More important is the question which follows. Do you dare, oh mighty Prince?
I let him see that I see both the mockery and the challenge. His eyes widen only the slightest bit and then go back to the beautiful way they were. The corners of his mouth edge up in an incipient smile.
Yes, you bastard, you are absolutely right. I can no more run from this challenge than I have ever run from any battle or challenge before.
I am doing this partially because of his challenge. Partially because...of all the times I have said or done something that says “Fuck you!” to the High Houses and Families and all the rest of the Kingdom and Empire, this will perhaps say “Fuck you all!” loudest and best. But...I am also doing this because I want to.
I reluctantly look away from...Jerril. An unusual name. I like how it tastes on my tongue. I wonder.... No. That wondering can be saved for later.
I look at Heran, who, as usual, is precisely where he is needed. “Well, Heran? Is there a reason you’re not on your way to the orchestra?”
With a faintly wounded dignity that is in its own way also a mockery of me, Heran offers the briefest available bow in his repertoire and turns away again. The crowd parts immediately, clearing a path to the nearest set of stairs down the tiers. As he makes his way through the dancers toward the opposite stairs and then up to the orchestra, they close ranks behind him. The jostling, near-shoving in some instances, is not at all consistent with the dignity of the nobility. But for a good look at a scandal, dignity be damned.
We turn, this Jerril and I, to watch Heran’s progress. We are, or are about to be that scandal. We make a strange pair of night and fire, standing on the main floor near the edge of the top tier. A pair unquestionably warranting the stares from the hundreds who line the tiers, the more hundreds who have squeezed together on the main level, looking out and across at us.
My peripheral vision catches a disturbance across and down, a red disturbance. I adjust my stance so I can see. Goddess. Niallan. Pushing and shoving, scrambling up the tiers, forcing his way through those at the top, and then he vanishes. People quickly move in to take his place.
Well, Hells. I just fucked up my so very fine plan to the Ninth Hell and back again. Humiliating Jerril would have kept the traitors believing. I could...reinstate the plan by waiting until we get to the dance floor and then destroy Jerril there.
I could, but I won’t. For whatever reason I can’t. But it will be just this dance and nothing more. I cannot, will not reward a man, any man, for groping me in public as he just did. Especially when I did not permit it or suggest I would welcome it.
And at least I am presently safe from another of his...offensive grabs. It would be far too blatant if he were to try it now.
My cock twitches.
Well, Hells, it wasn’t totally offensive. It was a hand that clearly knew what it was doing. I wonder if the palm is rough or soft or somewhere between, what it might feel like if he curls those fingers about me, strokes me, cups my balls....
Hells!
“Thank you, my Lord Prince.”
What in the Hells is he thanking me for? Not annihilating him in front of all these people by telling him just how fucking wrong it is for two men to dance the Tale? Agreeing in the first place?
I open my mouth for a regal, “You’re welcome.” For a polite, “No need for an apology.” I have, after all, been raised well. It’s just that for the most part I have chosen to ignore so much of that “raising” for the past little while. Forty years, two months and five, no, it is past midnight, so six days. If anyone is counting, other than me.
What comes out, however, is “DarkFire, Jerril.”
Some previously unknown god or demon in a pantheon that has only one Goddess and no demons has deprived me of my wits. I have given him permission to use my name?
In public?
“Thank you, my Lord....”
A lifted eyebrow and mild glare stop him, and Jerril smoothly finishes, “DarkFire.”
Yet another social tremor for the nobility to deal with. It is...a minor? semi-major? land quake.
Jerril is a commoner. He has to be. Meikheris is not an Illoraeni House or Family—too many syllables. Other worlds within the Kingdom and Empire follow our pattern, but still, the protocols of the Imperial Court require someone of any House or Family to announce that affiliation on being introduced to someone of greater rank. Such as someone with the...what am I?...fourth highest rank in the Empire. Second in line to the throne. He said nothing other than his name.
