The Price of Desire (The HouseOf Light And Shadow Book 1)

by P. J. Fox

  But he didn’t move. “How I treated you?”

  She wanted to slap him, but she was afraid that he might slap her back. Instead, she summed up her courage and met his eye. “Regardless of what you may think,” she said acidly, “I’m not some whore to be used for your pleasure and discarded like I don’t exist. If you want to treat me like I am, we both know that I can’t stop you.” Her breath caught, as she thought about all the things she couldn’t stop him from doing. “But I don’t have to accept your poor behavior, or agree with it, to suit you.”

  She was on the verge of tears, she realized; she hated feeling this powerless and hated even more the fact that there had been a moment—a moment—when she’d wanted him to kiss her, had welcomed his touch. Remembering that now made her feel nothing but wretched.

  “We seem to be at cross purposes,” he replied.

  “Yes,” she said tartly.

  “Sit.”

  “No.”

  He fixed her with his cold, intense, reptilian stare. “Sit.”

  She sat.

  Walking over to the window, he stood with his back to her as he stared out at the void. “I apologize,” he said finally.

  She could not have been more shocked possibly. “What?”

  He spoke without turning. “I assumed that…given the course of our acquaintance so far, you would prefer to be left alone. I realize that my companionship is…distasteful to you. But had I realized that you would interpret my actions as you did, I would have behaved differently.”

  He turned. They regarded each other in silence. She hadn’t thought him capable of admitting wrongdoing, much less apologizing for it. “Did you care for the wedding?” he asked suddenly.

  “I don’t know,” she replied honestly. “Your religious ceremonies don’t seem to consist of much, even allowing for the fact that this was of necessity a simple wedding. The weddings I’m used to—there’s months of buildup, followed by days of celebrating. It’s stupid, really. I do wonder, though, how people can really feel like they’re married after something that takes five minutes. Even though, as a guest, I found the brevity refreshing. Weddings at home were always deadly dull and lasted hours.”

  “The ceremony most pleasing to God is the simplest,” he replied. “It seems to me that the people you describe are far more caught up in rituals and customs than they are concerned with the purpose of the act itself. Marriage is a beginning, not an achievement in itself.”

  “How romantic,” she said dryly.

  “It is. Two people agree to begin their lives together, as partners—”

  “Hah!” Crossing her arms over her chest, she turned toward the window. “Your definition of partnership is an odd one, as last night Hannah agreed to be her husband’s virtual slave.”

  “This is truly how you see it?” he asked.

  “Of course! He didn’t promise to be obedient, or faithful.”

  “The content of a man’s promises are driven not by words but by character. One can promise anything one wants.” That, Aria knew, was a dig at Aiden—and perhaps at her for being foolish enough to have believed him. Aiden had promised a great many things, and she and Kisten both knew how that had turned out. Looking back on it, she still couldn’t believe that she’d told him. “And he,” Kisten continued, more gently, “is obliged to provide her with a home, clothes, jewels, whatever she wants. She, after all, has chosen to disassociate herself from those others who love her and thrown her lot in with his. He must be mindful of this, and treat her with the love and support that such a sacrifice merits.”

  “In return for which,” Aria replied bitterly, “he can force himself on her and order her around.”

  “In kindness, yes. But if she should be unfaithful, the penalty falls on him for not meeting her physical needs.”

  Caught completely off guard, Aria laughed. “Really?”

  Kisten sobered. “Aria, do you think that I would hurt you?”

  She considered the question. She didn’t know, both because she didn’t know him all that well and because she no longer trusted her own judgment. After a few minutes, she told him as much. He listened quietly and then nodded, almost to himself, as though confirming some previous supposition. He seemed almost pleased by her words, which confused her.

  “So then your objection,” he said, “is based not on Dan’s religious convictions or on the length of their courtship but on your fear that he will mistreat Hannah and cause her to regret her decision.”

  “Yes.” This all seemed rather obvious to Aria.

  “And if you knew for a fact that he would not?”

  Aria made a small, dismissive gesture. Who could predict something like that?

  Kisten studied her. She felt pinned by the intensity of his gaze. The observatory was, of necessity, dimly lit and his eyes were dark and luminous in the gloom. Flecks of gold glittered in the thin ring of violet, and his pupils were pools of black. She felt a chill run up her spine.

  “Aria,” he said slowly, deliberately, “I want you to marry me.”

  She didn’t know how to respond. She couldn’t possibly have heard him right.

  “Your options,” he continued, “are limited. As a new home, I understand that the Alliance disappoints you; although I wish you felt otherwise, because I believe that there is a great deal to be said for our culture. But whether you wish it or no, this is your new home and here a respectable woman has little freedom. I need you to understand this, not because I want to threaten or frighten you, but because I want you to have a realistic grasp of your situation. Life cannot be lived by the edicts of fairy tales—at least, not successfully.

  “Still, I would not have you marry me as a last resort.” He paused to consider his words. “I…care for you,” he said, as though the words were difficult for him. “I know that you feel differently, and that in your culture the custom is to court one another for some time before agreeing to such a step. But I can give you a home, and a life, and a name.”

  He waited.

