by P. J. Fox
He smiled faintly in return. “Thank you.”
“She’s a wonderful woman.” And then, embarrassed by such a flagrant display of emotion, Setji turned and left.
Kisten stared out the window for the last time, and contemplated the future. A few minutes later he turned and, without looking back, followed the others out the door. He returned to his rooms, stopping only once to speak with Aros. It was both a relief and a burden to be alone.
He thought again about how easy it would be to end this. Because of his own rash judgment, there was every chance he’d never go home. Keshav had warned him not to confront Karan and he’d done so, anyway—in open senate, where telling the heir to the throne that the navy would never support him had amounted to treason. And then out had come the weapons. Kisten was lucky he hadn’t been skinned alive, the traditional punishment for seditionists.
Kisten’s parents were on his side, but at what cost to themselves? His father was still Chancellor but Kisten hadn’t helped his chances of keeping the position. Rajesh already had a bitter enemy in Karan; Kisten had made Karan look a great deal more reasonable in his claims that Rajesh was a threat to the throne and not to be trusted. After all, would the man’s own son denounce him, Karan, without his father’s support?
His brother the war hero was currently one of the deputy directors of the Imperial Intelligence Service, the most important and prestigious intelligence organization in the empire—and there were many. Now he was also the brother of an accused traitor. Of course, Keshav being Keshav, he wasn’t terribly concerned. He would, he’d assured Kisten, be director of the IIS within five years—a lofty claim for a man who hadn’t yet turned thirty-three.
Keshav had told Kisten he needed him. But did he?
He thought about Autumn. Shy, serious-eyed Autumn. She reminded him a great deal of his brother. Like most children who were too smart for their own good, she was frighteningly ahead of the curve in some areas and just as frighteningly behind in others. When she mastered the social graces, however, she’d have every man on Brontes eating out of her hand.
Keshav had been alone far too long. Almost seven years now, Kisten realized. Keshav had lost the woman he loved in a horrible accident, but he still hadn’t found his soul mate.
Kisten pulled his service weapon out of its holster and laid it on the bed in front of him. If he put himself out of his misery, the blot on his family’s honor would be erased. A number of people were, he knew, waiting for him to do just that—some with bated breath. Had it been only Kisten’s imagination, or had the admiral been surprised to see him this morning? There were some who might argue that failing to fall on his sword when he’d had the chance was not sporting. Neither of course, was shooting his beloved brother in the stomach. His brother, who’d be even more alone.
He and Keshav had discussed the placement of the wound carefully. It had to be a location that was believable for the infliction of a mortal wound, yet reliably capable of repair. Arteries were to be avoided; he’d bleed to death before he could be gotten into surgery. Chest wounds were to be avoided for the same reason. And as Kisten was known to be an excellent marksman, it wasn’t believable that he’d miss. But gut wounds were notoriously agonizing and, if left untreated, produced a slow death that would not be envied in Hell.
They’d arranged for there to be witnesses and they’d arranged, too, for one of his brother’s cronies to be on hand to secure medical attention. Kisten had been long gone while Keshav was still in surgery. At first, he’d only known that his brother was alright because Keshav was his twin, and he’d known.
That the entire spectacle had been Keshav’s idea did nothing to alleviate his guilt. He’d shot and almost killed his own brother and he didn’t know how to live with that knowledge. Circumstances weren’t worth shit; circumstances were excuses. If he hadn’t been such an abject failure in the first place, his brother never would have had to make that sacrifice—not just for Kisten but for himself.
His eyes traced the clean, graceful lines of the weapon.
If he died, Aria would almost certainly die, too—or, worse, end up as a drudge in some colonist’s household. The men on this ship were not his friends, and the only man he’d trust to see that she came to no harm was on Brontes. No, he realized, he’d brought her here and in so doing he’d gained a responsibility for her welfare. She might not love him, might even be happier if he died, but he couldn’t turn his back on her even so.
He might have lost everything, but he still had a duty. His decisions mattered, if only to one person and not perhaps in the way he’d hoped. And he found that realization strangely comforting.
