by P. J. Fox
Finishing, he sank to the floor and pulled her with him.
A few minutes later he found himself on the floor with his back against the desk and no clear recollection of how he’d gotten there. Aria sat next to him. Neither of them spoke. Silence reigned, the only noise being an occasional shout from one of the gardeners to his helper. Theirs had been an unusually silent afternoon.
He considered saying something, and didn’t. What was there to say? He’d had a child out of wedlock, left that child in the clutches of a woman he knew to be a monster, and lied about the whole miserable experience to the innocent woman on whom he’d just forced himself.
He didn’t know what would have happened, or how things would have turned out differently, if at that exact moment she hadn’t reached out and laid her hand on his arm. That brush of fingertips, feather light, said more than words ever could. He enfolded her in his arms as she crawled into his lap, and there she stayed. She leaned her head against his chest.
“I’ve made a real balls-up of this,” he said. The admission stung, but not so much as it would have earlier.
“What are you going to do?” Aria asked.
He’d been thinking about purchasing her a bracelet, or a necklace, or some other prize for tolerance, or perhaps bringing her out on a picnic and telling her the sorts of things that women enjoyed hearing, but he knew that wasn’t what she’d meant. “I’m not certain,” he admitted. He’d also put serious thought into killing Aleah, but decided not to share that particular information. Aria hated it when he killed things.
“Well,” said Aria philosophically, “he’s here now.”
“He has no reason to ever forgive me.”
“Except the fact that you’re his father. And he needs one.”
He’d gotten so involved in what he thought of himself and his own life that he’d ended up sentencing his son to the very fate he’d wanted to avoid. He’d thought, too, of Sabihah and how disgusted she’d been with all of them. If he’d been less self-involved, then he’d have realized that his family—whatever their flaws—were better for Talin than Aleah.
That anything was.
He could, after all, have gone to live in Sabihah’s joyless home.
“Is it such a terrible mistake,” asked Aria, “to choose to think well of someone?”
He hadn’t realized that he’d spoken aloud; he must be more out of sorts than he’d thought. “Yes,” he replied. When this was the result, it was.
“She’s the mother of your child.”
“I want you to be.” He’d said the words without thinking, and now it was too late to take them back.
“Alright,” she said.
“What?” He twisted her around and looked at her. Her eyes were such a lovely, clear shade of blue, even if they didn’t work very well. He knew, from reading what few studies had been conducted on the subject, that the eyes were a dominant trait. Children born of interspecies unions—and there had been a fair number, especially after the Great War—always inherited certain of the Bronte parent’s genetic characteristics. Which was equally true on Caiphos, and the others of the Home Worlds that had been settled by the Bronte.
Braxi eyes were the vibrant red of arterial blood. Despite their outward similarities the Braxi were unable to reproduce with human beings at all, of any species, but the Braxi were insular in any case. Unions between Braxi and non-Braxi weren’t totally unheard of, but nearly as good as. The indigenous tribes of Alam had unusual eyes as well, slitted horizontally like a goat’s. And the native peoples of the Charon System, where the sun was very strong, had eyes like Aria’s. He’d grown up thinking that his grandmother, Udit, was one of the loveliest women in the world. He’d inherited his pale skin and dark hair from her.
“What?” asked Aria, looking nervous.
“I’m…surprised, is all.”
“But I thought….” She trailed off, chewing her lip.
“I do.” He wanted children desperately. “I don’t understand why you do.”
“Because you’re a good man.”
He wondered how she could think that, after all that had happened, but elected not to probe the issue. Perhaps part of him was afraid that, under the influence of logic, she’d change her mind. She curled up against him again, and he stroked her hair. He liked her hair. He thought again about how he’d brought her here against her will, and how well she’d adapted. She told him again that she loved him, and seemed to be sincere.
He wondered how Alice was getting on. Aria hadn’t mentioned her lately, which he’d surprised himself by noticing. He assumed that, therefore, Alice must have settled into the routines of the domestic sphere. If Aria could learn to love him, then anybody could learn to love anybody. He’d seen Alice and her husband once or twice; she wasn’t his type but, even so, he could hardly help but notice a pretty girl. But having emerged from the hospital, Major—now Colonel—Hanafi monopolized every conversation with his war stories.
He should have let the man die, Kisten thought uncharitably; at least then he’d be quiet.
Setji and Naomi kept sparring, too, like a pair of spoiled toddlers fighting over a favorite toy. Oh, God, Setji. That Setji, of all people, had walked in on and been witness to his disgrace was insupportable.
“Where is Aleah?”
“I’ve no bloody idea. I almost killed her, and then I left her in the sitting room.”
“Oh.”
“I’m having dinner with her tonight.” His slight smile didn’t reach his eyes, as he studied the room over Aria’s head. “I’d tell you that if she were the last woman in the universe that the species would die out, but….” He shrugged.
Aria’s answering laugh was small but genuine.
Their little escapade seemed to have helped her as much as it had helped him. He wouldn’t have thought such a thing possible, but in some respects their needs were complementary. She’d been, at first, a hesitant masochist to his sadist and he’d tried not to press the issue but she might be growing into the role. Which pleased him. They’d had quite a bit of fun together, recently. And she liked evidence of his needing her. Which he did. More than she’d ever know.
