He tried to find refuge in humor, but the words came out silvered and white. “I'm not sure whether to be appalled at the thought that I might accidentally prevent you from ever again achieving your satiation... or honored. Such a romantic, cousin.”
Still holding him in place, Jahir said, “We are who we are, Imtherili. Are we not?” And the challenge in his eyes was so charming, Lisinthir couldn’t help but warm to it.
“Always, Galare.”
Jahir searched his eyes. “I don’t expect you to accept this until you return from battle and find my arms have not closed to you. So I will say: promise me, cousin, that you will use your belt on me when next we meet.”
“God and Living Air,” Lisinthir said with a groan. “Must you place me in such a position, cousin!”
Jahir’s mouth twitched, but his eyes were far too grave. “Promise me.”
“I do,” Lisinthir said. “If we exit the next chapter of our lives intact and you are able to welcome me, I will not hold back.”
“Good. Then I will teach you as you so like to teach others. By the doing.” Jahir kissed his wrist and let it go. “And I am growing cold and want very much to be held by the man who is so good with a blade. And you see, I have even shaded it crimson.”
“Not, I hope, because you want more tonight,” Lisinthir said, resuming with the bandage. “Your appetites have used me up, cousin.”
“I’ll believe that when we retire and you remain uninterested.”
“I shall have to remember that knives and whips make you more assertive once you’ve been under them.”
Jahir paused. “Not more assertive. More comfortable.”
Lisinthir glanced at him, found him bemused, smiling, and… relaxed.
“I like my skin right now,” Jahir finished. “You have made my needs sacred. I am…” He trailed off, then said in wonderment, “Happy. Just that.”
“Cousin,” Lisinthir murmured, finishing with the wound despite his trembling fingers, “You break my heart.”
“Only because I want into it.”
Lisinthir set the vial aside and cupped Jahir’s face. He could find no words, but resting his eyes on his cousin’s, he needed none. They kissed, lingering, savoring the tenderness of bruised flesh. Resting his brow against Jahir’s, Lisinthir said, “Cousin.”
“Lin. Take me to bed.”
And he did.
CHAPTER 16
The Priestess had hated it—had predicted that the Knife would never forgive the Queen, as well—but had made the promise the Queen required. Then she had gone trailing twin contrails of wrath and cold determination to give the word, the one the Queen had told the Knife to expect without ever saying it would come from the Queen herself. And with that, she set in motion events from which there was no returning. Other than one small piece of insurance she had yet to give and receive, there was nothing left for her to do... but wait. Through the interminable afternoon... the excruciating length of the night, and into the morning.
Given how long the Slave Queen had reposed in loneliness in her tower, she found it astonishing that she no longer found solitude bearable. It was no longer solitude, but an absence: of the Emperor, of the Ambassador, the Knife, the Mother, the Priestess. She missed even the children, though she dared not go see if they’d been successfully smuggled out. The descent to the harem on the next floor was the most she allowed herself, and when she found it echoing she surprised herself by shuddering with relief. If this much had been done, and the harder of the two tasks, then the children must also be gone. She thought of walking through the harem suite—had the females there packed for their flight, or had the Priestess given them no warning?—but the prospect of seeing the abandoned rooms disturbed her. She had never been welcome in the harem, not truly. Now, at last, she fit into these rooms... but only because they were empty.
Returning to her chambers, she glanced once at the bench by the window... and deliberately turned her back on it to go to the computer console. How long would it take for her request to filter through the proper channels? And would she receive the call-back before the inevitable discovery of her perfidy? She wondered what form Second’s retribution would take and hoped she was not wrong about him. She’d initiated the flight from the Empire because she’d judged him to be her Emperor’s enemy, and if she was right, he would be truly Chatcaavan: not Changed, the way her Emperor was, and capable of understanding alien thoughts, but trapped in the mind of a male and incapable of expanding out of it. If she was right—if it was all consistent—then she would survive this interlude.
If she was wrong... then still, she would have accomplished something.
She’d thought she was good at waiting. She’d been wrong. There was no waiting without anticipation of that state changing. Her life had been a stasis until the Ambassador’s arrival. And now... she found herself with a gnawing anxiety. Had the refugees made it off-world yet? Would her console light up with an incoming call? When would Second arrive?
Would the Knife forgive her for tricking him?
Would she see him again, or the Emperor?
Another day. Another night. She slept in the nest with her cheek on the cold stone rim, swathed in the shadows that collected there. Dreamed strange dreams that tasked her to patience with kisses that soothed her aching brow ridges, promised her a future in tangled arms: black scales, white skin. Whispered to her of the sacrifices made by alien martyrs, that established nations and religions.
When the console did summon her, she almost thought it a remnant of one of those dreams. And then she lunged for it, claws sliding into the slots. Uuvek had throttled her access to something that would not excite interest from casual surveillance, so she saw no viseo or solidigraph, only a flat image, and beside it, words in Universal. Until she saw them she hadn’t allowed herself to realize how unlikely her success at securing this call was. She’d been given the commtag, but had anyone expected her to use it? And had she truly expected anyone to answer? But she had reached out, trusting, and here it was, glowing on her screen. Originator: Ambassador. Ambassador ad’Alliance.
