The Look of a King

The Look of a King by Anah Crow

Torquere Press www.torquerepress.com

Copyright ©2007 by Anah Crow First published in www.torquerepress.com, 2008 NOTICE: This eBook is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution to any person via email, floppy disk, network, print out, or any other means is a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines and/or imprisonment. This notice overrides the Adobe Reader permissions which are erroneous. This eBook cannot be legally lent or given to others. This eBook is displayed using 100% recycled electrons.

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The Look of a King by Anah Crow

Prologue The king's sword twisted like a snake and Matxin deflected it, but barely. The tip whispered past his bare chest. There was no chance of beating Piran at the sword; staying in one piece was all Matxin could hope for at this point. A negligent twist of Piran's wrist sent Matxin's sword spinning from his grasp and Matxin grunted with irritation. One day he was going to learn not to let that happen to him. Piran's sword flicked back toward Matxin's throat and Matxin could see the calculation in his king's eyes. It would take two steps to get to the fallen sword and Piran would have him by then. Matxin abandoned all pretense at being a swordsman and dropped to avoid the point of the sword. One sweeping kick to one of Piran's ankles left the king off-balance but still on his feet. Matxin kept low, moving forward and caught Piran in the belly with one shoulder. He could hear the air go out of Piran's chest as he stood up in a smooth movement, taking the king off of his feet, up and over Matxin's back. Piran managed to fall gracefully enough, taking the impact on shoulders and heels, but by then Matxin had spun around and kicked the sword from his hand. It tumbled away through the grass, glittering in the lamplight. Matxin scooped up his own sword and brought it around to Piran's throat as the king was pushing himself up again. "That was hardly dignified, Mercé." Piran fell back into the grass as Matxin held him at sword-point. "And I don't remember that move as one sanctioned by the ancient sword 3

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masters. This is supposed to be a graceful art." He glared up at Matxin, but there wasn't much heat in his green eyes; Matxin knew him well enough to recognize when Piran was trying not to laugh. "Playing by the rules hardly leaves me in a good position to properly defend your Majesty," Matxin pointed out. He slid his sword back into its sheath and held his hand out to help Piran to his feet. "I would do you a disservice were I to suppress my natural instinct." "It's a good thing you're not wearing a gun," Piran said, letting Matxin pull him up. "You might well have shot me for the sake of expediency. Remind me not to challenge you down at the range." Matxin shook his head. "I would never harm your Majesty," he said, feeling a little stubborn, especially where firearms were concerned. That Piran wouldn't allow the royal guards to carry personal weapons in the alcazar still grated on him. He understood Piran's reasoning that the king wanted the alcazar to feel like the haven it was, away from the world, but it felt wrong. Piran pulled his shirt off and shook the grass out of it. "Not my body, only my pride?" He gave Matxin an arch look. "You're hard on an old man." Piran was hardly old. Matxin wasn't even thirty and he and Piran could have been brothers born within a handful of years. The king was in perfect condition: solid muscle under smooth skin, without a hint of gray in the golden hair that fell to his shoulders in loose curls. 4

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"You can't use your age as an excuse yet, your Majesty," Matxin said, trying not to roll his eyes at his king. "I hardly would have done anything of the sort had we an audience." He crossed the soft grass and picked up Piran's sword for him. "You're a thoughtful, young man." Piran tossed his shirt onto a bench and crossed the garden so that he could splash water from a small fountain onto his face and shoulders, washing away the traces of effort from his skin. Piran's private garden was empty save for the two of them, neither courtier nor attendant in sight for once. Golden orbs on twisted iron posts lit the grassy heart of the garden and cast the flower beds and shrubberies into deep shadows. Matxin ran a hand through his sweaty hair and looked up at the starry night sky where a pair of swelling moons skimmed the arch of it without a single wisp of cloud to dim them. The soft hum of a black flyer patrolling the perimeter of the alcazar reminded Matxin to find his earpiece in his pocket and put it back in place. "Speaking of privacy." Piran's voice brought Matxin's attention back to him as he came striding across the garden, holding out his hand for his sword. "Did you finish with your new surveillance system?" "Captain Solan has been running tests on it all day before stepping down the old system." Matxin handed Piran's sword back to him. "But it seems to be working well." "If you keep being so efficient and useful, I'm going to have to promote you to Captain at this rate." Piran sheathed his sword and continued walking past Matxin and into the 5

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shadows at the back of the garden. Matxin followed a few steps behind him as he took a narrow path through the tall wall of greenery around the garden. "It was nothing," Matxin said quietly, turning his attention outward, listening for anything ahead of them. His hearing was better than human, thanks to tinkering by the palace physician. It was a risky alteration that could have ended his career but it had been worth taking his chances with it. "Just something that had been in my head for some time." "Too bad you didn't have it when Eiran was a lad." Piran laughed and shook his head. "You'd have saved yourself some grief." "He was something of an inspiration," Matxin admitted. Piran's eldest child was a man now, but as a child, Eiran had delighted in making Matxin sweat by finding ever more remote hiding places within the huge alcazar. The exercise of finding him had turned Matxin into something of an expert on the alcazar and all the things one needed to know in order to keep an eye on the entire structure. "I always did feel a little guilty about saddling you with him. But I think I made a good choice in the end." The narrow path opened out onto a stony balcony with a carved railing. A gust of night wind lifted Matxin's hair and cooled his skin with its kiss. Matxin stopped at the end of the path to stand guard while Piran went on ahead to lean against the railing, looking north. His alcazar hung high over the land, held aloft by the remains of ancient engines that had lifted the ships that brought the people to Pau-Ortzi generations before. 6

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It was a peaceful scene: rolling farmlands in the north shrouded in darkness, distant hills nothing more than a black shadow against the sky. All the turmoil was behind them: the city of Valéry and the industrial complex and the port that now welcomed new guests from off world. Piran was quiet a long time before he tapped the railing to summon Matxin to his side. "This place, it's included in the system?" Piran didn't look at Matxin; his eyes were fixed on the distance. He looked tired, his face relaxing from its usual animation into weary lines. Weary, but still regal. All the Valora men had that look about them, the look of a king. "Included, but not activated," Matxin said. "As you requested. Here and all the places you indicated." "Excellent." Now Piran did look at Matxin. "I appreciate all your work. But you understand that some things are only for the eyes of a Valora." "Of course." Matxin bowed his head, feeling the weight of those eyes on him. "Your Majesty has priority access to the system; you may do as you wish with it. I only wished to better serve." "The Mercés have always done so well." Piran's touch on Matxin's bare shoulder was brief but warm. "Valora has been fortunate to call them friends." When Matxin lifted his head, Piran was smiling, just enough to lift the weariness and reach his eyes. It was odd, sometimes, to look into a face so like his own but the blood of the families that had settled the northern lands still ran true in the oldest families. "I've kept you past the end of your watch," Piran said then, his mood 7

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shifting and his expression closing. "And I've had you to myself for the day. Eiran will be irate if I do it again. You may go. Send me Solan when you do." "Yes, sire." Matxin bowed and stepped back into the shadows. As he navigated the path back to the garden to find his shirt and jacket to make himself presentable, he touched his earpiece to open a channel for speaking to his captain to make sure that the King would not be alone. **** There was no guard on Eiran's chambers, no cause for it in the safety of the Alcazar and the quiet of these times. Matxin passed under the scanner and the doors slid open for him. Inside Eiran's chambers, it was dark and quiet. The sound of Matxin's boots on the polished floors was as soft as breathing, but it sounded large in the silent foyer and the empty lounge. Matxin could see light under the door of the inner chamber and shook his head. It was late, far past time for sleep. The doors opened for him again, and he stepped into Eiran's room. The only light was from a lamp that overhung the prince's desk and cast a golden circle around the piles of books and the young man asleep on them. Matxin smiled; for all that Eiran protested the tutoring he received, there was no keeping him from understanding when he wanted to learn. Spread out on the desk were old books that had recorded the early days of Pau-Ortzi, copies of records long since lost in other forms. Matxin leaned over to see pictures of the First Landing and the Mother ships that had brought the families to seed the empty new world. A flickering screen played the 8

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launch of the Valora Alcazar, the scene laced with crackling static. Matxin tapped the button to shut it off. Maps of the lands of the five first families of Pau—Valora, Mercé, Solange, Lothair, and Theirn—and the lands of those who came later, more to Pau and others later still to Ortzi, were laid out on the desk. Across all of it sprawled Eiran, pure white hair in disarray, eyes closed, hands tucked under his cheek. Tonight, at least, he was wrapped in a soft green robe instead of still wearing the clothes he'd worn to dinner. He'd made some attempt at getting to bed before some thought interrupted him and drew him back to his investigations. Matxin wondered, yet again, what was going on in his head. Eiran was an endless source of challenges and surprises, whether it was stealing a flyer to go to Valéry alone or gambling with the castellan's men or simply climbing up to some aging parapet to be free of courtiers vying for his attention and affection. As he grew older, his challenges grew more complex, more personal, and more political. He never stopped thinking until he fell asleep in the midst of whatever had held his attention far too long. Years past, when other children were done being tucked in, Matxin still gathered Eiran up from wherever he'd fallen asleep, prying him away from his games or his studies, and put him to bed. It was partly habit, partly because it eased his mind to know exactly where his charge was. Matxin pulled back the curtains around Eiran's bed and turned down the covers. Either way, it was no trouble to do, so he did it. He returned and turned off the lamp. 9

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Matxin could take liberties where the attendants could not. He unwound Eiran's fingers from around his stylus and loosened his grip on the controls for the recording that had been playing. Picking the young man up had gotten harder over the years, but it was more a concern of logistics than strength. Eiran had long, lithe limbs and a tendency to protest sleepily, but vigorously, at being moved. Matxin scooped him up carefully and, tonight, was rewarded by getting him all the way to bed without a complaint. There was just enough moonlight filtering in from the balcony doors that Matxin could make out Eiran's features in the darkened room. He pulled the blankets up over Eiran and tucked the prince in as he always did, admiring the way childhood had faded from Eiran's face to be replaced with the stronger lines of manhood rising to the surface. Locks of soft hair had fallen across Eiran's cheek and Matxin reached out, without thinking about it, to smooth them back into the fall of white across the dark pillows. Slender fingers skimmed Matxin's cheeks and wound in his hair. Even as he was pulling back, there was a mouth soft on his. Eiran tugged his hair, bringing Matxin down as Eiran let himself fall back into the pillows. Matxin was frozen for a moment, hanging between conflicting responses and orders. Eiran tugged at his hair again, the gesture sharp and demanding, and Eiran's soft tongue slid against his lips. Only then did he remember what to do, not what he should have done, and he kissed Eiran back slow and sweet. One kiss and then Matxin made himself pull away. He didn't get very far so he reached up to untangle Eiran's long 10

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fingers from his curls. Eiran wouldn't let go, whispering, "Matxin, come back." Matxin had been hoping the prince still slept. "Eiran, let me go." He got Eiran's fingers loose but Eiran only kissed him again and caught Matxin's hands with his. It would have been the work of but a moment to free himself but Matxin didn't want to hurt Eiran when he was only playing. "You were gone all day." Eiran leaned up and brushed another kiss over Matxin's mouth. "I thought you'd left me." "Never." Matxin got both of Eiran's hands in one of his and used the other to stroke Eiran's cheek, soothing, trying to coax him into relaxing. "I wouldn't leave you. You know that." The pause gave Matxin a moment to try and scrape his thoughts back together and mount a defense against the desire to kiss Eiran in return. "Kiss me again." Eiran didn't have the usual wide-eyed look he wore when he was trying to convince Matxin to give him something he shouldn't have. He looked stubborn, almost angry, his green eyes nearly black in the dark, but still glittering. "I've been waiting for you." He slid his hands out of Matxin's gentle grip and ran his fingers over Matxin's face, tracing his features. "Eiran," Matxin said gently. Internally, he was reminding himself of why this was unwise, only to be met with the rational argument that there was no prohibition against this in the slightest and, in fact, there were an array of reasons this was an excellent idea. "You're hardly awake." "I was awake all day thinking about you, and why I missed you. How much I miss you when you're not here." Eiran slid 11

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one hand down Matxin's throat to fist in the collar of his jacket. "Don't say no to me. Please." "One more kiss." Matxin could do that much and they could talk about this, or not talk about it, in the morning. "Not just one more kiss." Eiran shook his head, then let go of Matxin to sit up and lean against the headboard. His hair tumbled into his face again, and Matxin reached out to push it back before he could stop himself. Eiran caught his hand and kissed the palm, mouth soft against the calluses there. "I'm not a child anymore, Matxin," he said, looking at Matxin with those dark eyes that were so much like Piran's. "I want you to stay with me tonight. I thought on it when you were away from me and I decided." "Did you decide for me, too, sire?" Matxin had the feeling of falling, but he kept his composure on the outside, sitting up on the edge of the bed to look Eiran in the eyes. "No." Eiran dropped his eyes for a moment, and then looked at Matxin again. "I thought you would say no. Then I thought you might say yes to humor me, and that would be worse." He bit his lip, looking uncertain for the first time, crossing his arms over his chest as though he were protecting himself. "I would rather you said no to me." Matxin could say no. He could tuck Eiran back into bed and hope that a night's sleep would soothe his wounded pride. Then he looked again at Eiran's face, at the taut line of Eiran's strong jaw, at the tension near his eyes, and Matxin realized that it would be more than Eiran's pride that would be wounded if he walked away. Still, he would have said no, told 12

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Eiran that Matxin didn't want him, if doing so wouldn't have made a liar of himself. "When do I say no to you?" Matxin stood to unbutton the black jacket he wore and Eiran watched him with an uncertain expression, still radiating tension. If he listened carefully, Matxin could probably hear Eiran's heart against his ribs. "You say it when it's for my own good." The thread of stubbornness in Eiran's tone made Matxin smile. Even when his feelings dangled in the balance, Eiran wasn't about to yield any ground when it came to resenting his limits. "When it is." Matxin walked away, sliding his jacket off. He hung it from the back of Eiran's chair and sat down there to take off his boots. "You're staying?" Eiran crept out of bed slowly and Matxin looked up to watch him cross the room. It was hard to see his face with the moons behind him, tracing him with a halo of silver. Still, Matxin caught the uncertainty in Eiran's voice. He set his boots aside and stood to take off the rest of his clothes. "I'm staying," Matxin said, hardly believing it himself until he heard the words spoken. "Because you want to?" Eiran stopped just out of reach, looking up at Matxin. "Because I want to." Once the words were out, the truth of them hit Matxin like a hammer and his breath caught. He could feel heat in his chest as though something had broken loose inside and his heart was finally working, as though it had been sleeping for years. "Oh." Eiran's tone was overflowing with disbelief. 13

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Matxin paused with his shirt half unbuttoned, wishing that he had left the lamp on so that he could see Eiran's face clearly. For a moment, he wondered whether or not this was some game on the prince's part and if he'd either just called Eiran's bluff or made a fool of himself. Then, Eiran unfastened the belt of his robe and let it slip from his shoulders. "Let me." Eiran put his hands over Matxin's, stepping closer so that he could unbutton Matxin's shirt for him. "I always want to do this," he said softly. Matxin was in no position to protest. The light was enough for him to make out the lines of Eiran's body, a body he knew better than his own as he never paid his own much mind, and he was seeing it as he never had allowed himself to see it before. He ran one finger tentatively along the moon-silvered curve of Eiran's shoulder and the skin there was warm and soft and real. This close, he could see Eiran's face clearly, the softness of his expression and the trust in his eyes when he looked up at Matxin. There was no refusing him, not when there was no harm in it, not when they both wanted it so much. Matxin let Eiran pull his shirt away, baring him to the waist. Once he was free of it, Matxin slid his arms around Eiran and kissed him again, holding nothing back this time. Eiran wound his arms around Matxin's neck, his body supple and warm against Matxin's chest, and yielded to Matxin's kisses. That surrender was as much of a surprise as the rest, and it filled Matxin with another surge of desire and a familiar fierce protectiveness that he had always struggled to disguise. There was no need for pretense anymore and he 14

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tangled one hand in Eiran's soft hair, tilting his head back to kiss him harder. "Take me to bed." Eiran's voice had none of his usual imperious tone; he sounded unsteady and overwhelmed. He kissed Matxin almost as soon as the words were out, pressing himself against Matxin's body as closely as he could. Matxin swept Eiran up effortlessly, easier now that he wasn't carrying a sleeping form, and carried him back to the bed. Shedding the rest of his clothes took only a moment, a moment he occupied kissing Eiran and listening to the soft noises of pleasure each kiss brought. Once he was bare, Matxin slid into the bed beside Eiran and let the prince wind their bodies together with his slim limbs. Eiran pushed Matxin onto his back and Matxin submitted to the little shoves, sprawling out in the unbelievable softness of Eiran's bed while the prince knelt to survey what he'd caught. Eiran tossed his hair back, letting Matxin see him clearly now. His face was serious, even studious, as he drew his fingers down Matxin's chest and arms, tracing the muscles there. When Eiran's fingers trailed down Matxin's belly, Matxin felt his body responding, cock growing hard before Eiran's touch reached it. Eiran bent to kiss Matxin's belly, hair spilling over Matxin's skin, and Matxin reached out to stroke it back. The touch made Eiran lift his head and smile; he turned to kiss Matxin's palm, his lips parted and his tongue hot and wet. Then, he went back to his exploration of his new territory, fingers curling around Matxin's erection.

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"I want this." Eiran was direct. He stroked Matxin slowly, touches meant to gather information, not to arouse. "I want to feel you inside me." Matxin sat up, disturbing Eiran's studies and caught Eiran's mouth in a kiss. Eiran gasped and leaned into Matxin's arms, sliding his arms around Matxin's neck again to hold on. Matxin kissed him fiercely, tongue curling past Eiran's teeth to taste his tongue, and Eiran made that soft, startled noise again. Eiran's body was smooth and lithe under Matxin's hands as Matxin pulled him down into the bed and rolled him over on his back. Eiran arched up against him as Matxin slid a knee between Eiran's thighs. Eiran's hands were tangled in Matxin's hair and his kisses were frantic, as though he were starving for them. He rocked up against Matxin's belly to slide his cock against Matxin's skin, leaving traces of wet heat behind. Matxin soothed him with long, deep kisses, silencing Eiran's soft whimpers and whines while he found what he needed in a compartment at the head of the bed. He pulled back, though, when he slid a finger slick with cream between Eiran's thighs and behind Eiran's balls, slowly working his way down, being cautious. His own heartbeat was a roar in his ears and he was breathless at the sight of Eiran's pale body spread out under him like this. "Please." Eiran writhed under him, eyes wide. He spread his thighs and moved to try and get Matxin's fingers inside him. "Matxin, don't wait. I can't." It took every scrap of discipline to be patient but hurting Eiran would have been unforgivable. The prince gasped and arched as Matxin stroked his fingers in and out slowly, taking 16

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the time to recover his self-control. Eiran was all need, long limbs taut with it, legs spread wide, head back and eyes closed, cock dripping onto his own belly. In the moonlight, everything was so pale and surreal. Eiran's soft gasps turned into whispers, "Yes, please. Please. More." When Matxin bent to lick the clear, sweet liquid off of Eiran's belly and the tip of his cock, the whispers turned into a wail. "Matxin, do it now." Matxin stifled further cries with a crushing kiss, sliding the weight of his body over Eiran's as he guided his cock into place instead of his fingers. He could hardly breathe and tremors raced through him as he found himself sliding in more easily than he'd expected, Eiran's body opening for him. Eiran wrapped his arms around Matxin's neck and his thighs around Matxin's waist, so Matxin gathered Eiran up in his arms to hold him close while they moved together. Eiran didn't last long. As Matxin moved inside him and his cock slid against Matxin's belly, he shuddered and whined, wound up and desperate. He pulled away from their kisses to gasp Matxin's name over and over, his head falling back so that his face was washed with moonlight. "Please, no..." Eiran whimpered, trying to fight the ripples of pleasure chasing through his body. His eyes were like black pools and his teeth tore at his lower lip. Matxin could feel Eiran's climax coming, too soon for the young prince's liking, but he was relentless, moving hard and steady, shifting to slide against the spot deep inside Eiran's body that would make the pleasure even more intense. "Matxin!" This time it 17

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was a shriek of protest and Eiran's nails raked Matxin's shoulders. "Let go," Matxin said, low. "It's okay." It was better than okay. Eiran's body was so tight around him, so strong and needy that he could hardly keep control of himself. Eiran's eyes locked on Matxin's as though he were drowning and only Matxin could save him. When the pleasure overwhelmed him, his breath caught and he arched up under Matxin, mewling softly as he flooded Matxin's belly with pulses of wetness and his body tightened around Matxin's cock. He looked like he was trying to speak, but only soft, incoherent sounds came out. "Hush." Matxin soothed him with soft kisses, still moving until Eiran started to relax, his trembling limbs slipping away and letting Matxin go. "No, Matxin, I..." Eiran started to protest, but Matxin silenced him with another kiss. Matxin slid out of Eiran, biting his lip against his body's complaints, and moved down to lick Eiran's come off of the prince's smooth belly. "Oh," Eiran said, his voice tremulous. "Oh, Matxin." Matxin licked him clean, soaking in the taste of his new lover. He ran his tongue over Eiran's half-hard cock and licked it clean as Eiran shivered and made little noises that were like sparks on dry grass in Matxin's belly. Growling softly, he drew Eiran's cock into the heat of his mouth and sucked it slow and gentle until he felt it respond and harden again. This, he could have done forever, sliding Eiran's cock past his lips, feeling it butt against the back of his throat, tasting Eiran, listening to his pleasure, but not tonight. 18

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Now Matxin crept back up Eiran's body, curling himself along the prince's side, kissing him tenderly and gathering him up again. There was no protest as Matxin pulled Eiran's back to him, his cock sliding against Eiran's ass. He could feel Eiran shift and twist, trying to slide Matxin's cock back inside, so he took Eiran by the hip and pulled him back at the right angle. It was even better the second time. Eiran's body was so hot and tight that Matxin had to press his face into the curve of Eiran's shoulder to silence his moans of pleasure. Eiran writhed and pushed back, sliding one leg over Matxin's to draw him in deeper. Finally, they were tangled together, Eiran cradled in the curve of one of Matxin's arms and held safe against his chest. They lay close enough that Matxin could lean over and kiss Eiran on the mouth while they moved together, Matxin's other hand curled around Eiran's cock to stroke in time with his thrusts. The moonlight washed over them both as they moved, minutes stretched long until Matxin could not have said how much time had passed. All Matxin knew was one rush of bliss after another and the sweetness of Eiran's gasps and sighs against his mouth. It was good and right to hold Eiran like this and bring him pleasure, to know that everything Eiran wanted in that moment was him. Eiran looped one arm around Matxin's neck, clenching his hand in Matxin's hair, and used that grip to move himself against Matxin harder and faster. His breath came short again, broken with sharp cries every time Matxin's cock pushed deep into him. Matxin felt him go taut, shaking, and 19

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stroked him faster, moving into him with harder strokes. "Matxin." Eiran sounded drugged this time, not desperate. "Oh, Matxin, please. Please, make me..." Eiran's climax was wild and electric, sending shocks through his body that made Matxin moan his name into his white hair. Eiran writhed and whimpered and ground back against Matxin, clenching around Matxin's cock as he spilled come over Matxin's fingers. Shuddering, Matxin clung to selfcontrol and kept moving until Eiran relaxed and went still in his arms. Biting his lip, Matxin started to pull away, desperate to come and intending to stroke himself off with the hand still slick with Eiran's semen. "No." Eiran grabbed Matxin's thigh, long fingers digging into muscle, and pulled him back. "Don't go." He twisted so he could look up at Matxin's face. "I want you to finish inside me. I want all of you." His face was flushed, his mouth swollen from fierce kisses and biting his own lip, and his eyes burned bright. "I want to watch you." Matxin did pull away, but it was only to roll Eiran onto his back and slide between his thighs, slipping back inside him with a whine Matxin couldn't stifle. "Like this?" He looked down at Eiran spread out under him, flushed and spent and beautiful, and wondered if he would wake in moments with wet sheets and a head full of shame. "Like this." Eiran ran his hands over Matxin's chest, looking at him with admiration. "You are so beautiful, my Matxin. Kiss me." 20

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"Yes, Eiran." Matxin surrendered to the demand and bent to kiss Eiran, moving inside him again before Eiran grew impatient. It took moments for the pleasure to build back to that intense peak that had threatened before and Matxin let himself gasp Eiran's name against the prince's lips, as if saying it would make this all more real. Finally Matxin pushed himself up so that Eiran could see him as demanded and he looked down at Eiran again, at himself moving over Eiran's body. Eiran was making soft noises of pleasure with every thrust, shivering with them. "Matxin, my Matxin," he whispered, reaching up to touch Matxin's face. "Have me." That was all it took; need spun out of control and took Matxin with it. He slammed into Eiran again and again, shaking, whimpering Eiran's name. Eiran moaned, arching to take each thrust deep, shuddering as Matxin spilled into him. His orgasm was hot and fierce and relentless, pushing Matxin on until he was trembling and slick with sweat, gasping for air as he finished with a final shudder. Slowly, Matxin sank back down into Eiran's arms, letting himself be bullied onto his side where he lay breathless, feeling lost. He kissed Eiran back as Eiran soothed him with kisses and touches, cuddling and comforting him. His body responded, wrapping Eiran up in his arms, tucking Eiran against his chest, safe and warm under the blankets Eiran pulled up around them. "That was perfect," Eiran said after a while. He sounded very smug about it all. "I knew it would be perfect." 21

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"How so?" Matxin kissed the top of Eiran's head as the prince nuzzled against his chest. It wasn't as though he could disagree. "It's you." Eiran laughed, a bubble of merriment. "You would never be less than perfect for me." "I try," Matxin admitted. He stroked Eiran's back with slow motions, thinking of how he would have to leave once Eiran slept. "Stay tonight." Eiran tipped his head back to look up at Matxin. "Draw the curtains, lock the doors. Just spend this night with me. You were gone from me all day. It's only fair." "Fair?" Matxin smiled and kissed Eiran's forehead. "We should be discreet, your Highness." "If you stay, we can do it again in the morning," Eiran reasoned. There, now, was that angelic expression that he wore when he wanted something from Matxin. "I want you again. If you leave, I will have to come to you, and that would not be discreet at all. Especially should I fail to dress appropriately." He gave Matxin a purely innocent smile. "I was going to say yes, anyway," Matxin said. He rolled over with a sigh and pressed a sequence of buttons under the headboard that would put privacy locks on the entrances to the room. "Before you decided to blackmail me." "I would." Eiran licked at Matxin's throat. "I want you here. You are mine. My defender. You should get to stay and no one should speak ill of it." "I will take that under advisement." Matxin rolled back and let Eiran burrow into his arms again. "But for now, I think you should sleep." 22

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"I'm too happy to sleep," Eiran said as he wriggled against Matxin. Matxin laughed at him and stroked his hair. "Let me sleep then, if you want me again in the morning. I need to rest; your father tired me out." "Like this?" Eiran sat up, eyes huge, jaw tight, radiating outrage. "You ... he..." "Come here." Matxin tugged Eiran back down. "Not like this." He snuggled Eiran against him, making soothing noises. "There is no one but you. No one at all, not for some time. I am yours." Eiran cuddled against Matxin's chest, pressed as close as he could. "I would be lost without you," he said after a time. He was growing drowsy with Matxin's gentle touches. "I love you, my Matxin." "Sleep, Eiran." What could Matxin say to that in return? It was not his place to say such thing and never would be. Eiran knew that as well as he did. Some lines were not to be crossed. Besides, it was nothing but a handful of words. Matxin had a world of ways to speak without speaking. Like this, stroking Eiran's hair as the prince, sated and pleased, fell asleep on his chest. The sky outside, spilling stars and moonlight, was full of good omens. When Eiran's breathing had slowed to the familiar cadence of sleep, Matxin closed his eyes and let himself follow just a few steps behind, as was only right.

