by P. J. Fox
She’d wanted a new life, hadn’t she? She’d left, telling herself all the while that anywhere has to be better than this.
“How was your afternoon?” she asked, hoping that conversation would give her an excuse not to think.
“Exhausting,” he replied. And then, “you used your time well.”
She blushed.
FORTY-FIVE
The contract was an elaborate thing, written on vellum. She’d had the basic tenets explained to her, although she hadn’t paid much attention as she wasn’t about to start bargaining. She’d have to sign whatever Kisten wanted her to sign, although some small part of her did recognize that he’d done his best to treat her fairly according to how he understood the term.
Traditionally, she would have a man from her own family present—or, at the very least, a family friend. But, of course, there was nobody. She was alone in the world and she was more aware of that now than she’d ever been before.
Kisten seemed emotional at the idea that his grandfather had come, and would participate. Seeing that made Aria sad, not because she had something against Ceres—who, apart from being insane, seemed pleasant enough—but because there was no one she wanted. Even if she’d been granted the power to magic someone from Solaris, who would she choose? Not her parents; not Zelda. She and her sister had parted on extremely bad terms. She liked Naomi well enough, but in all honesty she was glad that Naomi, with her loud, uncritical enthusiasm and constant stream of questions, wasn’t there.
No, there was just her, Kisten, Ceres and, since they’d needed a second witness to the signing of the contract, Kisten’s other grandfather. Zerus, with his moth-eaten robes and self-satisfied distaste, was every bit the academic. He glared at Ceres balefully, but said nothing.
They met in Kisten’s personal office, hardly the most romantic venue she’d ever imagined. Zerus, apart from greeting her, had said nothing. He seemed to care equally little for Ceres and Kisten, although he seemed less distressed by the latter than the former. Aria remembered, then, that Zerus had been opposed to his daughter’s marriage. Did he dislike Ceres, because Ceres had helped the underage Mahalia marry his son, or had he disliked Ceres in the first place and that was why he’d wanted Mahalia to marry someone else?
Kisten handed her the pen. The contract lay flat on the table, held down at each corner by a different paperweight: some kind of leaf preserved in glass, a jadeite toad, a brass elephant and a piece of polished crystal. There was a line for her signature, beneath his. Realizing that any hesitation would be noticed and remarked upon, she uncapped the pen and placed her name in neat, rounded script beneath Kisten’s confident, sprawling signature.
It was a moment that seemed utterly unreal, but one that she’d remember forever. She felt like she was floating above herself, watching some other girl sign her life away to some other man. And then she straightened up and capped the pen and she was just Aria again.
The office was, as offices went, pleasant enough. A fresco, depicting some scene from myth, had been painted on the walls in subdued colors. The furniture was all dark wood, and expensive-looking. But the room did contain one unlikely feature: a medium-sized fireplace. Most of the rooms seemed to have them, which struck Aria as bizarrely old-fashioned. Then again, given the conditions on Tarsonis and the relative difficulty of obtaining materials from off-world, perhaps she shouldn’t be surprised that people burned wood for heat.
Kisten saw her expression, and answered her unasked question. “Uncomplicated is best. Complex machines break down in the humidity, and there’s a shortage of people qualified to service them.”
“I think it’s charming,” she insisted.
“If,” said Ceres, “as my dutiful grandson, you require my blessing, then I suggest you be quiet.”
He shot Kisten a look and then shocked Aria by giving a blessing that was both eloquent and kind. “The Prophet said, marriage is the whole of my law. What he meant, of course, was that one can attain neither true greatness nor true peace unless one is whole; and one cannot be whole without one’s other half. Greatness comes from humbling oneself in front of another person and pledging, I am willing to live my life with you for the sake of pleasing God and for the sake of fulfilling whatever needs and desires I have through you and with you, and of fulfilling your desires; and peace comes from accepting their offering in return.
“Commit to each other, and be happy.”
Aria knew the traditional vows—she could hardly escape knowing them, as she’d lain awake the past two nights thinking of little else—but Kisten said something different. He held her hands in both of his and studied her, as he had throughout his grandfather’s blessing.
He smiled, and she smiled back, and for that split second she loved him with her whole heart.
She couldn’t help herself. This moment was magical; it wasn’t about him, or her, or who they were as individuals, but about the sheer joy of being alive in the world and having hope and experiencing something she never thought she would that was new and fresh and amazing and terrifying all at the same time. She was on a different planet in a different world with a total stranger and it was liberating. What were her gods to her? She didn’t care; she could be whoever she wanted, now, because the life she’d lived—and the person she’d been—were gone.
Something of her feelings must have shown on her face, because he stilled. And when he finally spoke, his voice was low. “I thank God for the fact that you’re here with me, Aria. I swear that I’ll be a good husband to you, and care for you, and do all I can to be worthy of your trust and of your love.” No one had ever treated her so high-handedly, or infuriated her so, but no one had also been so kind.
“I’m yours,” she said softly, scarcely believing what she was saying, “do with me what you will.”
His lips met hers and his hand pressed into the small of her back, pulling her slim body against his. It was, of necessity, a chaste kiss, but his lips were soft and warm and they awakened a tingle inside her that spread down to her toes and out to her fingertips like warm honey.
