"You could always have your family come visit," Halcean pointed out, oblivious.
"I could. I will, I hope, before Winter closes in. My mothers won't be so busy, and perhaps things will have settled down."
Or Strake would be dead, and Soren would see how far the Diamond's avowed loyalty went.
"Are you all right?"
"Distracted," Soren replied, embarrassed by how obviously she must have been staring off into the distance.
"I'll leave you to it, then." Halcean smiled and gave her a courteous little bow. "It can be nasty at times," she added. "Even I don't like everything I do, all the time. But it's important to remember that it's all really just a game, that everyone's playing it. Don't worry too much."
"I'll try." But it was hard when Aristide and the Captain of the Guard were so obviously engaged in some manoeuvre they'd neglected to inform her about.
A few minutes later explanation came in the form of Everett Rothwell. He looked carefully around the room, eyes passing over his mother and her escort without so much as blinking. Lady Rothwell bowed her head, then lifted it, apparently struggling with an impulse to cry out some warning. Soren could see Captain Vereck tense then relax, the moment passing.
A woman came into the room, her face faintly familiar, her clothing that of a clerk. Everett's manner was peremptory, hiding relief. They spoke. A small, heavy purse was exchanged. They moved to depart.
Nothing changed to Soren's eyes, but suddenly Everett noticed the three seated in the corner: Captain Vereck grim, his mother with tears in her eyes but her chin held high and firm. Aristide, just the faintest curl touching his lips. Almost, Soren imagined she could hear another audience, reacting with approval to the dumb-show's denouement. Everett's reaction was certainly that of the villain undone: springing back, hand going to his belt knife.
So tidily managed. Guards appeared at the door even as the woman dressed as a clerk ran. Everett stood his ground, face bloodless. More words were exchanged. Aristide asked something of Lady Rothwell. She shook her head, said something which brought a touch of surprise, of disbelieving hope to her son's face. And then, with no flicker of triumph or compassion, Aristide moved one of his hands and Everett Rothwell was gone.
A small, brown thing fluttered on the floor. A sparrow, shaking and crashing its wings as if it had no concept of how to use them. Lady Rothwell quickly stooped and captured it, her face tightly closed against anger or relief. The players scattered, the Captain escorting guards and prisoner, Lady Rothwell carrying her transformed child: off to find a suitable cage.
Aristide came and knocked on the door of Soren's apartment.
-oOo-
Soren had to admire the ease with which Halcean left the Diamond Couerveur to kick his heels in the entry hall while she punctiliously went to consult the Champion on whether she was receiving visitors.
"Send him in," Soren ordered, feeling remarkably nervous after the scene she'd watched. "And you'd best go out yourself, I suppose. Come back in an hour."
Halcean nodded obediently, even managing to hide her no doubt avid curiosity as she bowed Aristide into the receiving room. Palace-sight let Soren see that practiced courtier's manner dissolve as he walked past her aide, leaving Halcean's face filled with speculation, and an emotion which looked very much like the one Soren now felt herself whenever she looked at Aristide Couerveur. It was a kind of frustrated fascination, wary and discomfited.
"Please sit down, Lord Aristide," Soren said, as Halcean closed the door, hesitated, then left the apartment. "Perhaps you'd care to tell me just what it was Everett Rothwell was trying to buy?"
"Death. Mine, interestingly enough." He sounded more bored than intrigued. "It seems I influence the King too much toward The Deeping."
Soren couldn't help but stare at him. He'd uncovered and countered a plot against his own life, had just turned someone into a bird for pity's sake! He was acting like he did that kind of thing every day.
But then, he probably did. Soren, who could see everything which went on in the palace, hadn't spotted whatever Everett had done to expose himself, nor even the preparation of the trap set for him. For all her expanse of vision, it was almost impossible to catch the important among all the everyday. She should thank Sun and Moon both that Aristide had chosen to ally himself with Strake, for Soren could do nothing to match him.
"You've come to experiment, I take it?" she asked, struggling not to let sudden desolation show in her voice.
