“I do,” Jahir said as his cousin mounted the stage and joined him on the bench.
“We do better when we’re less cognizant of one another.”
“No,” Jahir said. “We do better when I’m less cognizant of you.”
Lisinthir negated that with a gesture. “Too simplistic, Galare. You do better when you can’t see me. When you look at me with your eyes, you lose your hold on the connection.”
“It doesn’t work that way in the salle.”
“Because you aren’t looking at me,” Lisinthir said. “You are focusing on our foes, or on my sword. But you are not distracted by me.”
Jahir looked away, frustrated, but allowed the touch that drew his face back.
“Don’t use yourself cruelly over it,” Lisinthir said, quiet. “You blame yourself for falling prey to the seductions of the flesh… what surprise there, when you were so lately virgin to them? I too went through the process you are suffering now.”
“Did you? That seems… unlikely.”
“It happened and it was horrendous,” Lisinthir said. “I did it in the Empire, where drowning in it could have slain me. Almost did slay me, as you noted.” He sighed. “Better you work through it here, in peace and at your leisure, than the way I did. Besides, overcoming these difficulties is a matter of practice, and with practice….” His eyes strayed toward the galleria’s furthest seat, shrouded in shadows and so distant Jahir couldn’t distinguish any details. “We can sustain this from a very great distance when we use it in tandem.”
“We are better at our talents together than we are at either of ours alone,” Jahir agreed, low. He rested his hand on the keys, cooling his fingers on the ivory. “Why do you suppose that is?”
“I think your beloved would say that it’s always easier to do anything with help.”
“Is it?” Lisinthir glanced at him but Jahir ignored the look, staring instead at his spread fingers. “That is the credo of the Alliance. Strength in numbers. Creativity through diversity. The power of community. But is there not something to solitude? To knowing you can manage alone?”
Lisinthir’s brows lifted. “I hear a man abandoning the philosophy that has shaped his life to embrace the one that has shaped mine, but I don’t hear why.”
Jahir said, low, “What if you’re the one who’s right?”
“Too easy, Galare. You should know better.”
Jahir looked over then at the man sitting easily alongside him, hands folded on one knee, legs crossed and head bent, just a little. Lisinthir was wearing a whimsical smile to go with gentle eyes, and the expression suited him. A man of mercurial moods, and all of them intense. “And what is it that I should know?”
“That it’s not a question of which of us is right, but which of us is right… for that particular moment and those particular people.”
“I would not think you a proponent of moral relativism, given that you have upended an entire civilization for failing to conform to the mores you uphold.”
“Oh, I am no moral relativist,” Lisinthir said with a laugh, and switched to Universal, “Not by a long shot.” His grin faded as he resumed in their tongue, silver and shadows and neutrals. “But that the world is rarely as simple as we wish it would be so we could apply those precepts? Yes, that I know from painful experience. Or would you say differently to a man who has done the things I’ve done?”
“No,” Jahir said with a quiver. “I know you have paid for your wisdom in sweat and blood, Imtherili.”
“Then what is it that’s driving this discontent?”
He wanted to say that he knew Lisinthir would try to stop him from participating in the war. He wanted to tell his cousin not to fight him on this. That the more they worked together, and the more they discovered how well they worked together, the more the idea took hold in him, grew. The first Eldritch mind-mage had won a war against the army of a planet—a small army, granted, but nevertheless. What could two Eldritch mind-mages do together in this war? Not win it on their own, certainly, but the potential was staggering. He found, to his discomfort, that he wanted it. That having discovered he’d been born with a sword he alone could wield, he yearned to use it to keep the dragons from endangering everything he held dear.
“I am finding,” he said at last, “that I am a great deal more like you than I thought.”
Lisinthir touched one finger to the side of his chin and turned his face by it until their eyes met. For a long, long time, for an aching breath that never seemed to end, he said nothing. Then, quiet: “Different clay. Same Maker.”
