Champion of the Rose - Kobo Ebook (34 page)

Soren turned her attention to the picture, a carefully inked
rendering of a thin blade covered by subtle
whorling
patterns. But the handle was plain, not
at all unusual; hardly a weapon which would draw the eye.

Head bent over the book, Soren was very aware of Aristide's
face, for she suspected it was precious to him. But the brilliant blue eyes had turned to the window, almost as if he'd
lost interest. Distracted.

She had raised Aspen's concern about Aristide over
breakfast, but Strake would not be drawn into trying to analyse his
Councillor. The most he would say was
that no matter the cause, the warped spell which had ruined their hunt would
probably weigh on any mage. And shrugged
acknowledgment that this was precisely the opposite of the attitude he'd taken
when Aristide had claimed responsibility. Soren suspected Strake simply couldn't judge the depths of Aristide's
loyalties. The Regent's son might be
plotting something so complex it would side-step the
saecstra
. Or he could be
ill, heart-weary, anything. It would
never show on the surface.

Whatever else, she was sure news of Champion and King would
hardly overset him. No surprise when he
had been first to know of the Rathen heir Soren carried.

"And what do they look like? Calder and
Kitreggar
and the rest?"

With an air of being obliging, Aristide summoned an illusion
of a tall, hearty woman with curling brown hair, and then a wispy blond man,
another woman, a man she vaguely recognised, then one of the Barons, other
people who sparked vague memories, naming each. Soren filed away their images. "And–" How to ask
this? "I understand your father is
an accomplished mage. And not
Darien." A wildly intrusive
question, and she was pleased when her voice came out steady. It was about all she knew of the man, for
Lady Arista had followed a practice common to mages and contracted a sire for
power's sake.

Without hesitation another image appeared, a tall man with
the distinctive fair skin and coppery-red hair common in
Cya
. There was only the faintest resemblance to
Aristide, most strongly in the star sapphire eyes. Again it was no-one she recalled seeing, but
he had said someone with a tangible connection, and blood was the most obvious
thing to pursue.

Still, the question did not seem to have bothered
Aristide. She understood why when he
said, in a very patient tone: "A not unreasonable deduction, Champion, and
he even had links with the Cyan Crown to hang all manner of suspicion
upon. I am sure, however, that someone
would have told me if he'd risen from his grave."

"I–" She
could not keep back the flush.

"Some twenty years ago." Another image appeared, this time a man with
darker blue eyes and a deeper red shimmer to his hair. He was tall, broad-shouldered, did not look
like Aristide but was oddly familiar in the way a blood relative of someone you
knew could be. Closer inspection showed
the same shape around the eyes.

"My half-brother, also Cyan, and very active on that
land's behalf. I've had his current
location checked, but be sure to let me know if you see him lurking about the
palace. And I do believe the children of
my mother's aunt aspire to word-
magery
, if you wish
to make a catalogue of every relative I can claim who owns some thread of
magic."

"If you consider them a possibility," Soren
replied, recovering just enough to not look mortified. It was part of her role to ask these things,
and she would do it.

"Not in the least." He remained very dry. "I have not forgotten the matter,
Champion. Wherever the knife is kept, it
seems to be shielded, for I cannot trace it. Using it to strike against the King would see blame nicely muddied, but
there is still the difficulty of the actual attack. I will admit to being obliged to the talented
Lady
Denmore
. Knowing a particular weapon allows me to fashion some measure of
counter. Not ideal or infallible
protection, but a shield on the wall. There is another issue more imminent I think."

That would depend on when the thief chose to strike, but
Soren merely nodded acquiescence when Aristide rose. Strake's meeting with the Tzel Aviar would be
difficult enough without delays to try his temper. She would consult with her Rathen before
pushing further.

Aristide had cut up at her less than she'd expected, had
been quite forbearing in fact. Only a
light serving of mockery and no taste of venom. What this meant she could only speculate, but she did not feel it was a
good sign, an acceptance of changing circumstances. She felt instead that an edge had been taken
from a knife, that he had compacted in on himself somehow. Simple preoccupation?