  “You care for me?” she echoed, stunned by the impossibility of such a statement.

  “Yes,” he said simply. “A great deal.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  She looked so small and lost. As overworked as he’d been, if he’d known that she felt like this he would have at least made an effort to see her for a few minutes. He’d avoided her at the wedding, because the thought of his own wishes was too unbearable to contemplate. He’d been certain that the last thing she’d wanted was for him to pay his addresses in front of her friends. To him, his interest and intentions were obvious. But, as he had to keep reminding himself, Aria’s expectations and beliefs were utterly foreign to his own.

  If she’d been a native Bronte, she would have understood from his actions that he was in love with her; a man would never pay a woman such individual attention or take the drastic step of inviting her out to dinner with his friends if he had no desire to marry her. At least, not in polite society. Then again, if they’d been on Brontes he could have presented her with gifts and written her poetry and requested that his mother invite her over for dinner.

  The activity that Aria described as dating did not exist on Brontes; if a man was interested in a woman and wished to make an acquaintance, he invited her to his parents’ house—regardless of whether he still lived at home. To approach her directly would be rude, and this was perhaps the one area in which parents proved useful. Or, if he were either very charming or very lucky, he might be invited to dine with her. Such things were not possible in the far reaches of space and Kisten had never been much of a writer, besides.

  Aria frowned slightly, a curiously sad expression that made his heart ache.

  “We don’t have the same religious beliefs,” she pointed out.

  Kisten felt the tension in his shoulders ease slightly. Specific objections he could cope with, anything but a flat refusal. Turning from the window, he walked over to the bench and sat down next to her.

  “I don’t mi
nd,” he said. And then, “what are your religious beliefs?”

  “To be honest,” she said quietly, “I don’t care much for organized religion.” The admission seemed to make her nervous. Which, given the empire’s stand on religion, wasn’t surprising. But what she had to learn was that not every man was his country, or his religion. There was still so much they didn’t know about each other.

  “And?” he prompted.

  “And I’m…no one,” she protested.

  “My grandmother, Udit, was a street urchin before she married my grandfather—this is my father’s father, Ceres. She’d never even owned a pair of shoes until she met him. She grew up in a place called Dharavi, one of the slums surrounding the capital on Charon II.” He smiled crookedly. “I’m only three-quarters Bronte; at school, my father was called half-caste.”

  “That’s not a good advertisement for your people,” she reproved him.

  “Are yours different?”

  “No.”

  “I think,” he said, “that it was more because the term bothered him than out of any actual animus.”

  “I was called it, because I was too thin and plain-faced to be a girl and too short to be a boy.” Having made this confession, a blush began to creep up her neck. She stared down at her small hands, folded neatly in her lap. She obviously had no idea that she was beautiful.

  He picked up one of her hands and, very gently, held it in his own. “You are the most exquisite creature that I have ever met.” There was a poem he’d learned as a child and a line from it occurred to him now: O shelter my soul from thy face! To gaze upon one’s beloved was simply too great a burden to bear, because a man’s soul was too small to contain the results.

  She looked up, and met his eyes, and smiled. A little smile, but real. “We’re very different,” she said, “and you’re….”

  “I once read a line, wherein a woman asks her would-be lover: How shall I yield to the voice of thy pleading…profane the law of my father’s creed for a foe of my father’s race? Thy kinsmen have broken our sacred altars and slaughtered our sacred kine, the feud of old faiths and the blood of old battles sever thy people from mine. And he replies by asking, What are the sins of my race, Beloved, what are my people to thee? And what are thy shrines, and kine and kindred, what are thy gods to me? I’m just a man, Aria.”

  “It surprises me that you like poetry.”

  “I’m full of surprises.” His fleeting smile was slightly bitter. “A commander of mine once described war as twenty-three hours of abject boredom punctuated by one hour of abject terror. In the still of the night, while you’re waiting to be attacked and unsure if you’ll live to see the dawn, there’s nothing to do but read.” He paused, and they stared at each other. “I do care about things other than war,” he added, unable to keep a hint of reproach out of his voice. He’d done the things he’d done because he was a professional soldier and he’d had to, not because he derived pleasure from the abstract act of killing.

  “Quote me something else.”

  “Though she is the girl, I am the one made demure: for though she is laden with silks, it is I who cannot move for the burden placed upon me; and she who is the woman, but the coward, me.”

  The silence stretched.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Yes?” he echoed, uncertain and unwilling to draw conclusions.

  “I accept.”

  The world stopped, along with his heart.

  He had proposed marriage to a woman he was rapidly coming to believe he couldn’t live without—although he couldn’t say why that should even be—and she had accepted. He hadn’t realized, until right this moment, how certain he’d been that she would not. And in truth he couldn’t quite credit that such a glorious creature would be his, that he could keep her for himself and lavish attention on her and that she in turn would please him with her mind and her body and submit to him and do as he asked. It was a heady image, and he’d never felt a more achingly strong desire to possess her—all at once, in every possible way that one person could possess another.

  Aria didn’t want his wealth, or his titles. Indeed, those things appeared to be an active deterrent. She wanted to be loved, and he loved her. He hoped that, in time, she would come to care for him in return. But for now, it was enough that she was his and was prepared to give him what he wanted.

