"Drink it. It'll make you feel better."
Soren gazed at the steaming mug and felt queasy. "Halcean," she began, "I appreciate what you're trying to do–"
"No you don't." Halcean grinned, completely undaunted. "You'd appreciate me going away and leaving you alone. But, really, it will make a difference."
"Should I call you mother?"
"If you want." Halcean had left without protest the previous night, after Soren had recovered her composure a little and asked to be let alone. Now she sat down opposite. "I could sleep outside your door," she said, brightly. "Make a stab at faithful hound."
"What? Ah." Soren frowned at the woman. "It won't happen again, Halcean. Leave it."
"If you say so." Clearly doubting.
Well aware she was acting as irritable as Strake, Soren was not quite able to stop. Part of the problem was she wasn't sure just how much Halcean had overheard, and the possibilities made her squirm. Forcing herself to an even tone she added: "Jansette Denmore paid a visit to the King. It annoyed him."
"Oh!" Halcean looked disconcerted, then guilty and uneasy. "I should have said – Lady Denmore was pushing me to tell her whether it was true there was a way to the King's apartments through the Champion's chambers. And if I had a key."
"I'll have to set palace security on her." Jansette seemed a petty thing, one Soren couldn't rouse herself to care about. The woman's gambit had failed, and she certainly wouldn't try it again. Soren sniffed at her mug, a hot nutmeg and milk offering, then set it down abruptly and closed her eyes, swallowing hard.
Morning sickness. Bitter bile reminder of her contribution to the grand tradition of Rathen Champions, explanation for why a woman with no particular talent for court-play, sword or magery might be declared Champion. Chosen to quickly get a child from a doomed man.
Palace-sight wouldn't let her escape confusion turning to speculation on Halcean's face.
When Soren managed to open her eyes, Halcean didn't try to hide her comprehension. "You're–? I, well, congratulations, I guess."
The ambiguous tone almost managed to make Soren laugh. "Thank you."
"When are you going to announce it?"
"Not yet." 'Not ever' probably wasn't feasible. "Not at least till we know more of Vixen's killer. I'm too easy a target."
"True. Well–" Halcean sat back, having evidently adjusted to the idea of a pregnant Champion. "So, which do you want? Boy or girl?"
"I haven't really thought about it."
"But you must have!"
"Must I? What would you want, if you found you were pregnant?"
"A way to shield myself from my mother's wrath? A boy, I think. A girl would be too much like another me. Or maybe not. Who can tell? It's–" Halcean paused, looking at Soren thoughtfully. "It's a big change. But a good one?"
"It–" Soren felt choked by her resentment, but knew it was for the Rose, not her child or even its father. "Not a bad one. Darest needs its Rathens. Temperamental maybe, but they have a history of being good rulers, of bringing fortune. This one – Aluster is a good king." She said it with an air of surprise, but knew it to be true. Strake seemed to consider kingship not only his due, but a responsibility he had to live up to. "I think he will make a good father. And I think he will revive Darest."
"We can only hope." Again ambiguity shadowed Halcean's voice, reviving memories of violent argument to stain the early morning light. The aide stood and began tidying away the breakfast plates, keeping hands busy to deflect attention from her thoughts. "Is there anything you would like to eat? Fruit? Dry toast?"
"Water. Just water."
Soren had caught unusual movement through the corridors. A grim-faced guard, hurrying to Captain Vereck's office, where she delivered a message which produced a disgusted grimace. Captain and messenger both headed to Fleeting Hall and separated. Dreading what this meant, Soren waited silently as Halcean answered the door.
The Captain strode in, bringing a scent of oiled leather and steel, her salute as crisp as her uniform. "Another killing," she said, with a professional detachment Soren would never be able to emulate. "Over in the Vermissa – a cart-man found in the street. I'll take a team over, see if we can take a trail this time."
Soren had known what had to be coming, but she still could not quite keep back the surge of denial. For one person, some random unfortunate, their efforts had been far too inadequate. Should they have sent out a general warning? Urged people to stay inside at night, keep in groups, bar their doors, their windows?
