This, Soren reflected, must be something like how Aristide had felt, when he had given Strake his oath.
The Queen was studying each of their faces in turn, and Soren found her knees suddenly inadequate, her breath short, and was greatly relieved when the Fae's gaze moved on. Strake was pale, but Aristide looked as if he had just recalled some particularly fine joke, and he did not quaver.
Desteret lifted one hand. "This Council has ended."
Chapter Twenty-Six
Wind punched over them with force enough to make the lorams roar, sending golden leaves tumbling toward the ocean. The shielding blue light had gone and taken the Fair with it, leaving a day grown grey with the threat of rain.
Soren turned sharply about, the Rose bringing her the breath of too many observers at once, but no-one was close. A clot of several dozen at the foot of the hill and throngs at every balcony and window of the palace. More lined the foreshore across the mouth of the river, but they were apparently too far to be detected by the enchantment. All of them staring up at the pavilion of trees, its two thrones, and the five who remained within.
The Tzel Aviar moved first, walking forward to collect the wristlet Seldareth had set on the grass, which had failed to vanish. He stowed it in an inner pocket before turning his composed gaze on Strake.
"With your permission, Majesty, I will study Laramae's notes and report my findings to you."
Strake's response, a nod as minimal as the Queen's, made clear how out of charity he remained with any Fae. Tzel Damaris simply inclined his head in return, then bowed more formally and walked away, heading unhurriedly toward the palace.
"Issue an order that if anyone stumbles across the boy, they should keep their distance," Strake said to Captain Vereck, his curt tone not inviting argument. "We'll leave it to the Fair to 'deliver' their own."
Reluctantly accepting the clear invitation to make herself scarce, Vereck also bowed and followed the Tzel Aviar down the hill.
"How did the enchantment on the Tongue work?" Soren asked, as they watched Vereck go. "Why wasn't it detectable?"
"Transmission," Strake replied. "He couldn't have meant anything else."
They both looked to Aristide for confirmation, and he nodded agreement. "Only a formidable casting could have produced something as extensive the Tongue," he said. "A blanket enchantment – something periodically sweeping the entire area or even permanently established – would have been blazingly apparent to anyone in the region. Most investigation focused on discovering the kind of things which radiate power in a defined area – rune stones and so forth. Anything present in the forest which could be proven to be emitting an encouragement to growth. Even squads of Fae mages. But nothing was ever turned up, so less obvious solutions were tested. Transmission was one of them – that is, using something which is not enchanted in itself but is capable of channelling magic, much like pipes direct water. The flow can be sent great distances without overmuch effort, and is a mouse to the blanket enchantment's bull. The casting could be periodic, and thus unlikely to be detected unless a suitably sensitive mage was on site at the right moment. But there are few substances capable of acting as transmitters. Rare crystal, the bone of a certain creature – scarce enough that it did not seem a likely solution, especially when none could be found in the area. If the loram can be used for such a purpose, it is a secret the Fair have kept well."
Strake stared up at the arch of black and gold above them. "Would Desteret have asked about the Tongue if I had not spared the boy?"
"Very likely not."
Another gust stripped leaves from the thrones and brought a spatter of premature raindrops. Strake switched his gaze to the choppy waves and fell silent, mouth a flat, harsh line. Soren wanted to ask precisely what 'Moon-cast' was, but kept it for later. This was a moment for celebration, really, if only they could bring themselves to enjoy it. If her Rathen could accept his own decision to place Darest above avenging Vahse.
Usually smooth hair bedevilled and disordered, Aristide stood with an air of infinite patience contemplating the pavilion. No hint of strain lingered, whatever his opinion of the revelations of the Council. Would apologies matter to Aristide, or did he consider this an unqualified success? Compensation and an identifiable target in the malison, even a favour to weigh the scale in future dealings with The Deeping. If he too felt sourly cheated, he was not going to show it.
After the pavilion had exhausted his interest, he switched his gaze to Strake and said: "If Your Majesty is planning to brood up here all afternoon, I'll take leave to go deal with the business of the Court."