There was so much, when she spared the time to think about
it. What had gone right for Aristide,
this last month? A Rathen heir taking
the throne. The humbling decision to
serve rather than battle. Yesterday
rattled by two shocks to a mage's esteem – first the stolen trump blade and
then the warped spell. And it was
obvious Lady Arista was the prime candidate for thief. How could that be anything but a blow? For, despite everything, the former Regent
was Aristide's mother. She had no more
attempted to kill him than he her during their years of battle. Was he uncertain whether that had changed?

Sometimes Soren wondered whether Aristide lay in bed each
morning steeling himself to face the world.

Surprised by a sudden rush of sympathy, Soren decided to set
her doubts aside. She had accepted
Aristide as an ally, but not given him her trust, or offered him her
friendship. She'd demanded far better
treatment for herself, when faced with Strake's pain. Could she be so cowardly as to not hold a
hand out to someone because she found them more than a little overawing?

"Lord Aristide?"

"Champion?" Halfway to the door, he looked back at her.

She stumbled over good intentions, because she could not
imagine a feat of subtlety capable of opening up so opaque a diamond. Any question she asked would be
rebuffed. Why would he admit to
weakness, after all? She'd do better to
keep quiet.

But that was just her cowardice again. If she had decided Aristide wasn't her enemy,
she was damn well going to act like it, and accept the consequences. It would be a novelty for him, at least, to
be treated like a person. So she asked,
with blunt simplicity: "Are you all right?"

That brought the smile back at least. It bloomed to highly entertained width, his
light brows lifting to add an extra leaven of incredulity. Concern became clumsy intrusion, an ignorant
donkey prying into the secrets of a unicorn.

"Passing well, Champion." The words were sugar-dusted highly pointed
derision. "And yourself?"

Fighting the tide of heat, Soren refused point-blank to be
cowed. "Spare me courtier's
arts," she said, with an edge of her own. "You haven't seemed yourself. I just wanted to – are you all right?"

He had no intention of being disarmed, offering her a
wonderfully judged courtesy in return, a little illustration of grace. "Your concern charms me, Champion. What have I done to warrant it? If you must think me troubled, consider this:
our whirlwind King came very close to dying last night, and the action which so
exposed him, which left him blind and stumbling at exactly the wrong moment –
that was mine." He touched the palm
of his hand, the swirling pattern of the
saecstra
.

"I don't–"

"Don't what, Champion?" The tone had become weary, and his mouth
flattened. She had finally stepped too
far, and succeeded in annoying Aristide
Couerveur
. "Did I frown over my breakfast? Fail to keep to routine? Delighted as I am at your interest, your
solicitude is misplaced."

It was a momentary flash, in hand even before the last
word. He lifted his brows again, the
curl of the lips this time suggesting amusement at his own loss of
control. "But we must not keep our
King waiting, Champion," he said, and inclined his head with every
appearance of respect before turning to the door.

Ruefully, Soren followed. She had achieved what she intended, she supposed: shown that she cared
about the isolation she was only beginning to see. As reward she was now perfectly clear on how
very much he disliked the idea of the Champion's palace-sight. Aristide was a fortress in the centre of the
Court's whirlpool, with defences so subtle-fine no-one could pierce them. He did not want nor need her clumsy good
intentions.

-
oOo
-

Her Rathen was waiting in his private audience chamber, and
since Soren and Aristide met the Tzel Aviar at the door there was no chance to
confer about their approach. Soren hoped
Strake was not going to be as icy as he looked.

But it was Aristide who took the floor, serenely himself as
he bowed to his King and nodded to Tzel Damaris. "I have been considering the
implications of a natural defence which warps magic," he said. "It may provide some explanation for
your sudden appearance so many years out of the proper order. In the last moments of your first encounter
with the Deeping killer, you said you cast. What was it?"