“I’ll do my best to see that Talin doesn’t escape captivity in the meantime,” Aria said. “And I really do need to speak with Ananda about his room. And,” she added, “I’d be most appreciative if, when you’ve finished with Aleah, you’d share the benefit of your wisdom on the subject of his education. I’d thought we might hire a tutor, at first…?”
Kisten nodded thoughtfully.
“Talin may have distinct opinions about his need to go to school, and of course all that has to be addressed.” Which was a polite means of acknowledging that the little hellion’s attitude stank. She paused, considering. “He’ll need suitable clothes, too. And a haircut.”
“Nothing would please me more, and I look forward to our conversation. But for tonight, please see that he eats something.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Somehow, he told himself, they’d get through this.
FIFTY-THREE
He thought about the situation as he dressed for dinner. He’d sent word to Aleah, who’d been housed in the new guest quarters, that he’d meet her in the hall at eight. He was taking her out; he refused to sully his house with her presence, but he’d let her think she was dining at The General Gaza, a well-known and reputable inn near Renta’s house, for a different reason.
He dressed himself; he’d dismissed his valet. He wasn’t so senile that he needed help donning his own cufflinks. He selected a pair from his jewel box, simple platinum things sculptured with tiny miniatures of his House crest. A little reminder that he was an heir to the throne wouldn’t go amiss. He shrugged on his jacket, an elegant piece in plain gray silk that hit below the knee. His trousers were gray wool, of a slightly darker shade. He slipped on his rings; he wore several, although he eschewed the earrings and bracelets that many men wore. He’d been too long in the navy to find such things
appealing.
He’d be turning thirty-four in a few months, which meant that his son would soon be fourteen. He realized that he didn’t know Talin’s exact birthday, only that it was some time in the early spring. He was capable of counting that much on his fingers. He’d have to find out, he supposed, along with the thousand other bits of trivial information that made up a life: what his son ate for breakfast and which teams he followed. And whether he could add or subtract. His accent was atrocious. He was a scion of the royal house and he sounded like he’d just crawled out of a gutter.
Whose fault is that? He examined himself in the mirror and declared himself fit for battle. At least the boy wasn’t stupid.
The addition to the residence had been finished not a moment too soon. Talin needed a room, and Aria was right: he was in no fit state for school. He’d need tutors. But if he was as bright as Kisten thought he was, he’d catch on soon enough and then they’d see about a proper education. He’d turned thirteen during this academic year, which meant that he’d be a second form if he’d grown up as he should.
Aleah wasn’t stupid; she just wasn’t submissive. Brontes was a difficult place for an obstreperous woman, but Aleah had…soured somehow. Hardened, into a woman he barely recognized. Whatever redeeming qualities she’d had were long gone, a sad state of affairs that she’d amply proved by her treatment of her son. His son.
Stepping out into the hall, he walked down to his private sitting room where he found Aria and Talin drinking tea and playing backstab fish. He’d come to take his leave before going out, and was unexpectedly taken aback by the domesticity of the scene. Seeing him, Aria stood. She seemed ill at ease, no doubt from hours spent pacifying his highly unpleasant offspring. Who, predictably, refused to acknowledge his presence.
He nodded stiffly, feeling absurdly formal in his own house. “Madam,” he said.
“Your Grace.”
He was considering how to address Talin when Talin answered the question for him. “Don’t even go there,” he said, sounding both upset and extremely childish.
“As you wish,” Kisten replied, unruffled. He turned back to Aria, approached her and spoke in a low tone that Talin was perfectly able to hear. “I trust that all is well?” he inquired. Talin, standing in the background, fumed at being ignored. He wanted to draw attention to himself by refusing to participate; Kisten’s unexpected acquiescence had left him flat-footed.
Kisten had been thirteen once, too.
“Yes,” Aria agreed, her expression a perfect blank, “once I explained to Talin that throwing a bowl of soup at the cook was an impermissible means of rejecting her efforts, all was well.” Her eyes sparkled; she was trying desperately hard not to laugh.
“Did the bowl hit the intended target?” Kisten asked with interest.
“Yes. Cook feels that her posteriors have been bruised, and asks your permission to enact discipline.”
“Granted.”
“What?” squawked Talin. And then, in Aria’s direction, “traitor.”
Kisten addressed him directly. “I am master of this house. You are not. Had she withheld the information, then she’d have been thrashed, too. And by me, and my arm is much stronger than cook’s.”
“You wouldn’t.” Talin stared. And then, “wait—thrashing? I’ll submit to no such thing!”
“No one is seeking your permission.”
“You’re insane!” Talin said disbelievingly.
“Prove that you’re capable of learning the lesson in some other fashion, then.”
“You wouldn’t,” said Talin challengingly, clearly not believing a word.