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Chapter One Ten Years Later The evening sky over Pau-Ortzi was clear emerald, and the stars were starting to stud the dusk with points of silver. Matxin stood on a balcony and looked out on the city below the Valora Alcazar. The capital city of Valéry was a dark spill of civilization, aglow with red and orange lights that set her apart from the denser dark of the fields and forests around her. Silver crescents cut the air with a whistle that Matxin's heightened hearing could detect from here: hover-ferries carrying people from the spires and towers of the wealthy down into the city for the celebration of the return of the comet Sursum. Sursum hung overhead, a teardrop of white against the darkening sky. Matxin didn't trust it. The superstitions of the countryside still lurked in his mind, even after two decades of serving in the alcazar. "Are you ready to go?" Matxin was so used to hearing Nekane's footfalls behind him that he hadn't bothered to react to the sound. There was no carpet to muffle her steps in the unused sitting room. The floors were polished stone, and the sparse but elegant furniture did nothing to drown out the noise, even though she was moving carefully. "As ready as I'll ever be." Matxin turned around and lifted his chin before he knew he was doing it. Nekane, her height and only a little slimmer, reached up to finish buttoning up his uniform collar, twisting the brass buttons into the metallictrimmed holes in the fabric. 24

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"Stop being angry at Piran." Nekane tugged his collar tighter than she needed to and frowned at him. "I'll be as angry as I please." Matxin stared at the sky while she strangled him gently, doing up the last two buttons that he never could get done right without a litany of muttered curses. "He's doing his job," Nekane said, yanking on his collar one more time and then stepping back. She was dressed as he was, in a sleek black coat worked with brass and steel embroidered flowers that fell to her knees over snug black pants tucked into black boots. Steel and brass spurs chinked softly when she moved, making stealth difficult. After all, appearance was everything. Breastplates and pistols were hidden under the coats, a small concession to their position as King Piran Valora's personal guard. "And I'm trying to do mine. The latest terrorist attacks are not about to stop for Sursnight." Yanking on his black leather gloves, Matxin turned and stalked toward the door. Chink, chink, chink. He stopped dead in the middle of the room, grinding his teeth. "They're supposed to make noise." Nekane came up behind him with far quieter steps. "Stop stomping." "I'm walking," Matxin said, starting to move again, quieter this time. The soft, gliding walk was something like a dance step, weight falling on the ball of the foot more than the heel. "Like a man." "More like sulking like a child. You get like this every Sursnight." 25

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"That's because every Sursnight, he goes into the city," Matxin said, switching to the finger-cant the guards used to talk without words. It was discreet and it had the advantage of not being easily played back by the listening devices that were tucked away in the corner at every turn. Matxin knew exactly where each was, their glittering little bodies and fragile antennae. He'd commissioned them, designed them himself. If he wanted to, he could listen to the recordings later, pick up the sound of his leather-covered fingers moving and work out what he'd said. "It is his city," Nekane signed back. "And the Guard is ready for anything." She, like Matxin stood out sharply against the white walls and silvery floors, black marks moving past courtiers in pastel robes and servants in pale gray uniforms with the Valora rose and dragon worked into the fabric in silver and gold. For all of that, they drew neither glances nor nods from those passing them. Like shadows, only their absence would be notable. "It's the people's city," Matxin snapped, flicking his wrist to punctuate his annoyance. "You sound like Eiran now," Nekane said, then picked up her pace to precede him, tossing a look at him over her shoulder, her green eyes fearless and bright, the hall lights glinting in her cropped, silvering hair and lashes. Matxin had nothing to reply to that, he simply glared and motioned for her not to talk further. Any mention of Piran's estranged son was intolerable, even from Nekane, who was as much Matxin's right hand as the flesh and bone fist at the end of his right arm. He hadn't raised Eiran to be what he was 26

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now, no one had. Sometimes, things just went wrong. Matxin thought about it as little as possible, which was far more than he liked, in spite of all his efforts. He caught up with Nekane at the lift and stepped in beside her. The doors slid shut and they were surrounded by their own reflections, standing in the center of an army of guard. Nekane looked as much like Matxin as to be his sister, even his twin. They shared the same gold hair going silver, the same green eyes the color of nightfall over Pau-Ortzi. Their kind were like a thread of gold through the population, the last glints of the blood of the first families to settle the little world. They, and the other personal guards to Piran Valora, were as alike to the King as his own kin, partly for his protection and partly for his vanity. He would wear the black as they did, only his clothing would be worked in silver and gold, not steel and brass. They were family, figuratively in the here and now, and literally if one went back far enough. Matxin checked his weapon, touched the seashell curve of his earpiece and the silver tendril that curved around to his mouth. "Bakar," he murmured, his lips barely moving. "Is the car ready?" "We're just waiting for you," came the reply. "We'll be there soon. Where are Matia and Kai?" "Garden." Matia's voice was several shades lighter than Kai's or Bakar's. "Where we should be," he added. "Assume nothing," Matxin chided. "Did you make sure that Catzi got an airsickness tablet?" The last time they'd gone down to the city, the little consort, terrified enough of leaving 27

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the alcazar, had thrown up on himself, Nekane, and Matxin's boots. How anyone who ate like a hummingbird could make such a mess was beyond Matxin, but it wasn't happening again. "Done," Kai answered. "Thank Mercy," Nekane muttered. "If that's the only thing that goes wrong..." Matxin let her step out of the lift ahead of him and into a glass-covered walkway to the gardens. "Stop being such a peasant. Nothing's going to go wrong." Nekane led the way and the glass archway slowly receded, leaving them exposed to the wind that was full of the smell of evening flowers. "Never say that." Matxin looked up at the lengthening streak of the comet overhead. The sky, long since turned from day-blue to dusk-green, was deepening to black one shade at a time. "She didn't mean it," he muttered. "I'm sure it'll be a catastrophe." **** The Solange Galleria was the best of Valéry, a huge park and gardens sprawling in the shadow of the Alcazar on the edge of Lake Cefer. Towering buildings—pillars of industry and commerce—framed the galleria, streaming long black banners with the white blaze of Sursum plunging down them. It was Sursnight, the start of celebrations as the comet came through a long, slow turn that would take it around both Pau-Ortzi and her sun before flinging itself back out at the darkness of space in a mad attempt to escape its destiny. 28

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Some day, superstition said, the comet would come falling into the arms of Pau-Ortzi, and the two would be reunited again in a hail of fire and stone. There was a fair in the Galleria, too, a carnival that took up almost the entire promenade and left the grass trampled to nothing but the memory of green until the gardeners lay new sod. The royal air cars landed at the far end of the Galleria, beyond the fair and the white amphitheater on the edge of the lake where there would be a concert later that night. Matxin stepped out first, leaving Nekane and the others behind to secure the area when he went to speak to Per and Parisa. Duke Per, the king's brother and the alcazar's Castellan, was a little shorter and far broader than Matxin, and he kept his head shaved to hide the fact that his hair was completely white. Behind him stood a squad of his own security forces, all in black and glossy armor. Parisa, tall and blonde like Matxin, the kings cousin, stood with Per. Her laughter was a little sharp, and she shook her head at something the Castellan had said. The dark green uniform she wore was simple and understated; at first glance, one might have mistaken her for a soldier and not the Secretariat, the first officer of Pau-Ortzi's small army. "How is it?" When Matxin stepped down from the ramp onto the nonexistent grass, the soft blades muffled the sound of his spurs. Parisa turned to him and gave him a smile and a nod of greeting. "He has a Galleria up in the alcazar," Per said tightly, nodding upward to where the inverted teardrop of Valora Alcazar hung over the city. "He could have a fair up there." 29

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"Of course he could," Matxin said calmly, becoming perversely reasonable in the face of Per's irritation. He understood perfectly well how Nekane could stay so calm; she had him to irritate. "But that would not take him down among the people. You know how he is." "Of course I do." Per looked Matxin over. "He hasn't put you in a sword belt yet? Small mercies. Next Sursum, it'll be horses." "I don't like riding. So it'd better not be horses." Matxin hated the idea of any more of his resources being stripped away, and he'd never been fond of horses. Since leaving his father's estate, the only time he'd ridden one was when he was part of the honor guard that escorted old King Steran's coffin to the cemetery. "There are other men who like to ride. Or women." Per sighed and straightened his white and gold sash across his barrel chest. He was right, Matxin knew, and he understood his brother the king as well as Matxin did. If Piran wanted his guard on horseback, Matxin would learn to like it or learn to work a drill press in a factory down in the city. "The Galleria is secured," Parisa said quietly. She put her hands in her pockets and rocked back on her heels, watching over Matxin's shoulder as his people disembarked the air cars and began to prepare for the royal family to descend. "Walk with me, cousin? I would show you the new guard systems." Matxin nodded to Per, bowing ever so slightly. "If you'll excuse me, your Grace." "Of course, Captain." Per dismissed him with a wave and turned to make his way toward the royal air cars. 30

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Matxin fell in beside Parisa as she paced toward a line of spidery mechanical creatures, black orb bodies held up on slender silver limbs. He'd seen the previous generation; this one was little different, from what he'd read in Parisa's report to the throne. This couldn't be what she wanted him to see. "We've had no end of trouble with the rebels," she said, barely loud enough for him to hear, even with his sharp ears. "Three bombings down in the city in the last two days. Two on the railcars, one at the fuel station for the hover-ferries. Fatalities in every case. I sent up a report, but I know you've been busy testing the security systems in the amphitheatre." The wind felt cold and Matxin clasped his hands behind his back to keep his shoulders relaxed. "I received it and took the appropriate precautions when preparing for this evening. No suspects so far?" "I have a certain number of people in custody," Parisa said mildly, wandering closer to her machines. "Some of the usual suspects from the Ortzi provinces." And?" Matxin glanced at her. With her close-cropped hair and her stern expression, she reminded him of his father. "No one of import," she said. Matxin nodded slowly, feeling the tension still burning in his shoulders. There was an irrational surge of relief, though, that he quashed as soon as possible. "No sign of Eiran?" he asked quietly, just to be sure. He looked over his shoulder to see Per speaking with one of the alcazar guards, at a distance from them. "He was seen in the Apollinar area last," Parisa murmured. "He's safely hundreds of miles away and not trying too hard 31

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to hide it." She snapped her fingers and one of the security drones dropped down, legs telescoping inward, until Matxin and Parisa were reflected in its round, expressionless eyes. "That's good to know." "It proves nothing," Parisa added. She waved long, scarred fingers in front of the drone, and it scanned her palm with a thin line of green light. An eyestalk unwound from within the machine, and a rod of that same green light slid into one of her eyes. Satisfied with her identity, it opened up its heart to her and let her fingers play over the console within. "Of course not." Matxin turned away to look out over the galleria, watching the lights playing off of the white curve of the amphitheater, the sparkling curve of a star wheel turning in the middle of the fair. "He hasn't stopped, even if he's not actually here carrying things out." Parisa shook her head. "I don't think he will. This is simply escalation in the face of Piran's refusal to hear him out." "You're sure of that?" Matxin didn't look at her: he just watched the first of the royal guard air cars go humming overhead to scan the galleria. "It isn't in his nature to kill." No amount of training could keep his expression neutral when he heard his own words in his ears. "All of the sabotage he's claimed responsibility for in the past had no fatalities involved. Oil rigs, mining equipment, bridges ... he's been focused." Eiran had always been focused. "You know him better than I. Nevertheless, yes, I'm sure. I've seen the evidence from the royal laboratories, the signatures of the explosives; those things are unique to each 32

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engineer. He never shied away from informing us of his treason before. Now he leaves us to guess." Parisa checked her timepiece and then tapped it. "His Majesty can't be late for the opera. We can discuss this later, cousin." "We're almost ready." Matxin tapped his earpiece. "Bakar?" "The area is secured," Bakar replied. "Prepare to disembark. Let's go," Matxin said, to waving to Per to signal that they were ready to move. The royal air cars opened and attendants began to usher courtiers down the walkways. Matxin looked up at the comet as the spindly drones marched past him, following Parisa away. No amount of reason worked to thaw the ice in his chest. **** "Look, look!" Leila, the youngest of Piran and Oriane's children, was dragging at Catzi's hand, trying to make the slender consort hurry up. Catzi wouldn't; not out of concern, but because he wouldn't walk ahead of Piran. The little girl was tiny compared to her older brother Luxan, who was holding Piran's big hand and dressed in a miniature version of Piran's clothing. Fencing provided a walkway for the royals through the crowd, and the family granted the gathered people nods and smiles as they walked. So far, all was well. Per's men made another barrier still, keeping everyone safe. Matxin's people kept step with the royals, Nekane at Oriane's side and Kai at Piran's. Now and then, Oriane would send Bakar to collect something—flowers or a little token—held out from the crowd. 33

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Queen Oriane was dressed all in green like the dusk, her long robes embroidered with silver stars after the fashion of her native province of Alon in what had once been independent Ortzi. Her blue-black hair was caught up in a crown that looked to be spun from diamond thread knotted with emeralds. She was very beautiful, as always; and as always, she was cold. She and Nekane were each other's antithesis, and still the queen always asked for Matxin's sharp-tongued, aging second-in-command. Sometimes, he wondered if she did it just to irritate him because he then had to put someone junior beside Piran, or take the place there himself where he could not keep as close an eye on the proceedings. Leila was bouncing to try and see over the barriers, so much so that Catzi's carefully coifed hair was beginning to tumble down from his being tugged this way and that, even if his tormentor did barely come up to his waist. Matxin decided to pre-empt any tears from either party and stepped forward, scooping the tiny girl up in his arms and swinging her into the air where her dress fluttered on the cool wind like she was a little pink kite. She kicked her feet in their golden slippers and squealed with delight. "Max." Leila threw her arms around his neck and got her toes on his belt buckle to stand when he let her down. Leaning against him, she looked out at the fair as they walked under the glowing archway of the southern entrance. She had a good grip, but he held her to him with one arm nonetheless. "I want to go," she said imperiously, pointing across the fair at the great, lit wheel. As it turned, carrying hundreds of 34

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revelers, an image of Sursum made of white lights sparkled and spun in the opposite direction. "You can't go," Catzi snapped at her. He tucked a red-gold curl back in place, looking sour and pretty at once. "Lord Catzi is correct," Matxin said, smiling at Leila's demanding nature. She smelled of flowers and powder, a hint of baby scent still lingering behind her little ears and at the nape of her swan-like neck. He offered his other arm to Catzi, to soothe the young man's temper, and Catzi tucked his delicate white hand into the crook of Matxin's arm. "We are going to go see the musicians," Catzi added, trying to make it sound more appealing than a fair ride. "But I want to go on a ride," Leila said mournfully, pressing her soft cheek to Matxin's. Leaning back to look him in the eye, she pushed her berry-pink lower lip out and her green eyes grew mournful. "Please, Max?" "Where did you learn to pout like that?" Matxin gave Catzi a frown but only got an appealing smile in return. "I have to take care of you and Luxan and Mama and Papa and everyone else," Matxin said, taking his attention away from her to scan the crowd again. He caught Nekane's eye as she glanced back and nodded at him. All was well, still. "For the ride to be safe, I would have to make everyone else get off. You could go on it, but they would all have to go away. Is that fair?" "No." Leila sighed, resigned, and laid her head on Matxin's shoulder with a thump. A small, dark air car whirred by overhead. 35

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"All clear," came a voice in Matxin's ear. He recognized the speaker as Josu, one of his senior guards sent on before the royal family, keeping watch from the air. "You're a good girl," Matxin said, patting Leila's back sympathetically as she slumped against him. "I'm bored," she said honestly. Catzi laughed softly and shook his head, making his curls rustle across his shoulders. "How can you be bored when you have pretty things and pretty dresses and a soldier like Matxin to take care of you?" he asked the little girl, his voice almost as light as hers. "I wish I was poor." Leila sighed again, but still she waved a plump little hand at the crowd where a few matronly women were blowing the little princess kisses. "Hush," Catzi said, tossing his hair and rolling his eyes. "You don't know what you're talking about." "I do too," Leila said stubbornly. She sounded so much like Eiran it made Matxin uneasy. "You'll like the music," he soothed, still scanning the crowd, keeping track of his people, watching for anything unusual. "There's going to be dancers. You'll like the dancers," he promised. "And there's a party afterward." **** The private hall over Lake Cefer was hung with lanterns and garlands of white flowers with silver foliage, open to the air at the balcony that ran the length of the hall. Matxin paced the perimeter, hand trailing along the rail, and listened to the 36

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murmur of voices, the chime of crystal glasses touching, and the distant sigh of water on the shore. "I'm surprised you let him out of the alcazar, Captain Mercé." Matxin turned to see an elderly woman making her way toward him, leaning on her cane. "Chancellor Goizargi." He turned away from the rail and bowed to her. The head of Piran's royal council might have been more than twice the king's age, but what she had lost in physical capacity, she had gained in mental acuity. "His Majesty enjoys every opportunity to celebrate with his people." "Don't think I'm going to swallow that, young man," Goizargi said sharply. She rested both hands on her cane and tilted her head to look up at him. Under the signs of age, Matxin could see the reminders of a beautiful woman: high cheekbones, a strong nose, full mouth, and dark eyes. The chancellor wore black as always, flowing robes beaded with polished spheres of refined ores, her twisted hands glittered with rings, her silver and black hair was pulled back sharply in a widow's knot at the nape of her neck. "I'm somewhat disappointed in you. It's extremely dangerous for him to be here." "It was his Majesty's decision." Matxin gave Goizargi an apologetic smile. "Besides. The trade delegates from Falun and Gamaliel would be deeply insulted if his Majesty were unable to attend the party." He nodded to where Piran stood surrounded by his courtiers, speaking to a pair of offworlders, each with a similar entourage. What was a conversation between three people required at least fifteen 37

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others in attendance. That was precisely the kind of thing that made Matxin's jaw clench. Goizargi made a dissatisfied noise. "They could have attended him in the alcazar. However, I suspect that I am lecturing the teacher on that matter. I told him what people thought of him inviting off-worlders to such affairs." "His Majesty is certain that it's to Pau-Ortzi's benefit that he make all guests and delegates as welcome as possible," Matxin said politely. He watched the slow kaleidoscope of brightly colored dresses and jewel-scattered light moving with the music. "Pau-Ortzi is not so certain." Goizargi leaned on her cane and took Matxin's arm when he offered it, walking to the balcony's edge with him. The wind turned their way and the old chancellor raised her chin and faced it, as though she were listening to it. "It is not only the protestors and terrorists who disapprove of mining the earth's bones to sell to the off-worlders. It is not only the disgruntled remains of the Ortzi nobility who believe it is an insult to bleed the world dry to build the pieces of war machines for a war in which we have no stake. It is not only the king's son who is angry with him." Her fingers clenched on Matxin's arm were like a crow's talons digging through his uniform to make her point. "I know," Matxin said quietly. That made his job all the more difficult, when good people—people with faith in their world and in Mercy and the sanctity of the earth—felt so desperately unheard that they would do anything, even resort to murder, to change it. People like Eiran. There was nothing that woke Matxin in the 38

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night like the idea that Eiran might take that last unspeakable step; the only thing that kept him from truly fearing it was knowing Eiran himself. Matxin turned a little so that he could keep an eye on his king, noting Nekane and Bakar and Kai all standing within feet of Piran. Nekane. That meant Oriane was alone. Matxin turned to search the crowd, finding Leila hanging off the arm of Naiara, one of the junior guards, and Luxan sitting nearby on a chaise, eating a piece of cake and trying not to get it down the front of his little uniform. He could not see Oriane anywhere from where he stood, and he stepped away from the chancellor, bowing hastily. "Excuse me, your grace." He didn't wait for her to dismiss him, he just turned away and tapped his earpiece to open a channels. "Find Oriane," he muttered. "Someone run a scan on the hall and the gardens." There was no rushing, no hurry of feet, and no guards pushing through the crowd. There was just the low hum of an air car passing close to the balcony and dropping down low to skim the gardens. Still, Matxin knew he'd been heard, knew his people were looking even now. He saw Naiara crouch down to talk to the children, saw Leila's little hand pointing down the hall toward the private rooms set aside for security and for the royal family to retire to as needed. "She was with Castellan Per, sir," Nekane said, her voice low. "She was making the rounds, told me to stay with his Majesty. I'm sure she's fine. Waiting to see if she's left the building." 39

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Matxin dodged a servant carrying a silver tray of crystal glasses all filled with golden wine, and headed the way Leila had pointed. Two of Per's men flanked the entrance to the narrow, private hallway, and Matxin passed them without comment. This wasn't their problem. Not yet. Oriane could have just gone this way with her maidservant to adjust her hair. She could have stepped out for some air with Per to watch over her. It was probably nothing. He had to force himself to walk. Oriane was a tiny woman, not much match for anyone. She and the children, they were the vulnerable ones. Piran might have been a target, but the others didn't have his strength and training. This felt like the unfolding moments of a nightmare. Matxin stopped at the door to Oriane's private dressing room and reached for his gun as it slid open. The room, all velvet draperies and gilt furniture and overflowing urns of flowers, was empty. Matxin backed out and headed further down the hall. "Anyone? Anything?" he muttered, feeling his palm getting damp on the grip of his gun. There was one room at the end of the hall with no door and no lock, a lounge of sorts for the security personnel and the royal guard, for events long enough to last more than one shift. "Nothing, sir," Nekane said calmly. "I don't see Condesa Narayana and Secretary Mael either, or their staff. Her Highness may have gone up to the roof with the ladies and Castellan Per, to see the comet. I don't see him, either." That made Matxin feel a little better and he was starting to relax as he walked toward the room at the end of the hall at a slower pace. Then, over his own footfalls, hardly silent with 40

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the damnable spurs chinking at every step, he heard a woman's voice. Oriane. She was one of the only people at the gathering with the delicate Ortzi accent. The next voice he heard was Per's, and he slowed to silence his footsteps. "Only a little longer," Per was saying quietly. "I'm tired of this." Oriane sounded more angry than petulant. "This is intolerable, Per." "It'll be over soon," Per soothed. "Come back to the party, you'll be missed. Don't worry so much." "You were missed indeed, your Highness," Matxin said, stopping at the threshold of the dim room. He could just make them out at the far end by the windows, Oriane and Per beside her with his hand on her shoulder. "Excuse me," he added, bowing. "We were concerned when we could not find you." "Of course." Per turned and crossed the room to Matxin, looking somewhat contrite. "I apologize for not informing you. Her Highness was feeling somewhat unwell and wanted a moment to compose herself alone." "I was told she might be with you," Matxin said, tucking his gun away and feeling slightly more amiable. "It was necessary for me to make sure; that is all. Forgive me for intruding." "Per will escort me back to the party shortly, Captain," Oriane said. She did not turn to look at him but he could hear the cold in her voice. "You have no need to concern yourself with me. You should concern yourself with the King." "I will not leave her Majesty alone," Per promised. 41

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"Thank you, sir." Matxin gave Per a nod and stepped out into the hall. "Obviously, I've found her," he said to his guards, in a low voice. Now that the adrenaline rush was fading, Matxin felt a little foolish for it. The private areas of the amphitheater were as secure as the alcazar, the precise layout and safe passages known only to those closest to the royal family. Feeling the fool didn't help his temper any, and he took a slow breath before stepping back out onto the open. **** "You're angry with me." Piran looked in the mirror but not at himself, at Matxin who stood a pace behind him and to the side, watching the king freshen up. Piran had finally escaped from his court for a moment of peace. It was just the two of them here in Piran's private lounge. Piran dried his face and neck, and then tossed the towel aside. "It's not my place to be angry with you," Matxin said evenly. It wasn't his place, but it happened, regardless. The least he could do was try and keep it from Piran. "I'm concerned for you, as always." He was still in an ill temper after thinking he might have managed to lose the queen in one of the safest places on the planet. "Since when has me being King meant that I stop making people angry?" Piran tilted his head back to do up the last buttons on his collar and grunted. "King's a little ridiculous anyway, these days, but it's the best title for the one who runs the show, I suppose. Who the fuck designed these 42

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things?" he burst out, trying to shove a gold button through its designated hole. "I believe your Majesty approved the designs," Matxin said evenly. "If I may?" He stepped forward to do Piran's buttons up for him. "You don't approve of the uniforms either?" Piran laughed and stood still, head back, letting Matxin do up his buttons. "Is there anything of which you do approve?" "Your Majesty has excellent taste in royal guards," Matxin said blandly. "Don't be angry with me, Matxin." Matxin couldn't see Piran's face just then, but he could see the softness of age gathering under his jaw, and the flutter of his pulse in his throat, a little too hard, a little too fast. "I'm not." Right now, Matxin wasn't. He did up the buttons and settled the high collar into place, more gently than Nekane did for him, then smoothed his hands over Piran's shoulders to make the uniform sit well. "I just worry. It's what I do." "I'm doing my best for everyone," Piran said, turning back to the mirror, running a hand through his hair and composing himself to return to the crowds of the wealthy and noble who were all paying well to be in his presence. "I know." The door to the lounge swung open and Matxin spun around with his hand going to his gun, pushing his coat back so he could get it out.

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"Papa!" Luxan came bounding in with Kai half a stride behind him. The lanky guard looked sheepish as he caught the full force of Matxin's glare. "Sorry, sir," Kai said, his voice a little muffled as he bowed to Piran. The king, laughing, bent to scoop Luxan up. "He just got away from me." "One six-year old," Matxin said direly. He went to get a chair that he put in front of the sink and Piran put Luxan down on the chair so the little boy could mimic his father by patting water on his face. "He is a bit tricky," Piran said, still amused. "Kai hasn't had the practice you have." "Yes, sir." Matxin had once had his share of troubles keeping Eiran out of one thing or another. He wished he had those troubles now, the trials of finding the newest hiding place of a giggly, snow-haired, little boy. He leaned over to turn the water on for Luxan. "Would you like a washcloth, sir?" Luxan looked at him in the mirror, laughing, and Matxin smiled back at him. The tableau was eerie; Matxin and Piran like enough to be twins, and Luxan, like enough to be either of their sons, all looking back at each other. The crack of the mirror shattering didn't give Matxin time to do anything but know that he'd failed when the bomb behind it exploded.

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Chapter Two "Hold him down." Someone grabbed Matxin's shoulders and bore him down with all their weight. He couldn't see, he couldn't breathe. The world was black and tasted like blood. Writhing, he fought the person holding him down, clawing and reaching up to try and damage what he could. "Matxin." The voice from above, cold and sharp, was Nekane's voice. The hands on him must be hers. "Matxin, stay still. Just a minute." Someone pushed a tube into his mouth. There was a sucking sound, and then it was jammed further back until it gurgled and bubbled. He jerked convulsively, trying to tell them to stop and only managing strangled noises. They pulled back a little and Matxin choked and gasped and inhaled, trying to force his body to stay calm. He was breathing. That was a start. The tube slid down his throat again, making him gag. "Enough," Nekane snapped. The tube was withdrawn and Matxin sucked in cold, antiseptic air through the blood in his throat. "Piran," he whispered on the exhalation. "Dead. Stay still." Nekane's voice softened a little and that made it all worse. "I can't see." Matxin swallowed hard and inhaled again, trying not to throw Nekane off so he could claw at his face. "My eyes..." His voice was strangely slurred, lisping, as 45

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though he couldn't make the words. Piran was dead. He couldn't see. Nothing was right. "We'll try and save them." The new voice was as cool as the hospital air. "Your face is in bad shape. Your whole body is in bad shape." "Joris." As Matxin swallowed blood instead of breathing it in, he could talk more. "What happened to Piran?" "Glass shard through the heart. You're full of them, as well." The king's physician was calm and collected as always. His hands, when he set them to Matxin's chest, were cold through his gloves. "Luxan?" "If the glass hadn't done it, the blast would have," Joris said evenly. How he could be so calm delivering the news was beyond Matxin. If he could see, if he could stand, he would be raging. "Who's here?" Matxin made himself listen but all he could hear past the ringing in his ears was Nekane's breath and the whir of a nursing android coming to Joris' side when the physician snapped his fingers. He had to think. He had to figure this out. "Who knows about Piran?" He choked on blood and the suction tube was slid back into his mouth. "Just the usual staff," Nekane said. Her hands on his shoulders were like steel clamps. "Joris, Alban, Itxaro. No one outside these walls knows yet. Kai is in the guards' infirmary." "Why am I here, then?" He was in the royal infirmary, Matxin realized. That was why it was so quiet. "We couldn't tell you apart at first." Something pricked at Matxin's temples. Joris was doing something he couldn't quite 46

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feel; neural blocks must have been in place, which explained why he wasn't in any pain. "We had to clean off all the blood and debris." "What are you doing?" Matxin swallowed hard, inhaled sharply, trying to gather his thoughts. He had to think. His mind was the only thing that still worked, and it was the best, last weapon he had. Piran was dead. He'd failed. He couldn't think of that. He had to make this right. "Taking measurements for a graft. There's not enough to work with here." Something cool started washing over his face; Matxin could feel it when it ran into his hair. It splashed on the floor and he could see it in his mind's eye, a yellow disinfectant turned orange from the blood it washed away, cleaning the raw flesh to take a graft. It would be swirling around Nekane's boots. "Hold your breath." Matxin did and the fluid washed over him and down his throat and shoulders. "I'm going to need to sedate you completely for the reconstruction." "No." Matxin grabbed at Joris, going by the sound of his voice to get a hand on the physician. He got a fistful of fabric, near the man's left shoulder by the feel of it. "How long has it been?" "Less than twenty minutes. You were semi-conscious for most of it," Nekane said patiently. She let go of his shoulder to start prying him loose from the physician. "Matxin, sir. Let go." The cold sting of a needle bit into Matxin's arm and he twisted away, his other hand grabbing the steel tentacle arm 47

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of an android. His hand, sticky with drying blood, afforded him a good grip for the moment. "Itxaro," Joris snapped. There were footfalls coming already, Joris' slender young assistant running to help her master. "Joris." Matxin inhaled blood and choked on it again. Pain was seeping past the neural blocks that were keeping him awake but clear-minded. "His eyes. His face. Tell me about Piran." "He looks like he sleeps," Nekane soothed. She was being so gentle with him; Matxin knew that, beyond the numbness, he must be wounded far worse than he knew. "Peaceful. Calm." "Joris." Matxin pulled at the physician's tunic. "Give me his eyes. Give me his face." There was silence but for their breathing and the whir of the suction machine. "What you suggest..." Joris stopped pulling away, so Matxin tugged him closer still. "Let me find the one who did this," Matxin begged. "I can't wait. Give me his face and let me do this one thing for him." "It's possible. It's also treason. And it could kill you," Joris warned. "You and Piran are alike enough in blood and there are treatments to aid the grafts, but you may only have days before it goes sour." "You know what will happen. Eiran is next in line," Matxin hissed. "Joris, he trusted me with his life." "I will have to do it now," Joris said, pulling away. Matxin let him go, collapsing back on the gurney. "Piran has already 48

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been dead nearly twenty minutes. Itxaro, prepare his Majesty for surgery." "Matxin," Nekane whispered, leaning down to stroke his hair. "This means that to the world, you die." "I die." "What will you do when you find your killer?" The thin needle slipped back into Matxin's arm and, this time, he let it stay. The heat of the sedative spread quickly. "I do it again," he whispered, finding her cheek with one hand. "You're mad," she said softly as the heat was seeping through him, warmth drowning out the little pains and everything else with them. "Trust me, Nekane." "I do. We all do." Her voice was faint now, and beyond her Joris and Itxaro were fading into the distance. Matxin struggled to stay awake long enough to say one last thing. "Bring me Eiran." "Yes, your Majesty," she said. Matxin thought he closed his eyes before he remembered that they were gone, and then he was swallowed up by the warm dark. **** "How do you feel?" Nekane was speaking to him from a great distance again. Matxin had been sleeping, really sleeping, for the first time in so long. It had been warm and safe, comfortable, and then something changed. He'd grown 49

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cold and the voices started to invade his awareness. "Your Majesty," she said gently. "Sire. Can you hear me?" "Let me speak to him." That was Oriane, her voice a little taut and angry. "Piran. Someone clean him up, this is appalling." Piran. Where was Piran? Piran was dead. Matxin tried to speak but his tongue wouldn't obey him. He needed to remember something about Piran, but he didn't know what. "Your Highness," Itxaro said tentatively. "If you would give us a moment or two to bathe the king, to administer another dose of the stimulant, he will be better able to speak with you. His health is still uncertain." "Doctor Itxaro is correct, your Highness." That was Joris, closer now. "I know this has been a difficult time for you. Captain Nekane, will you escort her Highness out for the time being?" "Yes, Doctor Joris. May I order some refreshment for you, madame?" "Call for me the moment he is lucid," Oriane ordered. "I shall," Joris promised. There was a chill in Matxin's arm and the fog began to clear. He was being moved, carefully, and moments later he was sluiced with warm water. "Open your eyes," Joris ordered. Hands touched his face; fingers peeled his eyelids back. The light was like knives and, suddenly, he was trying to reel back, putting his hands up to protect himself from flying glass that never came. "Easy, sire." 50

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"I'm not..." Matxin started to say. I'm not Piran. Then he remembered. Piran was dead. The realization woke him faster than the stimulant. Piran wasn't just dead, he was dead and Matxin was wearing his face, wearing his eyes. At least, for as long as it took to find Piran's killer. "Thank you, Joris," he said. Joris' familiar brown face was one of the best things he'd ever seen. "You're welcome." Matxin realized that he was naked as the day he was born, wet, and cold, lying on his back on a metal gurney in the stark white royal infirmary. He ached, his head hurt horribly, and he was starting to shake. Alban, Joris' mute assistant, began to dry him off with a soft white towel. Everything was a little blurry but Matxin had to hope that it would clear. "I'll do that." Joris took the towel and waved Alban off, then gestured at Itxaro. "Fetch the king something hot to drink. Alban, fetch his Majesty's clothes." They left without hesitation and Joris began to wipe the water from Matxin's skin. Matxin raised his hands to his face, ran his fingers over his new features. He hoped to get this done soon enough that it wouldn't matter. "How do I look?" "Like you survived a bomb," Joris said dryly. "I'm not a magician. But, you look remarkably like your royal self. This is a terribly dangerous thing you're doing. The minute someone decides to scan your blood for any reason, you leave a fingerprint that someone decides to take as a souvenir..." 51

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"I only need to do this until I find who killed ... my son. My guard." Matxin tried to sit up and Joris put a hand on his shoulder. "One other thing," the physician said, looking a little grim. "Because your Majesty insisted on being healed in the chamber, and our time was so limited with the repairs to your face and other alterations, I was unable to ensure that all the glass was removed from your body. There remains the possibility of complications: blood clots, rejection of the skin grafts in spite of the drug implants in your Majesty's liver, tissue death that was only delayed by your short time in the healing chamber. Any one of them could be fatal." "I don't care if they're fatal," Matxin said, pushing himself up again. This time, Joris helped him. "As long as they give me the time I need." "I'm serious," Joris said, stepping back as the door slid open again. "Your Majesty needs to be careful of his health." It was Alban with one of Piran's robes in his arms. Joris took it from him and Alban signed, "Itxaro is having the tea sent to his Majesty's chambers." "Excellent thought." Joris shook out the robe, and Alban offered his hand to Matxin. Matxin's legs trembled when he stood, and he gripped Alban's hand tightly. "How long was I in the healing chamber?" "Two days." Joris slid the robe up Matxin's free arm and draped it across his shoulders. "Two..." Two days was an eternity. Matxin ground his teeth together and then winced as pain shot through his head. 52

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"Any less would have been detrimental. Your Majesty was severely injured," Joris said sternly. "Don't clench your jaw," he added. "It's a bad habit." Joris was right. It was Matxin's habit, not Piran's. He had to stop it. "I understand that you did your best, Joris," he said calmly. Piran was always so calm; some days, it felt as though there were some conduit that channeled all his tension into Matxin. That, Matxin had always felt, was his job. Instead of frustrating him, it had made him stand a little straighter, knowing that Piran could laugh easily because Matxin was there to carry some of the mundane concerns. He let go of Alban's hand to get his other arm in the robe and tie it closed. "I will be by to check on your condition in a short time," Joris said, watching Matxin tie the robe. "How are your eyes?" Matxin blinked and focused on Joris' face. "Clearing," he said. The blurring was reduced to a slight fuzziness around the edges of things. "The muscles around the eye need to adjust. It should improve." Joris cupped Matxin's face in his hands, fingers probing along the edges of his eyes. "Don't overwork yourself." "Time is of the essence," Matxin reminded him. "I am aware. Alban will escort you back to your room, sire." Joris stepped aside and moved to one of the equipment lockers, laying his palm against the side of it and giving it a push. A concealed scanner read his palm print and the locker swung out to reveal a hallway beyond. "All the necessary arrangements to accommodate any changes have been 53