"With your permission, Champion," He'd made no move toward any of the chairs, was considering her with analytical abstraction.
"Do I need to do anything?"
"Shield me from the Rose, should it seem necessary? No, Champion. You I will place into a trance, while I test this theory that a long set of instructions has developed a personality. It should be quite painless."
Though she was not at all worried he'd be anything but correct, Soren was less than easy at the thought of being unconscious in Aristide Couerveur's presence. And the mocking glitter in his eyes told her he knew that perfectly well. But she needed to know more about the enchantment driving her life.
"Don't let me keep–," she began, and found herself stopping mid-sentence. Her eyes had shut, and she couldn't open them, didn't at all seem able to move, though she did not quite feel as if she were asleep. Palace-sight showed Aristide just standing there, looking intent.
Mages. They were altogether dangerous creatures to have around. As Aspen had warned, she'd not been able to sense him casting at all, hadn't realised he'd started. Aristide could probably do that any time he wanted, without even visibly trying. What if he decided to turn her into a sparrow? Would the Rose stop him?
He sat down then, gaze still fixed on her. He was probably casting something else, but she couldn't even read satisfaction in his face. He was always peculiarly expressionless when he was alone.
Soren had been watching him too much. At first out of fear and suspicion, but that had been transmuted. She had to admit there was an edge of attraction, perhaps always had been, but misplaced desire was neither new nor remarkable. Rather to her horror, Soren had started to feel sorry for Aristide Couerveur.
It made her impatient. He showed every sign of thoroughly enjoying the cut and thrust of Court life, was certainly a past master of the political game. Everett Rothwell knew to his cost what it meant to cross him. Aristide had recovered brilliantly from the blow of Strake's return, was now operating without the direct interference of his mother, and had an excellent chance of becoming Regent in the all too near future.
But when he was alone, he never smiled.
At the very heart of the Court, his was a startlingly arid existence. Palace-sight had yet to provide proof of anything resembling a love-life, let alone tastes as baroquely perverted as rumour would have it. Aristide slept alone, woke to reports from his servants of the latest developments of the Court, worked from breakfast to late night, then slept again. The most social thing she'd seen him do was practice swordcraft with the Captain of the Guard.
Soren was at a loss to explain why it bothered her so much. He was no friend, was potentially her worst enemy. She never really had any idea what was going on inside his head, and was always made tongue-tied by his exquisitely polite unpleasantries. The magery he commanded frightened her, far more than Strake. And she wasn't going to find him any easier to deal with, lying here watching him watch her.
Turning her attention outward she checked on her Rathen, who was still embroiled in an overlong interview with the just-arrived Cyan ambassador. The palace had been growing ever-busier as outlying barons straggled in and representatives of Darest's neighbours arrived full of pomp and curiosity. Strake had been sleeping even less, and his jaw was set in a way which suggested he was struggling with his patience.
Restlessly, Soren moved on. Here was Baron Peveric talking with the Marshall of the Army. They were cousins of some variety, and the Marshall was popular among the troops he commanded. Darest's
army was less than likely to hold up against an invasion, but it would be a pivot internally, should Strake die. The Marshall was no friend of the Diamond, and Peveric's careful façade of neutrality might not hold if it came to returning the Couerveur regency.
But there she was again, thinking about what would come after Strake's death, as if it was a foregone conclusion, as if she hadn't made a promise to herself to keep him safe. She would not let the Rose dictate the future.
Her prime suspect for wanting to rid Darest of Rathens had just been neatly removed from play, but now she had the ambassadors to factor in. Sax had already had a representative in Tor Darest when Strake returned, and over the last week they'd been completing a collection for all the western lands. Cya's had arrived last night, with an entire retinue of hangers-on, any of whom could be a mage. They were all over the palace, and Soren found it impossible to keep track of every single person they spoke to, yet felt she surely must. Sax, Cya, Ceria, Korm, Skrem and even the Jutlanders – all the western kingdoms would be mulling the disadvantages of a revitalised Darest and every single one of them would surely have suitable mages at their disposal.
