by P. J. Fox
Rajesh had been singularly annoyed.
All was not lost, however, because Mahalia had unwisely failed to retreat to her room. Having collected her book, she’d curled up in her favorite chair. Which happened to be in the undersized and never-used formal parlor. As she was in her own house, she was, naturally, insensible to any danger. Mahalia had never been a girl who questioned her place in the world. Or, indeed, her right to said place.
After an hour, she’d gotten up to use the bathroom.
And when she’d come back, she’d found Rajesh waiting for her.
His kiss had not been gentle. He’d taken her utterly by surprise, grabbing her and throwing her against the wood paneled wall. The breath had been almost knocked out of her but even so she found herself responding to him. He had a thin, aquiline nose and a cruel mouth, which, perversely, added to his appeal. That this grown man was kissing her, though, struck Mahalia as so impossible that she’d been kissing him back for a solid minute when she remembered that she hated him. And it wasn’t a good idea to kiss a man you hated, was it? She wasn’t sure, having never been kissed before—and as a first kiss, this one was fairly wretched—but she thought not.
First kisses were supposed to be soft and romantic and make girls think of hearts and unicorns. They weren’t supposed to involve violence and raw need and hands in strange places. Perhaps, she decided, trying to extricate herself, she should tell him so. Not that it would do any good. His cologne was quite intoxicating, which she shouldn’t be thinking about.
“I don’t think I like you,” she murmured.
“I don’t care,” he responded, and she knew that he meant it.
“In fact,” she continued, although with great difficulty as he was now kissing her neck, “I’m quite sure that I don’t.”
He might have said something about her learning to appreciate him, given time. She wasn’t sure, because more or less at the same moment he slid his hand up her thigh. She lost her virginity pressed against some singularly uncomfortable carvings, to a man she hadn’t even known that morning. She felt like quite the slut, and she reveled in the experience. This would upset her stepmother!
That no one had walked in on them was a minor miracle. And when it was over, her rather demanding lover was hardly solicitous. She’d heard somewhere that men were supposed to be contrite after venting their boorish lusts on poor, impressionable young females. She, too, was supposed to be properly outraged at this assault on her virtue. She wasn’t. She wanted to do it again. So did he. So, with some trepidation, she agreed to see him again later on.
What scared Mahalia more than her lover having forced himself on her was his being so much older. She wondered what they’d talk about—if, indeed, they ever did talk. Which, given the program of events so far, seemed unlikely. The thought brought a small smile to her face as she cleaned herself up.
He’d come to her that night and made love to her properly, holding her as though she were a porcelain vase that might break. And afterwards, she’d discovered that there was a great deal to talk about. She’d met a lot of people, even living on an outpost in the middle of nowhere, but he was the first that she genuinely found interesting. For the most part, her conversational limit was about an hour. After that, she could entertain herself better than the person sitting across from her. But she and her strange new friend had talked until dawn.
Their affair was greatly aided by happy circumstance of Mahalia’s bedroom being on the opposite side of the house from her father’s. Laila hadn’t wanted any intrusions. Which struck Mahalia as hilarious; she couldn’t picture her father having sex, and not just because he was her father. Zerus’ idea of romancing was probably declaiming from ancient literature.
The crisis point had come a week later, when Mahalia made an offhand comment about how Rajesh had ruined her to other men. His reaction had been terrifying. For a split second, she’d thought he was going to kill her. There would be, he informed her, his eyes boring into hers and their noses almost touching, no other men. There couldn’t be; he was in love with her and she had to marry him.
She’d pointed out that even if she’d felt the same way—which wasn’t nearly as in doubt as she’d pretended—she couldn’t. She wasn’t of legal age and wouldn’t be for some time.
He’d gone about trying to contrive ways of staying on. Nevertheless, her birthday remained far enough away that the notion of proper, legal marriage presented a problem. Emperor’s nephew or no, Rajesh could hardly impinge on Zerus’ hospitality for six more months.
Now, at this point, any normal father would have probably been suspicious.
Even though they went to great lengths to conceal the full extent of their relationship, Mahalia and Rajesh saw a great deal of each other. They took walks in the enormous, partially wooded garden that was the only selling feature of the house; they took tea together, and debated economics. They debated women’s rights, and the future of women in the empire.
In Zerus’ defense, however, that his daughter and future son in law referred to this relationship as “love” would hardly have been obvious. Except, perhaps, to someone who knew one or both of them extremely well. And Zerus, bless his heart, didn’t know his daughter from a hole in the wall. When he looked at Mahalia, he saw the sweet young thing he wanted her to be. He’d always taken her disinterest in the world as a retreat from it and that, in turn, as a sign of fear. Which suited him just fine; he didn’t think very highly of either his fellow man or the institution of marriage.
Both of his own marriages had been unhappy—Laila died a few years before Aria met Kisten—if conventional. Ritual courtship behaviors and various bland endearments marked the path that a man was supposed to take. And Zerus set great store by these sorts of generalities. There was a right way and a wrong way to be in love. Or, at least, to indicate the strength of one’s intentions when it came to his precious jewel of a daughter.