/You called, and I answer./
She stroked the words, fingers trembling. Both of them were speaking their second language. How strange that the Alliance should unite them in this very unlikely endeavor. How to begin? What word would the Ambassador have used? An alien one to the Chatcaava, but she found the novelty of it breathtaking. /You are a princess of your people./
Did she imagine the length of the pause? Surely it was the distance the signal was traveling to reach her. One by one, the words popped up on her console, green strokes against black. /I am an heir to power, as you have become. Were our people successful? How far away are you?/
/I did not go./
That pause she did not imagine. She used it to look at the still image of the woman to whom she spoke. This woman’s face was nothing like the only other one she had to compare it to, the Eldritch heir she had helped the Ambassador liberate. The heir had been delicate and terrified, her eyes too large and too wet, her mouth loose and pale. The Queen remembered the contempt she’d had for that female, and the pity: two emotions she would certainly never waste on this Eldritch, who had a pointed face, a firm mouth, and above all, eyes that defied the world. They were orange, like the Queen’s own.
/Why?/
The Queen leaned into her response, willing the other female to understand. /If this is to be my Empire too, then I must be a part of its transformation. I sent the others to safety, but I must stay to do what I can./
Quickly, this response: /Yes. I would do no less./
Of course. The Queen wrote more swiftly, clawtips clicking. /But because I did not go with them, I need someone to look after them for me. They don’t know aliens. They will never have met them. You offered asylum—/
/Yes./ A pause. /I’ll take care of them. Have no fears./
The Queen closed her eyes, hands flattening slowly on the console. Until this moment she had not realized ho
w much it had mattered to her, that she’d sent the most vulnerable of the palace’s Chatcaava into foreign territory without a guide. And as much as she trusted Laniis, who spoke their language, who’d lived among them, who would no doubt be there to help them… Laniis had been a single Seersa, and not someone with authority. Not like this Eldritch, who exuded power like a rising sun. /Thank you./
/I will wish you luck./
/Thank you,/ the Queen wrote again. /If we meet—/
/You can thank me in person. And tell me your story—I would like to hear it. Goddess-speed, Lady./
The Queen stared at the words as the connection terminated, then wiped them away and left the console blank. She drew her shawl up and wrapped it under her wings, up around her shoulders. This time, she did go to the window, though she sat on the bench rather than the sill. The sky had empurpled, streaked with graying clouds pricked with stars. The breeze was high and cool but she thought she could smell the sea on it.
Now, she thought, she could rest.
By the time Second came for her, she had ceased to listen for him, and in fact found herself distantly surprised to see him. His neglect had led her to believe he didn’t care that she’d orchestrated the removal of the entire harem tower’s assets; it was one of the possible reactions of a typical Chatcaavan male, to consider the disposition of females and children beneath his interest. But no, he topped the stairs and came to a halt to stare at her. He’d found her sitting in the nest, and for a long moment neither of them did anything.
“You perplex me,” Second said.
That, she thought, did not require response. She waited for a direct question, as females ought.
“If it was a demonstration of your competence, it was poorly directed,” Second said. “I neither care about nor need the Emperor’s creatures, and in sending them away the only thing you have accomplished is to warn me that you are an agent for unexpected acts, one that must be compensated for.”
That was more credit than she’d expected him to give her, so she was glad that he was deciding on his own that she was not intelligent enough to have hidden her power.
“I thought, at first, that it was the work of some male,” Second continued. “That Navy stripling your Emperor installed here, perhaps. But reading the former Second’s notes acquainted me with your history, that you have involved yourself in the affairs of your betters. He seems to think you were smart enough to betray the Empire to the Alliance. I think that incredible. He was obviously an old male, growing afraid of his own shadow, if he thought a female capable of threatening a real person.” Second stepped closer. “He also thought the Emperor cared for you. I don’t think the Emperor cares for anyone. He used the Ambassador to learn to read minds—that was clever. You, no doubt, he used to soften the Ambassador. A very canny male, the Emperor.” He crouched across from her, wings spreading for balance. “No, I doubt he cares for you at all. But you… you apparently care for him. Or else why would you deprive his usurper of his possessions? How startled the former Second would be to hear of your fidelity!”
The Queen tried not to dig her claws into the pillow she’d been leaning on.
“Here is what I conclude, then. You are a witless female with pretensions to the power of a male, who thinks herself important to the male who owned her. No doubt you have remained here out of misguided loyalty to him, in the belief that you might make it easier for him to reclaim his throne when he discovers that we have stolen it from him, something you will attempt to accomplish by spying on the conversations of your betters.” He tilted his head. “I won’t ask if I am right.”
She had forgotten to breathe.
Second stood. “You are ridiculous. Completely in keeping with the male we are replacing.” And went to the console, sliding his clawtips into the slots. “Surgeon to the Slave Queen’s suite.”
“What do you intend to do?” the Queen asked.
