She understood then how Second and the Ambassador could need movement. She spent the evening in fruitless motion, hugging herself, trying to outpace the din in her head, the one she'd summoned to drown out the things there she did not want to hear. She walked. She glanced out the window and back again, her head swinging wildly. The morning encroached and still she could not sleep.
"Will you tell me a story today to explain this morning?" the Slave Queen asked when the Ambassador entered, as he must, inevitable as the dawn that had separated her from the unending night.
He stopped at the landing. "Lady?"
"Why," she said. "Why this light seems so different." She stopped at the window to gather it against herself, to feel it as inspiration, as softness for a chafed and agitated soul. "Why I cannot stand still. Why you are now the sky and I the clouds dashing across it." She stopped, pressing her wings tightly toward her back, as tightly as the lacquered folds would allow. "Why the Mother is alive, and you are alive, and nothing is the same."
He walked closer then. "Has something changed so much, then?"
"You have made my life different," she said. "And that was strange enough. Then you made Laniis's different. And then Second's, and the Emperor's ... and the Surgeon's, and now the Mother's. You are everywhere. You make people behave in ways they do not behave." She stopped moving with difficulty. "Tell me a story to explain this. There must be an explanation in some language, somewhere."
He laughed then, and she noticed him for the first time, noticed that he looked complete in himself as he had not for weeks. His smile was unfettered, his movements a pure grace that was nothing like Chatcaavan, not at all feral. Only purposeful and finished.
"What happened?" she asked.
He sought and found the juice she hadn't had the concentration to prepare for them and poured it himself. "The Emperor thanked me for his son."
"And that's why you did it," the Slave Queen said, struggling for some claw-hold on this cliff of unreason.
"No... and well you know it," he said. He sipped of his cup, his eyes gliding past her shoulder to the window and the sun rising through it. "Here is the simplest of stories, lady, the fundamental story that moves my race. Once upon a time, there was a woman. And she so loved the world that she died to save it."
"That makes no sense!" the Slave Queen exclaimed and fought the beauty of the image, fought the beating of her heart. She covered her eyes and would have died to weep then, to be able to release her confusion... and in that moment felt arms wrap around her and pull her against an alien-hot chest, against raw silk and smooth skin and the smell of sweat and flowers.
"Gently, lady," the Ambassador said, though in the corded muscle of his arms she felt his strength. "Is it not enough that Laniis is free and the Mother is alive?"
She let his slower heart lull her into quiescence and whimpered against his chest. She did not want to feel. Did not want to remember regret and sorrow and guilt and fear. Did not want to hold the fragile flower of hope. She wanted none of these things, but she did not resist him. If through all he did, he remained himself enough to save others at great cost to himself... then was this herself? This creature bending to another's will? Was that beauty, or merely insanity?
"It is not wrong to lean on another when you have come to the end of your strength," he said.
"It may not be wrong," she said, "but you will die of it."
"Have you died?" he asked. "Have I?"
"Not yet," she said. "Not yet."
She did not, however, pull away.
The day was a liar to follow such a promising morning with such a frustrating afternoon. Third had not yet returned. Second had gone back to refusing his invitations. And his mailbox from the Alliance was full of smothering worry on one hand—was he sure that he was fine having stayed despite the escape of the slaves—and depressing requests for updates, to which he had no news. His own success had put him in this position; the diplomatic corps obviously expected miracles of him. Immediately. He wondered if he should tell them how those miracles were secured in the Empire.
Would they be surprised? How many other people had used bed-games to affect politics? And if the bed-games were more about power and violence than typical, better to be honest about it than hide it.
Still, he was discouraged enough that he almost skipped supper. Almost. He forced himself to dress and head into the breezy evening... and reaching the Field, was surprised to find a demure servant awaiting him.
"This way."
Lisinthir followed. Instead of stopping at the fifth pillow, the servant continued until he stood in front of Second.
"Pray pardon me, Honored," the servant said. "We would ask you to move one seat down."
Said Second, "This is my place, at the side of my Emperor."
"With all respect due you, Honored," the servant said, "That is for the Emperor to decide... and he has decided."
Second looked from the servant to Lisinthir, and the shock in his face struck Lisinthir as humorous despite the dangers implied by this newest change in status. Still, hadn't this been his intention all along?
"Move along please, Second," Lisinthir said with a lazy smile. "I would not wish to displease the Exalted Emperor."
Second stood slowly, as if every joint in his body protested. He stepped to one side and settled uncomfortably on the pillow beside Lisinthir's.
For a few heart-beats, the Eldritch stared at the second pillow, at the crystal beads on its edges and the silver tassels hanging from its plum-red corners. Then he dropped onto it with boneless grace. From this new position, Lisinthir surveyed the court and was pleased. He had started out on the far edge, the 'foreign seat' reserved for those as good as wingless, which was now occupied by a junior member of the court. Lisinthir wondered what the young male had done to deserve such ignominy; as a true alien, Lisinthir had some excuse for his original placement there, but no born Chatcaavan would take such insult without great cause.
Still, he'd learned just how easy it was to have great cause at the whim of the Emperor.
