by P. J. Fox
Her tolerance for him is, I fear, greatly exacerbated by the fact that he’s stupid. Having already experienced a bit of a trial, what with our exercises in fraternal devotion, I felt that she might be concerned if Arjun were to be returned to her without kneecaps. So I bailed him out, myself—on the condition that if he ever begs me for help again I’ll cut his hand off and he can see how much he enjoys playing cards, then. He’s been an obedient little boy, since, because he knows I mean it. Mother may have forbidden me from killing him, but she said nothing about maiming and as she loves him despite his lack of either intelligence or moral character she can love him just as well without a limb.
Kisten didn’t entirely follow Keshav’s logic—surely, if she’d be upset by Arjun losing his kneecaps then she’d be equally upset by his losing his hand?—but perhaps Keshav had been concerned about sepsis. Or, more likely, about someone ridding the planet of Arjun before he had a chance to. Kisten was rather disappointed that Arjun hadn’t died; he still remembered the malicious, indiscriminate bully his brother had been as a child. His sly, flat eyes had a lazy sort of watchfulness about them that had always reminded Kisten of a jackal.
And on the subject of your marriage, Keshav said, concluding the letter, may she be the song to your verse. I look forward to meeting her. Kisten read, too, what Keshav hadn’t written: that the fact of his absence seemed impossible.
Being one half of a whole meant that, from his earliest memories, he knew what it was to experience true companionship. He also knew that identical twins tended to set high, if not unachievable goals for their partners. They’d been born into intimacy, and wouldn’t settle for anything less than the total joining of souls that twinship represented.
For most of the people he’d met, the concept of soul mates was an abstract one, an ideal to be read about in romance novels but not necessarily experienced in real life. Most marriages were far more about acceptance and compromise than passion, and Kisten understood on an intellectual level that all relationships required effort, but the thought of sharing his life with a stranger was actually unbearable. He wanted a partner who was part of himself, like Keshav was part of himself, someone who filled in the part that both he and Keshav were missing.
Kisten had thus decided long ago that he could never get married, because such a union wasn’t possible. And then he’d met Aria and fallen in love with her, as his father had once said in regards to his own marriage, between one breath and the next. He’d felt that same sense of twinship with her from the moment they’d met, and even if it made her hate him she was uncannily good at knowing what he was thinking.
She’d exhibited no jealousy over the idea that no one would ever be as close to him as his brother, possibly because she didn’t care about him but Kisten didn’t think so. She’d been both accepting of and curious about the relationship he’d described, asking a number of questions and concluding that she’d like to meet Keshav. Kisten didn’t know what Aria felt for him, but lately it had begun to seem as though she felt something. And sometimes when she touched him, it almost seemed like….
No. There was no sense in getting his hopes up.
He paused, listening. Even from this distance, he could hear the first faint strains of revelry drifting in from Haldon. The capital was celebrating, if not the same thing he was then at least something. He put down the tablet and, standing, walked over to the window. His thoughts pulled him inward, downward, until the concept of time ceased to mean much. There were only the panes of glass, and the iron bars, and the compound beyond. People were traversing the paths, chatting and laughing and doing everything they could do to make the most of the day. And if their laughter had a slightly hysterical edge to it, so what?
SIXTY-SEVEN
Aria smiled at her husband and, after a minute, he smiled back. But his attention was elsewhere and, when she’d first seen him, she’d gotten the impression that he wasn’t entirely happy to see her. Some undefined emotion had flickered in his eyes, there and gone almost too quickly for her to catch; but she had caught it, and trepidation warred with her good spirits. Was he mad at her? He had no reason to be, although he could be unpredictable at the best of times.
They’d agreed to meet in the larger of their two private sitting rooms and she’d been there when he’d arrived, watching the garden emerge from the fog. It promised to be a sun-filled afternoon, or as sun-filled as afternoons got on Tarsonis. Still, beggars couldn’t be choosers and her memories of life aboard one cramped and lightless ship after another were fresh enough that the very sight of green leaves and dew still filled her with wonder.
He walked over to her and stood looking down at her. “What are you thinking?” he asked unexpectedly.
She met his gaze, aware that she was blushing and unable to do anything about the condition. “I was thinking,” she said, feeling unaccountably embarrassed, “both that you look quite handsome and that I’m glad to see you.” Outside, the garden’s resident troupe of frogs renewed their chorus of springtime love songs. They were either very industrious gentlemen or very desperate ones, because they never seemed to pause for a break.
“You are?” he asked, an odd note in his voice.
“Yes I am,” she affirmed tartly, “although I might not be for much longer as you seem to be in a rather foul humor.”
They stood side by side, gazing out at the greenery. Aria hoped the rain would hold off; even though she’d spend most of the afternoon indoors, she wanted things to be nice for the people in the city. And, selfishly, she wanted to see the fireworks; she adored fireworks and always had, and was desperately curious to learn what differences, if any, there were in the Bronte variety.
Kisten sighed. “I’m not,” he said, expression softening. He brushed the back of his hand against her cheek, and smiled that strange half smile that wasn’t a smile at all. She returned it all the same, thinking how unfair it was that someone so difficult should be so good looking.