If she’d shocked him by asking he showed no sign. But he didn’t answer either, leaning against the wall beside the window. She thought of fleeing but couldn’t conceive of where she’d go. The sky was barred to her. The tower… how far would she get before Second’s minions found her? If he was staging a coup—he’d said ‘we’—then there would be no escape for her. And—she breathed in—this had been her plan all along. She rested her hands on her knees and composed herself to wait.
The Surgeon was not long in arriving, sweeping in on the early evening wind. In the glance he threw at her she saw the recognition of their mutual perversions… and she approved of the wariness that made his mask so impenetrable when he turned it to Second. “I see nothing that needs attention.”
“Not yet, no. You are to denude the Slave Queen of her wing vanes.”
“I am to what?”
Second twitched his head toward her. “Cut them off, as close to the wing arms as possible.”
The Surgeon stared at her. “Doing so would be messy. And dangerous. The vanes are densely latticed with blood vessels and nerves. Even crippled as she is, there should be enough sensation near the arms to put her in shock.”
“That is why I have called you to do it and not a guard.” When the Surgeon hesitated, Second said, “I understand your distaste. It is not for a surgeon to soil himself with the flesh of females. If you prefer, you can educate one of the guards on what is to be done and you may go.”
“She would probably die.”
Second twitched a hand in a shrug. “Then she dies. But it must be done.” He looked at her. “Wings, like privileges, belong to males.”
“I’m surprised you don’t command the wing arms’ removal as well.”
Second shrugged again. “A far more difficult operation, and she would be far less likely to survive it.” He met her eyes. “I intend her to survive it.” Returning his attention to the Surgeon, he said, “Will you do it or shall I have you instruct a guard?”
“I will. They’ll do it badly.”
Second grinned, eyes lidded. “Truly spoken like one Outside.”
“It is what I am.” The Surgeon pulled his bag off and went to her. It was when he kneeled alongside her that she finally realized that the conversation had happened, that it had been about her. Her heart lurched and she turned her face down just enough for her mane to hide the way her breath stuttered. Had she thought that she hated her wings? She’d been wrong. It was their uselessness that she’d despised. The prospect of having them completely stripped from her was so obscene she found herself shaking.
It wouldn’t do. Second would be watching. She forced herself to stillness and watched the Surgeon’s capable hands as they flipped open the kit, revealing any number of mysterious instruments and vials. He selected several and set them aside. “I will need a thick blanket. Look in the closet.” Presumably Second had hesitated, for the Surgeon said, irritated, “When I am done she will need to be kept warm or she will die. Unless you are willing to let me take her to the clinic? Where this could be properly done on an operating table, and then a gel tank—”
“No.”
“Then get me the blanket.”
Turning back to her, the Surgeon leaned in. “He is gone. I am sorry. I cannot let anyone else do it. They will kill you.”
“You do it,” the Queen whispered. “I understand. You I trust.” The Surgeon’s face remained masklike, but his eyes… he was furious. She set her hand over his, wishing it wouldn’t tremble, and said again, “Do what you must.”
His hand fisted under hers. Then he pulled back and said over his shoulder, “Bring the blanket. And either send for my assistant or some of your guards.” Looking at her, he said, “This is a messy business. I will need help.”
CHAPTER 17
Jahir woke to the murmur of conversation, an unintelligible staccato that emerged from the beat of war drums in the last of his dreams. He eased his lashes apart and found himself alone in bed, though the hollow alongside him was still warm to his questing palm. Twisting the blanket around himself, he slid from the
nest of pillows and covers they’d made for themselves when finally they’d fallen asleep and padded to the door leading into the main room. There he found his cousin facing a solidigraph, wearing nothing but a cobalt-blue robe and the mussed fall of his hip-length hair: a fair sight, but not as distracting as his conversational partner, because the solidigraph was an ominous silhouette, lacking distinguishing features.
“I’ll be there,” Lisinthir was saying.
“I’ll leave you to it, then. And Ambassador—good hunting.”
Jahir could hear the thin smile in his cousin’s voice. “My thanks, alet.”
The silhouette vanished with a chime as the connection terminated. Knowing Lisinthir could sense him, Jahir said, low, “You are summoned.”
“I fear I must cut our visit short.” Lisinthir came to him. “I apologize, cousin. I did not mean for you to wake in a cold bed today of all days.”
“Fortunately for you, I didn’t. You left the sheets warm.” Jahir did not need to study Lisinthir’s face to intuit the content of the call. His cousin was transformed: was again the weapon unsheathed, his body alert and eager, his eyes distant and very clear, as if drawn toward a battle over the lip of the horizon. “How soon?”
“I must be gone by nightfall, I fear.” Lisinthir dragged his attention back from whatever private vista he contemplated and cupped Jahir’s jaw in his hands. “Ah, Galare. Would that I could stay.”
“I won’t wish it,” Jahir said. “This is what you are meant for. And if I can help….”
“You will.”
Facile answer that. Jahir accepted it, resigned, and was surprised to be pinched on the cheek, a sudden bright point of pain. Looking up, he found his cousin regarding him with arched brows and a minatory look. “That was not a pretty courtesy extended to you out of pity. I expect you to be of help to me, cousin. Did you assume I would turn away your aid?”
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