He rested his forehead against hers. “Some day,” he told her, that faint ghost of a smile still playing at the corners of his mouth, “I’ll build you a real house.”
“Oh,” she said, smiling slightly, “I think this one has its charms.” Wearing dead people’s clothes, staying in other people’s houses, that was just life in the colonies. She was learning with great rapidity that nothing ever worked quite as one expected it to out here, where everything was in short supply and improvisation was king.
Kisten clasped his grandfather’s hands. “Thank you.” Ceres scarcely seemed old enough to be Kisten’s grandfather, nor did he appear to Aria to be especially retired. She made a mental note to ask, later.
Zerus grumbled something incoherent and poured himself a second drink. Aria hadn’t even noticed the first until, halfway through her own vow, he’d finished it in one quick swallow. Whatever breath of romance had permeated the air, Zerus was obviously immune.
His eyes met Aria’s. “Congratulations,” he said. “I don’t know why women keep marrying into this family,” he continued, evidencing a surprising ill humor, “but my daughter seems content enough. They’re a bunch of nut-job traditionalists, though, and I wouldn’t go promising to obey any of them. But I suppose that horse has left the stable.” He sighed rather melodramatically.
Aria stammered for a response, quite unable to believe her ears. No wonder Kisten’s mother had eloped at such a young age. Aria would have eloped, too.
FORTY-SIX
Dinner was served in the house’s small private dining room and for just the four of them.
The Bronte also kept the rather barbaric custom of celebrating, not the occasion of the marriage itself but of its consummation—a concept that struck Aria as mortifying and not a little medieval. There would be a party at some future date, to which the entire universe would be invited. At least it wouldn’t be the next night, as was also tra
ditional. In addition to feasting the cantonment’s residents and various local worthies, Ceres—who was thrilled to host and kept muttering something about the unavailability of camels—would do his best to feed the entire population of the capital. A marriage, or at least confirmation that the groom was in good working order, was an occasion to celebrate and a prince’s duty was to celebrate by showing kindness to the less fortunate.
In a nod to local fashion, couches rather than chairs had been arranged around a small table. Kisten sat with Aria on a velvet-upholstered loveseat at the head of the table that was, she surmised, meant to sit a very fat one or a very cozy two. Kisten put his arm around her with the same casual possessiveness he’d shown before, dispensing with the formalities because this was a private family dinner.
Ceres sat at the foot of the table, and Zerus sat in the middle and looked none too pleased to be there.
Kisten signaled for wine. He liked wine, and Ananda had been trained in the art of selecting it. Kisten liked all his pleasures, she’d noticed. After letting Kisten taste the wine—which had already been tasted, for safety reasons—and render a verdict, he poured Aria a glass. She didn’t have much of a head for alcohol, but tonight she thought she was going to need some.
Her new husband regarded her consumption with some amusement. She blushed. He winked. “You must tell me how you do that,” he murmured into her ear.
“Do what?”
“Turn yourself the color of a pomegranate.”
Zerus began grumbling about the civil service and had just hit his stride when the first course was served: black lentils with diced tomatoes, ginger and garlic, served in a cream sauce. Aria wondered, with some chagrin, if she’d ever get used to the food.
“The problem with the Tarsonis Civil Service,” Zerus complained as he poured a second glass of wine, “is that it’s neither Tarsoni, nor civil, nor a service.”
“Well aren’t you a wit,” Ceres said acidly.
“Yes, Zerus,” Kisten drawled, “why are you here?”
“I’m here,” he replied, acting waspish, “to study the effect of importing cheaper, mass-produced goods on the local economy. Which is no doubt deleterious! How can a local craftsman compete in terms of overhead, labor, or even materials cost? Brontes has economies of scale, and—”
“There are no local goods,” interjected Kisten. “You’re fabricating—and, I might add, romanticizing—a class of noble peasant that doesn’t exist.”
“When you acquire your doctorate in economics—”
“And when you acquire some real world experience, you can lecture me on how to best theoretically keep people alive. But until then, I have to actually keep them alive and theories be damned.”
“Children, children.” Ceres seemed amused. “The late governor shared your love of principle, Zerus.” Ceres turned to Kisten. “The problem was that when Haldon’s local leadership, the Merchant Council, ran out of money to pay the troops and asked for help to cover the shortfall, Jhansi didn’t see what the blasted mess had to do with him. The locals still wield some power, and paying the city garrison is their responsibility. Which he reminded them.
“There had been a few flare-ups under the previous governor’s reign and Jhansi balked at the idea of paying men who might have had mutinous thoughts in their hearts—or, indeed, who might have aided in one of the mutinies.” Ceres, of course, was referring to the low-grade tension that infected all of Tarsonis. There had been several sporadic outbreaks of munity and other unrest before this last and largest effort.
The second course arrived: cubes of chicken, or what Aria hoped was chicken, on a formed mound of white rice. The sauce was bright pink. Aria studied her plate with some trepidation.