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made," Joris said casually, and Matxin realized that the doctor was talking about the palm locks on all the doors. He needed to wake up and soon. "Thank you, Joris." Matxin stepped ahead as Alban bowed and gestured for him to lead the way. It was dark in the hallway; the only light came from thin illuminated strips along the baseboards. Matxin emerged at the other end into Piran's bedroom, his legs shaking from the effort. There was Piran's bed, Piran's desk, and the chair in which he used to sit to read in the mornings. There was Itxaro, laying out the tea and a light meal on the table where Piran had taken his meals when he wished to be alone. And there was Nekane standing just inside the door. "Who is with my wife?" Matxin asked, managing to get to the chair at the table before his legs gave out on him. "Naiara is with her, sire," Nekane answered. Her voice was tight, strange, and then Matxin realized that she was seeing him and Piran at once. He accepted a cup of tea from Itxaro and his hands shook. "Thank you," he said to Itxaro and Alban. They both bowed and departed, Alban down the secret hallway and Itxaro out the door, leaving Matxin alone with Nekane. **** "I should inform her Highness that you're lucid," Nekane said quietly. Matxin took a drink of the tea to wash the lingering tastes of blood and failure out of his mouth. 54

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"Give me a few moments. And you know you don't have to be so formal with me when we're alone." Matxin wondered what she thought of him for this: whether she thought less of him for the deception, whether she was afraid of what he was doing. Nevertheless, there was no time to discuss it and her opinion would not have swayed him, no matter what it was. That it would have been a comfort to have her approval was irrelevant; he was past deserving comfort now. "Yes, sir." Sir, not sire. A small difference, but there was a lifetime between the words. It soothed Matxin a little, made it all a little less surreal to know that someone with him remembered who he was. Nekane bowed her head and took a few more steps into the room, slowly. "The security forces have been through your quarters twice in the last days," she said as she came to stand by the table, one careful step at a time. "They removed the wall paneling, scanned the ceilings and floors, and have taken every precaution necessary." "And then?" Matxin looked up at her. "Josu and Bakar and I did it all again," she said, managing a small smile. "Of course." "Then I am feeling better already." Matxin put down the tea and picked up a small sandwich of thinly sliced green chai-fruit and fresh cheese between two slices of pale yellow sweet bread. "What of Eiran?" "We have not detained him yet, sir." It felt better when she called him sir, less surreal. He was accustomed to that, at least, even if the rest of the world were out of joint. "I'm sorry." 55

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"But you know where he is?" Matxin took a small bite of the sandwich and chewed experimentally. The motion sent pain shooting up into his temples and he winced, then tried to swallow. His throat felt bruised all the way down, and he realized that Joris must have done something there to make him sound more like Piran. "Yes, sir. We tracked him across the old borders and into one of the lower Ortzi provinces, but then he turned around and went back up into Apollinar." "What the hell is he still doing there, anyways?" Giving up on the sandwich for the moment, Matxin took up the tea again. He needed to flush the medication out of his body, to get his full mental capacity back. "Apollinar is a cesspool." It was an aging industrial town bordered with shanties and full of poor that bred so swiftly that generations tumbled over one another and overflowed their neighborhoods. Matxin was not fond of Valéry in some parts, but the capital city was a gem in comparison. "Ostensibly, sir, he's doing something like feeding the hungry of Ortzi," Nekane said, her tone a little caustic. "But, instead, he's been making some raids of supply transports and orchestrating recent acts of sabotage on the drilling platforms on the Sea of Barakat. It's been his habit to see to these things himself, but he seems to have found someone else to attend to his business up here. Perhaps the idea of killing his own family sticks in his throat. Perhaps he simply found himself with too much to do." Matxin finished the tea and then tapped the empty cup on the table. Nekane moved to fill it without hesitation. 56

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It wasn't as difficult as he'd thought, playing Piran's role. He knew the king well, all his habits and tendencies, absorbed from the years he'd spent standing where Nekane now stood. "Don't wait any longer. Take him at the earliest opportunity and bring him to me," Matxin said, after another drink of tea. He tried to push away the knot of emotions in his chest, the voice within that said the facts couldn't possibly be true. He couldn't have been such a fool. Yet here he was, wearing Piran's face while Piran lay cold and still. "Yes, sire." Matxin looked up at her when she spoke and she smiled at him, a little warmer now. It pained him that he had been so sure Eiran would not hurt his own family, would not hurt anyone, and that his people trusted him in spite of his folly. "How bad do I look?" he asked quietly. He hadn't had the nerve to look in a mirror yet. "Terrible," she said, smiling a little more so that the lines at the corners of her eyes deepened. "But none of us are getting any prettier with time." She touched his temple with her fingers, and it felt as though she were touching Matxin's own face, as though nothing had changed. "Joris is a genius." "Yes, he is," Matxin took a breath and braced himself. "I'm going to get dressed. Take my orders to Per, tell him to hurry up. And then tell my wife I'll see her." "Do you need any help? Should I send someone in?" Nekane stepped back a pace and bowed slightly. "No. Give me some time alone." Matxin pushed himself to his feet and found himself steadier now that the sedative was almost completely out of his system. There was a slight 57

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tremor to his hands, but he realized that could be a side effect of the stimulant. "Yes, sir." She bowed again, the heels of her boots coming together with an audible click that took far more practice than the simple movement would suggest, and then left him alone, closing the door behind her. Matxin stood there a moment, leaning on the desk. It still struck him wrong that Eiran wouldn't be here for something so important, but it had been years, and he wasn't sure he'd ever really known the prince, not the man he was now. It was possible that he'd conspired with some more extreme Ortzi terrorist to do the work for him. It wasn't as though tensions between Pau and Ortzi had ever truly subsided after Piran annexed the smaller, poorer provinces, including Oriane's home of Alon. Matxin wouldn't know until they had Eiran, and maybe not even then. He needed to get to work. He needed to get down to the business of being Piran and leave himself behind. **** Matxin tottered into Piran's dressing room—his dressing room—and the lights came up slowly as the sensors in the room picked up on his presence. Here, there, were mirrors, a wall full of them, and a chair before a lit triptych of them in the middle of that wall. Matxin leaned on the back of that chair and looked himself in the eyes. Piran's eyes. The flesh below them was purplish fading to green in the hollow above his cheekbones. His entire face was sallow and yellow and bruised, but it wasn't his anymore—it was Piran's. 58

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Yes, there were hints of Matxin if you were looking for them: the jaw was a little more square, the cheekbones a little higher in their angle, but the rest was no longer Matxin. The nose, that arch was Piran's; it had been mirrored in Eiran's face, and Luxan's. His mouth ... he ran his fingers over it and then pulled back his lower lip to see the thinnest scar all but lost in the soft, red tissues. Piran's mouth. His own teeth were white and even, as always, and there in the lower left eyetooth was a notch as there had been in Piran's tooth, there was a slight crack in the second molar on the upper right. Yes, there was a little damage here and there from Matxin's endless grinding of his teeth, but it had been a hard time of late, and it was to be expected that the king might be a little tense. It was harder to look at himself than he thought it would be. When Matxin stopped focusing on the details and simply looked at himself, he could see Piran facing him. Someone died and you steeled yourself to never see them again except in pictures. You didn't think you'd have to face them in the mirror every day. "I'm sorry," he said to himself. "I'm sorry I let you down." They were both gone really, Matxin and Piran, and what remained was something like a ghost, finishing up what it had failed to do while it lived. He thought about what Joris had said to him about the tiny splinters of glass lurking in his body. Would they come working out through his skin like thorns? Would his cells surround them in a thick, protective clot that lodged in his heart or his brain and killed him in an instant? He opened the 59

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robe and ran his fingers over his newly scarred chest. There was no telling, was there? Whether Joris had been telling the truth or not, and Matxin had no reason to doubt him, it was a warning and an exit at once. There was every chance the king could die, suddenly, unexpectedly. He looked at himself in the mirror. Death could come accidentally, it could come when he chose, or it could come by some consensus made without his knowledge. His time was limited, not just by the constraints and demands of politics, but by his co-conspirators in this deceit. Should he misstep, or seem to be diverted from his intent, he knew that they would act. It would be the work of a moment for one of them to murder him, and he trusted them to do it. They were his failsafe. Standing, he let the robe slide from his shoulders and left it over to the chair. He stepped to where he could see himself from head to feet without interference. His body was taut and powerful and horribly battered; there was hardly any place that his golden skin wasn't tinted with old blood under the surface. He ran his hands over his chest and down; there were terrible new scars already knitted closed from his time in the healing chamber. Here was where the scar from Piran's appendectomy should have been, low at his right hip. Instead, a fresh scar twisted up his thigh and along the edge of the darker hair of his groin and up toward his belly, obliterating any sign of the scar or its absence. Matxin traced the scar up his body, wondering if he'd gotten it in the blast or if Joris had torn him 60

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open with some piece of glass from a broken laboratory instrument and then stitched him closed again. He could hardly count the ways in which he'd changed and yet the ways in which he recognized himself. Joris was a genius, indeed. He'd woven two broken bodies into one, into a strange hybrid of king and soldier, and what was left was as spare and efficient as either of them had ever been; Matxin's body and Matxin's mind bearing Piran's face, looking through Piran's eyes, and keeping the king alive in him. Moreover, if Matxin didn't fail again, Joris had kept Pau-Ortzi whole. He reached out with one hand to touch the reflection of Piran's eyes with his fingertips, the lines of the palm bisected by a new scar. They were unmistakably Piran's eyes, and Matxin wondered if he would see differently now. The cold of the mirror on his fingertips made him shudder and he stepped back, his stomach twisting. Something screaming in him expected the entire room to disintegrate in a cloud of silver flechettes, reducing him to a shredded rag of blood and bone. Matxin's breath caught and he closed Piran's eyes, turning away. He knew his way around Piran's dressing room well enough. At the console on the vanity table, he tapped the screen until it let him select something from Piran's lounging clothes. The wardrobe whirred and, behind him, opened. Matxin selected something he'd never seen before, which meant that Piran had never worn it. He dressed without looking at himself, pulling on the comfortable deep blue pants and the high-collared tunic with the golden dragons around the neck and cuffs. Over that, he 61

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pulled a dark red sleeveless robe, feeling a bit chilled. Golden sandals would do for now. Matxin wasn't in the mood for boots, he was too tired to try and look otherwise. He ran his hands through his still-damp hair and glanced at himself sideways in the mirror to confirm that he still looked the part. Piran looked back at him and Matxin turned away, leaning on the doorframe for support as he made his way out to face Oriane. **** He waited for her in an outer chamber; even Oriane did not come to Piran's bedroom unless he brought her there himself. Matxin collapsed into a chaise-lounge and snapped his fingers to let the security system know that his attendants were now free to come and go. While he waited, one of the servants laid a fire in the pale marble fireplace and another set out a fresh tea service and fruit on the low table before Matxin. The vase on the table that overflowed with white flowers was a gift from Oriane's family, an heirloom spun from white clay dug from the shores of a single river that once cut through the hills of Alon, a river long lost to mining projects seeking more valuable treasures in the earth. None of them would make something as delicate and beautiful; artifacts like this were now rendered priceless by their rarity. Oriane came to him in her own time, a little more late than prompt, as she always did. It was never enough to be taken as a slight, just enough time between the request and her arrival that one knew she had only come when it suited her to 62

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do so. She had her pride, a great deal of it, even if she had to hide a little of it in the presence of her more-powerful husband. "Husband," she said, as she always did, nodding to him with a small smile. She was always so composed, though today she was paler than usual, the lines of her face and throat taut with what might have been grief. While she had never been close to the children, she was still a mother, Matxin thought. That must have been the reason for her distress. He pushed himself to his feet and held his hand out to her. Faintly, he was aware of the servants leaving the room, their pale uniforms fluttering as they fled. "Oriane." She took his hand in both of hers—they were like the delicate talons of some bird made of ice—and curtsied a little. "I'm sorry," he said, quietly. He hadn't let himself feel it yet, the loss of the little boy he'd last seen laughing at him in the mirror. There was nothing of him that Matxin could keep. Unlike Piran, he was beyond reach. Matxin hadn't been as close to Luxan as he had been to Eiran, but that made the loss no less. It was as though he'd lost them both in a single blow. He pushed the thought away and locked his heart and mind against it. "Those who rule must may a price for it," she said calmly, her chin lifted. "I am grateful that you are well." When had she grown so very distant? Matxin realized that he had not seen her with Piran in far too long. It wasn't long after the children were born that she stopped coming to his rooms. "Thank you." He moved to sit and she let go of his 63

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hand, perching at the other end of the chaise, her hands folded in her lap. She was as white as the peacocks embroidered on her sky-blue gown; her hair was held back in blue shell combs from the shells of the turtles that swam in the Sea of Barakat. "How is Leila?" "She's a child," Oriane said obliquely. She leaned forward and carefully lifted the teapot to fill their cups, his and then hers. She gave his to him, holding it out with both hands, politely. "Of course she is distressed." "Thank you." Matxin took the tea and bowed his head to her, politely, reluctant to press her more about Leila. He didn't know how to read her anymore. She was so cold and so vague. Had Piran felt it? The king's life might have been Matxin's affair, but his living of it was not. Matxin's own life had been simple enough, spartan, a daily cycle of habits and duties. Piran lived, and Matxin's duties were fulfilled. How well he lived and whether he were happy doing it were not things he'd invited Matxin to know or to affect. "You have sent for Eiran?" she asked, her eyes cast down to her tea when she spoke, her tone almost indifferent. "Yes. Per and Nekane know his whereabouts." Eiran was not hers; it was no surprise that she was unconcerned about him. His mother had died shortly after his birth and Piran had remarried years later. Oriane had never made much of an effort toward the boy; he had fallen to Matxin when Matxin was like Kai, barely more than a gangly child himself. Over the years, he had taught himself to forget that the prince turned rebel was ever a shouting, laughing boy like Luxan. It would be easier to forget with Luxan's absence than 64

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to acknowledge the truth that it was possible for a life to die while the face and name and body went on walking, living a different life altogether. "You will need to be seen soon," Oriane said, changing the subject as she placed slices of yellow melon on a plate and drizzled them with flower syrup. "I will tell Nekane to arrange it." Matxin put down his tea and accepted the plate from Oriane when she handed it to him, a silver fork balanced neatly on the edge. "I took the liberty." She seemed almost shy about it and Matxin was unsure what to think of her. "The press room will be ready whenever you please. You could make the evening news." When she reached for her tea again, she looked at him from under her dark lashes. "You're right," Matxin said, a little relieved that she, at least, had been thinking ahead. "It needs to be done soon." "And the funerals..." Her hand shook a little then as she raised her tea to her mouth. If Matxin had not been looking up just then, he never would have known. "Whenever you think is right," he said, wanting to make something right. He didn't know, but maybe she would. Piran would have made the decision, he knew that, but this was an unusual circumstance. "I'm tired," he added, by way of explanation. "Of course." Oriane nodded graciously and gave him the slightest smile. "I was inconsiderate." "Hardly." Matxin frowned and remembered that she'd served him food. He cut a slice of melon with his fork and 65

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took a bite. It was soft and didn't require much chewing, for which he was grateful. "I am sorry about Matxin," she said then. Matxin wasn't expecting that and he swallowed hastily, trying to compose himself. "So am I." The wash of pain had nothing to do with his physical injuries. If he were Piran, then Piran was Matxin, and he was gone, lost. Dead. His friend was dead. "Thank you." He took another bite of melon to distract himself a little; the syrup was sweet over the cold, bitter tang of the melon. Had they been friends? Matxin liked to think they were, but now, sitting in Piran's place, wearing his clothes and his face and his eyes, he wondered. "You're tired." He should have known she wouldn't miss the change in his expression. "Do you need me to postpone your appearance?" She put down her tea and picked up a white napkin with which to dab nothing from her still-perfect lips. "No." Matxin set his food aside. "I'll be ready." "There are others who wish to see you," she said, putting her napkin down and rising. "Catzi has been frantic." Matxin picked up his tea and shook his head. The young consort was notoriously spoiled—it had amused Piran to indulge him like a child—but Matxin was exhausted. "I will be asleep. Send me Nekane." The orders rolled off his tongue and she didn't question him, but hesitated a moment. Matxin held out his hand to her and she took it again in both of hers, and kissed the back of it. 66

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"I will. I am glad you are well, Piran," she said again. At first he wondered if there were a second meaning behind the words, but then he realized that she was simply being a good wife. Her lips were cool and smooth, like glass, like she was the one wearing a mask, not him. "Thank you, Oriane," he said gently. She let go of his hand and backed away three steps before turning to go. The doors to the atrium in Piran's quarters swung open at her approach. "I shall send you Nekane now," she said, looking over her shoulder at him. He gave her what he could of a smile and then she was gone, her long robes hissing along the polished floor. Nekane stepped in as Oriane disappeared from Matxin's sight, and the doors shut behind her with a soft click. "How are you?" she asked. "Should I send for Joris?" "Tired." Matxin couldn't hide it; there was no sense prevaricating. He switched to finger-speaking. "Help me to bed." Nekane came to him without comment and helped him to his feet. "You have an audience this evening," she said aloud, her voice covering the sound of his soft whimper of pain on rising. "Wake me in good time," he said, once he was standing. Moving was harder now; he had already exhausted himself. She helped him through the doors and into Piran's beautiful, pale bedroom. The early afternoon light was shining through the curtained doors at the far end of the room, bathing everything in a luminous wash. He leaned on one of the bedposts at the top of the steps to the bed as Nekane 67

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drew aside the sheer curtains and helped him remove his robe. The covers were turned back and Matxin shook off Nekane's help, settling himself on the bed. He didn't protest, though, when she bent to take off his sandals. "Tell Catzi I'll see him after the audience," he said, lying back with a wince. It would save a great deal of misery if he just got it over with. "And Nere and Danel?" Matxin was suddenly grateful that there were only three official consorts at the moment. "In the morning." "Poor thing," Nekane signed, briefly impish. Matxin rolled his eyes at her. "I'll tell them," she said. She leaned over and put a hand to his forehead to check for fever. "Sleep well, sir." Satisfied, she tugged the curtains around his bed closed and left him to sleep. "Nekane," he said, before her footsteps had gone too far. "Sire?" "You may come and go as you please while I sleep." Or stay. Matxin didn't want to be alone in the dark when he closed Piran's eyes. It was ludicrous, probably because he was tired, that was all. "Thank you, sire," she said, and there was warmth in her voice that Matxin hoped meant she would return. He couldn't ask though, and her footsteps receded until the door opened and closed for her, and then she was gone. The world was red when he closed his eyes, Piran's eyes, and the light fell on his face, still. Everything was the color of blood, if it weren't the color of darkness. Matxin breathed slowly, forcing himself to sleep. In his dreams, perhaps, it 68

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would be light.

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Chapter Three "It was good of you to do this so soon." Izar Mael, Secretary of the Economy, accompanied Matxin back from the public audience. Matxin was relieved that she set an easy pace that would give them time to talk. Bakar and Nekane were a few paces behind them and following them were several of Piran's advisors and courtiers. "The people deserved to see me. Xarai made me look almost handsome again," Matxin said lightly. Izar laughed at him and shook her head. "She and Joris both did their part, yes. You can be put back together and painted up prettily, but that does not mean much if the foundation is not strong. You seem strong, Piran." Izar looked up at him, her pale green eyes bright and curious in her dark face. She wore pure white, the grieving color, like Matxin and the others, and her sandy hair was pulled back from her face in braids that wove into a single rope down her back. She had a certain sharp beauty to her and a strength that didn't allow for much argument or prevarication. "How are you, really?" Matxin took a slow breath. How was he? Exhausted. The audience, even though it had been scripted, had been a strain. If he were honest with himself, it had been terrifying. At least he hadn't had to feign the grief in his voice when he spoke of Luxan's death. His own demise had been nothing more than a footnote, as it should have been. "Healing," he answered, because that was honest. "That is all that matters." 70

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"You should take some time," Izar suggested. "You are correct, that is all that matters." "I can heal and attend to my duties." Matxin shook his head, not wanting to be thwarted. "I cannot rest while my son's murderer is still at large." "Piran." Izar reached out and set her hand on his arm. "You've had a shock, suffered a terrible loss, and nearly died. The ministers think that you should rest. Let your brother attend to finding the perpetrator. The Castellan can see to your interests; surely you trust him to do so while you heal." "I appreciate the ministers' concern," Matxin said coolly. She did have a point, though. All he had to do was unravel the plot that had killed Piran and Luxan, and remove Eiran from the succession so that he could not profit from the offense. Piran had been intractable on that point for years, refusing to disown Eiran, refusing to discuss it at all. He could leave some of it to Per, but he was unsure that Piran would rest well if Matxin didn't review the material with his own eyes—with Piran's eyes. Matxin walked in silence for a few minutes, then stopped, as they were drawing near his quarters. Izar looked up at him, her expression inscrutable. "Forgive me," Matxin said, exhaling slowly and looking contrite. "I do appreciate the concern. I do not wish for this crime to negatively affect any of my people." "Piran." Izar's smile was almost maternal. "What affects you, affects us all. You have done right by us. Allow those who are faithful to you to do the same in return. Do you not trust us?" 71

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"Of course I do, Minister Mael." Matxin pretended to concede the point with a little chastised reluctance. "If you think it will not be a burden for the council to carry on without my presence for a little while, so that I may focus on the terrorist activities that have affected the royal family directly now, I will do so." "Not at all. Chancellor Goizargi will keep you informed as to all our activities," Izar promised. In the end, Matxin thought, it didn't matter. He smiled and gave her a little bow. "I'm grateful to my council for their support." "Go, rest." Izar waved toward his rooms, and then turned to Nekane. "Make him rest. Even if you must tie him to his bed." "I think I might leave such tasks to his Majesty's consorts," Nekane said cheekily. "But I shall consider the tactic if I must." "If I may leave you, sire?" Izar gave Matxin a little bow. "Yes, please don't let me keep you." Piran had been nothing if not polite, always. He could be making decisions that would make him hated by thousands, and he would still be exquisitely elegant about it. Matxin gestured to Bakar, who stepped aside to let the minister pass. Matxin turned back to walk the remaining yards to the great, carved doors to his quarters. It was warm within, welcoming. Matxin, followed by Nekane and Bakar as well as two courtiers, Zorion and Kistine, entered the atrium. His manservants, Joseba and 72

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Jowan, were waiting for him, now that Nekane had allowed them to return to their assigned duties. Joseba took the heavy fur-trimmed robe from Matxin's shoulders and Jowan brought him a glass of wine before he had to ask for it. Piran's quarters were a home in and of themselves, a private sanctuary. The sky above, seen through the glass roof of the atrium, was dark and full of stars, but there were warm lamps glowing inside and the fountain at the center of the atrium was lit from below, making the water into a glittering shower of light. "The first responses to your appearance have come in, sire." Zorion had a small reader in one hand and was watching the screen with a frown that seemed imprinted on his narrow face. "Haven't put them off, have I?" It was what Piran said every time, lightly, but with a bit of genuine curiosity. "Not at all." Zorion actually smiled a little and passed the reader to Kistine, who really did smile. She was a lush, round woman, all heavy curves, and was not only clever but pleasant company. Matxin had always liked her, as she was easy to be around, with her good temper. Zorion was something of an old tomcat, lean and temperamental, with a history of conquests and a present full of worry. "You did brilliantly. I think Xarai deserves an award for her cosmetic skills, though." Kistine read a little further. "Seems the people think you're something of a super-man at the moment." "Anything else of import?" Nekane stepped in, giving Matxin an apologetic look. "His majesty needs his rest." 73

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"The Queen has suggested that the funeral for Prince Luxan be held tomorrow," Zorion said quietly, looking deeply apologetic. Matxin was silent a moment, recovering from the pain in his chest at the thought of burying Piran. "Yes, I told her to arrange it at the time she saw fit." Oriane wouldn't care when Matxin ... Piran ... was buried. "Arrange for Matxin's funeral the day after," he continued, swallowing hard. "His father will need the time to make the journey to the city." "I'll make the arrangements for him myself," Kistine promised. "Tell me when he arrives," Matxin said, turning to limp toward his chambers, trying not to look as though he were fleeing. "I will give him my condolences in person." "Of course." Matxin heard the rustle of white robes as Kistine and Zorion bowed, taking his turned back as dismissal. "Thank you both." "Lord Catzi is waiting for you," Jowan murmured, stepping forward to get the door. Catzi. Right. Matxin took a slow breath and nodded. "Thank you. I would like some time alone now," he said quietly. "Sire?" That was Nekane, an edge of worry in her voice. "I will be fine, Nekane." Matxin waved her off and the doors to his rooms ... Piran's rooms ... swung open with his approach. "Do not go far." "I won't," she said softly. "I will be here if you need me."

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Matxin took a drink of wine and squared his shoulders, stepping into his rooms ... Piran's rooms ... to meet Piran's consort. His consort, now, if only for a few days. **** He hadn't forgotten about Catzi. The youngest son of Lorea Caieta, one of Piran's favored ministers, was waiting for him in the outer sitting room where Matxin had taken tea with Oriane earlier in the day. "Piran." Catzi rose as soon as Matxin entered and looked to be about to run across the room to him, his hands clenched in his long, pearl brocade robes, when he remembered himself and bowed, his curls tumbling around his shoulders. "Your Majesty." "That's fine," Matxin said wearily. He was tired; the white robes he wore felt heavy, as though they were soaked with grieving. "Piran." Then Catzi did come across the room, in a rustle of silk, his slender hands out, one taking Matxin's glass from him, the other coming up to cup his cheek. "Xarai painted my face," Matxin warned, pulling Catzi's hand away so that he wouldn't get the heavy cosmetics on his fingers. "Careful. You'll get your hands dirty." "I don't care." Catzi's hand was trembling in Matxin's, his face was white and drawn, his pale gold eyes wide. "Let me wash it for you. I had Joseba draw you a bath." It was like Catzi to take that kind of liberty. It had always put Matxin's teeth on edge that Piran allowed it but, in the moment, it was almost soothing. "Thank you," he said, 75

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instead of scolding. Maybe Piran was too tired to scold; maybe he was a little grateful that someone took liberties. Maybe that was why Matxin himself had always managed to get away with being so familiar with Piran all those years. He let Catzi take the wine away and headed toward the bedroom. The doors slid open and he looked over his shoulder to see Catzi standing in the middle of the elegant but sparingly decorated sitting room, the glass of wine held in both hands. He looked like he could be part of the décor, he was so pale and beautiful. "Come," Matxin said, giving him permission to follow. In the bathroom, it was dark and warm, such a contrast to the rest of the suite, to the rest of the alcazar. The floor and the tub were black marble, the walls tiled with the same, where they were not mirrored. Deep green vines tumbled from planters suspended from the ceiling, their tiny white flowers filling the room with scent. Hot water trickled down one wall in a rippling sheet, swirling around a channel and down into the deep tub. Matxin slid the first layer of his robe off and let it fall. There was a soft clink as Catzi put his glass down on one of the counters. "Get yourself some wine," Matxin said. "If you want it." "I don't." Catzi came to stand in front of him, reaching to undo Matxin's buttons. "But thank you." His hands were unsteady, the nail beds blue like he was cold. "Are you well?" Matxin tilted his head back to let Catzi at his buttons, trying not to think of how he'd fastened Piran's buttons right before he died. 76

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"I am, now that you are," Catzi answered, almost inaudibly. "I'm fine." Matxin stroked Catzi's hair as he had seen Piran do many times. Catzi's hair was softer than Matxin expected, catching in the lines and scars on his fingers and palms. "You almost died." Catzi cupped Matxin's face, Piran's face, in his hands and leaned up to kiss him. Matxin was surprised first at the evenness in their height, and then at the softness of the kiss. It occurred to him as he returned the kiss that he had no idea what Piran's habits were once he was no longer in the room. He would just have to do what it was he was trained to do, read people as though they were an open book. "Shh." He soothed the trembling kisses and unsteady touches with his mouth and hands, and that seemed to work well enough. Matxin never would have looked at Piran's consort as anything other than another factor in Piran's life, never would have been friendly with him beyond what the façade of court pleasantries required, never would have touched him except as needed. Now, he supposed, it was needed. Catzi's breath caught and Matxin knew he was on the verge of tears even if they were too close to see the consort's face. Catzi's slim arms slid around his neck, resting on fresh scars, and Matxin winced but said nothing. "Why can't they just leave you alone?" Catzi whispered. "Because they're angry," Matxin said, stroking Catzi's hair and back. It was easier, in a way, than dealing with Oriane. Catzi sniffled and stepped away, wiping the back of one hand across his face. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "You must 77

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be so tired." He got back to undoing Matxin's robe, sliding it off of Matxin's shoulders. "You don't have to do that." It felt strange to be undressed by one of the nobles of Piran's court. "I want to do it." Catzi looked at him from under lashes dark with tears. "I would do it every day, if I could." "You'd be bored in a week." Matxin moved to help the robes slide off his body, leaving him in his boots and pants. "I wouldn't." Catzi kissed his shoulder and stepped back, gathering the robes up in his arms, and smiled at Matxin. "I could never be bored with you." It occurred to Matxin then that the flighty young consort wasn't just playing the part of the smitten ingénue; he was in love with Piran. For some reason, that disturbed Matxin, made guilt churn in his stomach. "Get me my wine," he said, turning to limp to a chaise under a cascade of green leaves and white flowers. He sat down slowly, trying not to wince, so he could get his boots off. "Are you angry with me?" Catzi came back with the wine and knelt down at Matxin's feet. He held the wine out and gave Matxin an uncertain smile. Matxin had never seen him without his façade, and he was not nearly as irritating this way. "No. Just tired." Matxin gave him a smile in return and took the wine. "You have every reason to be." Catzi started to take Matxin's boots off and Matxin let him do as he pleased. It was easier to humor him, and it wasn't unenjoyable to watch. "Should I call Joris to check that you're well?" 78

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"No." Matxin smiled and reached out to pull one of the combs out of Catzi's hair, tugging the carved wood free and releasing a handful of coppery curls that slithered down his cheek. "I'm just fine." Catzi put his boots aside and put Matxin's feet in his lap, stroking them gently. "You could have died." He bent to kiss one foot, then the other. "But I didn't." Matxin reached out to pluck a comb from the other side. "I'm not sure I shouldn't have," he added softly, before he could stop himself. "Don't say that." Suddenly, Catzi was kissing him again, with none of the softness of the first time. "Don't," he breathed between kisses. "Never say that. Promise me, Piran." His mouth was demanding, tongue slipping into Matxin's mouth before he could speak to answer. Instead, he slid a hand into Catzi's hair and kissed him back hungrily, trying to ignore the pain in his chest. His heart hurt, like there was a shard through it. It was one thing to steal Piran's face, it was another to steal kisses that should have been his, love that should have been his. And he would be leaving soon; he would cause the pain all over again and not cure it next time. He put the wine aside—Catzi's mouth tasted better anyway—and tugged the consort closer by the hand in his hair. "Promise me." Catzi was nothing if not persistent. He had unfastened his own robes and they were open at the front, revealing bare skin underneath, and sliding off of his shoulder. 79

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"I won't say it again," Matxin said, just to get him to quiet on the subject. The consort's cheeks were flushed dark pink with temper and emotion, his eyes were too bright, and his mouth was reddened from kissing Matxin so hard. "I can't live without you," Catzi said, and his eyes welled with tears. "I can't, Piran. I thought I was going to die when they said you might be dead." "You can," Matxin said, stroking his hair and soothing him with kisses. He was in such unfamiliar territory here. Another attempt on his life, Piran's life, would almost be welcome right now. "You must." "Why?" Catzi let his robes slide down and pushed away from Matxin to stand, stepping out of his sandals and holding his hand out. "I am only for you. Without you, I am nothing anymore." "Without me, you are still you." Matxin undid his pants and then let himself be pulled to his feet. "I couldn't bear it." Catzi's argument trailed off as he got a clear look at all the new scars. "Oh, my poor King." He kissed once on Matxin's shoulder, his slim hands running over Matxin's chest and belly. "Come and let me take care of you. Enough of me." He drew Matxin to the tub and Matxin let him, stepping into the deep, hot water with a sigh. Catzi knelt and looked up at him, tugging his hands to bring him down into the water. "You are still perfect," he said softly. Matxin didn't have an answer for that, so he slid down into the water with a sigh of relief at the soothing heat, and let Piran's consort do what he would to him. 80

