Champion of the Rose - Kobo Ebook (7 page)

Surprise gave the advantage. As she passed, one man made a half-hearted snatch at Vixen's bridle but
missed by inches. She caught a glimpse
of his expression, full of confusion and shock, and felt like the worst of
villains.

Resolutely, Soren focused on the looming forest, which could
not look more black and unwelcoming. As
soon as she was in the shadow of the trees she slowed Vixen but didn't stop, in
case the men she'd just passed noted the abrupt cessation of hoof beats. She trotted a short distance down the road
before reining in and sliding from the saddle, her pulse only a trifle
frantic. Vixen snorted and bumped
against her in the dark, no doubt wondering what all this start-stopping was
about.

Wasting no time, Soren headed into the trees on the right
side of the road. The ground was very
uneven, and she stumbled in a muddy hole, then had her ankle scored by a fallen
branch as it cracked beneath Vixen's hooves. A horse wasn't exactly a subtle animal and as soon as she was ten trees
in, Soren stopped. Vixen nosed her, and
tugged back toward the road.

"Just a little while," Soren murmured, though she
wanted to shriek and then sit down and gasp. It was the first time she'd ever done anything like this – the sort of
thing that would make enemies, which would effect people's lives, which
wasn't...right?

She scratched the mare's soft neck to take her mind off the
consequences to Captain Sharwell's career, and was thankful when Vixen stayed
still while a trio of riders raced past. They'd been quick off the mark, and more were sure to come.

Continuing to reassure Vixen, Soren edged past a few more
trees, wincing at every twig which snapped and cracked. The light of the waxing moon turned the
forest to pitch and diamond, highly disorienting. Travelling along Nina's stream had been a
great deal easier.

A fallen tree at the edge of a narrow band of moonlight
presented a tempting seat, but, wary of snakes, Soren gauged Vixen's opinion
before approaching. When the mare paced
to the full length of her reins and dropped her head to crop at grass beside
the exposed root bole, Soren was encouraged enough to seat herself on the rough
trunk, then close her eyes and listen.

The three riders were still at full gallop, hoof-beats
distant and receding. Insects chirred
and scuttled, with Vixen and the wind-busy trees a distracting
accompaniment. A dog barked, but she
couldn't hear anything else from Teraman.

She could hear breathing.

He was some distance west of her, moving steadily in almost
the right direction, and without any of the hesitation which should accompany a
stealthy search in the dark. Fascinated,
Soren followed his progress as he moved to roughly the spot where she'd entered
the forest, then began methodically casting inwards. She knew the very instant he saw them,
because he stopped halfway through taking a breath, then exhaled and began
walking straight toward her. Soren
stayed where she was until he was just on the far side of the strip of
moonlight.

"Do you want to wait till dawn before going on,
Highness?" she asked. It came out
all stifled, because she'd again been squashed by an impression of a hammer
waiting to fall. It wasn't a very
pleasant sensation, and filled her with doubt about just what sort of man was
to be Darest's next King, and how in the world she was supposed to live up to
being his Champion.

"Not likely." His tone was abrupt, impatient. "Sharwell's not nearly as incompetent as I'd like him. There's no–"

He stopped as Vixen lifted her head, and a single horse came
galloping back down the road between Teraman and the garrison. Returning to report their failure to
immediately catch up.

"Time to get well away from here."

-
oOo
-

The forest seemed less threatening now that she was
travelling through it. With Summer
shifting to Autumn, the coin-shaped leaves of the lorams were beginning to pale
to yellow, and the choked remnants of Darest's orchards were heavy with fruit. Birds gossiped cheerfully as they plundered
the trees' bounty, and occasionally a rabbit or some other small animal would
scuttle to safety. As the sky grew
brighter, the wind dropped, and now that Soren could see enough to not be
falling over every second branch, the walk was surprisingly pleasant. The Tongue's reputation for danger had so far
gone unfulfilled.

