The steady gaze of Damaris of the Wryve turned toward the focus of Soren's palace-sight and fixed there. Tangled up in Strake, Soren struggled into full consciousness, and found that it definitely wasn't a dream. The Tzel Aviar stood in the Garden of the Rose. Waiting for her?
Confused and curious, she worked her way carefully out of the bed, managing to not disturb her Rathen. After a brief stop in her apartment to dress, she slipped out into Fleeting Hall, where it was cold enough to steam breath and goose-pimple skin. Glancing toward the guarded entrance to the Hall of the Crown she briefly considered an escort, rejected the idea, and then was filled absurdly with guilt, as if she went to some clandestine assignation. It would help if she could begin to guess what the Fae wanted.
Palace-sight showed Tzel Damaris turn his head as she walked into the garden. Her own eyes could only make out shadows: the upright of walls and curve of arch, the dark mass of vines dripping in the wake of the rainstorm. The smudge beneath all this which might be a man. The storm had left not so much as a breath of wind to stir the leaves, and Soren discovered an odd reluctance to speak, to break the black silence. The place was cold and close and crushingly still.
Vision apparently unhindered, Tzel Damaris was studying her face, gauging something she was not certain she wanted to know. In the dark he was a more concentrated kind of man, as if something had risen out of that bottomless well and was looking at her over the rim. She felt like she'd never met him before, and wished she hadn't now. Even in this place, where she had so much power, he had somehow become a thing which made the hair on the back of her neck stand up.
"I have completed my perusal of Laramae's journal," Damaris said then. Decorous, formal, pure Warden of the Borders. It almost made things normal again.
Soren took a breath, dismissing fear and trying not to show her discomfort. Business. Like Aristide, he was always and ever focused on business. Standing expectantly about the Garden of the Rose had been a clear message, but why did he suddenly want to speak to her? He should be reporting his findings to Strake. What was she supposed to do?
What should the Rathen Champion want to do?
To ease the increasingly awkward silence, she said: "I wished to ask what Moon-cast meant."
His gaze shifted to the waning moon above. "Moon-sourced," he explained. "The power supplied outside the caster, thus making possible very strong and, more usually, long-lasting enchantments. While the Moon endures, so will the spell."
"Oh." Soren knew enchantments had to either be maintained or renewed to prevent them simply wearing off. That was one of the many reasons Shaping was considered so superior.
"To successfully draw power from the Moon is by no means easy, so Moon-casting remains a rarity. But the link once forged is extremely durable. That is what I wished to speak of to you."
"The link?" She sounded like a cowed fool, and wished that she could rid herself of this ridiculous sense of threat. It helped to look at him only through palace-sight, and focus on the measured calm of his words. He had no reason to want to hurt her, was just a man who would live for centuries, who looked human but was not. Like the boy.
"Enchantments can be lifted, Champion. While the Moon is waning, the link will be weaker. It should be possible to break the casting, removing both the boy's need to kill and the abilities which make him so difficult to capture. Along with the drive to hunt Rathens."
This was better than good news. Soren looked up at Strake's rose, hoping for the first time to see it some other colour. But–
"I'm no mage, Tzel Damaris. What would you have me do?"
The question was full of unease. Above their heads the Rose uncoiled, sending icy drops of water to patter down around them. But there was no ripple of response from the Tzel Aviar, even when a tendril descended to pass just behind him. He had returned that unflinching gaze to Soren, did not seem even to have noticed the movement.
"Laramae conducted many experiments to discover the limits of the child she had created," he told her. "Although not truly Shaped, placing the enchantment beyond the blood gives the effect of making the boy a child of the Moon herself. The death-urge is one part of that. But the Moon is Death and Life."
He stopped, and above them the Rose coiled again as Soren realised what it was he meant, why she could help where Aristide could not. "The baby."
"The boy has approached you twice. That which impels him should have been overwhelmingly urging him to strike you down for the Rathen you bear. That same child is what affords you protection."
"How would he know?" Soren, after all, had not. She could scarcely have been pregnant, the first time. That had been less than half an hour after Strake had run from her.