Strake had become intently focused while Aristide
spoke. Now he shifted, putting a hand
flat on the back of a chair by the room's central table. "It was scarcely formed. Pure power, shoved in one direction. I knew it was behind me, didn't think I could
turn before it struck. Panicked." There was
condemnation in the word, and Soren knew Strake would never forgive himself for
blindly thrusting
Vahse's
body away.

"And this was followed by darkness,
disorientation. And stories of sightings
of a ghostly prince near Teraman. Your
casting, barely formed as you say, must have struck the killer. And warped. And pushed you both...away."

"Produced a kind of Walk between years." Strake was staring into the past.

"It fits."

"And brought that thing with me."

Aristide answered with a small movement of one hand. "I doubt that he is immune to the
castings he warps, that he is completely unaffected by magic. You spoke for instance of blood at the site
of an explosion, when magical traps were set. In that, I think we also discover a reason why he has not attempted the
palace."

"Which reeks of the Rose's power, the protections wound
throughout. Anyone with the slightest
talent can sense it." Strake was
thinking rapidly. "I don't think
the Rose is capable of making exclusions in its observation. If the killer entered the palace, the entire
enchantment of the Rose would be warped."

Unpredictably and probably catastrophically. The examples of warping so far had mainly
consisted of the spell unravelling, the caster's sudden death, or a large
explosion. The appalled look Strake
turned on Soren brought that thread of thought to the worst conclusion possible
for a man who'd just bedded the focus of the Rose's enchantment. It was the same reason why they couldn't
destroy the Rose themselves. All the
Deeping killer need do – an effortless feat for an invisible man – was step
inside the palace, simply touch its outer wall, and Soren would die. Small wonder the Rose had hysterics whenever
the killer came near.

"But casting does work on him," she blurted, in a
hasty attempt at denial. Everyone was at
risk, according to this interpretation. "The Rose tracks him when he's anywhere near Strake or me. Your theory has to be wrong, or he must be
able to control it somehow, or that could not happen."

"It can." Tzel Damaris, speaking at last. Not a hint of regret or apology shaded the words, no sense that he was
aware how furious he'd made Darest's ruler. "The power of that enchantment is focused on Champion and those of
Rathen blood. It does not act upon
anybody else – a sensible precaution to prevent its detection. From the rune transcription we know that it
works by making audible a particular kind of sound, with filters in place to
add meaning. And it appears the killer's
protective warping does not extend to his breath."

"Does that mean–" Strake broke off, frowning, his hand tightly wrapped around the top of
the chair's back. "If we transmuted
the air around the killer to a gas which was not in itself magical, he could
not counter it?"

"Very likely."

That was news Strake had been hoping to hear. He let go of the chair at last and turned
with a kind of instinctive affirmation toward Aristide, who nodded once. Something they could do. But 'very likely' wasn't a guarantee, and the
beginnings of a plan of action would founder unrealised when there were so many
other answers needed. Boy killers and
Fae assassins. The look Strake turned on
the Tzel Aviar was a full return to icy resolve. And was forestalled.

"I have been instructed to request your presence at the
Court of the Fair," Tzel Damaris said.

Strake's brows came together. Soren felt her mouth sag and saw that even
Aristide could not quite hide surprise. Even when The Deeping had not been drawing away from contact with
humans, the Court of the Fair had been closed to outsiders. It was said that
Domina
Rathen had been so honoured, but it had been an extraordinarily long time since
humans had been invited to the Queen's Court at the heart of The Deeping.

Strake managed not to gobble at the travel involved, and
didn't waste time questioning the purpose of the meeting, simply boiling his
response down to: "When?"

"Midday." The Tzel
Aviar's
eyes never wavered. "
Vostal
Hill
would be an ideal venue, if it is permitted."

"Very well." Strake had shut surprise away, and inclined his head rather than
question how such a thing would be possible. The entire Court of the Fair, coming to Darest in a matter of
hours? Fae truly did live among the kind
of magic others only encountered in legend.