Much of Soren's attention was, of course, devoted to
surreptitiously watching her Rathen. He
walked on the far side of Vixen, and just a little ahead, moving with a
controlled, easy stride. She had so far
observed that both his hair and eyes were black with a hint of blue. The hair was fine but thick and looked like
it might have a soft curl if it was not clipped so severely, while the eyes
were peculiarly long. His jaw was firm,
neatly defined rather than heavy, and his nose had a suggestion of a hook. These were features which corresponded to the
portraits which hung in the Old Palace, back in Tor Darest.

For all his ease in the forest, it did not look as if he'd
spent his life outdoors. The tan was too
light. Vertical lines were just barely
etched on either side of his mouth, and there was a developing crease between
his brows. Late twenties, Soren guessed,
but with mages it was always hard to be sure. His clothing was sturdy quality, black from boots to collar, and he was
carrying no weapons, no pack, and no clue to just who he was and how he'd come
to be in Teraman.

The main thing which had stopped Soren from asking a
thousand questions was his expression. He so plainly did not want to be in this place, dealing with pursuing
guards and Rathen Champions, that she held her tongue as the sky turned
colours, then faded and brightened to a cheerful blue. Tramping steadily in his wake, Soren
alternated between regretting the substitution of this sour-tempered man for
Helena, and growing increasingly concerned about why she felt so strange in his
presence.

It was possible that the racing pulse, the mashed feeling in
her chest, was because of the Rose. She
hadn't felt its presence so strongly since her annunciation, when she'd been
pushed to the back of her mind while her body walked to Tor Darest. There was a certain similarity to the
sensation she was experiencing now. But
then she'd been in some kind of trance, so overwhelmed by the force of Rathen
power that she'd been a watcher in her own body, and hadn't felt anything at
all until she was in the Garden of the Rose.

Perhaps, after so long without a Rathen, the Rose was
anticipating the moment when this one was proclaimed King. If it was going to do this all the way to Tor
Darest, Soren thought it likely she would go completely insane. And she didn't understand why she'd have such
a sense of foreboding, if she were merely suffering from too much Rathen power.

Unless the Rose knew of some problem with this Rathen, and
was having doubts. If it was capable of
such complexity. The histories never
made the Rose's abilities clear, but they'd been explicit about the workings of
the succession. The eldest child of the
direct line ruled, with no room for variation. They would be proclaimed even if they were a babbling idiot, or a
depraved murderer. Could she really go
ahead and crown, then protect, a killer? What if the Rose gave her no choice but to Champion him?

The question made Soren smile. He was a bad-tempered mystery to be certain,
but there was no cause to denounce him as a monster just yet. She did need to stop pussyfooting around, and
find out just who and what she was dealing with.

Fortunately for Soren's patience, the cloud lifted from her
Rathen's face before mid-morning, and he began to look less like an argument
waiting to happen. "What name
should I call you?" she asked, as soon as she judged it wise.

He glanced at her and for a moment that inexplicable anger flashed
in his eyes. Then he shrugged, subsiding
into irritability. "Strake will
do."

That told her precisely nothing. "Are there any precautions we should
take? For travelling through the
Tongue?"

He glanced around, as if forest dangers hadn't occurred to
him. "I suppose there's a
possibility that we'll fall across something not already running to get out of
our way. Do you have any hope of
wielding the sword?"

"No training," Soren replied, wondering why he
thought it necessary to be so scornful.

"Are you mage?" He grimaced when she shook her head, looked as if he was about to say
something scathing, but changed his mind. Instead, he gestured ahead. "In Darest, at least theoretically, you're only slightly less
immune to Deeping roamers than the current King. The Covenant is bound through the Champion
and if there's one thing the Fair will do, it's keep to the letter of a
bargain. So every stray Deeping beast,
enchantment or meal-worm should bend over backward to avoid so much as
inconveniencing either of us. But unless
The Deeping's changed beyond recognition, Faerie magic will also twist
everything in its favour, and the Covenant covers a Rathen ruler, not a Rathen
heir." He made a face like he'd
tasted something nasty. "Treat it
like The Deeping. Avoid circles, pools,
the oldest trees, all the animals and anything resembling a nest or cave. There's a lot you should be able to do with
the sword in the way of protections, even without a decent arcane
grounding. I'll see to that later."

