Jolted into action, Soren ran – directly toward whatever was approaching. She was desperately trying to remember the course of an arc into the trees, with a flash of apricot at its peak. Strake had shown her a basic way of creating a protection, simply by inscribing a circle into the ground. She couldn't do it without the sword.
Guided unerringly by the connection which had existed ever since she'd gone to Lady Rothwell's rooms, Soren plunged down the slope into the trees. Only fifteen feet separated her from the unseen presence as she reached, spine crawling, for a lump of metal she barely knew how to use. She was panting in tiny rapid gasps, convinced that at any moment a nightmare would leap out at her: red, slavering tongue, claws like sickles, and teeth whiter than stars. It was so close.
Soren's fingers found the worn hilt and she tried to snatch herself out of range of a monster's leap even as it abruptly stopped moving. She stumbled backward up the slope towards Vixen, racing on jelly-knees, the heavy sword wavering in her grip. The mare was standing quietly, and merely flicked her tail as Soren approached. If the gusting wind carried scents other than apple and grass, they were not the kind to panic a horse.
But the Rose's cry of danger was unrelenting. Skin flinching from an attack which hadn't come, Soren traced a circle around Vixen, trying to make at least an indentation in the grass. The sword's hilt grew warm in her hand, which was the only sign Soren was able to detect that she was doing more than griming the tip. The circle would, Strake had told her, keep out basic attacks.
And it was not necessary. Without even coming close enough for her to see it, the thing in the dark began to move away.
Toward Strake.
"Oh, Lady Moon. Grace of Night. Help me." Soren's breath was still coming in spurts, the futile prayers juddering between gasps. He was a mage and infinitely more capable of defending himself, but he was out there alone without even a knife. Without even his self-command, after what had been done to him.
Vixen still didn't seem to think anything was wrong, except that Soren was thrusting the bit into her mouth at the end of the day, completely against routine. Soren had never saddled a horse faster. She dared not try riding bareback. Not in the dark through a forest with that thing roaming around.
She could hear them both now. Strake hadn't moved, was no doubt wishing he'd left her stumbling around after Helena. The soft, steady breathing had been moving directly toward him, but now began circling to the right. Already halfway between her and him.
It knows where he is as surely as I do, Soren thought, fitting one foot into a stirrup which would not stay still. It knew the moment I touched that sword. That makes it no ordinary animal. Something out to kill him. Fae magic, Fae–
Soren fell, flat on her back in the grass.
Startled, she tried to stand back up, but her legs wouldn't work. She grabbed at the stirrup swaying above her head, but trying to lever herself up only sent her sliding under Vixen's belly. The mare, far more perturbed by Soren's strange behaviour than anything lurking out in the forest, almost trampled the Rathen Champion in her haste to get out of range.
"Sorry," Soren said, too shocked at that moment to do more than make inane apologies. She tried to stand again, and this time managed to gain her feet. The world spun, the dizziness worse than before, and she felt crushed, pulled in two directions at once by the tumult behind her eyes.
Landing back on her knees, she groaned, lifting a hand to her head even as the conflict died away. Vixen was watching from just outside the circle, ears pricked forward and reins trailing about her hooves. Stars glittered above and the wind rushed peacefully over the hills. Out in the night an unseen thing stalked the Rathen heir. And the Rose wouldn't let her go try and stop it.
Fear and confusion fell away to anger, and Soren struggled to her knees. "Let me up, you wretched shrub," she demanded, pushing back when the Rose tried to box her behind her spine. Whatever else, she would not be this. She would not allow herself to be made a puppet, would not bend to an enchantment meant to serve and protect, and she certainly would not sit in a protective circle while something tried to kill her Rathen.
To Soren's surprise, the tight feeling in her chest went away. But the dizziness was worse than ever, her head reverberating like a struck gong. This time she fell hard enough to hurt.
Staring up at stars which were squiggling in little circles, Soren realised that the feeling of struggle was not her own. The Rose was fighting itself.
