by AnonYMous
“Will you give me an answer, Vitalis?”
She could not look away from the straightforward esteem in his eyes.
When she’d lost faith in her destiny, she’d also lost the ability to draw purpose and courage from the faith others placed in her. Their respect and admiration, filtered through the void where her convictions once lived, had become something she both feared and scorned, stinging her conscience like the tentacles of a poisonous jellyfish.
But for some reason, his gaze provoked a different reaction—almost as if she could pretend to be the old Vitalis again. Not that she’d ever stopped putting on an act for the benefit of others, but that this time, she might believe it.
She must not be distracted from her goal. He was an unnecessary complication. The situation was fraught enough without something as ridiculous as a trial marriage.
It was time to give her final refusal and walk away.
“Where is this license of yours?” she heard herself ask.
Chapter 2
She was nothing as Eleian had imagined.
The young woman in The Quiet Girl had emitted an otherworldly glow, an extraordinary aura of courage and conviction. He’d expected her wisdom and serenity to have distilled into sheer luminosity during the intervening years. He’d expected a hushed, almost holy presence. He’d expected, in short, a godly incarnation.
She was not that.
In the half hour he’d spent studying her, before asking her for the dance, she’d struck him more as a media persona than anything else. She was as deft at handling public attention as any prince to the power born, projecting whatever it was her public sought from her—in her case, a heroic calm, a greatness of spirit, an essence of selfless sacrifice.
Of course she’d had to learn to handle the intense publicity generated in the wake of The Quiet Girl. But he could not say how he’d felt, exactly, to see that she’d proved such an apt pupil.
She still had it—the charisma of courage, the force of destiny. But it wasn’t the same. There was something hollow about her, as if she’d lost much of her larger-than-life-ness, as if she were now merely a very clever woman manipulating the media to maintain a particularly hallowed image.
But then he’d met her gaze. And in her eyes he’d found at once a deep weariness and a terrible intensity. He knew that look. The look of someone who knew her days were numbered.
And suddenly he had only compassion for her. It was much easier to be wise and serene when death was still only a distant specter on the horizon. When death loomed as close as one’s own shadow, no wisdom or serenity was possible, only varying degrees of horror and numbness.
He had been there. And never left.
The recovery tank hissed softly as it opened. Eleian stepped into the robe his chamberlain, Alchiba, held out for him.
“Has permission been given for Lady Vitalis’s pod to launch?”
The VIP suites all had private pods that allowed their occupants to zip along the exterior of the liner, should they wish to visit other passengers, without traversing the vessel’s vast interior. The pods, in accordance with the Summit’s no-fraternization policy, had been disabled. Eleian had to obtain special dispensation for her to use hers—the best way to avoid media scrutiny under the circumstances.
“The permission has been granted. But she has not left yet.”
“The others?”
“They are on their way, sire.”
Eleian changed into a dark blue dress tunic. Not formal enough for a proper wedding, but perfectly adequate for a trial one. Alchiba produced a medal of honor and tried to pin it to Eleian’s chest.
“Unnecessary,” said Eleian. “I’m afraid I need to impress the lady with something other than my past bravery.”
Alchiba pressed his lips together. “Your Highness, are you sure you . . .”
Eleian glanced at him. “You are not questioning my masculine prowess, are you, Master Chamberlain?”
Alchiba laughed, if rather reluctantly. “No, sire, of course not. I’m only worried that . . . that . . .”
That Eleian might not survive the encounter.
Unbeknownst to those outside his immediate circle, his health had ever been in a precarious state—oscillating between merely terrible and completely catastrophic. His physicians had never permitted him any activity more strenuous than walking. For much of his adolescence he’d been in a state of collapse. Lovemaking, even had the doctors not forbidden it, would not have been possible, as he struggled to remain alive.
In the years of his public role, when his life had seemed to be of great value to a great number of people, he’d deemed it prudent not to take the chance—which his physicians estimated at 50/50—that the shock of an orgasm would trigger massive heart failure.
After he had entrusted head-of-state duties to his cousin and returned to private life, the subject came up for discussion one more time. His lead physician had suggested that it could be accomplished with a trained emergency responder as his partner, and with his medical team on standby in the next room. He’d decided then that sex was something he could do without—if only for the sake of his dignity.
Or what was left of it. There was precious little dignity in being deathly ill for much of his life, in being helpless and wholly dependent on doctors and medical devices.
But now he was taking a possibly fatal risk—in the hope of greater rewards.
“I’ll be fine,” said Eleian, only half believing it himself.
And the very real possibility of dying did not even figure as the most dangerous part of the night to come.
*
The trial wedding ceremony would take place in the reception room of Eleian’s suite, with the Archbishop of Terra Illustrata officiating and the co-regents in charge of the Courtship Summit serving as witnesses.
Eleian knew them well. Besili of Terra Viridis, stern in public, grandmotherly among family and friends, had been a close friend to Eleian’s late mother. Rianse of Terra Copiosus was Eleian’s second cousin, once removed. And he’d prayed with the archbishop many times, in the darkest days of the principality, when it had seemed that nothing could pull it out of its downward spiral.