He picked up his pace, and for a few moments all Soren could
do was stare. How could this man Strake
know so much, speak so authoritatively about the terms of the Rathen Covenant?

"Who
are
you?" she asked, when she found
her tongue. "Other than
Rathen?" She ignored the impatient
look he threw back at her. "It's
something I'll need to know if I'm to proclaim you, after all."

"True enough." It was a grudging admission, and he paused as if he didn't want to go
on, then sighed. "Aluster Veristace
Rathen."

When Soren showed no sign of recognition, his mouth turned
down, then took on a wry twist. "Son of Chenath Rathen, sister to Queen Tiarmed."

Soren was relieved to hear a name she at least
recognised. Queen Tiarmed's reign had
ended about two hundred and forty years ago, during the decline of the
Rathens. She'd been King Torluce's
great-aunt, or some such. And mother of
the Crown Princess Sethane who'd died at Teraman.

From there it was an easy path to follow. A Rathen, a contemporary of Princess Sethane,
suddenly appearing in Teraman. She'd
even found him in the Inn of the Lost Prince.

"So one of the hunting party survived."

Instantly, a shutter slammed down. "After a fashion." And he walked away.

"Oh, for pity's sake," Soren muttered, as he
strode off through a stand of loram. How
did this help? If he really was a Rathen
prince, why was he so hostile toward the Rathen Champion? What had she done except obediently turn up
to collect him? Why did he sometimes
look at her as if she were the proverbial red rag before the bull?

He was going to be King. Her role was to protect and advise him, but she supposed that didn't
give her the right to demand answers to questions. If he wanted to stalk about scowling at her
and acting like she was some terrible imposition, then that was his
prerogative. No-one said a King had to
be polite, and objecting might only make him surlier.

Soren suspected that the Rathen Champion was not permitted
to smack the future King across the back of the head, either.

-
oOo
-

Around midday, he started asking questions.

"Tell me about the Regent," he said, after they'd
forded one of the myriad shallow streams which criss-crossed the Tongue. He sat down on the bank and pulled off his
boots, emptying a trickle of water out of each. Soren, who had avoided getting her feet wet through the simple expedient
of riding Vixen across, dismounted and looped Vixen's reins around a branch
within reach of the water. She was still
wearing the sling and the doll Nina had contributed, and took the opportunity
to pack them in her saddlebags before making a proper inventory of the bags'
contents. This was as good a time as any
for lunch.

"What do you know already?" she asked, wishing
she'd thought to stock proper trail rations instead of relying on the towns
along the trade road.

"That there's a Regent."

Soren glanced at him, but he was busy rinsing and wringing
out his socks. The tone hadn't been
sarcastic.

"Arista Couerveur," she said, glancing between him and her meagre
stock of food. There was only a couple
of days' worth of dried meat and flat bread, and a compacted mash which had
once been honey biscuits. Vixen swung
her head about when this was unwrapped, questing with her mobile upper lip, and
Soren couldn't resist feeding her a fragment.

Naturally her Rathen was now watching with that
barely-tolerating-fools expression. Soren refused to be flustered, and concentrated on explaining Lady
Arista. "She's past seventy. One son. She's very clever, and very...strict. A quick but cold temper. Early in
her rule she did much to strengthen textile production, to increase value from
the hemp and flax crops. Lately,
she's...focused more on the Court." Played with her favourites and sparred with her son, but how to put that
in words that didn't sound petty?

"Who was Regent before her?"

"Lady Arista's father. The Couerveurs have been Darest's Regents since King Torluce's
death."

"So, Queen in all but name."

"Yes."

"And this son is heir apparent. Teraman was full of Lord Aristide, and how
he'd see the innkeeper's whelp dead before Harvest Festival."

"Lord Aristide has a reputation for–" Soren hesitated, trying to decide just how
Aristide Couerveur's reputation portrayed him.
"–efficiency."

"Oh, very circumspect." Strake flipped a fragment of bark into the
stream, mouth twisting. "Disposing
of rivals is a habit, is it?"