Not good looking—beautiful. His usual cold, measured stare and the firm set to his lips gave no hint of the fire that lay beneath. That she knew it was there made it all the more exciting to her. She’d caught herself, lately, thinking about how she felt when he touched her and particularly of the night when he’d made love to her under the trees.
His hair was as neat and conservative as ever, but he’d let it grow out a bit and now it fell gracefully over his forehead from a low side part. Glamorous was the word that came to mind for that particular feature, she decided. She’d heard the color described as raven, which was apt: like a raven’s feather, it was so black as to almost have blue highlights and it was very, very shiny.
A singular unfairness of life, Aria decided, was that men always got the shiniest hair and longest eyelashes. She reached up and, uncertain of her reception, brushed his hair back from his face. Seeing him like this, standing in the unforgiving natural light and smiling slightly, almost sadly, it was obvious for the first time how young he really was. “I like this,” she said. “It suits you.”
His coat was a beautiful deep vermilion, silk covered in an intricate design created with thousands of minute gold beads. The color could have been created just for him, it suited him so perfectly. Gold adorned both the high color and long, wide cuffs, as well as the front and hem, which flared slightly below the waist and reached to an inch or so below his knee. Beneath, his trousers were a darker shade of the same color. The toe of one gold slipper peeked out from beneath a cuff. He took her hand and held it. “I’m not in a bad mood, just…tired.”
“Are you sure?” she asked, trying for levity. The way he was looking at her made her mouth dry. She found her eyes following the curve of his lips. “I can’t tell you how discouraged I’d be to discover that you were in a bad mood over the idea of celebrating our wedding.”
“Is that something you wish to celebrate?” He sounded surprised.
She frowned. “Yes,” she said, taken aback. “You…don’t?”
“No,” he
said, “of course I do. I just…want you to be happy.”
Aria smiled slightly. “Well,” she began, drawing out the syllable, “apart from the fact that the food is terrible and half of my clothes have gone missing because my maid is having an affair and—”
He kissed her, very thoroughly and soundly, being careful not to disturb her hair. Which showed that he knew entirely too much about women. She kissed him back, not caring. He put his arm around her, sliding it gently up her back as he pulled her toward him. The gesture was at once tender and possessive, and her mouth opened under his as he molded her to him. His touch was still so new, the jumbled mass of emotions it produced still too much to sort through or understand. She wanted to pull back and run away, maybe hit him, but at the same time she wanted him to kiss her harder.
Hearing an embarrassed cough, she turned. There was the photographer, standing in the door. She stepped back slightly, the unexpected passion leaving her flushed and slightly breathless.
He mumbled something, his ears flaming red. Kisten returned the greeting with his usual good manners, his arm still around Aria. The photographer waited, presumably expecting something. Kisten regarded him blandly. After a beat, he nodded to himself and, still muttering unintelligibly, began setting up his equipment.
Aria watched, fascinated. The closest she’d ever come to formal portraits was the graduation ball, where some beastly man with roving eyes had been hired to take pictures of all the couples. This photographer was obviously mortified to have interrupted such an intimate moment.
Kisten was aware of this also, flashing her a brief smile that made him look like a naughty schoolboy. Humor danced in his violet eyes. Meeting them, she felt the tingling, light-headed sensation return.
He was about to say something when the photographer spoke. “Um,” he cleared his throat, “we should begin, Lord Governor, at your convenience.”
The room itself made a lovely backdrop, wainscoting that ended just above chair rail height giving way to a lovely raised plaster motif of repeating leaves and swirling, highly stylized blooms. Both dainty and charming, it provided a pleasant counterpoint to the dark wood beneath. One of the couches had been moved, an ornately carved and gilded monstrosity with a low back that had been upholstered in heavy cream-colored silk. Matching end tables bracketed either side, each of which displayed astonishingly ornate—matching—flower arrangements. Exactly the sort of setting in which one might expect to find a prince.
Kisten evidently thought so, because he threw himself down onto the couch and sprawled there negligently. Slouching slightly, he rested one arm along the low back and left the other in his lap. He looked like he should’ve been holding a drink. Crooking a finger, he beckoned her over. She joined him, seating herself next to him on the couch. His languid attitude only served to heighten his natural aura of command; he was like a lion, Aria concluded, only casually possessive of his domain because he had no need to compete.
In contrast, she arranged her skirts about her carefully in a manner that was both self-contained and dignified. He watched her, a faint trace of amusement lingering in his eyes. “You look attractive,” he remarked, in a somewhat bored tone.
“You should see what I have on underneath,” she replied primly.
His eyes flashed.
Smiling slightly, she laid her head against his shoulder and put her hand on his chest. And that was the picture that, in the end, circled the empire: Kisten staring straight into the camera, eyes hard and face expressionless and looking every inch the prince while Aria, looking feminine and soft and happy, smiled slightly. She, as both the press and private citizens would later point out, humanized him. And Aria, when she studied one of the prints again some time later, would note with mixed feelings and no small amount of chagrin that her husband’s aura of lazy, almost disinterested dominion came partly from her own deferential attitude.
