by Clare London
Kiel was none of these. His hand rested firmly up between Zander’s legs, caressing his balls, and from the movement of Zander’s hand, still tangled in Kiel’s hair, I could tell Kiel’s mouth was speeding up its work. I couldn’t help but imagine the stimulating effect on Zander, whom I knew was boisterous and greedy in his coupling.
They looked good together: well matched in enthusiasm.
I stirred quietly in the room above. It wasn’t unusual for coupling to be in full view of other soldiers—though some liked the exhibitionism more than others—and I felt no shame in having overheard all their foreplay. But I felt more comfortable moving away. I didn’t think it was jealousy, for that wasn’t something a soldier should ever feel, and I had no particular desire for either of them. Maybe I’d been more disturbed by my last meeting with Seleste than I imagined. I knew I’d become something other than a soldier over the last year, not just because my Devotions had ceased, and not just because Seleste had refused me a formal military role in the Guard, the job I’d always lived for. The change had come from within me, from the events of a year ago. Only my own will and discipline had kept me an acting servant of the city and the Queen.
But the sexual activity that had always been commonplace to me in the barracks had come to mean something more than physical release. Or something much less, without the person of my choice. The feelings twisted inside me, the pain of confusion and loss returning.
I slid quietly away from the opening, pausing before I pulled the hatchway closed after me. I heard Zander’s guttural cry as he came in Kiel’s mouth, and then a ripple of laughter, from which man I wasn’t sure. Then there was the sound of books thudding carelessly to the floor, and I suspected Zander was clearing the desk for use other than reading. Kiel gave a soft, keening moan, and I waited for one more moment in case this was something he resisted and he might need my protection. But there was more stifled laughter, and the heavy sound of a body landing on its back on a wooden surface, and then the murmuring voices deteriorated to nothing but gasps and panting against a background of the rhythmic rocking of the furniture. I hoped the desk held firm for as long as they needed it to, and then I smiled to myself, wondering if they’d even care if it collapsed beneath them, lost in their passion. I knew Zander wouldn’t—and from the look in Kiel’s eyes as he’d knelt before him, I suspected he wouldn’t either.
I tugged the hatch into its moorings and closed off the room below to my eyes and ears.
I SAT with Kiel’s book on my lap and a pile of the oldest Histories beside me. The evening hours had slipped away while I traced his work back as far as he himself had gone. I used both text and visual clues, and the royal brand. Once I knew, as Kiel had explained, to look for its theme rather than the embellishments that might change from Generation to Generation, it guided me every step of the way. I saw, as Kiel had, the information becoming sparser, the witness accounts reducing in number and detail, and the characters becoming less and less familiar compared to our own citizens. There were soldiers written about, and mighty battles, and glorious Queens. I read about the settlement of Aza City and the building of many of the institutions that were still here today, even if rebuilt or refurbished since. The Central School was described, and the Queen’s apartments, and the establishment of many of the Households, including my own original home, the Exchequer.
The description of the people in those earlier times was much less familiar. Tales referred to the “group” or the “Council.” Children were mentioned in the same tales as adults; several generations were noted as living together and contributing to various settlement projects. A slow, painful disturbance began in the pit of my belly. Women were mentioned, but not designated as Ladies; men were described as part of the group, yet not specifically as soldiers. There was no mention of Remainders or Exiles, only the broad mass of citizens and their struggles and successes in setting up habitation on this planet. It was a very different stage from the one on which we now performed.
Only the one nation, I’d said to Kiel. That was how it started.
And led by a man, not a woman. Not a Queen.
I tried to follow some of the oldest reports Kiel had found, but the writing was difficult to decipher and I was scared of damaging the delicate papers with my broad, clumsy hands. I changed the direction of my investigation, working back toward the more current records. I concentrated on the brand alone this time, watching as the more simplistic form started to gain adornment. It began as a designation for a whole city rather than any specific family or lineage, during the postcolonization generation. Only in the later Histories did it begin to be associated with the royal family. In fact, where I could find any reference both legible and comprehensible, it was more a political appropriation. The Queen had obviously adopted it at a certain point in history, then her family enhanced and maintained it ever since.
It had become the signature of our shared history.
At the point where the brand was procured by the royal family, I discovered mention of the Devotions for the first time, and the “generous love” of the Queens who had brought such salvation to their male servants. Was this of more interest to me than the path of the brand because of my own history as a soldier? The Devotions were such a part of my life and upbringing that I’d been horribly shocked and scared when I’d first been without them. It was part of the very fabric of our lives and our schooling that the Devotions were essential for men to live and thrive on this planet—that our Queens had developed them in the Household of Physic to save and nurture us. Kiel had noted the reports from colonization, where people died and babies couldn’t thrive and life on the planet was too much of a struggle. Maybe men died then in disproportionate numbers and such a crisis prompted the need for developing a cure.