The tone had been one of perfect courtesy, the words provoked brows-together surprise from his King. Then an outright scowl. "I loathe being managed."
"That was a little obvious," Aristide conceded, unperturbed. "Perhaps if I'd solicitously asked your Champion if she wished a heavier cloak fetched?"
Strake shot a searching glance at Soren, who contrived to appear perfectly warm in her layers of uniform and cloak. He let out a little tuh of breath, then looked annoyed again because Aristide had succeeding in distracting him. Eyeing the wonderfully bland expression his Councillor had assumed, he shook his head. "Provoking me will only take you so far." But the frown had lifted.
"I'll keep that in mind, Your Majesty," Aristide murmured. "Shall we go down?"
"My friends call me Strake," Strake said, not moving.
The faint smile did not falter, and if Aristide's eyes narrowed, the fine blond hair being whipped about his face could be blamed. "The rib of a ship?" he asked, after the shortest of pauses.
Strake just lifted a shoulder, waiting for a response. Friendship was not something he offered lightly. Nor, Soren thought, was it a thing Aristide was in the habit of accepting. She found herself far less dismayed than she would have been a week ago, to see Strake taking a step closer to his Councillor. Was she so sure of her Rathen? Or was it that she had changed toward the Diamond Couerveur?
Eyes blue-grey beneath the clouds, he stood considering his King, just one corner of his mouth faintly curving. Still a dangerous, far too self-possessed man who wanted control of the throne. But he was – had become – more than a threat. For both their sakes she didn't want this gesture refused.
"What are you going to ask for?"
It was a side-step: though the question was bare of formal address, the words still held that finely measured distance he'd always kept between himself and his King. Hardly eager acceptance of the proffered friendship, but Strake only looked amused as he gazed up at his Councillor's fine profile.
Then he flipped a hand over, choosing not to push. "Labour," he replied, with a measure of anticipation. "They can winnow out the Tongue, restore the road and orchards. And Aramond. That's something which will outweigh any amount of coin. The thing we need most, and worth – worth forbearance." He paused, and looked tired. "Would you have done differently?"
"No." Aristide's gaze shifted to Soren, then returned to Strake. The grey cast the clouds gave his eyes didn't suit him, made him look bleak and wintry. "There are times I would raze The Deeping to the ground, given the chance," he added. "But in this, I am – pleased." The words were very clear and exact, and prompted Strake to lift a hand as if to reach out. Then he caught himself and let it fall back. Aristide didn't miss the motion, but his response was confined to a slight drop of his lashes. The way he had said it reminded Soren somehow of the Fae Queen. Aristide might never have worn a crown, but in his heart he was as much King of Darest as Strake.
"Yes, it's a bitter thing to have no-one to practice retribution on," he continued. "But I need only think of what comes next, how greatly recompense will tip the scales. We should estimate how much we can demand from the Fair, alter the Spring festival to take advantage of today's events. And this malison – naming it, knowing more of its origins, I can try and isolate it, study it, see if it can be unmade. And I want to get out of this wind."
This last was unexpected enough to mak
e Strake laugh, a brief spurt which banished the aftertaste of compromise. And Soren discovered that when Aristide was genuinely amused, his eyes smiled while his mouth did not.
"Out of the wind first, then," Strake said, standing up. He glanced toward the palace at the still-transfixed crowd, but only suffered a mild flicker of exasperation. Touching a hand to Soren's back long enough to show her not forgotten, he started down.
"It makes cleaning up the docks an almost viable proposition," Aristide said as he fell in step. "Or would you prefer the garden first?"
"The garden," Strake said, and looked back up the hill. The pavilion was a grand if lonely spectacle, and he paused to enjoy it, then visibly started plotting out a suitable frame for the lorams. A moment later he shook his head and turned. "But it will be the docks. The garden is a very long-term project, and one I don't mean to hurry. I'll have it done in stages over the next few years, and quite possibly sensibly budgeted. It couldn't be more than a design until Spring anyway."