Thoughts tumbling over timing, Soren took a slow breath. How much did the Rose know? Had it known pregnancy would protect her? Had that been another factor in whatever reasoning had led it to force her and Strake together? And–
It didn't matter, not right now. The Tzel Aviar was standing here, his steady gaze saying as clearly as any words that if he knew she was pregnant the boy certainly did. Child of the Moon, death and life welded into one. Killer of a previous Tzel Aviar, a Crown princess, Strake's Vahse, too many others. Did Damaris really expect Soren to risk her own child to aid someone whose purpose was to cut down her Rathen? Someone who had stood before her, silver eyes wide, and asked her to stop him?
"What is his name? The boy – did the book say?"
"A name is power, Champion. A foothold for resistance against imposed will. He was not given one."
The northern lord had treated her children like tools, Soren thought. Her insides were knotted with sick confusion, anger leaking into fear and all bound up in uncertainty and an intense desire to be anywhere but here. "Why did she use people?" she asked, the question a protest. "Why not an animal?"
Damaris had turned his face slightly away from her, although palace-sight showed her that his expression had not changed. "Laramae of Seldareth did not record her reasons," he said. "Only her results. Perhaps because the Moon is more responsive to the People, or because a mind is the greatest weapon a hunter can own." He looked now towards Strake's rose, black with impending death. "There are other ways I can approach this problem, Champion, but this places the fewest possible in danger. Your enchantments allow you to detect his presence. And it was to you the Moon-cast child made his appeal."
And you the Queen gave the task. But Soren was torn by the memory of silver eyes, a feeling of being on a precipice, about to take a step over the edge. "What – what is it exactly you want me to do?" she asked.
"Hold him." That assessing gaze had returned. "I believe I can strike at the enchantment where it lies on him, beyond the blood and outside the defence which warps casting. But it will not be a quick thing, and I will need to be touching him, drawing the Moon. You he cannot harm, and you are also powerfully bound to this land by the enchantment of the Rose, which will offer some measure of protection against any side-effects of my attack."
He was making no attempt to hide that there was danger. How could Soren possibly do as he asked? Strake had only just accepted his desire for her, he was – after all the loss he had suffered, this would be the last thing he would be able to bear. Quite aside from the threat to herself, she was carrying his child. Heir to Darest. Involving herself directly in trying to rescue the nameless Fae killer was simply out of the question.
Except that anyone else would be more at risk, and if they did not move quickly the boy's need to kill would grow with the Moon. He had slaughtered the Rathen hunting party effortlessly, and was quite capable of turning Tor Darest into a charnel house. He would remain a threat to all Rathens, unless this was done. He had looked at her out of those unnatural silver eyes and said 'please'.
And Soren was Champion.
"I need to ask." Ask her Rathen to risk his Champion, his lover and his child. She couldn't even say it.
Tzel Damaris simply nodded. "It must be done before the Moon is black."
She wondered how he expected to find the boy, have him conveniently to hand for the attempt. They couldn't just go continually walking on Vostal Hill in the hope that he would turn up. But those were details, and nothing beside the hurdle she had to take first. Strake. An argument, unavoidable and potentially terrible. Why had Damaris had to ask for her help and put her in this position?
Staring at the shadow beneath the dripping Rose, Soren found herself full of angry distrust. His priority was the boy, not Rathens. The Fair had been willing to let Darest founder over a secret. How could they be trusted?
"What happened to the Fair who once lived in Darest, Tzel Damaris?" The words were forced through stiff lips. "What is the taint which lies beneath all this?"
"That is not spoken of outside the People."
The words were as quietly unperturbed as anything else he had said to her. And yet foreboding crawled beneath Soren's skin, took her by the spine and pulled her back. It should not be possible to feel this isolated, here where she was strongest. But she did and it was only despite knees which threatened to knock together and a throat inconveniently frozen that she managed to ask a question which had been at the back of her mind since the Council on the hill.
"Were they Shaped?"
Damaris of the Wryve simply turned and walked away.
