawling realm of the Old Race, called the Fair or the Fae or elves or a
half-dozen other things. They had their
own games of politics, and enchantments which made the Rathen Rose seem
tame. And for all their rules and laws,
she'd heard too much about Fae curses and their wish to reclaim their
gift-kingdom to trust them with its heir.

But beyond The Deeping were human lands. Kingdoms which shared no borders with Darest,
and had no great interest in Rathen children. It would be a journey of many weeks to reach them, but she could surely
find a hiding place there, if anywhere.

She decided this over a week of sun-lit and unmolested
riding, north along busy roads to Islay at the tip of the Tongue. Then she turned down the failing trade road
east, travelling into a place of trees, tall and close to either side of a
near-swallowed road. As she passed
through the small, lonely townlets which scratched a brave existence in the
north-east, Soren's thoughts shifted to the more immediate future. What, for instance, was she going to do once
she reached Teraman? Ask to inspect
every babe born in the last few weeks? Hope one happened to have a convenient birthmark of a crown or some
such? And then try and spirit it away,
whatever the wishes of the parents? She
still hadn't thought of a reasonable explanation for a Rathen without Rathen
parents, and she was at a loss over how to go about identifying the right baby
and assuming Championship of it.

"Champion?"

Soren started, jerking Vixen's reins. She'd stopped at a stream, still an
afternoon's ride out from Teraman, and there'd been no-one visible when she'd
slid out of the saddle. Vixen lifted her
head and snorted, put her ears back, then returned to thirsty drinking. Water first, in this early Autumn warmth.

"Don't look at me," said the voice, so naturally
Soren did, searching for the source. A
young girl was crouched beneath the small bridge crossing the stream. She was about twelve, berry-brown, and more
than a little damp. Pulling a frantic
face, she waved a hand, urging Soren to look away. "Pretend I'm not here!"

"All right." Soren studiously turned her attention to the trees – a mix of walnut and
tall, black-barked loram. Hoping to make
Teraman before dark, she'd been feeling increasingly ambiguous about what was
to come. The girl was the first person she'd
seen since
Thissen
, the last village.