Champion of the Rose - Kobo Ebook (23 page)

"Fast enough to take birds, but not outdrawing
pursuit? Striking out wildly, but
controlled enough to kill a man while his companions slept?" Aristide's eyes were narrow, glittering. "Did you track it, or did it lead
you?"

"That's something I'd like answered." It did not seem to be the first time the
question had occurred to Strake. "The Tzel Aviar said it did not conform to any Deeping creature she
had previously encountered. The
elusiveness outstripped a
nixie
, the clawing suggests
a troll. The arcane protection was of a
level usually expected of one of the dragon-kind. We discussed the possibility of one of the
lesser elves using some sort of artefact, or even one of the Fair run mad. The creature seemed to kill solely for the
sake of killing. Selecting its targets
with all the logic-illogic of a Deeping monster travelling for days just to
slaughter a horse."

"There have been no reports of sudden deaths between
here and the Tongue," Aristide commented. "Certainly no trail of corpses. But if this was done by an opportunistic local, they have superlative
protections – a high order of
magery
. Unlikely that there would be a multitude of
untraceable killers. Yet you say this is
not entirely the case?"

While Strake matter-of-factly outlined the Rose's ability to
observe inside and outside the palace, Soren made intent work of pulling the
roll into small pieces. Aristide
listened to long-guarded Rathen secrets with an air of polite attention, but
when told that Soren could see everything which occurred in the palace he was
not quite able to restrain the curling corners of his mouth. She wondered if he'd stop lingering in his
bath.

Strake concluded with a description of the encounter in the
Tongue. "Whether it was the same
creature is naturally the issue. There's
as much evidence for as against. If it
was, then despite our failures it's possible to track the thing."

"The Rose offered no warning this morning?"

"No." Soren
didn't lift her eyes from her plate to answer.

"The Rose is a type of
setherin
construct." Strake was frowning at
her bowed head. "Operating through
the bloodline and the Champion. It has
some unconnected divinations, no real
prophetics
, and
may simply not have been capable of detecting this creature when it was at any
distance from the Champion or myself." He paused, turned over his unused fork, then added: "After making
clear our pursuer to Soren, the Rose attempted to prevent her from warning
me."

Aristide, arrested in the act of drinking, blinked over the
rim of his mug. For once in his life
surprised, but quickly recovering composure. He frowned at Strake for a long breath, looked at Soren as if he
expected to discover an explanation in her face, then said: "If I might be
indelicate, was this before or after your child was conceived?"

"After," Soren told him, refusing to make it sound
like an admission.

There was no suggestion of triumph in Aristide's
manner. "So it becomes a matter of
whether you are doomed because the Rose cannot, or will not, protect you. But a
setherin
construct–"

"– might have the potential to accrue some semblance of
self, after centuries of existence." Strake's unquiet temper showed in those long, dark eyes, and he focused
on filling his plate before continuing. "Or perhaps it was the long dormant period after the death of
Torluce
, when it lay neglected and festering...or
starving. The runes are still clear, but
it could have warped, or grown beyond them somehow. In either case it would still be constrained by
the original bounds of the
setherin
."

"If it has awakened." Aristide was sceptical. "What gain in destroying the
bloodline? What advantage in seeing you
dead?"

"What cost in saving me?" Strake looked back at Soren, his expression
better suited to the study of a canker which must be burnt out. "Suffice to say that we don't know
whether the Rose was aware of this morning's attack before the Champion
discovered it."

"But it was definitely aware of the thing chasing us
about the Tongue." Soren pushed her
plate aside. "And it did not feel
at all like a set of conflicting instructions. I think it was terrified."

"Or trying to terrify you."

Soren considered that initial dizziness, the trepidation
she'd felt whenever she came too close to Strake, and thought that was more
likely a side-effect of these conflicting orders. The jangling panic when the creature
approached, so much stronger and more obviously alien to Soren's mind, had been
overwhelmingly intense. She felt
strangely impatient with this conversation, with her own hatred of what the
Rose had done, of the myriad problems of Strake's kingship. She wanted Vixen back.

