Champion of the Rose - Kobo Ebook (42 page)

"The boy did not kill me because–" She couldn't quite say it, hurrying on. "We're safe in the palace because of the
Rose, but it – I hate being in the palace for the same reason. And it keeps the
malison
from completely destroying us."

"From warping us. The
malison's
effects you
can see most in Lady Arista. Not dead or
broken, but turned in on herself. In
Darest the one who sits the throne, the ruling line, is never something as
simple as the one at the top of the pile."

She went still. "But that would mean–"

"That I'd be impacted by the
malison
without the Rose." His voice was
bitter. "Or even with the Rose,
given the lack of
Rathens
to power it. But it will give some measure of
protection. Another Sun-blasted chain
about my throat."

Soren touched his cheek, his temple, feeling heat, the throb
of pulse beneath skin. "And you'd
throw it off in a moment, if it wasn't for the risk to me." She knew perfectly well it was true, didn't
need to see him nod his head, eyes squeezing shut in his pain. "Do you think it could be the
malison
which has formed this instinct in the Rose?"

"Who knows? It
doesn't matter – take away the
malison
and the Rose
would still be what it is now, just as Arista
Couerveur
would continue to war against her son. There's no escaping the thing."

He was working himself up to anger again, but stopped and
touched her face, shivering. "Good
with bad. Bad with good. And you're right to be worried about
Aristide. His greatest strength is this
singular devotion to Darest. It kept him
from killing me, because he saw more harm than good would come out of it. Now, the
saecstra
will hold him, whether he wants it or not, but – as I said, he's near as much
King of Darest as I am. The
malison
has to be effecting him, or will eventually, and I
can't guess where that will take us. I
do know marrying him won't fix things."

"Because he still wouldn't be King?"

"Exactly. I've
no doubt he'd hate the prospect, no matter how much or little he felt for
me. It would lessen him, in a way."

Never simple. Soren
shifted, tracing the curve of his ribs. "Do you want him?"

Strake didn't answer immediately, the tension creeping back
into his body. The question bothered
him. "I can barely reconcile lying
here with you, without
Vahse
," he said,
eventually. "Aristide would be too
much."

That was not quite an answer. Soren touched his cheek and after a moment he
reluctantly went on: "There's a lot about him I admire. I suppose in other circumstances I'd be
tempted. But I don't want or need
another lover. And he doesn't want
anything of the sort. I'd like – I'll
admit at least to wanting to make him stop 'your majesty-
ing
'
me."

Would that be enough? If something happened to her, Strake would need someone, and Aristide
was by far the most logical person. They
were suited in so many ways, and surely Aristide couldn't be completely
indifferent? Soren didn't like the
prospect of leaving her Rathen alone.

"A
tribond
would probably
circumvent my vow," Strake said then, completely shattering her
equilibrium.

"What?"

"You'd have to want it," Strake said, eyes
glittering. "Want him. Could you?"

Impossible question.

"I don't think Aristide...is himself with me," she
said, without a great deal of enthusiasm. "I'm not sure he's himself with anyone, really. You, perhaps, on occasion. I won't deny he's attractive, but
he–" She shook her head, trying to
push away the images that were filling it, unable not to look at the man as he
stood before a mirror, dressing with slow precision. Unreadable as ever. "He's not what I thought he was. How can I tell whether I want him if he
doesn't let anyone know him? Court
him? I'm not even sure I've
met
him."

Strake's smile was one of a man who has demonstrated a
point. Lining up Aristide as her
replacement would founder on the rock of Aristide's self-imposed
isolation. And could never balance the
risk she wanted to take. But the air of
triumph was short-lived, and he slid his hand across her hip to rest it flat on
the bed on her far side.

