by Beverley, Jo
My journey to the city of Tiberium in the allied nation-states of Caerdicca Unitas had been long, but uneventful. I was accompanied by my tutor, Leon Degrasse, a gifted poet in his own right and a skilled diplomat who had long served the Comte de Rocaille. Once we arrived in Tiberium, he quickly secured appropriate lodgings, hired a small staff to see to our needs, enrolled me in the University’s curriculum, and arranged the aforementioned recital, down to choosing the verses I was to recite and the elegant poet’s robe I was to wear.
I’d developed an affinity for poetry early, and was reckoned something of a prodigy, even by D’Angeline standards. My youthful body of work spanned a dozen styles, many in the classic Siovalese mode, many others aping the work of poets before me, and a few seeking to find my own voice. Messire Degrasse gauged it best if I stuck to the classical forms, and so it was that an hour before the event, I luxuriated in the ministrations of the most skilled barber in Tiberium’s most prestigious bathhouse, a warm, damp linen towel draped over my face, running through verses in my mind while the barber combed and trimmed my hair, oiled my skin, and buffed my nails with a pumice-stone.
There I heard them enter, but I paid no heed until one spoke. Folk were always coming and going in the bathhouse.
“Oh, damn my luck!” a man’s voice said in Caerdicci, then switched to D’Angeline. “Can’t you pull rank for once, Rolande? I’d my heart set on a rubdown and a trim before this damned recital.”
Beneath the towel, I startled.
“Isn’t the point of this whole Tiberian experience to teach me to understand the common man’s concerns?” a good-natured voice replied in D’Angeline. “Behold, the suffering of an ordinary citizen, forced to wait his turn!”
Others laughed. The first man grumbled. “There’s no time to wait, your highness. Are you quite sure we must attend?”
“Sadly, yes.” The prince’s good-natured voice turned dry.
“Politics,” someone else said.
“Politics,” the prince agreed. “Tonight’s prodigy is a foster-son of House Rocaille, hand-picked by the Comte, father of the allegedly fair Edmée, possessor of strong ties to the royal line of Aragonia. And if I must suffer through this tedium, so must my loyal companions.”
“You know what it’s going to be!” the other complained. “Elua have mercy, how often have you suffered through the like at Court, Rolande? Some calf-eyed Siovalese lordling swanning around in fine silk robes, his hair strewn about his shoulders, droning on about spring-fed mountain lakes, dreaming of meadows and tall, nodding flowers, oh yes, fulsome heads bent tenderly on their slender stalks …”
Laughter rang in the bathhouse.
I gritted my teeth, fighting a rising tide of humiliation and anger.
“I know, I know.” The prince’s voice was sympathetic, and there was the sound of a hand clapping on a shoulder. “Courage, Gaspar! We shall endure.”
As soon as their footsteps receded, I sat upright, flinging the damp towel away from me and scrambling for my clothes. “For your trouble,” I said to the barber, fumbling for my purse and pressing coins into his hand. He stared after me as I fled the bathhouse, pelting through the streets of Tiberium and arriving at our rented villa, sweating and furious.
“Messire de Montrève!” Leon stared at me wide-eyed as I tore through my clothes press, ignoring the fine robe of green silk laid out on my bed. “What in the world is wrong?”
“A change of plans,” I said grimly, hauling out a plain cambric shirt and my hunting leathers. They would have to do. I donned them in haste, leaving the laces of the vest undone, yanking at the fine fabric of the shirt to rend it. I slung my sword belt with its gentleman’s blade around my hips, fastening the buckle.
“Anafiel, no!” My tutor sounded horrified. “The Senator—”
“May be appalled,” I finished, twining my long hair into a plait and knotting it at the nape of my neck in a rough soldier’s club. “But he is merely our host, Messire Degrasse. It is the Dauphin I seek to impress … or at the least, not to bore senseless.” I glanced in the mirror. “Trust me?”
After a reluctant moment, he nodded.
“Good.”
AH, GODS!
You were so ready to dismiss me out of hand, Rolande. And I was so unwilling to be dismissed. Mayhap it would have been better if I’d let it happen, if I hadn’t been so fierce and stubborn and insistent.