“It’s not spicy,” Kisten whispered into her ear. She turned, and he smiled. And, it just so happened, he was right. What Aria had dubbed pink chicken turned out to be delicious. She was half-tempted to find the cook and tell him to make it every night, the one dish she’d found that she cared to eat.
“General Bihar’s response,” continued Ceres, “was surprisingly reasonable: if the Alliance couldn’t be seen to redress local grievances, or even address them, why were we here at all? And what use was our protection? Jhansi did a spectacular job of making us all appear totally superfluous.
“Money, at that point, was the only thing that might have salvaged the situation and even then I’d have had my doubts.” He leaned forward, gesturing with a hand as thin and beringed as Kisten’s. “The punch line is that Jhansi got the go-ahead months before, along with the money. He had it, he just didn’t want to spend it.” He shook his head. “He didn’t want to sully his principles. Well where were his precious principles when children were having their brains bashed out? If he’d spent more time worrying about the safety of those he was sworn to protect and less time worrying about the possible effect of actual action on his self-esteem, several hundred people would still be alive.”
“How wonderful for him,” replied Kisten, “that he died with his principles safely intact.”
“It was your precious Blues who mutinied,” Zerus pointed out. “What about their oaths?” He stabbed angrily at his dinner. “I’d propose a new nickname for that corps, if I were you: Motherless Sons of Goats. Or perhaps Swineherd Sons of Reputationless Mothers.”
“Your old school names?” Ceres inquired innocently.
Zerus glared.
Aria laughed.
“I think that old boot Zamindari might have a point,” he continued, plunging the table into deafening silence. “And Karan, too, although you don’t like to hear it.” Zerus’ tone was primly reproving, as though he were talking to a recalcitrant five year old. That Kisten didn’t want to hear it was an understatement, Aria thought, glancing briefly at her husband’s face.
“It’s bad form to champion the man’s would-be executioner on his wedding night, wouldn’t you say?” Ceres’ tone was mild, but his eyes flashed.
“And you’re being a bit dramatic, wouldn’t you say?” Zerus seemed unaffected by the hostility in the room. “The man went off bearing,” he said, referring to Kisten, “and he got a slap on the wrist.”
Exile was a good deal more than a slap on the wrist, but Aria held her tongue. Contradicting Zerus wouldn’t do any good. Instead she stayed where she was, leaning against Kisten’s shoulder and watching the drama unfold. She couldn’t imagine what was wrong with Zerus that he’d be so daft, inconsiderate or both.
Zerus seemed like a well-meaning man, but he’d taken a relaxed, hopeful moment and plunged it into subzero temperatures. It was possible, Aria supposed, that like many academics his emotional intelligence lagged far behind that of his intellectual. With his innocent expression and enthusiasm for abstraction, he seemed to genuinely have no idea that he’d caused offense. How could he, when he was merely reviewing the merits of each position?
In any case, she resented him for doing so.
“Conditions are less than desirable, yes—but they are everywhere! Since we first began colonizing the galaxy, I doubt we’ve gone a day without someone expressing some measure of dissatisfaction about something. And, once in awhile, there’s a bit of a ruckus when some poor chap doesn’t get his way. But it happened on Charon II, it’ll happen again here simply isn’t logic. It’s self-indulgent twaddle from a group of men who want war.”
“You think I want war?” Kisten’s tone was dangerously quiet.
“Am I to believe that any man who enlists doesn’t?”
Ananda arrived with the next course, took one look at the tableau in front of him and turned around again.
“On Goliath V, it snowed ash and—”
“Yes, yes,” finished Ceres irritably, “and the natives were mean and you had to walk uphill to school both ways.”
“Well if your son hadn’t violated my daughter—”
Kisten stood up. “Zerus,” he said calmly, “it’s been a tremendous pleasure. Aria and I are thrilled that you could come and wish yo
u a pleasant remainder of the evening.” Zerus’ eyes widened, and Kisten stared at him challengingly. The moment stretched, as tense as over-tuned piano strings. Silence reigned. Finally, Zerus mustered what dignity he could gather and, wondering aloud what he’d done to sour the occasion and suggesting that Kisten needed to cool his temper, nodded stiffly and left.
FORTY-SEVEN
“Well thank God,” Ceres said feelingly.
Ananda returned with stuffed eggplant.
“I apologize,” Ceres told Aria, relaxing in his chair with a cocktail. “He was worse thirty years ago, and he’s what the empire’s full of: men who are so fixated on whether they seem moral, if only to themselves, that they fail to be moral.”
“Well,” replied Kisten with false levity, “at least we know where he stands.”
“He’s an idiot. He likes Karan because Karan butters him up.”
“I’m confused,” interjected Aria. “I thought there was a war on Goliath V.”
Ceres laughed as though she’d made a wonderful joke. “You’re a wit, dear. And you’re right, of course, the man is a hypocrite. But the uprising wasn’t during his tenure, so it doesn’t count.”
Oh. Ceres thought she’d said something intelligent.
“And why is he wasting his time on shopping trends? He should be studying the sociological implications of poisoned toilets. Perhaps you should suggest that to him, the next time he comes over to lecture you on the morality of having tried to prevent the very war he claims you want.”