Home Ground (Darshian Tales #4)

by Ann Somerville

  All those near them, in their party or not, lifted their mugs and toasted the young couple. Juimei felt just a little cheated—he’d have liked to have hosted a betrothal party for them himself, but anything more than this would seem anticlimactic. Neime was right of course—it was traditional, and perhaps it wasn’t such a bad thing, to have it sprung on him. He was still cross though. Just a little bit.

  Though the meal was over and so were the official announcements, the night was still young, and people were settling in for a good time. There had been music all through the evening, quietly in the background, the musicians in the gallery above them, playing elegantly and with no small skill. Now, at some hidden signal, they began a sprightlier piece. This was all people needed to leave their chairs and move into the centre of the room. It was quite a lively dance, the kind of thing that encouraged much table thumping from the onlookers, heads bobbing with the infectious rhythm.

  After a bit, Jozin led Iome out and, imitating the couples near them, made a passable stab at following along. They were no worse than many on the floor, and it wasn’t about skill and grace anyway—it was about fun, and meeting people, and giggling at the mistakes.

  Juimei watched it all, feeling wistful and nostalgic. He loved this particular dance. He loved all dances, actually, slow or fast. Never again, though. He sighed and tried to just enjoy the sight for what it was. It was certainly very fine—there were some skilled dancers in this small town, and with partners as equally practiced, their movements assured and graceful. Fine silks and glittering gems swirled and fluttered as the couples bowed and twirled and handed each other from one to the next, the intricate manoeuvres of each person forming a beautiful whole, a living bouquet of colour.

  Laovei watched it too with sad eyes, as her friends twirl around the room, tall and handsome and confident in their new clothes. Neime kissed her cheek in comfort, but then leaned towards Juimei.

  “I’ve got a surprise for her too,” he whispered.

  “What?”

  “Wait and see.”

  His page was developing a most irritating habit of secrecy, Juimei thought, as he wondered what on earth the lad was up to.

  The dance stopped and the partners all bowed to each other, a little out of breath, as they applauded the musicians. Almost as soon as the clapping died away, the music started again—this time, a slower tune, stately and regal. Even filtered through the folk instruments and parochial skill of the local musicians, Juimei recognised it at once. The Glory of Andon pavanne—the one his parents usually chose for their official dance together at court functions because it offered no chance of falling or tripping and injuring the majestic pride or arse. When danced by the court, it was quite a spectacle, and even here, in this little provincial town, the assembly was something to see.

  Neime stood, and to Juimei’s surprise, held his hand out to Laovei. She seemed equally shocked.

  “Neime? I can’t.”

  “Yes, you can, ‘Vei. Trust me.”

  Hesitantly, she stood, using her chair for support. He took her arm on her injured side, acting in place of a crutch, then led her slowly out around the tables. She looked petrified, but also proud. Neime was resolute, moving calmly and with assurance out onto the floor. They watched the pavanne for two sets, and then Neime confidently placed them with three other couples, the music carrying them forward. It wasn’t much more than organised walking—but it really was dancing, she really was doing it with everyone else, and with something like this, her limp made no difference to their progress, and wasn’t all that noticeable.

  Juimei felt stirred, quite emotional, watching his friend give this thoughtful, precious gift to the girl he loved. It marked something, this night. Now was the point where he had to move on, he knew. Neime was no longer his—she was his care now, and it was right he would focus on her. Juimei had to let him go, however much it hurt. But he was still so proud of the wonderful young man his page had become.

  The slow dance ended, and another began. Helinoa nudged Giwade.

  “Let’s try it, Giw.”

  The boy looked rather intimidated at the idea, but she wasn’t to be denied, so he let her drag him out. They weren’t the youngest dancers by any means. Children barely Kilinze’s age were in the long lines of couples too, all moving slowly and gracefully to the exquisite music. It reminded Juimei very painfully of court, and other things just as painful. He struggled to keep an amiable expression on his face, and reveal nothing of his true feelings.

  So hard was he concentrating on concealing his emotions, and on watching the dancing, that he wasn’t really aware of his companions at all. He was rather startled when suddenly Wepizi pushed his chair back with a scrape and stood up, probably going to find some place to relieve himself, or perhaps just to get some fresh air. But Juimei was wrong—what Wepizi actually did was hold out his hand and bow.