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In the low light of flickering candles, Catzi washed him from head to feet, even his hair, even the soles of his feet. The usually flighty consort was nothing if not thorough and, once in a while, Matxin caught a glimpse of thoughtfulness in his beautiful gold eyes. Catzi could feel him watching and smiled at him again, the candles reflected in his eyes that were the same color as their light, the light glinting in his hair that was the same color as the flame. "Tell me." Catzi put the cloths and soap aside and crawled up over Matxin's body to kiss him on the mouth. He smoothed Matxin's wet hair back with warm fingers. "Tell you what?" Matxin smiled at him, making it into something like a game, and Catzi laughed a little, shaking his head. "Tell me that you love me." Catzi wasn't being petulant, wasn't pouting, wasn't playing any of his usual games. It was unnerving; Matxin hadn't been this uncertain in the audience chamber in front of the advisors and ministers and the cameras that carried him to the whole of Pau-Ortzi. "I do," he said at last, relenting and taking the plunge. Piran had suffered from his moments of being a romantic when he was younger, after Eiran's mother died. Maybe he did now, maybe Matxin was too busy trying to keep him alive, and failing, to tell whether or not he was going about falling in love. "And I love you." Catzi laid his body against Matxin's, moving slowly, sinuously, against him. Matxin wanted to say he couldn't do this, wanted to get up and get out of the tub, wanted to turn around and ask Piran what to do about it. But 81

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he knew what Piran would say about it. Onward. He slid his arms around Catzi and kissed him again, letting the moment roll on into the next as Catzi moved against him with a soft noise of need. Tiredness and sleep could wait; life was happening now. Catzi's slowly shifted to straddle Matxin's hips while he kissed Matxin time and time again. Matxin relaxed into the curving embrace of the tub, awash in hot, swirling water that leeched away his tension. Each soft touch of Catzi's mouth held all the tentative sweetness of a first kiss. Catzi's fingers traced Matxin's features—Piran's features—and stroked down his throat to play over his chest. "My sweet King," Catzi whispered. His hair shrouded his features from the candlelight but Matxin could still see the tears shimmering in his wide eyes. He shook his head when Matxin went to speak, to soothe him, and only kissed Matxin more fiercely. Matxin gave in and kissed him hard in return, sliding his hands up Catzi's back and feeling lithe muscle over fine bones under his palms. His heart wrenched as his mind drew comparisons so he pulled Catzi against him to push away the surge of pain in his chest. Catzi whined softly and Matxin could feel him hard against his belly. As though Matxin's answering hunger were some kind of permission, Catzi reached down to run careful fingers over Matxin's cock. Catzi whimpered into Matxin's next hungry kiss as he found Matxin already hard, wanting him. His touch made Matxin shiver and moan; it had been so long since 82

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anyone had touched him like that, Matxin had all but forgotten that it could feel like this. Matxin moved, desire pushing reason away, meaning to press the slender consort back against the other side of the tub and feel that beautiful body under his. He got as far as catching a handful of Catzi's curls with one wet hand when agony lanced through him. Biting back a curse, Matxin leaned back in the tub again, trying to breathe. "Piran?" Matxin's vision was blurred with pain and he shook his head to try and clear it. "I'm fine," he said, forcing his voice to stay steady. "Just a little pain." He focused on Catzi's gold eyes and mustered up a smile. "I should get Joris." Catzi pushed away but Matxin managed to catch him by the hand, wincing as he did. "It's nothing," Matxin said, his tone stern. As sweet and beautiful as Catzi was, he was still maddeningly flighty at heart. If Matxin didn't put his foot down, he'd be flying off to Joris, likely without a stitch on. "I was careless, that's all. Don't go." It was an order. Matxin drew Catzi back to him and the consort yielded, still looking distressed. "My fault." Catzi pushed back his disheveled hair and leaned over Matxin to kiss his forehead. "Forgive me," he whispered. "There's nothing to forgive," Matxin said. He stroked the curve of Catzi's back and breathed in the consort's perfume. "I should not have..." Catzi broke off and sat back on his heels. There was a flush on his pale cheeks and he shook his head, unwilling to look at Matxin. Instead he pushed himself 83

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to his feet. "Let me help you out. You should be in bed, not tiring yourself out with me." Matxin didn't try and dissuade him; he could feel the ache that was written into the younger man's posture, even though Catzi turned his face away. As Matxin got out, Catzi was there for him to lean on, eyes downcast. The consort helped him sit down on a chaise and began to dry him off with soft, warm towels. "Catzi." Matxin reached out and tucked stray curls back behind Catzi's ear so that he could see Catzi's face. "Enough." Matxin had just wanted too much, had let himself feel desire for the beautiful young man who was kneeling down now to dry off Matxin's thighs. He still wanted; not even the pain had dissuaded him from it. "I was selfish." Catzi trailed his fingers along the inside of Matxin's thigh, brushing over the fine gold hairs there. He looked like he were about to cry. "I shouldn't want you, not now." Still, he leaned in and kissed the skin his fingers had just touched. "I want you now." Matxin didn't know how soothe him save for that. It wasn't a lie in the least. When he slid his hand into Catzi's hair and tilted the consort's head back, forcing Catzi to look at him, he could see the need in Catzi's eyes. "Please?" The plea wasn't even an exhalation, just the shape of Catzi's kiss-bruised mouth. Matxin tightened his hand in Catzi's long, soft hair and drew him forward. Catzi whimpered softly and licked at Matxin's cock when he was close enough—desperate little flickers of his tongue. "You may," Matxin said, letting his hand 84

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slide out of Catzi's hair so that he could move to suck Matxin off of his own volition. Catzi's mouth was hot and needy. He drew Matxin in all at once and swallowed him down with a low moan. Matxin was grateful for the support of the curved chaise; he leaned back in it, his breath catching at the rush of pleasure as Catzi went to work. The consort's tongue played over the head of Matxin's cock with each stroke, making him shudder. It shouldn't have been such a surprise that Catzi was exceptionally skilled at this. For a moment, Matxin forgot about everything. He let himself forget about the sins of stealing Piran's face and throne and the affections of his lover, he let himself forget the pain of what was to come with Eiran; none of it mattered. He closed his eyes and slid his hands into Catzi's silky hair, moving to meet his mouth, curling one hand around the back of the consort's slender neck. Catzi's hair played over his thighs and belly like warm feathers, Catzi's mouth took him in deep over and over again and every thrust got another little moan. The rushing in Matxin's ears was his own blood, the rough noises were his own breath. He came in slow waves of pleasure that wrung him out, another twist for each shudder and pulse into Catzi's mouth. When he opened his eyes, Catzi was looking up at him, eyes barely focused, cheeks flushed, mouth still full. While Matxin watched, Catzi kept sucking slowly, so gently, and slid a hand down his own belly. Matxin could read the question in Catzi's eyes, so he nodded. "Do it." 85

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Catzi let Matxin's cock slide from his mouth and leaned in to rest his cheek on Matxin's belly. Matxin stroked his hair slowly, feeling Catzi's body rocking slightly against his for a few moments before he went taut and shook. He was silent, but Matxin could see the pleasure in his expression. Afterward, he pulled away and cleaned himself quickly with a discarded towel. "Thank you." Catzi blushed as he looked up at Matxin. "Let me help you to bed now, sire?" He stood gracefully, letting Matxin admire him, and held his hands out to Matxin. Matxin needed the help. He slid an arm around Catzi's shoulders and was grateful that Catzi seemed to bask in being needed. Nekane would have been suspicious, analyzing everything. The consort was only tender and gentle. Matxin was as relieved at it as Piran had likely been. Bed was soft and welcome. Catzi laid him out on his belly there, stroking back his hair and petting his limbs. "Let me help you sleep," he offered. Matxin could think of no reason to object, so he nodded, too tired to speak. He remembered something about seeing Joris but couldn't bring himself to care about it for now. He wasn't going anywhere tonight. Catzi's slender hands were smoothing spiced oils into his skin and stealing away the last of his tension with each touch. Someone would wake him if he was needed. He hoped he would wake. **** "Your Majesty." It was Nekane who woke Matxin, not the sun streaming in through the windows and the gauzy 86

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draperies around the bed, and not Catzi curled up and still asleep with his head next to Matxin's on the pillow. Matxin pushed himself up on one elbow even as Nekane was pulling the curtains back. "You have him." Nothing else could have brought the captain of the guard into the king's bedroom. "Yes, sir." Nekane didn't even look at Catzi as the consort rolled away, yawning, and slithered out the far side of the bed. "The ship will be here in an hour." Matxin felt a surge of energy that had been missing from him since the bomb went off. Action. It was time to act. "And then, answers," he said, getting out of bed himself. "I'd damn well better get some answers." Nekane had his robe in hand already, she held it out for him to slip into. Catzi was pulling on his robe; one of the attendants must have found it in the bathroom and hung it up over the back of one of the chairs near the hearth. Tugging it around himself, he bowed to Matxin, his hair falling in tangled curls to shadow his face. "Sire," he said, low, not wanting to interrupt. Matxin was about to wave him off impatiently, but he stopped himself. He turned his back on Nekane's disapproving look and crossed the room. Catzi was waiting in silence, head down, hands clasped in front of him. Matxin cupped the young man's chin in his hand and coaxed him to stand straight, then brushed a kiss across his forehead. "Go," Matxin said gently. "Go back to sleep. Rest." There was a little part of him that desperately wanted to assuage the guilt he felt at this deception. Catzi would have time to hurt, he might as well have a little happiness before he did. 87

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"Yes, sire," he whispered, smiling up at Matxin, at Piran, with unhidden adoration. He turned away and left, hair still in disarray, robes barely closed, to make the long walk back to the consorts' wing. "What are you playing at?" Nekane snapped the moment the doors closed. Matxin turned to see her glaring at him, her jaw set. "Don't forget yourself," Matxin said, turning his back on her. Nekane followed him into the dressing room and stood there while he let the robe fall and poured water into a washstand by the vanity. "I haven't. Have you?" she signed. He could see the angry flick of her fingers in the mirror. There wasn't a response he could give to assuage her anger, to explain himself, and he had no idea why she would choose this moment to break the charade. Wringing out a cloth, he began to wash himself; he was almost clean through from the bath the night before, but he needed to wash away the traces of the sex he'd had with Catzi before he dressed. "An hour, you said?" he said aloud. "Where did they find him?" He bent to splash water on his face and run his wet hands through his hair. "He left Apollinar last night," Nekane answered, her voice still taut. "Left..." Matxin straightened and looked at her in the mirror. "Headed for here," Nekane said quietly. "His train went to Daveth first, but we have no reason to assume he was going to disembark there, the train comes straight on to Valéry. He 88

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was traveling under the name Isandro, had dyed his hair black." "What was he doing?" Matxin asked his reflection and he thought he knew the answer, though he didn't want it to be true. "No idea yet. He carried nothing but the identification of this 'Isandro' and some money." Nekane came over to hold the jacket that went with the light brown pants that Matxin had picked out. "How are you today?" "Better." Matxin tugged his pants up and fastened them at the waist, smoothing them to check the fit. "I slept." He must have been putting on weight the last few months, too busy to exercise as he should and his metabolism slowing down with age, because the pants fit him better than he'd anticipated. It was a small blessing, but one he didn't quite welcome. "You look fine," Nekane said dryly, watching him look at himself in the mirror. "I'm getting old," Matxin said tightly. The deep red shirt he put on next was a little tight in the shoulders and upper arms, but it fit well enough. He did up the collar and the cuffs, tucked it in, then looked for a belt. "Wear the brown one with those pants," Nekane suggested. "Your wife gave you the buckle to it." She nodded toward the rack that was waiting for him to pick from. The belt was wide, with a coiled gold dragon for a buckle. Matxin put it on and then let Nekane help him into his jacket. "Has he said anything at all?" Matxin sat down in front of the vanity and Nekane bent to help him with his boots. "Nothing. He didn't try to escape when they took him." 89

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"An hour, you said?" "Yes. You were supposed to have breakfast with your consorts this morning, then make preparations for the funeral." Luxan's funeral. Matxin had been trying not to think of that. He leaned back in the chair, closing his eyes as Nekane fastened the buckles on his boots. "Plans have changed." "They do that." Nekane sounded almost gentle, with the softness in her tone that always worried Matxin. She rose and held her hand out to help him to his feet. "You need to eat. I left orders for a meal to be brought." "Have you eaten?" Matxin let her pull him to his feet. "Hours ago." Her grin was a little sharp. "You slept late." "Right." Life was different on the clock that measured Piran's day. Matxin headed out of the dressing room, Nekane a pace behind him. "Meet the transport. Per will be there, I want you there also," he ordered. "I will see Eiran once he is in custody. Don't let Per alone with him." It was just a hint of suspicion that made him want Nekane there, and it probably spoke ill of him that he didn't trust Piran's brother with Eiran. "Your Majesty?" Nekane was a little puzzled. Matxin lead the way to the outer room where Argine was laying out his meal. The small, lithe attendant bowed deeply when he entered, almost low enough for her black braid to sweep the floor. "I have my reasons," Matxin said, taking his seat at the table. The young woman straightened, eyes still down, hands still folded at her waist. 90

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"It's good to see you well, your Majesty," she said softly. Once Matxin was seated, she moved to pour him a cup of coffee. Xarai and Jowan came in silently, moving to the bedroom to clean up after Matxin. "I want to see my daughter," Matxin said, looking over at Nekane. "Bring her to me." "As you wish," Nekane said, her expression not quite neutral enough to disguise her perplexity from him. She did as she was told, though, and bowed to him before leaving the room. **** She brought Leila to him, and Matxin barely had time to push his chair back before his lap was full of flailing white satin with a little girl somewhere in the midst of it. Piran's daughter had obviously made a valiant attempt not to cry in the halls, but once she was in his lap, she dissolved into misery and weeping. Matxin soothed her and eventually leaned back in his chair and picked up his tea, letting her cry herself out on his shoulder. For some reason, it was deeply soothing for him, as well; the simplicity of focus of this task, not her unhappiness. "I miss my brother," Leila said pitifully, clinging to his jacket. "Me, too," he said, rocking her a little. "And Max." She sniffled, rubbing her cheek on him until he offered her a napkin instead. Her little lisping mouth had never quite managed his name properly and so she'd decided on calling him 'Max' when she was barely toddling. 91

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"I know. I'm sorry," he said, and he was. He felt less guilt over her than he had over Catzi. Her affection was simpler, more malleable. Nothing could replace her father, and he was simply giving her a few more days. "Who did this thing?" Leila looked up at him, blinking tears from her eyes. Matxin's eyes flicked to Nekane and then he looked back down at Leila. "I don't know yet," he admitted. It was Eiran. He knew it had to be Eiran or some associate of his, but he couldn't bring himself to say it yet. The evidence had to be processed first, he had to speak to Eiran first. He knew what Piran would do here; Piran wouldn't wait, but Matxin was more cautious. It was his place to be cautious, so the king didn't have to be. "What are you going to do to the bad people?" Leila sat up straighter in his lap and he smoothed her hair back from her flushed little face. "Punish them." He kissed her forehead. "You should blow them up like they did to Luxan and Max," she said firmly. Matxin had to laugh then, just a little. She was so much like Piran sometimes. Whoever ended up steering her toward the throne, Kai, if he recovered, would have their hands more than a little full. "I'll take that under advisement," he said, more seriously now. The courts had long had a policy of taking the victims into account when deciding on a punishment for any given crime. "I won't be sad anymore then," she said, resting her head on his chest. Matxin didn't have the heart to tell her differently. Maybe she would. If it were true, he envied her. 92

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He nodded toward the drawn curtains and Argine moved to open them, spilling soft golden light over the room. It washed over Matxin and lit up Leila's tumbled curls. He rocked her slowly, as soothed by her as she was by him.

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Chapter Four Matxin was almost dozing; Leila sleeping against him, warm like a bundle of damp sunlight. How tired he was frightened him a little. Had Piran felt this tired? Was he still healing? Or was he dying by degrees? In any case, he had to solve this, and soon. The slight motion of Nekane tilting her head to listen to her earpiece caught his attention. He'd tried to train her out of it, but the habit clung to her when she was tired or forgetful. Nekane stepped toward the doors and beckoned to someone waiting in the outer sitting room. Moments later, one of the nannies came in to take Leila from him. Reluctantly, he allowed the man to scoop the little girl from his arms. Once they were gone, he turned to Nekane. "The transport is landing?" He put his tea aside, realizing that he'd forgotten to eat. "Yes. I have to go and meet it. Bakar will stay with you. I will let him know when Eiran is in custody. Are you sure you don't want me to handle this for now? You have the funeral in a few hours," Nekane said, looking at his untouched plate and then at him. "You need to keep your strength up, your Majesty." "I want to see my son." Matxin gave her a warning look, then pulled his plate toward him. "Go deal with him. I will be there shortly." Argine stepped forward and refilled Matxin's tea, then traded his plate of cold food for a clean one on which she arranged warm food straight from the serving dishes. 94

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Piran's life worked like an old analog clock, all the pieces ticking away in unison. And all the pieces were replaceable, even Piran, around whom it all revolved. Nekane bowed and was gone, Bakar's footsteps coming as hers faded, and then the doors closed with Bakar standing in Nekane's place, bowing as he took up his position. Matxin nodded at him and then set to eating his breakfast; all he had to do was keep moving until his time was up. **** The detention cells were the ugliest part of Valora Alcazar, deep in the lowest part of the complex. Matxin took the lift down with Bakar beside him. He looked into the mirrored doors, at Bakar's reflection, and his own. They looked like as like; Bakar was a little slimmer through the hips, a little longer in the leg, his face was actually more like Piran's than Matxin's had been. He would have made a better king, if the king had been twenty years younger. They could have played it in turns, they could have all been crafted under Joris' knife to look identical. They were all from Valéry and the lands around it, where they grew in the ever-more polluted soil to be tall and golden and all so much alike. "You're looking better, sire," Bakar said quietly. He was stolid and serious, reminding Matxin a little of himself. Nekane was too sharp-tempered, too intense. She was like Piran that way. Bakar and Matxin were more cautious, contemplative. "It's good to see, if you don't mind me saying." 95

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"Don't mind at all." Matxin gave him a hint of a smile. "It's good to be feeling better." He squared his shoulders and tried to calm the anxiety boiling in his belly. "Has he said anything?" "No report of it, sire," Bakar said. His expression shifted to something openly sympathetic and Matxin shook his head. "I'm fine," he said quietly. "Yes, sire." A small light went on over the numbers on the elevator as they dropped deep into the heart of the alcazar. Bakar reached over to place his hand on the palm-plate, keeping the lift moving into the secure levels. They went down almost all the way and the lift slowed to a stop, the doors sliding open. Nekane and Per waited for them there; both bowed slightly to Matxin, as courtesy to the king remained even down here where protocol and formality were usually left behind. "He's said nothing," Per said, before Matxin could speak. "How is he?" Matxin asked as they headed down the hall to the detention cells. The central desk area was well-lit, a guard from Per's section sat at the desk, watching the screens. There was little going on down here, usually. It was rare that anyone came up as far as the alcazar. "Refuses food, water," Nekane said. "He's been resistant." Resistant. Matxin knew exactly what that meant. It didn't matter whether Eiran had actually resisted, he'd be in bad shape when Matxin saw him. The likelihood that Eiran was somehow involved in the bombing was too great for anyone to ignore. That anyone who wasn't a member of the royal family and guard would know the exact layout of Piran's 96

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private box and lounge at the amphitheater was almost impossible. The potential suspects were few. Matxin knew the security arrangements; he had upgraded them recently, just the year before when the protests of the Ortzani people and their supporters had escalated into outright terrorism. The list of people who would know where to go and what to do to circumvent those measures was small. It was astounding, but not impossible, that Eiran had managed it after being gone from Valéry and Valora Alcazar for so many years. Matxin had taught Eiran much of what he knew; he had never guessed that it might be used against him. "I understand," he said, keeping his expression neutral. "I want to see him." "You can talk in here." Per gestured to an interrogation room. Bakar opened the door for Matxin and waited for him to enter. "Before you go in, sire, you should know that I have the evidence in from the preliminary tests on the bomb in the galleria." Per held up a report pad. "I received it even as we were landing." Matxin turned to look at Piran's brother and there was genuine sadness on the castellan's face. "All of the materials on the bombs here in Valéry are consistent with the bombs he used in the south. And, Parisa says that one of the dissidents in custody is willing to speak against Eiran." It took all of Matxin's discipline to stand still and keep his expression calm. He realized that he'd been waiting for something to come to absolve Eiran of this atrocity and yet, he was made a fool of for his hope. Something in him raged that this was an impossibility, that the evidence had to be 97

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wrong, but there was a time to put hope aside and give up the pretense that he still knew the man he'd loved. Now, he had to let Piran speak. "Thank you," he said. "I trust your analysis of the findings." Per bowed his head. "I'm honored, sire. I'll bring in the prisoner now." The prisoner. Not Eiran. Matxin entered the room and took a seat at the head of the table, clasping his hands loosely and resting them on the table as Piran used to do. Trusting Per was not only what Piran would have done; it bought Matxin a little more time before he had to face the evidence of Eiran's treason. Fool that he was, he was still hoping that Eiran might have something to say that would cure all this pain. "I'll stay with his Majesty," Nekane said, following Matxin into the room. "You can watch from outside," Matxin said, stopping her with his words and a slight shake of his head. "Sire..." Bakar began to protest. "I know the risks and I choose to speak to my son alone," Matxin said flatly. He locked eyes with Nekane for a long moment, green on green, and then she turned away. "His Majesty is right," she said, retreating. "We will be beyond the glass." The clear wall that divided the interrogation room from a small observation area shimmered and transformed from treated glass into a mirror as the particles of the special coating aligned themselves according to a small current passed through them. Bakar stayed a moment longer then nodded to Matxin. 98

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"As you wish," he said with a touch of disapproval in his tone. It was so familiar, it made Matxin smile under the surface. He had taught them well enough. The interrogation room had the look and smell of countless others to which Matxin's work had brought him. They always seemed to be the same; ubiquitous gray rectangles, sometimes boasting an observation window or a camera, the metal table bolted to the floor, the uncomfortable chairs arranged around it. The air was stale, over-breathed, and stank of fear and disinfectant. Matxin waited without moving, his mind racing while his body was still. Where had they gone wrong? Eiran had been a good child, older than Luxan by two years when Matxin had first come into Piran's service. Then-Matxin made Kai look mature and competent. Matxin remembered being too skinny for his uniform, his calves too narrow for his boots, his wrists too slim not to ache after firing his gun. And Eiran, Eiran had been more like his father, more like Leila, than Luxan. Luxan had been laughing and playful, the kind of child who made free with hugs and kisses and picked flowers for his nannies, guileless to the core. Matxin swallowed around the lump in his throat and steadied his breathing. Eiran was restless and curious, always running to look at the next thing, forever entertained by the challenge of finding a new place to hide. Looking for him taught Matxin most of the holes in the old security system. It had started as a game and it had ended when Matxin learned to win it, planting listening devices in every dark corner so he could track the boy down whenever he needed 99

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to. He was going to win this last game, too. The door scraped as it slid open and Matxin schooled himself to calmness. They brought him in, Per on one side, a guard on the other, almost carrying him between them. They threw him into a chair, hands shackled behind his back, ankles chained together, and he sat there with his head down, staring at the tabletop. "Leave us." And then they were alone, the door sliding closed to shut them in together. Matxin stared at the man across from him. The thin white jumper they'd dressed him in when they took his clothes was streaked with blood from his face, torn at one shoulder, stretched over his bones. His black hair fell in a ragged veil to hide his face but Matxin could see the roots where it was growing in pure white. "It's been a long time, Eiran," he said quietly. He hardly knew what to think; it went against all his instinct to sit here and watch red-black blood drip slowly onto the white jumper. "Do you have anything to say for yourself?" Eiran tossed his hair back a little and looked at Matxin in silence. He was haggard and battered, bleeding from the nose and mouth. Smiling a little, he spat blood out on the table. "I've been talking all this time," he said raggedly. "You haven't been listening." His nose was broken, crooked, his skin was taut over his cheekbones and colored like Matxin's with blood pooled under the gold. "I don't have the luxury of listening to terrorists," Matxin said, shaking his head. "You left me little choice."

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"I left you choices. You didn't want them." Eiran seemed calm but his eyes were too bright, his breath too fast. Not much, but enough. He was afraid, and with good reason. "You haven't left me any this time, have you?" "I'm not powerful enough to take away your choices," Eiran said, his shoulders tensing. Afraid and angry. "Don't blame me for what you decide to do, how you decide to rule." "You expect me to exempt you from murder?" Matxin took a slow breath and shook his head again. "I may have choices, but they're limited by my duties. You know that." He'd heard the argument over and over again. He hadn't always listened to the subject, but the litany changed little until Piran had finally banished Eiran from the alcazar. "Duties." Eiran laughed and spit again. "I don't know why you bothered having children, or was that another of your duties?" "Now is hardly the time to play the petulant, disenchanted son," Matxin said flatly. He was getting angry and this wasn't even his son. He was angry for Piran, angry for Luxan. And there was no remorse in Eiran, no sorrow, nothing but contempt. "What were you going to do in Valéry?" "What do you think I was going to do?" Eiran tried to find a comfortable way to sit; he couldn't lean back and rest since the shackles pulled his arms back so that there was little relief from pain or tiredness. He gave up, wincing, and looked Matxin in the eye. "I was going to the funerals." It was a struggle not to laugh aloud, or get up to backhand Eiran for his impertinence. Matxin wanted to do both, but he 101

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forced himself to stay calm. Rage, at this point, wasn't going to help anything. "You were what?" "Going to the funerals," Eiran said again, his face twisting a little with anger. "The evidence from the bombs has been processed by Per's scientists," Matxin said tightly. "I'll save my final judgment for then, but in any case, I don't think you have any right to be at anyone's funeral." "I'm still a citizen," Eiran spat. "You think I don't have a right to stand in the crowd like the rest of the peasants?" "Do you think a murderer has the right to be at the funeral of his victims?" "I think I have the right to be at the funeral of my friend," Eiran said, undeterred. "You never knew your brother." Matxin couldn't stop the pure disdain on his face, and he shook his head slowly. He stood, leaning on the table, and let all his anger poison his words. "He was just a child. He didn't deserve to die, no matter what you think of me." "I wasn't talking about Luxan. I'm sorry that he died, and he didn't deserve it." There was a hint of sadness there but it was gone quickly and Eiran shook back his hair, tilting his chin and looking up at Matxin. "I meant Matxin. My friend." That was like a blow to the chest; it hurt so much that Matxin thought for a moment that one of those thin shards of mirror had finally reached his heart. "You don't have a right to call him that anymore." Matxin straightened and walked around the table. Eiran didn't flinch away, not even when Matxin got a handful of his dirty hair 102

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and yanked his head back. "I have the evidence I need," he whispered. "Unless you have something salient to say in your own defense, we won't be talking again, Eiran." He let go, his fingers catching in the strands and breaking them off so that they were twisted in his hand, and walked away. Per was waiting for him right outside the door. "Do you believe him?" he murmured as the door swung closed. Matxin inhaled and then exhaled slowly. What he believed didn't matter. "I will believe the evidence," he said, trying to unclench his jaw enough to speak. The pain shot from under his breastbone up into his skull, and he hoped it didn't show on his face. "It will speak for all of us; it is the only thing left to trust." Nekane and Bakar were there, he realized, dark shadows behind Per. How easy it was to forget their presence. Had he been such a fixture that Piran had not so much accepted him as forgotten him completely? Matxin didn't want to think about that now. "Joris wished to see you, sire," Nekane murmured when Matxin's gaze passed over her. "Before the funeral." Perhaps the pain did show, or perhaps Joris really had summoned him. Matxin didn't care; being reminded made him irritable. "I'll see him before I go. I haven't forgotten. He can wait for now." He turned to Per. "Get Eiran cleaned up. Get that crap out of his hair, wash him so he doesn't stink, get him some medical attention. He may be a few days away from hanging, but he's still a Valora and a prince of PauOrtzi." 103

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"Yes, sire." Per actually looked a little chastened and he bowed to Matxin before stepping away and gesturing to his men. Matxin headed for the lift at a brisk pace, his heart bumping against his ribs. "Nekane, you'll be with the Queen. Go to her now. Bakar, with me. Any word on Kai?" The lift doors slid open and Matxin stepped in and turned around to lean on the rail a little, not looking at himself in the mirror. Nekane and Bakar flanked him, their presence strangely comforting. "He'll be at the funeral this afternoon," Nekane said. "He's still in the infirmary until then, and will be returned for observation after." The healing chambers weren't for many, their power reserved for the fortunate few. Matxin nodded, glad at least that the young guard would live. In his previous role, he would have gone to see Kai, would have soothed his sense of failure, his misery. As Piran, he could not. Would not. Matxin couldn't tell which it was, just that it was against his grain to be silent, absent, when one of his own was suffering. It was just a little longer, though, that he had to wear Piran's face. The evidence would come through, he could settle things, and then step away. How, he didn't know. He leaned a little heavier on the railing, feeling tired to his soul. Joris would know what to do; Matxin would know when to do it.