They started down again, plunging into detail about priorities and resources, circling the issue of who was currently Baron of the Oaks and the Baron of Fyse, the two demesnes overwhelmed by the Tongue. And almost as quickly they detoured into the Spring festival, which continued to consume much of their energy. With a subtle shift of manner Aristide now displayed a certain pleasure in sharing his plans, but he was never going to forget whose decisions were final in Darest.
Nothing about the boy, Soren thought as another speck of rain scored her chin. Today was a turning point, and now they're full of the future, as if the big problems have been overcome and all that's left is tidying up. With Aristide's trump blade still in the hands of someone who can't mean any good, and 'the Moon-cast boy' in Tor Darest, wounded and alone and bound inexorably to seek out Rathens and kill them. They're looking further ahead than they should, because those two things are the ones they don't want to deal with.
But Soren was Champion, and could not afford such indulgence. When they reached the palace, the first thing she did was look with palace-sight into the Garden of the Rose. And saw with sinking heart but no measure of surprise the velvety black symbol of a doom which had not been altered.
-oOo-
They made a proclamation. Strake didn't want it, but felt it necessary. Bare words in a hastily convened Court: Calondae had admitted to the Tongue. Reparation would be made. Soren watched the faces hidden by the crowd. Arista completely blank, the ambassadors concealing dismay, Aspen disbelieving and delighted. Overall there was bewilderment combined with anger, a little joy, and a strong undercurrent of relieved anticipation. Darest had taken Strake's return as a sign of changing fortune, and a weighty blood price was an unexpectedly early fulfilment of that promise. But Strake was not alone in wishing for vengeance above compensation, and there was an ugly undercurrent in the overcrowded room as they left.
With Strake and Aristide anxious to bury themselves in their planning, Soren returned to her apartment, her attention on the continuing ripples of the proclamation. She watched Lady Arista particularly, especially when Baron Mogath accompanied her for a short time. There was a brief, tight-lipped conversation which Soren studied with every scrap of her attention. But if these two were allies, they were not easy ones, parting without any visible appearance of accord.
The ambassadors all returned to their rooms and made reports. It was a fascinating illustration of how to spot a caster. Various sigils were produced. Some chanted, some stared with fixed concentration into the distance, some waited while one of their entourage performed the casting for them. In a couple of cases she could see a little image of the person they were talking to. None of them looked particularly happy.
"This is the most danger we've been in since the King returned."
Halcean, in the process of handing her a mug of cider, looked suitably startled. "Why so?"
"We've done just what everyone seems to have particularly not wanted. True, we've not precisely put ourselves on good terms with The Deeping, but they are – so far as I can tell a support which had been withdrawn is now returned. And the compensation will change everything for Darest."
"It's that significant an amount?"
"Nothing's been fixed – I suppose they'll negotiate exact terms through the Tzel Aviar. But they spoke of having Calondae actually restore the lost orchards." She shook her head, rather awed by the image. The baronies of the north-east had once been the richest, a far cry from the abandoned, isolated communities which survived. "Even the excess trees alone, the labour involved in cutting them, preparing the wood. Aristide will know just how far we can push. Between Calondae and Seldareth–"
"Seldareth? The North?"
"Is, in a distant kind of way, behind the killings. That's still to be resolved, but at least we've some hint of what to look for now. And Seldareth will more than owe us a favour after, even if no formal debt's been declared. I should think that between two Fae kingdoms we should get enough to not only arrest Darest's slide, but to firmly turn us around. Aristide will probably even be able to start this ship-building venture he's so enamoured with."
"Ships?" Halcean stared at her.
"He'll have the wood for it, if not the expertise. And probably enough free coin to attract a few shipwrights away from Cya or the East."
Halcean, looking shaken, said: "I see what you mean now. Lord Aristide and King Aluster are – too formidable. Too much to hope that someone won't decide they have to be stopped before they manage to drag the region back to the way things were before."
