The other female stared at her, pupils dilating despite the kindled light.
“Don’t tell me that Chatcaava do not make friends, that this concept is ancient, that there is no such thing as love or loyalty,” the Queen continued, the words hard in her mouth, hard and old and potent. “Don’t tell me that I ask a great deal of you, or not enough. Just answer.”
“Yes.”
Just that. The Queen lifted her chin, eyes narrowing.
“And don’t tell me that my ‘yes’ is not sufficient,” the Priestess added, meeting her skeptical look with a challenging one. “If you can ask the question, you can accept the answer without embellishment.”
That convinced her the way no impassioned speech would have. The Queen said, “I must ask you to do something very hard, something that only a friend would do. Something you won’t like. But it is a decision I have made, and I must make, and you must allow me to do it.”
“Is this decision going to be as bad as your decision to sit on your tower windowsill with nothing between you and your death on the ground?”
She met the Priestess’s eyes, unwavering. “It will seem worse.”
“But not be it.”
She almost said ‘no’… but that would be a lie. The Ambassador would tell her that one could not build a friendship on lies. “I don’t think it will be. I could be wrong. I may die a worse death than a fall out of the tower. But I have to do this and I can’t without your help.”
The Priestess stared at her, all her arms folded and her shoulders and neck hard. Set against the backdrop of the instruments of torture itemized and displayed in the use closet, the Queen felt the enormity of what she was asking… not just of the Priestess, who was so new to her to be making a decision this important, but of herself… for the risk she was about to take. But the Emperor had called her his partner. He had given her a weapon. He had told her to see to the children… but he had not grouped her with them.
She had become a person with power. Now it was time to act like one.
“Don’t make me regret this choice,” the Priestess said. “Because I will be bitterly angry if you die before you can show me what friendship entails.”
“I am not planning to die,” the Queen said. “And you have given me another reason to be sure of it.”
The Priestess lowered her head and sighed. “Tell me what it is you require.”
CHAPTER 15
Their seats at the concert were as far from one another as Jahir could contrive, buying at such a late date and granting the irregular shape of the venue. He hadn’t warned Lisinthir, but when the usher offered to guide them to their seats his cousin had essayed one of those charming smiles and said, “I’ll take the gallery seat. My cousin should be the one closest to the orchestra.”
Useless to protest; knowing Lisinthir, he would tell him to enjoy the experience and if Jahir resisted, add that being close to the orchestra would distract Jahir far more than it would him, and so make the test more useful. So Jahir accepted the gift—because he knew it had been intended as one—and made his way down the elegantly carpeted stairs to the one seat left in the front orchestra section because of its astronomical expense. As he threaded his way among the crowd, he felt his cousin: nothing like the mindline, with its multiple layers and literal transcription of thought. More like how Vasiht’h had always explained his sense of the Goddess, as a certainty, a presence he could lean against and be sure of support.
How Lisinthir would laugh at the analogy! He would have to share it later.
That sense of him persisted, though. It persisted despite the several thousand people sharing the concert hall with them in the noisy prelude to the arrival of the musicians. It persisted after they’d all found their seats and their conversations had quieted to a susurrus more felt than heard. It remained strong when the orchestra arrived, and Jahir waited for his reaction to the music to sweep it away…
…but music made it stronger in him, not weaker, as if passion of any kind made him more open to his cousin’s influence.
They had not planned which talent to try first; part of the experiment was to see if they could communicate their desires across the distance. Jahir had expected this to be difficult but it wasn’t, because he knew Lisinthir’s touch. There was a path into him and it had been opened by fingertips and lips and too-knowing eyes, and it was as easy now as he suspected it would have been difficult before they’d been lovers.