Beside him, Second was resting back against his arms, carefully not looking at him. He was so ill at ease Lisinthir had to wonder if the male was truly afraid of him... even now when, at Second's own exhorting, he had been revealed as so pathetically weak the Emperor could coerce him simply by describing something he'd like to do to a female who probably didn't know she deserved better treatment.
And yet, here he was on the second pillow.
The Emperor took his place on the plush cushion reserved for him, his lean body radiating the same smug satisfaction Lisinthir had accepted like a brand on his skin in their nights together. The male leaned forward over his meal, muscles rippling along his ribs and arm, and lifted the heavy chalice on the edge of the table. His claws clicked lightly against the metal.
"Do you know what this is?" the Emperor asked in a low voice.
Lisinthir studied the goblet. "I have seen you trade this cup with Second before," he said. "Second drinks before you do."
"To my health," the Emperor hissed, amused. "He tests my wine for me."
"I would do that duty yet, my lord," Second said from behind Lisinthir. Though he sounded subdued he had not won any favor from the Emperor, if that worthy's narrowed eyes were any sign.
"You have done that duty many long years," the Chatcaavan said after a moment, with more restraint than Lisinthir had anticipated. "And no doubt you will do it again once this groundling has proved himself unworthy, or fled, or died. But for now... you have earned a respite from the threat of poisons meant for me."
"This groundling does not value your life as I do," Second pressed. "The test of the cup is given to the one who cares the most fiercely for your welfare, not to someone who pleases you in bed like some collared female."
"True, true," the Emperor said agreeably. His smile was sly as he looked at Lisinthir. "Tell me, wingless one... do you value my welfare above anyone else's in this court?"
Lisi
nthir glanced at the courtiers arranged at the table, all doing their best not to stare at the tableau. He wrinkled his nose. "No one here is worth your smallest finger, Exalted."
"Ah!" the Emperor said laughing, as Second reared back in offense. "Not even Second, or Third?"
"Neither Second nor Third sit on the first pillow, most Exalted Emperor. Nor do they command your attentions every night." Lisinthir smiled at Second with half-lidded eyes.
"Emperor, I beg you to allow me to remove this offal from your side. He insults the dignity and honor of every Chatcaavan here—"
"—offense that is given must also be accepted to have meaning," the Emperor said. "He stays, Second."
"Exalted!"
"—he stays!"
Second rose, folding his wings tightly against his back. "Then perhaps you will forgive me, Exalted Emperor. It seems I have lost my appetite."
The Emperor studied him. After a moment he said, "So you have."
With a jerky bow, Second took his leave.
"And now," the Emperor said, again offering the goblet. "Shall I ask this question again? Do you know what this is?"
"I believe so, most exalted one," Lisinthir said. "The goblet's first sip belongs to he who most values the Emperor."
The Emperor leaned forward until his mouth hung near the Eldritch's ear. "Some say that the feeling is mutual."
Lisinthir's eyes widened at the whisper, but he schooled his features to their mask-like calm before the Emperor could pull away and see them. Without pausing, he slid his hand beneath the Chatcaavan's, taking the spear of his hunger, amusement and pleasure with the honor of the cup. That he might die occurred to him as he touched his lips to the goblet's pearled edge, but such was the gift. He could not afford to turn it away. The wine crossed his tongue with a strong, fruity body and a dry bite, sending sharp tendrils of fragrance up his nose.
He presented the cup back to the Chatcaavan. "The Emperor's health," he said huskily.
The Chatcaavan took the cup and relaxed on his mound of pillows, a broad white smile spreading his long lips. The court marked his pleasure.
Second's arrival to her tower was so flustered he almost knocked over a vase of flowers as he turned and prowled from one side of the room to the other. She certainly hadn't expected him; when Second made his infrequent visits, they were usually in the mornings, not in the middle of supper.
"This cannot be supported," Second said to himself and sat abruptly on a bench, hunching forward and covering his face with his hands. His wings twitched constantly, so dry they made the Slave Queen wince every time they rubbed against one another. She crawled toward him and leaned forward onto her elbows, a position of abasement she usually reserved for the Emperor alone.
"My-better," she said, "Let this one ease you-her-better. The scented oils will calm the spirit."
"Nothing can calm my spirit," Second said. "I have seen the future and it is painted red with folly." He sighed and rubbed between his brow ridges. "Useless. It is useless."
This close to him, the Slave Queen could see evidence of sleeplessness. His mane was tangled. His body sagged. The rims of his eyes had grown red. Even his clothing, while clean, was rumpled.
"Please, my-better. Let this one be of service," the Slave Queen said.
He opened eyes nearly purple from weariness and did not seem to see her for several moments. Then, at last, his pupils contracted and shifted toward her face. "He did tell me to be oiled more often."
"It is the Exalted's wish," the Slave Queen said.
Second closed his eyes. "And I, fool that I am, can do no less than what he wishes. Very well, then."
