by Matthew Cook
She walks behind me once more and helps me take down my dress. The fall air is brisk, even inside, and I feel my nipples stiffening, almost painfully, in the chill air. Lia regards me in the glass, her eyes trailing across my body.
Lia squeezes the organ and a dollop of softly glowing liquid pools at its severed end. She lowers it to my skin and traces around my shoulder, spiraling inwards. The cool liquid warms quickly against my skin, and the light intensifies. A smell fills the air, a blend of burnt cinnamon and some delicate animal musk.
"Your body heat will keep the naraja's glow strong for several hours,” she says, repeating the design on my other shoulder. “I was lucky to find such a healthy pair so late in the season."
"Pair?” I ask. Lia trails the damp end across my back, spiraling around my shoulder blades then along my spine, and I shiver once more.
"This is the male's essence. It glows with this strong blue light. He uses it to find his mate, signaling in the dark until a female sees, and replies. The female naraja glows pale orange, like liquid fire."
"And you will wear the female's light tonight?” I ask.
"Yes,” she replies, moving to stand in front of me.
Lia dabs at my belly, tracing intricate, branching curls. She motions for me to pull down the front of my skirt and I oblige, giving her room to continue the design around my hip bones and across the gentle swell below my navel. Then she moves up, extending the design along my ribs. She leans close, her eyes fixed on her work, and I feel the warmth of her breath against my skin. The glowing oil covers the fresh scrapes and bruises I have acquired on the wall, and Lia is careful to craft her design to include them all.
Standing this close, I can smell her perfume, a delicate mix of crushed flowers mixed with the clean tang of oranges. The fragrance is unique to her, blended in a shop a few blocks south of the Imperial Palace. I breathe in deeply, inhaling through my nose, and allow my eyes to slide closed.
When she traces the liquid light around my breasts, I must force myself to remain still, biting my lower lip gently. Lia ends her design with a final spiral, terminating at my left nipple. She looks up at me with a mischievous grin, her face inches from my skin, then breathes across the still-damp fluid. The design flares with brilliance in response to her breath, as does my flesh. Delicious expectation kindles a spark deep inside me. My legs tremble.
"Now me,” Lia says, withdrawing the other insect from the box. Again the knife flashes. She rolls the light-giving organ and hands it to me. It is warm, throbbing slightly in my hand.
We exchange places, Lia sitting before the mirror. “How do I make the pattern?” I ask, unsure where to begin.
"There is no right way or wrong; just do whatever seems pleasing,” she says, watching me in the glass. Her eyes shine like slivers of summertime sky in the candlelight and a blush rides high in her cheeks.
Against her sun-browned skin, the orange naraja light shines with mellow fire. I trace a branching circle across her back, then extend the lines around, wrapping them like arms about her. Her belly still bears traces of softness that even our time on the road has not erased, so much more feminine than my own muscled torso. Her breasts are full and heavy, even though she has never suckled a child, tipped with large, dark aureoles. I brush one with the glowing liquid and watch it pucker. Lia draws in a quick, shuddering breath.
"Breathe across it,” she whispers. I do, watching the pale light flare in response. The color in her cheeks deepens. Her skin smells of perfume and the subtle musk of the naraja, a potent mix.
"I begin to see why the ladies are so mad for this,” I whisper, and Lia laughs.
"Come, we will be late if we do not hurry, and my father is not a man who is accustomed to waiting,” she says in an unsteady voice. I look into her summer-blue eyes a moment longer, reading the desire there, drawing it into myself.
She pulls up her dress and bids me stand before her, then completes the design on my cheeks and across the bridge of my nose. I cannot duplicate her skill; my own efforts look more like war paint, but on her the contrast between her elfin features and the bold, orange strokes looks lovely.
She leans towards me and gives me a kiss, soft as a feather, yet lingering. I breathe in her breath, reveling as the moment stretches, suspended between bliss and anticipation of what might happen next. I trail my fingernails along her arm, smiling when she shivers in response.
"We really must go,” she says, breaking away.