Amid the thousand breathless spectators, they tried their mind magics, and all of them worked. More than worked. It felt natural, so effortless that they put paid to all the experiment’s permutations before the conclusion of the first movement of the concerto. So Jahir pulled his cousin in and held him nigh so that he could share his reaction to the music, and together they listened, and the space between them became inconsequential. Tears beaded beneath his lashes, seeped down his cheeks. The piece was magnificent, the performance staggering. It washed together with the experiences that had preceded it, the ones that had left him raw and broken open, until the crescendo seemed to well out of him, not the instruments. He gave himself gladly to it and didn’t care that others might see him dab his face when it was over.
Outside the hall, leaning against a back wall as the other concert-goers streamed past, Jahir waited with a head full of music and joy. He felt his cousin’s progress like the pulse of a bass drum underlying the treble of the conversation that flowed around him. When the touch glided over his cheekbone he did not startle. Nor did he shy away from the kiss so gently touched to his lips. He breathed out, whispering You see nothing, and knew that no one would look. And then he accepted the kiss, and asked for more with an open mouth, and received it: not cruelty or passion, but warmth and a slow, searching sweetness that left him weak in every joint. When those lips moved up to kiss the salt dried at the edges of his eyes, he seeped it fresh and tasted the tears on his cousin’s lips as if they were his own.
Lisinthir cupped his elbows and sighed. Smiled, and murmured in the gold, “Another wall, my cousin.”
Jahir rested his cheek against his cousin’s. “Another wall.”
Affection suffused him through their touching skins, effervescent with humor, sweet like wine. He suffered the caress along the angle of his jaw, feeling cocooned, softened by awe.
“Come,” Lisinthir murmured. “Now is the right time.”
For what? He wanted to ask. Knowing they should talk about what they’d done, what they’d proven. That it was of staggering significance. Not just the power of it, but how easy it had been… not just how easy it had been, but how easy it had become for him. That he wanted it now; wanted to be put to the work. That he no longer questioned the rectitude of it, if only he could be used, and useful.
God and Lady. To be useful.
The hand framing his jaw tightened, drawing his eyes up to Lisinthir’s, to his cousin’s grave and intense stare.
“I know,” Lisinthir said. “Jahir. I know.”
There was no one in the universe who knew better. But Jahir could feel his cousin’s love for him blazing bright as sunfire through the fingers spread on his face, and what an Eldritch heir loved, he protected. A sheathed sword might never shatter, but it would never draw blood either….
Lisinthir ran a finger along the hair draped past Jahir’s temple, tucked it back behind one ear. “Trust me,” he finished, husky.
What could he say to that? Except, “Always.”
Lisinthir exhaled. “Now. We go.”
He didn’t ask where, but let his cousin draw him after, through the crowds which no longer distressed him. He knew the boundaries between his mind and theirs now, the seam between his body and the air. He could blur those boundaries or hold them at a remove, and it no longer required concentration.
His cousin was amused. That had a flavor, an undertongue tingle, the hyper-arousal of skin newly tickled. He asked, low, “Why?”
“We will cut quite the swath, dressed as we are.”
&
nbsp; For a concert? Jahir followed him off the lift and down the first of many stairs and ramps, because naturally they were bound for the Trenches and not the upper levels where two Eldritch in court coats might have won themselves the occasional glance but not the admiring stares they were about to collect. As they passed into the artificial gloaming of the market’s lowest levels, Jahir asked, absently, “Is it dangerous?”
“For someone else, perhaps.” Lisinthir’s amusement grew sharp edges, blood-taint. “Not for us.” And lighter, silvered, “And not here, anyways. It may be the Hull’s midnight district, but it’s still the Alliance.”
To that Jahir said nothing because it was true. He could not hold the pastiche of visceral memories he’d plucked from Lisinthir’s mind during its seizures without admitting to it. He was still contemplating this when his cousin drew him under a ramp and away from the trickle of people walking beneath the dim bulbs of the overhead strings. The hand that had taken his wrist traveled up his arm to rest, unexpectedly, on his shoulder, four fingers over it, thumb resting on his collarbone. Surprised, Jahir looked up.