  “Aria,” he said quietly, “I believe that I can make you happy.”

  She nodded slightly. He wished he could read her expression. Reaching out, he brushed his fingertips down the side of her face. Her skin was very soft. Sliding his hand around to the nape of her neck, he leaned forward and kissed her. She stiffened at first, and then yielded. His fingers twined in her hair as, with his other hand, he pressed her against him. And then he felt her hands resting on his shoulder, caressing the curve of his jaw. She opened her mouth to his, warm and sensitive and hesitant, and it was like being drugged.

  He pulled her forward onto his lap and she sat there like a child, limp, her head on his chest. She fit against him as perfectly as if she’d been designed for him. He stroked her absent-mindedly. There was a great deal to do between now and tomorrow morning, and now that his mind was free for other matters he had to get back to work. He’d make the arrangements for the marriage; that was a man’s job. And she needed some sleep.

  “When?” she asked.

  “Tomorrow night.” That would give him time to meet with his new staff and his servants time to unpack. Meanwhile, she could use the time to prepare herself however she saw fit.

  And as for her illusions about what marriage consisted of, she’d need some time to adjust but he’d break her in eventually. She’d learn to obey him, and enjoy it. Of that he was certain.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Kisten put on his uniform for the last time and went to meet his fate.

  A commission was not a life sentence, but it was sometimes treated as one. An enlisted man served for a set term of years and when that term ended, he went home. An officer, however, served at the pleasure of the Emperor. He, too, agreed to serve for a set period; however, unless he actively resigned his commission, he remained a soldier and subject to recall at any time.

  Moreover, that a resignation was submitted did not mean that it was granted. In wartime, especially—and within Kisten’s adult life it had always been wartime—requests were usually denied. Admiral Zamindari, however, was here for the express purpose of receiving his.

  Having to share a table with the man had been galling, but Aria had charmed him. She’d be useful, Kisten thought. Dinner and his reception by the admiral in general would have been much less pleasant except for the old man regarding Aria as his long-lost daughter and wishing, therefore, to spare her embarrassment. That Kisten Mara Sant, potential heir to the throne should be inconvenienced concerned the admiral not at all.

  He found himself smiling slightly. For what did a man get married, if not to find a partner?

  He’d had a quiet dinner with Aria in his cabin, snatching a few moments—all too brief moments—to answer her questions and discuss their upcoming plans. She’d been quiet and subdued, but interested. This was, after all, her future. He would have loved to stay and acquaint her with other aspects of her future but he’d had too much work and moreover needed a nap of his own. There would be time enough tonight, he reflected.

  Entering his own office, he removed his cover. He felt like a supplicant. The admiral was waiting for him, as was Setji. As the current ranking member of the civil service, Setji would be the one to offer Kisten his new appointment. Which also galled him.

  The admiral, for once, was quiet. Kisten waited, every muscle and fiber taut with tension. He hated this.

  “Your letter?” the admiral asked.

  Kisten handed him the envelope containing his formal written request to resign from the only job—only life—he’d ever wanted. He hadn’t known it was possible to feel so lonely, or so wretched. The temptation was overwhelming to throw himself out
an airlock, to feel the final embrace of space before oblivion took him and he no longer had to face the fact that he was a failure. The only thing stopping him was the knowledge that he’d just agreed to marry a woman who’d be friendless and penniless without him. If they’d already been married, she could go home and live with his parents—no woman should be subjected to living with Keshav—and claim her rights as his lawful widow and eventually get remarried. But now….

  “I accept your resignation,” said the admiral. He held out his hand. “We’ve lost a good officer. Politics aside, Kit, it’s always been a pleasure to serve with you. Maybe some day, when the affairs of mice and men no longer matter….” He left the thought unfinished.

  “Thank you, admiral,” said Kisten, accepting the withered but still-firm hand.

  “I think you’re a fool,” said Setji, suddenly, “but I’m no fan of Karan, either.” He handed Kisten his orders. “You can’t connect the dots going forward, old boy. Buck up and fly right.”

  “The day I take advice from you, Setji,” replied Kisten, not unkindly, “is the day I pursue a career as a cross-dressing ballerina.”

  “Do you feel better now?” Setji sounded genuinely curious.

  “No.”

  The admiral looked from one man to the other, trying to understand what exactly had just taken place. Kisten only wished he knew. Apparently giving up, the older man took his leave and left Kisten and his former roommate alone in the office that had once been his. He’d never wanted to command a flying bathtub like the Atropos, even for such a short amount of time, but he’d grown oddly fond of the old girl.

  “So tonight’s the big night, eh?”

  Kisten just looked at him.

  “Congratulations.” Setji favored him with one of the three or four genuine smiles that Kisten had ever seen on his former roommate’s face. The last had been, not when Kisten pulled him out of the window but after he’d gotten out of the infirmary and used the same poker on the boy who’d dangled him out the window and almost cost him his hands. He’d come back to the room that he and Kisten shared, and smiled in the moonlight. Kisten found himself wondering, for the first time, what Setji had been like before he’d come to Ceridou.