SIXTY-EIGHT
Aria paused at the door to the sitting room.
“What?” Kisten asked.
She bit her lip, which made him want to kiss it. He had, after all, rather enjoyed having his picture taken and wished she sat like that with him more often. “It’s Zerus,” she said in a low voice. “He insisted on sitting at the head table and I—didn’t know what to do.”
Which, ironically, pleased him. Aria was always so self-sufficient and unwilling to admit that there was anything she couldn’t do. That she hadn’t been able to ward off Zerus made her seem vulnerable, and him feel needed. “He will, at least, provide some comic relief in the form of regaling us all with illustrations of my faults,” Kisten told her encouragingly. “Or perhaps, if we’re really lucky, he’ll tell us more about the evils of incest.”
Her eyebrows drew down in a small frown. “Your great-grandparents loved each other, and were consenting adults.” She looked up. “What business is it of his?”
Kisten had no response, because he agreed with her. He’d often been told that an intimate relationship with one’s sibling was wrong, simply because it was. An argument based on repulsion was no argument at all. And if incest was unnatural—something he didn’t necessarily believe—then natural didn’t necessarily equate to good. Tsunamis and plagues were natural.
“And why,” she mused, “does he insist on joining us if he hates us so?”
Us. He smiled slightly. “You could have asked me for help,” he pointed out.
“You’re too busy to be distracted by something so stupid.” Her frown deepened. “I’m sorry your brother can’t be here.”
“Aria….” He stopped. He often chose to remain silent; he was rarely at a loss for words. He tried to think how to explain. She waited. He had both her patience and her trust, although he deserved neither. “Please understand that—”
“He’s not first,” she said softly, as though observing something simple, “he’s part of you. You’re really two halves of the same whole to each other, aren’t you? Accepting someone means accepting all of them—I understand that.” She placed her small hand on his chest.
Her eyes were kind. She understood—of course she did. Better than he himself did. He wanted to tell her he loved her, but he was uncertain of how she’d respond and he didn’t want to embarrass her—or himself. So instead he kissed her again, lightly, on the cheek. She smelled of roses, which he liked. He’d never associated roses with anything in particular, but now they’d always make him think of her.
He’d done nothing in his life to deserve this moment, and maybe that was why he didn’t want to spoil it by forcing her to tell him she didn’t love him—or, worse, forcing her to lie. He’d see the lie in her eyes, and he’d know, and he wasn’t sure if he could bear knowing that she felt she had to lie to him. But as long as he didn’t know for certain, he could engage in the far more pleasurable occupation of lying to himself.
He drew back, and offered her his arm. “Shall we?”
The doors separating the rotunda and the hall beyond had been propped open, joining the disparate spaces into one gigantic room. Tables had been set up all over, each holding eight or so, following the traditional—formal—floor plan. If there was one thing Ceres enjoyed, it was tradition. Particularly resurrecting obscure traditions that no one cared for and that were, in all honesty, best forgotten. Kisten had heard disquieting rumors about the menu, and had ignored them in the faint but cherished hope that they weren’t true.
The most important—read: least pleasant—guests would be dining here, basking in the presence of greatness and no doubt demanding favors. A central aisle bisected the two halves of the hall, allowing passage from one end to the other. Reaching the head, Kisten paused and surveyed the scene before him. The tables were, of course, already filled and several hundred expectant faces looked back at him. Arriving after the ranking royal at any event that included one was unpardonably rude, so it was incumbent upon said royal to be late.
Possibly the only relaxing thing about work was that this and other equally pointless conventions wer
e ignored.
“Lie back and think of the empire,” Aria murmured.
“Make me laugh and I swear I will cane you,” he replied.
She smiled.
They were announced, and everyone stood. Eyes followed them as, slowly, they made their way down the aisle. His only consolation while enduring this gauntlet was the knowledge that no one was looking at him. Breathless attention was fixed on the newest and, in his opinion, most attractive member of the court. Most women in her place would have made an effort to appear bored, as though such interest were not only an expected fact of life but tiresome to boot. Aria, on the other hand, was unabashedly delighted and people loved her for it.
Their table was in the small hall, which afforded them some privacy by virtue of the fact that the doors between the two halls were relatively small and there were only a few tables in this second and more intimate space. While the arrangement undoubtedly seemed odd to Aria—she’d described Solarians as mingling rather freely—it was typical for a Bronte gathering of this sort. Opportunities for social advancement aside, few people actually wished to eat with their sovereign; doing so necessitated perfect manners and perfectly dull conversation. The compromise solution of having him present but removed somewhat from the principal goings-on meant that his guests could enjoy themselves and still have something to brag about the next morning.
Ceres was already present, having come in just before them.
Apart from themselves and Ceres, their table consisted of Zerus, General Bihar, a slight, pleasant-seeming woman who was presumably his consort, the Director of the Alliance mission, the chief commissioner, the Haldon chief of police, his consort, Setji, and—Naomi.