When Darest's wealth and stability had let it dominate the West. "Not likely to happen in our lifetime," Soren said. But it was possible. Strake was not going to be popular with his neighbours. Or with all Dariens.
"Do you think – Court gossip gives me a different story every time – but I don't know what to believe of Lady Arista. Do you think she hates the Fair enough try and stop this no matter the benefit to Darest?"
"Who knows?" Halcean was turning her own mug between her hands, pensive. "The Couerveurs have made a tradition of devotion to Darest. You'd think that'd be all to the good, but it's too absolute to be healthy. And, well, I'm not going to pretend I don't think Lady Arista twisted. It's not so much the Fair which will bother her here – the Fair are admitting fault after all, and what could be better than that? It's her precious son – she might try and stop it because of that." A complex mix of emotion underlay Halcean's words, and she took a breath, composing herself.
"Aristide's–"
"Covered himself in glory. With your King's help or not, he's done just what she's been trying to do for years. Do you think she'll be able to stand that?"
Lady Arista was now meeting with Baron Peveric and the Marshall of the Army. They spoke with the air of discussing an unlooked-for problem. The Lady Arista still had her loyal allies, it seemed, and was the prime and possibly only suspect for the theft of Aristide's so-distinctive knife.
Bar one. Soren hated herself for thinking it, but she couldn't help but return to Aspen, currently talking excitedly to a small clutch of his closest confidants. He was mage, knew every scrap of gossip about Aristide, openly imitated him. And unless Darest's plethora of foreign spies had managed to infiltrate the Diamond's extremely secure household, Aspen was one of the precious few who'd had the opportunity as well. The knife was best stolen while Aristide slept, by someone who was not too great a distance away, who had some way of 'tasting' like him. Who could it be but Aspen?
Except Aristide discounted him on score of ability, and he had no discernible motive. And he was her friend. A friend who had cultivated her even when she'd been unimportant to the Court.
"Halcean–" Soren hesitated, not wanting to embarrass Aspen by passing on suspicion even to her aide. "You know Aspen's decided he wants to 'prentice himself to Lord Aristide? What do you think his chances are?"
"Slim to nothing," Halcean said promptly. But she frowned, evidently making connections.
"He's not that
bad, surely?"
"Just not devoted enough to it. Too busy chasing scandal, or making it. More to the point, Lord Aristide's never taken an apprentice."
"There doesn't seem to be that many true-mages in Darest to 'prentice."
"I doubt that's the reason. He has the talent," she added carefully. "Instinct, strength, all the rest. But really, I don't think such a perfectionist as the Diamond would be interested." Watching Soren's reactions carefully, she added: "Unless Choraide's been putting on an act about not studying."
"Where would he find the time?" Soren said, shrugging it off. Halcean, it seemed, had already held suspicions.
Tired of watching and worrying, Soren did not at all want to pursue the idea of Aspen as two-faced assassin. Instead she would try and unravel a different thread from this endless tangle of suspicion. "Do something for me, Halcean?"
"Of course." Her aide was immediately on her feet.
"Ask Baroness Couerveur if she can spare me a short interview."
-oOo-
Lady Arista had given nothing away when told the Champion wanted to see her, and had settled in the cup of a heavy, high-backed chair while she waited. It was, Soren reflected, an arrangement designed to conjure memories of the Regent's Court.
"Do you bring messages, Champion?" Lady Arista asked, as soon as the door had closed behind Soren. She was intent, no doubt eager for details about the bargains made with the Fair. How much did she hate not being the centre of Darest's world? How much did she hate her son?
"Questions, Lady Arista," Soren replied, with all her self-composure. This was the kind of thing she needed to be able to do.
"Then ask."
Easily as unnerving as Aristide, her pale blue eyes beyond incisive. It was necessary for Soren to remind herself how much the balance of power had shifted, that she had become a person of considerable consequence while the Regent had been reduced to one of sixteen barons. Then she could manage to say: "Who was Jansette Denmore working for?"
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