They hadn't been sure. Had suspected a human killer, something unrelated. Still didn't know, for certain. It could be– But she wouldn't scrabble for excuses. Strake's Deeping killer had followed him home.
"I will inform the King," Soren said, and Vereck nodded, turning to depart. Reporting to the Champion was a formality, nothing more.
"The Tzel Aviar is due to arrive today," Soren added, checking the woman's departure. "He may want to see it. And Lady Denmore has – seems to have obtained keys to the royal apartments. Get them back, then find out who gave them to her and have them dealt with."
A flicker of curiosity crossed the professional mask, then another salute and the Captain was gone.
Halcean, hovering in the doorway, was wearing an expression of immense foreboding. She smoothed it away as Soren looked up, and kept her face very still indeed when Soren said: "Get the harness for my sword."
First shrugging her surcoat over her head, Soren buckled the harness on with quiet deliberation, then slid the long shaft of metal into place. The first time she'd worn it since returning to Darest.
Last night, Soren had faced an overwhelming desire to prove herself something more than a mindless baby-maker. For a time she'd imagined herself vanquishing all conspirators, hunting down the Deeping killer, perhaps even ridding Darest of the Tongue. Then she'd spent longer telling herself that being a parent, especially to a future monarch, was hardly a minor task, and that her child deserved more than her dissatisfaction. But the words 'Champion Brood Mare' had kept forcing their way into her thoughts.
Pathetic. While she'd been busy spiralling around her own self-worth, a man had been cut open, just as Vixen had been. Just like a long-past Crown Princess, her retinue, Vahse, and very almost nearly Strake.
The cold shock of knowing a man's life had been lost, a life she would surely have been able to save if only she'd been...more, had driven something out of Soren. She was neither mage nor swordswoman, but dwelling on her inadequacies made little difference to death. If there was no way to kill the Rose without killing herself, no way to stop being the Rathen Champion, then she would do what she had seen Aristide do: face the impossibilities, accept what she had lost, and make the best of it.
Difficult as she found it, her only strength was in the Rose, in the palace. Even if Aristide outpaced her at every turn, she would still serve wherever she could, and forget the question of how well suited she was to the task. She would go talk to Strake, would watch the palace, would do what she could, no matter how little it was.
But first... Taking up a heavy cloak, she set out through the palace to the residences, and a balcony which overlooked the river mouth. Her breath puffed mist. The Vermissa was almost directly across the water, cramped elegance set close to the docks and dominated by the Harbour Master's building and Baron's Court. Beneath a pale grey sky she could glimpse movement but nothing more. The Deeping killer could be anywhere.
So intent was she, Soren almost missed seeing the Tzel Aviar fly in. A faint speck above the bay became man-shaped, very upright and travelling rapidly. Soren had only occasionally seen mages fly, since most of them considered it a lot of effort best reserved for emergencies. A kind of magical sprinting, it was quick to exhaust them, and only the most powerful, like Aristide and evidently the Tzel Aviar, would use it to travel long distances. And even they could not easily manage a great deal of baggage, let alone passengers. Like running with an armful of rocks.
Tzel Damaris w
ore a backpack and carried two smaller bags slung about his shoulders. Covered up against the wind, with a scarf tied across his face, he was as peculiar as he was intriguing.
She thought he saw her. The muffled face seemed to turn as he sailed past, but he continued without hesitation around the curve of the palace wall, not crossing its boundary, and vanished from her sight. Gone to knock on the front gate.
It was not very long before he was escorted inside by a guard, a trailing porter now laden with the bags and coat. Soren was faintly disappointed to discover the much-vaunted Tzel Damaris to be not half so beautiful as his reputation suggested. He was handsome, certainly, as Fair usually were, but not extraordinarily so. Soft brown hair and creamy skin, fine bones and clear grey eyes. He was not even so tall as most of the Fair, was at least an inch or three shy of Strake's measure. Still, it was not his face they needed. What if his magical talent also came up short? What if death followed death, every one leaving no trace or sign of the killer? How long before the vulnerable, the fearful – the sensible – left? Escaped this past-born threat? It would destroy Tor Darest, all Darest.
