Champion of the Rose - Kobo Ebook (32 page)

He stopped, looking down. The tip of her sword had grounded in the middle of a booted
footprint. Scuffed, jerking aside to
suggest a near-fall. "The question
of his immunity to conventional weapons has also been answered."

"And who provided that?" Strake was confounded energy embodied. He looked liable to take a limb off any who
came near him, black gaze raking Soren's face before fixing on Tzel
Damaris. "What explanation do you
have for this?"

"None." Volcanic kings were nothing to the Tzel Aviar. "Evidently you are not alone in wishing
this death."

"Tzel Damaris. What does '
tuath
'
mean?" There was a note in Soren's
voice which demanded no prevarication. "It's what he said.
Tuatha
,
secra
del
."

The Tzel Aviar was not quick to answer. For the first time a ripple in the pool. Surprise. And something she could not read. Then he answered.

"
Tuath
means 'please', Champion.
Tuatha
secra
del
. 'Please stop me'."

Chapter Twenty-Two

Darest was two steps short of severing all ties with The
Deeping. The killer was Fair, and
another Fae had attempted to kill him. When Tzel Damaris had produced no answers, refused to speculate, asked
for time to confer, it had only been a sudden bout of self-recrimination from
Aristide which prevented Strake from damning all Deeping aid and closing the
borders himself. And since Strake did
not believe Aristide's assumption of responsibility for more than two
sentences, King had come very close to putting himself at war with his
Councillor as well.

Vengeance had not only been snatched out of Strake's hands,
it had been hopelessly muddied. An
assassin for an assassin, and a child to hate. He would barely speak a word to Soren after, had been curt and cutting
to everyone who had to deal with him. Pent up, he'd spent hours walking back and forth in his garden, aching
with the need to fly into the worst sort of rage. That made it impossible for Soren to not lie
watching him, and she was heartily relieved when he finally came in from the
cold and found a particularly thick book to leaf through.

But even a furious king wasn't her true problem. A boy's face. Death standing right in front of her, and the sound of an arrow going
home. The tiny choked gasp which had
followed.

He had said 'stop me'. That was precisely what they had come to do, but if he'd meant kill,
would he have run? He was a murderer, a
dozen lives weighing the scales. Wide-eyed youth did not make him less of a monster. More, in truth. She should be cursing lost opportunity, or
the archer for not aiming true. And for
interfering before any sort of explanation could be got out of the boy.

What difference did it make that he was young? There was no wiping away the blood already
spilt, no excuse to be manufactured for risking Strake or the rest of Tor
Darest because a killer could say please. Tomorrow, Strake would demand answers from the Tzel Aviar, and the hunt
would continue.

If she could only close her eyes without seeing a smudged,
shadowy face.

Soren finally managed to sleep despite Strake's
restlessness, grateful for once that palace-sight would steal her dreams. Guards trooped through the corridors in her
head, and even the most enthused of gossips gave in to the day's toll. Her Rathen returned to his pillows, but lay
for hours tossing and turning.

Then he was up again, all mute frustration. Out of his room and through the connecting
door to her apartment, and her palace-wrought dream suddenly felt like a
nightmare as she struggled to wake before he reached her bed.

Gasping, Soren grabbed a handful of nightrobe as she was
plucked from her blankets. Dreaming his
approach had made waking all the more disorienting, and her heart thundered
with shock and fright. He didn't say
anything, just turned and carried her back to his room, dropped her on the bed
and climbed across her.

"Strake–"

"Shut up. Shut
up, shut up, shut up!"

There was such a note of hysteria in his voice that she
choked back protest as he pulled up blankets and wrapped his arms around her
ribs, tight enough to hurt. Burying his
face in the back of her neck, he squeezed his eyes shut and lay still, gulping
a breath. Soren was reminded of nothing
so much as a child denying monsters by refusing to look at them, and she with
her heart tripping over itself, wanting to turn around and beat her fists
against his chest.