Having made a decision, Kisten felt a sense of calm settle over him. His fingers found the high, stiff collar of his jacket and made quick work of the buttons. Shrugging it off over his shoulders, he draped it carefully over the back of a chair. Next, he untied his tie and removed his starched white shirt. He folded both and laid them on the seat of the chair.
He stared at them for a long time.
THIRTY-SEVEN
He’d just begun unbuckling his belt when Raed appeared. The valet was middle-aged and as ill-tempered as an elephant, but he’d been with Kisten for years. As soldiers had no need for servants, Raed had spent most of that time puttering around Kisten’s parent’s house or playing housekeeper to whatever excuse for cantonment housing Kisten had been assigned.
“Good morning, Your Highness.”
Kisten growled irritably. “Oh, fuck off.”
“Very good, sir. I’ve brought your trousers, sir.”
Kisten looked up. “Trousers?” he repeated stupidly.
“Unless sir wishes to introduce a new fashion.” Raed laid them out on the bed.
“I don’t need a valet.”
Raed disappeared into the other room and came back a moment later with socks, a belt, and the undershirt he’d wear under layer after elaborate layer. He disappeared again and Kisten could hear him puttering around. Smiling slightly, he unbuckled his belt and stepped out of his pants. Pulling the belt out and draping it over the back of the chair, he folded his pants and added them to the pile. He’d showered and shaved not an hour ago, so all that remained was to transform himself back into the Prince of the Blood that he was supposed to be.
He picked up the belt that Raed had brought, a long piece of supple black leather, and examined the buckle: an abstract design of diamonds and seed pearls set into an oval.
The trousers were cut from a fine, flowing black wool that had been tailored to fit just so. Tonight, for the wedding, he’d wear something less somber. His current attire was calculated to intimidate and Aria was intimidated enough already. He’d just finished buckling his belt and pulling on his undershirt when Raed reappeared carrying a black lacquered box.
“You need a valet,” he said, replying to the statement Kisten had made almost ten minutes ago, “in order to achieve such sartorial splendor as befits your station. A prince with mismatched socks strikes fear into the heart of no man.” He placed the box on the table, moved Kisten’s uniform and then pointed to the now-empty chair. “Sit,” he said.
Kisten sat.
“For tonight,” Kisten began, and Raed nodded.
“I thought the embroidered silk,” he finished, nodding to himself. “I’ll have it pressed.”
He picked up Kisten’s hand and, no more mindful of him than if he’d been a rag doll, began to give him a manicure. Kisten submitted, feeling somewhat bemused. Raed worked quickly and efficiently, and after a final examination of Kisten’s cuticles began painting his short, square nails a deep forest green.
“Are you going to paint my toes, too?” Kisten inquired good-naturedly.
Raed favored him with a flat look.
While the lacquer dried, he removed several more items from the box and, having laid them out to his personal satisfaction, approached Kisten with a kohl pencil. Kisten grimaced; he was going to come out of this looking exactly like his father, a prospe
ct that did not appeal to him. “Don’t put my eye out.”
“He whines like a mule,” observed the valet to himself as he forced Kisten’s head back. “His Highness should remember that I’ve been doing this for longer than he’s been alive.”
He worked from underneath the lash line, forcing the kohl between the lashes. It wasn’t the most pleasant experience one could have. Oblivious to Kisten’s discomfort—or simply disinterested, which was far more likely—he shared his musings on the subject of male beauty.
“Men’s grooming finds its origins in evolution,” he said. “Mother Nature—or God, if you prefer—chose to endow the male of the species, be he prince or peacock, with more color and splendor than his female counterpart. Thus it has ever been the job of the male to attract a mate—and the more he stood out from his competition, the greater his chances of doing so! Which is why men, even now, share a natural predisposition toward personal grooming. Which should include the use of cosmetics whenever possible!” He stepped back and eyed his canvas. “The peacock must display his feathers to be prominent in a competitive society.”