“I would,” said Kisten calmly. “And I have.” Aria colored. Seeing her reaction, Talin’s eyes widened. Kisten wasn’t a wantonly cruel man, but he believed in discipline. Growing up, he knew perfectly well that his father occasionally took a hand to his mother. Although neither of them had seemed to mind, much.
“I have a dinner engagement,” he told Talin. “So this discussion must be cut short. However, I shall expect you to report to me, in my office, tomorrow morning after breakfast. Aria will escort you, provided she has no other engagement. Otherwise, you may ask one of the servants for assistance.” He paused, for effect. Talin glared. “I shall further expect,” he continued, unmoved, “that between then and now you will have reported to cook for your punishment, whatever she decides it is, and expressed your enthusiasm to receive it. Be sure that I plan to follow up with her, as well.”
“And if I refuse?” Talin challenged.
“Then you refuse. You are a free citizen of the empire and almost a grown man to boot. Your free will is your own.”
“But….” Talin hesitated, sensing the catch.
“But nothing. The consequences of your actions are yours to anticipate.”
Talin glanced quickly at Aria, no doubt considering his father’s thoughts on the subject of thrashing. So much the better. In the navy, one learned that discipline often meant the difference between life and death. He’d seen men die because they’d paused to question an order rather than simply follow it. Men who otherwise would have lived. He knew nothing about being a father but he knew a great deal about turning useless farm boys into soldiers and this was—regardless of what he thought—for Talin’s own good.
Dismissing the boy, who was glaring daggers at him, he once again addressed his consort. She was undoubtedly worried that he’d disport himself unbecomingly with his dinner companion. Women were so strange. Unlike men, who considered the theft of a friend’s sweetheart to be a near unpardonable sin, if not an action that justified outright murder, women almost seemed to prefer the idea that the so-called other woman be a friend. Kisten was certain that chief among Aria’s grievances concerning the subject of Naomi had been their mutual dislike. Whereas she’d never said anything unpleasant on the subject of Renta at all, and seemed if anything to feel bad for the other woman in his life.
He dismissed the question from his mind, after deciding to review his conclusions again at a later date. Bending down, he kissed Aria on the cheek. “Goodnight,” he said.
“Goodnight.” She favored him with a small smile.
Turning, he left Aria and the boy to their own devices. He supposed that Talin must have a room by now, and had at least something to eat that hadn’t ended up on the cook’s behind. Which did, he had to admit, make an appealingly wide target. When he’d come in, he and Aria had looked like they were having fun. Or, at least, they weren’t quite as miserable as he’d expected them to be.
He found Aleah in the hall, waiting for him with a sullen, dissatisfied look on her face that vanished as soon as she realized she had an audience. It was magical, really, watching her transform from a morally bankrupt, emotionally unavailable predator into a reasonable approximation of a human being. She smiled, all charm and enthusiasm. He smiled back, giving every impression of being pleased to see her. Or rather, as pleased as he ever was to see anybody. He’d never been a demonstrative man and didn’t intend to change now.
“Good evening,” he said, and offered her his arm. She slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. She was wearing a revealing little number in hot pink, which spoke volumes about what she assumed their plans were for the night. Her touch revolted him, but he’d become adept at hiding certain things. He wasn’t the same man he’d been when she’d known him, although he was content to let her think otherwise. Grinning up at him like she was, she certainly seemed to think that he was still nineteen and stupid.
Prattling away about nothing as he held open the car door and helped her into the low slung seat, she quickly adopted the same faintly condescending, clubby tone that he remembered. The tone that said, we’re chumming together, because we know something the others don’t.
The car had come with the horses, a custom job that cost more than most houses. He let the engine warm up for a minute or two before he put the old bird into gear and, looping around the circular drive, shot out like a cannon toward the gate.
He wished Keshav were here; he felt utterly hamstrung without his other half and wondered, in his heart of hearts, if he was capable of meeting the challenges before him in such a reduced state.
“I hope your suite is to your liking,” he said.
“Yes,” she assured him, “it’s lovely.”
She’d told Ananda that it was unacceptably small and that, as the mother of the current heir, she demanded something more suitable to her station, but he feigned ignorance. That this had been Talin’s model for behavior explained a lot. Talin, who could inherit Kisten’s personal titles and property but never his status as heir to the throne—as Aleah knew full well.
“I’m sure we could find you something larger,” he said solicitously. “The guest wing is new, you realize, and only just now in the final stages of completion. We have to rough it out here on the frontier, you know.”
Her laugh was like tinkling bells. “Oh, I could never want something larger,” she protested, “I’m bowled over by your generosity as it is.” She ran her fingers over the butter soft leather on the glove box, admiring the expensive cocoon in which she sat and mentally calculating its cost. “Yes,” she continued, after a moment, “the frontier must be…dull.”
Pretending not to take her meaning, he told her all about the mundane problems of the sewer system, the water reclamation program, and other municipal projects. Pulling up at the inn, he came around to the passenger side and helped Aleah onto the sidewalk. A second car containing his guard detachment for the night slid into place unobtrusively behind them. Even when a prince was alone, he was never truly alone and Kisten had learned to ignore the entourage that must perforce follow him everywhere—out of self-preservation, if nothing else.
