Champion of the Rose - Kobo Ebook (39 page)

Strake stared up at the arch of black and gold above
them. "Would
Desteret
have asked about the Tongue if I had not spared the boy?"

"Very likely not."

Another gust stripped leaves from the thrones and brought a
spatter of premature raindrops. Strake
switched his gaze to the choppy waves and fell silent, mouth a flat, harsh
line. Soren wanted to ask precisely what
'Moon-cast' was, but kept it for later. This was a moment for celebration, really, if only they could bring
themselves to enjoy it. If her Rathen
could accept his own decision to place Darest above avenging
Vahse
.

Usually smooth hair bedevilled and disordered, Aristide
stood with an air of infinite patience contemplating the pavilion. No hint of strain lingered, whatever his
opinion of the revelations of the Council. Would apologies matter to Aristide, or did he consider this an
unqualified success? Compensation and an
identifiable target in the
malison
, even a favour to
weigh the scale in future dealings with The Deeping. If he too felt sourly cheated, he was not
going to show it.

After the pavilion had exhausted his interest, he switched
his gaze to Strake and said: "If Your Majesty is planning to brood up here
all afternoon, I'll take leave to go deal with the business of the Court."

The tone had been one of perfect courtesy, the words
provoked brows-together surprise from his King. Then an outright scowl. "I
loathe being managed."

"That was a little obvious," Aristide conceded,
unperturbed. "Perhaps if I'd
solicitously asked your Champion if she wished a heavier cloak fetched?"

Strake shot a searching glance at Soren, who contrived to
appear perfectly warm in her layers of uniform and cloak. He let out a little
tuh
of breath, then looked annoyed again because Aristide had succeeding in
distracting him. Eyeing the wonderfully
bland expression his Councillor had assumed, he shook his head. "Provoking me will only take you so
far." But the frown had lifted.

"I'll keep that in mind, Your Majesty," Aristide
murmured. "Shall we go down?"

"My friends call me Strake," Strake said, not
moving.

The faint smile did not falter, and if Aristide's eyes
narrowed, the fine blond hair being whipped about his face could be
blamed. "The rib of a ship?"
he asked, after the shortest of pauses.

Strake just lifted a shoulder, waiting for a response. Friendship was not something he offered
lightly. Nor, Soren thought, was it a
thing Aristide was in the habit of accepting. She found herself far less dismayed than she would have been a week ago,
to see Strake taking a step closer to his Councillor. Was she so sure of her Rathen? Or was it that she had changed toward the
Diamond
Couerveur
?

Eyes blue-grey beneath the clouds, he stood considering his
King, just one corner of his mouth faintly curving. Still a dangerous, far too self-possessed man
who wanted control of the throne. But he
was – had become – more than a threat. For both their sakes she didn't want this gesture refused.

"What are you going to ask for?"

It was a side-step: though the question was bare of formal
address, the words still held that finely measured distance he'd always kept
between himself and his King. Hardly
eager acceptance of the proffered friendship, but Strake only looked amused as
he gazed up at his Councillor's fine profile.

Then he flipped a hand over, choosing not to push. "Labour," he replied, with a
measure of anticipation. "They can
winnow out the Tongue, restore the road and orchards. And
Aramond
. That's something which will outweigh any
amount of coin. The thing we need most,
and worth – worth forbearance." He
paused, and looked tired. "Would
you have done differently?"

"No." Aristide's gaze shifted to Soren, then returned to Strake. The grey cast the clouds gave his eyes didn't
suit him, made him look bleak and wintry. "There are times I would raze The Deeping to the ground, given the
chance," he added. "But in
this, I am – pleased." The words
were very clear and exact, and prompted Strake to lift a hand as if to reach
out. Then he caught himself and let it
fall back. Aristide didn't miss the
motion, but his response was confined to a slight drop of his lashes. The way he had said it reminded Soren somehow
of the Fae Queen. Aristide might never
have worn a crown, but in his heart he was as much King of Darest as Strake.