Outside, the rented carriage awaits. The driver offers us his hand as we climb the steps. Lia accepts the assistance but I mount easily. The driver sees my boots as I clamber up, and gives me a puzzled grin.
He shuts the door and a moment later we clatter into the night.
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CHAPTER EIGHT
Lia's family manor, as befitting a man of Argus Cho's lofty status, sits only a few blocks from the royal compound. The high wall surrounding the property is set with ornate iron lamps, which spill their brilliance in pools of yellow light onto the street below.
The main gates, black iron cast into the shape of twin trees with interlocking branches, are open, guarded by a pair of elemental mages. A line of carriages has already formed along the thoroughfare leading to the house. They glitter in the chill night air, polished contrivances of ebony wood and brass.
"Can't we just get out here and walk?” I ask.
Lia fixes me with a scandalized stare, as if I have suggested we hike up our skirts and make water in the street. I shrug and let the matter drop.
The line moves forward, slowly. We pass through the gate and up the curved drive leading to the house, the horse's hooves ringing on the damp cobblestones. The entrance is sheltered beneath a broad overhang. The smell of manure, women's perfume and the city's own unique odor, flint and old smoke and the exhaled breath of a million people, blend into a complex tapestry.
A liveried servant opens the carriage door. He places an embroidered stool on the ground beneath the steps and offers Lia his hand.
A moment later I follow her, accepting the footman's assistance, even though I do not need it. As I descend I hold my skirts, trying to conceal my chunky boots. They ring on the cobblestones and I wince at the noise, wishing I'd simply accepted the torture of Lia's cruel shoes. As soon as I am down, Lia takes my arm and leads me inside, through the wide-open doors.
Inside, the entrance hall is a contrast in pale marble and dark mahogany. Lamps of rare and expensive gaslight shine on the walls and in the ornate chandelier overhead, bathing the room in steady, mellow light. Paintings of stern-faced men and serene women, Lia's ancestors I presume, glower down while elegantly gowned and coifed men and women mill and mingle beneath them. All greet Lia with warm handshakes or polite hugs, welcoming her back. Introductions are made in a dizzying flurry. I know I will never remember them all.
Don't worry. One of us paid attention to mother's lessons, remember. Most of the family names are familiar to me. These people represent the cream of Imperial society; it would not do to forget them.
"Thank you,” I whisper behind my hand, pathetically grateful for my sister's help. I would rather face a line of charging Mor than run this gauntlet of smiling, elegantly dressed revelers, but I am here now and there is nothing to be done about it. This is important to Lia, so I will do my best to smile and mouth empty nothings.
As I move through the room, I hear whispers, brief snatches of conversation. “I hear she shares rooms with Argus Cho's daughter,” someone whispers behind me. “Nobody knows where she comes from; some nowhere village up north is the rumor,” says another.
Every time I turn, all I see is a mass of bland, emptily smiling faces. The women all try not to flinch when I make eye contact, but none can manage the trick. They smile: brittle, frosty things devoid of all warmth. The men's attention is more direct, if equally unwelcome, their eyes lingering on the swell of my breasts, seldom rising to meet my eyes.
At least with men it is easy
to know the course of their desires, my sister says with a laugh.
Lia walks towards the doors at the back of the entrance hall and I follow. I hear music from the room beyond. The lamps there have been turned down low and people dance in the subdued light, forming intricate, swirling patterns. They have skin of every color imaginable, from the deepest ebony to my own pale.
Many of the women and not a few of the men glow with the soft luminescence of the naraja, in patterns that put my own crude efforts for Lia to shame. The insects’ strange perfume fills the air mixing with the gentle musk of dancing bodies. The pleasant ache in my thighs grows more insistent.
Lia's ornamentation seems almost barbaric next to theirs, but if she notices, or cares, she shows no sign. It is only after we are halfway across the room that I realize that while some of the men present glow with the cool blue light of the male naraja, none of the women wear that color.
I catch Lia's eye and she smiles back at me, spots of color riding high in her cheeks. The cloisonne butterfly winks at me from amongst her curls. I cannot help but wonder what message her choice of decoration is sending, then I recognize it does not matter. I could not care less what these people think of me.