-oOo-
"A midnight stroll?"
Soren's stomach dropped. Caught up in sick anger transmuting to queasy relief, she hadn't been paying attention to Strake's breathing. He lay in his bed, still curled around the space where she had slept, watching her walk toward him from the door.
"The Tzel Aviar wanted to see me."
Blunt, because he was not going to like anything to do with the Fae, no matter how she couched it.
"He asked me to help him," she went on, as Strake sat up. "Laramae's notes say that because he's tied to the Moon, the boy can't attack someone who's pregnant. The Tzel Aviar wants me to hold the boy while he tries to break the casting." She sat down on the edge of the bed, meeting Strake's eyes. Her stomach sank further at what she found there, but she managed to take a deep breath and add: "I think I should do it."
"Do you?" Incredulous, scathing.
"It's what I'm here for," Soren explained, determined not to cringe. She felt odd inside. Her title had been awarded for reasons she thoroughly disliked; only by her actions could she earn the right to bear it. "Rathen Champion: protector of King and country. If I don't help him, how many might die before he captures the boy?"
"He can find some other woman." There was no room for compromise in her Rathen now, and Soren bowed her head under the beating force of his anger. She was making him hate her again and it felt even worse than before because he'd only just started to see her as something other than a trap. Wasn't it also her duty to support him, to be there for him? And didn't it make far more sense to find someone whose child wasn't heir to the kingdom, who wasn't Soren's own child, to make the attempt first?
"I can't do that." The words were wrung out of her. "How can I send some random pregnant woman into danger when I have all the protections of the Rose?"
"The Rose places you at greater risk!" The mattress jerked beneath Strake from the recoil of his body. "That Moon-forsaken monster disrupts enchantments. You're the last person to send out after him!"
She could argue at least on points of accuracy, even as the half-contained explosion blasted away at her resolution. "He disrupts spells cast on him," she said, holding her head high. "I'm not about to do that. And we don't know if the Rose was a factor stopping him from striking at me before. We do know that he's stood as close as you are to me now, and not raised a hand to me." Her voice wobbled, but she swallowed, determined at last to be Champion in more than name. She made herself still inside and stood firm, refusing to crumble. "I couldn't live with myself, Strake. If it's the Rose which protects me, and someone gets killed because they were sent in my place – I just couldn't."
Strake flung out of the far side of the bed and stood there, naked and seething and apparently too furious for words. He should look ridiculous, but all Soren could think of was that she really was in love with him and that she was driving back the wedge it had taken so much to remove. The price of this stupid need of hers to be something other than a woman who looked good in a uniform.
"So you want me to sit here – locked up and ignorant – while you lay your life on the line?" His voice was shaking, and those dark blue eyes were entirely black.
"I–" Soren stopped, pierced by a sudden, thankful realisation. Strake was as angry as she'd ever seen him, but the hate which had so battered her before wasn't there. Her choice would cost her, but not nearly so much as she'd feared. "I was thinking that they're the same," she said obliquely, finding this an odd moment to be so happy.
"What?" His voice had risen in pitch.
"The Rose and the boy – the..." She stumbled and looked up at him, and something in her face at least made him hold his tongue. "They were both constructed to perform certain tasks – they were truly made to be something. The Rose to protect Rathens, the boy to kill them. They're horrible things and we hate – want to kill them both. And can't, either of them. And – they're just doing what they've been made for. Puppets. The boy at least fights against it."
"Do you expect me to be sorry for Vahse's killer?"
"Aren't you?"
He tossed his head, turned to one side. It wasn't something he was going to admit, any more than the obvious parallel between his own temper and the murder laid on the boy.
"You called me a composite, once," Soren faltered. "Something made to get a child off you. Let me be more than that."
"Is that what you think? Damn it, Soren–" He came toward her, anger washed out by dismay. Snaring her fingers he found his black frown once again. "Your hands are like ice."
"That's the weather." She tried not to think about the boy, injured and somewhere out in the night. "You could watch from the residences."