Aristide and Captain Vereck met the Tzel Aviar just inside the main entrance. Soren watched closely, but could detect no sign that the Deeping visitor was a particular ally of Aristide's, brought in as part of some deep manoeuvre. There was an exchange of greetings, and an air of formality about the brief explanations which followed. Then the porter and guard were despatched with the luggage, and Tzel Damaris was turning back the way he came, with Captain Vereck leading the way.
And for a moment, when only Soren could see his face, Aristide's expression changed, became a stiff, tense mask completely unlike his usual self. But before Soren had more than a bare chance to mark it, the look smoothed away, that courtier's mocking smile curled one corner of his fine lips, and he followed the others out of the palace.
Surprised, Soren waited until she could see the three, now trailed by another pair of guards as they rode toward Lustring Bridge. But there were no answers to be found gazing after them.
Soren went to her Rathen.
-oOo-
Strake didn't stir as she walked into his bedroom. He was slumped in the chair where he usually read, brandy tumbler lying on the floor. The decanter was empty.
She touched his cheek, her ungloved fingers cold enough to spark a reaction. He twitched, turned his face away, then opened bleary eyes to look at her. After a moment, dim memory and her expression combined to rouse him, to wince and put a hand to his head as he frowned at her.
"What is it?"
"Another death. A man in the Vermissa. Vereck's investigating."
The shutter came down. A deep breath followed to temper the blow.
"The Tzel Aviar has arrived. He and Lord Aristide have gone to inspect the – the body."
"Who was it?"
"A carter. I don't know any more."
He was slow to respond, shock combining with the aftermath of the night's excess. His eyes flicked over the sword strapped to her back, the set cast of her face. Then: "Wait in the breakfast room." Eyes more closed than open, he gained his feet and stumbled out.
She went to Fisk first, told him to bring a suitably light meal, then sat watching news of the carter's death spread. Excitement, fear, dismay far outstripping that awarded a slaughtered horse. But no-one obliged by pantomiming fiendish glee or committing to paper a confession of their plots and plans. The reaction of the various ambassadors confused her at first, until she realised that they found a violent death of little account compared to the arrival of The Deeping's Warden.
Her Rathen had gone to his bathroom, emerging wet, blue-lipped and shivering-sober. By the time he reached the breakfast room, only bloodshot, black-shadowed eyes and a certain corpse-pallor betrayed the night's trials.
That night lay between them: the anger, the hate and hurt and frustrated defeat. The desire Strake so obviously did not want to feel, twisted completely beyond bearing by the Rose's violation. And by silent mutual agreement they were not going to touch it. The Rose was a burden which would not be lifted without a price they couldn't pay, and neither of them wanted to poke that wound.
Strake faced breakfast with only marginally less enthusiasm than Soren, and she let him force down a few bites before beginning.
"Do you think there's any chance this creature, though it followed us here, isn't interested in killing you? It hasn't so much as tried to enter the palace proper."
He passed a hand in front of his face as if to push the question away, but didn't deny her assumption that it was the monster out of the past. "Speculation only takes us in circles. If this Tzel Damaris proves useless, we will have to bait the thing."
Soren stared at him, then poured a glass of water just to have time to recover. "I take it you're not proposing to stake out a goat."
"I've no intention of remaining a prisoner in the palace for the remainder of my life. Or cowering in safety while half Darest is slaughtered in my place."
The words hung in the air, waiting to be denied or refuted. Soren couldn't do it, didn't know if they were true or not. The thing in the Tongue had definitely been after Strake. Could it have come to Tor Darest for any other reason than to finish what it started? Kill the last living Rathen? Her Rathen?
Who was considering parading about hoping to draw the thing into the open.
"And what if having killed you it's quite prepared to go on killing?"
"Then you will have to give up morning rides," Strake said flatly.