  “Your highness, may I have the honour?”

  Bewildered, Juimei could only stare up at him like he’d been hit over the head with a hammer. “W...what?”

  “The dance. May I have the honour?”

  “You want...to dance with me? Here?” Wepizi nodded, his expression not giving the slightest thing away. “Is this some kind of a joke?”

  “No. It’s not a joke. But if you don’t want to, I apologise for the offence.” He bowed again.

  Juimei found it hard to believe this was serious—but though Wepizi loved jokes and had a healthy sense of humour, he wasn’t in the slightest bit cruel. This would be a very cruel joke. “Why?” he whispered.

  “Because....” Still bowing, he looked up, his eyes dark and wounded. “Because I need to.”

  If he thought about this at all, he’d never have the courage to do it. He put out his hand.

  Solemnly, Wepizi took it, and Juimei stood. He looked at his cane, then at Wepizi.

  “If I need that, I can’t do this.”

  “Trust me,” Wepizi said quietly. “Take my arm.”

  This is insane. But the man’s eyes compelled him, stripped away his objections, and made him worryingly reckless. Juimei allowed himself to be led from the table onto the floor, tried to ignore the ripple of surprise he heard from the dancers and onlookers, and looked only at his companion and his intent expression.

  Of course people made way, and of course the music slowed while they took position. But then it started up again, and Juimei could only do one of two things—follow Wepizi’s lead, or make an utter fool of himself. So he held tight to Wepizi’s arm, and concentrated on his feet, because thinking about anything else was too dangerous.

  Without Wepizi to support him, he would have fallen—not because of his weak leg, but because he was close to being overwhelmed by the music, the realisation that yes, he really was dancing, and that he really was the partner of the most handsome man in the room, a man with strong, kind hands and warm, kind eyes who moved with such grace and ease, covering his hesitancy without the slightest effort, and guiding him as politely as any young maiden, though of course they used the steps and moves for male partners.

  Juimei’s heart pounded with excitement, fear, surprise—he struggled not to show the least of it on his face. He was sure Wepizi must be able to feel him trembling.

  He became lost in the music, the repeated movements, the motion of his body, graceful again after so many years, the way Wepizi mirrored every move, anticipating, shadowing, guarding, and all the while, his dark, kind eyes burned with some hidden emotion. It mesmerised and fascinated him, even frightened him a little, but not for all the gold in Andon would he have been able to tear himself away from Wepizi’s side.

  The other dancers glided about him—he barely noticed them except as extensions of the magic being made. Neime was astonished—he saw that much—but he didn’t care. For the first time in five years, his body felt under his control, and in perfect harmony with his desires. He’d forgotten how that felt.

  But it couldn’t last—the music ended, and there was polite
applause, probably because of his participation. Wepizi bowed gravely to him.

  “Thank you, your highness. It was indeed an honour.”

  Juimei bowed back, just as formally, and allowed himself to be led off the floor, but then he grabbed Wepizi’s arm.

  “Was that just about giving me back something I’d lost?”

  “No.” Wepizi’s jaw worked as if he was upset, but his gaze was steady. “No, it wasn’t about that.”

  Juimei searched his face. There was something very deep and dark going on here. “We should talk.”

  “Yes, I suppose we should.”

  Wepizi took his arm and led him back to his seat in the courtliest manner, still giving no hint as to what was in his mind—but when he put his hand on the table, and Wepizi hesitantly covered it with his own, then Juimei knew.

  “Why now?” he said quietly, without turning to face his friend. “Why here?”

  “I don’t know,” Wepizi said. “I don’t even know if this is the right thing. I just knew I had to, because there might not be another chance.”

  Wepizi’s hand tightened. It felt ice-cold. Whatever had caused him to do this, it wasn’t something he found easy. It wasn’t easy for Juimei to accept it either. But like Wepizi, Juimei felt he had to.

