by Pearl North
Po kept on working after his shift was over and the others had left. He let Ock take Zam back to the stable; he didn’t even want the comfort of her presence. He lifted rocks and broke up the soil until his back ached and his arms felt numb. At last he stumbled wearily to the pump, standing in a muddy patch of bare ground between a tent where the farm equipment was kept and the corral for the wagons. As he washed himself, his mind was curiously blank. He watched the clear water run over his hands and arms, as if it were someone else to whom these things were happening.
“It must be hard,” said a voice, “being the only Ilysian male at the Libyrinth.”
Po started. He hadn’t known anyone was there. It was near sunset and almost everyone was off to dinner. He turned to see a woman standing there, leaning upon an adze, one foot braced on its blade. She was dressed for work in the fields, with a scarf over her nose and mouth to protect her from the dust. She looked like she might be Ilysian. She had dark curly hair coated with dust, pale blue eyes and, from what he could see, an aquiline nose. Her eyes smiled at him, and he couldn’t help but smile as well. He gave her a shrug.
She rested her adze against the side of a wagon and sat down on one of the large rocks arranged in a loose circle about the pump so people could rest while they took a drink of water. “You must feel like you’re the only one who doesn’t get it.”
Po started. In astonishment, he nodded.
She gave him a wink, uncorked a flask, and brought it under her scarf to drink. “Sit down beside me and I’ll let you in on a little secret.” She patted the stone beside her.
Po did as she asked and she handed him the flask. “Thank you,” he said, before drinking. The water was cool and sweet—as soothing to his thirst as her words were to his heart.
“Nobody gets it,” she said.
Po blinked.
She nodded assurance. “It’s true. Everybody here is struggling to let go of their cultural conditioning. And no one is comfortable with it. The ones who say they’re fine are lying. The ones who seem the most together are the ones who are messed up the most inside.”
Po absorbed this. Could it be true?
“Look at someone like Selene Tadamos, for instance. For years, long before the Redemption, she claimed to cast her Ilysian heritage aside. But has she really?”
Po blushed and looked at his feet. “She’s been very angry with me. I keep messing up.”
“She’s embarrassed because you make her feel the natural things that any Ilysian woman would feel around a male like you. What’s your name, anyway?”
“Po,” he told her.
“I’m Ithalia. My mother is Bea, Niacinth’s daughter. We’re from Dorax south of Uumphos.” Her traditional manners set him at ease. He felt like he didn’t have to pretend with her. Like he could just be himself. “How did you know I’m Ilysian?” he asked. Not everyone realized it just by looking at him.
“Well, granted, you don’t have the classic features, though you’re awfully cute. But I saw you earlier with Selene. Only an Ilysian male would prostrate himself like that. A pity your gesture wasn’t appreciated.”
Po nodded, feeling himself blush with mingled embarrassment and pleasure. Cute. He felt himself stir. “Pri—Selene is angry with me. I keep making mistakes. Now she—” His voice caught.
“Hey,” said Ithalia, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Come here.”
His throat thick with tears, Po let himself be drawn beside Ithalia. She put an arm around his shoulders and he sank against her, resting his head on her shoulder. “Is she being unfair to you? Tell me about it.”
“She thinks I should leave, that I’m a disruption,” said Po. “And she’s right. I’m doing everything wrong. Fighting all the time…I would leave. But now I can’t go back to Ilysies because the queen—” Po found himself at the end of words. He let himself cry and Ithalia held him closer, cradling his streaming face against her neck. The comfort of her arms and her soft bosom undid what remained of his restraint and he sobbed. “I don’t know what to do.”
“There, there,” she said, stroking his hair. “There, there, it’s all right. It’s not your fault, Po. You are as the Mother made you. You’ve done nothing wrong.”
“B-b-but Pri—Selene—”
“Selene is being very unfair to you. You make her uncomfortable because you remind her of her own heritage, which she rejects. It has nothing to do with you. Remember what I said, about the ones who seem to get it being the most troubled of all?”