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Chapter Five All signs of the fair were gone from Solange Galleria when the royal air cars landed for the funeral of Prince Luxan. Matxin stepped out onto the soil of Pau-Ortzi for the first time as its king, feeling strangely idle while the royal guard hurried about him. The metallic winds tugged at his clothing, pulled at his cloak, and made the medals of honor on his chest stir. His hair eluded the wind, for the most part, trapped as it was under Piran's crown. Here now were the horses Per had jokingly threatened Matxin with, dressed in gilded harness and hitched to the royal carriages. Matxin turned to help Oriane up into the first carriage, then lifted Leila up after her. Himself, he took the reins of Piran's favorite horse, a white gelding nearly as tall at the shoulder as Matxin, and he swung up into the saddle, ignoring the aches and pains that shot through him with the effort. Joris had declared him, for the moment, healthy. The swelling and discoloration was fading from his face and Joris had injected a filler under Matxin's jaw to soften the line, and in his neck to mimic the ways that time had touched Piran before he died. Later, when it was ready, there would be a small capsule waiting for him, to be placed where Joris thought best. Joris was working on it himself; it was not the kind of thing that could simply be ordered from an apothecary. Another shard of glass under his skin that could be shattered easily enough, 105

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and he, Piran, would die quietly, having solved the mystery of the murder of his son. It was a peaceful enough affair. The carriages, led by the hearse, traveled the oldest streets of Valéry, following the first route taken by the first king of Pau-Ortzi. Matxin rode by the hearse with Bakar on horseback beside him. He could see through the window of the old black carriage to where the tiny coffin was heaped with flowers, looking even smaller for being lost in the expanse of red velvet that lined the hearse. His jaw clenched until his head ached and he made himself look ahead so that he wouldn't think too much about the little body lying in the gold and white box. The coffin would have been open until the last, Luxan would have laid in state, save for the fact that his fragile body had been torn to shreds by the bomb that was engineered to do the worst to whomever stood directly in front of the mirror. There was nothing much to preserve and put on display. Matxin forced himself to relax as pain shot through him, his jaw clenched so tightly that his teeth ground over each other. Bakar's eyes flicked to him when he inhaled a little too deep. "I'm fine," he lied. "Yes, sire." Bakar bowed his head and put his attention where it belonged, on the solemn crowd back behind the barriers, beyond Per's guards and the Valéry police. Matxin was almost surprised to see the number of faces streaked with tears as they passed. Sometimes he forgot that the royal family had a great sentimental value to most of Pau-Ortzi. It was only those who felt differently that Matxin was forced to 106

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deal with and prepare for; it had distorted his vision a little over the years. Perhaps it was this side of the people that Piran's eyes had seen all that time. Breixo, the royal family's priest, was waiting for them at the little chapel at the far side of the city of Valéry, flanked by his attendants, Amaia and Sari. They were all worn thin with age, their hair white and their backs bent. The wind pulled at their white robes and hair and the deep red stoles worked with gold dragons that they wore. When, Matxin wondered, had they gotten so old? How had so much time passed without him knowing it? It had been years since Matxin had attended a royal funeral and he was surprised at how simple it seemed if one weren't in charge of keeping all the glittering, sorrow-faced dignitaries from being killed by some malcontent. There was silence as Matxin followed the little white coffin down the center aisle, followed in turn by Oriane and Leila. Leila was silent, trembling and dazed, clinging to her mother's hand and trying not to stumble over her white mourning gown. Matxin wanted nothing more than to pick her up and comfort her, but he could not. She was a princess of Pau-Ortzi, a Valora, and sometimes the lessons of that honor were bitter. Piran's wife leaned on no one, shed no tears. Back straight and head held high, she seemed almost defiant in the face of everyone else's grief over the loss of her son. Piran would have approved, would have expected nothing less. There were ministers there, and nobles, and guests from other worlds, trade representatives from the companies and 107

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governments that bought the war machines that were the pride of Pau-Ortzi. Matxin scanned the crowd as he waited for Oriane and Leila to be seated with their attendants in the royal box. Nothing seemed out of place. Kai was there, at the front of the chapel, leaning on Josu as he took up his place beside the little white casket. That gave Matxin a small amount of pride, to see the boy in his place, even if he had to lean on one of his brothers-in-arms to keep his feet. Kai's face was as pale as the casket, twisted by a scar from jaw to temple that he would keep the rest of his days. Feeling Matxin's eyes on him, Kai looked to him and bowed his head to his king. Matxin gave him a smile and nod in return; forgiveness in case he needed it. Piran might have been more sparing with it, but Piran had little time to live now. He could afford to be generous. Matxin took his seat beside Oriane, wishing he could have Leila next to him as the little girl sat on the other side of her mother bravely trying not to sniffle. Breixo mounted the steps to the pulpit on unsteady legs and, clutching the edges of the pulpit for support, he began to drone the service for the dead without looking at his holy book. They all knew the routine. The soft inhalations of Leila's unsteady breathing were the only sounds in Matxin's ears; they drowned out all other noise. The choir, the words of comfort, the words of absolution, they were like the sigh of the sea on the shore in the distance. Nekane stood behind Oriane, Bakar stood behind Matxin. He thought that he would 108

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have to pick someone to attend Leila now, someone he trusted, until Kai recovered. Too soon, it was time for the internment. The royal family and their guard led the priest and nuns through the back of the chapel, to the royal cemetery. It was beautiful here; the sun was bright and the wind blew, freshened a little by passing over Lake Cefer. The trees glittered emerald against the turquoise sky and Matxin breathed deep. Life was so beautiful, so ephemeral. Kai and Matxin, Josu and Bakar, were the only ones needed to carry Luxan's coffin to its final resting place. Matxin followed the old priest and his nuns down a red carpet laid out on the deep green grass. It was soft under his feet, his steps were silent. The wind rustled in the trees and in their white robes. The little coffin on his shoulder weighed almost nothing; otherwise, Kai would hardly have been able to stand up under it. As it was, he leaned into it and Matxin, opposite him, took the extra weight, as was only right. The queen and Leila, escorted by Oriane's father Ghislain, stopped well back from the dark damp hole in the rich brown earth where they would put Luxan to rest. A few chosen ministers and advisors and guests were invited to witness the interment; all together, they looked the part of a chorus in a tragedy. Breixo took up his place at the head of the grave and gestured for the pallbearers to step forward. They laid the coffin on the cords that crossed the hole; those would be uncoiled slowly, carrying the coffin down into the dark. 109

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"Light of all lights," Breixo began. Across from Matxin, Kai straightened with a wince, but stood like the rest of them, hands behind his back, at attention. "That which shines through all darkness, through all nights." There was a slight ticking as the automatic winches started to lower the coffin into the grave. "No!" Leila's wail was thin and desperate. Matxin looked over his shoulder to see her slip from Oriane's grasp and run toward the grave. When he glanced back a moment, it was to make sure there was no way she could fall in if she were trying to throw herself on the coffin. There was the ticking again, but then Matxin realized that the coffin hadn't moved yet. He turned on his heel and lunged for the little girl as she ran toward him. "Get down," he yelled, catching Leila around the waist and bearing her back toward her mother. The blast caught him from behind and threw him forward into Oriane. He fell on her and Leila, sheltering them from the twisted metal and dirt that rained down on them all. **** Before the rain of debris had stopped, Matxin pushed himself to his feet, rolling to look at the scene around him. Dignitaries and nobles fled, herded by Per's men, back into the chapel. The perfection of the day was shredded by chaos. Leila shrieked, clinging to her mother. Oriane, her white dress covered in grass stains and a showering of dirt, was as silent as she had been all along, unmoved by the sudden trauma. 110

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Per was there, pulling Oriane to her feet, pulling her into his arms, his face pale. "Get them out of here," Matxin yelled, his ears still ringing from the blast. "Get my family to the alcazar." "You, too, your Majesty." Nekane grabbed Matxin by the arm and started trying to pull him away. The air cars of the royal guard swooped in low, landing where they could, knocking headstones and memorials flat in the blast from their engines and carving furrows in the earth. "In my own time. You and Bakar, take them to the alcazar." Matxin pulled away from her and vaulted the grave to pull Kai off of the priest. The young guard's body was limp in his arms, blood staining the glossy white of his uniform. Beneath him, Breixo was still, his faded green eyes staring at nothing. There was not a mark on him, the only blood on his white cassock was Kai's. Bakar leaned in to help Matxin with Kai's limp body. "Must have been the shock," Bakar said quietly; Matxin could barely hear him over the deafness from the blast. "I told you to go," Matxin growled, feeling the young guard's throat for a pulse. There was one, strong against his fingers. "Since you're not listening to me, get this boy into a car." "He's alive?" "Probably passed out," Matxin said, trying to lift Kai into Bakar's arms. "The priest, looks like shock." "How did you know, sire?" Bakar picked Kai up easily and managed to balance him so that he could still offer Matxin his hand, although awkwardly. 111

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"Ticking. Sound." Matxin pulled himself to his feet, looking around as his head cleared. It was a disaster. There was no other word for it. The shards of the coffin were everywhere, torn flowers strewn all over the torn earth. His heart clenched and pain shot through his chest, so sharp that he couldn't inhale for a moment. That Luxan had died was horrible; that he'd been the victim twice, unbearable. A dead priest, the shredded rags of the body of Piran's son, the ruined cemetery ... Matxin turned and ran for one of the landed air cars. "Sire?" Bakar took a few steps after him, weighed down by Kai's unconscious form. Matxin didn't stop; he swung into the air car and settled in the pilot's seat, pressing the buttons to close the boarding ramp and prepare for take-off. Outside, the pilot came racing toward the car, too late, as it took off, blasting a blackened patch in the grass as it leapt skyward. **** The trip to the alcazar was a blur of blue sky and then gray halls. Matxin grabbed the security key to Eiran's cell from the baffled guard and dropped it in the hall the moment that the door swung open. Eiran was a streak of white in his vision, cleaned up as ordered, his hair like snow again. He stood when Matxin entered, opening his mouth to speak, but didn't get a word out before Matxin had him with two hands fisted in the white prison jumper and slammed him up against the back wall of the cell. "Make it stop," Matxin hissed. The door slid shut behind him, locking them in together. 112

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"I can't," Eiran said tightly. Matxin held him with his feet off the ground, hands so tight in the jumper than Eiran was struggling to breathe. "I said make it stop!" Matxin let him go and Eiran's feet hit the floor; he stumbled forward and Matxin stepped back just enough to get a good swing when he backhanded Eiran across the face. It hurt so much he thought he'd been struck himself, and he gasped. Eiran sprawled across the narrow little bunk and his head cracked against the wall. He lay where he had fallen and brought his hand to his mouth, pulling it away bloody. "You make it stop." Matxin grabbed him by the hair and pulled him to his feet, then slammed him face-first into the bars of the cell, making the hallway echo with the sound. "You're at the heart of it," he snarled. "You think we don't know what you've been up to?" "I never hurt you," Eiran spat. "Never." "Well, I'm hurt now." Matxin spun him around and slammed him against the bars again, holding him by the shoulders this time. He was; he ached in his bones and his guts and behind his eyes, behind Piran's eyes. "Don't make me kill you." "You can stop all this," Eiran said. He was bleeding from the nose and mouth, blood darkened his white hair at the temple. "You act like I have power that I don't have. You started this. You annexed the Ortzi provinces." He lifted his chin, daring Matxin to hit him. "You expanded the mines. All I 113

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did was try to stop you. I only wanted to stand in your way long enough for you to see." "None of that excuses murdering your brother, none of it excuses treason and patricide." Matxin shook him, hard, making his head rock back into one of the bars with a sound like a dull bell. "It ends now." "You're the king." Eiran's gaze blurred, lost focus. "I'm just the clearest voice. I'm just the only thing you hear." He coughed on blood, spraying Matxin's face with a fine red mist. "You never listen to yourself. You never listen to anyone. You never see what you don't want to see." "The evidence is in. I have heard it from Per himself; soon enough I will see it with my own eyes." Matxin stepped back and threw Eiran down onto his bunk. His hands, empty now, were shaking. "My judgment comes tonight. You could change this." "Could I?" Eiran lay where Matxin had thrown him, blood trickling down his face in rivulets, staining his hair and jumper. "If you have the evidence, you'll know I didn't do this. You'll know I never killed anyone. Or did you pass judgment years ago and we've all just been waiting for the final reason for my execution?" "I never judged you. Not until the last." Matxin turned and leaned on the cell door, waiting while the guard outside, struggling to hide the shock on his face, opened the cell with the key Matxin had dropped in the hallway. Too late, staring at nothing, he realized that he was speaking for himself, not Piran. A slip in the moment. A lie, from the man Matxin wasn't. 114

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The door opened and Matxin stumbled out. He didn't turn around; Eiran didn't say anything as he fled. Eiran hadn't raised a hand against him and Matxin was the one who was fleeing. Per was running down the hall toward him, Nekane on his heels and Matxin waved them off. "Your Majesty," Per began. He looked baffled and disheveled, his white clothing still filthy from the bombing at the funeral. "Bring me the evidence," Matxin said, trying to regain his composure as he passed them. "Yes, sire," Per said, covering his confusion with obedience. "I'll escort his Majesty to his quarters," Nekane said following Matxin. "And have the royal physician examine him. The evidence can be delivered to myself or Bakar." Matxin staggered into the elevator and slumped against the rail. Nekane stepped in and pressed the button for an upper floor, then pressed her palm to the reader. "I'm fine," Matxin said before she could say anything. His chest hurt, his stomach was a knot. He was spattered in Eiran's blood, smeared in Kai's, nameless things were caught in his hair from the bomb's debris, from the grave. If he thought about it, he would vomit. He clenched the rail to stop his hands from shaking, to stop the shaking from spreading through his body. "Did you take a blow to the head?" Nekane asked, her voice neutral. Matxin could hear the warning in her tone, in spite of that; he knew her that well. "It would explain your Majesty's erratic behavior." 115

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"My outrage is completely justified," Matxin said, lifting his head to meet her cool eyes. "Has he claimed responsibility?" "He says nothing. Doesn't try to defend himself." "There are irregularities with this last bombing," she said, low. Matxin was silent a while, trying to breathe through the pain in his chest before he spoke again. "That doesn't change what's gone before." "No," Nekane said gently. "Nothing changes what's gone before. I'm sorry, sir." "Why are you sorry?" The lift slowed and Matxin straightened, reaching up to push back his hair and finding the cold circlet of Piran's crown still firmly on his brow. "It's hard to think the worst of someone you once loved," she said softly. "I never..." Matxin started to say, then let it fall into silence. Maybe Piran had loved his son. And Matxin would deny ever having done so. The doors slid open and Matxin straightened, his shoulders back. "Will you allow Doctor Joris to examine you, sire?" Nekane asked in a low voice as she followed Matxin out and down the hall toward Piran's quarters. "No need," Matxin said flatly. "How fare my wife and daughter?" "Unharmed, sir. Thanks to you. Your Majesty has some small lacerations," Nekane pointed out. "You may stain your robes, should they not be treated." 116

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Matxin stopped dead, then looked over his shoulder at her, at the impassive mask of her calm face. "Then send him to me. In my rooms." He stood there watching her until she bowed a little under his gaze. "Yes, sire." "I will be awaiting my brother's report." He started walking again. The sooner he got the report, the sooner all this would be behind him. **** "If I outranked you, I would order you all to cease and desist," Joris said dryly, dropping a shard of wood into a metal tin held out for him by Alban. Matxin sprawled on Piran's bed, face buried in his arms. "I've ordered it myself," he said, muffled. "If they don't listen to me, they won't listen to you." "This is very true." Joris sounded very bland, so much so that Matxin could read the disapproval behind it. He began to dig another splinter from under Matxin's skin, this one at the base of his skull. "Perhaps, then, it is the time for action." "I'll be doing that as soon as I have all the facts," Matxin said, feeling defensive. He wasn't the king Piran had been, but he was trying. He clenched his teeth against a grunt of pain as Joris pushed something into the wound he'd just cleared, something small and cold and glass. "Understood, sire. You really should be careful of taking anymore knocks on the head." There was a stinging as Joris sutured the last of the wounds closed. "That should hold you 117

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together as long as you don't tangle with any more bombs or men half your age." "How did you..." Matxin rolled over and sat up as Joris backed up. He knew what Joris had tucked under his skin, the pharmacon that would let him out of this charade whenever he was ready for it. "Your hand, sire." Joris pointed at Matxin's left hand where the knuckles were starting to swell a little. "It bears injuries not consistent with the damage from a bomb. A slightly ineffective bomb, however impressive the damage may have been." "I noticed that." Matxin got to his feet and Joris held out a robe for him to slip into. "The first one was far more effective." "Directed, from the wounds I saw," Joris said quietly. "The injuries to yourself, the prince, and your guard were such that the bomb was intended to kill the person before the mirror without much other damage." "The bomb in the cemetery was similarly focused," Matxin said thoughtfully. "Just less effective." "I'm hardly an expert," Joris said, stepping away and watching Alban carefully clean up all the medical tools and stained swabs. "But it seemed to me as though the second bomb might have been constructed with a little less care." "Yes." Matxin flexed his shoulders and winced. He felt tenderized, macerated. "But your Majesty hardly needs me to educate him on such matters," Joris said pleasantly, bowing to Matxin. 118

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"I'm always pleased when you choose to share your council," Matxin said. Piran would have said the same. Matxin wondered whether or not he would have meant it. "Thank you for your service, doctor." The physician bowed again, smiling a little now. "I will be by to see your Majesty again tomorrow," Joris warned, then stepped away. Alban, carrying his master's gear, bowed as well and then followed him out. Nekane came in as they left, intruding on the sanctuary of Piran's bedroom. Matxin glared at her but she seemed unrepentant. "I have the evidence, sire," she said, coolly. "You wanted it immediately. Also, Sendoa Mercé has arrived for his son's funeral tomorrow." "Tell the ministers I will meet with them at dusk." Matxin tied the robe at his waist, over his blood and grass stained trousers and held out his hand for the file in the reader Nekane carried. She passed it over but didn't let it go. "Did you wish to speak to Mercé?" she asked softly. One last chance to see his father. One more time after too long. Piran would have done it, if he'd valued Matxin at all. Matxin nodded slowly. "I'll speak to him tonight, after my meeting with the ministers. Make sure he's accommodated comfortably near the chapel." "Yes, sir," Nekane said, releasing her hold on the file and bowing. "I will have Bakar see to that, with your permission." "Who is with my wife?" "Matia is attending her, with Alecho of Per's staff on hand as well." 119

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"And my daughter?" "Josu, sire." Matxin would rather do it himself. He went to his desk and settled down there, glancing up when he realized that Nekane hadn't moved. "I'm fine. Have Jowan or whoever's stuck with me for the moment order me some tea." "Not supper, sire?" "I'm not hungry." Matxin loaded the file into the desktop and it changed from polished wood to a viewing screen with all of Per's documentation laid out on it. "Yes, sire." Matxin looked up at her and he could see it again, the war in her eyes that were so much like his, like Piran's, so green, the color of nightfall. "I'm fine, Nekane," he said gently. "Should I have Joris see to Eiran?" She almost hadn't said it, he could tell, but the words came forth almost in spite of her. If he were playing Piran, she was playing him, playing the devil's advocate. "If you think it's necessary." "Yes, sire." She bowed, with that little click of her heels, as always, and then was gone. Matxin stared down at the diagrams, at the graphs of chemical composition, of patterns of dispersal, and he put his head in his hands so that his hands wouldn't shake, so that he wouldn't look away. He had his suspicions, and in his anger and grief it had been easy to lay blame. But now, cold and tired and aching and defeated, tired already of being what he wasn't, he had to look at the facts that would send Eiran to the gallows. 120

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The explosive was specific, manufactured just outside of Apollinar, the same as the explosive used on the drilling platforms on the Sea of Barakat. The composition was identical to that found at the sites of sabotage for which Eiran had claimed responsibility. And the construction, what had been found, was similar, if on a minute scale. It was a work of art, made by skilled hands, and there was no doubt that it had been placed precisely to kill a man of Piran's height standing in front of the mirror. Why it hadn't gone off the first time was beyond Matxin. They'd never found the trigger. Perhaps it was voiceactivated. He flipped through the evidence, forcing himself to focus through the memories that wanted to push through and argue fact with emotion. "I never hurt you," Eiran had said. It was the closest thing to a denial that he'd made. He was honest, Matxin knew that much. If he'd been any kind of liar, Piran wouldn't have thrown him out. Eiran was a terrible diplomat, he always had been. Matxin didn't know him now. He hardly recognized the man who'd been brought in to him in the interrogation room. It wasn't just the broken nose and the bruises and the dyed hair. It was the tiredness. Eiran had never been tired, not during any waking moment that Matxin had known him all the years before. He had been a difficult, intense, precocious child, one that lived and loved intensely. Yet Piran and Eiran clashed, more and more after Piran married Oriane. And then it had all been over. Matxin had watched it all come down, had erased the recordings where 121

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he and Eiran had screamed at each other, the fights where Matxin pleaded with him to just let things go, things he could change when he finally came to the throne, things that didn't even have to touch him at all. There was so much else he could be doing other than finding ways to defy his father, causes to back that interfered with Piran's plans. And yet, he wouldn't listen, he wouldn't be quiet, he wouldn't back down, and most of all, he wouldn't lie. If there was anything Eiran wasn't, it was a liar. He didn't lie to Piran, wouldn't lie to him, wouldn't ... he couldn't. The truth was like a compulsion for him, where his father was concerned, and no matter how long Matxin stared at the evidence, he couldn't reconcile it with those four words. But even Piran, even the king, couldn't put aside proof of who murdered one of his sons in favor of a gut feeling he had about the son he'd thrown out of his home, the son he'd all but disowned. Even the king couldn't justify that and, no matter how he looked the part, Matxin wasn't the king. He got up and pulled off his robe, heading for the shower. The tea someone had brought him was cold, untouched. What he knew wasn't going to change what the facts were. And he knew what the meeting with the ministers would bring. He would be making the announcement tomorrow after ... after his own funeral. They'd uncovered the lynchpin of the bombing plots, no matter what Matxin's heart said. Eiran, Prince of Pau-Ortzi was guilty of treason and murder. And Matxin would be announcing his impending execution. He turned on the water and stepped under it, leaning on the wall and letting the 122

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water beat him. That he wouldn't live much longer beyond that was small consolation, but he would hold on to it. He'd wait until it was all over. He wouldn't leave Eiran behind just to save himself the pain of watching him die. He'd wait until Eiran was buried in an unmarked grave in the pauper's cemetery outside of Valéry, and then he'd rest, done chasing him at last.

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Chapter Six "The ministers will note the similarities in composition for all explosives used in the acts of sabotage and terrorism arranged by Prince Eiran." Per stood at the head of the council chamber, backlit by a screen showing a set of graphs. The graphs overlaid each other one at a time, showing the common composition. "The analyses shown in blue are for events for which the prince specifically took responsibility. Those in red are associated with fatalities for which he has not yet admitted his involvement." "Has he pled innocent, then?" Minister Lorea Caieta, a slender woman with the same red-gold hair as her son, Catzi, ran a finger down the report in front of her, scanning it swiftly. "He refuses to speak on the matter," Per said tightly. "In spite of his father's intervention." Per nodded respectfully at Matxin and Matxin could see shadows falling over the faces of the ministers and advisors in attendance. "These are exceptionally disturbing accusations, your Majesty," Minister Mael said quietly, as she, like the others, read through the evidence that Per had compiled. "I make no accusations," Matxin said, trying to keep his voice even and calm. "I simply bring to you the evidence compiled by my brother, whom I trust implicitly." Per, seated to Matxin's left, bowed his head in acknowledgement of the compliment. For some reason, perhaps because it was the only way he could keep Eiran's blood from staining his hands completely, 124

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he needed the record to show that he was not accusing Eiran of anything. History would never know that it was Matxin who sat at the head of the council, nor would it tell of his affair with Eiran. Moreover, Matxin owed it to Piran to ensure that the best decisions were made. "Are you satisfied, sire, that you have all the evidence you need for this decision?" Goizargi, looking harsh and corvine as always, looked at him with her black, bright eyes. She worried Matxin; once she had been a member of the royal guard and had all the skills of one, still. Her hands might be twisted with age and her back bent, but her mind was as good as Matxin's. "His Majesty has all the evidence there is," Per said before Matxin could speak. "I have withheld nothing." "If this is all there is, then I must be satisfied," Matxin added. He had nothing concrete that he could place on the table. He was only a guard, for all that he had been the only one allowed by Piran's side at all times for nearly a decade. If Piran lived, Matxin would be standing where Nekane stood, by his right shoulder, silent, voiceless, merely an observer with no opinion of his own. And so he schooled himself to that place in his mind, even if his body, Piran's body, sat in the chair at the head of council. "If your Majesty is satisfied," Goizargi said, her eyes still piercing Matxin's face, "then so are his advisors." She looked around at the others—Endika, Usoa, and Kemen—for confirmation and they all nodded in turn. Matxin wished that someone would stop all this, that someone would argue with him. How they could all, who had 125

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known Eiran since he was young, accept so easily that he was a murderer pained him. "Does anyone else have any questions for Captain Nekane or Castellan Per?" "You are satisfied, Highness, that the patterns of attacks are consistent?" Haizea, the youngest minister, a gold-haired girl younger than Matxin, tapped her screen until the explanation of the history of the terrorist attacks was showing again. She was a scientist, some kind of materials engineer. Her expertise had earned her a place on Piran's council when she was still very young. Per tapped his own screen and they could all see the page that Haizea was reading, on the main screen above the council table. "You will see that they are consistent in terms of frequency, severity, and that they can be related directly to an influx in supplies and monies obtained by the rebels through a steady pattern of hijackings and thefts," Per explained. "The escalation of these attacks is the norm, in our experience, for a terrorist cell of this nature. And the materials used in recent attacks can all be traced back to a single shipment of mining explosives hijacked six winters ago outside Apollinaris." Haizea nodded slowly and then, sounding almost reluctant, she said, "I must be satisfied as well, then. The direct evidence against Prince Eiran in this case is substantial, if mostly circumstantial. His history of rebellion against his Majesty must also be accounted for, and as such I cannot feel that his execution will be anything but a benefit to the peace of Pau-Ortzi." 126

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"Well said." Goizargi nodded approvingly at the youngest minister, then looked to the others. "Well? Ximun? Ganix? Lorea? What have you got to say?" Ganix ran his hand through his short hair and shook his head slowly. "I must regretfully concur with the analysis," he said. He was Matxin's age; he likely remembered Eiran well, from his younger days. "And I." Ximun was an Ortzani lord; he and Ganix represented the interests of the lower provinces. He looked deeply unhappy, disappointed, his dark face lined with time and worry. It was to his benefit, and Ganix's, that the blame fall to Eiran; it would ease the tension between Pau and Ortzi since the other likely suspects were all Ortzani. Still, Matxin appreciated that the man seemed uncomfortable with his good fortune. "The evidence is overwhelming," Lorea said quietly, winding and unwinding her long fingers until she clasped them together tightly. "This is a terrible decision, for all of us. But I must agree." "You have your answers then, your Majesty, your Highness," Goizargi said with finality. "You have our support." "I will make the announcement as to my decision tomorrow," Matxin said, resigned and trying to ignore the howling and pounding in his chest. "I have other matters to attend to this evening." He rose and the rest of them stood with him. "I appreciate your counsel in this matter." There were murmured assurances that it was all part of their work and they were honored to serve as the ministers and advisors bowed. The truth was, Matxin could have made 127

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the decision alone; Piran was within his rights to do so. Matxin just couldn't bear to do it, didn't feel he had the right even if Piran did. He retreated from the council chamber with Nekane on his heels. **** "How fares your Majesty?" Nekane asked softly as Matxin led her out down the hall toward Piran's chambers. The sound of their footsteps would keep their voices from most ears. "As well as can be expected," Matxin muttered, pulling off the cold circle of Piran's crown. "I have had word from Bakar," Nekane said. "And?" "The cemetery has been secured and prepared for the internment again." Matxin's heart clenched in his chest and he shook his head. It wouldn't stop, any of it, not long enough for him to breathe. "Has my wife been informed?" "Yes, sir. She is reluctant to go down to Valéry again." There was a hint of disapproval in Nekane's voice, but she added, "Her Highness has been most distraught, so much so that Doctor Itxaro was needed to come and administer a sedative." "It's understandable. I'll take care of it. Tell Bakar I'll go down with him," Matxin said, squaring his shoulders and trying to inhale past the pain in his chest. "Are you well enough to see Sendoa Mercé, sire?" Nekane asked quietly 128

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"Go and get him. I'll see him before I go down for the internment." How much pain could he pack into one night? Maybe it was easier like this, like ripping off a bandage, and besides, Matxin didn't have the time to spare. He should be grateful for the way things were falling into place so quickly. "Will you be eating, sire?" "I'll do that now. Thank you. Bring Mercé to me as soon as he arrives up here." The doors to Piran's chambers slid open and they stepped out into the atrium, through one of the alcoves to the side. Xarai and Joseba were waiting for him, as well as Nere, Danel, and Catzi. Piran's trio of consorts were arranged beautifully on a curving couch, slender black-haired Nere curled like a tilde between broad-shouldered, gold-haired Danel and willowy, red-headed Catzi. Nere rose first when he entered and came forward, her bare feet silent on the stone floor, the hem of her soft pink gown rustling a little as she walked, and she curtsied so deeply that her hair brushed the floor. "Your forgiveness, please, your Majesty," she whispered. The boys, as Piran always called them for all that they were grown men, were a pace behind her, dropping carefully to one knee. They were dressed in similar loose pants and tunics, Catzi in leaf green and Danel in sky blue. The colors were a welcome relief from the mourning white that had draped everything for days. "Decided to come make sure I ate dinner, did you?" Matxin said, amused as Piran would have been. He handed his crown 129

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off to Joseba and Xarai came to carefully take the robe he wore over his white uniform. "We were concerned, sire," Danel admitted, his accent the solid Valéry accent compared to Nere and Catzi, who hailed from the north, from the lands of farmers and gold-miners. Catzi, on his own, could get what he wanted out of Piran. Together, the three of them made something of a formidable force that tended to accomplish what it set out to do. Their proximity to Piran and their high-standing families of origin provided them with an impressive array of allies, acquaintance, and sources of information. "Well, come oversee my dinner and then you can go tell whomever you please that I'm still eating and in good health," Matxin said dryly. He came over and took Nere's slender hand in his, drawing her to her feet. She was the youngest of them, the most innocent, the smallest; the girl didn't even come to his shoulder. Matxin wasn't sure Piran had even bedded her yet. Legitimate age wasn't always the best indicator of readiness for that sort of thing. He smiled at her in return when she tilted her head back and gave him a smile. Her face was heart-shaped and her cheeks were pink. They were all full of color; such a contrast to his ministers, to his guards, to his wife. Danel and Catzi flanked him as Xarai and Joseba led the way into the casual dining room. Dinner was set out, a beautiful spread of meats and fruits and cheeses, wines shimmered in the candlelight, and flowers overflowed their vases to cover the table and fill the air with 130

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scent. Matxin allowed the consorts to see him comfortably seated on an eating couch and humored them as they set about attending to him and feeding him. There was so much to think about, but Danel's big, gentle hands on his neck and shoulders made it hard to focus. He leaned back against Danel's chest and, foolish though he knew it was, he closed his eyes and let himself be fed. What was the worst that would happen? Someone would kill him while his guard down. That would be too easy for the universe to let it happen. He let himself be soothed; it was so strange and alien, it was like listening to an opera in a foreign tongue but enjoying it regardless. "Excuse me." Matxin opened his eyes with a bit of a start and swallowed the sweet fish he'd just been fed from Catzi's fingers and focused on Bakar. "Sire, you wished to know when Mercé arrived." "Yes." Matxin looked around him. "Find out if he's eaten." It was against all protocol for Piran to invite Sendoa in for a meal, but Piran wasn't known for keeping protocol when he could get away without it. "Sire." Bakar bowed and was gone. Matxin shifted to sitting with a sigh of regret and ran his hands through his hair. "Do you wish for us to stay?" Catzi asked. He reached up from where he sat at Matxin's feet to stroke his cheek. "What I wish and what I should do are different things," Matxin said honestly, smiling at Catzi. What Piran had lost, Matxin could never appreciate fully. Catzi got to his knees and kissed Matxin on the mouth. 131

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"Do not be away from us too long," he chided. "If I am, it will not be of my own accord," Matxin promised. He knew Piran wouldn't have chosen to leave. Not now, not ever. He wasn't going to have died gracefully, even if he lived a thousand years. As it was, he had barely lived fifty and, then, he'd been torn out of life by force. Nere was kissing him then, soft and shy, and Danel, warm and firm. Catzi pulled Nere to her feet and Danel came around to take his hand before they bowed to him. "We will be waiting for you," Nere promised, then they were leaving him. Matxin envied Piran a moment, for all the things he had, for all the things that Matxin did not. The other door slid open and he could hear Bakar's footfalls and another set behind them, a slower, known rhythm that made Matxin's throat tighten. He inhaled to try and compose himself. He rose, running a hand through his hair and straightening his uniform a little. He looked well enough, he was sure, if a little tired. "Sendoa Mercé, sir," Bakar said, stepping aside just inside the door to usher in an older man. Sendoa Mercé was a little shorter than Matxin, but that was only in the last years as age had slowly bent him down. Still, he stood straight enough, shoulders back, the remnants of his physical power still showing under the loose white tunic and pants he wore. His skin was darker than Matxin's from years of working in the fields, his hair shot through with more silver than gold. His eyes, meeting Piran's eyes, were the color of the sky at dusk. He came in a few paces and then 132

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made to kneel but Matxin stepped forward, hand extended, to stop him. "There's no need for that," he said, almost too flatly. Sendoa straightened and looked Matxin in the eye, extending his hand to meet Matxin's as Matxin moved to meet him part way. "Your Majesty is too kind." There was a bit of pride in Matxin's chest at the way his father seemed, as always, unmoved by being in the presence of his king, as polite and polished as always, for all that he was a farmer. "I wish I had something to offer you other than courtesy and hospitality," Matxin said, letting Piran speak for him, when all he wanted to do was throw his arms around his father and tell him the truth. "Please, come and sit down. You've had a long journey." Jowan was setting another place at the table to Matxin's left and he bowed as he stepped out of the way for Sendoa to sit down. Sendoa waited until Matxin had settled down before taking his own seat. Joseba served Sendoa from the platters in front of Matxin, while Jowan served Matxin and poured the wine. They stepped away into the shadows and Bakar stood like a pillar by the door he'd entered through. "I'm sorry for your loss," Sendoa said, before Matxin could speak. "Thank you, and I for yours," Matxin said. He took the wine and drank from it to wash down the lump in his throat. "I should thank you for the years your son was in my service."

