Champion of the Rose - Kobo Ebook (8 page)

Soren didn't answer immediately, sitting at what she hoped
was a safe distance and spreading out a cloth for their sparse selection. For the moment at least, she wasn't suffering
that fear-flight reaction to his presence.

"Lord Aristide doesn't, I think, seek conflict, but
he's not merciful to his enemies," she said, selecting her words with
care. "I suppose the best known
example is the
Basquets
.
Vereck
Basquet
was a spice merchant who supplied out of
Atlarus. Cinnamon and pepper, mainly,
and wanting to expand into cloves."

"With The Deeping across the border?"

"Mm. It's almost
cheaper from Atlarus. Lady Rothwell has
had a monopoly ever since the embargo." She paused, because the embargo had been only forty years ago, and she
was beginning to realise the scope of what she'd have to explain. He'd known a different Darest, a vigorous
prosperous kingdom where his extensive family had ruled. In context, his ill-humour was more than
understandable.

"Forty years ago, The Deeping cut off all trade with
Darest," she continued. "Lord
Elling
, Lady Arista's father, had been offering inducements
to Shapers to try and reproduce some of the Fair's most valuable exports. Not just cloves, but the medicine alums and
perfume trees."

"Any succeed?" Strake asked, absently. He seemed more interested in the attempts of
a tiny spotted fish to swim upstream.

"Not well. Not
with viable seed-stock, anyway." Deeping mages were unparalleled Shapers, modifying plants and animals to
match their needs. While Darest had been
able to produce a variety of enchanted clove which would flower locally, true
Shaping was judged in the seeds, in the ability to produce more plants without
any magic at all.

"The Deeping reacted as usual?"

"There's been no Deeping ambassador in Tor Darest for
half a century. The Regent shares Lord
Elling's
views on The Deeping – that the Fair are
attempting to slowly steal Darest back – and her rule has not been without
similar incidents. If the Rothwells
didn't own half Darest's ships and have Deeping links, I expect we'd still be
using the Western Kingdoms as middlemen." Soren lifted one shoulder. "Sax profited well during those years, and Cya prefers Darest to be
waning, not least because they're land-hungry. They also draw a great deal on the mines on the Sax-Darest border, and
they're not on good terms with Sax.
Vereck
Basquet
had Cyan
connections."

"I'm sure Aristide will surface somewhere in this
morass."

Soren swallowed a mouthful of honey biscuit, and decided to
censor any gossip delving into Lord Aristide's keenly guarded privacy. The malicious rumours Aspen delighted in
repeating changed with every telling. "Lord Aristide courts The Deeping," she said bluntly. "That's the core of many of his
conflicts with the Regent."

"And presumably
Vereck
Basquet's
downfall." Face intent, Strake was still watching the fish struggle against the
current. He was really very attractive
when not scowling. There was something
about those long eyes, dark and cynical, which was making Soren feel short of
breath. And he was the temperamental man
she had to deal with for the rest of her life. She hoped he'd stop interrogating and start talking to her, sooner
rather than later.

"
Basquet
didn't enjoy the
outright success he'd hoped for," Soren said, trying to suppress wayward
thoughts. "The Rothwells could
match his undercutting. But as the year
wore on,
Basquet
began to win out on quality and
quantity. Then one of
Basquet's
ships foundered and an accusation was laid
against Francesca Rothwell."

"And then it was proved to really be the work of the
Basquets
?" Strake asked, sounding bored.

"Not quite," Soren replied, shifting
uncomfortably. "Lady Rothwell
freely admitted that she'd obtained a stone which would scupper a ship unless a
counterspell was regularly cast. And
then had it concealed among one of her own shipments.
Basquet
had been
buying low-quality cloves and switching them with the Rothwell shipments."

"We still haven't sighted this Aristide," Strake
pointed out.

Soren nodded slowly. She was feeling dizzy now, as if the world was moving in two directions
at once. As if someone was standing
above her, about to put down their foot. What was it about this Rathen? "The Regent's judgment was that
Basquet
pay recompense," she said slowly. "Enough that he would be years recovering. Lord Aristide suggested that the fine be
lessened if
Basquet
could retrieve Lady Rothwell's
property."