Better for you, better for me. Better for Edmée, to be sure. I loved her as a sister, and I will never cease to regret what befell her.
And yet …
I loved you. I loved you so very, very much. And does not Blessed Elua himself bid us, “Love as thou wilt?”
I did. Gods help me, I did.
IN THE STUDY next to the dining salon, I paced and ran through lines of the piece I’d chosen in lieu of Messire Degrasse’s selections, aware of the murmur of voices exchanging pleasantries in the background, of the sound of wine being poured as the prince and his guests fortified themselves against the tedium to come.
The thought fed my righteous indignation, and I channeled my ire into the performance. When Senator Vitulus introduced me, I stepped forth to a polite smattering of applause.
It died quickly as they took in my unlikely appearance.
I identified Prince Rolande by the choice couch accorded to him and the description I’d been given. His black hair hung loose save for two slender braids at either side caught back in a silver clasp. Strong brows were arched over dark blue eyes. He had a generous mouth made for smiling, but at the moment his well-shaped lips were parted in surprise.
I locked gazes with him.
“Shame, my lord!” I uttered the opening words of the poem in a low, agonized tone. The Dauphin’s high cheekbones flushed with unexpected anger, and a shocked whisper ran around the room. “Oh, shame, shame, a thousandfold shame that you should dishonor your father’s name thusly!”
One of the prince’s companions half rose from his couch; the prince stilled him with a gesture, his gaze not shifting from mine. His mouth had closed and the line of his jaw was taut. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Messire Degrasse wince.
Ignoring everyone but the prince, I took a deep breath and continued. “Ah, my lord! Will you dishonor even my death? For I say to you, there is no honor in this vengeance you have taken this day, in the battered and torn flesh of one who was a Prince of Troy; bold and shining Hector slain and dragged behind your victorious chariot, rendered fodder for scavengers by your ignoble deed—”
The hard line of the prince’s jaw eased. On his couch, he leaned forward, his eyes lit with interest and curiosity.
I recited the piece in its entirety without ever breaking our locked gazes. The others took it for a conceit, a part of the performance; a story out of an ancient Hellene tale, the ghost of Patroclus rebuking his beloved Achilles, with me casting the Dauphin in the latter role. Indeed, I’d meant it to be nothing more.
And yet it was.
I’d had my work admired and praised, but I had never known the sheer exhilaration of captivating a reluctant listener. I’d chosen this piece for Prince Rolande, and Prince Rolande alone. I was reciting it to him, and him alone. It forged a bond between us. As his face broke into a delighted grin, my heart soared. I let my voice take on a fiercer edge, and I reveled in the sparkling approval I saw in his eyes.
When I finished, the prince was the first to applaud, taking to his feet. His companions followed, shouting praise. I bowed deeply, feeling as though I’d run a long race.
Prince Rolande came toward me. “Well done, Anafiel de Montrève. I’d no idea poetry could be so stirring.”
I bowed again. “My thanks, your highness.”
“Call me Rolande.” His mouth quirked. “I am meant to be but a humble student here.”
I gazed at his face, the proud, high-boned features. “Call me Anafiel. And at the risk of seeming importunate, I daresay humble is a word seldom applied to you, my lord Rolande.”
&nb
sp; He laughed, extending one hand. “Ah, mayhap! Any mind, well done and well met.”
I clasped his hand, and felt his grip harden in the subtle way that men do when taking one another’s measure. His hand was firm and callused, clearly more familiar with a sword hilt than a scholar’s stylus. I narrowed my eyes at him ever so slightly, and tightened my own grip, shifting my feet unobtrusively to settle into a Siovalese wrestling stance.
Rolande felt it and gave me a bright, hard smile, happy to find me equal to his implicit challenge. “Will you share my couch for dinner this evening? I suspect we have much to discuss.”
I smiled back at him. “With pleasure.”
OH, EDMÉE! I’M sorry, so sorry.
Dying, I find there are so many people, living and dead, to whom I owe apologies. Edmée, Alcuin, mayhap even that bitch Isabel L’Envers. All the gentry whose trust I have betrayed these long years while I have played the role of the Whoremaster of Spies. Phèdre, my last pupil; my anguissette all unwitting of the stakes of the game we play, Kushiel’s Chosen, on whom my dying hope rests. I can only thank the gods that she was not here today, and pray that she survives.