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"There was nothing else he would have done." Sendoa took up his glass and held it out to Matxin. "To our sons," he said quietly. Matxin could see Sendoa's eyes change color as a lens of tears washed over them. None fell and Matxin returned the gesture, raising his glass and touching it to Sendoa's. "To our sons." To Luxan, yes, and to Eiran, who Matxin was losing, and to himself, who his father thought lost. They drank in silence and ate quietly. Sendoa had never been one for too many words. Matxin ate with more appetite than he'd thought he had, his father's presence more soothing than the attentions of Piran's consorts. The attendants cleared away the dishes until there was nothing between them but flowers and candlelight and sweet things and Matxin's disguise. "I have been told that you have apprehended the one responsible for these attacks," Sendoa said quietly, picking up the tea that Argine set down in front of him. "My son, Eiran," Matxin said, and didn't have to feign the heaviness in his voice. "I am more sorry, then," Sendoa said, and there was sadness in him, too. "To lose a son, and to have to choose to lose another is a terrible thing." "The evidence is incontrovertible." Matxin took up his tea and leaned back in his chair, trying to ease the ache in his chest. "Sometimes it seems to be, yes," Sendoa said slowly. "That is the nature of evidence. But do you believe it?" 134

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It was the same kind of question he would have asked Matxin if he were there instead of Piran. Matxin wondered if there were some secret, invisible mark on him that made him known to his father, some mark that only a father could see, or if his father were just merciful enough to reach out to Piran like that. "No," he said at last, trying not to let his voice break on the word. "My mind does, but my heart..." It was the truth and, like Eiran, Matxin didn't lie to his father. "What does your son say?" There was a little smile on Sendoa's lips, that soft amusement he often had when dealing with Matxin's hard-headed pragmatism. "He said he's never hurt me," Matxin admitted. "Then perhaps you must look closer at the evidence," Sendoa said thoughtfully, then sipped at his tea. After a moment, he put the cup down and looked Matxin in the eyes. "As eager as I am to have justice done, I would rather it not be at the expense of your son, sire. Once, he was close to my son, surely you remember that. If Matxin were here, I know he would ask you to look again. So, instead, I will ask you, on the little debt you might feel to me for giving you my son." Matxin had to clench his jaw to keep his expression smooth, the pain in his head overwhelming the pain in his heart for the moment. That his father knew, that he remembered, that he'd seen through Matxin's casual words to the truth he was never quite sure he could share with his father. He'd known all along, known enough to speak now. "Since you ask," he said quietly. "I will do this thing. For you. For your son." 135

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"Sons are often consistent things at the core, sire. And if mine helped train yours, he would have done nothing less than his best to teach him what I taught when he was young." Sendoa put his tea down. "Yes, I'm sure he did," Matxin said softly. And Eiran had learned. He was nothing if not honorable in his own way. All those years had to count for something. "I owe you a great debt." He bowed his head to his father, trying to say what he wanted his father to know. "You raised a fine son. I owed him my life more than once. And I may owe you my son's life if I can find what I need." "Thank you." Sendoa rose and bowed gracefully, if stiffly, and Matxin rose as well. "I should leave you to your evidence, sire. Perhaps a father's eyes will find what others could not." "I will look to it as soon as I can. You will accompany us tomorrow at the funeral?" he asked. Sendoa and, behind him, Bakar, looked a little surprised. "As your Majesty wishes." Sendoa bowed again. "I'm honored." It was an unusual request, but not completely inappropriate and it would give Matxin just a little more time with his father. It was the least he could do, being dead already, and he was grateful for it, another hour, even if he had to wear someone else's face to have it. "Thank you. Bakar will take you back to the city. We will see you in the morning." "Yes, sire," Sendoa said. He bowed once more before Bakar obediently escorted him out of the room. 136

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The door slid shut behind them and Matxin gestured at his silent attendants. "Out. All of you. Out." They obeyed him, wide-eyed, and fled. Matxin kicked a chair into the corner and got up on it, crushing the listening device there behind a sconce high on the wall between thumb and forefinger, then he did it again in all the other corners. Finished that task, he poured himself a glass of wine from the sideboard and sank down into the chair where his father had sat, feeling the warmth still in it. He took a sip of wine, trying to compose himself, then put it down so that it rocked and fell over on its side, spilling a dark red pool across the white table cloth. Matxin didn't try to stop it. Instead he covered Piran's face with his hands and cried. Nekane found him there and he didn't look up; he knew it would be her by the sound of her feet on the floor outside the door. She said nothing, just stood by the door while he sobbed until the white cuffs of Piran's funeral shirt were wet with tears. **** "Next time," Nekane said gently, "you could just ask me to turn the surveillance off in your room." "I'd forgotten you could do that," Matxin said, his voice muffled as he splashed cold water over his face. He dried off on a towel and looked at Piran in the mirror. "Mercy, but that's eerie," he murmured. "You've got the look of a king, still," Nekane teased him gently. She helped him into his shirt and started buttoning it up. 137

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"Good to know." Matxin helped her do the buttons, starting in the middle of his chest. "Did Doctor Joris give you what you needed this morning?" she asked quietly. Matxin's hand went to the back of his head. He could feel the little capsule there in the hollow at the base of his skull. "Yes, he did. I'm feeling much better now." "That's good to hear, sire," she said evenly, but when Matxin looked down again, her hands were unsteady. He covered them with his. "I feel fine," he said, when she looked him in the eye. "I'm fine, Nekane." "We would have missed you, sir, if you'd left us." She pulled one of her hands away from his to stroke his face, tracing the scar where Piran's flesh merged with Matxin's own. "We would hardly know what to do without you." "Thank you," Matxin said, smiling at her and shaking his head a little. "But I know that my people would fare well without me. I trust them to carry on my work. I trust that I've shown them the way." "Yes, sir," she said, smiling at him. Then she leaned in to kiss him on the cheek. "And you'll have this mystery solved soon, too." "I need to look at the evidence again," Matxin told her. "I promised Sendoa Mercé that I would look for anything that would absolve Prince Eiran of these crimes. He asked it of me personally, on behalf of his son." Nekane's smile this time was like the sun rising. "If I have your permission, sire?" She stepped back and bowed to him. 138

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"I will begin while you are with Bakar and the others at the cemetery." "You have full clearance," Matxin said, returning her smile. "I will ensure that you do before I go." "If there's anything, I will find it. I'll begin with the evidence provided to your Majesty and his council." Nekane turned on her heel and headed for the door. "Tell Josu to meet me in the hangar," Matxin ordered before she was out of his sight. She always was happier with something to sink her teeth into. If he reset the permissions on the files, on all the files, his and Piran's, there should be enough evidence for her to work with. And, if not, there had to be something else. This couldn't be all there was. If he looked hard enough, perhaps he would find it. After all, he was looking with Piran's eyes. Matxin paused, looking at himself in the mirror. Some things, Piran had said when he had asked Matxin to shut down surveillance in the royal chambers, were only for the eyes of a Valora. Piran had always kept his own counsel at the core of things, had always kept the final key to every lock that Matxin had ever installed in the alcazar. He had kept the codes to every system Matxin had installed. "Did you use them?" he asked his reflection. "Or were you fool enough to put all your trust in me?" There was no time for ego any more. It wouldn't hurt a bit to find out that Piran hadn't trusted him, in the end. Matxin's pride had died of the shard through Piran's heart.

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Chapter Seven The sky was so green as to be almost black when the air car carrying Josu and Matxin landed in the cemetery behind the little chapel outside of Valéry. Matxin stepped out the moment the door was open and headed for where he could see Bakar, his white uniform standing out stark against the dark trees and headstones. The cemetery gardeners and gravediggers were dressed in gray uniforms, fading into the night. Another small form in white stood next to Bakar; when Matxin drew nearer, he recognized her as Sari, the elder of the nuns who had attended to the services with Breixo. "Sister," Matxin said, bowing his head to her with his hand on his heart. "I am sorry for this afternoon's sacrilege and for the untimely death of Father Breixo. Forgive us, please." Sari took a few steps toward him and put her hand on his head. "It is not the fault of the King that danger follows him at times." "Is it not?" Matxin straightened and looked down at the little nun. Eiran's words rang in his head. You can stop all this ... You started it. Perhaps he ... perhaps Piran wasn't directly responsible, but he could have mitigated it, he could have done things differently. He could have negotiated. He could have tried. "I appreciate the forgiveness, sister. I will have to see whether or not I am deserving of it." Sari smiled up at him. "Another time, your Majesty. We must attend to the innocent now." She patted his arm as though she were his mother and beckoned him to follow her. 140

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When Matxin did, he saw another figure he'd missed in the dark and the distance, Kai standing next to Bakar. Josu came to provide support for the young guard, letting Bakar step away and bow to Matxin. Matxin nodded at him with acknowledgement but passed him by to go to Kai, who was swaying in spite of Josu's support. When Kai tried to bow, Matxin held a hand out to stop him. He clasped Kai's shoulder firmly and looked the young man in the eyes. He was as white as his uniform, but he was clean and he was standing where he should be. When the lanterns hanging from the trees were lit, Matxin could see the ravages of tears on the Kai's face. "Thank you," he said simply. Kai nodded, dropping his chin and blinking away tears. "It's only my duty, sire." Kai shook his head slowly. "I shouldn't have let him come in there, but his mother said he could, sire. I'm sorry. I know you don't like the children intruding." "His mother said he could?" Matxin asked, his voice low and calm. "Yes, sire. She said for him to go find you, and then he was gone." A tear escaped Kai's lashes and spilled down his white face. "You're not to blame," Matxin said firmly. "He was in the safest place in the world. Look at me." He put a little edge of command in his voice and Kai blinked, then focused on Matxin's face. "Yes, sire." 141

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"You did your job well, and we thank you for it." He squeezed Kai's shoulder gently then stepped away from him, to stand beside Bakar at the empty little hole in the ground. The groundskeepers stepped forward with another tiny coffin on their shoulders. There was no automatic winch to let it down into the grave this time, just two plain woven cords laid over the hole and coiled by Matxin's and Bakar's feet; the other ends were tied to a heavy beam laid beside the grave. Matxin stepped on the rope near the grave to hold it in place while the coffin was laid on it, then took up the loose end, and Bakar mimicked him. Sari stood at the head of the grave, Breixo's book of services in her hands. A gardener held a lantern up for her to see by. It wasn't pitch black out here; the ambient light from the city washed out this far, and one of the two moons in the sky was full. The Sursum comet a streak near it, both of them shining down on Pau-Ortzi and the burial of Piran Valora's youngest son. The elderly nun began to speak, and Matxin heard scraps of her words through the racing of his thoughts. "Into the light, we come with nothing, and we may take nothing with us into the dark but faith." Sari's voice was surprisingly strong for such a frail woman. "That which is flesh knows no joy, no innocence, no continuance but by the grace of Mercy." The groundskeepers laid the little coffin down across the ropes, careful so as not to tip it, as gently as if they were putting the little boy to bed. Matxin leaned down and tossed a handful of earth onto the coffin with his free hand. Bakar did the same after him. Josu braced Kai as he leaned down to 142

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gather up earth and step forward to toss it on the coffin, and then it was Josu's turn. "For it is from the earth that the body is born, by earth the body is sustained, and to the earth that we are returned," Sari continued, reaching for a handful of earth to scatter over the coffin. Matxin gestured for the witnesses, the quiet working people who tended to the dead, to add to the dirt piling up on the white surface of Luxan's coffin. After a moment's hesitation, they bowed and did as they were told, bowing to the little coffin once they had. "For what are we but the earth given spirit by Mercy, what are we but the stewards of our own flesh, of our brethren, of our mothers, and our fathers, and the source of us all, the planet that bears us through the eternal, unknowing dark?" Sari gestured for Matxin and Bakar to start lowering the coffin into the grave. Kai choked back a sob and turned to rest his head on Josu's shoulder, obviously unable to keep back tears. "The grave bears the final arms that hold us, and we give the departed the gift of earth to hold them through the night until they return to us with the turning of the seasons. Let us not grieve," Sari said, casting a sympathetic look at Matxin, then Kai. "For are we all not one with death in the midst of life, each of us touched by it with each minute? And so long as we are made of the same earth and filled with the same spirit, we cannot be parted from each other." The gravediggers began to shovel earth into the grave, covering over the little coffin. Matxin and Bakar let go the ropes so that they could be tugged free before too much dirt was shoveled in. 143

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"As we bid farewell to the flower in the winter, so we say farewell to this child, to Luxan, but we have faith that the world will turn and Mercy will be granted unto him, and his spirit will one day find willing earth and be reunited with us. And may Mercy be given to us all, that we will know each other when that day comes. Until then, until our spirits are revealed to each other, may we treat each other as the one we love best." Sari held up her thin hand to them, closing her holy book and holding it against her heart. "To you, and to all the children of the earth, may Mercy be granted to you as you go forth. The earth thanks you for the return of her son, Luxan. Blessings on you all." She bowed her head to Matxin and he bowed to her in turn, then she turned away and, leaning on the arm of the gardener with the lantern, she tottered away to the chapel. Matxin stepped back to watch them filling in the grave, Bakar a solid presence at his shoulder. "How are you feeling, sir?" Bakar murmured. Sir. Not sire. Matxin turned to look at him and Bakar smiled a little. "You heard the bomb in the grave," he said softly. "Even I didn't hear it and Piran was far older than I; his hearing wasn't that good." Matxin nodded slowly, stepping back to be closer to Bakar. "It is only temporary. Until the bombings are resolved." "Understood. And then?" "I expect fewer bombings at the King's funeral, Bakar," Matxin murmured dryly. 144

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"Yes, sire," Bakar said softly. "I'll escort you back to the alcazar as soon as you're ready. I think Josu should take Kai back before he falls down." "Agreed." Matxin caught Josu's attention with a hand gesture and waved him toward the air cars. The guard nodded, then whispered to Kai before gently steering him away. "We will wait to see my son buried, and then we will return to the alcazar. I have loose ends to tie up before I can rest and since you've proved yourself so damn clever, you can assist me." "As your Majesty wishes," Bakar said politely, looking slightly apprehensive. **** Bakar piloted the air car back to the alcazar, Matxin in the seat beside him, his seat tilted back so that he could watch the sky through the clear viewscreen. The comet was fading a little, as it did before it turned about to come past Pau-Ortzi again. In past years, long before Matxin's time, the entirety of Sursum's pass had been dreaded and celebrated at once. Legend had it that Sursum was one of the lights of the wheel of fortune, and that it marked the turning of the wheel. It was a time for strange happenings. Matxin had never been superstitious, but he was beginning to see where the legends had their roots, in times like this. "Nekane is reviewing the evidence against Prince Eiran," he said to the stars as much as to Bakar. 145

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"You risk offending your brother, your Majesty," Bakar noted, glancing over at Matxin. "You don't need to remind me." Matxin shook his head slowly. "But I can't refuse the request made of me. Honor will out, always." "Of course not, sire. Does he know?" Bakar asked, low, bringing the air car around to land in the hangar. The air around the wings whistled high and the engines growled so fiercely as they came down at an angle that Bakar's words were almost lost, and it was only Matxin's unusual hearing that allowed him to catch the words. "No." Matxin released his harness as the engines' whine softened and deepened to a low thrum. "Duly noted, sire." The look Bakar gave him as they got out of the cockpit was almost sympathetic. "I'll see he has an escort to the cemetery in the morning." They stepped out into the dark hangar, the silence broken by their footfalls and the softening purr of the engines, and then it was broken again by the mechanics coming to inspect the car and put it back in its cradle. The quiet walk gave Matxin time to think. Matxin's funeral would be a far simpler affair than Luxan's, and he would be buried in a soldier's grave not far from royal family. Matxin knew where, exactly, it would be, could see it in his mind's eye. The royal cemetery was in a grove behind the chapel, and then one passed through a vine-tangled pergola and out a wrought-iron gate. Past that shadowed passage, a rolling field stretched out above the blue lake, marked with row on row of simple white stones. The numbers were greater than the royal graves by 146

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the hundreds, even during eras of relative peace. Matxin knew the row and aisle that was his; Piran's favor would see him buried not far from the family. Of course, there was a public entrance, but since he was a young man in Piran's service, Matxin had always passed through that gate and, tomorrow, as far as the world knew, he would do so one last time. Perhaps he should have felt slightly morbid for his contemplation, but he could not bring himself to feel it. To allow that would mean acknowledging that he wore the face of a dead man, that the eyes through which he saw the world now, for his last days, were plucked from Piran's skull, eyes he had known and seen and yet not seen behind for years. "I need to speak to my son," Matxin said, softly. "Sire?" Bakar followed Matxin into the lift. "It's late, your Majesty." "Almost too late." Tomorrow it would be too late. "The people expect answers, Bakar." "And you think his Highness will give them to you, sire? He has been most unforthcoming." Bakar sounded more than a little disapproving. Matxin's affair with Eiran had been discreet but the members of the royal guard were far from foolish; Matxin had seen to that himself. "Perhaps the wrong questions have been asked." Perhaps the wrong person had been asking them. Matxin put his own hand against the plate to keep the lift moving down into the alcazar. "You will relieve the guard on duty."

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There was silence a moment and then Matxin could hear the brush of Bakar's throat against his collar as he nodded and his soft sigh of resignation. "Yes, sire." "I cannot afford to be in error," Matxin said softly. They headed down the hall to the main desk in silence. Bakar gestured for the guard on duty to leave and he rose without hesitation, bowing to them both before he left the area. "That was too easy," Bakar murmured. "Agreed." The man should at least have reported to Per before allowing Bakar to take over for him. Matxin glanced around as Bakar stepped up behind the desk and looked over the array of monitors. "I expect you to ensure my privacy," he said, looking Bakar in the eye when the other guard looked up. "Always, sire." Bakar unfastened his timepiece and handed it over to Matxin with the key to Eiran's cell and Matxin rolled his eyes. He knew exactly what it was, and that Bakar, theoretically, should not have had it. There was only one, and it was Matxin's. He'd designed it himself: a minute signaljamming device that would eliminate any chance of being overheard. "Your resourcefulness is a comfort," Matxin said dryly. "One does one's best, sire," Bakar said unapologetically as he settled down to work. Matxin strapped on the timepiece as he walked down the hall and turned on its secondary, hidden, function with the correct sequence of buttons. He didn't resent Bakar's decision to take the device; Nekane must have agreed to let him have it. 148

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The hall was dark save for small lights down at floor-level to guide one's feet. Matxin followed them down and slid the key through the lock of Eiran's cell. There was a slight rattle as the door slid back and Eiran sat up, pushing himself back against the wall. He must have been awake, listening as Matxin came down the hall. "Come to talk again, father?" Matxin waited until the door slid shut behind him. "I spoke to Sendoa Mercé tonight. Before your brother's second funeral." He could hear the slight catch in Eiran's breath. "I hope you gave Mercé my condolences," Eiran said softly. "I did not," Matxin said, shaking his head. "It would have been inappropriate, as you are accused of conspiring to murder his son. And, yet, he spoke on your behalf." Eiran's breath caught again, this time something like an unborn sob. "And what did he say?" "He asked that I reconsider the evidence against you." Matxin felt slightly dizzy, as though he were floating in the near-dark, with so little to orient himself. He leaned against the door, feeling almost unbearably tired of this all. "For the sake of his son, who thought much of you." "And?" Eiran's voice was barely audible. "I could not refuse him." Matxin's throat was tight, thinking of his father. "Tell me, if you will admit to nothing else? Did you murder his son? If you cannot respect your own father, your own brother, perhaps you will respect Mercé." There was silence except for the sound of Eiran's prison jumpsuit crinkling as he unfolded himself and stood. His bare feet were soundless on the floor as he came to stand in front 149

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of Matxin. "I did not," he breathed. His hand on Matxin's face was cold. "It would be the last of my wishes." "Why did you not say this before?" Now, Eiran's other hand mirrored the first, cupping Matxin's face, Piran's face, between them, and he leaned up to whisper in Matxin's ear. "I did not know to whom I spoke," he said, so softly. "I would have told you anything." "Eiran." Matxin caught Eiran's hands in his own and tried to muster up his composure, to scrape up the pieces of his façade. "Why didn't you say something in your defense?" Anger surged through Matxin, fracturing the smooth exhaustion that covered everything, and he grabbed Eiran's shoulders. "Would you have tried, in my place?" Eiran let his hands fall away and stood, unresisting, in Matxin's grip. He was right; Piran would have judged him swiftly and easily. Piran was right about so many things and so blind about a few bitterly important ones. Matxin didn't answer, he just let go of Eiran's shoulders and slid his arms around Eiran instead, pulling him close, gently, so that he could escape if he wanted, for all that there was nowhere to go in the small cell. Eiran's arms circled Matxin's neck and he rested his head on Matxin's shoulder. He had grown thin over the years, thin as he'd been when he was young and growing too fast for his muscle to keep up with his bones. Matxin slid his hands up Eiran's back, his fingers tracing the line of Eiran's spine through the thin fabric of his prison jumpsuit. 150

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"Tell me I can speak," Eiran whispered after a long while of leaning on Matxin, his body shaping itself to Matxin's the way it had so long ago. "I thought I was imagining your voice, the way you clench your jaw. But it's you." "Speak." "I've missed you." Eiran's long, cold fingers tangled in the hair at the nape of Matxin's neck and his arms tightened. "And I you." Matxin buried his face in the soft curve of Eiran's neck. His breath caught and he held on just a moment longer before he straightened and pulled away. "This ... why?" Eiran ran his fingers over Piran's face. "Necessity," Matxin said, resisting the urge to kiss Eiran's fingertips. His time was so short. "Just until I find the source of all this." "You could not ... your own face..." "Gone." Matxin had not quite yet dealt with that fact. "My face. My eyes." "I..." Eiran's breath caught again and he shook his head. "Oh, Matxin." He reached out again and Matxin caught him by the wrist. "Matxin is gone." They could afford no carelessness now, no sentiment. All he wanted to do was pull Eiran close for one kiss, just one, but the time for that was gone. "I am here for Piran now." "And once you are satisfied with your evidence, once you have made your choice?" Eiran pulled out of Matxin's grasp and stepped back, shaking his hair back and squaring his shoulders. Matxin could make out his expression in the dim light, how he struggled to remain calm and resolute. 151

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"And then tomorrow's empty coffin will not be empty anymore," Matxin said simply. "No. Oh, no." Eiran's voice broke and he caught Matxin's face, Piran's face, in his hands, pressing a reckless kiss to the mouth Matxin wore. "Oh, no. Not now. No." "You've fared well so far." Matxin put a hand against Eiran's chest, feeling his heart beating wildly, and pushed him away. "And I will get to do this one last thing for you." "I don't want this one last thing." Eiran shook his head and backed away. He flung himself down on his bed, even his sprawl defiant, and his eyes glittered at Matxin in the dim light. "I won't have it. Tell me you won't go, or tomorrow I confess it all. I will." Matxin could hardly keep from laughing. Some things changed so little. Eiran was still so stubborn, so demanding, always bargaining and threatening. Never willing to accept the inevitable. "Don't make a fool of me, Eiran. Nor my father." "Damn you both." Eiran got to his feet in a smooth motion and for a moment, Matxin expected him to lunge. His voice was hollow when he spoke. "Get out." "What should I do? Play the part until my body follows my name to the grave?" "Don't leave me." "You left years ago." Matxin wasn't angry about it anymore, just a little sad. "And you think I'm a good example to follow?" "I get to do my duty," Matxin said flatly. "I get to avenge my king's death. And I get to save you from yours, if you're 152

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proven innocent. This is what I want, for the little that matters now." "Only you could think this is good." Eiran sat down on the bunk again, his shoulders slumping as defiance drained out of him. "What if I did do it?" He looked up at Matxin through the lank fall of his hair. "What if that's what the evidence tells you, Matxin? Will you go before I die?" "No." Pain lanced through Matxin's chest and he blinked to clear his vision. "I won't leave you. I never have." "Even if I did this to you? To all of us?" Eiran tossed his hair back, eyes narrowing to try and see Matxin's face through the shadows. "Even if I want you to go?" "Even then." Matxin might be angry, he might loathe what the evidence claimed Eiran had done, but he wouldn't leave just to save himself a little more pain. What was a little more pain, when everything hurt so much already? "You never would do what I wanted." Eiran's laugh was a broken thing, and he rubbed his hands over his face. "Only when it was for your own good to say no to you. I have work to do tonight," Matxin said, trying to breathe through the pain in his chest. "The council has agreed on the evidence. I don't have enough time for even this." "Go, then." Eiran wouldn't look at him as he leaned back against the wall. "But promise me one thing." "If I can do it, whatever it is, I will." Matxin stepped back, pulling the shreds of his composure together again. "After you prove me innocent? Don't go without saying goodbye to me." Eiran crossed his arms over his chest, as 153

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though holding himself together or keeping himself from reaching out. "I won't." It was an easy promise to make. "I never hurt you," Eiran said again. Now, he turned to look at Matxin. "Any of you." "If that is true," Matxin said, reaching for the lock to open the door, "I will make sure the world knows. If not, I will still say goodbye to you." The hall back to the guard's desk was not nearly long enough but Matxin composed himself enough to hide all the different pains in his chest. He turned off the jamming signal on the watch but did not take it off. Bakar said nothing; his expression was that perfect neutrality that hid disapproval. Matxin was indifferent to it already. He owed no one anything but Piran. **** "I would appreciate an explanation." Per met Matxin and Bakar in the hallway to Piran's quarters. Piran's brother was out of uniform, wearing a loose tunic open at the throat over a pair of loose pants tucked into his boots. His face was flushed, as was his chest. "We missed you at the cemetery," Matxin said, taking on Piran's soft, consoling tones. He always hated it when Piran spoke to him like that, like he was a child. It didn't help Per's irritation, either; his cheeks darkened further and it was obvious that only an effort of will kept him from reaching out and grabbing Matxin's arm. "What has you troubled, brother? Walk with me." He gestured for Per to fall in beside him. 154

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"Your guards have seized the evidence in the bombings at the amphitheater and the cemetery," Per said tightly. He clasped his hands behind his back as they walked but it did nothing to hide his tension. Subterfuge had never been his strong point. "Seized?" Matxin frowned darkly. "A strong word. I asked that Nekane review the evidence personally." "Why would you do such a thing, your Majesty? My people have reviewed the evidence extensively." If Matxin hadn't known him so well, he might have believed that Per was a little curious, a little concerned, on the verge of being placated. But he knew the lines of Per's jaw, the tension at the corners of his eyes, the little signs that the king's brother had never learned to hide. He never could just let things go, or even pretend that he had. Like Eiran, he was a poor politician compared to Piran. "Surely you were satisfied." "Completely," Matxin said, soothing. There were fresh flowers in his quarters, opalescent vases overflowing with greenery and white flowers; condolence arrangements, gifts and offerings. The scent had suffused into the air and mingled with the scent of candles burning. Everything was so peaceful in here, so calm. Argine was just setting down a tea tray when Matxin came in and she bowed. There were two sets of cup and saucer; Piran's staff were trained to the point of being almost precognitive. Matxin guessed that she had seen them in the hall and prepared the tray accordingly. "Tea?" "I'd prefer an explanation, as I said," Per said sharply. "Your Majesty." 155

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Matxin didn't react to the tone, but he'd heard it before. Piran usually gave in a little, anything to get his brother to stop harassing him. "Simple." Matxin poured himself a cup of tea as Argine faded into the shadows. "I saw Sendoa Mercé today. And he asked me to review the evidence. You're sure you won't have any tea?" "It's late. I'd like to sleep later. You should be resting now, as well, Piran." Per's expression shifted, and he frowned a little, looking worried. He was worried, Matxin realized, not merely feigning concern. "You have to let the people you trust take care of things." "My son is dead," Matxin said flatly, turning away from Per to take a seat on a couch by the fire. The doors to the balcony were slightly open; the soft, chill breeze bent the candle flames and made them dance. As he did, he caught Bakar's eye. The guard, standing in his place by the door, was looking thoughtful, eyes slightly narrowed. "I would be lax if I did not see to things personally. And I cannot ignore the personal request of a man who has lost his son in my service. It's nothing to do with you." He offered Per a small smile. "Go rest. You've been working too hard. I appreciate you staying behind to attend to her Highness while she was indisposed." "You're right," Per said, almost too hastily. "I'm sorry, your Majesty. I'm tired." He bowed to Matxin and gave him an apologetic smile. "I'd hate to think that you didn't trust me, that's all." "Don't think about it," Matxin said generously, waving his hand toward the door. "Go, rest. I've rested quite enough the past few days." 156

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Per hesitated, just a fraction of a second, and then recovered. "As you wish." He bowed again and retreated. Matxin sat watching the door after he was gone, drinking his tea. **** "It's all ... here." Nekane threw up her hands in frustration, then pushed the chair back from Piran's desk and started pacing the room. "What do you mean?" Matxin began undoing the buttons of Piran's funeral tunic on his way to the dressing room. "I mean it's all here. The evidence. I have everything that's in the security files, everything that Per had to work from. The composition and construction of the explosives in every case is identical. Very focused, deliberate. Kai's injuries were entirely accidental, unpredictable." Nekane shook her head and ran a hand through her short hair. "The bomb at the cemetery was sloppy. Desperate." "Are you sure it was intended to kill? Or to demoralize?" Bakar had stopped precisely at the point inside the door where the royal guard usually took up their post, staying on duty while Nekane worked on the evidence. "They're not wasting their time on that. They want me dead." Matxin sighed and pushed on the central mirror of Piran's vanity and it clicked open once his palm had been read. There was a thin console behind it, thinner than the mirror itself, and he put in the codes that would allow him to surround the room in a field of energy to interfere with any 157

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listening devices. There was a sudden strangled noise from the main room and Matxin went loping out to see Bakar doubled over, clutching the ear where he'd been wearing his communications receiver. "Sorry," Matxin said contritely. "Forgot to warn you about that." Nekane made a soft noise like she was trying not to laugh. "You're lucky I have mine out, 'Your Majesty.'" "You should have warned him." Matxin gestured at Bakar and then turned back to change out of his funeral clothes. "I can't think of everything, you know." "You're sure it wasn't Eiran?" Nekane came to the door of the dressing room as Matxin was pulling on Piran's robe. "The bombings out at the oil rigs? The trains? Those were him." Matxin knotted the robe at the waist and gestured for her to get out of his way. "I know that much. But the last two weeks, the patterns have been too dense." "And in keeping with an escalation." "Eiran had no reason to escalate anything," Matxin said, realizing how tight his voice was. "It's contrary to his pattern. He's always been so careful not to cause loss of life." "All the evidence Per has points straight to him. The explosives are the same as the cache from Apollinar," Bakar said. He was in Nekane's seat now, still rubbing his ear. "This why you had to have your ears worked on?" he asked Matxin, looking rueful. "Not quite." Matxin almost laughed at Bakar, but he was too tense. There was a sharp pain under his breastbone and he wasn't sure whether it was tension or Eiran or a sliver of mirror biting through his flesh. He rubbed at the spot as he 158

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went to pour himself a cup of tea. "We haven't managed to pick up anyone else associated with these attacks?" "The police in Valéry have done two round-ups, but there are a lot of people to process." Nekane picked up a small reader and held it out for Matxin. "But, they've separated a few people thought to be sympathetic to Eiran." The names were familiar. That was the worst of it. Matxin knew exactly who they were and what they were doing when he last saw their names. The cup in the saucer he held shivered slightly, the surface of the tea rippling. "Basically, it's a complete case." "We're missing a few pieces of information." Bakar leaned back in the chair, looking up at Matxin. "Mercy, but that's eerie," he said, shaking his head. "What?" Matxin turned a little too sharply and the tea overran the cup. "You ... it's just hard to tell, you know," Bakar said, turning back to his work. "Joris is a genius." Matxin put the tea down on a small end table and took a seat on the chaise. "Tell me what's missing." "The timing devices." Nekane returned to the desk to lean over Bakar's shoulder and poke at the print-outs. "They are explosives, so it is not unusual for much of the timing device to be destroyed. Still, there's two scenes and something should be found. Casings, wire, some form of small circuitry." "Do we know why the last was so ineffective?" Matxin took a sip of the tea and tried to relax. Breathing around the splinter of pain was a difficult. 159

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"It was set in the grave," Nekane said. She scooped up a handful of photographs and paged through them. "The blast needed to go up and out. The initial shockwave immediately at the grave was severe but lost intensity to the sides because most of the force was focused upward, thanks to the sides of the grave." "So someone came into the cemetery between when the grave was dug and when the funeral was held. We didn't inspect the grave or the chapel." Bakar sounded frustrated. "Wasn't the job for the royal guard. City security or Per's men should have done a walkthrough." Matxin stared blankly at a white vase overflowing with cascades of greenery and white flowers. "No one would have inspected the grave," Nekane said sadly. "The body was escorted by Per's men; it was in Joris' care before that." "What did you hear?" Bakar looked at Matxin. "You heard something. Was it a timer?" "Something ... it sounded right when the winches started to lower the coffin." "There should have been something left. Where could it go?" Bakar waved a handful of printed reports, looking frustrated. "An excellent question." Matxin pulled his gaze from the cascade of mourning flowers and glanced over at Nekane. "Without whatever it is that was left, the conclusion does seem rather inevitable." Nekane frowned at him a little, looking at him as though she were trying to see behind his 160

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eyes. No matter how well one knew someone, one never knew them enough to truly see behind their eyes. "If this is all we have, then the evidence is ... it's not exactly overwhelming." Bakar gestured at it all. "At least not the concrete evidence." "But, if Piran were killed, it would be more than enough to justify an execution," Matxin said. There was a fire flickering in the hearth, burning driftwood made pale flames with delicate streaks of blue and pink. The dance was soothing and Matxin exhaled slowly. "If one wanted to eliminate Piran's line..." Matxin let the thought trail off. It was starting to make sense as the pieces crawled together in his mind. "How is Kai?" The sudden change of subject brought confused glances from the other two in the room. "Nekane, go and see to my wife. Relieve Josu and send him to keep watch over Kai." Nekane scooped up her earpiece and put it on, then fastened the buttons of her uniform that had been open at her throat. "Yes, sir. Anything else?" "Wake Matia and send him to the nursery. And, Bakar, go watch over Eiran." Matxin put his tea up down and got to his feet. "I have work to do." "Who is going to look after you?" Nekane said, paused at the door with her hands on her hips. "Your Majesty needs a guard. I will give you Naiara. She's quiet and I trust her." "I'd prefer to be alone," Matxin said quietly, heading for the desk. Bakar was already out of the chair, on his way to the door, watching the exchange between them. "I'll call for a guard if I plan to leave my quarters." He didn't miss the look 161

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that passed between Nekane and Bakar. "I'm fine. Both of you. Go." "Be sure you do." Nekane left first, casting him a warning look as she left. Bakar paused before leaving when his reader beeped at him and he took it off his belt to look at the screen. "Your Majesty might want to know that his brother went directly to her Highness' rooms after leaving him," he said neutrally. He bowed and turned to go. The locks whispered into place as the doors closed Matxin sat down and reorganized the papers, keeping his hands busy for a moment, postponing the inevitable for a moment, soaking in what information he had. He signed in to Piran's private accounts and began the program that would allow him access to all the information on the alcazar's mainframe. It might give him access, but that did not mean he might not find it somehow encoded. Piran had always been a bit gifted with such things, and Matxin wished for a moment that he had a little of that, himself. He would just have to rely on what Piran had left behind.