This did not impress. "I'm not going to simply stand by while you–" He shook his head, squeezed her hands. "I'll talk to the Fae. This can't be the best solution. Even if it was, there's no way I'd let you go out there unless I was with you–"
"So that we can spend all our time trying to make sure you didn't get killed?"
"Soren–"
"I'm Champion, Strake. I'm – I need to do this."
"No."
There was just enough uncertainty in the word to bring a frantic look to his eyes, and he covered it with sudden, urgent passion. It did nothing to solve the impasse, but served to set it briefly at a distance and return them to tangled warmth in the bed.
Dawn was creeping up on them by the time he had exhausted everything but slow caresses. The Tzel Aviar was asleep and Aristide had woken early, was blinking in the dark. The doubled patrols of the palace looked bored and restless, and the kitchens were starting to stir.
"I...vowed never to marry you," Strake said abruptly. "Stupid, hot-headed thing to do, guaranteed to turn around just as it has. But the kind of vow I made – it's not easily broken."
Soren didn't answer for the moment, sorting out the idea of having Strake and marrying him. "Does it make a difference?"
"Of course it does." He sounded annoyed, then sighed. "Quite aside from having to deal with the Court's expectations for my bedding arrangements, I want – I want that. I want our child to have that."
A declaration of intent, not love. Like Aristide, Strake had faced his impossibilities, that mass of anger and desire, and found a compromise. Despite all that the Rose had done to them, he was going to try to make the best of it.
She should feel happy, should catch hold of this fragile thread of hope, and look for a future with a partner not an adversary. But there was another issue, something the risk to her made suddenly important to establish.
"If you're talking Court's expectations, that's one which hasn't wavered. They're all expecting you to marry him."
Strake snorted. "He's not."
"No. But he–" Soren broke off, thinking of future possibilities, watching Aristide staring at his ceiling. "It feels unbalanced. When he swore that oath to you, I think he was gambling on your death. Now – he serves you more than well and will continue to do so. Forced to, no matter how he feels about it. I don't know why it bothers me so much."
Her Rathen, unusually, did not fire up or grow irritable, but looked at her with long dark eyes which saw far more than she'd expected. "Perhaps because you're forced to serve me, no matter how you feel about it," he said.
"Strake–"
"Without the Rose you would be in Carn Keep, and I would not be King." Strake's tone was meditative. "I would have returned to a land where Queen Arista had withdrawn from rule, where Prince Aristide was the focus of a fascinated Court. Feared quite possibly, and thoroughly disliked by those whose ambitions run counter to his. But – ah, I was not an hour back before I realised the rest of them hang on his every word. They were eager to have him rule, but instead they have me. And Darest has one King too many."
"Because of the Rose."
"Oh yes. Far too much in this land is 'because of the Rose', good and bad all tangled together and no way to undo it. The Couerveurs were kept as regents rather than kings, which is certainly good for me, for the Rathen line. It was terrible for Darest. You and I – how different would it have been, if the Rose had not made you Champion, but had left you in Carn Keep for me to one day see and want without feeling you were being forced down my throat? Let alone–" His voice quivered, and she felt his entire body tense. "Let alone the rest of it."
"The boy did not kill me because–" She couldn't quite say it, hurrying on. "We're safe in the palace because of the Rose, but it – I hate being in the palace for the same reason. And it keeps the malison from completely destroying us."
"From warping us. The malison's effects you can see most in Lady Arista. Not dead or broken, but turned in on herself. In Darest the one who sits the throne, the ruling line, is never something as simple as the one at the top of the pile."
She went still. "But that would mean–"
"That I'd be impacted by the malison without the Rose." His voice was bitter. "Or even with the Rose, given the lack of Rathens to power it. But it will give some measure of protection. Another Sun-blasted chain about my throat."
Soren touched his cheek, his temple, feeling heat, the throb of pulse beneath skin. "And you'd throw it off in a moment, if it wasn't for the risk to me." She knew perfectly well it was true, didn't need to see him nod his head, eyes squeezing shut in his pain. "Do you think it could be the malison which has formed this instinct in the Rose?"