“Still with me?” Lisinthir asked, low.
“Always,” Jahir said, willing him to hear the message in it. Not just now, but always. Into the Empire, not just without.
Lisinthir’s mouth twitched upward at the corner but the smile didn’t touch his eyes. He kissed Jahir’s brow. “Let us complete the pattern, then.”
The store a few steps down from the ramp sold knives.
Was it punishment for his sins or reward for his sacrifices that had put his cousin in his hands? So damned eager to be used, and so useful, and so necessary? Lisinthir didn’t look over his shoulder, knowing Jahir was behind him and one step to the side, feeling it as a change in the air pressure near his back, in the weight of the other man’s existence sensed through these new and far too convenient talents. What would their homeworld had been like, had it been mostly composed of Jahir Seni Galares? Would he have been so eager to leave it?
Did it matter? They had what they had.
The Tam-illee sitting behind the counter in this shop was so delicate it was easy to mistake him for a woman: little pointed face, slim neck, large eyes with a shelf of lashes to darken their lavender to the hue of amethysts. Some Chatcaavan would have paid high marks to buy him for the pleasure of having a male slave whose body screamed him deserving of use as a female. Even the light fawn of the fur and the elegant bob of the hair suggested fragility.
Until one looked at his hands, and the way he used his eyes.
That, Lisinthir thought, was why the Alliance would win against the Chatcaava… if win they did. The ambush of competence, wrapped in velvet pelt.
“I have come for the knife,” Lisinthir said.
The tod nodded. “I’ll bring it. Would you like anything else?”
“Yes. But we need to discuss it first.”
Returning to the dagger disassembled on his table, the foxine said, “Take your time.”
The question, then… had the sight of the shop shocked his cousin out of the malleability that had inspired Lisinthir to bring him here now? Turning, he found Jahir standing alongside the wall, looking up at the lengths of leather.
“They are unmarked,” Jahir said in their tongue, stripped of any mood shading.
“One chooses the color and breadth and tooling one likes and has it cut to the length one requires,” Lisinthir said.
“Like buying a belt,” Jahir murmured.
“Very like,” Lisinthir said, paused a heartbeat, and finished, “And nothing at all.”
That bought him a laugh, and it was soft and breathy. “What are we supposed to be discussing?”
Lisinthir set a hand on the small of his back, flattening the palm and waiting for reaction: no stiffening. He continued. “I have bought hooks already, but I meant to apply to you for your opinion on how you would like to be held to them.”
Jahir drew in a shaky breath. “Do I need restraint?”
“Absolutely.”
Surprised at his vehemence, Jahir glanced at him, and Lisinthir caught and held his gaze. “You have asked for the blade and I agreed to it. But I won’t have you hurt because you were able to jerk toward the edge.”
Jahir looked away. “Toward,” he whispered.
“You know as well as I do that it will probably not be away.” He stroked his thumb along his cousin’s back and added, softly silvered, “I would have you be no other way.”
“Wouldn’t you?”
His cousin was expecting pathos so Lisinthir snorted. “I fled the homeworld’s safety for the Empire, if you’ll recall. I am hardly one to judge you for leaning into the knife.”
Jahir chuckled softly, but beneath Lisinthir’s palm his body was quivering. “So… restraints. What are my choices?”
“Innumerable, given where we are. To narrow it, rope, leather, or a modern material like the one the Maven herd bracelets are made of.”
“Rope sounds… painful.”
“In a good way?” Lisinthir asked, earning himself a quelling look.
“In a ‘leaves fibers in my skin’ way,” Jahir said. “Not a memento I particularly want to invite.”
“God help me, but you think I’d use a hawser on you, cousin? We’re not talking of hemp…”
Jahir pressed his face into his hand and only the mirth Lisinthir felt through their connection let him witness it with equanimity.
“I will make it easy,” Jahir said. “Go with the modern materials. It is the world we live in.”