"At any rate, I felt nothing at all from it this
morning," she said tersely. "And can't remember anything unusual during the night. The Rose's motives, or lack of them, seem.
less important than finding the thing that killed Vixen – man or monster – and
stopping it from killing you."

"One might lead to the other," Aristide said. His eyes reflected the morning light. "However, my first summation of the
black rose has not changed. If the
threat is linked to The Deeping, then a solution should be sought there. Contact the Tzel Aviar."

Strake's mouth flattened. "The same Tzel Aviar who has done nothing to stem the incursion of
trees over the border?"

Aristide smiled, that peculiarly appreciative expression
this time. "Before relations with
The Deeping soured, the previous Tzel Aviar was called on twice in regard to
the Tongue. The trees themselves cannot
be proven magical. No overarching
enchantment was found to be active." He shrugged, fluid dismissal. "In my lifetime, we have never officially called on Tzel Damaris,
although he has dealt with occasional cases which have strayed into Darien
territory. Possibly he would deal with
the Tongue as ineffectively as his predecessor. And, indeed, every single mage who has made the attempt, including most
of the
Couerveur
line."

"I do not care to bring the Fair into this
matter," Strake said, obstinately. "Tzel
Eularin
was not able to track the
killer." He paused, and looked
frustrated. "But I concede that
despatching a Deeping creature without the Tzel
Aviar's
sanction is not a diplomatic start."

"It will be remembered, at least, no matter how
inimical your stalker. There is considerable
pressure within The Deeping to close their borders completely." Aristide had taken up his mug once again, and
was regarding his own reflection in the steaming liquid. "Queen
Desteret
does not openly favour the insular factions, but she has long allowed policies
keeping humans out of The Deeping to gain strength." He rose abruptly. "If you would excuse me one
moment?"

Strake waited until Aristide had left the room, then turned
to Soren. "What do you know of this
current Tzel Aviar?"

Soren looked at him in surprise. "Lord Aristide visited The Deeping
during his training. He knows vastly
more about the Fair than I."

"And he considers it important for Darest to have The
Deeping as an ally," Strake said irritably. "I don't want circumspect answers trying
to point me in a particular direction."

Soren was surprised at the implied trust, and supposed she
should be pleased Strake retained a reserve about Aristide. Then he added: "Besides, I was hoping for another gem
of country wisdom from your mother."

Thinking of her dryly acerbic heart-mother, it was hard not
to smile. "My mother says that the
Fair are people like us," she said. "Just people who happen to live several hundred years among the
kind of magic most of us encounter only in legend. She says avoiding them is the best thing you
can do."

"Not unreasonable. But not entirely practical. What
of this Tzel Aviar?"

"They call him the Indifference." Strake quirked an eyebrow, but Soren's
attention was momentarily drawn by Aristide in his bedroom, leafing through a
number of books. Many of the pages were
covered in intricate patterns, others with neat writing. He'd taken them from a panel concealed within
the head of his bed.

"Indifferent to his duties?" Strake prompted, ever
impatient.

"Suitors. He's
said to be out of the ordinary, even among the Fair." She shrugged. "Carn Keep isn't exactly on The Deeping border, so I've barely seen
any Fair at all – but there's a great many rumours about the man. Said to be a superb mage. Said to despise humans. Said to have been made Tzel Aviar as a
punishment."

"For?"

"Feel free to ask him." Soren shook her head, watching Aristide
leaving his room, book in hand. "He's held the position for something like eighty years. Whatever happened, it was long ago."

The wrong thing to say. Strake's face closed, just in time for Aristide's return. Soren regretfully watched Aristide survey
their expressions, then turned her attention back to shredding her
breakfast. She couldn't worry herself to
the bone every time she upset Strake. He
was only her King.

"This is the Tzel
Aviar's
sigil," Aristide said, placing the book on the table. It was open to a page dominated by a complex
knot of Deeping writing, with 'Tzel Damaris' beneath it in Aristide's compact
hand. "The request would best come
from you."

