After a morning spent sorting through the previous
Champion's library, both Soren Armitage and the aide lent her by the Chancellor
were so dust-laden that they were beginning to blend into their
surroundings.
Grey hair to match grey
eyes
, Soren thought, tucking usually black strands behind her ears.
A grey life
.

Without warning, the door crashed open, and the nearest pile
of books lost its tenuous grasp on balance and slid into a heap. Three other piles slumped after it, puffing
out dust redolent of old paper and slowly decaying binding. Soren sat back with a grimace, while her
assistant for the day, Halcean, lived up to her red-headed nature by colouring
hotly.

Oblivious, Aspen Choraide whisked into the room and stopped
in the centre of the resulting tumble: a handsome blonde set off well by white
and icy-blue linen. In all the poisoned
throng of the Court, this was Soren's closest excuse for a friend, an
apprentice mage not even willing to risk his position with open partisanship
while he tried to coax his way into the new-minted Champion's bed. Soren was by turns infuriated and tempted by
his trifling. At least he managed to
laugh with as well as at her.

Today he was overflowing with excitement, well above his
ordinary benign enthusiasm for life. Almost vibrating. "There's a
rose!" he said, barely able to get the words out for the sheer delight of
them. "A rose!"

"What of it?" Halcean asked, a decided snap to her
voice as she rose out of the dust cloud he'd set off. She glanced pointedly about the room, which
was festooned with carvings of roses.

"The Rathen Rose!" Aspen shouted. "There's a rose!"

He waited for their reaction, but Soren could only stare.

"That's impossible," Halcean said.

Making an exasperated noise, Aspen grabbed Soren's arm and
pulled her to her feet, knocking the few remaining piles left and right. Soren, who tried to set certain limits to her
treatment, attempted to free herself, but Aspen only tightened his grip and so
she quickened her pace rather than be dragged across Fleeting Hall. The doors to the throne room were thankfully
closed, but there were plenty of passers-by to witness their progress.

It was a brief trip, for the Garden of the Rose was only a
short distance left of the Champion's rooms – directly opposite the Hall of the
Crown. But Fleeting Hall was a palace
hub, always busy, and by the time they'd reached the sunlit paving of the
Garden a dozen or more people trailed them, scenting drama.

"There!" Aspen tugged her beneath an arch into the sunlight and flung a hand in
theatrical accusation. "What did I tell
you? Impossible? It's impossible to miss!"

It was indeed. Wound
around the grey stone pillars and creeping across the exposed arches of the
Garden of the Rose was the Rathen Rose. The leaves were small, black-green, and hid countless thorns. Today, for the first time in two centuries,
it bore a flower.

"Sun's Mercy," Halcean managed, staring but making
no attempt to approach. She would know
the reputation of the Rose. Even Aspen
in his excitement did no more than stand at the very edge of the garden.

Soren, her heart knocking against her throat, walked slowly
forward and the double handful of people who had crowded to see stepped back to
give her room. It was almost
respectful. At that moment, she knew
that everything was going to change.

For all she'd tried to make the best of being the most
important nonentity at Court, uselessness irritated Soren, and she'd been
looking about for change. But for there
to suddenly be a Rathen? To be Champion
in more than name?

The bloom depended from a cane wound around one of the
narrow arches of stone overhead: a half-open cluster of petals so dark a red
they were almost black, with a hint of richer colour at their heart. The very tip of each petal was rimmed with silver,
like the lining of a storm-cloud, and as she lifted her hand it moved in
response, dipping to the accompaniment of a dozen indrawn breaths.

The knowledge that it would be wiser not to do this before
such an audience made no difference to her hand. Try as she might, Soren couldn't stop her arm
from lifting, her fingers from brushing the soft, velvety petals. It was very like her annunciation as
Champion, when a pressure behind her eyes had robbed her of all will and dawn
had found her in Tor Darest, a week's journey walked in a single night.

"Teraman," her throat said, and a little thrill of
power ran down her arm and buried itself somewhere inside her. It felt good. The rose moved away, out of reach.

"Teraman?" repeated Aspen. "What does that mean? Is it the heir's name?"

Soren shook her head and moved further into the small, stark
courtyard. Aspen held out a hand, but
didn't try to follow. He valued his fine
features far too much to risk scratches. Instead, as Soren seated herself on a neglected stone bench, he turned
to join the babble of excited conversation, speculating on an event no-one
could have anticipated.

The Rose had been planted by Domina Rathen, the first
mage-queen of Darest. It had been the
core of the royal succession: a flower would bloom for every child of her line,
enduring for the span of their life. All
the Rathen Kings and Queens had been confirmed before the Rathen Rose. When the Rathen bloodline still existed.