Selene? “B-but she seems so perfect.”
“No one is perfect, Po. Least of all Selene. Are you consorting with her?”
He shook his head. “No. She doesn’t want—”
“Then she’s even more of a fool than I thought.”
Ithalia’s words warmed Po through and through. He relaxed. He felt more comfortable and secure than he could remember being in a long, long time. Maybe even since he’d left his mother’s village. His tears abated.
Ithalia gave him a squeeze, and released him. He sat up, rubbing at his eyes. He took in the tear-and-dirt-smudged shoulder of Ithalia’s tunic. “I’m sorry.”
“What, this?” she said. “It’s nothing but a work tunic, made for sweat and tears. And you’re entitled to cry. It’s been a long time since I’ve had the opportunity to comfort a weeping male. It’s nice. I don’t think the men around here realize what they’re depriving themselves and the women of, by being so stoic all the time. Sometimes, a good cry is just what you need.”
Po smiled. Her words were like nectar. “So you don’t think it makes me weak?”
Ithalia raised her eyebrows and looked him up and down. “I’d have to be blind to think you weak, Po.”
Comforted, Po took a deep breath. “Thank you, Ithalia. I can’t tell you how much—Thank you.” Now if only he could be of some assistance to her. “You must be tired from working,” he said. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
“I am tired,” she said, “and sore.” She stretched her arms above her head and arched her back, pushing her legs straight out in front of her. Above the scarf that still covered most of her face, her eyes glittered with sly amusement. “Would it be hopelessly regressive of me to ask for a foot rub?” she said.
“No! I was an adept’s apprentice, back in Ilysies,” he said. “I give really good foot rubs.”
Her voice was full of warmth. “I bet you do.”
First he fetched a bucket of water from the pump and washed her feet. Then he took her left foot in his lap and stroked it, heel to toe and ankle to pinky. Out of habit, he closed his eyes and focused his awareness in his hands. As usual, nothing happened, but her moans of appreciation more than compensated for his sense of failure. Here, too, as in their previous conversation, he did not need to be anything other than what he was. He found a knot just below her instep, in a spot that he knew from his training corresponded with her heart. He worked on it, gently unwinding the tense muscle.
She sighed. “You are a wonder.”
Pleasure brought a glow to his cheeks and an ache to his groin. He kept his focus on his breath and took her other foot in his lap and repeated the process. There was no need for him to act on his desire, no nerve-wracking question of making the first move. He could rest comfortably in the knowledge that she was aware of her effect on him and would take the next step if she so desired.
When he had finished, she embraced him. “That was wonderful. I must go now, Po. But we will meet again soon, I hope.”
Dizzy from her touch, Po nodded. It wasn’t until she’d gone that he thought to ask her where, or when.
The next day Po saw Ithalia in the “copytorium,” which was really the dining hall, when it was being used for meals. They were making copies of some of the books in order to share them with the neighboring villages.
He had been copying for about an hour or so but his hand, unused to such extended periods of writing, cramped up and he switched to working the paper press, squeezing the wa
ter from the mixture of palm-glow and silverleaf pulp they used to make paper, and then setting the sheets, still encased in their screens, upon the rack to dry. It was fairly monotonous work, and he stared at the few people in the room, their heads bent over their work. Between the squeak of the press, he could hear the scratching of their pens.
Ithalia entered the room just as Po had expelled the last of the water from a new sheet. She stood at the top of the broad, shallow stairs that led from the hallway and surveyed the room. Their eyes met. Po conquered his nervousness and smiled at her.
Ithalia still wore her field clothes, with her scarf drawn over her nose and mouth to protect her lungs from the dust, but her black hair was clean and it hung loose, gleaming in the light from the electric light fixtures above. She was so beautiful—tall and slender in the classic Ilysian way. The gleam in her eye, the confident way she stood with one hand on her hip and eyed him up and down made his whole body rush with pleasure, that pleasure then sharpening, sweetening, intensifying almost painfully.