“It is, isn’t it?” Lisinthir said.
“It will be when we’re done,” Jahir said, and that had the quality of a vow.
Leaving him, Lisinthir made arrangements with the Tam-illee, and this purchase he did not trust to a courier but accepted personally. It came in a wooden box that smelled fragrantly of some alien hardwood, resinous and deep, tucked into a discreet dark blue bag.
“Toys for the evening,” Jahir said as they made their way back up the ramp.
“Nothing like,” Lisinthir said, implacable. “These are tools for apotheosis, cousin. And we will not be waiting until evening.”
He heard Jahir’s caught breath and waited. It took nearly the entire trip back to their suite before his cousin found a reply. “You’re so certain.”
Lisinthir stopped to face him, found the anxiety lingering in those eyes despite the masklike reserve that framed them in smooth skin and unlined brow.
“That it is more than depravity? That the time is now? That it is a needful thing? Yes, yes, and yes. And this will be the last time I tell you, because you will not believe words. You will believe what we do, so we will do it, and I will bleed the last of your doubts from you.” Lisinthir canted his head. “That is your warning, cousin. If you walk in the door with me, you won’t walk out again until I’m done with you. And before you agree—” He held up his free hand. “You will not have it your way. I won’t savage you in brutal silence and leave you the privacy of your thoughts. We will discuss what we do before we do it and have an agreement on what we allow, and won’t. There will be no question of your consent.” He pinned Jahir with his eyes, let some of his resolve show. “I won’t shoulder the blame for what should be a mutual decision. There will be no ‘but it wasn’t really me because he made me do it.’ I deserve better and so do you.”
Jahir drew in a breath and let it out, slowly. He nodded with a wry smile. “You know me well.”
“I like to think so, a little.” Lisinthir started to hold out that hand and hesitated. “So. Your decision.”
“Healer? Cousin? Galare? Your Delight?”
“Jahir,” Lisinthir said, quiet. “Your decision.”
Jahir tilted his head. “You want it?”
“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want you.” Lisinthir smiled. “This is no act of martyrdom on my part. Some of it will be hard for me. Some of it will surprise me. But I will enjoy myself. I suspect immensely.”
“I wou
ld hate to come to someone acting out of charity,” Jahir murmured.
“I wouldn’t do it myself.”
“No, I imagine you wouldn’t.”
Were his cousin’s eyes on his hand? He could feel the attention like the heat from a fire. He’d known they would come to this pass; that all the rough play they’d indulged in had been nothing but a prelude to an act his cousin had not committed himself to. This was the moment they’d both been anticipating since Jahir had accepted his invitation on the courier.
“That is the crux of it, isn’t it?” Jahir looked up then. “Whether I believe you, that I could be acceptable as I am. If I walk through the door with you, I may discover I’m not. That what I am truly is ugly and perverse. Maybe you will be incapable of giving me what I need, and thus prove it to me. Or maybe I will be incapable of standing it, and ruin it with my own self-disgust. But that is what I’m confronting now. Am I worthy of love, despite my flaws.”
“Am I?” Lisinthir asked. “My flaws are rather more heinous than yours, I think.”
Jahir paused, then narrowed his eyes. “You are trying to force me to put my fears in perspective by comparing them to yours.”
“I was trying,” Lisinthir said with innocence, “to engage your empathy in the hopes that it would remind you that you are not the only person in the universe with flaws that dispose him to believe himself unworthy of love.”
Jahir laughed. “Incorrigible man.”
“Cousin,” Lisinthir said, “My hand tires. Will you take it and go in the room with me, there to discuss safe and consensual expressions of violence? Or shall we go to a very late lunch and while the remainder of our day away sightseeing?”
“I hear there are several points of interest in the Hull we have not yet explored,” Jahir said. He slid his hand into Lisinthir’s. “But I think, all the same, that our time is better spent here.”
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