Champion of the Rose - Kobo Ebook

by Andrea K Höst

  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.

  "King Aluster and Lord Aristide," Aspect said, drinking in her distraction. "The entire Court's seen the possibilities of it. Both born for the throne. Both mages. Both absolutely reeking with looks, not to mention the kind of drive it will take to get Darest back on its feet. Formidable men make the best matches, don't you think?"

  "For the entertainment value perhaps," Soren replied, quietly appalled. Lord Aristide and Strake? But it did make a kind of horrible, inexorable sense. "It was Lord Aristide I wanted to ask you about, actually," she continued, trying not to picture her Rathen in the arms of the gleaming, silky-sharp Diamond.

  "How so?" Courtier to the core, Aspen lit up at the prospect of a chance to demonstrate his knowledge, and no doubt to chalk up a debt.

  "I..." Soren shook off panicked, pointless jealousy. Strake was asleep and Lord Aristide still lay in his bed, staring up at the ceiling. "Yesterday, almost everyone the King spoke to – Fors, the Chancellor, the Chamberlain, the Marshall, two of the Barons, even one of the Apexes – went straight from the Hall of the Crown to Lord Aristide."

  Aspen laughed. "You have had your spies out! Even the Chamberlain? He doesn't care for the Delectable Diamond at all. But of course they all went to him. Can't you guess why?"

  "I can guess a lot of things. I want to know."

  "I'm gratified." That she thought he could answer, she supposed. Aspen tucked his knees beneath his chin, for once looking almost serious. "You do realise what our late-come King asked them to do, don't you?"

  "Report on the state of the kingdom."

  "Well, yes. Some of them are competent enough to answer, I suppose. Poor old Fors is in the worst state – he doesn't know whether he's coming or going. He's a jobbing word-mage: he fixes things, performs entertainments and carries out whatever little tasks the Regent cares to throw his way. He's competent enough for that, but he's never poked his nose into anything like what King Aluster wants. Tell him how many mages live in Tor Darest? The entire country? Rival kingdoms? How many are born with true-mage potential? Brief him with their capabilities, their loyalties? Whether there's been any instances of blood-magic? A summary of the efforts made to get rid of the Tongue? The state of the Shaping projects Lady Arista abandoned? I tell you, Fors reeled out of the throne room. And when he could walk straight, the Diamond was the first and only port of call."

  "What about the others?"

  "Oh, I dare say the Lord Marshall knows how to run his toy soldiers well enough, but since Peveric made a point of calling on the Diamond, the Marshall would only consider it wise to find some excuse to do the same. I'd bet the Chancellor went to him because he's the only one who actually understands to the letter The Deeping's ban on our trade. He may have had to wage a running war with his mother to do it, but the Diamond's the one who's kept this kingdom staggering along these past five years or more."

  "I had no idea it was that bad."

  Aspen shrugged. "Occasionally something does spark Lady Arista's interest, true. Especially if it runs counter to the Diamond's wishes. But–" He tipped one hand sideways. "Darest defeated her long ago. Fors tells me she was really something when she was young. Brilliant, resolute. Full of ideas and thorough at implementing them. If she'd been Rathen, if this country didn't seem so set against success, well – who knows how she'd be remembered? But what can you do when your every scheme goes sour? We should be glad all she did was withdraw her attention from everything except the latest pretty piece of flesh. And, of course, frustrating her son at every turn."

  Lady Arista was standing alone in the centre of her throne room, now stripped to the walls. She had been gracious to Strake, but very formal and determined. There were responsibilities in the Couerveur Barony which were long neglected. She thought it best to demonstrate a clean break to the populace. Naturally the King could call upon her for anything, but after so many years of service, it was time for her to leave Tor Darest.

  Straightforward acquiescence was as hard to believe as the Diamond's mild acceptance of Strake as King. "So they go to Lord Aristide simply for answers?"

  "Some." Aspen was watching her closely. "If they're fomenting rebellion, they're keeping very quiet about it, naturally enough.

  But–" He paused. "Our new King isn't being terribly tactful by simply ignoring the Diamond's existence. Love him or loathe him, there's few who won't admit that Aristide has put everything into Darest. That all the Couerveurs have. A lot of these visits will be nothing more than a statement of support. I mean, the Rathens are the rightful rulers and I don't think anyone's seriously contemplating throwing our new Rathen straight back out into the cold. But Aristide is Aristide. People owe him favours, debts. A lot are truly loyal, bought and paid for long ago. They aren't pairing him with the new King just because they'd look so good together."

  A reward. Soren didn't know what to think.

  "Of course," Aspen continued, with an euphoric smile, "playing match-maker is not nearly so fine a thing as getting the alluring Aluster naked and slippery. What do you think, oh Champion? Do I stand a chance?"

  "I haven't the slightest idea," Soren said, then looked away as Strake woke up. For a moment, he and Lord Aristide were in the same position, lying blinking at the ceiling. Then, with typical energy, Strake was out of bed. A whirlwind crowned, not leaving a moment spare for empty loss.