Soren could not let that pass, had to inject acid into her voice to hide the hurt. "No doubt watching Lord Aristide battle it out with his mother will provide me with sufficient entertainment over the years."
"You don't think he'd emerge victorious?" The sardonic tone only just held back anger. "The more I know Aristide, the better I appreciate his oath."
"He is his mother's son." Soren watched the words sink in. "Lady Arista is still Baroness of one of Darest's wealthiest baronies, and she cannot stand to see her son ascendant. I don't think I exaggerate to say he hates her, and, admire him all you like, there are many he's crossed in the past, who are loyal to her. How much damage do you think they could do, between them?"
Strake made a discomforted movement, then sat back in his chair, accepting the argument. "I can reinforce Aristide's claims at least," he said, weary oppression in his voice. "A document in your care endorsing his regency should it become necessary. Would it be to the Baroness' advantage to kill our child?"
"That would depend on whether I'd any alliance with Aristide."
"Delightful." Strake stared across the table at her. When she met his gaze squarely he seemed to nod. "If I'm killed, you're left in the fire, I know. I'll try to avoid it. It's just – I want to face this thing." He looked embarrassed, as if revenge was a weakness. "It took everything from me. In a way it has already killed me. So I want, need it to be trapped and destroyed. I want to slice its heart out and grind it into the dirt." His voice quivered, then impatient irritation returned. A cover, she realised, for too-naked emotion. "I can't say I'm brimming with confidence that this current Tzel Aviar will come any closer than his predecessor. We tried everything within invention to track it last time, and did not have a city to protect. Tell me you have some plan which will bring it down, and I'll happily sit back while you stake out a goat."
"I'd like to draw it into the palace. See what it actually is. I think I've worked out how to operate the defences."
Even to her it sounded inadequate. His response was heavily tainted with the old derision. "Draw it how? You said yourself it hasn't so much as tried the door."
"I know." Soren wanted to yell the words, to try and force into his head some sense of how powerless being Champion made her feel. She threw out a hand, conceding the point with an angry lack of grace. "No use arguing over it until we've heard what Tzel Damaris has to say."
She bent over her glass of water, sipping it deliberately as her stomach ch
urned. Palace-sight made her watch Strake watching her, his expression ambiguous at best. Then, when she was least expecting it, he stood and reached out, took the glass out of her hands and put it down before catching hold of her wrists, inspecting them. Faint lines were still visible beneath the cuffs.
"I'm trying not to fight you," he began, baldly exposed. "I'm not deaf to sense, but I – I'm used to being angry with people, but I've no experience with this kind of...festering grudge. Last – last night, everything before it, was no sudden outburst, forgotten once it's over – the sort of thing I do know how to deal with."
He sighed, fingers tightening. "I know perfectly well that being at odds with you is base stupidity. And that I have been indulging my anger. That will change."
An apology of sorts, for his ill-manner more than last night's rages. Soren slid her hands free, remembering his description of how it had felt when the Rose took him. Drowning.
It was past time they both started to swim.
-oOo-
"They're back."
Sitting on the floor among a circle of chests, Strake took a moment to register the words. Then he put down the latest in a series of coronets and rose to dust himself off. Trying to kill time and fear by sorting through the Treasury had proven a messy business, despite the scourers' labours.
Soren put her effort at an inventory on top of its badly decayed predecessor. It was an amazing array, giving a glimpse at the sheer wealth of the Rathen past. "Any chance we could use something from here as the prize for the Illusionists' Duel?"
"It can't all be 'chanted to work only for Rathens."
The words were casual, but then he picked up the sword he'd selected from numerous others and once again tested the edge of the tarnished blade. Soren didn't comment, merely following as he set out at his habitual brisk pace.
When the doors to the Hall of the Crown were opened and the Tzel Aviar announced, Strake was planted on his throne as if he'd been there all morning. His expression was closed, but he watched Damaris of the Wryve, bracketed by Aristide and the Captain of the Guard, as if he were a serpent sliding across the sunset floor.
Champion of the Rose - Kobo Ebook Page 20
