Champion of the Rose - Kobo Ebook (2 page)

"It is indeed, Lord Aristide," Soren replied,
having no particular desire to discuss anything with him. There was something inhuman about this man,
and she felt a need to show neither pleasure nor fear in his company, no matter
how nervous he made her. "
Anestan's
additions to the Champion's library ranged far
outside the traditional lore of her role," she said, the words sounding
false and unreal to her. The
library? What about the Rose? "I'm trying to winnow it back to the
original purpose of the collection."

"Which can be accommodated without the need to stack
the shelves three deep and bury the furniture." He inspected Soren as he had Jansette, reminding
her of the dust and grime she had accumulated over a morning of sorting. She was wearing leggings and shirt in the
dark grey she'd practically been forced to wear by those who oversaw Court
regalia, but had left off her surcoat. Countrified and underdressed, she supposed, but there was no point being
embarrassed about how she looked. It was
what she did which would matter.

"Such a task is beneath your dignity, Champion,"
she was informed. "I am sure there
are others within the Court whose time would be better spent. I will see to it that the collection is
returned to its core content during your absence."

"Thank you," Soren said, resisting any impulse to
echo "in my absence?", as only a fool would. "It will be useful to be able to find
the books it seems I must read."

"Not must, surely? The example of the past might give guidance, but the Champion-Rathen
coupling appears to have reinvented itself each time. Absolute loyalty works in many ways."

Impossible to guess what he meant by that, he who had the
most to lose by a new-born Rathen heir. Nor was it easy to produce an appropriate response. "A number of the treatises and histories
are very dry," she extemporised, still trying to accept the prospect of
behaving like a true Rathen Champion.

He made some slight movement, which Soren was hard-put not
to react to by stepping back. Then she
froze, for a tendril of the Rathen Rose had descended with languorous speed to
wrap itself around the slim, white column of his throat. Aristide lifted his chin, but did not seem
even surprised by the circumstance. True, the Rose was known to react to attacks, but she had never before
seen it execute what appeared to be a quelling threat.

"It will be more than interesting to see the defences
of Tor Darest active," Lord Aristide said, still unperturbed. If anything, he seemed perversely entertained
by the situation, his eyes glittering. "Much of the palace is bound in magic, enchantments which have lain
dormant since the death of King Torluce. Quite impossible to use or modify without the participation of a
Rathen."

"Do you want to modify them?" Soren asked, annoyed
and dismayed by this contribution from the Rose. How could she bring the conversation to an
end with Lord Aristide in a noose? The
Rose was not helping in the slightest by reacting to entirely unspoken threats.

To Soren's surprise, the tendril obligingly decamped,
unwinding from Lord Aristide's neck and lifting back into the canopy. A thorn had left a scratch, very red against
his pale skin, but not deep enough to produce more than a tiny, thread-like
droplet.

"Thank you," he said, with a slight inclination of
his head, and Soren could not think of a way to convincingly deny any
involvement. "Your predecessor
showed no sign of being able to effect the palace enchantments," he went
on, delicately blotting his throat with the back of one hand. "But perhaps the existence of an heir
makes all the difference. Did the Rose
react to your will before today?"

"I don't know that it's reacting to me now, Lord
Aristide," Soren said. She did not
even begin to sound convincing.

"Do you not?" He treated her to the purely sweet, almost rueful smile which made the
Court's blood run cold. As if he was
chiding some clumsy stratagem which neither impressed nor disturbed him. "When you return with the heir, you
should experiment."

"I – perhaps." Soren was starting to feel sick, totally out of her depth. She was far too blunt a person to make
embroidery of words. "My apologies,
Lord Aristide. It seems I have a great
deal to do, and should start immediately." She bowed, employing what skill she had learned since arriving in Tor
Darest.

"Of course." He returned her courtesy and stepped aside.

Soren didn't allow herself any unseemly haste as she headed
to the gate, though she wanted to hurry, the back of her neck itching. She would have to see the Regent as well, and
Arista Couerveur was as unnerving as her son. Then–?

"Champion."