We move deeper into the room, Lia's hand clasped in mine. She has a word and a greeting for everyone we pass. Her easygoing banter and relaxed pose is belied by the intensity of her grip.
She is afraid of something.
A small group stands in a pool of candlelight against the ballroom's far wall, before a wall of darkened windows. Lia steers me towards them, and I see men and woman, dressed not in gowns but in embroidered robes.
At their center stands a tall man, his hairless head gleaming as if oiled. In place of robes, he wears a greatcoat of charcoal velvet, trimmed with buttons of ruddy gold. His neat beard is as black as the bottom of a well, shot through with a thin streak of white. Wide, alert eyes, the same shade of pale, summertime blue as Lia's, sparkle beneath overhanging, bushy brows.
As we approach, Lia's grip tightens even more, and I hear her draw in a long breath. It is he whom she fears.
"Father. It is so good to see you again. I have missed you, and prayed to the gods every day for your safety,” Lia says, letting go of my hand to take both of his. She stands on her toes to place a daughterly kiss on his cheek.
Argus Cho breaks off staring at me long enough to kiss her in turn, then returns his attention to me. Unlike many of his guests, he does not flinch away or drop his gaze when his eyes meet mine. “Lia. Thank the gods for your return. When I heard from Headmaster Ceantes you had gone, I was so worried.” His voice is big, like the rest of him, rolling out in the modulated tones of a trained courtier.
Or a mage, my sister reminds me. Argus Cho is a legend among them, one of the few who has mastered not just one but two of the elemental arts.
Lia gestures for me to come forward and I approach. Up close, I can see Argus's coat is embroidered with tiny characters; they are the same serpentine runes which adorn Lia's raiment, mixed together with different, more jagged-edged symbols.
Fire magic, my sister whispers, the deadliest and most unpredictable of the elemental arts. It is said the power of pyromancy is so destructive and difficult to master that only a handful of initiates can ever be trusted with its deeper mysteries. That Argus Cho has mastered it is impressive, but when one considers he is also the current Master of the College of Elemental Air...
"Sir, it is indeed an honor,” I say, offering my hand, palm down. Cho surprises me by grasping it in his and shaking it, as if I were a man. Several people nearby murmur in response, their whispered words overlaying my sister's own displeased hiss.
"I am overjoyed you could join us this evening,” he says, sounding anything but. “I wanted to thank you personally for bringing my daughter back to me. I, and my family, am in your debt."
"I ... it is my honor to be of assistance to you and yours. No obligation exists between us, save that of friendship between our households,” I say, remembering my manners at the last moment. I touch my brow, then my heart, before curtseying briefly, just deep enough to show my sincerity. Argus raises his eyebrows at my response.
"May it endure for generations,” he replies, properly. He grasps my shoulders and leans close to kiss my cheeks. “I did not know you were raised at court. Who was your teacher?” he murmurs into my ear.
"I have never had the honor of attending court, sir. My mother was my only teacher,” I say, unhelpfully. I do not know if he will recognize my family name, but he might. I am still a woman wanted for murder, I must remember, as if forgetting my crimes were possible.
Argus favors me with another long stare, waiting for me to give my family name, no doubt. Then, when I remain silent, he shrugs and introduces me to the rest of his entourage.
They are mages all, representatives from all four of the elemental colleges. I see a man at the back of the group, observing us. He is small and unassuming, dressed in midnight blue velvet. His spare, limp brown hair contrasts with the extravagant coifs all around. His eyes are of muddy brown, like a dog's. Cho introduces him last.
"And this is the Count Jurgen Savard. May I present the lady Kirin of ... well, of the north I suppose. The count is the emperor's representative tonight, since he could not be with us this evening."
Even I recognize the name: Savard; the emperor's spymaster, leader of the Gray Circle. Out in the bustle of the City, beneath the sun and the sky, the idea of a secret police was almost laughable, but now, seeing the man in the flesh, I am not so sure.