  Time to go stand at his side through another day full of questions. She would tell him this possible explanation for the meetings with Lord Aristide, but certainly not that they would look good together.

  Her Rathen. Just what was she supposed to protect him from?

  Chapter Twelve

  "Champion?"

  The tall, brunette's voice was familiar, though Soren couldn't immediately place her face. A sheen of red in the hair, pale skin, a scatter of freckles, but it was the not quite veiled assessment in dark blue eyes which finally jogged Soren's memory. The Chancellor's junior-most aide and assistant book wrangler, Halcean Veth.

  Soren waited as the woman joined her. Strake had spent the morning inspecting the city, the afternoon disposing of diplomatic audiences, and was at the moment studying political maps with the Lord Marshall. He'd not given himself a moment's rest all day, and besides trailing him about, Soren found herself with a list of people eager to 'consult' with her. Who wanted to carry tales and gossip about the King, or try to convince her to coax him to support some sc
heme of theirs, redress some ill.

  She wasn't altogether sure who it was she was supposed to be talking to now, let alone what kind of answers she could give them. She murmured some greeting and hoped Halcean wasn't going to be another who thought she'd help her climb into the King's bed.

  "Are you finding it easier to find your way through your apartment now?" Halcean asked.

  "Was it you who was lumbered with cleaning out the rest of my library?"

  "I was that unfortunate," the aide replied. "It was dusty and dull," she added with bland forthrightness, "but it seemed a pity not to finish what I'd started, and it's stood me in good stead in the claws-out battle for the prime appointment of the day." She executed a short, graceful bow. "I present myself, a gesture of goodwill from Chancellor Gestry. Should you want an aide?"

  Startled, Soren blinked, then said: "And should I want an aide?"

  Halcean's mouth curled up at the corners. "They're this season's prize accessory." But her eyes remained assessing, searching Soren's face. "I won't pretend I don't want you to want one," she continued, still with that deliberate honesty. "It would be a real step up for me. And there's a lot I can do for you – keep track of your appointments, organise your apartments, make sure you hear all the gossip you should."

  "I already hear that."

  "Thanks to Mageling Choraide? But who'll tell you the gossip about him?"

  "He does that, too." But it was a fair point. Soren knew every second courtier had their networks of spies and sources. And hateful as she found the idea of participating in games of petty intrigue, she needed to know what was being said if she were to even keep her head above water.

  More importantly: "I could do with someone to stand buffer between me and everyone suddenly wanting a meeting. Sort out the merely curious from those who genuinely need to see me."

  "And those out to curry favour." Halcean's smile had become conspiratorial, underlaid by relieved pleasure. A plum position, landed more easily than she'd perhaps anticipated.

  Amused at the stupid sense of power accepting Halcean had given her, Soren started forward once again. "Feel free to take over any of the empty bedrooms in my apartment," she said. "Having gone to the effort of cleaning them out–"

  She broke off, spotting Aspen's tutor, Fors Cabtly, lurking outside her door. He was rumpled, and his usual rose-cheeked self had been replaced by a sweaty pallor. Fors' second interview with Strake had not gone well. Since no-one at Court held the title of Court Shaper or Councillor of Mages, Strake had quizzed Fors on the duties performed by both during his aunt's reign. Fors had attempted to answer every question, which, Soren thought, had rather made it worse. Since Fors had always treated her with an absentminded courtesy, Soren summoned a smile as she reached him.

  "Champion. Soren." Fors touched her arm, moth light, then his hand fluttered away as if he feared to give offence. "I would, I wanted to ask... Has the King said anything? Will he–?"

  "I don't know, Fors," Soren said, quietly.

  "Was he angry?"

  Disbelieving would be a more accurate description. "I think he understands that the role of Court Mage is not the same as these...former offices."

  Tact did nothing for Fors. "I have lived here half my life, Champion," he said. "Nearly thirty years. I don't know–" He stopped and shook his head. "The ground has shifted, Champion. I don't know – I don't know if I can rise to the occasion."

  Sorry for the man, embarrassed by his evident need, Soren fumbled out a few words of sympathy. Fors hardly seemed to hear her. "All for the best, of course," he said. "I would have liked to have helped, but–" His mouth squashed down. "I am not a politician, Champion, and I don't think I would like to be. But I have served long and faithfully. And I am good at what I do. Tell him that, will you? As a favour?"

  She promised, and Fors turned to walk slowly back to his rooms. He looked old and crumpled. And frightened.

  "Not a politician," Halcean repeated softly.

  Soren started, having quite forgotten the aide's presence. She gave her a searching glance, prompting the woman to shrug. "Court Mage wasn't the most prestigious position. Councillor of Mages now – even if he thought himself equal to it, do you think Magister Cabtly would be allowed the role?"

  "Allowed?"