“The peacock,” replied Kisten, “is a notoriously stupid bird.”
Raed arched his eyebrow.
Kisten stood before the mirror as Raed helped him into his robes. First came the high-collared, slim-fitting shirt, heavily embroidered in eggshell upon eggshell. The shirt was slightly open at the neck, revealing an inch or two of skin. He held out his arms for the coat. Fitting perfectly through the chest and shoulders, it fanned out into a half moon on the floor behind him. It had been cut from the same fine wool—it was not an outdoor garment—and heavily embroidered in forest green. Black and green were, of course, the colors of House Mara Sant.
The high, stiff collar curved around his neck, framing his face and giving him a pleasantly sinister aspect. Silk thread and tens of thousands of beads glittered in the low light. Raed fastened the hidden buttons that held the front of his coat closed until it flared open beneath the waist. Kisten stepped into his shoes, and then it was done.
Raed withdrew, leaving him alone to study his reflection. The man standing in front of him was a stranger. He’d be thirty-three in less than a month; for almost fifteen years, he’d defined his existence by his identity as a professional soldier and now everything he’d worked for seemed meaningless. What were military accomplishments in a civilian world?
No one cared what rank he’d achieved, or what medals he’d won, except maybe if they made him seem more impressive as a dinner guest. Men like Setji, who’d spent their adult lives pandering to civilian authorities, had the advantage. Kisten might be able to save a man who’d blown himself out an airlock but he wasn’t much for cocktail parties. He found the conversation trifling and dull. And, he had to admit, at court he’d gotten by mostly on his looks.
He didn’t know who he was, anymore. The man he’d been had died when he was charged with treason. He’d always been a great deal shallower than he’d been willing to admit, his gods of duty and honor far more brittle. Defining himself by his devotion to the empire and his fierce admiration for the men with whom he’d been so fortunate to serve, he’d thus far avoided discovering who he was apart from those things.
He’d exchanged one mantle of authority for another, but the rank of commander was one he’d earned. The navy promoted on merit, and if anything his titles had counted against him. From the beginning, he’d fought against the assumption that anyone born so close to the throne must be a weakling and a charity case. And there were always some; his brother Arjun was one. Incapable of forging his own path, he’d been found a nice, cushy position within the army as a glorified file clerk. The less he came into work, the happier everyone was—a situation that, Kisten knew, had been replicated many times in the civil service. Kisten, meanwhile, had fought, not for medals or glory, but for the respect of his men.
The mantle of prince, however, was a genetic accident—and he didn’t know how to be worthy of it.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Aria felt numb.
Garja twittered around her, oblivious, pinning here and tucking there. This was, Aria knew, one of the happiest days of Garja’s life—as Garja herself had lost no time in explaining. The little maid, who lived for hair and cosmetics and fashion and glamour, had been thrilled beyond all rational expectation to discover that she, Garja, was going to be the personal attendant of a princess. A princess! Aria could shop for all the best and most expensive clothes and Garja would get to play with them and dress Aria up in them and all the other servants at the residency would be so jealous that Garja alone got to care for His Highness’ consort.
Of course, she’d mused, more to herself than to Aria, a princess needed more than one attendant but as those attendants would all be working under Garja and reporting to her she didn’t mind. This was, Aria realized with a start, a serious promotion and Garja’s life would improve in every possible way: with new responsibilities would come better housing, a larger allowance and, of course, increased self-respect. Most of all, Garja had been thrilled to learn from Kisten’s steward that she’d be receiving a large suite of rooms for her own personal use. As she’d detested her roommate, this was incredible news. Her new apartment, she’d been told, came with a private walled garden with grape and wisteria vines and a fountain.
Learning all of this had made Aria feel selfish and, with that, guilty. She’d had no idea that her decisions could affect someone else’s life so profoundly. If nothing else, she was beginning to feel like she had to go through with the marriage because she owed it to Garja.