Why? Why attack Strake and then try to leave him unprotected? Why the internal battle? It seemed something had gone seriously wrong with the enchantment overseeing the Rathen succession. Unless there had been some sort of sabotage. Could Lord Aristide have tampered with the Rose back in Tor Darest, perverting it to his ambition?
Whatever the case, Soren had to try and take advantage of this wobbling conflict. Climbing to her feet, she set her jaw and pushed at the pressure within. An implacable edict. She would not be stopped. Strake was the Rathen heir and she would protect him. That, after all, was what everyone said she was here for.
Dizzy struggle evaporated. Even the sense of impending doom, of panic and danger had gone. But half a mile away the thing which stalked the future King drifted closer, and she was running out of time.
-oOo-
Riding at night was chancy even without factors like abandoned roads and unseen monsters. Despite the moon edging above the trees, Soren dared not attempt more than a fast trot, and found herself occupied with ducking branches instead of evading dagger-sharp claws. Vixen had picked up on her mood and was skittery and uncooperative, but still did not show any awareness of the presence which so excited the Rose. It was just ahead now, about twenty feet to the right of the road. She'd have to ride past it, within easy reach of a sudden rush.
Too frightened to hesitate, Soren drove Vixen to surge forward, closing her eyes to slits as she tried to stare through the dark. There was no catch, no change in the even pace of the thing's breathing. She was sure it turned its head to watch her fly past, bent low over Vixen's withers, but it did not so much as pause in its steady course toward Strake.
Strake.
Her Rathen had found the crumbling ruin of Aramond, and was standing at the mouth of a street suffused with silver. He was facing away from her, staring up at the half moon rising above the blockish shadows of crumbling buildings. Although he didn't move as Soren broke into the open, she'd heard the sudden intake, then his deep, shaky breaths as Vixen gained speed along the road. Steeling himself to deal with her.
Her stomach turned over, but there wasn't time to cringe. She reined Vixen to a halt bare feet from him and blurted: "We have to get out of here."
For a moment there was no response. Then his head lowered, his back utterly straight, unbending.
"We?"
Total rejection. It shrivelled her.
"Do you imagine I have any intention of travelling with you? Trusting you?" Scorn competed with furious loathing.
His anger reignited Soren's own. "I imagine that whatever it is chasing you about means you no good," she snapped. "I think you know something about why the Rose wants you dead. Why it did...that to us. Why it tried to stop me warning you." She couldn't hold back an exasperated, frantic noise, swallowing a volcano of doubt and antagonism as the shadow drew ever closer. "I think we need to get out of here. You can yell later."
Strake turned to study the forest at her back. "I don't see anything," he said, flatly. But he searched the black and silver trees again.
The Rose chose that moment to start pummelling Soren with a lifetime's fear and urgency. Vixen, her reins jerked about, danced in a little circle as Soren tried to control the urge to run as far and fast as she could. The pushing sensation had returned, along with the dizzy argument behind her mind, and she lost vital moments thrusting it away. It at least seemed easier, now that she knew that she could.
"Why is it doing this?" she cried, then shook her head. The stalker had stopped, a stone's throw away. "There
isn't time." She held a hand out to her Rathen, who was watching her with the wary stare of someone who has discovered a madwoman. "Believe me, we have to go. Now."
He hesitated, eyes fixed on her hand. Not wanting to touch her. But something of her urgency must have communicated itself, because he grasped the back of the saddle and, avoiding contact with Soren as much as possible, swung himself up behind.
The thing in the dark let out its breath in a puff. As Soren turned Vixen, it rushed forward, crashing through bushes in a finally audible charge. The shouting tumult of the Rose reached a crescendo of panic, and then the sky went away.
-oOo-
Vixen screamed.
There wasn't time to even glance at the empty blackness around them as the mare began leaping in all directions at once. Strake, niceness forgotten, clutched at Soren's waist as Vixen spun in a circle, bounced forward, tried to rear beneath their combined weight, then leapt back the way she had come. Soren, her knees wedged into Vixen's sides, hauled desperately at the reins. She felt like she was swimming through treacle, and it was either this sensation or the flat nothing surrounding them which had sent Vixen into an ears-back paroxysm.