"Who knows? It doesn't matter – take away the malison and the Rose would still be what it is now, just as Arista Couerveur would continue to war against her son. There's no escaping the thing."
He was working himself up to anger again, but stopped and touched her face, shivering. "Good with bad. Bad with good. And you're right to be worried about Aristide. His greatest strength is this singular devotion to Darest. It kept him from killing me, because he saw more harm than good would come out of it. Now, the saecstra will hold him, whether he wants it or not, but – as I said, he's near as much King of Darest as I am. The malison has to be effecting him, or will eventually, and I can't guess where that will take us. I do know marrying him won't fix things."
"Because he still wouldn't be King?"
"Exactly. I've no doubt he'd hate the prospect, no matter how much or little he felt for me. It would lessen him, in a way."
Never simple. Soren shifted, tracing the curve of his ribs. "Do you want him?"
Strake didn't answer immediately, the tension creeping back into his body. The question bothered him. "I can barely reconcile lying here with you, without Vahse," he said, eventually. "Aristide would be too much."
That was not quite an answer. Soren touched his cheek and after a moment he reluctantly went on: "There's a lot about him I admire. I suppose in other circumstances I'd be tempted. But I don't want or need another lover. And he doesn't want anything of the sort. I'd like – I'll admit at least to wanting to make him stop 'your majesty-ing' me."
Would that be enough? If something happened to her, Strake would need someone, and Aristide was by far the most logical person. They were suited in so many ways, and surely Aristide couldn't be completely indifferent? Soren didn't like the prospect of leaving her Rathen alone.
"A tribond would probably circumvent my vow," Strake said then, completely shattering her equilibrium.
"What?"
"You'd have to want it," Strake said, eyes glittering. "Want him. Could you?"
Impossible question.
"I don't think Aristide...is himself with me," she said, without a great deal of enthusiasm. "I'm not sure he's himself with anyone, really. You, perhaps, on occasion. I won't deny he's attractive, but he–" She shook her head, trying to push away the images that were filling it, unable not to look at the man as he stood before a mirror, dressing with slow precision. Unreadable as ever. "He's not what I thought he was. How can I tell whether I want him if he doesn't let anyone know him? Court him? I'm not even sure I've met him."
Strake's smile was one of a man who has demonstrated a point. Lining up Aristide as her replacement would founder on the rock of Aristide's self-imposed isolation. And could never balance the risk she wanted to take. But the air of triumph was short-lived, and he slid his hand across her hip to rest it flat on the bed on her far side.
"I don't know what I'm doing," he whispered. "Here with you, without Vahse. He was the one who wanted children, was far more determined to find a third than I. And I already knew that anyone he liked enough to want to have children with, he'd want as part of a tribond. Pragmatic contracts weren't the sort of thing he could do." His hand and his eyes both closed, and his voice dropped even further, tense with misery. "He talked a lot about how we would make sure we didn't know who fathered which child, but he wanted one so much that I was going to make certain at least the first was his. The perfect man to be a father – he always gave his love so unconditionally. He would have adored you, made me jealous. Made a game out of what could have been the most horrible rivalry. Exhausted himself making sure you loved me as much as him, and then been quietly hurt, despite all good intentions, if we spent too much time together. Then laughed at himself. Keeping the world in proportion was so easy for him."
For a moment there were three in the bed, a mage-conjured image of a Rathen man with a wry smile and dancing eyes lying beside them. Then it was just Soren and Strake, and her Rathen's face was all planes. "I can't let you go out there."
It took a long time to find the answer. "One of the worst things I can think of–" she began, and found that her throat had stuck and she had to swallow to make it work again. "One of the worst things would be if the boy managed to run from Tor Darest. If the capture went wrong or if he overcomes this Moon-shaping and flees from what's been set on him. How long before he came back? I don't want to be terrified of letting our child outside the palace walls, Strake. I don't want to have this sick dread every time you so much as set foot outside the door. I'll be damned if I have that."
His hand had found her stomach, undistorted by a child still months in the future. "No," he repeated, and this time the word was full of fear.