Champion of the Rose - Kobo Ebook (25 page)

"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.