Or maybe the history of our need for the Devotions was also—as Kiel had said—warped.
I examined my treacherous attitude and my sudden ability to cast off all schooling and popular history so casually, and I found myself less appalled than I should have been.
I considered my own health and knew that although I was more volatile and prone to temper, I’d not deteriorated significantly since I ceased my Devotions. My behavior toward my Queen had continued to follow a path of outward obedience, and so she’d never suggested I start them up again. The male Exiles lived without them too, and although they didn’t grow to the fine form the city soldiers did, they also didn’t die from its lack. Their aggression was rawer, their passions unfettered. They showed, however, the same loyalty a citizen did, the same needs and desires and angers.
But their society was very different.
Women ruled, but alongside them; children joined them in their daily lives. Their commitment to leaders and partners was made by choice rather than sale in a public market by Household brand. They were less organized, less sheltered, less disciplined than men in the city—but they’d chosen that life, knowing the consequences.
The Devotions were the one certain difference between us as men.
Seleste had manipulated the Devotions of her solders during the battle for Queenship, that fact I knew. She had control and understanding of them—the measurement of their power. It was her order as Queen that determined the level and type of Devotions a man received during his time in the Household. I believed that held true for both soldiers and Remainder servants.
I wondered how often she might have manipulated their use in the past and how many previous Queens had done the same. Exaggerated a man’s military aggression while he was in the Guard, controlled a man’s strength and leadership skills when he was under a Queen’s rule, nurtured a man’s desire and virility when he was needed for breeding purposes.
I wondered how much of a soldier’s life and career, through Bronzeman to Silver Captain to Gold Warrior, was part of the natural order, and how much might be due to a Queen’s personal machinations, to suit her needs at the time.
My mind roamed freely, refusing to be bound by the rules I’d kn
own all my life, determined to consider everything afresh. I wondered whether the rules of treason had been developed for the benefit of the city—or for the benefit of its rulers. Were Bronzemen kept sacred for the Ladies because of the law, or because of the Ladies’ personal, sexual desire? Had my own arrest for the alleged “crime” of coupling with a Bronzeman been part of the hereditary need to keep order and discipline in the city, or a ruling created by women who wanted the best young specimens kept for them and to keep their other men submissive and in fear of reprisal?
I remembered the fearful courage in Dax’s eyes when he was locked in the cells of the Household of the Exchequer. I remembered the cold anger in Mistress Luana’s eyes as she demanded my execution for disloyalty. But I also remembered the loyalty I’d shown the Mistresses in my life, and the shelter and support they’d offered me as a growing man. I knew the city was strong and wealthy, rich in resources and military might, and I knew the good nature of so many men who thrived there. Things were confused in my mind.
Then I remembered the overwhelming feelings I had for Dax, and the need I had for him, every minute of every day. In every movement of my body, in every thought that passed through my mind. Emotion spiked through me like the cut from a sword.
Kiel’s book toppled sideways off my lap, my fingers no longer holding onto it tightly enough. It fluttered open at an earlier page where he’d described and illustrated what he found from that first generation. I looked again at the birth of the brand that would one day be associated with the glamour of the ruling royal family, and the scribbles he’d copied from within the margins of the old disheveled documents. I studied the figure inside the frame… the sign of all that we lived by, of our devoted and despotic Queen, of our imprisonment and enforced loyalty.
I might never have questioned anything if I hadn’t been forced to examine Eila’s brand in detail. Eila had admitted her poor skills as an artist, and maybe because of that and the unreliability of her memory, she’d altered the characteristics of the old design. She’d used a manifestation of the original brand, and purely due to her interpretation, she’d created a figure that could just as easily be taken as a man. Kiel had said the same when he saw it on Eila’s arm.
It had opened the eyes of both of us, though maybe from different viewpoints.
Who was to say which image was the truth? The beautiful, womanly shape in the brand on my arm, or the crude masculine figure in the brand on my hip? They’d both grown from the same source. The royal brand of today’s generation might originally have been the mark of a historic man rather than a Queen! The realization shivered through me like a winter chill. But there were pieces missing in this story, like a gap in the wooden puzzles they used in the Central School for the slower children to grasp their letters. Kiel had read of the struggles at colonization; I lived in the new world under the Queens, with their gloriously beautiful brand and the lifesaving Devotions.
What bridge had carried one through the generations to the other?