Alchiba served canapés and casmakiya, the famed jet-black wine produced on the sunward slopes of Mundi Luminare’s warm, beautiful Minor Continent. Eleian’s guests took turns ribbing him for his swift success with Vitalis of Pax Cara and offered an avalanche of outrageous marital advice.
But underneath the jollity flowed a deep unease. How, exactly, did one congratulate a couple who would have at most sixteen standard days together?
“Lady Vitalis,” announced Alchiba.
The company rose as she entered, her heels clicking across the gold-veined marble floor. On Pax Cara, the traditional wedding color was green, the color of life. But she had chosen to wear white, an ultrafeminine, light-as-air confection. The soft, translucent ruffles that cascaded from her right shoulder to her left knee contrasted sharply against the angular frame of her person, against the scars visible on her bare arms and calves.
Such scars: long, short, linear, jagged. Some looked as if they’d been made by blades, some by heat, and others by shrapnel. In the golden glow of wall panels made from the light trees of Terra Viridis, her scars were beautiful, a chronicle of her life, of the hardship she had endured to prepare for her great Task.
He was overcome with admiration—and something he almost did not recognize, because it was so alien to him.
Desire.
The special license had been an afterthought. He really hadn’t expected Vitalis of Pax Cara to require a lover. He’d thought, rather arrogantly, that since the two of them were such an obvious match, she would agree to his proposal instantly and they’d spend the rest of her days—and possibly his—in platonic communion.
But before they’d exchanged twenty words, he’d already known that it was going to be a far less certain thing than he’d prepared for. She did not want companionship, much less co
mmunion. If anything she wanted to be left alone—as he usually did.
And strangely enough, he did not want to leave her alone.
Long ago, he’d heard rumors that the student filmmakers who’d produced The Quiet Girl had been her lovers—both at the same time. That her mysterious glow hadn’t been so much supernal courage as mere sexual satisfaction. He had not believed it then, had wanted to see her only as his inspiration, the abstemious heroine, not altogether of this world.
He had reconsidered when he saw her in person. For her charisma had an undeniable sexual component. She had lived. She had experienced life in every way it could be experienced. Even he felt it, the lure of it, the urgency of it, the vitality of her youth against the bleakness of her imminent death—an anguish that only lovemaking could assuage.
Even he responded to it.
As he responded to it now. She smiled at him, and he all but flushed to the roots of his hair. The sexual tension in the reception room was tangible enough to set off intruder alarms.
The archbishop cleared her throat. Eleian, recovering somewhat, introduced his bride-to-be to the gathered dignitaries. She greeted them with consummate but cool courtesy.
“Shall we start then, Your Highness?” asked the archbishop.
There was no real ceremony for a trial marriage, but the archbishop offered a prayer for happiness and mutual affection. Alchiba brought in the license, an old-fashioned piece of vellum, which they all signed. Eleian’s new wife did a creditable job of scrawling her name, even though she’d likely never done it before—very few people other than princes and premiers signed physical documents.
The leave-taking began immediately. Besili, Rianse, and the archbishop each kissed Vitalis on the forehead. The co-regents did the same with Eleian. The archbishop held out her hands for Eleian’s benediction, after which, she genuflected and kissed the hem of his tunic.
Vitalis looked at him, nonplussed, as Alchiba ushered their guests out. “You blessed the archbishop. Are you the head of the Church?”
He shook his head. “Church and state have always been separate on Terra Illustrata.”
“Then why would she seek a blessing from you?”
“Because I’ve recently been declared an avatar of Metaran.”
“The god Metaran?”
He nodded. “It’s embarrassing, really.”
A good many gods were worshipped. But Metaran, along with his mate Mikelan, sat at the head of the Council of Gods.
She smiled. His cheeks warmed again. He recognized a smile laden with sexual heat.
“I’d thought it would be interesting to lie with an angel. But now I get to lie with an actual god.”
He didn’t know where his reply came from. “A major god, no less.”
“A major god, no less,” she agreed. “It should be memorable.”
Still blushing, he handed her a glass of wine. “Shall we toast our marriage?”
She glanced at the glass of water he poured for himself. “You don’t drink?”
He shook his head. His liver was not strong enough to process alcohol.
“How virtuous can a man be?” she smiled again.
He was becoming lightheaded. And for once, it was not because of his blood pressure dropping too vertiginously.
They clinked glasses. She took a sip. “Where do you sleep, Your Highness?”
*
In the two days since Eleian arrived at the Courtship Summit, he’d slept in the dining room on the lower level of the suite. It saved his staff the trouble of moving all the medical equipment up to the bedroom on the top level, and saved him the trouble of climbing stairs. (For some reason, the suite did not come with lifts. Since he regarded the matter of his health as strictly private, he’d vetoed plans to have one installed.)
But in the hour since she’d accepted his proposal, his staff had been engaged in a mad dash to haul the most essential medical equipment to the domed bedroom and place them at precisely the distances and angles he’d become accustomed to. He had yet to see what the bedroom looked like—the number of devices his staff deemed indispensable would broadcast what they thought of his chances of survival.
