The Councillor

by E. J. Beaton

  “The Rhimese tradition is a little different from the Axiumite one, it seems.” He smiled faintly. “We only give a binding-rope to a person we hope will do the tying. Do you think I have forgotten that quadruple knot on the package of the line-bloom you gave me, before we ever met?” He slid the black rope along the floor to her. “It was not a present to be used on you, Prior. It was a present for you to use.”

  He held out his hand, wrist up. In the reflection of the light from the wet stones, he looked like a painting, the skin over his veins gossamer-fine, an artist’s polished work. “One begins here.”

  “Oh,” Lysande said.

  “If that’s what you like.”

  She was aware of a hundred powder-keg fuses sparking inside her.

  Scooping up his things, Luca began to stand up, and Lysande was suddenly very conscious that he was wearing nothing but his skin. A desire to rush out and let her blood cool overwhelmed her, yet she was sure he would be amused if she did; this was some sort of game to make her blush, or at least, it was a very good strategy. Rising with him, she noticed a few thin lines scored into his back, tapered as if from the end of a whip.

  “Gawk all you like, Prior.” He didn’t even turn. “Scars aren’t like Axiumites. They don’t embarrass easily.”

  Lysande was suddenly very busy with her boots, still feeling the impression of the stone on her fingers as she brushed them down. By the time she followed him into his chamber, Luca was fastening a robe of black silk around his waist, knotting the tie.

  She wanted to ask him many things: how he felt about killing his brother; how he had survived all this time as an elemental when he was surrounded by a court; who his mother had been and where she was now; how he had acquired those scars. But this was not the time. The way he was looking at her told her that he had something to ask, too.

  “Conspiracy is hungry work,” Luca said.

  “Are we conspiring, then?”

  “I certainly hope so.”

  He lifted a domed cover from a platter on the table. Upon the silver, layers of brown-and-white cake formed a block. An amorata, Lysande realized. Sarelin had ordered one, years ago, when she was in an all-night meeting with a pretty young lord from the Lynson family. Dotted around this cake were the crimson globes of firettes, a fruit rumored to taste sharp and sweet at once—she had always struggled to find them in Axium’s markets. Perch had implied, once, that firettes were not favoured in the capital because they were somewhat . . . sensual, as a dessert . . . even disreputable.

  The heat from the stone had begun to fade. She flexed each of her fingers.

  Luca poured wine into the two goblets on the table and passed one to her, and they drank in unison. The cake divided smoothly under his knife. Lysande ate her piece slowly. Many sweet flavors mingled in each mouthful, and she was determined to taste them all.

  As she looked up, she became aware that they were standing side by side. She smelled the faint scent of orange blossoms, tinged with a bitter edge.

  “When you’re one of us, Prior, and you have eyes upon you every day, it’s as if you’re walking on a pond in winter,” Luca said. “The ice has frozen just enough to venture out. At any moment, it might crack, and send you plunging down below. So you walk carefully; you take ginger steps, and if you reach out to hold another’s hand, your fate becomes bound up with theirs. If they fall, you fall. If they make it across, you do too.”

  “I’m sure you’re going to approach the point at any moment.”

  “It can’t have escaped you that there’s never been a chance like this, in modern Elira, with two elementals in power.” He put his goblet down. “Now that the others know the White Queen is back, with a chimera and who knows what else, they’ll look to protect their own people. Cassia will go back to the jungle and reequip her guards from those unfairly large armories. Dante and Jale will be trying to control their cities . . . if they can prize themselves off each other.” He took a forkful of cake and paused. “What Elira needs is someone to take charge of the realm.”

  “You mean to nominate yourself as leader of the Council.” Lysande didn’t need to phrase it as a question.

  “I can stand above the cities and coordinate them, fortify against chimeran fire, and win back King Ferago at the same time. With you to assist me, of course.” Luca’s stare had intensified. “We’re walking on the same ice now, Prior.”

  “Let me guess. You want me to support your motion to elect a leader?”

  “No.” He took a sip of wine. “I want you to propose the motion. It’ll look better if it comes from you.”

  Of course. Of course, he had thought it through to the level of practicality.

  “Why not propose a Consul, instead of a monarch? It was what rulers elected by their peers called themselves in the Classical Era,” she said.

  Luca paused, regarding her. “In the Classical tradition, a Consul should have a deputy of great standing. How does it sound: Lysande Prior, my second-in-command?”

  Lysande had the odd feeling that they were back at the tactos-board and he was playing a double game—that he had waited, again, to reveal his best move. There were times when it was better not to speak, however, but to pay attention to every word directed your way: to take in every sign, wrung from tone of voice and movement.

  “I saw you in the observatory after you killed Derset.” Luca laid his hand on hers. “You were shaking like one of those ribbons tied to the gate: trembling. That’s when I thought, you deserve better than this. You can step out of the blood and the flames, Prior. Just put your vote behind me. There won’t be anyone closer. I’ll give you access to all the rare volumes in the Academy.” His words were flowing, coursing over her. “It’ll be exactly like it was when you worked for Queen Sarelin.”

  “Not exactly the same, I think.” She placed her hand over his and pressed down.