He barely remembered to remove the sheet from the press before it dried and was ruined. When he looked up again from that task, she had taken a seat at one of the tables and was copying; though she glanced up, caught him staring at her, and winked.
Po swallowed against the dryness in his mouth. Should he abandon the press and go speak with her? No. If she wished to talk to him, she would have done so. Then why hadn’t she? Yesterday, she had seemed interested in him, and he had hoped…Perhaps she had changed her mind. But she glanced at him frequently, with looks that he would have to be blind to misinterpret. It was a game. She was teasing him to prolong their dance of seduction. He smiled back at her and turned, tugging at his robe in such a way that she would be able to see his desire for her.
Po returned to his work, warmed by her regard. He could hear the scratch of her pen and it seemed to him that the creak of the press as he turned it made a nice steady accompaniment to the sound. There were only a few other people working in here this afternoon. He almost felt as if they were alone together.
Suddenly he heard her shout, and then a clatter. She had jumped up, knocking over her chair. Now she ran toward him, her eyes wide. “What are they?” She pointed along the opposite wall, where Po saw a group of Nods.
“It’s all right,” he told her, putting his arms around her and positioning himself between her and the perceived danger. “They won’t harm us.”
Ithalia huddled close to him. He wondered if they had truly unnerved her, or if this was more of her game. But then, he felt her tremble. Po’s heart thumped as he held her close. She had sought physical protection from him. He couldn’t ever remember feeling so proud. It didn’t matter that the danger was nonexistent. She didn’t know that. “Have you not seen a Nod before?” he asked her.
She shook her head. Evidently, she had not spent much time inside the Libyrinth itself. Nods were a shock to those who had not been born at the Libyrinth, though one grew accustomed to them quickly enough. Little was known about them, even by the Libyrarians. In fact, until the Redemption the Libyrarians had been unaware that there was more than one Nod.
The little group of them clustered together in an alcove near the steps. They appeared to be climbing on one another, but for what purpose he had no idea. The other transcribers paused in their activity and watched as a lot of unsettling squeaks and twitters emanated from the tight ball of little red bodies.
“What are they?” Ithalia whispered, beside him.
No one really knew, Po realized. Even the Libyrarians, who were most accustomed do them, did not really know or understand what the Nods were.
At last the knot of Nods broke apart. He couldn’t be sure, but there seemed to be more of them now. He knew he saw one Nod go off with an arm that had previously belonged to another, though neither Nod was lacking any appendages. He felt a shudder coming on and he stifled it for Ithalia’s sake. As a male he was expected to be emotional, but also courageous where physical danger was concerned. Though it was obvious they were in no real danger and never had been. The Nods dispersed and everyone else went back to their work.
“So strange,” said Ithalia, who had regained her composure.
Po nodded agreement.
“Is there anyplace you have to be right now, Po?” asked Ithalia as they left. “I find I do not wish to be alone.”
Po swallowed. He’d been hoping for an invitation of this sort. “No,” he said. “My time is discretionary this afternoon, until dinnertime.”
Ithalia took his hand.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
“To my tent.”
They left through the stableyard entrance, Zam lifting her trunk over her stall in question as they passed. He wanted to stop and pet her, say hello, but Ithalia had him by the hand and had no intention of stopping. Suddenly Po felt childish for the impulse.
They walked to the center of town through the maze of tents and impromptu sheds that pretty much made up the community. At last she held up the flap of a small, dun-colored tent and gestured him inside.
Ithalia’s tent was dim, hot, and stuffy at midday, but it had rugs to lie upon; and most important of all, it was empty. He looked about in the dim light, searching for an ewer of wine or water to offer her, but he found none. There was little here but piles of rugs, and over in the corner, a satchel hanging from a tent pole.
Ithalia sat down on one of the piles of rugs and craned her neck this way and that, rubbing at the junction of her neck and shoulder, as if it pained her.
“Sore neck?” he asked her, standing close.
She nodded. “It’s all this damn farm work. Still, I suppose it can’t be helped.”