I picked up Kiel’s book again, and in my clumsy excitement, I dislodged the final volume in the pile of old Histories. It looked dirty and torn in many places, its pages crumpled and its writing as illegible as many of the other ancient documents. But as I moved it away to the side, a few sheets of yellowed paper fell out. They were headed with the brand again, or so I thought at first. When I looked more closely, I saw it was a different illustration, though so evocative of the brand, it wasn’t surprising I’d associated them. No oval frame, but similar letters and ciphers, and a border drawn around them, maybe for practical emphasis. And inside the border, the simple sketch of what was unmistakably a man. Maybe it had been drawn as a joke, or a gentle homage: it wasn’t a realistic portrait. But the work was bold and very carefully inked, considering the poor condition of all the other notes. The writing was different too, far easier to make out. Kiel must have stopped his work before finding this, for the pages were still stuck to each other at the corners. I peeled the old manuscript apart as gently as I could, and tried to make out the faded words.
The text spoke of the hours spent and the resources recklessly consumed, but at last the excitement of a success after many, many failures! It was a diary of sorts, and the illustration I’d thought was a brand was a diagram, maybe a calculation. It accompanied lines of symbols, none of which I understood, but which looked similar to things I’d occasionally seen in the Household of Physic.
I read on, as best I could in the fading light. There was continuing excitement in the report, obvious even through the clinically penned text, that some of the babies were thriving at last, that the loss of their menfolk would be halted within a generation, and that they’d be forever grateful to the man who’d discovered the answer to this and been able to create the drug to alleviate it. Maybe the sketch had been part of that testimonial.
I realized I was reading about the birth of the Devotions, long before they were heralded by the History of the Queens. And yet they weren’t revered in the way I expected, as if they were truly the savior of our very lives and would continue to be so, over many generations to come, but described only as a medicine, a passing remedy. Some men were mentioned who were obviously not under the medication, nor were they dying, though they were spoken of quite dismissively. There were many more references to following the development of selected babies, and plenty of positive marks on the records to show this was progressing well. The success seemed to lie with the physical well-being of the new children.
At the last I found what seemed to be a poem, signed by a woman who described herself as working in what had obviously been, at that time, their Household of Physic. She was the author of the account I’d been reading. There was some kind of notation at the top of the page as if she’d marked the day and season, but it bore no relation to the way we now marked our days and I didn’t understand how it worked. But this final note had been written some time after the journal. Their medical facility had saved her child, she wrote, and this poem was in celebration of this. It was also dedicated to the brave man, their founder, who’d given his own life to the disease, but left enough of his notes to her and her fellow assistants to enable them to carry on his work, developing and distributing the cure where needed. The poem seemed unfinished, probably because some pages were missing; its style was strange and didn’t follow the traditional, more lyrical couplets of our own poetry, yet it had a poignancy that touched me.
It has saved the few
It has saved the many
The child will carry the seed
And the fruit will flourish.
There were other words I didn’t understand or couldn’t read clearly, but it remained a testimony to her child and its promise for the future. It wasn’t an emotion I’d ever experienced myself, but I recognized an empathy I’d rarely felt before.
She finished with nothing more than a scribbled note. She would be meeting the group later to discuss how the community would continue without their founder. There needed to be more children, she noted pragmatically, after the recent losses. The health of the men was a priority, so was their total commitment to the scheme.
The mark of the cure would be forever a reminder of his work and sacrifice, she wrote, obviously referring to the scientific signs and symbols shown on this document. It would mark the men who received it; it would mark their commitment to the scheme. Their devotion to the new race.
The disturbance in my gut grew more insistent. I took the thin, fragile pages and slipped them inside Kiel’s book, then closed it securely.
WHEN NIGHT fell Kiel came to find me. He slid open the hatch and pushed the candle lamp up ahead of him into the upper room. As he pulled himself up to join me, the flame threw long, looping shadows across the heaped piles of books. I looked over at him, squinting in the poor light. I’d ceased reading a long time ago. There had been too many things to think about, too much conflict in my mind for it to settle into any comfortable place. I sat with my back to one of the walls, su
rrounded by the silent, musky smell of old paper and leather, and I brooded.
I didn’t know whether Kiel had been with Zander all that time, but there was a bright spark in his eye that couldn’t be hidden even though he kept his voice low and respectful.
“Maen, why are you still here? Zander… the soldiers have been looking for you.”
I shrugged. I knew that wasn’t purely because of my absence, for no one in the past had been bothered if I went my own way. It seemed Seleste had meant what she said, when she demanded I choose between total commitment and punishment.
Kiel crouched down beside me. “Are you in trouble?”
I couldn’t answer. I was sure I was, but I didn’t yet know the full implications.
He sighed. “I’m scared, Maen, I can’t help it. But I’ll protect you as best I can, the same as you’d do for me.”
I smiled, despite myself. “Thank you,” I said gravely. “I appreciate that. But you won’t be drawn into any more danger if I can prevent it.”
“Will you leave the city? Is that what you’re planning?”