"Champion!" Jansette
Denmore
, an engaging ninny who had
recently become a favourite of the Regent, squeezed her way through the crowd
and blithely brushed aside trailing, thorn-heavy canes to reach Soren. "Champion, who is it? Who is the new Rathen? How can this have happened?"

"I suppose that's what I must find out," Soren
said. She was beginning to recover from
the shock of seeing the rose, to think of what would come next. How wasn't really important, but who would be
everything. Somewhere, a child of Rathen
blood had been born, and Soren, as Champion, would have to find that child and
protect it. She'd never felt more
dismayed.

A sudden hush brought Soren's attention sharply back to her
surroundings, and she looked up to see everyone sinking into obeisance. The depth of the courtesies told her who it
was even before enough people had moved aside to reveal a medium-sized man clad
in a snugly cut demi-robe of pristine white. He was far paler than Aspen, white-blond hair brushed sleekly back from
a delicate brow, and it was a current fad of the Court to compare his skin to
alabaster. His eyes were sapphire rimmed
with dark, made brilliant by a crystalline blue-white radiating from the
pupils, and they missed nothing.

Aristide Couerveur, the Regent's son. She'd never met a man more suited to his
position in life. He already wielded as
much power as his mother, and when he took the throne he would rule without
wavering. Soren wondered who had run to
bring him the news that this was no longer true, that the Rathen Rose
proclaimed an heir to keep him from rule. There were not many who would have the nerve.

She'd only suffered a single interview with Lord Aristide,
the day she'd arrived in Tor Darest. He'd asked her about her background and seemed amused by her
answers. Afterwards he'd left her alone,
setting a precedent for Soren to be ignored by the power players of the Court
just as the previous Champion had been. Duly dismissed.

Whatever the reason, Soren had been eternally grateful for
her failure to attract his interest. Darest might adore its Diamond Couerveur, but beneath the open worship
was a strong thread of caution. His
manners might be mild and exact, his face and figure attractive, but the sweet
smile which accompanied his commands did nothing to diminish the consequences
for those who crossed him. He might be
considered even-handed, primarily interested in the fortunes of the kingdom,
but he was also a powerful mage who did not tolerate enemies. And he was never at a loss.

The intense self-possession which characterised the Regent's
son had not failed him. The glance he
gave the dark rose was only brief and his gaze dropped immediately to Soren and
fixed there. There was no sign of
displeasure. He even retained a hint of
a smile, though he was accounted to want the throne more than life. Then he turned his head a fraction, eyes
keeping hold of Soren's as he addressed those who stood behind him.

"You may leave us."

The words were soft-spoken, and had immediate effect. Aching to stay, but not daring to risk
provoking even the mildest displeasure in Lord Aristide, the onlookers shuffled
back, all but Jansette. Secure in the
Regent's favour, or oblivious to the Court's undercurrents, she remained
standing at Soren's shoulder.

"You have something to say to me, Lady
Denmore
?" Lord Aristide asked.

"Not just at this moment,
M'Lord
,"
Jansette said, in her unaffected way. "I wish, rather, to ask the Champion about the new heir."

"I see why it is my mother admires you, Lady
Denmore
." Lord
Aristide made some minor adjustment of his demi-robe, so that it fell in
perfect folds over his white linen breeches. The steady sapphire gaze shifted from Soren, to her private relief, and
took minute catalogue of Jansette. From
the tip of the pink embroidered slippers peeping beneath a sheer full robe of
figured azure and rose, to the girdle of silver links and modestly high bodice
of a demi-robe beneath the near-transparent full robe, Jansette was exquisite,
and had a face to match her finery. Physically, she was just the sort of woman Soren found most compelling,
but every time she opened her mouth, attraction went out the window.

Lord Aristide showed no sign of being at all undone by
artful confection. "Leave us, Lady
Denmore
," he said, apparently deciding a direct
repellent was necessary. "You may
question the Champion another time."

"I hope so," Jansette said, turning the corners of
her mouth down in a pretty display of confounded will. "You are unaccommodating,
M'Lord
." She
dropped into an elegant courtesy, bobbed politely to Soren, then turned and
trailed away. Lord Aristide waited until
she had passed through one set of the wrought iron gates which separated the
garden from Fleeting Hall, then turned back to Soren, who had risen cautiously
to her feet.

"Sorting the former Champion's collection must be a
formidable task," he commented, nothing in his voice or manner revealing
his feelings about the rose suspended a short way above his head.

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