  "As Councillor of Mages Lord Aristide would remain central to the Court. As it is, he has no formal role – the King hasn't even sent to speak to him – and whatever else, the Diamond isn't going to accept the role of just another Baron's heir."

  It suddenly felt less than circumspect, to be having this conversation out in the open. "Is there anyone more suitable?" Soren asked neutrally, pulling the door to her apartment safely closed behind them.

  "Probably not." Halcean bit her lip. "I'm talking out of turn. My apologies, Champion."

  "It was a valid point."

  Palace sight had revealed Halcean's muffled consternation, followed by swift calculation. A sudden sense of loss touched Soren. Halcean wasn't disguising the gain she hoped to make – one of many cultivating the Rathen Champion, now that the title meant something. It was another level of isolation.

  "Call me Soren," she said, abruptly, and turned to smile at her new acquisition. For the moment motives didn't matter: she would be happy to have anyone to stand between her and the importuning hordes. If Halcean could keep the worst of them away, she would happily help her advance.

  -oOo-

  But Halcean was sleeping safely in her new bed the next morning when Soren returned from another stolen dawn with Vixen and spotted Aristide Couerveur standing by the entrance to the Garden of the Rose. It was too much to hope he was not waiting for her.

  Palace-sight allowed her to watch him unknowing: curiously expressionless, his star sapphire eyes hooded. Then, as she reached a point where she could not escape seeing him, that faint, infamous smile curved his mouth. It was quite impossible to imagine him scrabbling to retain power when he did not act like he'd lost any.

  "Can I help you, Lord Aristide?"

  Lord Aristide simply held a hand out toward the Garden. More than a word, then. Why was it she was always sweaty and dishevelled when she encountered this over-pristine man?

  Unwilling but resigned, Soren walked through the nearest arch and looked about at the dark-leaved canes and single flower. She supposed that in this place, where she could shred a man just by wanting it, she should be at her most confident. But all she could think of were the fading scratches on her wrists.

  Lord Aristide walked beneath jagged leaves with perfect equanimity. "I will not keep you long, Champion."

  "What is it you wish to say to me?" she asked, in as politely neutral a tone as she could manage. But it was hard to banish the thought of Strake in a quicksilver embrace. She wished Aspen had never suggested it to her.

  Above Lord Aristide's head, several of the canes shifted, a sinuous curling patently not caused by any breeze. The Regent's son looked up, exposing his white throat, but Soren clamped down on unruly thought before there could be a repeat of the briar noose episode. She refused to make an enemy of the man until he made an enemy of himself.

  The subtle line of Lord Aristide's lips had altered, but she thought the resulting expression was more appreciative than anything. "I wished to pass on an observation, Champion," he said. Shifting position, he held one hand toward Strake's rose, as if measuring its size. "Black."

  "Yes?" Soren managed to sound uncomprehending, but Lord Aristide's lips only curved to full glittering enjoyment.

  "I am not the only one who might seek meaning in the colour," he continued, with the gentle tone used to explain a harsh world to a disappointed child. "Inevitably, tomorrow, the day, week, month after, a whisper will become rumour and then fact proclaimed in every alehouse and sitting room. A black rose. Inevitable death."

  "Everyone dies," Soren said, though she was shaken. These past two days, watching Strake firmly take up Darest's reins while the palace whirled through her head, it had almost been poss
ible to forget the expression on his face when he'd seen the rose. He had kept so unremittingly to the task at hand, maintained such unwavering energy, that Soren had found it difficult to credit the idea of his doom. He was not injured, showed no sign of failing. Whatever they had encountered in the Tongue had certainly not followed them through the Walk to Tor Darest, and any local hazards had to overcome walls and guards and Soren.

  But the rose was still black. No wonder Lord Aristide had seemed so completely unperturbed by Strake's return.

  He was watching with an air of patience. Then, to her surprise, he said: "Whatever else, I do not relish the uncertainty which the black rose will bring. You need to plan for the reaction."

  "Won't it advantage you?" she asked, stupidly. He rewarded such heavy-handedness with a weary expression.

  "It wouldn't benefit Darest. I shall leave it to you to judge whether that is of concern to me." He glanced at the rose. "Since the threat to the King has evidently existed since his sojourn in The Deeping, I would suggest that he seek answers from the Fair."

  She couldn't quite credit the idea of Lord Aristide giving her advice to pass on to Strake and some measure of that response must have shown on her face because his expression changed subtly, and when he spoke again his voice was silk cut with razors.

  "I also felt I should congratulate you, Champion." Taking two steps, he moved to stand just behind her. A low tendril hung before his face and he gazed at the small cluster of red-green leaves at its tip. "Such commendable promptness," he added, as Soren stared at the heart of the cluster, at the burgundy sepals of a mote-sized bud.

  Lord Aristide must certainly have enjoyed her reaction, which was to flinch, then send the bud shooting up above the stone arches, tucking it completely out of sight. "My felicitations," he said. Glittering, glass-cut courtesy.