“It was the countenance of a fiercesome warrior,” she agreed.
He raised an eyebrow. “That’s my disapproval face. If that one works, then I’ve got half this warrior thing down.”
“I am pleased you are of the clan now.” She traced the scar on his cheek again. “I will be proud to look on the beading on your shoulder.”
“Yeah, well.” He ran his hand through his hair. “I think I can officially say your mother hates me though.”
Alari sighed. “As your sire does me.”
“He wants to come back when Kinna’s baby’s born and stay for a few weeks,” Kyndan said, his voice a little strained. “Maybe he could also be invited to the palace . . . in a less official way?”
“Would he not be too offended to return?” she asked slowly. “Now that I have requested another representative?”
“He would be relieved to be invited and it would—it would mean a lot to me, Alari. To have you get to know my father, to have him get to know you.”
“Yes,” she said softly. “I will invite him.”
He gave a quick smile then he shifted a bit. “Uh, there’s something else. The Tellaran Council has requested that my—well, it was my ship—the Dauntless, remain in Imperial territory and the crews’ visits be extended. At least until the new ambassador’s ship can arrive. I think they’re secretly hoping that the Az-kye will get used to seeing Tellarans walking around the empress’ city. I was planning on giving my approval. I want to know what you think.”
Alari shifted on the bed, frowning a little. Why would the Tellarans wish to keep their ship in orbit? Why would they wish their people to be so visible?
“That is a decision the warlord would make with the best interests of our people in mind,” she said a little stiffly.
“Look, it’s not like they would be any kind of threat to the Imperial world. Not with the three warships Mezera has playing escort. A Tellaran couldn’t sneeze up there without an Az-kye close enough to wipe her nose.”
“What does the War Council leader say of this?”
“I haven’t asked Mezera,” he admitted. “But if I’m going to have to start asserting some authority as warlord”—he leaned up on his elbow to look at her—“I’m going to need your support.”
She wet her lips, wondering if it would appear as if she favored the Tellarans too much if she allowed it. Wondering if others knew that this man, bare next to her with his sleepy blue eyes, was so dear in her heart that she would give him anything he wished.
“Of course,” she murmured. “The ship may remain.”
She could feel the tension run out of his body. “Mezera’s an enemy in the making already,” he said. “I need to watch her.”
Then he pulled her close again and shook off his serious mood.
“So, Tutor,” he said with his slow smile. “Where should we start?”
The next morning Kyndan walked listlessly around the practice arena, examining equipment he had no idea how to use. Reserved for the exclusive use of men of the Imperial family, these rooms had recently been newly equipped and made ready again.
Ready for Jazan, that is.
Awkwardly Kyndan pulled the blade from the scabbard at his back and looked at the sword in his hand. According to Nuhar he didn’t even know how to hold it properly.
“I need a new swordmaster for sure.” He jerked his chin at Utar. “Who taught you?”
“My father,” Utar said. “Myself and my brothers all.”
“Well, I can’t ask mine. I wonder what it’ll take to get Nuhar to come back. He doesn’t look the blackmail type, maybe I should try a bribe.”
He wandered over to one of the targets. Made from tree trunk with white circles painted on it and thick pegs sticking straight out like branches it was very primitive looking. With clumsy movements Kyndan crossed his sword with one of the wooden pegs. It made a dull thunk and did nothing more than send the target turning slowly.
Kyndan watched it slow and stop.
After a moment Utar went to the target and clasping one of the pegs, sent the target spinning. “You are to strike the circle.”
Kyndan shot a look at the former warrior. He looked at the white circle appearing and disappearing as the target spun, the pegs acting as a block. He hefted his sword again. He swung and in the next instant one of the spinning pegs knocked the sword right out of his hand.
The blade went skidding across the floor.
Kyndan sighed and passed his hand over his eyes.
Silently Utar offered another to Kyndan.
“Not you too,” Kyndan said with a disgusted look at the wooden child’s sword. “Are you also going to tell me I can’t have the grown-up version?”
“That is not what the swordmaster said.”
“He said I couldn’t have a warrior’s sword till I was a warrior. Which, if you think about it,” Kyndan grumbled, “doesn’t make any fracking sense at all.”
“He did not say such.”
“Utar, I was here,” Kyndan reminded. “I remember exactly what he said. Warrior’s sword when I was a warrior. And what kind of swordmaster wouldn’t show me how to hold the godsdamned thing?”
“Perhaps that is not the lesson he wished to teach you.”
“What kind of sword lesson doesn’t involve picking up the fracking sword?”
Utar regarded him silently.
Kyndan blew his breath out in annoyance and went to retrieve the metal blade.
“Gods, you’re just like Aidar, like all the warriors I’ve seen just staring at me acting like a—like—” Kyndan stopped, the metal blade in his hand. “Not when I was warrior,” he murmured. “He said when I acted like a warrior. That’s why he walked out. Because I wasn’t acting like a warrior.”
Utar inclined his head.
“But he wouldn’t even show me how to hold it—no, wait, he was criticizing how I held it.” Kyndan’s brow creased. “He was testing me. Seeing how far he could push me before I lost it.” He gave a short laugh. “Not too far, I guess.”