And yet would I have done anything differently?
No.
Mayhap.
I don’t know.
What did I know of love? I was eighteen, and I knew nothing. I was D’Angeline, I’d been instructed in the arts of pleasure. I’d had casual dalliances here and there like any young nobleman.
I knew nothing.
But then, neither did Rolande.
There are those who think Blessed Elua is a gentle god, but love is not a gentle thing. It is urgent and insistent, and it will not be denied. It will level cities to attain its goal.
Or destroy lives.
THAT NIGHT, THE first night at the Senator’s villa, Rolande and I shared a couch and spoke of desultory things: poetry, academics, gossip from home. We did not address my true purpose in coming to Tiberium.
I was glad.
I didn’t want to speak of Edmée to him, not yet. Selfishly, I wanted to keep this moment to myself. When Leon Degrasse glowered at me, I ignored him.
All the while, two unspoken things lay between us. The first, of course, was Edmée and the Comte de Rocaille’s ambitions. The second was the spark of undeniable attraction that had ignited between us, casting a vast shadow over the other matter.
Rolande did not flaunt his interest, but neither did he try to hide it even though Tiberian culture was more rigid than ours and did not look kindly on dalliances between men. The desire in his gaze was frank and open, firing my blood, making the torches brighter and the wine sweeter.
Never before had I thought to wonder why poets speak of falling in love. That night, I began to understand. I felt as though I’d stepped off a high precipice the moment that I locked gazes with Rolande de la Courcel, and I was sinking steady toward unknown depths. The very ground beneath me felt unsteady.
I wanted … gods! Wanted to kiss his generous mouth, the line of his jaw. Wanted to slide my hands up his strong arms, to feel the muscles working in his broad shoulders. I wanted to take him up on that subtle challenge, to pit my strength against his, our naked bodies straining and wrestling together until one of us surrendered, and the other claimed a sweet victory …
Instead, we made polite conversation until it was time to leave, bidding our host a gracious farewell. Outside the villa, the prince’s companions called to him, badgering him to honor a pledge he’d made.
“Will you renege on your word, your highness?” one of them asked smoothly; the fair-haired Barquiel L’Envers, heir to a powerful Namarrese duchy, brother to Isabel L’Envers, another contender for the prince’s hand in marriage. I did not care for the dismissive way his gaze skated over me. “There’s a first time for everything, I suppose.”
“No!” Rolande retorted, stung. “Of course not.” He gave me an apologetic glance. “I promised them a visit to Tiberium’s finest brothel, such as it is, in exchange for …” His voice trailed away.
I raised my brows. “Enduring an evening of tedium?”
He grinned. “Well, yes. You exceeded expectations. Nonetheless, I do keep my word. Come with us?”
I wanted to say no. I’d no desire to visit some Tiberian brothel where the art of pleasure was treated as mere commerce, not a sacred calling.
I opened my mouth and said, “Of course.”
WOULD I HAVE done anything differently?
No.
I couldn’t have.
THE BROTHEL COULD have been worse; but it could have been better, too. It catered to a D’Angeline clientele within the city. I endured an endless parade of dancing girls and tittering catamites with kohl-lined eyes.
Many found patrons among the prince’s companions, starved for a taste of the luxury and licentiousness of home.
Rolande nudged me with his hip, bumping against the scabbard of my gentleman’s sword. “You look disapproving, young Siovalese country lordling.”
I shook my head. “Not disapproving, no. It’s just …” I shrugged. “There is nothing sacred in their calling, nothing sacred here.”
“No?” His dark blue eyes met mine. “Nothing?”
I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly thick. “Ah, well, as to that, my lord …” I didn’t know what to say. If he had been anyone else, I would have laughed and clasped the back of his neck, yanking him down for a hard kiss, honoring Naamah’s gift of desire. Country-bred or no, I’d lived a life of privilege.
But he was the Dauphin of Terre d’Ange, and he outranked me by many, many degrees. I should not do this, should not even think it.