Commoners are never on a first-name basis with nobility in public, much less with the Imperial family. And never with the name that had replaced my given name all those years ago. For the briefest of moments I wonder why this commoner is attending this particular ball, and how he even managed to obtain an invitation, but then let it pass for greater concerns. Much greater concerns.
Such as the fact that he Goddess-damned well better be about to assure me he knows the pattern for i’Lyria, and knows it well indeed. That he has been rehearsing in secret for a lifetime, waiting for just this opportunity.
Goddess save us both. Or just me, and he can sink.
“Do you know what you’ve done?”
Jerril
I raise my right hand—the “guilty” one—and look at it with delight and wonderment and a deliberate, slightly wicked grin. “Why yes, my...DarkFire, I think I do. My hand has gotten me into trouble...again.”
DarkFire
I truly absorb for the first time how large Jerril’s eyes are, with long, long lashes, how very alive they are, with laughter, and...with something else I can not, will not recognize.
“And you, my...DarkFire, have you gotten me out of trouble, or into it yet more deeply?”
I ruthlessly suppress the surge of emotion at the second of those two deliberate “slips” of the tongue.
“No, you fool!” I whisper, although the silence is so profound I might as well be shouting. “i’Lyria’s Dance is for a man and a woman!”
Very, very slowly, Jerril lifts one eyebrow. I watch it rise with an almost baleful glare. Goddess! He does it so much better. Can he teach me? A trade? I can teach him many things, marvelous things, mostly involving my cock and his mouth. Perhaps his ass, but I haven’t seen it yet. Oh well, I’ll take it on faith. Marvelous things to teach that will involve his ass. I might even set a personal record for the number of times I come in one night. I have become utterly certain that somehow, in some way, that it will be tonight when my cock and some part of him, many parts of him, will be in close communion.
But the anticipation that is making my anticipation obvious doesn’t address the problem of the pairing of the dance.
“Is that really a problem? It shouldn’t be. I think you will find that I am...very...versatile, my...DarkFire. What is your pleasure?”
To wring your damned neck for getting me into this. Or take you to bed and fuck you into the mattress. Often. Until you howl my name as you come for me, come apart for me. Aloud, all I can manage is several sputtered “I-I-I’s.”
“Would you like me to help you with that sputtering problem after we dance? I’m really quite good at curing things like that. I have a technique....”
“I’m sure you do. And I do not sputter.”
“Of course not, Highness. Oh, certainly not, Highness. If you say so, Highness.” Jerril’s voice is soothing, with a sycophant’s spurious sympathy, while he howls with internal laughter.
I give up and laugh aloud. “Very well. I dance Lokar.”
“And I will Dance i’Lyria.”
I hear the subtle tone-shift that capitalizes “Dance.” Others hear it, Goddess damn, and that news begins to spread as well. Oh, Goddess, just what I need...a commoner with the Gift of music.
It grates to admit any deficiencies, but I try to explain. “I don’t have that Gift, Jerril. I can’t....”
“I do have the Gift, my...DarkFire, and you can and you will.”
Four. That’s four
times he’s said that. Why is he saying that?
The orchestra begins that odd cacophony that is tuning. Apparently they feel called upon to be perfect when two Goddess-damned fools are, or at least one Goddess-damned fool is, about to look extremely foolish when this all falls apart. As it will.
I extend my arm. If we are going to do this we will do it properly. Jerril puts a gentle hand on mine, wrist to elbow atop my forearm. I wondered about his hands earlier, expected a soft and smooth touch, but his fingers are strong and callused. We studiously ignore the mutual trembling generated by our second contact.
My grateful thought—that despite the complexity of the steps, it is a popular dance and we will be far from alone on the dance floor, so the crowd will hide us—lasts only until we reach the empty stairs leading to the empty dance floor.
Apparently no one wants to pay attention to the intricacies of the pattern while dancing, when they could be standing still and watching the intricacies of the scandal pattern that is being woven.