It was beyond everything, to be hauled about in the middle
of the night and then told to shut up. She preserved her silence only so she could calm herself enough to speak
without shrieking, and marshal precisely what she wanted to say. And he fell asleep. Abruptly, completely.

Frozen and indignant, Soren lay in his arms. He had – what? Felt a sudden need for her, but couldn't
bring himself to accept it? Thought
nothing of jolting her awake, carting her about like some...some rag-doll
and shouting her down when she so much as presumed to object?

She wasn't a temperamental person, but she had her
limits. If he wanted her in his bed, he
didn't get to shout at her. She had
excused a lot of his behaviour because she could see it wasn't normal for
him. It had only been a month since he'd
stumbled out of the forest. The loss of
Vahse
was a still-bleeding wound, and the betrayal of the
Rose a goad to fury. That evening he'd
put himself at risk and seen the killer for the very first time, only to have
all their plans come to naught. The Tzel
Aviar's
behaviour had added to the frustration.

Somewhere under the grief and anger there was a person she
knew she liked, was drawn to in a way which wasn't simple physical
reaction. She liked his cynical edge,
and the way he would stop to look at beautiful things. But she wouldn't be able to cope with much
more of him like this. Returning to her
own bed would be the simplest option and she thought about that, and told
herself it was stupid not to want to, until sleep crept up on her as well.

-
oOo
-

Fisk tapped on the door and came in, stared for a moment,
then hastily backed away. This sequence
woke Soren, and she blinked, watching the secretary try to hide a grin as he
closed the door. To her surprise, he
didn't immediately rush to share the news, though his air of keeping a
delightful secret soon had the entire royal household whispering. Off in Soren's apartment, a concerned and
speculative
Halcean
was making a related discovery,
staring at an empty bed.

Soren shifted so she could look at her
Rathen's
face with her own eyes. Handsome, vital,
and much improved for some rest. Everyone was going to think they were lovers. And she wanted them to be, was despite
everything enjoying that he was lying beside her, warm and comfortable. No clear-cut resolution had come to her
overnight, but she felt a curious stillness. If he'd asked her to his bed, she'd have gone perfectly willingly. Two nights ago he'd warned her to bar her
door, but he hadn't hurt her last night, or even intended to. Just battered her with his anger. It was too much, this back and forth.

Not ready to talk to him, she followed the trail of gossip
as Fisk made a great show of refusing to answer questions, then was unable to
resist what was obviously a broad hint. From there it was all over the palace before he could take back the
words, and she watched Aspen laugh, and Aristide offer no suggestion of
interest; the
scourers
giggled while they waited for
the Seneschal, and the debate in the kitchens grew heated. The Champion in the bed of the King. A few, quicker of mind than she, went
immediately to the Garden of the Rose. She kept the bud well hidden, and resigned herself to another shift in
status. A second letter to her parents
would be in order, though it would come too late to beat rumour.

Strake slept late, catching up on too much lost rest. It was well into the morning before he
shifted and stretched, brushed a hand along the warm figure beside him, then
woke fully, grimacing. She sat up.

"Can I speak now?"

He had the grace to look embarrassed. "Of course."

Soren kept her voice completely even, flat and
uncompromising. "Don't do this to
me again, Strake. I don't want to start
flinching when you come near me."

That made
him
flinch. "That wasn't my
intention. I–" He broke off and sat up, his cheeks shaded a
dull red. But he was forthright enough
not to try and deny a fault, shaking his head. "I can't excuse it. I just –
couldn't convince myself you were still alive. Couldn't sleep, because you weren't there. The only thing for it was to go and fetch
you, keep you close so I could be sure you were safe. I spent hours with that thought, rejecting
it, circling around it, completely unable to move past it. By the time I gave in, I was – less than
polite."

He stopped when it filtered through to him that Soren's
expression had shifted closer to dismay than anger. "What is it?"