They were preparing for multiple organ failures, apparently. In readiness were his defibrillator, artificial respirator, emergency detox, blood re-processor—and even the preservation tank, which he’d only had to use once before, to safeguard himself until proper medical attention could arrive.
To her they would appear as a series of rather somber cabinets and armoires. But for him they’d been constant companions. He could stagger to the correct device in the middle of a full-body shutdown. The only time he’d made a mistake—which necessitated the use of the preservation tank—had been when a new member of his staff had placed the machines out of order and he’d turned on the defibrillator when he’d needed his blood detoxified.
Her eyes swept the room. The dome, molded from titanium-reinforced permaglass of an exceptional clarity, made it seem that nothing separated them from the abyss of space. A huge spasm of stars hung overhead, the color of superheated hydrogen, breathtaking no matter how many times he had seen it.
Her fingertips brushed the sheets on the large hexagonal bed with antique wrought iron posts at each corner—for the occasion, Alchiba had strung garlands of peach and cream flowers from post to post. She strolled past the table of refreshments that had been set up, laden with rich delicacies he could not consume. Only then did her gaze fall on the medical equipment.
“Your bedroom has more furniture than mine,” she said.
“I am a major god.”
She laughed. For a moment, she was only a splendid young woman, in a playfully elegant dress, on the cusp of seduction.
“O god divine, joyous be thy name, grant me thy glorious wisdom, lend me thy eternal hope, rain down upon me thy rapturous blessings,” she recited, the most ancient and succinct prayer to Metaran. “And permit me access to thy untouched body.”
“That is blasphemy.”
She chortled, sat down at the edge of the bed, and beckoned him with a finger. He took one last look at his lifesaving equipment and went to her.
To his surprise, as he sat down, he draped an arm over her shoulders. With his other hand he took hers. “O goddess sublime, invincible be thy name, give me thy abiding courage, will me thy shining rectitude, lift me with thy unassailable faith,” he murmured, the prayer to Mikelan. Then he looked sideways at her. “In reverence I offer myself to thee, o goddess great and exalted.”
Her jaw dropped. “Now that is true blasphemy, to address your prayer to a mere mortal.”
He touched his lips to the corner of her mouth. Her skin was heart-poundingly soft. Suddenly he wanted to devour her, this woman who was resolutely no saint, but a goddess indeed.
“You’re very beautiful,” she whispered, touching a hand to his cheek. “Like an idea, almost. Not quite real.”
He kissed her slowly, the warm humidity of the act making his heart beat alarmingly fast. “Am I becoming more real?”
“Come closer.” She smiled. “I’ll tell you how you can become completely real to me.”
The words she whispered into his ear should have been enough to kill him outright. But he was still breathing—and functioning somehow. So he continued on his perilous journey, peeling off her frothy dress, exposing her strong, lithe body.
She wore nothing underneath. His erratic pulse worried him, until he felt hers, almost as frantic as his own. How strange it was that she wanted to make love to his physical person, to the body that had been such a trial to him all his life.
His breaths came in shaky.
She disrobed him. His breaths further quickened—but this time, not from excitement. His body was not strong and lithe like hers. Often in the past it had been a wasteland, skin and bones—some of the ailments that plagued him were inexplicable to his physicians, such as the periodic breakdown in nutrient absorption that left him starving on a perfectly plentiful diet.
/> He hadn’t had that problem lately. Lately it had been only a garden-variety cancer to which he paid no attention; he’d put on a little weight and looked less like a walking visual for medical futility. Still, he was no match for the agile and perfectly muscled physiques of her training mates, with whom the Quiet Girl had laughed and played. Come to think of it, there had been an erotic undercurrent to that particular footage, full of young people in superb condition, near nudity, and ejaculating water rifles.
“Has anyone ever seen you naked?” she asked softly, her hand running down his thin, often barely functional body.
Except one particular part, which was functioning very well tonight. He was both embarrassed and ridiculously proud as her hand dipped lower—and ever so relieved that she did not seem to find the physical reality of him wanting.
“Only my physicians.”
She did not touch his erection, but brought her hand up and pulled down his lower lip with her thumb. Her tongue teased, as if she were dashing between sand ramparts, tantalizing her training mates with herself as a moving target.
He was fairly sure it was a gesture of vulgar haste, but his hand cupped her breast of its own will. The silky scrape of her nipple across his palm generated a shock of desire. A small, parched sound issued from the back of his throat.
“You make me impatient,” she said, her voice low and rough. And then, “I think I have a right to be impatient, don’t you agree?”
A reminder that she didn’t have much time left.
“Yes,” he rasped.
“Lie down then.”
He swallowed and complied. She climbed atop him. “I hope you are impatient too.”
She took him inside her. His entire person shuddered. He had no words for the sensations—he was only endlessly glad that he’d lived to this night.
Oh, but it became even better—more powerful, more intense. Above him she was full of life, vitality, the rosy glow of desire. Her skin was warm and wonderful. Her hair, just long enough to skim her jaw, brushed softly, tantalizingly against him as she lowered her head to nibble on his shoulders.