Beyond the emptiness of the dance floor, the tiers are becoming more crowded as word spreads. The balconies and stairs will be packed in moments as well, though I don’t betray any uncertainty by looking. The dancers who filled the floor a moment ago have all, every Goddess-damn-them-to-the-Nine-Hells one of them, crowded up onto the tiers. We walk alone to the center of the floor, the perfect center of the room.
I can sense it around the room, in everyone who can see even a fingertip of Jerril or me. Rules about outside links be damned. Imperial Security be damned. The protocol that bans extended linking in public be damned. The use of Power is almost tangible, as everyone who can do so forms links, solo-links, multi-links, an outward surge that smashes through the mage shield, moves past the palace, hurtles through and beyond the garden walls, spreads out and out. The links wake friends, relatives, casual acquaintances, people who need to be crushed, throughout Illoraen-the-City, and then outward again until it feels as though everyone on the Throne World who has even the slightest bit of the link Gift is watching. Let them watch and be damned. I will make a fool of myself with dignity.
I pull my attention back to the here and now.
Jerril
I signal the orchestra to hold. The tuning done, they wait for me to let them play. “A shield?” I ask. And I do not know why I ask, only that I must. Power flares. A shield snaps into place around us. We are truly alone.
I do not know why no one but the two of us may hear my question and his answer.
“Will you trust me, my...DarkFire?”
Odd. I have said that five times. His “yes” is unhesitating. The shield drops.
I signal again and the familiar overture starts, but a subtle, barely discernible use of my Gift makes it slower, more sensuous, the sound richer than a ballroom orchestra could normally achieve. Even an orchestra hired by the House and Family dar Andrae, or, well, by one of their servitors. Or Chief Steward Heran.
I did not know I could do that to...with...an orchestra. And if I don’t know how I just did it, how in the Hells will I ever be able to repeat it? Because I’m a bard and whatever I do tonight, “they” will be expecting me to be able to repeat it at will.
Nor do I have any idea why I do what I do next.
I lift his left arm by the wrist of the shining black sleeve. I carefully unbutton the cuff, reach up to his shoulder and rip the sleeve entirely off. I ignore the general gasp as I hold the rippling black silk sleeve in my left hand and raise my right. DarkFire repeats the process and in seconds holds a shimmering golden silk sleeve. His eyebrow lifts to ask why; my own arches to reply, “You’ll see.”
I have no idea what he will see. Goddess preserve me, what in all of Her Hells am I doing? And when it’s over, will She give him to me so I can take him to the nearest bed, Hells, the nearest reasonably flat, somewhat sturdy surface, and fuck him into it and beyond? Several times?
I look at those eyes. Realize he thinks that when this is over he will be fucking me. Other men have thought that. It will be interesting to see what happens this time.
While the overture builds closer to the start of the dance, I gesture for him to turn around, and when he does, I blindfold him. I wonder if he resents the momentary image of submission that he makes by having to bend his knees so that I can actually reach his head and tie the cloth. He understands without instruction, and turns to me like a magnet to north, blindfolding me with unhesitating accuracy. I turn. We face each other, sightless, mirror black, mirror gold.
Blindfolded? Goddess, how can we.... This...this is not what I intended. If I intended anything at all.
The people are far from silent, but far from the previous roar of conversation competing with music. Even with the overture, I hear the murmurings of the crowd, the sounds of frantic place-shifting accompanied by voices that say in not-hushed-at-all tones, “Make way, make way, for their Royal and Imperial Majesties.” The King-Emperor and Queen-Empress are finding somewhere to stand and watch yet another scandal brought on by their son. I wonder why they do not put a stop to this. I wonder if they even can.
Then I stop wondering and lift my voice, which needs no Gift of mine to carry to the farthest corners of the vast ballroom. Someone, with a capital “S” I believe, gifts me with words, archaic words from ages ago. “No Sight shall breach these silks, no Gift or Power or chance or design, save only one Gift, save only one Power. It is by the Goddess sworn. Swear you so by the Goddess as well?”
His deep baritone rings across the room and crowd. “It is by the Goddess sworn.”
What is happening? A binding that cannot be broken, being given for a dance?