  Music was played, dances danced, but he hardly noticed any of it. His world had narrowed to the cool, strong hand over his, so indiscreetly and undeniably on the table there between them. Wepizi sat so close that Juimei could feel he was trembling a little—but then so was he.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Juimei said finally, unable to stand it any more. “Nuveize, can you ask Jozin to take us back, and without any smart remarks?”

  “Not from me, your highness. It’s about bloody time you two acknowledged this.”

  He refused to answer. He couldn’t talk about this with her, with anyone, until he had the remotest idea what this was.

  Wepizi didn’t move, didn’t say anything, but when Jozin came over and Juimei made a vacuous and mendacious request to be taken home because he felt overstrained, Wepizi rose and stood behind him. He was very glad he couldn’t see Wepizi’s face.

  Jozin wasn’t fooled for a moment, but in a rare show of tact, said nothing at all except to agree. They briefly made polite excuses to Frankel who was surprised at their early departure, but of course was anxious not to offend by saying anything—Juimei asked him not to announce it as it would disrupt the evening, and he wasn’t the host here. It was rarely given to royalty to move without attention, but he desperately needed to get out of here now without causing a fuss.

  They slipped out discreetly, collected their outer gear and wrapped up tightly, then Jozin flew them back to the residence, setting them on the steps, whisper quiet.

  “I’m going back. Iome’s having fun,” he announced after they were safely down.

  “You do that,” Juimei said. “Take your time—and thank you.”

  Jozin looked at him, then at Wepizi. “Good luck,” he said, then rose into the air without any ceremony or warning. Always such an astonishing sight.

  But Juimei had more important things to wonder over. He reached for Wepizi’s gloved hand. “Come inside,” he said, and Wepizi followed him without a word.

  Gimoz was waiting, and bowed before signalling to one of the footmen to take their outer gear. “Good evening, your highness, tezrei. Master Neime contacted me, your highness, and asked if I would prepare a room on the ground floor for him and Miss Laovei this evening.”

  Ah—well, it was only to be expected, and time it had happened too. “Thank you. The tezrei will be here tonight, Gimoz.”

  “Very good, your highness. Tezrei, I can have your uniform freshened and pressed, if you like.”

  Wepizi looked hunted. “Uh....”

  “Maybe later,” Juimei said hastily. Wepizi’s uniform was clearly the last thing on his mind, and he wanted them out of the public eye as quickly as he could. “This way, tezrei.”

  Once out of sight, he took Wepizi’s hand again.

  “People will talk,” Wepizi murmured, though he didn’t pull his hand away.

  “Bit late for that, don’t you think?” Juimei said wryly. “If you wanted to be discreet, I can think of better places to reveal your intentions than the mayor’s winter feast.”

  Wepizi didn’t reply. He seemed to be having second thoughts, and Juimei’s heart sank. Had it all been just a momentary madness? An impulse quickly regretted, to be got over with as soon as possible and confessed to the memory of his late wife? If Wepizi turned around now and told him it had all been a mistake, well...Juimei was ready for it. He’d suffered worse and survived.

  Wepizi closed the door behind Juimei in the bedroom.

  “Would you like to...?” Juimei started to ask.

  He never finished. He found himself taken into a firm embrace, turned around so he looked up into Wepizi’s dark, kind eyes.

  “Very much,” Wepizi whispered, then bent slowly down towards him.

  Juimei could have pulled away—there was no compulsion, much hesitation, permission sought in every move, every moment. But he didn’t pull away, or shrink back. He lifted himself up a little and met the respectful kiss straight on, his hand snaking naturally around Wepizi’s neck to pull him closer, to tell him this was what he wanted, and yes, very much too.

  Wepizi was as hungry as he was, and eagerly they crushed against each other, needing to taste, to feel, to get closer, and to be welcomed. His body throbbed with too long suppressed passion, and Wepizi felt so damn hard and perfect against him, his mouth warm and clever, sweet from the drizu.

  But that blasted moustache! The hairs tickled, Juimei sneezed, and had to break off, rubbing his nose furiously and laughing.

  “By Sephiz, I’d forgotten what a nuisance they are. No...don’t...please, don’t go,” he begged as Wepizi seemed about to move away. He held his arm tightly. “It’s all right. It’s fine.”