"Yes, it's a bitter thing to have no-one to practice
retribution on," he continued. "But I need only think of what comes next, how greatly recompense
will tip the scales. We should estimate
how much we can demand from the Fair, alter the Spring festival to take
advantage of today's events. And this
malison
– naming it, knowing more of its origins, I can try
and isolate it, study it, see if it can be unmade. And I want to get out of this wind."

This last was unexpected enough to make Strake laugh, a
brief spurt which banished the aftertaste of compromise. And Soren discovered that when Aristide was
genuinely amused, his eyes smiled while his mouth did not.

"Out of the wind first, then," Strake said,
standing up. He glanced toward the
palace at the still-transfixed crowd, but only suffered a mild flicker of
exasperation. Touching a hand to Soren's
back long enough to show her not forgotten, he started down.

"It makes cleaning up the docks an almost viable
proposition," Aristide said as he fell in step. "Or would you prefer the garden
first?"

"The garden," Strake said, and looked back up the
hill. The pavilion was a grand if lonely
spectacle, and he paused to enjoy it, then visibly started plotting out a
suitable frame for the
lorams
. A moment later he shook his head and
turned. "But it will be the
docks. The garden is a very long-term
project, and one I don't mean to hurry. I'll have it done in stages over the next few years, and quite possibly
sensibly budgeted. It couldn't be more
than a design until Spring anyway."

They started down again, plunging into detail about
priorities and resources, circling the issue of who was currently Baron of the
Oaks and the Baron of
Fyse
, the two demesnes
overwhelmed by the Tongue. And almost as
quickly they detoured into the Spring festival, which continued to consume much
of their energy. With a subtle shift of
manner Aristide now displayed a certain pleasure in sharing his plans, but he
was never going to forget whose decisions were final in Darest.

Nothing about the boy, Soren thought as another speck of
rain scored her chin. Today was a
turning point, and now they're full of the future, as if the big problems have
been overcome and all that's left is tidying up. With Aristide's trump blade still in the
hands of someone who can't mean any good, and 'the Moon-cast boy' in Tor
Darest, wounded and alone and bound inexorably to seek out
Rathens
and kill them. They're looking further
ahead than they should, because those two things are the ones they don't want
to deal with.

But Soren was Champion, and could not afford such
indulgence. When they reached the
palace, the first thing she did was look with palace-sight into the Garden of
the Rose. And saw with sinking heart but
no measure of surprise the velvety black symbol of a doom which had not been
altered.

-
oOo
-

They made a proclamation. Strake didn't want it, but felt it necessary. Bare words in a hastily convened Court:
Calondae
had admitted to the Tongue. Reparation would be made. Soren watched the faces hidden by the crowd. Arista completely blank, the ambassadors
concealing dismay, Aspen disbelieving and delighted. Overall there was bewilderment combined with
anger, a little joy, and a strong undercurrent of relieved anticipation. Darest had taken Strake's return as a sign of
changing fortune, and a weighty blood price was an unexpectedly early
fulfilment of that promise. But Strake
was not alone in wishing for vengeance above compensation, and there was an
ugly undercurrent in the overcrowded room as they left.

With Strake and Aristide anxious to bury themselves in their
planning, Soren returned to her apartment, her attention on the continuing
ripples of the proclamation. She watched
Lady Arista particularly, especially when Baron
Mogath
accompanied her for a short time. There
was a brief, tight-lipped conversation which Soren studied with every scrap of
her attention. But if these two were
allies, they were not easy ones, parting without any visible appearance of
accord.

The ambassadors all returned to their rooms and made
reports. It was a fascinating
illustration of how to spot a caster. Various sigils were produced. Some chanted, some stared with fixed concentration into the distance,
some waited while one of their entourage performed the casting for them. In a couple of cases she could see a little
image of the person they were talking to. None of them looked particularly happy.

"This is the most danger we've been in since the King
returned."