Just like I kept at Jazan till he lost it.
“To learn to control the sword is easy,” Utar said consolingly. “To control oneself, that demands much.”
“Will you teach me?” Kyndan asked suddenly.
Utar’s face went pale. “I am dishonored. My name is not spoken. I am of the dead.”
Kyndan nodded. “I’m not seeing a problem here.”
Utar swallowed. “Master—”
Wincing, Kyndan quickly held up his hand. “I hate that more than I hate ‘Your Highness.’ Don’t call me that again. Let’s try ‘Kyndan.’”
Utar stared.
“Consort?” Kyndan suggested, sighing.
“Consort,” Utar began, his voice strangled, “I am of the clanless. You cannot be taught by such as I. It would be . . .”
“Unseemly?” Kyndan held his blade out. “Utar, I’m a Tellaran warlord. I don’t know how to use this thing and I don’t know a damned thing about being a warrior. Right now, upstairs, asleep, is the most precious thing I have ever known in my whole life. I’d die to keep her safe but as stupidly ignorant as I am right now I can’t even begin to protect her. I need to learn and I need to learn fast. Look, I won’t order you but I’m asking—Will you teach me?”
“To touch a blade is forbidden to me, Consort. To do so is death.”
“I won’t tell if you don’t tell.”
Utar dropped his gaze.
Kyndan sighed again. “I understand. Look, I’ll find another swordmaster. Maybe Nuhar—”
“No,” Utar said suddenly. “They will teach you the traditional way, it will take too long. And Nuhar’s mind is not flexible enough to construct such a training as you need.”
Kyndan raised his eyebrows. “You said he was one of the best. That he won the contests three times.”
Utar’s dark eyes flashed. “But not four.”
“Fracking hell,” Kyndan said. “You beat him?”
“Yes.”
>
Then the former warrior deftly flipped the wooden sword and offered it to Kyndan. In the same moment his demeanor, his posture, and the very look in his eye changed. Gone was the slave and, despite his white tunic, he was now every inch a warrior.
Kyndan looked at the wooden sword. “Uh, so I still don’t get a real one?”
“You must learn quickly. There is no time for errors, no time for you to heal from even the glancing cuts common to training, do you begin with a real sword,” Utar said, taking the metal blade from his hand. “This practice sword is too short, too stout for you but until I procure a more suitable one, you will use this. Change.” He gave a nod. “And we will begin.”
Kyndan grinned and offered a Tellaran’s salute. “Yes, Sir.”
Give me sword drills any day . . .
Kyndan tried not to fidget on the throne but it wasn’t easy. It was a big ornate thing and, whether it was simply because it was to be used by a toughened warrior type or because no one else ever sat in it long enough to find out, damned uncomfortable. This was his first experience dining publicly as Prince Consort and he could say with certainty that he hated it.
This dinner marked the end of the official month-long mourning period for Saria. When he’d first heard about the custom, he thought it would be like a reception or sedate party that would help transition the court into a return to normal activities but that’s not what it was at all.
Situated in the center of the soaring golden hall, the thrones and table were set on a raised platform that reminded Kyndan uncomfortably of a stage. Dressed again in Imperial black, Alari sat at his side at the enormous table. Not surprisingly, her throne was larger and far more ornate than his. Theirs were the only table or chairs in the place; a hundred different dishes spread before them while what seemed like half the Empire stood around staring as they ate.
“This is fun,” he muttered.
Alari glanced at him. “During the First Empire the Gate of the Blessed was kept open and the common people would come to watch the Imperial family eat every meal. We are fortunate that we need only do this for the court.”
He didn’t serve himself, of course. Servants took a bite-sized sample of one dish or another to place on his plate. He would eat it and another servant would place a morsel from a different dish in its place. He couldn’t identify half of what he had eaten. He’d lost track of which dishes he’d been served from and which he hadn’t. Since the servants remained silent as they worked he wondered if they had some sort of hand signals worked out to keep track.
Kyndan scanned the room of black clad courtiers and servants with their dark eyes fixed on him. “So we eat and they just stand there and watch us?”
“Yes.”
“And you don’t find this . . . weird?”
“It is symbolic. They will give their best for our table so that we may have the strength to lead them,” she explained quietly. “It is expected that we make a public display of the bounty.”
Kyndan’s brow creased. “Wait, how often do we have to do this?”
“Once every seven days. More during the festivals.”
“Every week?” he murmured bleakly.
“It is not the worst tradition that could have survived.” She threw him a tiny, impish smile. “During the time of the Li’thar Dynasty, when a member of the Imperial family took a mate, a bed was brought here so the court could observe the pair being bound.”
His face went hot at the idea of it. “Yeah, okay, the dining would get my vote too.”
“You will become accustomed to it,” she assured.
“Are you?” He couldn’t imagine ever getting used to this.
“Yes, but I have been doing so since I was a child.”
“You did this as a child? I couldn’t sit still for five minutes when I was a kid.”
“There are some allowances made for the very young.” She smiled fondly. “Once, when we were little, Saria disappeared under the table to hide near my chair. We were both giggling so that my mother laughed and even my father . . .” A shadow passed over her face. “But now it is only me.”