"Hold her!" Strake ordered, his voice strangely blurred. He slid left, nearly pulling them both from the saddle, then with a curse pushed Soren forward so he could grasp the reins, adding his strength, but Vixen had the bit in her teeth and continued to rocket back and forth like a bird beating itself against the windows of a small room. "Look for a path!" he shouted. "A door, a–"
"–light?" There was a patch less black than the rest, a depression rather than a guiding beacon.
Strake followed her direction, and immediately wrenched Vixen's head around, the bit grating horribly. They bounced toward the depression, and this time the treacle-drag was barely noticeable. Vixen squealed again, then bolted.
"She'll ruin herself!" Soren gasped, clutching at the pommel. Strake had somehow taken possession of one of the stirrups, and was perilously close to evicting her from the saddle, pushing her forward onto Vixen's withers.
"Better to let her run it out than stop," he replied, the voice at her ear sounding abruptly more collected. "Stopping wouldn't be healthy."
"You know where we are?" Soren stared dizzily about at black nothing. How could emptiness feel so crowded, so stifling? And why couldn't she hear Vixen's hoof-beats?
"A Walk. A path between, a gate. A quick way to get from one place to the next. In this case, an escape route."
He pulled her to a safer position in such a punctiliously matter-of-fact way that she was forcibly reminded of what had so recently passed between them. She could feel the rigid tension in his arms, now bracketing hers. She was still sticky from him, for Sun's Sake! Neither of them were ready to be pressed up so close, all rushed and jolted by Vixen's frantic pace.
"I think I came here when I was annunciated," she managed to say, talking from some vague notion of keeping both their minds away from the angry horror of that memory. "Th-the–" She pretended Vixen's jouncing gait had caused that quaver, refusing to make everything worse by sounding so mortified. "The Rose was riding me then, though," she said quickly and flatly. "So I didn't really take it in. I can only assume we're heading to the palace now. Why is it a bad idea to stop?" Inane, stupid words. He'd been raped, they both had, by the very thing meant to protect him.
"A Walk is compressed. Nothing is quite solid, or truly insubstantial, and time doesn't work the same way. I've never managed to cast one, not many can solo, but I know that stopping or turning from course has caused disappearances. The travellers never come back."
An unusually garrulous speech for Strake, especially now they were bent low over Vixen's neck, their breath half knocked out by the mare's pace. Soren tightened her grip on the pommel, bracing herself, far too aware of the way their bodies surged together, of how he must be hating her.
Still, she forced herself to ask: "Why did it do that to us? Why does it want you dead?"
He didn't answer.
"I have to know," Soren continued, with as much asperity as she could muster, trying not to sound so pathetically lost. "Don't you understand that? I don't know if I'm actually capable of protecting you, but I can at least try to stop the Rose from leaving you to the clutches of whatever that thing was. And I have a far better chance of doing that if I know why all this is happening."
"You'd know more about that than me." Strake was regaining the caustic edge to his voice.
"You know what happened to you at least!" she cried, exasperated. "Why you're still alive, what it is that's hunting you."
"No," he said, with immense reluctance. "I don't."
Chapter Nine
So far as Soren could tell in the stifling absence of the Walk, they had been travelling for less than an hour when the dark went abruptly away. Fortunately Vixen had slowed to a tired walk and simply stopped as the world returned, lifting her head. The Garden of the Rose, already outlined by the nebulous light of early dawn.
Nothing moved. No coil of thorn and jagged leaf whipped down, and not a hint of pressure touched Soren's mind. It could very well just be a plant. Overgrown, neglected, mute.
Strake immediately slid from Vixen's rump, eager to get as far from Soren as possible. After admitting ignorance, he'd fobbed her questions off with such a sudden return to anger that Soren had given up the argument. It was impossible to debate with a man who was pressed up against your back, saying curt, furious things directly into your ear.
With mixed feelings, Soren dismounted as well and patted Vixen's sweat-damp neck. The mare would be thirsty, but Soren was reluctant to let her near the small rectangular pond which lay toward the back of the Rose's Garden. The birds never drank from it. Birds didn't enter the Garden at all.
