Champion of the Rose - Kobo Ebook (27 page)

It would be ridiculously easy to tear him away from her, cut
him, shred him as completely as Vixen had been. Keep him distant, impotently furious. Or kill him.

"Unless you'd like me to strip you?" he said,
oblivious to threat.

She held her hand across the sash of her robe – a mindless
defensive gesture as she frantically searched for some way out. If she attacked him, it would completely
destroy whatever fragile relationship they might salvage after this. She wasn't even sure she could avoid killing
him, if she let the Rose strike. But she
couldn't let him rape her.

"It's only going to make everything worse," she
said, brokenly.

He recoiled, something in the words striking him more surely
than any thorn. A staggered step
backward, as the glowing vines lifted like startled snakes, and then he whirled
and slammed his fist into the panelled wall beside her bed, producing a
sickening crack. Out in the receiving
room,
Halcean
jumped, took two hasty steps forward
and stopped again while Soren gasped with the effort of holding back the vines.

Strake slid into a heap beside her bed,
Halcean
bit her lip, torn, and Soren pushed the Rose away, refusing murder. And, without protest, it went.

Her Rathen was panting, as if he had run all the way back to
Teraman. Palace-sight showed her a face
filled with revulsion, self-loathing.

"Thank you," she said, softly. For not making me kill you.

He closed his eyes, looking drained. "It wasn't for your benefit," he
told her, in a tone of bitter honesty. "Of all the things I never believed myself capable."

She sat warily on the far end of the bed, and focused on the
defeated sag of his shoulders, willing
Halcean
to
stay where she was. "Do you hate me
so much?"

"Not you, the Rose. You were right in saying that. But still, your face–" He
rubbed a hand across his eyes, as if he was trying to erase memory. His knuckles were bleeding. "Sun, there are times I can't bear to
look at your face."

Composite of his desires. Welded with nightmare. She
refused to apologise for her appearance.

"Would I really die, if you destroyed the Rose?"

He sat up at that, though he didn't quite seem able to look
at her. "I can't see a way to avoid
it. The Rose as good as dwells inside
the Champion. It's taken root in you,
uses the mind it does not quite possess to perform its functions. It's little wonder this instinct feels like a
person to you. And that connection means
if I simply pulled down the runes, all the power of the enchantment would
release through you."

"There's no way?"

"I could attempt to channel the power – or have
Aristide do it – but it would still have to run through you, all the power of
the Rose. Shielding you from that – it
would be like trying to sew with lightning."

As he looked up at her, his expression changed a little, and
he stood, made a gesture of open remorse. "I can't apologise for this," he said. "It would be so wholly inadequate. Don't–" He shook his head. "I have
never been able to guarantee my temper. If I – bar your door, call for the guards. Don't ever let me do this to you again."

She watched him leave, thankfully not even noticing
Halcean
transfixed in the middle of the receiving
room. Reaching his bedroom he poured out
a tumbler of brandy and swallowed it in one choking gulp.

"Are you all right?"

Halcean
, a shadow in the
doorway. Soren tried to think of
something, anything, she could say to explain the dreadful scene away, but
could only lift her hands. "I've
been worse."

"Really?"
Halcean's
voice was equal parts doubt and sympathy. She looked as usual full of questions, but
instead crossed quickly to the bed and matter-of-factly put an arm about
Soren's shoulders, leaning her like a child into her side. "I won't ask. Just let it out."

Strake, face set, poured another tumbler of brandy and
swallowed it. Soren, chokingly
reluctant, tried not to weep. The
saecstra
shifted beneath Aristide's
skin.
Jansette
,
practically forgotten, slipped safely out of the royal apartments. The guards patrolled, the rats raided grain
sacks, the sleepless yawned or shat or fucked. In the Garden of the Rose, a tiny bud grew minutely larger.

And that was the worst of it, far out-shadowing the King
drinking himself into a stupor, the dreadful scene, the whole stupid mess of it
all. The reason she was Champion. Not because she could save him from the
Deeping monster, or for any words of advice she might think to give. Not even for being even-tempered or
intelligent. Just because she was a
leggy brunette with a nice mouth and the right sized breasts. Champion Brood Mare.

Chapter Nineteen

A poison morning: flat, bleak, spoilt. Soren wallowed in it. She hated Strake for hating her, for being
more temper than king. She loathed
herself for not yelling back at him, for giving a damn about him.
Halcean
she
resented for suggesting being Champion was a possibility not a life sentence,
and for overhearing enough to see that wasn't completely true. The rest of the world she despised
impartially.

Lack of sleep was no excuse. As ever she'd woken completely refreshed, but had only watched with sour
malice as Fisk discovered his king in a reeking stupor. The secretary would be damned whatever he
did. Strake woken on time and
half-drunk, or late with a hangover, was not either way going to be a grateful
master. Fisk had eventually tip-toed
away and, from the looks of it, cancelled the morning appointments. If only Soren had taken the time to bully her
aide into equal restraint.

"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.