"I don't know what I'm doing," he whispered. "Here with you, without
Vahse
. He was the
one who wanted children, was far more determined to find a third than I. And I already knew that anyone he liked
enough to want to have children with, he'd want as part of a
tribond
. Pragmatic
contracts weren't the sort of thing he could do." His hand and his eyes both closed, and his
voice dropped even further, tense with misery. "He talked a lot about how we would make sure we didn't know who
fathered which child, but he wanted one so much that I was going to make
certain at least the first was his. The
perfect man to be a father – he always gave his love so unconditionally. He would have adored you, made me
jealous. Made a game out of what could
have been the most horrible rivalry. Exhausted himself making sure you loved me as much as him, and then been
quietly hurt, despite all good intentions, if we spent too much time
together. Then laughed at himself. Keeping the world in proportion was so easy
for him."

For a moment there were three in the bed, a mage-conjured
image of a Rathen man with a wry smile and dancing eyes lying beside them. Then it was just Soren and Strake, and her
Rathen's
face was all planes. "I can't let you go out there."

It took a long time to find the answer. "One of the worst things I can think
of–" she began, and found that her throat had stuck and she had to swallow
to make it work again. "One of the
worst things would be if the boy managed to run from Tor Darest. If the capture went wrong or if he overcomes
this Moon-shaping and flees from what's been set on him. How long before he came back? I don't want to be terrified of letting our
child outside the palace walls, Strake. I don't want to have this sick dread every time you so much as set foot
outside the door. I'll be damned if I
have that."

His hand had found her stomach, undistorted by a child still
months in the future. "No," he
repeated, and this time the word was full of fear.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Every question Strake asked the Tzel Aviar only made it
clearer that the risk to Soren was considerably less than that posed by any
other approach. It was the Rose's senses
Strake couldn't argue away: the fact that it would let her know where the boy
was, and be actively doing everything it dared to keep her alive. Finally, whether because of Soren's
determination or the undeniable risk posed to Darest, he gave in.

Tzel Damaris' solution to getting the boy within arm's reach
was to construct a massive knot of illusory writing on
Vostal
Hill – a sentence in Fae script which Aristide translated as: "Come an
hour after sunset". And an hour
after sunset she and the Tzel Aviar once again walked out on
Vostal
Hill.

Feeling that it was better than nothing, Strake was watching
from a balcony. Soren regretted
suggesting it, picturing the boy maddened by his distant presence, trying to
leap up the side of the palace. From the
hillside she could only see the shape of two men, side by side on the unlit
balcony, but the boy would still know exactly where his target was. That was why Aristide was at Strake's side,
and four guards lurked beyond the doors into the palace proper.

Soren tucked chilled fingers into her armpits as they neared
the top of the hill. She'd managed to
leave her gloves behind, despite a stone-faced
Halcean
trying to kit her out in everything including a mail shirt. Her aide had worn an air of impending doom,
eyes dark and troubled but her mouth closed firmly on her fears. Just like her Rathen.

Having promised to remain in sight, Soren slowed as they
approached the pavilion, listening to the leaves rattle, and scenting salt and
lavender on the evening breeze. The sky
was clean and clear above, with the sliver of the Moon just beginning to
rise. On her back the sword felt
reassuringly solid, but the Rose was completely silent and there was no hint of
a killer's breath.

She hoped that the boy could read.

"Tzel Damaris–" she began, then decided the Fae
simply would not have overlooked that point. When he turned enquiring eyes on her she hesitated, then said: "
Seldareth
–
Asterall
– is the
'end' she's supposed to seek death?"

"It may be." He stopped just before the shadow of the pavilion and gazed across at
the mouth of the river at the lights of Tor Darest. "That one will walk alone to
Celoras
, and into the Lake of Essence. Many who do this do not emerge. Should she survive, the name of
Asterall
will still be recorded among the dead, and she
will seek a new one by...complicated means. She cannot return to the person she once was."

This seemed to Soren an unimaginable thing. To have everything you were taken away, and
to have to search out a new purpose, a new self. "It seems harsh," she said, inadequately. "She did so little."

"
Asterall
faces death for ordering
the murder of
Seldareth's
heir."

Seldareth's
heir. Of course. The boy was the elder.