He laughed softly, deep in his chest, then leaned over, his lips close to my ear, his breath warm. “I’ve kept my word. Let’s go.”
Knowing I should say no, knowing I should refuse, I went with him nonetheless. Outside, the night air was crisp and fresh. I breathed deeply, feeling the effects of wine and desire. Six guards in the livery of House Courcel flanked us discreetly, escorting us to the prince’s rented villa. Later, I came to know the villa well. That night I paid scant heed to it, following Rolande as he led me to its innermost chamber, where the household staff had hastily lit many tapers.
There, his callused hands cupped my face. “Anafiel de Montrève.”
I grasped his taut, sinewy wrists, holding him at bay even though the time to refuse was long past. “Rolande de la Courcel.”
His teeth gleamed in the candlelight, shadows pooling in his eyes. “Are we making love or war, my warrior-poet?”
I tightened my grip on his wrists, brushing his lips with a kiss. “Both.”
With a swift, decisive move, Rolande hooked one foot behind my right leg, tugging me off balance and tumbling me toward the bed; but I had anticipated it, and I twisted my body sideways, landing atop him and pinning his arms.
“Point to me,” I informed him, taking advantage of the situation to kiss him again, harder this time. His full, firm lips parted beneath mine. I eased my grip on his wrists, exploring his mouth with my tongue; tentatively at first, then with increasing hunger. He tasted like wine, sweet and heady.
Strong and sure, Rolande flipped me over, reversing our positions, his legs trapping mine in a scissor-lock. “Point to me. Is this how Siovalese country boys make love, then?” he asked me, his black hair hanging around his face.
I could feel the weight of his body holding me in place, the hard length of his erect phallus pressing against mine beneath his breeches. It was unbearably arousing. “Sometimes.”
He grinned and kissed me. “I like it.”
We were well matched, Rolande and I. He was taller and stronger, but not by much; I was quicker and more agile, but not by much. We played at wrestling, stealing points and kisses, until it was no longer a game, until there were no victors or losers, only the urgent drive to remove clothing, to feel skin sliding against skin slick with sweat. I kissed his bare chest, bit and sucked his small, hard nipples, reveling in his groa
n of pleasure, in the feel of his hands hard on the back of my head, freeing my hair from its soldier’s club.
“I want you.” His voice was harsh and ragged, his phallus throbbing in my fist. There was no trace of humor in his words, only raw demand, and his eyes had gone deadly serious. “All of you.”
A flare of gilded brightness and surety filled me, so vivid I imagined I could see it reflected in Rolande’s pupils. “I am yours,” I heard myself say.
The unknown depths claimed me.
I WOULD THAT dying brought clarity.
Did Blessed Elua have some purpose in joining our hearts together in one swift lightning bolt of a night?
I want to believe it; I have always wanted to believe it. Even after Rolande’s death, even after I embarked on a path I half despised, I believed it.
It is hard to believe now.
Still, I try.
IN THE AFTERMATH of love, I was self-conscious. My body was ringing like a well-tuned bell, shivering with pleasure, and I wanted nothing more than to sink into sleep, tangled in linens beside the prince in his warm bed; but he was the Dauphin of Terre d’Ange, and I did not know the protocol for this situation.
I’d been sent to woo him on Edmée’s behalf, not bed him on my own. A canker of guilt gnawed at me.
“Stay.” Gazing at me with half-lidded eyes, Rolande saw my uncertainty. He ran a few strands of my hair through his fingers. “Russet.” He yawned. “Like a fox’s pelt. You put me in mind of autumn. Stay.”
I drew a line down his sculpted torso, his fair skin the color of marble warmed by candlelight. Truly, I’d cast him well as Achilles. “Rolande … you felt it, too?”
He didn’t ask what I meant. “I felt it the moment you stormed into the salon and charmed me into enjoying poetry. Elua’s hand is in this.”
“You know why I’m here.” It wasn’t a question; I’d heard him say as much in the bathhouse.
“Sleep.” He rolled over and kissed me. “We’ll talk on the morrow.”
I slept.
In the morning, everything was different. The world was different, I was different. A spark of the brightness I’d felt the night before lingered within me, tinting everything with a golden glow.