The count takes my hand and brushes his lips across my knuckles. He looks up into my eyes and I see him draw back ever so slightly. His gaze is like a scale, weighing and appraising. His voice, when he speaks, is high-pitched, soft as a woman's, and I am forced to lean forward to hear him.
"Charmed, milady, charmed. We were all so concerned about Master Cho's daughter. Yes, yes, so very worried. It's good to have her back among us, where she belongs."
Lia smiles at his words, as she has countless times already at other similar well-wishes, but I see that her good humor still conceals some deeper fear. I mouth empty pleasantries to Savard until Argus moves us along.
I try to stay close to her, but the swirl of people conspires to separate us. I answer each new greeting properly, only occasionally prompted by my sister's hissed reminders, but my heart is not in the exercise. Soon I find myself at the edge of the room. Amongst the shadowed columns ringing the dance floor I allow my shoulders to drop. My head throbs, and I rub my neck, wincing at their stiffness.
"Ah, the bright, shining court. So lovely, and corrupt. You do well to spurn their advances,” someone says behind me.
I turn, and see a man standing in the shadow of a column. Like Savard, he wears dark velvet, his vest and sleeves trimmed with silver piping. A cameo sparkles at his throat, nestled within his high collar. Unlike most of the men, he wears no lace and his long fingers are devoid of jewelry, save for a single golden ring on his left thumb.
He walks towards me and offers me wine in a crystal goblet. He is fine-boned and slender, with surprisingly wide shoulders and narrow hips. His eyes are deep-set and intense, nestled in a web of crinkled flesh, curiously old for such a young-seeming man. In the dim light I cannot make out their color, but they are certainly dark, brown or black.
"I'm not spurning anyone. Yet,” I say, taking the proffered glass. I take a minuscule sip for politeness’ sake.
"Of course not,” he replies, his thin lips twisting into a self-conscious smile. It does not reach those piercing eyes. “So you are Lia Cho's mysterious companion. I couldn't help but notice Master Cho introducing you to everyone."
His eyes scan the room. A moment later, he nods towards someone, a gesture so small it is almost invisible. “Don't look now, but someone seems to have taken an interest in you."
I follow his gaze and see Count Savard, standing in a small knot of faintly glowing women. His dog-brown eyes flicker towards me,
then quickly away. A moment later he looks back again. Seeing I have noticed him, he inclines his head towards me, then returns his attention to the woman speaking to him.
"Tell me,” asks the dark-clad man, “what do you think of the emperor's spymaster?"
"Count Savard?” I say, taking a long sip to give me time to think of an answer. I search his face for some clue as to what he is looking for, but all I see is mild interest.
Say something trivial; he will expect nothing else. None would dare speak openly of a man like him here.
"He is ... not what I expected,” I manage to say.
"Oh? And what would that be?"
"You know the stories. I wouldn't expect such dramatic gossip concerning a man so, well..."
"Ordinary looking?"
"Yes,” I agree, glad he has said the words first. “If Master Cho had not told me who he was, I probably wouldn't have even noticed him."
"Not being noticed would be a good trait in a spy, I'd think.” He gestures towards the count. “Make no mistake, though: you will never feel that one's eyes on you, but he sees everything. Or his underlings do. And they could be anyone."
He must be drunk to speak this way. Best to end this conversation now, before he says something else that might get back to Savard. Stop leading him on.
"Why would he care?” I ask, deliberately ignoring her. Her bleat of outrage makes me smile. I toy with my pendant, my fingers tracing around the silver coin. “After all, I'm just a soldier."
"Just? Are you now?” he asks, his eyebrow raised. Despite the almost comical exaggeration, the question sends a tiny thrill down my back.
"Of course,” I reply, dropping my hand. “What else would I be?"
"Well, forgive me for being blunt, but you share a house with the daughter of the head of the College of Elemental Air; a woman who has been groomed since birth to inherit the title, by the way, and who is every bit her father's match in power and talent. Or so it is said,” he finishes with a shrug. “Either way, can you really say that you're surprised by Cho's and Savard's attention? Or that people are talking about you?"