“I can help,” he said, and was shocked at his own boldness.
The edges of her scarf rose as her smile, unseen, made her high cheekbones rise and nearly eclipse her laughing eyes. She lifted her hair.
Po knelt behind her and ran his hands up and down her shoulders, up and down her back. He began to work at the knotted muscles at the juncture of her neck and shoulders, eliciting a groan of appreciation. It felt so good to do this for her.
She leaned back so that her head rested against his chest, and she peered up at him. Her face was relaxed, suffused with pleasure. He could tell. It made him feel like everything was going to be all right now. Like he was where he was supposed to be, finally, doing what he was supposed to do.
She let one hand drop, and ran it up the back of his thigh. “My squadron sisters won’t be back for another couple of hours.”
Her touch made him stir. Made him want to offer himself to her. And wasn’t that just what she was suggesting? “Are you…do you wish…”
She blinked once, slow and lazy. Her hand squeezed the back of his thigh. She turned and lifted her other hand to his neck, where she stroked up and down with the back of her index finger. “You’re a fine male, Po. It’s too bad those Libyrinth girls don’t know what to do with you. Too bad for them, anyway. But I do.”
Po’s breath was shallow, unsteady. He licked his lips. Desire filled him. He could fall into her eyes for days and days and never come out, and that would be okay. He knew what she expected from him and it was something he was only too willing to give. He wouldn’t have to worry, for once, if what he was doing was okay. He could just relax. He smiled, and bent forward, and kissed her through her scarf. “It would be my privilege to offer myself to you, Ithalia,” he said, hardly able to believe that this was finally happening.
She stood and he reached for her scarf, to remove it so he could kiss her again, properly, but she stopped him. She turned him so his back was to her, her hands resting upon his shoulders. “Be still a moment, Po. You will enjoy this.”
He heard a rustle of cloth, and then her scarf, silken soft and somewhat dusty, smelling like the field and like Ithalia herself, settled over his eyes, blocking out the light. Ah, she wanted him blindfolded. He smiled. Even an inexperienced calf like himself had heard of this game
. By taking away one sense, the others became sharper, and a male is more biddable and enduring when he must rely on touch, taste, and sound. Enduring—that reminded him of something. “Ithalia.”
“Yes, my Po?” She had taken the hem of his robe and was lifting it up, pushing the coarse fabric up his thighs. Po gasped. His phallus leaped with eagerness at the sensation. “Easy, my calf.”
“That’s just it, Ithalia. I…I’m—”
She gave a low, satisfied chuckle. He relaxed even before she uttered the next words. “A virgin? I had only dared hope.”
He blushed brighter. “I might—I wish to please you, Ithalia.”
She held him to her, her breasts full against his chest, and then she kissed him on the lips. She tasted like barley and…licorice. She guided him down onto the rugs. “You please me, Po. Your innocence pleases me. Your earnestness pleases me.” She reached down, where he was aflame. “Your eagerness and your desire are all that I ask of you.”
Po gave a long sigh, and relaxed into her touch.
He fell asleep in Ithalia’s arms, but when he awoke, he was alone. He pulled the blindfold off and looked around him. The tent was empty.
8
The Bloom
For the rest of that day and all of the next, Po alternated between blissful satisfaction and gnawing anxiety. The simple fact of no longer being a virgin was such a relief that it alone nearly crowded out all other considerations. At the time and immediately afterward, Ithalia had given him every indication that she, too, was pleased with his performance.
But then why did she leave before he awoke? Why had he not seen her since? Women were kind. It was not unusual for a woman who was disappointed in her consort to avoid him, rather than hurt his feelings with a direct rejection. Even more commonly, a female relative or friend would act as go-between, informing the unlucky man that his company was no longer desired.
As Po walked toward the Redeemer’s office for book study, he saw Vorain, a former captain in the Ilysian army and childhood friend of Princess Selene, walking toward him. He tensed. Was she approaching him with a message from Ithalia? His stomach knotted.