Jansette Denmore seemed to be stalking Halcean, following her as she wandered through the eastern corridors of the palace. Attention sharpening, Soren watched as Halcean, oblivious to her beautiful shadow, turned down a blind corridor and stopped to lean on a balcony looking over Vostal Hill.
Palace gossip was divided on whether Jansette had been cast off by Lady Arista, or was acting on her orders. The former favourite had gone from person to person in the palace, talking, flirting, bedding more than a few. Some had given her gifts, but she'd not been taken up by a new patron. Of course, like so many others, Jansette seemed determined to eventually win the notice of the King.
Why seek out Soren's aide? To Soren's interest, Jansette was considering Halcean in a thoughtful and completely un-vapid manner. Not the fool Soren had always thought her? Then all sign of intelligence was wiped away and she said something in that bright, artless manner, enough to catch Halcean's attention. Surprised, Soren's aide turned, responding with blank courtesy.
Jansette spoke again, blue eyes bright and wide, and Soren could well imagine the guileless tone which matched that expression. Whatever she said, Halcean shook her head in response, rejecting some question or proposal. Cocking her head to one side, Jansette said something else, bringing a sharp frown to Halcean's face. She shook her head again and made to walk away, but Jansette was quick to step between her and escape, speaking again.
Aspen had said that Halcean was able to look after herself, and Soren here saw that assessment confirmed. Hand going to belt knife, her aide produced an expression which suggested Jansette was the kind of creature normally found under rocks. Jansette reached and covered her hand, holding knife in place even as she said something conciliatory. Halcean stepped back angrily, spoke a definite rejection.
With a shrug, Jansette lifted her hands and retreated. Watching her depart, Soren tried to guess what the former favourite wanted. Most likely a way to get closer to the King, but for her own advancement, or on Lady Arista's order? So many possibilities.
The scene had demonstrated to Soren that she needed to think not only about protecting her Rathen and their coming child, but anyone closely linked to them. Personal servants like Fisk and Halcean, friends like Aspen. Halcean had weathered this encounter well enough, but how well would she do with someone less negligible? One of the Barons, or a foreign ambassador? And Soren would be a fool not to acknowledge the possibility that one of them might offer something Halcean found harder to reject.
Less than happy with this vision of a future of constant suspicion, Soren turned her attention back to Strake. The interview with the Cyan ambassador had drawn to a close, and a message from one of Aristide's servants sent her Rathen to Soren's apartments.
He stopped in the doorway of Soren's receiving room, surveying the curious scene of sleeping Champion and intent Councillor, then wordlessly took a seat. Leaning back, his frown first deepened, then eased as he waited until Aristide, some minutes later, blinked, then turned his head toward him.
"Anything?" Strake asked.
Surprised, Soren tried to move, but Aristide's sleep hadn't been lifted. Still, there was no reason she wouldn't be able to hear them speaking. She was in the same room.
"Not yet. No sign of a secondary mind, and no response to probes. What did Celaury have to say for himself?"
"Beyond offering Cya's raptures at the revival of my family? Underneath the froth, it seems Cya is willing to offer its aid and support in driving back these unwarranted incursions."
Aristide's eyes glittered. "Cya would not weep to see us at war with The Deeping," he said, sounding almost approving. "I trust Your Majesty was suitably grateful?"
"For the moment." The inflection said it all – you want me to court the Fair, but I am not so eager.
Of late, nothing seemed to delight Aristide more than to be reminded that Darest's future was in Strake's hands. His smile turned up to full glitter, and he inclined his head as if to mark a point scored. Then, suspiciously mild, he turned his attention back to Soren's still form.