Strake snorted, then looked appreciative. Soren could only be glad he didn't glance in
her direction, to see her struggling for composure. "A challenge, of sorts," she said,
hurrying to the end. "
Basquet
hired a half-dozen mostly foreign mages, and lost
two ships trying to retrieve the cargo and stone. Then he was required to pay the full
fine. It ruined him."

The dizziness was growing worse, as if her mind was being
crushed in a fist. Was it Strake, or
were they being attacked? She stood up,
looking around, and immediately felt better. Relieved and dismayed, she stepped away from the stream, and the
oppression vanished altogether.

She looked back at her Rathen.

Strake was watching her, but didn't seem to understand her
abrupt removal. "And did Lady
Rothwell ever mention where she obtained a stone so cleverly enchanted that a
half-dozen could not counter it?" he asked. "Do I even need to ask whether Aristide
has a singular reputation as a mage?"

"He does and she did not. But there are none who doubt its
origin."

"Is he popular?"

That was hard. "Yes and no. He's–" She faltered. "I wouldn't say Dariens...love him, but
they want him. Imitate him, court him,
worship him in a way. He is very
powerful and formidably competent. There's a great deal of anticipation for his rule."

"Indeed." The tone was flat.

Soren stomach twisted, and she moved closer to Vixen,
feeling quavery. The mare turned an ear
toward her, then permitted Soren to stroke her nose. Why was this happening? She was almost certain it was the Rose making
her feel so strange, but she had no idea why it pulled her in two directions.

She was sure she didn't want to find out.

Chapter Seven

South-west of Teraman, roughly in the centre of the Tongue,
small grassy hills rose above the trees. Burnished by ample sunlight and specked with flowery clover, they were a
bright, airy break from the forest canopy. The trees were widely spaced, so a horse could canter unimpeded, but
Soren didn't suggest that they ride. She
didn't want Strake sitting up behind her.

Fidgeting with the reins, she watched the swallows which had
come with the afternoon breezes to make precise sorties about their legs. Although that intense oppression had not
recurred, there had been moments in the last two days when she'd felt its
shadow. Always when she came too close
to this Aluster Rathen, to whom she was to devote her life, and who she now
carefully avoided touching. She hoped he
hadn't noticed.

It was an irksome, unhappy situation, and all the
speculation in the world wasn't going to provide her with a solution. If Strake would be a little more forthcoming
about his recent past, she'd feel better able to broach the matter with
him. But he brushed aside any probing
and treated her as a necessary evil, not a confidant. Nor did he entirely hide that he thought her
an inadequate excuse for a Champion, whom he had no intention of trusting. All she'd been able to gather was that he'd
only been in Teraman a few days, certainly not two weeks ago, and he wore
everything he owned.

A knowledge of recent history had so far proven to be
Soren's most useful contribution as Rathen Champion. As soon as she'd given him a bare outline of
Darest's Court, Strake had wanted to know about the formation of the Tongue,
then the decline of the Rathen rulers and everything which had happened in
Darest since. Between those questions
he'd required a run-down on all the neighbouring countries, and even pressed
her for detail about Atlarus, far across the ocean to the south and
magnificently stable. It felt like she'd
been talking non-stop and getting no answers at all.

Studying Strake had told Soren only a little more. He seemed impatient to get to Tor Darest, but
not eager to be there. His reaction to
her recital of the accidents, petty feuds and sicknesses which had decimated
the ranks of the Rathens had been tightly bound anger tinged with
incredulity. So many Rathens had died in
the short decades after his hunting trip – a family of fifty or more whittled
away until only Torluce remained. But
he'd kept what grief he felt well hidden.

At the moment, he was absorbed with the swallows as they
turned about his feet, coming daringly close to snatch up insects startled out
of hiding. There was something
mesmerising about them, arrow-swift iridescence, purple-black. They skimmed in circles just above the grass,
making abrupt, effortless turns so that their pale breasts and flaring
underwings, tinted a delicate mouse-brown, were momentarily exposed. Strake had watched them for hours.