“Same wheel,” Jahir finished, rueful.
Lisinthir kissed him, and that kiss was reverent, and made his heart stumble. When they parted, his cousin said, “Will you play for me?”
“I… I beg your pardon?”
Lisinthir’s mouth turned up at the corner. “My impertinent question, to which you can say no. You are a musician, and this instrument I know you know well. Will you play it for me?”
This silence wanted patience, so Lisinthir waited. It had been a fascinating and profitable day thus far, letting his cousin lead, and he fully intended to maintain the theme until they sought their bed for slumber… precisely for opportunities like this one. Because it would be too tempting for Jahir to turn this interlude into an exception and to relegate the softer, more sensual aspects of his personality to one of those boxes he was so fond of using for compartmentalizing the moment they parted.
But Lisinthir had not asked his cousin to this tryst so Jahir might explore his nascent sexuality and then put it away again, but to help him integrate it into his normal life. And for that, he needed Jahir to perform activities typical to that normal life, and to demonstrate skills in which he was no hesitant innocent, but expert, and confident.
Music was one of those things.
To push him would be to lose that chance at integration, so Lisinthir didn’t. He asked, making it clear that no was an acceptable answer, and he waited. And if he waited with more suspense than typical, he suffered it gladly for hope of the answer he wanted—
“Of course,” Jahir said, quietly.
Lisinthir exhaled, drawing a curious glance from his cousin, and then a more tender expression. Jahir softened the question with holy white and silver, which made it perilously intimate. “Did you think I would refuse you?”
“If it had not been a real choice, I would not have asked,” Lisinthir said. “Shall I remove myself to the audience’s chairs?”
“No, it’s fine. Stay nigh, but stand. The bench is not quite wide enough for two if one is playing.” Jahir studied the piano with affection, one hand gliding over the keys. “I would not dare adjust it, given it is set up for tomorrow’s performer.”
Lisinthir rose to stand alongside the instrument, studying its gleaming flanks and the unlikely complexity of its exposed interior. “Is it?”
“Oh certes. This instrument will have been chosen by the pianist for this performance, and would have been shipped in at her request.” Jahir slid his fingers over the keys now. “Tuned for it as well. For performers of this caliber, they still handcraft pianos, did you know? And each is as individual as a person.”
How satisfying it was to hear the easy confidence in his cousin’s voice! This was what he had been hoping to inspire. “Is it? I had no idea.”
“I would not even touch it, did I not know they would do a final tuning tomorrow. But I will leave the bench at its height. What would you like to hear?”
“What would you like to play?”
Jahir shook his head, though he was smiling. “Always with the footwork, Imtherili.”
“This time I ask not out of any desire to seek knowledge I might use to advantage, but because I honestly want you to play what you will. I will enjoy it no matter what.”
“Mmm.” Just that, his cousin’s head bent toward the keys, eyes closed. His fingers flexed once, stretched. He began without fanfare, and Lisinthir could not have identified the composition: nothi
ng written on their world, certainly. A lushly romantic piece, and it was flawlessly played—masterfully even—but as beautiful as it was, Lisinthir’s attention remained fused with the player. Despite knowing music as a sensual pleasure, he had not quite anticipated how erotic the mastery of an instrument was. The power of it, and the look on Jahir’s face, and the shift of light over the backs of his hands as the tendons played beneath the skin... how it brought the veins into sharp relief, gossamer blue against white. Had he thought his cousin’s arms the product of swimming alone? He would have to investigate later tonight and see the evidence that music had left on the muscle.
Jahir, he thought, was a stunning talent. It did not surprise him at all that no one knew. What Eldritch would have revealed such prodigy? Or such vulnerability? Because his cousin loved music first, and then everything else. He might have kept that love tightly confined but there was no hiding it while performing.
Lisinthir didn’t know what inspired his tears. But he remained alongside the piano, vibrating with too many emotions, until he knew he was standing guard there because his response to everything he cherished was its protection.