Halcean
, in the process of handing
her a mug of cider, looked suitably startled. "Why so?"

"We've done just what everyone seems to have
particularly not wanted. True, we've not
precisely put ourselves on good terms with The Deeping, but they are – so far
as I can tell a support which had been withdrawn is now returned. And the compensation will change everything
for Darest."

"It's that significant an amount?"

"Nothing's been fixed – I suppose they'll negotiate
exact terms through the Tzel Aviar. But
they spoke of having
Calondae
actually restore the
lost orchards." She shook her head,
rather awed by the image. The baronies
of the north-east had once been the richest, a far cry from the abandoned,
isolated communities which survived. "Even the excess trees alone, the labour involved in cutting them,
preparing the wood. Aristide will know
just how far we can push. Between
Calondae
and
Seldareth
–"

"
Seldareth
? The North?"

"Is, in a distant kind of way, behind the
killings. That's still to be resolved,
but at least we've some hint of what to look for now. And
Seldareth
will
more than owe us a favour after, even if no formal debt's been declared. I should think that between two Fae kingdoms
we should get enough to not only arrest Darest's slide, but to firmly turn us
around. Aristide will probably even be
able to start this ship-building venture he's so enamoured with."

"Ships?"
Halcean
stared at her.

"He'll have the wood for it, if not the expertise. And probably enough free coin to attract a
few shipwrights away from
Cya
or the East."

Halcean
, looking shaken, said:
"I see what you mean now. Lord
Aristide and King
Aluster
are – too formidable. Too much to hope that someone won't decide
they have to be stopped before they manage to drag the region back to the way
things were before."

When Darest's wealth and stability had let it dominate the
West. "Not likely to happen in our
lifetime," Soren said. But it was
possible. Strake was not going to be
popular with his neighbours. Or with all
Dariens
.

"Do you think – Court gossip gives me a different story
every time – but I don't know what to believe of Lady Arista. Do you think she hates the Fair enough try
and stop this no matter the benefit to Darest?"

"Who knows?"
Halcean
was turning her own mug between her
hands, pensive. "The
Couerveurs
have made a tradition of devotion to
Darest. You'd think that'd be all to the
good, but it's too absolute to be healthy. And, well, I'm not going to pretend I don't think Lady Arista twisted. It's not so much the Fair which will bother
her here – the Fair are admitting fault after all, and what could be better
than that? It's her precious son – she
might try and stop it because of that." A complex mix of emotion underlay
Halcean's
words, and she took a breath, composing herself.

"Aristide's–"

"Covered himself in glory. With your King's help or not, he's done just
what she's been trying to do for years. Do you think she'll be able to stand that?"

Lady Arista was now meeting with Baron
Peveric
and the Marshall of the Army. They spoke
with the air of discussing an unlooked-for problem. The Lady Arista still had her loyal allies,
it seemed, and was the prime and possibly only suspect for the theft of
Aristide's so-distinctive knife.

Bar one. Soren hated
herself for thinking it, but she couldn't help but return to Aspen, currently
talking excitedly to a small clutch of his closest confidants. He was mage, knew every scrap of gossip about
Aristide, openly imitated him. And
unless Darest's plethora of foreign spies had managed to infiltrate the
Diamond's extremely secure household, Aspen was one of the precious few who'd
had the opportunity as well. The knife
was best stolen while Aristide slept, by someone who was not too great a
distance away, who had some way of 'tasting' like him. Who could it be but Aspen?

Except Aristide discounted him on score of ability, and he
had no discernible motive. And he was
her friend. A friend who had cultivated
her even when she'd been unimportant to the Court.

"
Halcean
–" Soren
hesitated, not wanting to embarrass Aspen by passing on suspicion even to her
aide. "You know Aspen's decided he
wants to 'prentice himself to Lord Aristide? What do you think his chances are?"

"Slim to nothing,"
Halcean
said promptly. But she frowned,
evidently making connections.