It’s questionable what Rajesh would have done if events hadn’t conspired to force his hand. That he had every intention of marrying Mahalia was perfectly true; but there was the lingering issue of her age. He, himself was only twenty-seven and while he had a great deal of experience with women, it wasn’t the sort of experience that lent itself to figuring out what to do about an underage bride. Or, he thought with some frustration, impressing her overly protective father.
There was nothing else for it. He had to ask his own father for help.
Ceres, being far from a fool and unfettered by fantasies about ever-virginal daughters, knew perfectly well what was happening and had from the beginning. Still, it was one thing to know that one’s father knew, and another to face said man and confess the fact that each day’s efforts at the negotiating table were followed by enthusiastically impressing himself upon the daughter of the man on whom he was meant to be impressing his good will.
If Zerus had been slightly less ridiculous and Rajesh hadn’t killed several men already, he might have been worried. As it was, his only concern was that Mahalia might suffer from a disagreeable interview or two. That things would deteriorate as badly as they ultimately did honestly never occurred to him—and why should it have? He was a prince, and destined for great things. His intentions were honorable. He was also a sociopath, but surely that fact should concern no one but his future consort. He wasn’t, after all, hoping to marry Zerus.
Who had assuredly noticed that Rajesh was…not right. This being one of the reasons he wanted them to leave. That, and they’d been his guests for almost six weeks now and Zerus objected—with some justification—to the strain on his household. And on his marriage; Mahalia was never sure, looking back, how many of their houseguests had had sex with Laila or in what combination. Including her own eventual husband.
Rajesh had intended to discuss the particulars of their situation with Mahalia, first, when she countermanded his agenda by telling him that she was pregnant. It was about midnight, and they were sitting side by side on the floor of her room in an oddly s
haped patch of moonlight. He’d seen her face, and the worry there, but his enthusiasm wasn’t for her benefit.
Mahalia Faraj was the single most precious, wonderful thing in the universe and the idea that there might be two of her was almost too incredible to be borne. He hoped that they’d have a great many children, and told her so. And told her, further, that he hoped they’d all be exactly like her. She, touchingly, had allowed that there was much to be loved in him.
They were happy.
Ceres had, once again, not been surprised.
Had, in point of fact, already guessed at this news. He’d waylaid his son on his way back to their suite, suggesting politely but forcefully that they’d reached the time for explanations. He didn’t contradict his son’s choice of bride, nor did he criticize how Rajesh had gone about securing her affections. That she was as deeply in love as he struck Ceres as boringly apparent. And his son had been mooning about so much that he could almost wish a return to the boy’s earlier pursuits of lighting things on fire and torturing small animals.
Mahalia was good for him, though. She brought out a side in him that, frankly, Ceres hadn’t known existed. He agreed to have a chat with Zerus and see if the old man couldn’t be persuaded to sign off on an earlier marriage. He’d been certain that Zerus would agree; after all, waiting until she was six months pregnant to get married would hardly do much for Mahalia’s reputation. Or say a great deal about the hospitality of her father’s house.
Rajesh was explaining all of this to his intended when they were caught together by Laila.
In, unfortunately, a rather compromising position.
ELEVEN
What happened next, Mahalia was never quite able to forgive.
She might have been, she’d told her son years later, if Zerus had ever been willing to see that he was in the wrong—to admit the possibility that he even could be wrong!
They’d assembled for the sort of polite family conference that everyone so loves. Rajesh, at twenty-seven, was well able to present his own case. Mahalia was the love of his life, he could imagine nothing more rewarding than cherishing her as she deserved to be cherished and giving their children a legitimate name, and he wanted to get married as soon as possible.
Mahalia, who had not been questioned, volunteered nevertheless that she was in full agreement with this program. Rajesh made her happy. He was her best friend. And even if he wasn’t, she was pregnant with his child so she’d better marry him and soon.
Zerus didn’t have anger issues; he had righteous rage. There was a difference. If that difference failed to manifest itself in any visible way, well…Zerus knew it was there. He was fighting, to be sure, but on the side of right. He’d called his daughter a whore and the father of his grandchildren a rapist. Ceres had pointed out, mildly, that those two observations were inapposite and had been ignored. Zerus would not, he asserted, agree to any such ridiculous thing. Mahalia was only seventeen years old—a mere child! She’d come to her senses, eventually. That she was seriously contemplating marrying this monster only proved that she was far too immature to understand the meaning of marriage.
Moreover, he said, waving his thin arms for emphasis, he was a decent man from a decent, God-fearing family! Over his dead body would his daughter marry into a clan of idol worshipping heathens who—he lowered his voice—mingled with natives. No product of his purified loins would sully herself by mixing with a half-caste. He’d gone on to cast aspersions, rather colorfully, on any man who’d pollute the gene pool with a guttersnipe who—
Ceres had hit him.
The crunch of bone had been audible, and Zerus had ended up in the hospital.
Mahalia wept, Rajesh worried that too much stress was bad for her health, Ceres allowed a bit grudgingly that he might have made a bad situation worse and Zerus flatly refused to emancipate his daughter.