Nor were swallows the only thing to capture his attention. Yesterday he'd stopped to enjoy a stand of
loram well into its amber-gold stage, and then lagged behind when he caught
sight of a passing stag. That morning,
she'd woken to find him watching the sky change shade through the branches
overhead. Soren found these intent
studies reassuring. An apparent
appreciation of natural beauty surely made him not...wrong.

Wishing she could believe that, Soren gazed down the slope
into the forest to their right and spotted what must be the remains of the old
trade road which had once run from Tor Darest to Elder Garrison. It was interrupted in places by vigorous
stands of loram, and most of the remaining stones, wide and flat, were cracked
and disrupted by encroaching roots. But
as a whole the structure was far more enduring than the rutted east-west road
she had travelled to reach Teraman. Soren studied its gentle curving course along the base of the hills and
saw in the trees ahead the remains of a roof, then a tumble-down spire.

"That must be Aramond," she said, and was rewarded
with a moment's abstract attention. "I'm not sure just how long ago it went. Eighty years, I think, and half-empty before
that. They weren't able to keep the
north-east road clear, and traders began taking the long way 'round."

"Strangled to death," Strake said, his voice
muted. Then he scowled. "What an idiotic waste."

"Do you expect resistance from The Deeping to your
return?" she asked, while he scanned the distance for more of the
ruin. She had found he would
occasionally answer direct questions when distracted.

"Not once I'm crowned." He glanced at her. "But I'm sure North and East would be
less than sorry to hear that I'd met an unhappy accident on the way. And unlike the obliging Captain Sharwell,
they won't have believed for a moment that baby was Rathen."

'North and East' were the two Deeping lords who had long ago
disputed the land which was now Darest. 'When North and East meet' was an old way of saying 'near enough to
never'. When the Tongue had reached
Aramond, never must have stopped seeming so far away.

It was unlikely the original Fair were still alive. There'd even been a change of Queen in The
Deeping since Domina Rathen had been granted a kingdom, but the little gossip
which leaked over the borders suggested that the two families maintained the
old animus and were behind the influx of trees. Only the Fair could take centuries to invade. Or to exploit a loophole in a contract.

"I may as well look it over, see what can be
salvaged," Strake was saying. "Tomorrow morning. We won't
reach it today. Can I hope that Islay
hasn't been abandoned?"

"Not yet. It's
up against the trees, and lost a lot of trade with the close of the north-east
road, but the orchards there are flourishing, and the hives."

"With any luck, they'll have a spare horse."

They followed the road to the end of the line of hills and
set up camp, a process somewhat hampered by Strake's interest in the chorus of
birds paying homage to the setting sun. But at least he was not above fetching firewood or searching for ripe
fruit.

"So we've covered a few of the people who'd like to
kill me," he said, after whispering for a moment to a carefully
constructed pile of dry twigs, which hastily
whuffed
into flame. "What about
allies? Any outside the borders?"

"Skrem, perhaps," Soren said, doubtfully. "Sax. Neither are in the position to take Darest themself. Neither would like to see Cya do so. No-one would."

Strake nudged a twig further into the fire with his boot as
she piled an armful of wood within reach. "And is Cya poised and ready?"

"Not this year or next." She shrugged. "Maybe not this decade, if Queen
Rithana
continues to distract herself with Atlaran affairs."

He nodded, gazing west at the hazy apricot sky. She watched his hands clench and relax and
wondered what he was thinking. Nothing
about Cyans, she was certain.

Feeling dizzy again, Soren stood, wanting to get away. Then, entirely without meaning to, she
reached up and slid her hand around the back of his neck.

-
oOo
-

At the moment of the previous Champion's death, Soren had
been sorting through old bottles in the stillroom. She distinctly remembered pulling the cork
from a squat bottle of clouded red glass and up-ending it so that a few grains
of powder fell out. Then there'd been an
overwhelming rush of something which had pushed her to the very back of
herself. She'd been no more than witness
as she put down the bottle and walked through a dark uncertain place. Until she found herself in the Garden of the
Rose, she'd felt nothing at all.