Relieved, the Slave Queen rose and fetched the oil and cloth. By the time she returned, Second had found the low stool and positioned himself on it with his robe around his waist. She kneeled behind him and stared in astonishment at the state of the vanes. Second was the oldest Chatcaavan male she knew and so the oldest she knew with wings; males did not tend to live long and she was the only winged female she knew of. She'd tended Second's wings since the Emperor had taken power and given Second his position, though she'd never gone so long between sessions. The inside vanes of Second's wings had chafed so hard there were friction burns along some of the folds. What should have been supple beneath her touch was too stiff to give. With a grimace she pulled the stopper from the oil and began to spread it with the soft cloth. It soaked into the skin before she finished a stroke.
Beneath her ministrations, Second began to bend... then droop. Had she not known better, she would have wondered if he despaired. But surely not.
"Your assistant said I would find you here," Third said at the threshold. The Slave Queen had not seen him coming, for Second's body blocked her view; Second hadn't either, for the way he tensed at the words. "Why are you not at dinner?"
"You've been gone too long," Second hissed.
"Looking for planets, asteroids, anything worth bringing back," Third said with displeasure. "Nothing. Nothing. But I looked. I will go looking again soon. But I was on legitimate business. It took as long as it had to."
"Too long," Second said. "While you've been gone the wingless freak has made it into the Emperor's bedchamber."
"Has he died yet?" Third asked. "I would have hated to miss that."
"Died?" Second laughed angrily. "Died! Hardly! He is sitting on my pillow right now. And no doubt he will be in the Emperor's bed tonight. Again."
"On your pillow?" Third asked. "He was on the court's edge when I left. You exaggerate."
"Do I? Why do you think I'm here instead of at dinner?"
Third's voice sounded wary. "But he's a freak."
"Yes. A freak who has bewitched our emperor, and if we're smart we'll find a way to do away with him as quickly as possible."
"If what you say is true, then the freak is the Emperor's favorite. Violence against him will not win us any good will."
"Something must be done," Second said.
There was a shrug in Third's voice. "If he sits on your pillow, it won't be long before the second-pillow life takes care of him for us. We have only to wait."
"We don't have the time," Second said.
"Of course we do. He may be the Emperor's favorite, but he's still just a wingless freak," Third said. "Why waste effort on problems that will resolve themselves?"
"You haven't been here, Third. I have. This problem will not resolve itself so easily."
"Then do it yourself," Third said. "I have other concerns."
"What could be more important than this?"
"Finding something I can give the Emperor to make him value me again," Third said. "That's far more important to me than whether the Emperor is sodomizing a worthless alien. And if you were yourself, Second, that too would be your concern. You would still be on your pillow if you had more to offer than the fleeting charms of a new plaything."
"You will see," Second said. "But too late."
Third said nothing for so long the Slave Queen decided he'd left. She continued her ministrations, tasked to calm and barely keeping it.
"I love your throat," the Emperor said later.
Startled by the admission, Lisinthir lifted his head. They were naked, their battered limbs still roughly entwined, and the test had been bearable. Perhaps, a tiny part of his mind whispered, more than bearable. The Chatcaavan traced the length of Lisinthir's neck with a black talon. "Humans don't have throats like this. It's almost long enough to be a proper neck."
"We're longer in bone than the humans," Lisinthir said, submitting to the caress but watching the Emperor against any sudden movements. "It's the way we're bred, and the lightness of the gravity on our world."
"And yet, no scales for proper protection. I want to bite you. To tear into you." The Emperor's smile grew lazy, and his fingers scraped across Lisinthir's throat, drawing a thin blue line beneath the ridge of his larynx. Lisinthir did not allow himself to react—perhaps he was past reacting. Or perhaps he simply trusted the lull in the Ch
atcaavan's emotions, felt so vividly through their sweat and oil-slicked skins. "Surely you feel the danger."
"One grows accustomed to compensating for one's frailties," Lisinthir said.
"Ah... the creed of your Alliance. We were born weak, therefore let us make strength from bits of metal and philosophy."
Lisinthir closed his eyes to conceal the alert interest the male had aroused in him. In their battles their talking had been limited to curses and inanities, but he had returned again and again to the Emperor's bed in the hope of finally hearing his confidences. Of learning his mind. Of sending back to the Alliance the information it so desperately wanted more than anything else: how to predict whether the Empire would make war on them. "It seems to work," he said after a moment.
"So you think," the Emperor said. He left off his stroking and moved smoothly over the Eldritch, spreading black wings. "But we do not respect strength that must be borrowed from steel and riches. If it is not inside a male, it is not there."
"So you do not respect wisdom, that understands the need to seek resources outside oneself in case of weakness?" Lisinthir asked, one knee against the Chatcaavan's stomach.
"The weak should die," the Emperor said, gripping Lisinthir's hair and jerking it hard enough to bring involuntary tears to the Eldritch's eyes. "It is that simple."
"And yet you do not conquer us," Lisinthir said. "Why not?"
"Females are not worth conquering," the Emperor said, and dove for his throat.
The Slave Queen fretted on the Ambassador's behalf after Second and Third had left... but despite her worry she managed to sleep for long enough to pass the time until she could see him with her own eyes and assess his condition. He looked hale enough, if tired, but she approached him to check twice. He held still for her, lifting his arms so she could walk beneath them on her circle.
Even the Wingless Page 24