Strake's mouth twitched, apparently entertained by this neat reminder of the black rose. He sat watching attentively as Aristide's gaze once again turned intent and abstract. On the surface, little had changed between the two. They were all business, with occasional verbal skirmishes as they settled differences of opinion. Strake had wasted no energy distrusting his Councillor, and had fallen into the habit of treating him as an old ally, even seeming to enjoy Aristide's Court manners. But Soren's fears of them tumbling straight into bed had proven unfounded. On occasion she thought she caught admiration in Strake's eyes, but he allowed no hint on the surface. And Aristide gave away nothing at all.
Roiling at the back of her spine. It was an extraordinarily unpleasant sensation and Soren squirmed, somehow moving despite Aristide's enchantment. Strake looked at her sharply and Aristide leaned forward. The roiling increased, accompanied by a deep unease. The Rose. Whatever it was Aristide was doing now, it didn't like it. Not at all.
It wasn't afraid, at least not so overwhelmingly as it had been in the Tongue. It felt very much like something which was being poked into waking: suddenly roused, startled.
Then – anger. For a moment Soren's skull buzzed, vibrating to some blow she couldn't feel. Aristide flinched and immediately she was awake, heart thudding hard, but with that tangible sense of the Rose fading even as she straightened in her chair.
"Something?" Strake was frowning impartially at Councillor and Champion both.
"Enough." Aristide rubbed his saecstra-marked palm absently, one of the few unconscious movements Soren had ever seen him make. He was paler than usual. "Not a mind, not a person, not in the sense that I was looking for. More an instinct. A sense of self-preservation which shouldn't be there, which isn't linked to the Champion outside the Champion being part of the enchantment. If it is self-awareness, it's not particularly developed, but it has access to a mind, to all the resources of the enchantment."
Sapphire eyes surveyed Soren. "I had little chance to judge, before it struck away my probe, but as instincts go, this seems the most basic – survival. If it felt itself threatened, it could well warp the function of the enchantment to the degree of protecting itself rather than any particular Rathen."
"Lovely." Strake's eyes were pitch.
"At the same time, its survival is entirely linked to the Rathen line. And – it is hardly conscious. It reacted to my probes only after I had made very definite incursions. A sleeping bear."
"Can it be unmade?" Soren's tone told Aristide far more than Strake had – that she had a horror of the Rose, that she wanted it gone, found it monstrous.
"The instinct alone? Not with any ease – it came very close to killing me, just then. A flea slapped away." His mouth curled up, but his eyes were thoughtful, curious. "The entire enchantment? Of course.
Stone-deep chanting founders with the destruction of its runes. But that would take with it all the protections of the borders, the palace, the entire Rathen inheritance, and the localised power backlash–" He looked at Strake, who was white-lipped, intense. "– would be difficult to contain. I can try and isolate and destroy the instinct if you wish it, but–" That mocking smile reached his eyes then, lighting them with Aristide's acid brand of amusement. "But I value my life, and would sooner keep it."
"No." Strake's voice was heavy. "Leave it."
He stood, strode out of the room with the complete lack of social niceties which was the privilege of kings. Aristide watched him go, then stood and bowed to Soren, very pointed.
"Should I discover anything else, Champion, I will keep you informed."
"Of course." Her tone had an edge of its own, and his mouth curled up, but he left without a return dart.
She watched him, watched Strake in his apartment, standing staring out at the herb garden. They weren't keeping her informed. Both of them knew something, both of them. Something they'd chosen not to share, a secret between them about the Rose.
It hurt.
Chapter Eighteen
Soren was studying Aristide's face, that deceptively vulnerable mouth hidden by the curl of his fingers. Patterns swirled in the palm of his hand, always more active when he slept. It had only been after he'd left that she'd taken in one thing he'd said: the Rose had come close to killing him. She'd thought him unaffected, but he'd spent a long time staring at the ceiling before he slept.
Something her Rathen hadn't yet managed: he was still up, reading one of the histories covering the last two hundred years. This had become routine – brandy, cheese and books to take him late into the night. It was, Soren suspected, part simple enjoyment and the rest a way of coping with the sheer loss those histories represented. Reading until he was exhausted, and less likely to be haunted with dreams. But a sleep-deprived king was a dangerously short-tempered one.
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