  Wepizi cupped the back of his head, stared into his eyes. “Are you sure?”

  It wasn’t a question about moustaches. “No. Kiss me again.”

  Wepizi did, and even more gently, repressed emotion making him almost vibrate against Juimei’s body. He pulled Juimei close against him. “It’s been so damn long, and I have no idea if this is right. It feels right.”

  If he’d lied, if he’d pretended he’d known what he was doing, Juimei wouldn’t have trusted him. That Wepizi could admit to being as uncertain as Juimei felt himself, was a relief in a way. Even if nothing happened after this night, Wepizi had been honest with him, and Juimei had come to treasure honesty as a rare and precious thing.

  They held each other for long moments, Wepizi bending down to kiss him carefully from time to time, but mostly just holding him very tight in arms that were deceptively strong for all Wepizi’s lean build. Juimei had missed being held almost more than anything else. It would be hard to give it up again, but if he had to, he would. Just let him not regret this. Let Wepizi not regret this. He couldn’t bear that.

  “I should let you sit down.”

  Juimei gripped his shirt possessively. “No—I don’t want you to stop touching me.”

  “But that only leaves the bed—”

  “And this is a problem, tezrei?”

  Wepizi didn’t move. “Too fast,” he murmured. “It’s too fast.” He looked down. “You said ‘talk’.”

  “If you keep holding me. But I can’t stand all night. Decision time, Wepizi.”

  “Then we lie down. To talk,” he added sternly.

  “Whatever you want,” Juimei agreed.

  Desires long banked and sternly denied had been suddenly roused once more from their dormancy, and if Wepizi let go of him now, Juimei felt he would probably scream with frustration. But he had to take it slow. Wepizi looked as if he might be easily spooked, and Juimei didn’t want that. He would be meek because it was all too fragile and new and whatever happened, he didn’t want to hurt Wepizi or lose his friendship. Or t
hose marvellous, gentle hands on him.

  “I...uh...should change out of this,” Wepizi said, indicating his uniform.

  Reluctantly, Juimei released himself from Wepizi’s embrace. “We both should change. You know where everything is, I think.” He took refuge in brusqueness—or tried to. It was hard to be business-like when one’s words were greeted with tender kisses and burning looks that did nothing for his self-control. “If you want to take this slow, stop looking at me like that, because you’re making me think about things I’ve not considered in a very long time.”

  “You’re doing the same to me just by standing there.” Wepizi laughed but there was a melancholy sound to it. “Lema always said I was too impulsive.”

  The mention of his dead wife was better than ice water over Juimei’s arousal. “Let’s change,” he said, avoiding Wepizi’s looks and his eyes.

  He turned around, not sure he could face the sight of Wepizi’s naked body when all they were going to do was talk. He heard his companion shuffling quietly, the hiss of cloth against cloth, the clink of dress buttons knocking wood as his jacket was removed. Juimei stripped off quickly, throwing the carefully chosen clothes onto the chair to be dealt with later—they would need to be cleaned or whatever arcane things Neime liked to do to his best outfits before re-storing them. He found it hard to care about such matters now. He found it hard to concentrate on much except the soft sounds behind him, and what they meant.

  When he heard the wardrobe door being opened, he gave it a couple of moments and turned. “Right, we should—”

  Wepizi was still nude. Nude, and fine, and unabashedly male. And making no effort to hide any of it, since he didn’t have the robe in his hands. Juimei’s mouth dried up, as did his coherent thoughts. “I....”

  He didn’t finish, because Wepizi stepped forward and put his hands on Juimei’s naked body.

  “I think...I want to talk...after....”

  His voice shook, his hands gripping Juimei’s arms tight. He tugged Juimei close to him, and now they were bare chest against bare, warm chest, Wepizi’s arousal hard against Juimei’s stomach. Juimei reached up and cupped Wepizi’s face, pulled him down, and kissed him forcefully. As if that was all the permission Wepizi had been waiting for, he crushed Juimei to him, and plundered his lips, his fingers pressing into Juimei’s back possessively, needy, sweeping away any possible objections, overwhelming Juimei with pure sensation and desire.