"
M'Lord
?" She stopped and turned, but found it
difficult to meet the bright, amused gaze.

"Teraman is a small township in the north-east,"
he said, with the air of one doing a favour. "Deep in the forest bowers. You will probably find it mentioned in the histories, for several
Rathens died near there."

"Thank you,
M'Lord
." Soren bowed again, feeling none of the
gratitude such help should inspire. Lord
Aristide knew the birthplace of the child who threatened to displace him. She would have to get there before another
Rathen died in Teraman.

Chapter Two

There was something to be said for the conflicted anger
tightening Soren's stomach. At least it
was familiar. Soren didn't consider
herself weak, but she knew her failings. All her life she'd dragged her feet and stumbled through the
opportunities her mothers had sent her way because they inspired no spark of
certainty, did not draw or repel her, made nothing inside leap up. Nothing fit.

The irony of having the choice made for her by the Rathen
Rose had dismayed but not overset her, at least when the future it laid on her
involved nothing in particular. Being
made Rathen Champion had been a shock, but she'd never questioned her ability
to be a living anachronism, for all she resented the worthlessness of the role.

Now a life belonged to her. There was a baby out there she was supposed to protect and support and
guide. And Darest. Hardly something she could abandon halfway
through because it "didn't feel right". But of all the things she'd thought to be, a
true Rathen Champion fit worst. Even
starting on the task seemed ludicrous.

Concentrate on the moment. No possible way to put off going to formally notify the Regent. And then–? Go to Teraman. Be Champion. Rise to the occasion. She shook her head at the absurdity of it,
then made a brief visit to her rooms to clean off the dust and don one of her
surcoats – black with a restrained border of climbing roses in silver and gold
thread. It was as close as she could
come to girding her loins.

Emerging from her rooms into uproar, Soren took a deep
breath and strode toward the towering arch which separated Fleeting Hall from
the Hall of the Crown. By fixing her
gaze on the briar-rose carvings which wound up either side of the arch she was
able to avoid anyone catching her eye, but it was not so easy to escape a hand
closing firmly on her elbow.

A woman in the livery of one of the Barons. "What is it?" she asked, trying to
tread a thin line between polite and brusque.

"Don't you know?" There was an edge of derision, but it was as quickly reined back,
replaced with a sudden, cautious courtesy. "Why Champion, I come with–"

"Interruptions," said another voice. "Do you propose keeping the Regent
waiting?"

"M'Lady Rothwell," Soren murmured, turning with
concealed relief to face a woman of statuesque frame. Another of the power-brokers of the Court,
Francesca Rothwell had shown Soren a few moments' kindness when she'd first
arrived in Tor Darest, and did her a second favour now, turning Soren back
toward the Hall of the Crown.

"Come to me after you've seen the Regent," Lady
Rothwell urged, her voice deep and richly persuasive. "There is something I have for
you."

"I–" Soren
hesitated, then nodded and smiled her thanks. "I will, Lady Rothwell."

"Good girl. Now
go."

Soren did as ordered. Others were moving forward, determined or hopeful, but she twisted past
them as best she could, and even the most eager did not follow into the Hall of
the Crown.

-
oOo
-

Nothing had changed since the first and last time Soren had
ventured into the Rathen throne room. It
still felt like a dead place, abandoned and gutted. The dust was so thick on the floor that only
faint streaks of pink and gold suggested colourful secrets. Most of the doors were hidden by murky tapestries,
the rooms beyond unused since the death of the last Rathen King. Only a faint trickle of natural light crept
through the grime miring the windows around the upper gallery, and shadows
lurked in all corners, particularly on the twin stairs reaching up and back
toward Fleeting Hall. But the blackest
reaches were at the far end of the Hall, where the Rathen Throne must
stand. All Soren could make out was a
vague outline.

When she'd first seen this place, Soren had been perplexed
by the neglect. It was true that the
enchantments of the palace would prevent any but a Rathen monarch from using
the Throne and royal apartments, but why the dust and cobwebs and complete lack
of light? Understanding had only come
after a few uneasy dreams where she had crossed that darkened hall over and
over, hurrying toward the open door to her left where a warm golden glow
promised a place without shadows or fear. The effect transported her again, as she stepped over the threshold into
the Regent's Court, blinking and inhaling fresh air from open windows, and the
scent of flowers and more expensive perfumes.