  He slid his hand to align beneath hers, palm against palm. She waited to see what he was going to do, until she realized he was waiting for her—that the soft fingers under hers were not a direction but a question. For a moment, she was not sure what she would try.

  The ends of her nails dug into the flesh of his palm, marking the skin. His eyes closed. She dug harder, then let go of his hand and put her goblet down. He was only an arm’s length away, and she could reach out and push him away; she could tell, by the way he was watching her, eyes open again, that he half-expected her to. It would be intriguing to see what he did if she struck him across the face again, but instead, she leaned across and brought her hand around, and dug her nails into the back of his neck.

  This is what Cassia would do, she thought. Not me.

  Yet she gripped him by the hair with her other hand, pulled him to her, and pressed her mouth to his. She had begun this in the book-lined room at Rayonnant Palace and she wanted to finish it now. He shuddered. The whole of his body yielded to hers, under her grip, and as she twisted the lock of hair, he breathed a soft “Yes.” It was sweeter to Lysande than the amorata’s white-and-brown layers. Was this not what she had wanted, deep down: her own desire, reflected and transformed, as in a pane of sheer glass?

  When she had run her palm down the warm skin of Derset’s back, she had thought to herself, this is mine, but now she knew vanity, and she knew desire. Luca did not belong to her. He met her at eye level, every time, in flame or in flood.

  She removed her other hand from his neck and ran it across his back, tracing the scars beneath the robe.

  The amorata lay on the table beside them, surrounded by the smooth firettes. She detached herself from Luca and picked a firette off the platter.

  Circling around to face Luca again, she slipped the fruit into her mouth. The sharp tang of it spread on her tongue, even though she did not take a bite. She walked into Luca without stopping. Why was it so easy to push him into a chair, to wedge her leg between his thighs, to wrap her pal
m around the side of his soft neck and hold it there?

  She waited until his breathing had sped up, then slowly pressed her lips to his. As he opened his mouth, she slid the firette off her tongue and onto his.

  He said nothing, but his eyes brightened, and he chewed slowly, keeping his gaze locked on hers. She pulled her mouth away and watched as he swallowed. When she brought her mouth to his again, his breathing mingled with her own, and she tasted the sharpness of the rare fruit, lingering; she lowered herself until she was mostly on top of him and ground his body into the chair-back.

  “Don’t move.” Her whisper carried a weight, a lead-rich quality that manifested in the air.

  “I assure you, I haven’t the slightest desire to.” He looked directly into her eyes. “You could do anything to me, from this position.”

  “Not quite. I can make a start.”

  He almost managed to hide his pleased interest. “I assume an education is in order?”

  No . . . it was not only interest. He was looking at her with a kind of veneration. As if I were . . . what was it, exactly? And then she knew. It felt as if she had always been meant to look down at him, as if she were resting on a throne. His stare had taken on a new expectation. She considered the soft pinkness of the lips that had accepted the firette from her tongue; considered the deliberate way that he had swallowed; then brought her hand up, watched his eyes brighten, and swung her palm down into his cheek.

  She had been right about the first time she had slapped him—she knew that at once, for his eyes brightened even more as he inhaled. Their glances met and he said nothing, but she brought her lips to his again. The sharp sweetness of the firette still lingered in his mouth, and the blend of wariness and fascination in his eyes reflected her own. She wanted to believe that she had found it, the other half of a broken mirror, the missing piece that fit opposite her, but she could not allow herself so much hope.

  You could shape anything into a match for your own desire, when that desire was rare. You wanted to believe that you heard a note of excitement in a lover’s voice; that you glimpsed a signal in another’s glance, a flag fluttering in their smile. If you dared to show yourself, you risked losing that imagined signal forever. When you did get a sign, you often lunged at it—after so long without a flag, you were willing to trust the first one to unfurl itself to you. Derset had responded to her. She had believed that he did so out of the same desire, but she had not peeled back the surface of that desire and peered down. I like what you like. She would not make that mistake again.

  Without hesitation, she shifted her weight entirely onto Luca. He gasped, and she knew that it was not in pain. She felt his fingers curl around her back, and heard his whisper: “Prior.”

  A waver, in his voice. It sounded real enough. But who could be sure after such a short time? She kissed him again, slipping a hand between his thighs.

  It was curious, but she could not quite tell how long the second kiss lasted. Time seemed to ebb away, and yet she was aware of claiming his mouth with her tongue, grasping his neck with her fingers, but pulling away at the end: leaving the promise of a conclusion. Luca’s stare fixed on her as she let go.

  “You can do that again, you know.” He breathed the words against her mouth.

  “Kiss you?”

  “Hit me.” There was a depth to his voice, and she felt something flowing inside her, like ink spilling over the top of a pot. His cheek was pink, so pink where her palm had struck.

  “Should I take it that you’ve decided?” he added.

  Lysande smiled. “I think you’ve identified exactly what the Council needs,” she said.

  The torchlight dipped and flickered as she walked across the chamber, and she made sure to not to look back as she passed through the door: not to allow him a glimpse of her face.