Strake seemed still inclined not to make the request at all,
but picked the book up without protest and rose to stand by the window. Fingers resting on the symbol, he frowned
down into the garden as he cast.

Difficult to guess how long this would take. Soren stared at her
Rathen's
intent face and tried to remember the peace the Moon had brought her.

"Is my table so displeasing, Champion?"

Startled, she turned back to Aristide. He tilted a glance in the direction of her
plate of bread-crumbs.

"No insult meant, Lord Aristide," she responded
shortly. "I have no appetite."

"Understandable. And the Court will greatly appreciate the drama of a fainting
Champion."

Soren wondered if Aristide had some misplaced idea of a pregnant
woman needing to eat constantly. Or if
he was just entertaining himself, baiting her. To get him to turn that blandly solicitous expression somewhere else,
she took a piece of fruit and began to dissect it, but that only brought a
spark of unholy amusement to his eyes.

"Does Baron
Mogath
have cause
enough for treason?" she asked then, but did not have the satisfaction of
surprising the Diamond.

"
Mogath
is not likely to
involve himself in something as risky as regicide," he replied
promptly. "For all he stands to
lose if The Deeping thaws to us." An eyebrow quirked. "Everett
Rothwell is under observation."

He was bland again, but Soren thought she heard the
condescension of a master not interested in fencing with beginners. What was she to Aristide, after all, but some
coastal girl who'd been transplanted out of her element? She was nothing but a conduit for the Rose's
power; a vessel. Champion Brood Mare.

On the other hand, she'd be underestimating Aristide in turn
to think he'd discount her. More than
likely he was looking to the long game again, beginning to prepare the ground
for working with her after Strake's probable demise. Soren sighed inwardly, wishing herself well
away from this place where everyone's motives had to be second-guessed.

Then Strake turned from the window, handed the book to
Aristide, and said: "He is coming."

Chapter Seventeen

Even a Deeping mage could not travel to Tor Darest in
moments. The Tzel Aviar had told Strake
three days, which palace security hurried to fill with patrols, searches and
impressive energy. So far the result was
precisely nothing, but that nothing at least included no more corpses. Soren spent less time following Strake about
and more watching him and the palace in her head, trying to settle on how the
Rathen Champion could meet the threat of murder.

"Are you absolutely, positively certain you wouldn't
like me to carry you off for an afternoon of lust and abandon?"

"Do you think you could lift me?" Soren was by no means small or delicate.

"With the right motivation I expect I could stagger all
the way to the couch," Aspen said, and shook his head when she
laughed. "You do my pride no good
at all,
nixie
."

"You're beyond injury."

"Cruel, cruel."

Aspen was a welcome distraction, outrageously flirtatious as
he attempted to turn her thoughts from death. When a faint clink of crockery heralded
Halcean's
arrival, he broke off, then adopted a sprawling and over-comfortable position
in his chair. Eyes dancing with
unconcealed glee, he held a hand out imperiously for a steaming, spice-scented
mug. Taunting Soren's aide had become
his latest fad.

"Join us,
Halcean
,"
Soren ordered, accepting her own mug. While
Halcean
went to fetch another, she
pulled a face at Aspen and murmured: "Stop it."

"No need to take up cudgels, my delight. She's well able to fight her own
battles." But he sat a little
straighter in the wing-back chair, and made a demure play of devotion to his cider
as
Halcean
returned.

"You move rooms tomorrow?"

"Sadly. Too much
to hope the Diamond would allow me to lurk about the wainscoting much
longer. His sterling Robar has tidied me
off to some remote corner of nowhere, quite as far from anything interesting as
it's possible to be. And all my dreams
of a sudden midnight encounter came to naught. I'm fated never to know if half the things they whisper about the
Diamond are true." He tossed up a
hand in mock despair, then sobered. "No news on other fronts. Endless speculation, but no-one willing to accuse, let alone put their
hand up to slaughter. Not even a popular
candidate, beyond this Deeping hobgoblin.