The music reaches the peak of overture, passes into the dance, and in that instant...he...he and I are gone. Lokar and i’Lyria stand in our place. Blindfolded, blind, yet still I see it, still I know.
Impossible.
No Seeming, no Shifting has been worked. In truth there are only two men here who face each other in that split-second transition from overture to dance, the so-deliciously-much taller in black, black-masked, the shorter in gold, gold-masked. Two men. We two.
Yet somehow it is Lokar himself who Dances, a tall, black-haired, black-cloaked Lokar, though there is no cloak. And somehow it is i’Lyria herself who Dances, tall as well, barely shorter than he, golden-haired, golden-cloaked, although there is no cloak, and no woman dances.
We face each other, we two, so close we might as well be touching, so far our outstretched arms can not bridge the gap. Lokar and i’Lyria, who normally hold one another, now dance separately but connected by an invisible tie. We move in mirror dance as Lokar DarkFire begins to sway, slowly, sensuously, with raw passion and power and i’Lyria follows with a subtle and exotic passion of her own, my own. Our bodies sway from side to side, forward and back, making slow spirals about each other in small, patient steps.
The music changes as the Dance changes. It becomes Music. The orchestra is transcended, becoming something more than merely the total of its instruments. Power from a source no mage could detect surges through the ballroom, linking us with all who are there, with all who watch.
I have done none of this.
The rhythm of the second movement is more demanding, more insistent, faster, as Lokar and i’Lyria would normally separate, first inches, then feet, but we are already apart. And still we move in mirror dance, impossible, impossible mirror dance, as Lokar moves and i’Lyria follows, sometimes so quickly it is almost simultaneous, but not. We are apart, far and circling, twisting, turning, swaying, bowing, stamping, tapping, night and fire moving in identical dance, achieving the impossible for men who have never seen each other dance, much less danced together. Then we pause in unseeing perfect mirror pose. Is it the same for him? Does he know, simply know, where I am?
He must or this would not be happening.
The Music changes again for the third movement. Now, we two spin in silent, fluid splendor, turning on toes or heels, revolving around a common center, and then
we begin to move toward that center, spiraling inward, mirror images. Impossible, impossible mirror dance.
I am not doing this!
Through each step we take, through each motion created by a subtle muscle movement or our whole bodies, it is clear that Lokar leads and where he leads, powerful in black, i’Lyria, radiant in gold, follows. Follows. But still, but still...the gold is partner to the black.
At the center once more, as the Music slows and slows yet again, i’Lyria’s arms my arms are about Lokar’s neck his neck, and Lokar’s arms his arms surround i’Lyria me, circling my back her back, holding her me desperately close, although we do not touch. Lokar bends i’Lyria back and back and yet further back in a flowing elegant dip until i’Lyria is nearly to the floor, and we are kissing deeply—the audience cannot help but know we are kissing deeply, cannot help but know Lokar holds i’Lyria in a dip, yet I and we and they know with equal certainty that he and I...we have not touched.
Night covers fire until there is only a glimmer of flame as the dip holds and holds and holds, and then slowly, so very, very slowly, Lokar brings i’Lyria upright, and we move apart, until we are in the position from which we started. Minutes upon minutes of passionate love-making without touching. We are exhausted, the audience is exhausted.
DarkFire
He has not asked, but my shield surrounds us, holding us in what seems to be a step out of time, utterly private.
# Do you trust me, my...DarkFire? #
Six. Then, # Yes. #
And we are back again.
The orchestra begins the Dance once more, without overture, and the few in the audience who have begun to applaud quickly stop. All thought that this is an ego-driven repeat vanish when i’Lyria Jerril begins to Sing. He has a clear, powerful tenor with an incredible range, and as he Sings the audience is no more stunned than I to realize a tall, black-haired i’Lyria follows the sun-blinding golden splendor of Lokar. The Dance repeats itself, step by majestic step, motion by loving motion until black i’Lyria is I am held in an impossibly low dip by golden Lokar Jerril and brought slowly upright to end where we began.
The Warlord and the Bard Page 9