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Chapter Eight The sun was slinking in through the curtains long before Matxin finished working through the information that Piran's 'secret doors' revealed; where he had been expecting to find one, he had eventually found five. It was so strange, to see this life that Piran had led, laced through with distrust and fear where he had always seemed so calm, so contented, at least where his household was concerned. Piran even had access to Matxin's own files. He found his chest unexpectedly tight at the idea that Piran had known about his affair with Eiran. It wasn't shame. No, Matxin had been discreet, not ashamed. Piran had likely known, and yet kept Matxin with him long after Eiran turned his back on the royal family. And now, he was touched in some deep way, that Piran would trust him still. It made wearing Piran's face, seeing through his eyes, feel justified. Knowing that he had done the right thing had always been a salve to any wound Matxin had ever suffered, to body or spirit. That was a small thing, though in comparison to the greater picture that his research had uncovered. As before, there was no doubt that Eiran and some small cabal of the disenchanted nobility and intelligentsia had been carefully and systematically sabotaging one industrial project after another. They were good at what they did, had started small, and had been at it for years. Their methods were welldocumented and, Matxin knew, easy enough to duplicate. And here was where the lines became blurred, and Matxin was left 163

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to go on instinct instead of evidence. The detonator used to kill Piran and Luxan was identical to those used in the sabotage to the south that had gone on for years, identical to the ones used in the fatal explosions disrupting transit in Valéry, but not the same as the pieces found in Luxan's grave. The bombs were almost always detonated by hand, so that the one in charge was in control of the situation to the very end. Everything was the same, except that people had started dying, and as far as Matxin knew, the whereabouts of Eiran and his closest co-conspirators had been accounted for; all of them had been in Apollinar. The shift was one that made no sense to Matxin's gut, though how he could explain it beyond that was uncertain. He carefully worked his way back out of Piran's secret doors, making sure to undo his steps precisely. And, to him, it was the doors themselves that were the greatest evidence of all. You were so hard to read, Matxin thought, pushing himself to his feet and leaning on the desk as his aching muscles protested and refused to hold him up. And yet you left me secret messages all over your life. The longer he walked in Piran's steps, the more he understood. Piran had not only protected himself by keeping Matxin close; he had protected his son, whom he'd refused to disown completely. Matxin knew he'd had his reasons for that. The more he thought about it, the more he became convinced that it was reason enough to find a way to pardon Eiran for it all. Matxin straightened and winced at the pain in his chest, then shook it off. Slowly, he made his way to the dressing 164

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room where he shut down the surveillance blocks and restored things to their normal state. It was not beyond reason that Piran would ensure himself privacy for these moments of contemplation. Matxin knew what he had to do from here, all that remained was how to do it. Moments after the doors were unlocked, they opened. Matxin, seated in the dressing room as he pulled on a pair of pants, heard them hiss apart. The footsteps were slower, heavier than a woman's, probably Jowan coming in. "Your Majesty?" It was, indeed, Jowan. He stayed beyond Matxin's sight, waiting to be summoned further. "Breakfast, Jowan," he said, pushing himself to his feet again. "Shall I summon Nekane, sire?" "Send me Naiara." She was younger, Kai's age, quiet and gentle, and she would have slept the night before. Nekane, he was sure, had not seen much rest, and he wasn't in any state to deal with her when they were both tired. "Yes, sire." Jowan's footsteps retreated and Matxin was left to himself. The sun was warm and when he pushed back the curtains, the blue sky beyond the windows was clear. Matxin tapped the doors and they opened for him. He stepped out onto the balcony and walked to the edge, looking out over the gardens of the alcazar and the land below. He could see the city sprawl and the green patchwork of fields beyond. Somewhere, beyond the edge of his vision, there was a small but prosperous farm nestled in the hill country. Sometimes it could be a little dry there, and the winters were never easy, but the soil was rich and the greenery was lush. 165

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There, under blue skies and red-tiled roofs, he had grown up knowing no unfilled need or want, under the watchful eye of his father. Sendoa had hoped to make a farmer of him but when he'd been selected for the royal guard, it had been such an honor that there was no question that Matxin's destiny had changed. "It is not right," Steran had said, "not to have a Mercé among the Valora." Piran's father had looked like the sun to Matxin. He was tall and broad and, when Matxin looked up at him, the light behind him made his golden hair shine. "Think he'll keep his curls?" he asked Sendoa, and then laughed and ruffled Matxin's hair. Matxin leaned on the railing, staring out at everything and nothing at once. He had been all of seven at the time, and he had never questioned why a king talked to his father like they were just two men like any others. He had just been afraid and pleased at once. By the time he left home at sixteen, he was just eager. And here he was, decades later, and now he was tired. Tired and wanting nothing more than to go home. He pushed away from the rail and turned back inside. He would be home soon enough. **** "Your Majesty is melancholy." Naiara's soft voice broke into Matxin's reverie as he sat staring at the white vase of mourning flowers that had been moved to serve as centerpiece for his breakfast table. 166

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"I'm just tired," he said, unable to gather up the energy to put any edge into his tone. He was too busy thinking. The only person who could have orchestrated all of this was Per, he thought. The layout of the private lounge, the access to the grave; other than Piran and Matxin, the only person who could have come and gone unquestioned was Per. But it was Luxan who troubled him. It could have been all innocence; Oriane indulging her son by telling him to go find a few stolen moments with his father. But it could also have been something like greed, removing all three males of Steran's line at once. All that remained was Leila, after Eiran was executed. The thought made him regret eating and he pushed back from the table. Argine stepped forward to clear away the plates. "You should rest, sire, before the funeral," Naiara suggested. "I'll rest after. It's not long until we need to leave." Matxin had forgotten about his own funeral. It would have been a great deal more convenient if he'd died and Piran had lived. He had the sneaking suspicion that Piran would have been greatly cheered by the whole affair and dragged out something he had squirreled away for just such an occasion, to make fools of the perpetrators. Matxin stopped pacing, staring blankly through the far wall of the room as though he could see into the alcazar. "Sire?" Naiara, concerned, took a step forward. "I'm fine." Matxin held up a hand to stop her. If Piran were going to hide something, if he had evidence, where would he 167

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put it? Where Matxin could find it, and if not him, Nekane after him. He would put it exactly where it should be. Matxin turned on his heel and bolted for the door. Naiara made a most unmilitary squeaking noise and pursued him. Matxin could hear her speaking in a low voice, almost lost in the sound of their footfalls. "I'm not mad." He slid to a stop at the lift and pounded on it with his hand, to get it to hurry up. "Don't bother Nekane." He grabbed the communicator right out of Naiara's ear and spoke into it. "I'm fine. Stay where you are." "Your Majesty..." Nekane's voice faded as Matxin handed the device back to Naiara. "Go and see to my brother," Matxin ordered. He turned away from the lift and headed for the stairs instead The young woman, like enough to Nekane to be her daughter, like enough to him to be his own, followed him and put her hand on the door to keep them from closing as he started down. Turning to look at her, he felt a flicker of concern, sending her to deal with Per alone, but then her expression hardened and there was a spark of understanding in her eyes. "Go." "Yes, sir." And then she was gone and Matxin was racing down the stairs into the control room for the royal guard. From the locker inside, he got for himself a communicator and a gun. The rest of the weapon racks were full except for Bakar's gun, and Matia's; Piran preferred for them not to be armed if they were assigned to the inner sanctum of the royal family. After all, Per's men were there. Matxin cursed Piran under his breath and turned to bring up the archives for the surveillance files that should not have been there at all. 168

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For a moment, Matxin was set back on his heels by the blocks that demanded Piran's retinal scans to continue. His own would not have sufficed; in time, he could have broken through the blocks, but time was something he no longer had. The scanner eye set in the console slid out toward him. He stared into the black lens and let the green wave of light flood his vision while his blood pounded in his ears. Then, he had access to the folders that had looked to him to be empty. It was all there. Everything he thought he'd turned off at Piran's request, to preserve the privacy of the royal family. It had been running all this time. If it hadn't amounted to him doing exactly what Piran needed of him, he would have felt like a fool. Instead, he just felt a twist in his chest that Piran had not told him this before. "Some things," Piran had said when Matxin was young, "are not for the eyes of anyone but a Valora." There was no way he could have known the eventual irony of his words. Matxin's fingers flew over the console. With the preparations for Sursum and with the trade delegations, he realized, there was no way Piran could have taken the time to look at all this. But something must have troubled him or he would not have taken these measures, recording everything that happened in the private chambers of his family. Matxin began to make backups of it all, so that it could not be lost. Or perhaps, he thought, leaning back in the chair and rubbing at his breastbone absently, Piran had not known at all. Perhaps, somewhere that Matxin had not yet found, there were similar observations of Eiran, and even an assassin poised to strike if Piran's son grew too ambitious. And the fact 169

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that the blow had not yet fallen was further proof, to Matxin, of Eiran's innocence. He tapped at the console as the files were being recorded to a set of data crystals that could not be erased, crystals that would be sent to Goizargi for safekeeping. As they transferred, Matxin watched the files that seemed to have been of the most interest. At first, he puzzled at what he was seeing, small colored flecks scurrying about an unseen threedimensional matrix. After a moment, Matxin realized that he recognized the matrix—the halls of the alcazar. It took moments longer to identify each of the flecks. He found himself and Piran first, then Nekane. After that, he could find Oriane's room, and then he frowned. His head ached abominably so he slowed down the little movie to watch the flecks dance through the matrix, letting a day pass in minutes. He followed Oriane and noted the patterns in her wanderings, then the aberrations. Finger to the screen, jaw clenched, he traced her path and watched it intersect with another over and over again. The gardens. A formal sitting room. An observation deck. The gardens once more. A variation in the pattern with one constant. Matxin followed that fleck on its other journeys, watching it go through its day until Bakar's words echoed in his head, "Your Majesty might want to know that his brother went directly to her Highness' rooms after leaving him." Broken pieces, slivers and shards, all seemed to be fitting into place. Matxin brought up the communications records for the alcazar, picking up a new web of transmissions now that he could see the origins and destinations within the alcazar. 170

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Lines grew between the alcazar and a remote point in Ortzi, between Valéry and the alcazar, on frequencies not used by any sanctioned communicators. Matxin opened up Per's accounts while the recordings played on, digging until he found the copies of the evidence against Eiran. Everything that seemed discarded, ignored, or lost, Piran had saved. There were versions and versions of the evidence, tracing all the way back to the initial readings. It was almost too much to process, but Matxin had stared so long at what he'd been told was the truth that his eyes caught the discrepancies between that and the reality of things. What tiny changes in the chemistry of things they were, how small. A matter of counting atoms, and it was enough to hang Eiran when all was said and done. All it had taken was a few numbers and a few lies to do so much harm. Piran had always wanted the illusion of sanctity in the alcazar, or so he had claimed. He had given his family: his brother and his wife and his children, the benefit of his trust. Matxin had chafed against it, but here was everything he'd wanted Piran to allow him to have. You should have let me have it, he thought. You should have given up the illusion. I could have saved you. He was so angry that his chest ached and his sight dimmed. Shaking his head to clear it, Matxin tapped the console to break out of watching the recordings. The screens flickered and focused on scenes from the present, throughout the alcazar. Matxin tapped the code for a certain camera, bringing Per's quarters up on the screen. There were many reasons to 171

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want Piran and his children dead; the true danger came when those reasons converged in the right people. Eiran had been the only voice Piran heard, but he hadn't been the danger. Eiran had never hated Piran like some from Ortzi did. And he had never shown an interest in taking the throne from his father, or he would have taken different action. Piran's brother was just leaving his quarters, Naiara one step behind him. Matxin chuckled softly; there was no way the man could get into the royal guard chambers. The separation of the royal guard from the army of Pau-Ortzi and the security forces of Valora Alcazar was an almost sacred thing. Loyalties divided were worse than a good, clean hatred. One could only serve one master well. Matxin watched Per and the urgency in his movements as he made his way to Piran's chambers. One master. One mistress. Matxin tapped a key to bring Oriane's chambers into view. Nekane stood in the outer sitting room; it was Oriane's prerogative to have a certain amount of privacy. Leila's morning nurse sat in one of the high-backed chairs that Oriane preferred, her needlepoint in her lap, her hands busy. It was a domestic little scene that belied the poison lurking under the surface. He tapped the key again and found Oriane's bedroom empty, then another stroke brought him to her bathroom. He'd forgotten that the room was next in the queue and he moved his hand to flip past it, decorum overcoming suspicion for a moment. He wanted to know where she was, whether or not she suspected that he had found her out. Perhaps Per's 172

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visit to her with the news of the new investigation had unsettled her enough to push her to a mistake. It wasn't until the picture had changed that Matxin knew what it was and he brought his hand down on another button to bring the last scene back. The sight brought him to his feet and had him running for the door, hand to his communicator to open a channel. "Nekane, get into the bathroom, now." He didn't hear anything but her inhalation of surprise and then the sound of her moving, of a door hissing open. "Oriane has Leila." Had her and was holding her under the water, submerging the little girl so that her hair fanned out in the water and her soft little hands clutched at her mother's sleeves. He didn't wait for the lift, he took the stairs up "The door is locked." He could hear her trying to override the code from the other side; if she couldn't do it from there, he would have had no chance of doing so from the control room. "Shoot the lock," he snapped. The bathroom was not designed to withstand an assault; the dressing room was. "I don't have my gun," she said, in the moment that he remembered it. "Sire?" Bakar's voice came over the channel, worry heavy in it. "Stay with Eiran. No. Get him out of that damn cell, and stay with him." At least he wouldn't be leaving Eiran trapped in there. Who knew what Per, who had control of that level, had done to the cell. "And Matia, get to Naiara. Bring my brother to me." He would rather Eiran escaped and went on 173

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as a renegade; it was better than leaving him to die in a cage because Matxin was too slow and too stupid to uncover his innocence sooner. **** Chest burning, Matxin made it back up to the level of the royal suites and headed for Oriane's rooms. How long had it been? He was trying to do the math when he rounded a corner and ran into a servant, sending the woman sprawling and scattering silver and shards of china throughout the hall. Matxin leapt over her body and kept moving. Everything was a blur. He could hardly breathe. Nekane was a thin black sliver in his vision, moving out of his way as he shot the lock on the bathroom door and it hissed open. Oriane turned, her face a mask of hatred and surprise. Matxin grabbed her by her long, black hair, then threw her across the room. Nekane, a step behind him, would be there to subdue her. Matxin pulled Leila's limp body out of the icy water and laid her on the floor. Oriane was screaming something Matxin couldn't make out and he didn't care, not now. There were hair pins everywhere, clips and combs as well, butterfly barrettes and gold roses. Oriane must have promised to arrange her daughter's hair. Matxin's mind put the pieces into place while his hands pressed down on Leila's delicate ribs; she was so terribly small. And so still. So cold and so still. No heartbeat fluttered against his palms. Someone was screaming again; whether it was the nanny or Oriane now, Matxin couldn't tell. And there were voices in his 174

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ear. And then one voice he knew, Eiran's. Bakar must have given over his own earpiece for a moment. "Father?" Matxin couldn't answer. He was watching the water flow like crystal out of Leila's pale blue mouth, and then he put his lips to hers, to breathe for her. She was so much like Eiran. So stubborn. She couldn't be gone. Not now. Not like this. "Get Joris," he said, between breaths. It was so hard to breathe, but she needed so little breath. She was so small. He breathed into her again and then she choked, spewing water into his face. She gagged and coughed and began to cry. Matxin sat back among the scattered jewelry and the puddles and held her to his chest and rocked her. "There, there," he said, trying not to gasp for air. "It's okay." "Papa." It was a faint little wail, but it was one of the sweetest sounds he'd ever heard. "I'm here," he said, patting her back gently, shocked at how weak he sounded. "I'm here." When he looked up, the first face he saw was Eiran's: bruised and weary and sallow, but alive. "Father." Eiran came a few steps closer but Bakar stopped him with one hand on his shoulder, fingers digging in a little more than necessary, to keep him still. Eiran, to Matxin's surprise, didn't struggle. Matxin waved Bakar off, though, and the guard stepped back without hesitation. "My son is innocent," Matxin managed to say clearly. "At least, of the crime of trying to kill me." Eiran's smile was, as it always was, shameless, even if it were terribly tired. "For the rest, he is forgiven." 175

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"If that's done, he can get out of my way." Alban slipped past Bakar and Eiran first, but Joris' girth was hardly built for slipping past anything. Eiran stepped aside and the physician and his assistant peeled the shivering, coughing little princess out of Matxin's arms. "Let me..." Eiran didn't finish his sentence, he just held out his hands to Matxin and Matxin let himself be helped to his feet. Eiran's hands were strong and rough and so warm against Matxin's icy fingers. "Are you well?" "I'm fine," Matxin said, and it wasn't quite a lie. He wanted to slide his arm around Eiran's shoulders, to lean on him a little while, to bury his face in all that fine, white hair and try and breathe. Instead, he let go of Eiran's hands and looked at the chaos around him. "Has Per been taken into custody?" "He has," Bakar assured him. "And Oriane. Nekane is seeing to the distribution of the security staff at the moment." "Excellent." Matxin tried to inhale and was thwarted by the splinter in his chest. He was suddenly aware that Eiran had a hand under one of his elbows and that he was leaning into the support. Bakar looked taut, ready to leap forward and catch Matxin if he feel. "I'm fine," he said again. "Just out of breath." He had to admit to that; his breath rasped in his lungs so loudly that he was sure they could hear it. There was a squawk that drew Matxin's attention and he turned to see Alban attempting to bundle Leila in a blanket with the help of her nanny while Joris straightened, rubbing his nose.

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"Your daughter has your constitution, sire," Joris said dryly. "I will examine her and I think she will need a few days' rest, but she should recover nicely." "Thank you." Matxin was too tired to laugh. "As for the rest of us" He paused to look down at his soaked clothing "I think we should go and prepare for the funeral. We should not let this delay us any more than we must. The unraveling may begin once we bury our dead." He was so tired; all he wanted was for this to be over. Maybe Piran would have postponed the funeral, but Matxin could see the end and he didn't want to hesitate. All that they needed to solve the affair was unearthed. Matxin's job was almost done. He smoothed out his crumpled tunic and passed the earpiece and gun to Eiran before leaving, shoulders back and pace steady, while he still could. "Yes, Father," Eiran said softly. He and Bakar followed Matxin out into Oriane's rooms. Nekane had dragged the queen out and bound her hands, then discarded her across a chaise where she struggled to sit up. There were welts across the queen's face, and Nekane was inspecting a bloody bite mark on her hand. "Nekane?" Matxin resisted the urge to clutch at his chest when he stopped to look the two women over. "Her Highness will be escorted to the holding cells once Josu ensures that the Castellan hasn't tampered with the security there," Nekane reported, coming to attention as soon as she saw Matxin. Her gaze, sharp and suspicious, lingered on Eiran a moment. 177

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Matxin waited while Alban and Joris and the nanny slipped out of the room with the whimpering, fussing bundle of Leila held securely in Alban's arms. Then he turned back to Oriane. "Leave us," he said to the rest of them. "I wish to speak to my wife." There was a moment's pause, then Nekane bowed. "Yes, sire." She gestured to Bakar to leave and he stepped away, following her. "Will you be..." Eiran's voice trailed off as Matxin looked over his shoulder at him, not bothering to hide the anger on his face. "Yes,sir." Eiran bowed, managing to look graceful doing it, even in the prison jumper. When the doors were closed and all was silent, save for the dripping of water and the sound of their breathing, Matxin stepped over to Oriane. She didn't flinch, her chin just came up defiantly. "Why?" he whispered. Why had she done this? Why had she broken Piran's heart? "You could have settled for my death. Wasn't that enough?" His voice cracked on the last word in spite of himself. He was so tired. Sweat ran like tears down his back and stung where the shards of Luxan's coffin had torn open his skin. "Because you deserved it," she said, so softly, and yet the poison carried. "Because you ruin what you touch and you call it progress. You should lose what you love. You took what I loved, you took my country, and you raped it." "The children? Your children?" Matxin was staggered by the enormity of the crime as his adrenaline started to fade. 178

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He wanted to sit down and put his head in his hands and cry over it all. "Your children," she shot back. "That's crime enough. You offend Mercy with what you do to Pau-Ortzi. There should be none for you." "And my brother?" "I can use what I despise." Her expression was so smooth now, so calm and so cool. "I can even pretend to love it a little." "I can't." Matxin shook his head slowly. It didn't matter what Piran might have done in his shoes. There was no way to prepare for something like this, no precedent to follow. "You were always weak that way," Oriane said flatly. "Poor Piran. If you'd been man enough to disown Eiran, I might have only used him instead of making you order his execution. I hear you were so very ready to let Per carry the blame for that decision." That twisted the sharp edge in Matxin's chest, but only because it was true. "Weak? Call it what you will, but I'm still breathing." He straightened up and looked down on her. Piran was still breathing, through him. "And trust me, Oriane. I won't show any weakness when it comes to you." He reached out to touch her face and she did pull away now, but it was disgust on her face, not fear. "I am sorry," he added gently. "For the little it is worth, I am. I never meant to do this to you." Matxin knew at least that much was true. He turned away and left her alone, leaning on the doorframe for a moment as the door opened, catching his breath a little more. 179

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Matxin ignored the look of concern on Nekane's face as she stepped back into the room. She paused, one hand on the door to keep it open, when he turned to speak to her. "The recordings from this room are all on file," he said to her quietly. "You will want them for her confession. I will see that you get access to them." "Yes, sire," Nekane said, keeping her expression smooth, as though she had expected this. "Be gentle with her," Matxin said, before he turned away. If Piran had been alive, Matxin was sure he'd have been angry at his king for letting things get so out of hand. Josu met them in the hall to Piran's quarters, looking grim and armed to the teeth. Matxin couldn't help smiling a little at that. "Sire?" Josu bowed, then glanced from Eiran to Matxin, his expression questioning. "His Highness has been cleared of all the serious charges against him," Matxin explained. "Bakar, will you escort my son to his quarters and see him made comfortable? Josu will stay with me." "Father!" Eiran protested. "I will speak to you later." Matxin could see Per being marched down the hall toward them, away from Piran's quarters. He turned to Eiran and gave him a slight smile, hoping that his eyes spoke for him. "We have a funeral to attend this afternoon." A shadow passed over Eiran's expression and he bowed. "Yes, father." He turned away and Bakar bowed to Matxin 180

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before he followed Eiran down the hall. Matxin took a breath and straightened, bracing himself to face Piran's brother. "This is outrageous." Per was tightly held, Matxin was pleased to see, by his own men. He had been concerned about there being something of a rebellion to quell, and he didn't know if he had time or strength for it. Per's face was flushed, furious, almost glowing red over the white of his funeral tunic. "Yes, it is," Matxin said flatly. The time for manners had passed and, suddenly, he felt a surge of pure fury. "It is outrageous that my brother should conspire to murder me and my children." His exhaustion dropped away for a moment and he grabbed Per by the collar, jerking him close. "It is outrageous," he hissed, his face inches from Per's, "that I should have to save my daughter from murder at the hands of my wife." "I..." Per sputtered. "She what?" "She sent Luxan in to the lounge." Matxin shifted his grip to Per's throat and, though the shorter man outweighed him, Matxin almost took him off his feet. "She knew what was going to happen. And I suspect that you were the one holding the trigger for that bomb; perhaps even for the others in Valéry." He shook Per once and let him go; only the guards holding on to him kept him from falling as he sagged in their grip. "Piran..." Per said, almost inaudibly. He looked like someone had rammed a blade into his gut. "I thought so," Matxin said to the horror and clarity on Per's face. "It comforts me a little to know that my brother 181

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would only try and murder me and my grown son. It would comfort me a little to think you, at least, had the stomach to kill those innocents in Valéry yourself to try and undermine my throne." And it was a comfort, a little. Matxin knew it would have been, to Piran. "Take him to Parisa." "Yes, sire." Matxin looked over to see Naiara behind Per, looking grim and pleased at once, Matia beside her. She reminded him so much of Nekane when they'd been younger. He smiled at her. They must have moved quickly, to take Per away from his own men, to avoid any fighting and confusion. "Well done, Naiara. You, too, Matia." Matia and Naiara bowed deeply, and then turned to escort Per away. It was good to know that things would run smoothly in his absence. **** Matxin was almost weaving by the time he made it back to Piran's chambers, with Josu just a step behind him. He was expecting silence, broken only by the frantic beeping of messages piling up on his terminal. Instead, Catzi was waiting for him in the sitting room. He was ready for the funeral, save for his hair, which fell down around his shoulders in soft loops and waves. As Matxin crossed the room and when Catzi moved to meet him, his floating white gown whispering, Matxin could see that the consort's pale face was unpainted as well. "I'm sorry..." Catzi began, but Matxin just shook his head. The world was upside down, and he didn't have it in him to be irritated with the much younger man for worrying. 182

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"I'm running late," he said, instead. "I'll help you change." It wasn't a question and it made Matxin smile a little and he nodded, waving Catzi toward the bedroom. "I'm nearly out of funeral clothes." "I would hope that would be a good thing." Catzi sounded a little tart as he sailed through the doors that opened for him. "You don't have so many funeral clothes that you can afford to ruin a set every day." How a change in angle altered everything, Matxin thought. How different it was to live a life than to keep it safe. He stopped in the bedroom, leaning on the desk, and caught his breath. Catzi had already disappeared into the dressing room ahead of him. The consort had always seemed too pale, too delicate, too demanding to hold attention. And, yet, he held Matxin's well enough when Matxin wore Piran's face. He pushed away from the desk and started undoing the tunic he wore. The lack of sleep, the delayed exhaustion of rapid healing, they must be taking their toll. "Here." Catzi laid out a new set of clothing on the bed and came to help undress him again. "You have been thwarting plots without me," he said, kissing under Matxin's chin as he took over undoing the buttons. "It's hardly your place to be thwarting plots, little one." Matxin smoothed his hand over Catzi's beautiful hair. It smelled of flowers, as it always did, something delicate and musky. One of the flowers from the night garden; Matxin had never been good at remembering the names of them. He kissed Catzi's temple, struck again by the realization that he 183

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was stealing something that was not his, and that he was going to be leaving it behind sooner than later. It felt wrong, on all levels. "But I could, if you needed me to. I would be anything you needed me to be." Catzi leaned back to see Matxin's face, Piran's face, and then kissed him on the mouth. "I know you would. Thank you." Matxin resisted tangling his hands in Catzi's hair and kissing him back. Time was too short for that. Catzi kissed him once more and then slid the tunic from Matxin's shoulders, "I never liked her," he whispered, his slim hands cool on Matxin's skin. "I know." Matxin laughed a little and moved to let the tunic slide away. He made his way to the bed, slowly, and sat down to undo his boots. "I don't mean like that." Catzi hung the tunic over the back of the chair and came to kneel at Matxin's feet, arranging the whispering layers of his gown so that he wouldn't crumple them. Then, careful of his opal-enameled nails, he began to unbuckle the boots so he could slide them off. Tossing back his hair, he looked up at Matxin. "I just mean that when she looked at you, there was no love in her eyes. The people near you, they should look at you with love." "And whose fault is that?" Matxin reached out to tuck a curl behind Catzi's ear, untangling the fine strands from the pearl and gold earrings he wore. "Never yours." Catzi shook his head and kissed Matxin's palm. 184

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"Thank you." Matxin leaned down and kissed the consort on the forehead, his dry lips lingering on flawless skin. "I love you." It was good to hear that from someone. Matxin envied Piran for it; he had never said it to Eiran, nor heard it returned. "And I love you." Whether Piran had ever said it or not, returning now it felt only right.