"The land will remain under regency until he is able to
assume the title," Damaris continued. Without palace-sight she couldn't see the subtleties of his expression,
but that perfectly even voice held some fragment of acknowledgment for the
difficulties of installing someone with so much blood on his hands as North's
lord. Strake would hate it.

Unable to muster any meaningful comment, Soren fell
silent. Why did every problem partway
dealt with birth a litter of consequences? Being Champion of Darest was like fighting a hydra with a thousand
heads, and none of them nice, solid, visible ones you could just lop off and
forget. Even if you were competent
enough to swing a sword. Everything she
did still felt wrong.

-
oOo
-

He came from the south, walking with steady ease, pausing
occasionally as if to survey what lay ahead. When his breath first sighed into audibility the Rose fluttered in
response, a memory of unease at the back of Soren's chest. But there was none of the panic of previous
encounters. Soren made herself take
heart from this, for it suggested the Rose agreed with Tzel Damaris' plan. It at least had made no attempt to stop her
leaving the palace – there'd been none of the weak-legged confusion which had
delayed her effort to reach Strake in the Tongue.

If only she could be so sanguine. One thing to decide she had to live up to the
title of Champion, to argue for the right to risk herself. Quite another matter to actually play
hero. She still couldn't believe she was
out here. But there was no backing out
of this now, and she sounded almost calm as she warned Tzel Damaris.

"I will explain to him what I intend to do,"
Damaris replied. "It is unlikely he
will run, but if he does I will attempt to block him. Take hold of his arms, for his hands are his
weapons, and keep him as still as you are able. I have laid protections upon myself to shield against a strike, but I am
not certain they will be effective."

The
Fae's
instructions produced a
marvellously tangible sense of discomfort. What harm in a little reassurance? Or at least a show of fellow feeling, some awareness that it was not
easy to stand out here beneath a swimming sliver of moon, listening to a child
made monster approach? Tzel Damaris
simply gazed in the direction she'd indicated, his stance suggesting
concentration, certainly not fear.

Soren had enough of that for both of them. Fear of death and her own inadequacy, concern
for her barely-real child and for her Rathen watching so impotently. She'd always thought herself better able to
face danger than cope with Court subtlety, but perhaps she simply hadn't hunted
enough killers. Sick helplessness had
taken her by the throat and she thought it entirely possible she might just
stand there and watch while Tzel Damaris was torn apart.

On the far side of the pavilion, the boy stopped again. It was a poised, anticipatory kind of
hesitation, speaking palpably of suspicion and the memory of an arrow striking
home. Then he crossed from one throne to
the other and out into the open. Only
ten feet away when he stopped, while Soren's spine tied knots and the Rose became
tangibly intent. But she stood her
ground.

The Tzel Aviar began to speak, evidently tracking the boy's
progress by the crackle of trodden grass. This time there was no convenient enchantment of translation, just the
quiet flow of incomprehensible words. Nor did the
Fae's
tone suggest threat or plea;
his face was as imperturbable as ever.

Finally, Damaris fell silent, waiting. Soren couldn't guess the boy's reaction, for
there had been no clue in the even pace of his breathing. What if he fled? Rejected whatever Damaris had said and
ran? The offer, after all, would take as
much as it gave. Freedom from the
purpose written on his blood in return for the strictures of the Fae Court and
the loss of the powers which made him so dangerous. He was only a few steps away – shouldn't she
leap forward, grab him, so that the Tzel Aviar could work his magic?

But it seemed important to give the boy the chance to
choose. And terribly unlikely that a
sudden leap would be at all successful. And even as Soren took an unsteady breath, and closed her hands to wait,
a killer appeared before her.

A scavenged jacket hung loosely over rough bandaging. The arrow must have hit deep in the meat of
his shoulder – not an impossible wound to dress without help, but
difficult. The fine features carried an
edge of weariness, but his clear silver gaze was far from the desperately ill
and pitiful image conjured by Soren's conscience. He caught her gaze and held it, then stepped
forward and offered his hands to her, wrists together.