"That's the Rose." She was sure she was right, and felt a twist of pure frustration. "It does it to me. Puts things in my head, odd certainties. I didn't realise it could do it to you."

"It puts things in your head." He said it slowly, scarcely able to bring
himself to repeat the words.

"Like leaving Tor Darest, after first being proclaimed
Champion. I wanted to go home, didn't
see the least point in staying at Court to wear a uniform and do nothing. I decided to leave less than a week after
arriving. And then I didn't, and
whenever I tried to think about leaving, I'd list a great many reason to go and
none to stay and – nothing. This blank
space, where there should be choices, action. I don't think it's tried to make me do something, though – it's always
been to not do something, to do nothing."

"Blank space." That held a note of numb recognition. His reaction so far had been horror rather than anger, and he stared
into the middle distance, at a future of choices made for him. Then he shifted his gaze to Soren, whose life
stood between him and ridding himself of the Rose.

"I'm sorry," she said.

Surprisingly, he laughed: a queer, bitter exclamation, but still
founded on a genuine note of amusement. "I'm the one meant to be apologising to you, Soren," he
said. "I'm usually better able to
keep my manners."

"The circumstances are rather extreme." She felt out of place, sitting on the edge of
the King's bed, pregnant to him, still very much a stranger. Fully clothed, sharing an air of weary loss,
they would surely disappoint any gossip's imaginings.

"What was it that stopped you?" she asked. "That night?"

He knew what she meant: the night of
Jansette's
attempt. "'You'll only make things
worse,'" he repeated, with obvious difficulty. "Something
Vahse
would say. He'd cut me down with a word
if I tried to do anything in a rage. Laugh me out of my temper."

There was a pause, and Soren felt awkward, not knowing what
to say. Strake just looked overwhelmed,
then of a sudden wry. "I should
first try to earn your friendship. It's
what I've been pushing hardest against." The edge in his voice was directed at himself.

"I'd like that." Strake treating her as friend instead of servant would certainly make a
huge difference. But they were both of
them avoiding the most obvious of questions, talking about being friends. Had they gone beyond the point where they
could separate desire from bitter defeat?

She shook her head. "The Rose is a bad matchmaker, isn't it? If I could see any reason for it, I'd think
it deliberately set out to see us at odds."

"It–" He
glanced away and then back at her. "What it did not complicate, I hardly...helped." His long eyes were intent, searching her
face. "I've given you every reason
to loathe me," he said. "But
you don't, do you?"

"No."

"I'm luckier than I deserve, then." Almost expressionless, he held out a hand,
the gesture reminiscent of Aristide's pointed courtesy. It seemed cold, passionless, but when she
touched his fingers they closed tightly about hers. Still, he looked more upset than lover-like
as he pulled her forward, bending his head.

Impossible not to think of the last time they'd done this,
of the fear, fury and disgust which followed. Strake's back was rigidly tense, his grip over-tight, but his kiss was
careful, delicate. Soren wanted to hurry
him, pull at his clothes, and struggled to let him set the pace. She would not risk sending him into retreat.

Even as she thought this, his head came up. "There isn't any blank space in your
mind for this, is there?" he asked, sounding thoroughly appalled.

"No. Gods,
no."

"Good."

He'd lost a little restraint to the question, his mouth
covering hers more urgently, searching for response. This time she met and matched him, had him on
his back so she could watch his face while she pulled off her robe, and finally
saw the desire she wanted. A few moments
later he had their positions reversed, and they abandoned any measure of
moderation.

-
oOo
-

Strake fell into thoughtful silence after, indulging in slow
caresses. There was a sense of
resistance gone, and it made a great deal of difference to how she felt being
with him. But his expression was more
sad than satisfied, and she knew he was thinking of
Vahse
. Only a month dead, and a new lover as much
betrayal as release. A morning tumble
was only a beginning to mending the fractures between them.

"Do you like being King?"

"What?" Startled laughter in the response.

"It's what I'd ask a friend." She had liked the idea of them trying to be
friends.