The last notes trailed away. Jahir let his fingers relax against the keys, closed his eyes, and let out a slow breath. Then looked up and started. “Cousin? You weep?”
“You play to shame angels… shall I not, then?”
Jahir blushed and gently set the fallboard down, covering the keys. “You do me too much honor.”
“I do you not enough, I think.” Lisinthir caught one of his cousin’s hands, then the other. Beneath his fingers they seemed the same hands he’d been caressing for days now, and yet! “That is not the only instrument you know, I take it.”
“No,” Jahir said, permitting the scrutiny with a pleased embarrassment that made the contact between their skins sting like mint. “It is the one I like best, however.”
“It is romantic and has power and range,” Lisinthir said. “It suits you. But what else do you know?”
The embarrassment had intensified at the comparison, but his cousin gamely replied. “Most stringed instruments, since we were taught those on the homeworld. Lute and guitar, violin, cello. Harp. Lyre.” The longer he spoke the more he relaxed. “I like the stringed instruments better than the woodwinds and brass, though I can play them as well. Percussion is probably my weakest point. I would hazard a guess now as to why.”
“Oh?”
Jahir nodded. “Rhythm asks more of the body.”
“Ah,” Lisinthir said. “Then perhaps you will find percussion no longer quite so alien to you.”
He’d said it before censoring himself, and halted—but to his relief, this reminder of what they were about did not seize his cousin into silence. It was the musician in Jahir that answered with a thoughtful, “That would be a great boon. I wonder… I would like to try.”
“But not this moment,” Lisinthir said. “Tell me why.”
Jahir hesitated, then chuckled. “No, that is too easy. Because we have been exerting our talents and this is work, and it is near supper. We must eat.”
“And then the bedplay, and then rest,” Lisinthir said. “So what shall we eat?”
Startled, Jahir said, “I… don’t know? Food, I imagine.”
Lisinthir snorted. “Lend me a handkerchief, cousin. And be more specific.”
Jahir frowned as he handed over the linen square. “Would you take it amiss if I said… I wouldn’t mind dining with you alone tonight, in the suite?”
“I wouldn’t take it amiss, but I would admit to curiosity.” Lisinthir wiped his eyes and cheeks, drawing his cousin’s gaze to the evidence of his tears. He had needed to wipe them, but he wanted the reminder to stay with Jahir, that he had power.
“The feeding, in the Harat-Shariin diner,” Jahir said, slowly. “I liked that. But it would be easier done in private.”
“If it was to be done more intimately?” Lisinthir said, impressed and approving. “Why, yes. And if that is what you want, then absolutely. But only…”
“Only…?” Jahir said.
“Only if you reciprocate,” Lisinthir said, amused. “I wouldn’t mind being fed myself.” He gave the handkerchief back. “We can listen to music, if you would like to distract me from overbearing you.”
“And how exactly is music going to accomplish this when so little does?”
“By being what you choose, which you will educate me on. I know the breadth of your tastes, but I am curious about the piece you chose to play and the others you enjoy playing.”
“Oh!” Jahir said. “You know then. That what you like to play is not always the same as what you like to listen to.”
“I am passing-fair at the instruments I was forced to learn,” Lisinthir said. “But those lessons were more than enough to teach me that.”
“Then yes!” Jahir said. “I would like it very much if we were to repair to the suite, to listen to music and feed one another.”
“Delightful. Lead the way.” Lisinthir grinned. “And before you feel the need to say it: yes, I know you know what I’m doing.”
Jahir shook his head. “We have known each other too short a time to know one another so well.”
“We have not known one another long enough for me to know you as well as I like,” Lisinthir said. “Or I plan to.”
“You could have shaded that red.”
Lisinthir laughed. “You just did.”
Jahir blushed, then laughed. “Point to Imtherili. I lead, before I lose any more.”
Satisfied, Lisinthir followed.
