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insisted on telling her she'd been missing it all her
life. She had not.
    "I'm not a swordswoman, Lady Rothwell." And had no desire to be, whatever protection
a blade might offer.
    "Indeed, not all the Champions were. Its power is as much as a symbol as a
weapon. This was Kittredge's
sword."
    The first Champion. It was an ancient thing, then, and probably bound up in all the magic
which surrounded Soren's position. Probably. No probably at all. This thing was trumpeting its presence at
her.
    "How did it come to your family, M'Lady?" she
asked, trying to control an urge to clasp the sword close. That was far more unnerving than Lord
Aristide and the Regent put together.
    "King Torluce's Champion survived him for several years
and he was of the Rothwell line. When
the first Rathenless Champion was proclaimed, the
sword was in the hands of the family, and they did not consider it necessary –
did not want, to be truthful – to give it up." Lady Rothwell leaned forward to brush her
fingers against the binding. "So
much history. A symbol of the way things
were."
    The way things were during the reign of the Rathen mages was
a popular subject no-one discussed. Not
publicly, at least. The Couerveurs had
not been incompetent regents, but some vital balance had been upset with King
Torluce's death. Encroached upon by The
Deeping to the east and aggressive trade from the west, Darest was unlucky,
cursed, at the very least no longer the power it had once been. Too much had been bound into a single
bloodline, too many treaties, too many enchantments. A wealth of tradition and trust and
inspiration. Without the Rathens, Darest
had begun to fail, had now been altered almost beyond recognition. Few spoke about the decline, let alone put
forward any ideas on how to arrest it. They muttered of Fae curses and did nothing.
    How did a new-born Rathen come into this setting? And how in the world was Soren supposed to be
any of the things a Champion was meant to be, when she was neither mage nor
armswoman nor courtier? Just Soren.
    Why had the Rose chosen her to be Champion? She'd never had a calling, never shown a
particular talent for anything. Unlike
brother Romadin , she'd been an indifferent student,
capable of following their two mothers along the musty path of scholarship but
not of devoting herself to it. Nor had
she felt the urge to join her sister Rain and their father plying the sea-routes. Soren had never excelled, never loved
anything enough to want to do it her whole life. She had a level of learning, after so many
conscientious lessons, and knew her way around boats and trade-logs, but they
were not her vocation, any more than the herding or the herb-craft or the
fishing which she had tried as her blood-mother sought a pigeonhole to fit her
in. Competent at many things, master of
none, she'd been Carn Keep's maid-of-all-work, neither satisfied nor
disconsolate with her lot. She knew how
to bind a book and cast a line, and had no interest whatsoever in politics.
    And would get nowhere trying to out-fish Aristide Couerveur.
    Soren picked up the sword, her eyes half-closing at the
unexpected and quite physical pleasure which flowed through her grip on the
hilt. Her entire body tingled. The thing was most definitely hers; now what
was she going to do with it?
    Whether she was the stuff of Champions, or capable of
wielding a sword, Soren had no option but to at least attempt to save the
Rathen child. Despite the machinations of
the Court, she would have to mark her own course. And believe it wouldn't end in disaster.

 
    Chapter Three
    "Her name's Vixen, Champion."
    Soren looked the mare over dubiously. A far cry from the sturdy former plough-horse
she'd been permitted to ride back at Carn Keep. Not so many hands high, but Cob had been an imperturbable mound of a
horse who would never think of shying or bolting. This showy bay pranced about the stable yard,
tossing her head and apparently attempting to master the latest dance step.