Turning, Soren forgot all about her horse. Strake was standing arrested, staring up at the dark, velvety blossom which represented his life. The colour was leaching from his face as she watched, leaving him a peculiar waxy tan.
"What wrong?"
"It's black." He spoke like a man returned from a visit to a neighbour to discover his house burned to the ground: the dismay was almost drowned by astonishment. He could not quite believe what he saw.
"That means something?" Soren spared a nervous glance toward Fleeting Hall. There were always guards posted at the doors to the Hall of the Crown. She could see the warm glow of their lanterns, but they were surely too far away to hear. Other palace staff passing through were far more of a risk, one which would increase as the sky grew brighter.
Her moment's inattention had given Strake the chance to regain his composure. He never seemed to lose it for long, and had reverted to impatient and unfriendly. "It doesn't matter." He glanced back at the flower as if he would rather it wasn't there. "You have a duty to fulfil, Champion," he continued, giving her the title with angry sarcasm. "Perhaps you should stop wasting time and do so."
He meant that she should pronounce him King. The ideal moment, when they were before the Rose, and no-one knew that the heir was anywhere near Tor Darest. She wondered how she was supposed to go about it.
And if she should.
"First tell me what it means, that the rose is black."
The anger was immediate. He seemed to grow taller, bridling up so that it was suddenly impossible to deny that this was a Rathen, royal blood, heir. Even Vixen felt it, tossing her head and stepping back. Her hooves struck the paving like a summons.
"You think this a matter of choice?" The words were calm, but he looked as if he were about to hit her.
"Not at all," Soren replied, also standing as upright as she could, clutching Vixen's reins until the leather was sure to be imprinted into her skin. The muscles of her shoulders tightened in anticipation of a blow, but she forced an entirely false calm into her voice.
"You're heir and I'm supposed to proclaim you," she continued. "But this seems to be one thing that the Rose isn't rushing to force me to do, and I want to know why. Stop acting as if I hav
e anything to do with what's happened to you, for you know – you must know – that it's the Rose which will make you King and the Rose which did that to both of us. Both of us, mark you. You can stand there and glower at me all you want, but that will only make it more likely we'll be spotted. And then...I guess you'll have to gamble on other people's loyalties."
"Trying to blackmail me will get you nowhere," Strake retorted. He was flint, perfectly inclined to wait and see how the palace would react to him.
"Oh, will you get down off your high horse?! Do you think that instead of stamping about making the worst of everything you could attempt to work with instead of against me? You've the temperament of a fest-hall cook, but you're to be King. I have just as little choice about that as you. But if I'm to spend my entire life running around trying to keep you safe, I need to know what's going on. You mightn't know for certain why you're alive, or what's chasing you, but I'd wager you've a better idea than I do. You know what happened to you before you all of a sudden turned up in Teraman. You certainly know what it means that your rose is so dark. Stop sulking and give me an explanation."
"Sulking?" He said the word with infinite affront, but spoiled it with a wry twist of his mouth. Shaking his head, he looked down.
"I–" The full weight of what she'd been saying crashed down on Soren. Arguing with a Rathen mage, with the future King. This wasn't what being Champion was about. But apologies weren't going to solve the problem, and he had at least stopped fuming. "I'm not your enemy, Strake," she added simply.
"Maybe not." A short stride took him directly beneath the rose, and he inspected the fragile silver rims of the petals intently. "It means I'm about to die."
Soren hadn't been prepared for this, and stepped back as if she could escape the implications of his words. Vixen, standing just behind her, nudged her in the ribs, but Soren couldn't spare any attention. "Die?"
"I've only once seen a rose go black, when my uncle lay half-alive for three days before finally giving in. More usually, the flowers only get blown with age – more open. At the moment of death, all the petals fall. A black rose...they happen very rarely. Cases of poisoning, sickness beyond the ability of any to cure, broken skulls."
Champion of the Rose - Kobo Ebook Page 7