Supper was exactly what he wanted. Jahir allowed him to select the menu, which he did with an eye to what could be neatly handled and eaten in bites, and if it was lighter fare than he was used to, that accorded well with how he planned to spend the remainder of the night. With the array of tiny plates before them, they made use of the divan and chairs in the sitting room and there Jahir settled against him, back to Lisinthir’s chest, and consented to the feeding—both ways—while maintaining the discourse on the music he chose. All of it pleased: having this man warm against him, eating from his fingers while also showing the breadth of his mastery in a realm in which Lisinthir could only observe, not participate. He liked this evidence of strength and knowledge in his lover; liked it in all his lovers, really, the Slave Queen no less than the Emperor. She had not known the world well, but she’d known her people and her own mind, and she’d understood politics and psychology at a far higher level than she would have admitted to had someone suggested it.
When the music was intense, as the music often was, Jahir gave up eating entirely and sagged against him, lost in a world Lisinthir sensed through their skins where they touched. And that trust, that gave him the duty of guarding his cousin in his vulnerability as he sank into bliss… that roused every feeling in him, all good.
The wine loosened his cousin’s inhibitions, made him playful. From music Jahir knew well, they progressed to music they both found interesting, and from thence to music only they knew.
“Had you a favorite court song?” Jahir asked. He’d allowed Lisinthir to strip him from the waist up and was pooled into the hollows of Lisinthir’s side. “Or did you find them all insipid? You were at court for long enough to hear some of them, surely.”
“I was, though being more engaged on the dueling grounds than in the salons made it a trifle less likely for me to hear as many as you must have.” Lisinthir threaded his fingers into his cousin’s hair and brushed it back from his face before tracing the rim of Jahir’s ear. “But yes, I was among polite company long enough to have many such songs inflicted on me.”
“Inflicted! They were not all woeful.”
“I beg you to say that to me when you are not inebriated, Galare.”
“But the fingering was quite complex on… on… you are about to laugh, aren’t you.”
“And you are about to blush,” Lisinthir said, laughing. “But do go on. I love your blushes.”
�
�The music required a great deal of skill. The picking… it’s unusual. It demanded great artistry to create, to play. Was a delight to listen to.”
“The words were ridiculous.” Lisinthir lifted his free hand. “I’ll grant that there was nuance in it. When is there not nuance in our court? And I seem to recall there being some ridiculously arcane linkage between the placement of the fingers or the addition of notes from the chords to evoke the mood shadings in the lyrics. But the lyrics were pedestrian when they were not banal. How many songs do we really need about bringing flowers to fair maidens?”
“’Fresh as the morning air?’” Jahir murmured.
“Or sweet as the song of a lark, or pure as the dew at dawn… can you imagine being a woman and expected to conform to such tedious standards?”
“No,” Jahir admitted. And then, wistful, “But the music was beautiful.”
“And the fingering exceptional,” Lisinthir teased, gently.
“A skilled musician makes many promises with the fingers on the frets of a lute,” Jahir replied, somber, but with such an outrageous gradient of mood shading from neutral to brightest carnal red that Lisinthir coughed on the sip of wine he was taking and had to snatch a napkin. Once he was sure of himself he found his cousin smiling at him with such mischief that he laughed.
“Brilliantly played. Pun not intended.”
“Pun certainly not accepted, given its dreadful taste.” Jahir pushed himself upright with a regret Lisinthir felt vividly through the palm his cousin was using to steady himself. “This has been a very good day.”
“Hasn’t it? I have quite liked you taking charge, cousin mine.”
That won him a skeptical look. “Is that what I have been doing? Eating off your fingers? Losing my focus the moment you touch me?”
“Of course it is.” Lisinthir put his hands behind his head, stretching his legs. “You designed our exercise. You decided on our meal. You picked out our music.”
“And now?” Jahir asked, still wary.
“And now,” Lisinthir said with relish, “you shall end as you have begun the day, by taking me for a change.”
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