According to Aspen, what was now the Regent's Court had once
been a retiring room for those waiting to be granted an audience, and so was
free of Rathen-specific enchantments. It
opened onto a private garden and the Regent's apartments, which had similarly
once been the preserve of exalted guests. The Couerveurs had created the Regent's Court soon after the death of
King Torluce, but Soren gathered that it was Arista Couerveur who had chosen to
bring petitioners through dark abandon into a room of light and colour, full of
bright tapestries and flowers cut daily.

Adopting as correct a posture as possible, Soren fixed her
eyes on the figure sitting upright among a nest of cushions and downy furs on a
coppery throne. An audience with the
Regent was a chancy thing, for Arista Couerveur had reigned long over ill-luck
and decline. In distant Carn Keep, Soren
had heard tales of her series of favourites, of her brilliance, her failures,
and her inevitable, impending overthrow to her son's ambitions. A month at Court had taught her that the
Regent was not mad, nor necessarily inconstant, and that in Darest her will was
still law.

She was a small woman, as pale and poised as her son, and
looked little more than a decade his senior. Magery. Unlike Aristide, the
Regent always dressed in the most sumptuous of robes, all brocade and silk in
vivid, glowing colours. Today she wore
sunlight on water: white-gold dapples sparkling on myriad shades of blue and
green, oversewn with a glitter of her signature emeralds.

"Champion." The Regent spoke before Soren reached the throne, her voice brisk and
matter-of-fact. "An animal will be
made available for your journey. Do you
wish an escort of the Guard?"

Taken aback, Soren instinctively shook her head, then searched
for a justification for her reaction. Stupid decision, when she had no combat training whatsoever, but how
could she say no and then yes? And,
truly, she didn't want an escort.

"Thank you, Lady Regent," she said, abandoning any
attempt at a reason. "That won't be
necessary."

"As you will." Arista Couerveur's lips curved, and Soren realised that the Regent was
not in the slightest way upset by news of the rose. She seemed almost...smug. Pleased by the prospect of an heir to the
throne she held in custodianship?

"This is a Writ of Passage," the Regent said,
holding out folded parchment bound with red ribbon. "Use it to command any assistance you
require."

"Thank you, Lady Regent." The Writ felt stiff and crisp in Soren's
hands, and smelled of fresh ink. Soren
fidgeted with the ribbon as she found herself being surveyed with more
attention than Arista Couerveur had ever before directed her way. It was a little like the sun coming out on a
cloudy day, that bright, piercing gaze washing over Soren from head to
foot. A judgmental god, weighing and
measuring this untried Champion.

"Go make ready," the Regent ordered, not revealing
whatever conclusion she'd reached about Soren's capabilities. Soren just bowed, eager to retreat.

"Bring the child back safely, Champion," Arista
Couerveur added, as Soren reached the door. There was steel in this command, and Soren was left in little doubt that
the Regent wanted the new Rathen heir intact.

Of course, unlike Lord Aristide, the Regent was not truly
threatened by a new Rathen. At least
another twenty years before the child could take the throne, and that might
well encompass the rest of Lady Arista's life. Immortality was not granted to mages, just a lingering youth. It was Aristide Couerveur who had the greatest
stake, who would surely do anything and everything he could to prevent the day
a Rathen returned light to the Hall of the Crown.

-
oOo
-

Lady Rothwell's chambers were in the New Palace, built after
King Torluce's death and lacking the sense of swooping grandeur provided by
high ceilings and arches. Soren had
initially thought that residence in the New Palace was a mark of disfavour,
that the Regent kept her friends close and accommodated those less pleasing in
the compact, utilitarian New Palace. But
it was more complicated than that. Arista Couerveur kept her enemies as close as her allies. Lady Rothwell's New Palace apartments were a
sign that she was not pivotal to the Court's machinations, despite her family's
power and wealth. Neutral.