  * * *

  • • •

  She tried to breathe as evenly as she could while she stood in her chamber, listening to the buzz from the crowd lining the palace fence. The mingling of voices, deep notes blending with higher, had signaled other events in the past: the gathering for Sarelin’s jubilee, or the beginning of a hunt. Did these people hope for another Sarelin now?

  “It’s strange,” Litany said, brushing out the last knot in her hair. “This feels so different from the first time I dressed you in this room.”

  Everything shifts just a little after you discover your attendant could put you to sleep with a draught from a well-chosen bottle, Lysande thought.

  Litany straightened out the silver lock of hair, running her fingers from the top of the deathstruck tress to the very bottom. When she looked up from the queer, glittering strands, Lysande read the question in her eyes.

  “Yes,” she said. “I will wear it unbound today.”

  “Your hair looks . . .”

  Unnatural. Unseemly. Unworthy of display.

  “. . . majestic,” Litany finished.

  Lysande caught her reflection in the mirror.

  “Do you have your daggers at the ready?” she said.

  “Always.”

  “Well, then.” Lysande smiled. “I think we are ready to spend some time with the populace.”

  They did not have to wait long for the arrival of a troupe of ushers. The pair of them were surrounded, bowed to, and marched down the stairs with many congratulations on their deeds in Lyria, all of which rang hollowly after the experience of battle. Lysande crossed the grounds to the sound of shouts and cheers that seemed as polished as the palace spires, and just as distant. Ignoring the ushers’ remarks about the time, she walked to a spot on the fence and, after a brief hesitation, put her hand through it, touching the palm of a girl in shabby clothing. The girl colored and shrank back while her parents pushed forward to thank Lysande, but after a moment, she dared to fix her eyes upon the Councillor again, and they shared a look: not happy, exactly, but full of promise. Lysande moved along the line, and in a few minutes she had covered a good portion of the crowd, shaking more hands, tapping shoulders, and touching pendants or rings for luck.

  The sound died away, but when she bowed and turned to walk back to the palace, it rose again. The Axiumites shouted only one name.

  “You’re their leader,” Litany said. “I mean, you were before, but you really are now.”

  She took her Mistress of Defense by the arm, squeezing her slightly, and strode into the palace.

  A rainbow of colors ringed the Oval, formed by capes and doublets. It was almost a dream to see the Council in one place again, without bodies lying underfoot or sheets of mesh falling from above, and without the smell of blood rising from the ground. She spotted Cassia on her right, lounging with her arms folded, and she winked at the Irriqi as she passed. Ever so subtly, her friend tapped the table twice.

  “Here she is at last,” Dante said, looking at her from between two captains. “Can we begin?”

  “In Axium, when we say ‘on the hour,’ we mean ‘on the hour.’” Lysande bowed to the right as she reached him; the northern gesture of mourning was a little stiff, but she thought she managed the general idea. Dante’s gaze softened. He turned his attention to Jale’s hair, picking a piece of leaf from the strand on which it had nestled.

  Pelory was the last to arrive. Lysande studied Luca as the others discussed chimera sightings, mercenaries, and enemies, her gaze wandering to the expanse of neck that was visible above his collar, and then down. She reproached herself for dwelling on his lips. How it would feel, though, to push a firette onto his tongue again, and watch him swallow . . .

  His gaze skipped to her. He did not meet her eyes; he was looking at the hair on the left side of her part, the queer silver lock that now glittered in full view. A smiled tugged the corners of his mouth.

  “We haven’t discussed experiments for fortifying stone against chimeran fire,” Cassia was saying, raising one hand.

 
Listening to the others argue and sling information back and forth, Lysande was conscious that she owed her life to the Shadows—as did they all—and that it would be folly to betray what Three had told her after her conversation with Charice. Some things took time to change. She pictured herself dealing information as cards from her hand—the possibility of another chimera, Signore Chamsak’s weapon-stores, and Three’s plan to buy any remaining eggs, explained briefly to her—and after laying them out on the table, she gathered them up and reshuffled them into her deck. Wondering if there was something she might pass on, she ran over her last conversation with Derset in her head.

  Her Majesty means to take this realm back to the beginning of the calendar. The remark had remained in her mind, yet she did not feel it was the right time to share it. In fact, she was not entirely sure what Derset had meant.

  The smack of Dante’s fist hitting the table made her jump.

  “We should make an example to them,” the First Sword said. “That chimera’s the White Queen’s symbol; I say we cut it up or burn it.”

  Lysande had already guessed that the court of Valderos would be demanding to destroy any remains of the chimera before their citizens; all too easily, she could picture the parched crowds thirsting for revenge.

  “Time will bring wisdom. Only tyrants rush into burning and slicing, regardless of whether it is flesh, fur, or scales. Let patience rule first,” Jale said.

  Dante looked quickly at him. “Are you sure you wish to keep the body?”

  “I could persuade you of the benefits to science. If you would let me make my case in private, that is.”

  “I fear that your case in private would always sway my hand.”

  “If the two of you are done batting your eyelashes for now,” Cassia said, leaning back in her chair, “I, for one, will not have Lyria sitting on its golden haunches, holding up progress. I will take the chimera, and we will examine it in Pyrrha.”