Garja, waving an eye shadow brush like a concert baton, waxed poetic about how she loved Kisten, thought all the women in his family were beautiful and thought Aria was beautiful, too. And so exotic! She peered into Aria’s eyes and remarked again that her round pupils were fascinating and how was it that she only had one eyelid? “I mean,” she asked, pulling back, “how can you see?”
Aria laughed.
A hunter’s eyes were a vital piece of equipment and human beings were hunters. The position of Brontes relative to its sun, as well as its tilt on its axis meant that the sun was only really bright a few hours a day. The Bronte eye, therefore, was optimized for a life of twilight. Elliptical pupils shrank to a much smaller aperture than circular pupils and used fewer muscles to do so—thus protecting the eyes during those few hours of glaring sun. And during the rest of the day, their pupils opened much wider and they saw much more. What Aria found most interesting was that, regardless of distance, all objects were in focus.
She’d been nearsighted until she’d had her vision corrected, but nearsighted didn’t exist on Brontes.
Having declared her hair and face finished, Garja helped Aria step into her dress: a lovely and unusual piece, dark green cotton trimmed with ornate jeweled embroidery. The scooped neck revealed her collarbone, and capped sleeves covered her upper arms. The full skirt glittered like an ornament, its thick, banded hem reflecting every color of the rainbow.
Aria’s hair had been swept back in a low bun to which Garja now pinned a veil of diaphanous material in the same dark green that fell almost to the floor. Another band of elaborate embroidery framed her face, which was fully visible as the veil seemed more ornamental than meant to serve any actual purpose. Garja settled it over her shoulders, so it covered her arms.
“If only we had proper jewelry,” she mused, tugging here and poking there. Aria was already so sparkly, she didn’t see how anyone could even tell if she was wearing any. Making one last adjustment to the veil, Garja stepped back and clapped excitedly. “You look beautiful! Even if the style is more Caiphi than Bronte. Oh, well, some things can’t be helped! And soon we can go shopping for dresses and veils and shoes and lingerie and—oh!”
At the mention of lingerie, Aria felt a stab of unease and wondered again what she was getting herself into. Garja was fascinated with lingerie; in a culture where the merest flash of ankle was a rare treat, quite a bit was made
of those times when people got to be alone. In a former age, it had been commonplace for women to remain hidden behind high walls, their beauty for the sole pleasure of their husbands—or owners. Entirely too much effort was made, in Aria’s opinion, to please one man. And what did he have to do to please them?
“You do not…find him attractive?” Garja considered this new bit of information.
Aria flushed, not realizing that she’d spoken aloud. She wondered how to explain her feelings, or even if she should. Assuming that she, herself, could make some sense of what they were. Less than twenty-four hours ago, she’d agreed to spend the rest of her natural life with a man she barely knew and didn’t even like. Even now, she couldn’t understand why—only that it had seemed like the right thing to do at the time and that, in retrospect, she wasn’t sure she could have brought herself to say no. Indeed, she’d felt almost like some outside force had compelled her….
She forced herself back into the present moment. “I don’t know what to expect,” she said lamely.
“You mean…in the bedroom?” Garja inquired, apparently considering that such a discussion was perfectly normal.
Aria’s blush deepened. She didn’t know what to expect there, either, but that wasn’t what she’d meant. “No,” she said, “from marriage in general. Our customs are so different.”
“Oh.” Garja removed a pair of embroidered slippers from a box. Aria wondered again where all these clothes had come from. “Everyone has a place,” she said, her tone oddly philosophical. “You’ll meet other women living in the cantonments and you’ll be less lonely.” She sighed happily. “Regimental life is quite grand, or so I’ve been told. There are dinners and balls and all sorts of delightful things all the time, since Tarsonis itself is such a dreary place. And of course Ananda”—that venerable man being Kisten’s chief steward—“says that the rules are relaxed given that everyone’s out in the middle of nowhere. The social rules, I mean—who can do what and where. I don’t know, though,” she added dubiously, “I think there’s something to be said for formality, especially as regards men and women.” She made a dismissive gesture. “Do you really want some strange man ogling you?”