After he’d had his nose set, he returned to his house and another meeting was held. This time, Mahalia did much of the talking. She’d been raised to believe that men and women were equals; why wasn’t her father, champion of a woman’s right to choose her own destiny, allowing Mahalia to choose hers? Zerus had suggested that Mahalia terminate the pregnancy. There was no reason, he told her, that she should trap herself like this. Her…situation was unfortunate, but hardly necessitated her throwing her life away. If she’d only—
This time, Rajesh had hit him.
The whole sad situation ended with Zerus giving Mahalia an ultimatum: either she came to her senses, or she’d never be welcome in his home again.
So you’re a hypocrite, she’d accused. A woman is free to do whatever she wants, so long as it’s something her father agrees with.
You don’t know your own mind! You’re too young!
How do you know that I don’t know my own mind? How can you possibly be so sure?
I know what will make you happy—better than you do!
But I am happy.
No you’re not! Zerus was being irrational and, Mahalia suspected, they all knew it.
At seventeen, she disliked being more mature than her father. He was supposed to be guiding her. Instead, she found herself acting as his nursemaid. And she pregnant. It gave her a strange sense of drifting, knowing that he couldn’t—that, win or lose, she had to make the big decisions on her own. She’d had no one to discuss her situation with except, of course, the man who’d caused it. He’d been understanding, but she’d been lonely just the same. She was lonely now. You were perfectly happy before he came and look at you now!
I wasn’t perfectly happy! Keeping out of sight wasn’t the same thing, regardless of what her father might think. She’d always been alone—until now. She’d tried to explain, but Zerus’ rigid insistence that he knew best closed his mind to any argument that she might make.
She’d gone with her husband, Ceres had gotten a dispensation from the Emperor, and they’d been married aboard an armored transport. They weren’t even going home to Brontes; they were on a colonial tour. Mahalia had received the best prenatal care that the army had to offer, and given birth on a base on Goliath II. She’d chosen the names for her sons herself, in defiance of convention. Rajesh had approved—of the names, if not the independent gesture. Kisten and Keshav, born seconds apart and both honoring the old gods. The same God, in fact. And they’d been perfect, and she’d loved them, and her father hadn’t responded when she’d told him that they’d been born.
It was the one blot on an otherwise bliss filled life.
Rajesh had encouraged her to attend college, and to pursue her doctorate. She’d graduated from one program after another with honors, fallen more and more in love with her husband, and had three more children. In an attempt to ameliorate their marriage’s inauspicious beginnings, Rajesh had dragged her to every brunch, lunch, tea, dinner, and other fête held on Chau Cera. Ceres had thrown them a lovely party, which everyone naturally—and thankfully—assumed had been delayed until they’d reached civilization. Mahalia had officially changed her birth date. The Emperor had been of some assistance in that arena.
Zerus never could move past his disappointment.
TWELVE
Aria wasn’t sure what she’d expected after that.
She was exhausted, she knew that much. The rain still beat against the roof above her, still battered the windows, blown almost horizontal in a storm that seemed almost human in its frenzy. She supposed that night had fallen by now, but without a clock she wasn’t sure. There were no clocks, she thought distractedly, in either hall. How odd. Funny, the things people caught themselves thinking about in times like these.
Her gaze returned to Zerus. He wasn’t pale; he was gray. She saw another flash of his intestines in her mind’s eye and felt her own stomach twist. She told herself to pull it together. She squeezed his hand. It was icy cold and clammy with perspiration. She didn’t know how he’d clung to life this long. He’d been talking for what felt like forever, even though it couldn’t have been more than half an hour. Sh
e wasn’t sure, though; she’d lost all sense of time.
“And that,” he wheezed, “is that.” He lapsed into silence.
She felt a warm rush of empathy for the man. How terrible to have lived under a cloud that dark for so long—and only now, at the end, to realize what he’d lost. When it was too late.
He’d loved his daughter, that much was obvious. And Aria thought that he really had wanted the best for her. As he understood the term, at least. She remembered back to her own wedding, and Zerus’ comment about his in-laws: they’re a bunch of nut job traditionalists, though, and I wouldn’t go promising to obey any of them. For a bohemian like Zerus, his daughter’s choice of husband must have come as a shock. He might have genuinely believed that she’d be miserable.
But even so, the marriage had been what Mahalia had wanted, and she’d had the right to make her own mistakes. Surely, when he saw that she was happy, he should have relented? Of course, Aria concluded: that was exactly what he was doing! She tightened her grip on his hand, feeling a rush of love and pity for him. She still saw his outpouring as a confession.
She was disabused.
“I can’t wait…until one of her children does the same to her,” he gasped. “She’ll know then…how she’s wronged me.”
Aria stared, uncomprehending. Surely he couldn’t be…but he was, he was. This gray-faced, slack-jawed man beside her was literally wasting his dying breath on spewing invective against a woman who’d only ever wanted his love. Against his own child.
Whose sole crime had been choosing to be happy. But she’d been happy wrong, and that’s what this was about—even after all these years. If Mahalia had been just into her eighteenth year when Kisten and Keshav were born, then she was fifty-one now. Zerus had held this hate inside him, this crushing sense of having been wronged, for thirty-four years. It had, she saw with perfect clarity, dominated his life—and ruined it.