“Us.” There was a surprised stir among the courtiers when he took her hand.
Kyndan didn’t even glance their way. The hell with them.
Her fingers intertwined with his. “Us.”
After a very, very long dinner Alari rose and he with her.
“So what’s this opera we are going to see?” He wasn’t terribly excited about having to sit through that either but at least they would be part of the audience rather than the entertainment.
“Ris and Letaria,” she said. “Twins, brother and sister, lost, who come to a faraway land.”
“Like me and Kinara,” he said. “Except we’re not twins, of course.”
“Ris and Letaria are separated and both come to take mates who are of warring clans.”
“This has a happy ending, right?”
She offered a half-shrug. “For an opera.”
Kyndan, upon being proclaimed Prince Consort, had been presented with his own retinue of black-clad servants and personal honor guard and those men accompanied him now. Between him and Alari there were a minimum of fifteen people who went with them everywhere and his personal servants wore their own sashes of honor.
Alari, Kyndan and their servants passed through the courtyard under the shade of the many blooming tashi trees from the banquet hall to the Imperial Opera House. There were other smaller theaters on the palace grounds but this one was large enough to hold a thousand guests, the curtained Imperial box situated in the very center of the tiered space.
The audience stirred and those already seated rose to bow as they entered their box. The court waited until he and Alari had taken their seats before sitting again or moving about.
Kyndan, who had never been inside, had to resist the temptation to crane his neck to look around the ancient opera house. The gold beading on his shoulder and his “Commander face” expression were starting to have effect and he didn’t want to ruin it by gawking, no matter how ornate the interior. A number of the warriors here—mates or sons as well as the Imperial honor guard—met his eye with a measure of respect now before they inclined their heads to him.
Kyndan’s earlier experience with the court had been seeing them scandalized by Alari choosing him as mate or the shock of Saria’s death. He had never seen them excited or happy. He’d never observed alliances being formed or enemies sending cold glances to one another. The unmated among them flirted, the young women hiding giggles behind their fans, the unmated warriors’ hot gazes following women they admired.
He was starting to be able to spot familiar faces. The priest of Behur was easy to spot in his blue robe. The High Priestess of Lashima, Celara, wore bright colors as always and her jeweled cane rested against her seat. Mezera, Leader of the War Council was present as was Banne, Leader of the Council for Trade. A number of those in attendance possessed territories vast enough on the colony worlds that they spread across continents.
Jazan’s mother, clan leader of the Az’rayah, gave him only the sparest of nods when their eyes met and he could hardly blame her. He flinched inwardly every time he saw the woman.
“My mate?” Alari asked when he shifted uncomfortably.
“The Ti’antah of the Az’rayah is here.”
Alari’s eyes turned that way and the clan leader’s bow was just as chill to her.
“It was not to be avoided that they feel resentment,” Alari murmured.
“I would say the Az’rayah clan fracking hate me.” The clan leader faced forward again, her other sons and daughters around her. “There’s no way to apologize for what happened, for taking her son away from her.”
“Think you they grieve him?” she snorted. “I think they mourn what they lost with his defeat.”
“A son in the Imperial family,” he mused. “Just how much would that mean to them? I mean he would have joined your clan, just like I did.”
“His position
as Prince Consort would have given him great power to provide many favors to them.”
“They look like they’re doing okay.”
“Much of the Az’rayah clan’s wealth is due to trade.”
“More like smuggling,” he muttered, suddenly wondering if Kinara’s activities as a member of the Trade Council involved smuggling too, wondering if he even wanted to know. “Am I wrong or are the Az’rayah ladies all wearing Tellaran shimmersilk? And isn’t blatantly displaying smuggled goods at court kind of in poor taste?”
“Who would not wish to flaunt their forbidden Tellaran treat?”
“Yeah, but—” He broke off, his face heating. “Funny.”
She hid her smile behind her fan as the house lights dimmed and the music began.
Kyndan, accustomed to immersive holotheaters, wasn’t expecting much. He’d heard some of Az-kye music during his time here as a slave and hadn’t liked any of it. But between his new fluency and the excellent performances of the troupe he was amazed to find he really enjoyed the opera and at intermission he applauded enthusiastically.
“You will make them anxious of the second act,” Alari teased. “Many warlords have been patrons of the arts—they watch to see if you are pleased,” she said with a nod at the closed curtain. “The singers are hopeful of your patronage.”
“They were watching me?” he asked with a glance at the stage. “I’m glad I didn’t know that. Anyway, they don’t have to worry. I really liked it.”
“Now they fear you will not like the end.”
“So I have to clap twice as hard at the finish?”
“Or at least as hard as at intermission,” she said. “We must send gifts too, to show our approval.”
“What kind of gifts?”
“Sweets, little trinkets, teas to soothe their throats. If you are very moved you might present the lead with a sweetly singing araya bird but then everyone will gossip that you have fallen in love with her.”
He shook his head a little. “We’re bound. I can’t fall in love with anyone else.”
Alari busied herself with her fan. Kyndan waved the attendants away and closed the curtain of their box himself.
The Consort (Tellaran Series) Page 20