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Chapter Nine He'd been right about his own funeral. It was quiet, subdued, and he was pleased by that. Anything else would have made him terribly uncomfortable. He had always worked hard to be ubiquitous, invisible and present at once; it was the whole of what he was, to be absent and comforting at the same time. He wondered if Piran would have felt strange without him, if he would have felt as bare and exposed as Matxin felt without Piran. The world was large and strange without his king. Now that the crisis had passed and it was time for the end, Matxin had a moment to feel what it was like to be in the world alone and it was not a pleasant feeling at all. It had felt as though Piran had been there all this time, as Matxin struggled to uncover his murderer. And, now, with the mystery solved, he had stepped away, and Matxin was alone. The entirety of the royal guard was there save for Nekane and Bakar. Parisa had sent her own men up to the alcazar and provided a unit as escort while they were in Valéry. A battalion had been called out while there was the chance that Per and Oriane's plot had extended beyond them both. Matxin sat in the same seat he'd had during Luxan's funeral, except that Eiran sat to his right and beyond him sat Sendoa. Matxin had wanted nothing more than to sit with his father, but protocol would not have allowed it, and there was no reason to arouse suspicion at a time that was already unstable enough. It was strange, to want it; it made Matxin 186

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feel like a child. And, he supposed, he was, to his father. They stood as the guard stepped forward to lift his casket. His. It was a surprise to him, and it should not have been, to see Kai again, following the casket, leaning on Josu. Nor should it have surprised him to see tears in the eyes of some of the guard, but it was surprising, nonetheless. He could see Eiran out of the corner of his eye, his chin lifted a little stubbornly, as though he were trying not to be too terribly sad. Matxin wanted to comfort him, but Piran would not have, and so he turned his attention to things around him. Not for the first time since he'd died, since Piran had died, Matxin found himself trying to cling to the world. Every note of every hymn, the jewels of the sun-filled glass in the windows, every breath he took past the pain in his chest, the feel of silk on his skin, he was trying to hold on to it all. He was trying to hold on to it even as he could feel himself bleeding away into the world, as though his spirit were slipping out of the earth that held it. He felt as white as his clothing, as white as Eiran's hair. He almost stumbled on the steps down from the royal family's seats, and Eiran slid a hand under his elbow to support him. "Thank you," he said quietly. "Are you well?" Eiran's hand lingered, holding him up as they made their way out the door. Sunlight washed over them; the day was flawless and clear and warm. If it were another time and place, if Matxin had been wearing his own face, he would have been contented—the loss of Piran would have been a pain he carried like splinters in his blood but the world would have held enough for him to be more than a little 187

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happy in it. He could smell Eiran's hair, clean and sweet, and he tried to keep regret at the bruises he could see out of his expression. "Just tired." He turned to look over his shoulder, to see his father with his head bowed, raising a hand to wipe away tears. The sight made the pain in his chest as though the shard he imagined in his flesh were working deeper. Eiran glanced back as well, then let Matxin's arm go. "Walk with him," he said quietly. He stepped ahead, shaking his white hair back in the soft wind off the lake. Matxin shortened his steps a little so that Sendoa caught up with him without realizing it. "Your Majesty." Sendoa looked a little abashed when he looked up, hastily tucking his handkerchief away in his pocket. "Sendoa." It sounded so strange to say it. Matxin knew no one else by that name, and Sendoa was always 'my father' when he spoke of him. "I'm sorry," he said. He was sorry for lying right now, sorry that he couldn't tell his father the truth. If he had been himself, he would have put his arms around his father, but he was a ghost behind Piran's face and all he could do was apologize for his own absence. "He was always proud to serve you," Sendoa said, smiling at Matxin. He looked tired, but the smile reached his eyes. There was so much silver in his father's hair, in with the sunbleached gold. It had struck Matxin when they had spoken the day before—how could it only be a day?—but now, under the sun, the silver shone so brightly. 188

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"He did it well." He hoped he had. It seemed so empty a consolation, but Sendoa nodded as though he were grateful. "I am sorry for your troubles," Sendoa said quietly, as they passed under the archway and out into the green field above the pale blue lake, under the azure sky. The wind blew and the grasses bowed, showing their golden undersides in rippled waves. Eiran walked ahead alone, white hair and white uniform brilliant in the daylight. Matxin was caught watching him a moment, and then he realized that his father had spoken. "Thank you," he said, slightly startled. "All will be well," he added, smiling a little at Sendoa. It would be well, he knew that now. The feeling was so certain, as certain as the color of the sky and the firmness of the earth under his feet. "I hope so." Sendoa smiled again, and it warmed Matxin through to see it. He reached out and put his hand on his father's shoulder. "It will be," he said, keeping his voice steady with an effort. "All will be well." And then they were at the grave, and Sari stood at the head of it as the pall-bearers set the casket down and stepped away. Matxin watched Matia draw the back of his hand across his cheeks just before he and the others saluted the coffin one last time. It was an honor of sorts, to see that he'd been thought well of, Matxin thought. Things would go smoothly in his absence, and in Piran's. All was well, and he had been a very lucky man in his life. He wondered if someone would remember to say that about him, that he had 189

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been fortunate. Sari raised her hand and they all bowed their heads and the wind bent the grasses down again. **** "Your Majesty." Matxin turned at the sound of Goizargi's voice, surprised to see the elderly chancellor at his funeral. Goizargi bowed a little, stiffly, and Matxin nodded to her. "I am sorry to interrupt you, but..." The dirt on Matxin's hands was still fresh, and all he wanted to do was spend a little more time with Eiran and with his father. Instead, he nodded at Eiran to go ahead and join Sendoa and turned his attention to Goizargi. "I take it that you received my communication this morning," he said, wiping his hands on the handkerchief that Catzi had slipped into his pocket as he was dressing earlier. That done, he offered her his arm and she slipped her dry, slim hand through it, leaning a little on him as they walked. In truth, he was somewhat grateful at the slower pace through the graveyard toward the church. "I did, indeed. At least you've earned that haggard look," she said, laughing a little, a harsh sound like the brief cry of a bird. "I am sorry for all your troubles, though, Piran. You've lost more than one close friend in all this mess, I know." She patted his arm, surprisingly fondly. "Yes, I think I have." It pained him, when he thought of it, that Piran had lived a life of such suspicion and watchfulness, in spite of all his efforts. I wish you'd leaned on me more, he thought. I would have been glad of it. If Piran had, perhaps none of this would have happened. Perhaps there was 190

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something that Matxin could have done, should have done. Anger welled up in him again, hot and irrational, but the catch of his breath on the pain in his chest quelled it soon enough. "But, regained a son, I see," Goizargi added, looking up at him quizzically. "I think we have something of a truce," Matxin said, smiling a little. Eiran and Piran might not have, but Matxin wasn't so certain of it now. If Matxin had lived, if Piran had lived, they certainly would have fought about it. So would he and Eiran. Sometimes, it felt like if they yelled at each other long enough, something would eventually seep in. All they needed was time. They were out of that now, so Matxin had simply stepped past all the misunderstandings and anger, as he'd always wished he could, and made it right again. "I will be issuing a formal pardon for my son." "And he remains heir to the throne?" Goizargi tilted her head and looked up at Matxin, her piercing black eyes bright even in the shadows of the chapel as they passed through it. He had been almost afraid that she could see through Piran's face, through Piran's eyes, and into the man behind, but it was so close to the end now, it hardly mattered anymore. "Yes. The House of Valora is secure. And Princess Leila should recover." Matxin smiled a little more, feeling pleased. He looked ahead to where Sendoa was walking with Eiran, and the sight of his father talking quietly to the prince pleased him all the more. He wondered if Eiran would think of speaking to Sendoa now and again, when he took the throne. 191

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"It seems my son was correct in one thing; it was my choices that led to this." "You are too hard on yourself, Piran," Goizargi said sharply. "It was not your doing that your wife chose to satisfy the demands of her family honor in this way. You compensated her family well for the annexing of their lands. Change must happen." "I am sure there was something I could have done differently," Matxin said, though he was not so sure. If Piran had been alive, he would have been the one telling Piran that it hadn't been his fault. "You may be the king, but you are only human," Goizargi pointed out, shaking a finger at Matxin. "No matter what your subjects may think about your ability to survive. All we can do now is learn and hope." "I think that all will be well," Matxin said quietly, patting Goizargi's thin hand on his arm. "I am relieved to hear that, sire," she said as they stepped outside and Matxin helped her down the steps. "I think I should go prepare myself for a great deal more research than your brother provided." She sounded more than a little disgruntled. "I apologize for leaving you with the entirety of the truth," Matxin said dryly. He wasn't, and he knew she wasn't sorry either. She would take it all in, and she would do what was right, lead the council to do what was right. And, he hoped, she would help Eiran do what was right. "With Your Majesty's leave," Goizargi said formally, pausing and turning to face him to bid him farewell. 192

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Matxin stopped as well, and took her hand in his, kissing the back of it as they might have done years ago. "You have my leave to go," he said, smiling. She bowed to him and he let her go as though they had been dancing, bowing his head in return. Her guards stepped close around her, escorting her to her own air car. When Matxin turned to look ahead, Eiran was standing alone beside the royal air car, and Matxin could see Sendoa walking away. It hurt like a blow and his breath caught. "Sire?" Josu, a step behind him, sounded worried. "Nothing," Matxin said, forcing himself to start walking again, at a measured pace. "I just remembered something I had forgotten." He had forgotten nothing, that was the problem. He remembered everything, how his father had looked after his mother's death, his father's hands holding him up on a horse so tall that he was terrified, his father's voice reading to him at night. Matxin watched him go, with only Eiran ahead of him to see the longing on his face. Eiran bowed his head when Matxin drew close. "Father," he said gently. "Are you well?" "Yes," Matxin said, giving Eiran a smile and laying his hand on Eiran's shoulder. "Just a little melancholy, perhaps, at saying goodbye." "As am I." Eiran let his hand rest on Matxin's arm and the wind swirled around them, tugging Eiran's long hair about, in spite of the circlet he wore to hold it back. "Let's go home," he said softly, and Matxin knew it was not Piran to whom Eiran spoke, but him. 193

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"I think it is time for that," he said and turned to let Josu help him into the car. **** "You didn't let me say goodbye to Max!" Leila, propped up in a sea of pink pillows and tucked in under satin covers, was the picture of pretty dejection. The sight made Matxin smile, and her irritation at not getting to attend his funeral was touching. "I am so sorry," he said, genuinely, trying to put away his smile. He wasn't laughing at her, he was just happy to see her well. "I'm sure Max knows you wanted to be there." There was just enough room among the small army of stuffed toys and dolls on the bed for Matxin to find himself a seat. "I don't want him to be gone." Leila thumped her head back in the pillows and turned her face away from Matxin. "And I don't want Mama to be mad and do bad things. This day can go away." She waved her little hand imperiously and Matxin found himself blinking back tears. All of this, and he was going to leave her again, now. What would she have, now that he was gone? He reached out and smoothed a hand over her hair. "Leila," he said gently. "I'm not talking to you," she said, crossing her arms over her chest and pushing her lower lip out further. It was more than just a petulant protest; a tear slid down her cheek, and he wiped it away with his fingertips. "Will you hug me instead?" he asked, bargaining a little. 194

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Leila thought about this a moment, and then nodded, sniffling and still not looking at him. Matxin carefully scooped her out of the cradle of her pillows and toys and held her to his chest, wrapping her in a blanket, so as to avoid her nanny's wrath. He picked her up and carried her to the window of her nursery and sat down there in a rocking chair. The sun was warm on him and so was she, and Matxin stroked her hair and rocked her gently. "I put some extra dirt on for you," he told her after she had sniffled against his chest for a while. "You did?" She wriggled in his lap to look up at him, her eyes blue-green with tears. "Of course I did. He understands why you couldn't be there." Matxin fished out the handkerchief, and deeming it suitably undirty, wiped her nose with it. "You think so, Papa?" Leila sniffled again and her tears overran her dark lashes. "I promise." Matxin kissed her forehead and rocked her again. "Friends understand these things. Now, you have a rest and get better." "Okay." She put her head down against his chest, playing with the ivory buttons of his tunic with one hand, and sighed quietly. Matxin kissed her hair, breathing in her little girl scent one last time, and rocked her in the sunshine until she slept. Then he carried her to her bed and tucked her in. He leaned on a bedpost, looking down at her waiting for the pain in his chest to pass. "Your Majesty." Joris entered as Matxin was rubbing at his breastbone to get the pain to ease. "You look unwell." 195

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"Just tired." Matxin said gamely. Joris shook his head and sighed at Matxin. "It is a little late in the day to lie to me," he said disapprovingly. "Go and lie down. Rest. Tell Nekane to send for me if you need me." "It's a little late in the day for me to need you," Matxin retorted, without any rancor, and Joris chuckled. "Point," he said, patting Matxin on the shoulder on his way to check on Leila. "But I would hardly be doing my job properly if your Majesty were suffering. See that you don't." He looked over his shoulder at Matxin, eyes narrowed a little. "I won't," Matxin promised. "And I'll let Nekane know." He started for the door, then stopped, turning around. "She will be okay, won't she? Leila, I mean." "Yes." Joris straightened and gave Matxin something like the bow he should have given Piran. "She will be well." "Thank you." The reassurance eased the guilt a little; not much but enough to loosen the fist that clenched Matxin's heart. Just a little further, he told himself. Just a few more hallways, and then you can rest. Shoulders back, chin up, he made his way back to Piran's rooms, one step at a time. **** "I was expecting you some time ago, your Majesty," Nekane said as Matxin made it in the door. She was standing by the sitting room hearth, hands behind her back, waiting for him. It was a relief to see her in stark black, instead of funeral white.

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"I was with Leila," Matxin said wearily. It had been a pleasant distraction, at least for a little while. "How is the rest of the world?" "A little disjointed. How is her Highness?" "The same. Unhappy. A little unwell." Matxin shook his head slowly. "But she'll recover from all of it. She is young. And she is surrounded by the right people." He had to believe it, because he couldn't stay to make sure of it himself. Xarai was there and, stepping out of the shadows, she lifted the heavy white robe from Matxin's shoulders. Joseba, as gray and aged as Matxin felt, held out his hands. Matxin stared at the smooth palms a moment, then realized he was still wearing Piran's crown. He removed it and held it a moment, feeling the weight of the gold circle in his hands, watching the daylight bounce off of the jewels and scatter. It was nothing ostentatious, but it was heavy nonetheless, and he was glad to have it off. He smiled, handing it over to Joseba. The next living person to put it on would be Eiran. "You should eat," Nekane said, raking him from head to toe with her sharp green stare. The look shook Matxin out of his reverie and he straightened, shoulders back. "Later, maybe." Matxin waved her off. "I want to get out of all this white." He didn't know if he could eat; his body already felt so heavy, as if he were wearing a skin of lead. Maybe getting out of the white would help. "Bring his Majesty something light to eat, and some wine," Nekane said to Xarai, ignoring Matxin's glare. "Will your 197

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Majesty need any assistance to undress?" she called as Matxin disappeared into Piran's bedroom. "I believe I'm still capable of managing buttons," Matxin said, irritated with her for trying to take care of him when he didn't want it. He had irritated Piran the same way; it only seemed fair. Argine looked up from arranging flowers in a bowl on the desk, then stepped away and bowed gracefully. The blossoms were pale blue, the color of a morning sky, at the edges and they darkened, not to midnight but to blood red, at the heart. The color was a welcome relief and their smell, rich and sweet, was already seeping into the air. "Carry on," Matxin said, gesturing for her to continue. The room was pale gold with the light of early afternoon, and when he looked around, he could see that she had removed all the white flowers and changed the sheets and draperies to soft blues and golds. The return of color warmed him and he headed for the dressing room, even more eager to change and feel, for a moment, as though life might return to normal. "Would your Majesty like me to draw him a bath?" Eyes down, she went back about her work, taking a few more flowers from a basket on the floor, honey-gold puffs that Matxin remembered from the garden at home, and cut the stems so that she could arrange them among the others. Matxin was about to refuse her when he realized how good it would feel to sink into the hot water after the long day, and the longer night before that. "Please." He refused to dwell on life beyond that. A bath and a rest, even a meal if he could manage it, all sounded terribly appealing. 198

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In the dressing room, he stripped down, watching himself in the mirror. How many nights had he slept in a chair, how many meals had he taken standing, or in the cockpit of an air car, or even on the run, how many hasty showers, how many early morning alarms? It had been a hurried life. "How are you?" Nekane came in, closing the door behind her, as he was tossing his clothing toward the laundry hamper. Piran had never been fond of having assistance changing clothes, and Matxin understood that completely now. "Tired," he said honestly enough. In the mirror, Piran's face, that he was slowly growing accustomed to calling his own, looked back at him. They were definitely tired. His body looked older than it ever had, sallow and tinted with the last of bruises around his wounds, mottled green and brown. He certainly wasn't anything to look at lately. Nekane took a robe from the rack that presented itself to her at the touch of a button and held it out for him. "You'll have a chance to rest, soon," she said. Her expression was soft and her hands were gentle as she helped him into the robe. "Stop that," Matxin said quietly, tying the robe at his waist. He looked at her in the mirror and tried to ignore the sadness in her eyes. Her gentleness was unnerving. "I'm sorry." She put her hands on his shoulders and he smiled at her reflection. She had some Solange blood in her, a little Valora, as well, as far back as his own, and it showed in her face and eyes. 199

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"I'll be fine," he assured her, leaning back into her touch a little. They fit together like a matched set, like they all did. Not many people in the world looked like the old families now, and fewer would as newcomers came and those born here scattered on trade ships. The world was changing so quickly. "I know." She leaned her cheek against his, and her expression said that she wanted to say more, so he pulled away from her and sat down at the vanity. He repeated the process he'd used the other day to cloak the room in privacy. "There." He closed the mirror and looked at her in it again. "You can change the permissions to Eiran and yourself later." "He's going to want to see you." Her hands drifted to his shoulders, touching lightly, almost as though she were unaware of it. They touched often, casually, all of them. "Let him, when he comes," Matxin said quietly. Her hands felt good, familiar, like the hands of the mother he'd lived without, or the sister he'd never had. "I'll write his pardon before I do anything else." Nekane smiled at him in the mirror and he reached up to catch one of her hands in his, squeezing it gently, and then he kissed the back of it. "Come on," she said quietly, running her other hand over his hair. "You can dictate it to me while you're in the tub, your Majesty."

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Chapter Ten The light had softened to a pale green-gold that heralded the onset of dusk when Matxin woke. The curtains around Piran's bed were drawn back and he was alone in a sea of soft blue sheets. He pushed himself to sitting and the covers fell away, leaving him bare to the waist. The room was awash in the soft light reflected from the pale walls, and for a moment, Matxin wondered if he were dreaming. "Sleep well?" When he turned, Eiran was sitting at Piran's desk, wearing a soft black tunic and soft black pants tucked into high boots. His white hair spilled over his shoulders until he shook it back and pushed himself away from the desk. "Yes." Matxin still wasn't sure if this was all sleep or waking until Eiran came closer and Matxin could see the bruises on Eiran's face, the swelling of his lips, the marks of Matxin's hand on him. He was awake and his heart hurt for what he'd done. Piran would have done it and Matxin would have been a knot of rage and pain. Playing both roles was even harder on him. Eiran sat down on the bed and reached out, covering Matxin's hand with his own. "Thank you," he said quietly. His eyes, framed by snowy lashes, were the color of the sky when it was just dark enough for the stars to appear, the color of every pair of eyes that Matxin had ever cared to see himself reflected in. "For?" Still groggy, Matxin was confused as to what thing Eiran might have to thank him for. As far as he could 201

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remember, he'd only been doing his job these last days, as with all the days before them. "Everything." Eiran took Matxin's hand in his and brought it to his mouth, kissing the knuckles softly. "Oh, that," Matxin said lightly, shaking off sleep enough to laugh a little. "And for remembering to pardon me before taking a nap," Eiran added, laughing back at him. He let go of Matxin's hand and crawled across the bed to kiss him on the mouth. "But mostly, for everything," he said, running his cool fingers through Matxin's sleep-damp hair. "You're welcome." Matxin kissed him back, slowly, then pulled away a little. "Where's Nekane?" "Outside." Eiran ducked his head to kiss Matxin on the throat and shoulder. "She decided that she trusted me enough to let me stay in here with you." "She should." Matxin lay back on the pillows and looked up at Eiran, reaching out to run his fingers through Eiran's silky hair. He couldn't help smiling at Eiran; he could see past the thinness and the bruises and see the man Eiran was now, through everything. He was proud of who Eiran had become. "I had to promise to get you to eat and drink something, though." Eiran turned his head to kiss Matxin's fingertips, then got down off the bed to bring Matxin wine and fruit from a tray on the desk. Grudgingly, as he was surrounded and outnumbered, he accepted the bowl of berries and the glass of wine. The wine was the same color as the light, pale green and gold, and he knew the smell of it from his earliest memories. 202

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The winds on the Mercé estates carried that same scent in the evenings after the sun had beat down on the fruit all through the long, hot summer days. Matxin sipped it, lost in his memories, until Eiran slipped back into bed with him and slid cool, bare skin against Matxin's own. Matxin put the wine aside, and the fruit, it could all wait. He turned to take Eiran in his arms and kissed him until his heart beat so hard it hurt. "Matxin..." Eiran's tone was pleading. "Hush." Matxin hushed him with a kiss and when he pulled back, Eiran's breath broke like a quiet sob. "It's okay," Matxin said, and kissed him again. "It's not," Eiran whispered between kisses, his body answering Matxin's, his work-rough hands sliding over Matxin's back. "It's never going to be." Matxin didn't argue with him. It would be, in time, but there was no way to convince some people of that until they'd seen it for themselves. He rolled Eiran over in the softness of Piran's bed and kissed him again. Eiran's bed now, he reminded himself. They were both bruised and battered, marked with purple and green pools of old blood under golden skin, and once in a while their touches and kisses were punctuated by a soft noise of pain. Eiran's fingers tangled in Matxin's hair, tugging at the fresh scars from his surgery, Matxin bumped Eiran's nose with his own, eliciting an "ouch" from each of them. Eiran started to laugh, collapsing back into the pillows. Matxin lost track of precisely what he was doing and gave up, 203

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putting his head down on Eiran's shoulder and laughing quietly, too. "Stay a little longer," Eiran pleaded, his laughter fading. "I can't." Matxin rolled over onto his back and Eiran moved to straddle him, his pale hair falling around them both like the curtains of the bed. Looking up at him, Matxin couldn't help smiling. Under the bruises and the tiredness, Eiran was still beautiful. "My work is done." "I need you," Eiran said, bending to kiss Matxin lightly on the mouth. "How am I going to hold this place together without you?" "From what I hear, you're an effective leader," Matxin soothed, petting Eiran's hair back. "I have faith in you." "That's why I need you," Eiran retorted, turning his head to kiss Matxin's hand. "Who else is going to do that?" "I don't need to be here to have faith in you." Matxin slid his hand around to the nape of Eiran's neck and pulled him down for another kiss. The pain in his chest was searing, but he put it aside. "I can do that from anywhere. Always, Eiran." "You look so tired, my Matxin." Eiran stroked Matxin's cheek and Matxin realized that he was seeing past Piran's face to Matxin's underneath. It was comforting to be seen once more before he had to go. "I missed you so much. I never could stop thinking of you as mine." Matxin drew Eiran down for another kiss. "I always was." He breathed slowly between kisses and the pain in his chest faded again. "I was yours, always." Eiran's voice broke and he pressed his cheek against Matxin's. "Tell me you want me, still." 204

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"I do." Matxin kissed the bruises on Eiran's face, ran his fingers over the knotted wound under his soft hair, outer signs of what he'd done to his prince. To his king. "Forgive me?" "What should I forgive you for?" Eiran pushed himself up to look down at Matxin. "You have been loyal always, good always. All the forgiveness I have is yours. Even for leaving me." Matxin rolled him over in the sheets, then, kissing him hard. Eiran gasped when Matxin's hand tangled in his hair to hold him still and to silence with more kisses his protests that Matxin should be careful. It didn't matter if any of this did him more harm now. When Eiran stopped speaking and his words faded into ragged inhalations and little moans, Matxin pinned his hands down in the pillows and kissed his temples and his eyes and his cheeks and the line of his jaw. Matxin tasted the soft skin under Eiran's jaw and bit him there gently to hear him sigh and to feel him tilt his head back, surrendering and baring his throat for more. Matxin left the marks of his teeth down to Eiran's shoulder and then let go of Eiran's wrists so he could keep moving down. Eiran's body was new and familiar at once, the bones drawn close to the surface with hunger and hardship, pale skin marked with fresh bruises and healed wounds that Matxin had not been there to prevent. His belly was taut and concave under his ribs and his hips rose up sharply. Matxin left new bruises rising in the hollows of Eiran's hips, pushed Eiran's thighs apart so that he could lie between them. 205

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All the time, he was listening to every little noise that Eiran made, writing every breath and cry into his memory as if he would have a chance to linger over them again in some future time. When he drew Eiran's cock into his mouth, taking him in deep, Eiran's hands found his shoulders, fingers digging in as Eiran arched under him without a sound. That, too, he held onto, that small pain and the taste of Eiran on his tongue. For a while, Eiran indulged him, managing some semblance of patience while Matxin sucked him, licked and explored, remembering all the other times he'd done this. Finally, though, Eiran tugged at his hair, murmuring, "Matxin, please. I want to feel you." Matxin lingered a little longer, and then slid up Eiran's body to kiss his mouth again. Eiran's oiled hand closing around Matxin's erection and stroked the length of it while Matxin tried to remember how to breathe through that pleasure. He pushed into Eiran's hand again and again, whimpering against Eiran's mouth, until Eiran wrapped his thighs around Matxin's waist and arched to take him in. Eyes open, Matxin wanted to drown in the expression on Eiran's face. He knew that look; it was the one he kept under masks for years every time he looked at Eiran, even when they were alone. All the pain in the world was gone for the moment and the only tightness in his chest was joy. Their bodies remembered each other and moving together was pure pleasure. Matxin's mouth found Eiran's and he slid his arms under Eiran's shoulders, holding him close the way he had in the past. 206

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Eiran sounded so sweet and lost, the way he said Matxin's name over and over again between gasps and kisses. When his gasps turned into cries, Matxin slid a hand between them to give him the touch he needed to tip him over into orgasm. Eiran cupped Matxin's face in his hands, eyes wide. "I love you," Eiran breathed. "My Matxin." "Yours." As much as Matxin wanted to kiss him just then, he wanted to watch Eiran's face more, wanted to watch the way Eiran arched and cried out his name. Eiran was beyond beautiful then, taut with pleasure, cheeks flushed, eyes almost black like the night. Matxin bit his lip hard, holding on until Eiran's shudders slowed. He pulled his slick hand out from between them to taste Eiran's come on his fingers. "Don't stop." Eiran leaned up to kiss Matxin, biting at his lips. "I don't want you to ever stop." Matxin made him wait, licking his fingers clean so he could slide them into Eiran's hair. He kissed Eiran fiercely, moving faster, making Eiran arch and shudder again. Eiran's body under his was so demanding, so tight, Eiran's hands on him so desperate, nails digging in, Matxin had little choice but to give in long before he was ready. He had forgotten how good it was, how intense. He buried his face in the curve of Eiran's neck to stifle his cries as he came. After, Matxin slowly untangled their bodies and rolled them onto their sides. Eiran's eyes were closed, the pale lashes heavy with tears. Matxin kissed his forehead and pulled him close to comfort him. Eiran's breath caught and the little shudders of repressed sobs ran through him. There was no way to make any of this better now—that part of Matxin's 207

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work was past—and so he held Eiran and kissed his hair and tried to take in how good it all felt so that he'd be able to take it with him somehow. **** It was nearly dark, the sky deepening to a rich green, when Matxin lay in the pillows, stroking his fingers through Eiran's hair, and feeling Eiran's tears drying on his chest. There was nothing left to say, Eiran had nothing to say that wasn't a plea for him not to go, and Matxin didn't want to spend their last minutes together arguing. They'd done so much of it in the past, and it had won them so little. Against the sky, he could just make out the streak of the comet Sursum on its journey around Pau-Ortzi. In a few days, it would pass again and go careening back out into space, taking the time of troubles with it. Eiran's breath caught and he tightened his arms around Matxin, sending a knife of pain through Matxin's chest. Matxin tried to stifle the whimper but failed, his hand tightening in Eiran's hair as his vision darkened. "Matxin?" Eiran pushed himself up to his knees and leaned over him, stroking his face and kissing Matxin's mouth almost frantically. "What's wrong?" "Nothing." Matxin forced himself to breathe through the pain and mustered up the will to kiss Eiran back, trying to soothe him. "Just a little pain." "Where?" Eiran sat back on his heels, pushing the covers back to inspect him, hands moving over Matxin's shoulders and chest as though he could find the damage by touching. 208

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"Just here." Matxin touched over his heart and exhaled to try and shake the pain loose. It was fading, but every time it came, it hurt deeper and clung to him longer. "Should I go get Joris?" Eiran gathered his hair back with one hand to get it out of his face and brushed the other against Matxin's cheek. Matxin was about to tell him not to bother, but then he remembered the time, and he smiled up at Eiran. "He did say to send for him if it came back," he admitted. It wasn't quite a lie, but Matxin stifled the shame he felt at saying it anyway, knowing he was sending Eiran away so that he would be back too late. Eiran leaned down to kiss him and then slid away to dress, unaware, trusting. "Stay in bed," he said, when he came back to the bed to find Matxin pulling on Piran's robe. "I'll be fine," Matxin said, giving Eiran a kiss when he bent down for one. "I'm sending Nekane in to keep an eye on you," Eiran warned. "I'll be right back with Joris." He tucked his shirt in and gave Matxin a stern look. "Just rest." "I will." It wasn't quite a lie, again. Not quite. Eiran came back up the steps to the bed and kissed Matxin one more time. Matxin cupped Eiran's cheek in his hand and held him close a little longer, kissing him a little deeper, kissing him goodbye. "I'll be right back," Eiran said again, and then he was gone. **** 209

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"You need Joris?" Nekane sounded worried and Matxin waited until the doors closed behind her to answer. "Not so much," he said. Tying the robe at his waist, he made his way down the steps and headed for the balcony. "I just wanted a moment alone." "Should I go?" Her footsteps behind him stopped as she hesitated. "No, no." Matxin pushed the balcony doors and they parted for him. Outside, he leaned on the rail and looked up at the stars. Nekane followed him out and leaned on the rail beside him. "I'm glad you're here," he said quietly. "So am I." She put one hand over his. "I told you not to tempt fate," he said, teasing her a little. "I told you Sursnight was going to be a bad night." "Yes, you're a superstitious peasant. I've learned my lesson," she said, hardly sounding contrite at all. "Should I say it's all going to be terrible when you're gone?" When Matxin looked at her, she was smiling at him. "No. It's all going to be okay." "You're sure?" Her eyes were a little brighter than usual and he gave her a smile in return. "I'm sure." Matxin turned his hand under hers so he held it, and he squeezed a little. "You'll tell him what he needs to know. And take care of Leila." "Of course." "And my father?" He'd been trying not to think of Sendoa, but he had to be sure, before he left. "Always." Nekane leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. "Like he was my own." 210

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"Then everything will be perfect," Matxin said quietly, and he felt the surety of it wash over him. It didn't take much to end it; he did it before he could hear Eiran's voice again, before he lost his nerve. His fingers found the ampoule Joris had left under his skin, no bigger than a seed, and crushed it against his skull. He didn't think it would hurt; it wouldn't be like Joris to do that to him. The physician was too much of a perfectionist for that. Whatever came, it would come gracefully. Matxin just hoped it came soon. He leaned on the railing, looking out at the world sleeping under the cover of the night, his hand warm in Nekane's, her shadow at his side. Everything was going to be just fine. He looked up at the sky, at the dark green spangled with stars, and the comet sailing alone through the mystery of the void. "Matxin?" He heard Nekane saying his name as though she were speaking from somewhere far away. It was not how he had expected it. There was no weight to him at all; he hadn't realized how tired he was until now. He felt as though everything had slid from his shoulders, all his worries, all his cares, and his body fell to the ground as he lifted up and reached for the stars.

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Chapter Eleven The summer sun beat down on the fields of the Mercé estate and Sendoa rode between the long rows of vines in his northern vineyard. Now and then, he slowed his horse so he could lean over and take a bunch of fruit in his palm, weighing it and feeling its ripeness. He looked over a row of vines at the young man accompanying him on horseback. "It's going to be a good harvest," he said. "Probably the best since you were born." Aleixo laughed and tugged at his horse's reins to keep it from trying to take a bite. "Ironic enough, I suppose," he replied. He nudged the horse with his heels to get it moving again. "Did you want me to see to the west vineyard, to the new grafts?" "If you would. Tie the new growth to the second line that the servants have set." Sendoa urged his horse into a trot. "I'm going up to the house. The accountant is coming out today. Damnable vulture. Be back for dinner." "Yes, uncle." Aleixo tugged at his horse's reins again. "Stop that," he muttered, as the horse snaked its neck out to snap at the ripening fruit. "You'll give yourself a bellyache." Some things hadn't changed. He still wasn't fond of horses, and certainly not the petulant red roan his father thought suited him perfectly. He thumped his heels against its sides again, and at the end of the row he let it have its head to canter toward the newly opened west vineyard where Sendoa was trying an off-world graft for a pale blue fruit. 212

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It was a time for new things. New face, new name, new life. He was still getting accustomed to being Aleixo, to calling Sendoa 'uncle' instead of 'father'. It had taken days and a great deal of discipline, but he'd forced the change on himself. Most days, especially ones like this with the sun on his skin and the wind cooling the sweat that seeped into his white shirt, he was grateful to be alive. In the early days, though, he had suffered the overwhelming urge to get up, go to Valéry—even if he had to walk—and punch Joris in the nose. Death looked remarkably like life, and he supposed he was fortunate; in most respects, life looked remarkably like heaven. One of the farm dogs, a lanky red and white bitch, romped out to greet him when he got near the field, her enthusiasm startling the roan. "Do you mind?" Aleixo grabbed a handful of mane with the reins and brought the animal under control. The royal family had been better behaved. "May I?" One of the workers—Aleixo still had trouble with remembering new names—came to take the irritating horse. "Thank you." Aleixo slithered down from the horse with a sigh of relief and turned it over. After stripping off his shirt, he paused to pump water up from the well at the intersection of the fields, sending it splashing into the stone trough below the metal spout. First, he pulled a clay jar of water to take with him, then set it aside. He filled his hands with water and washed his face, then worked the pump again so he could duck his head into the flow of icy water. Once his hair was drenched and cool, and his thirst was quenched, he hung his shirt up and took off 213

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his boots, leaving them at the end of the smallest vineyard. The dog helped herself to the water left behind in the trough with noisy slurps. This little, stone-walled field was where the Mercés had planted their first grapes. It had spent some years sleeping of late, covered under clover and vetch, turned under every year to give life back to the earth. And now, it was awake, and planted anew with sturdy yearling roots bearing grafted vines new to Pau-Ortzi. Aleixo walked between the rows, carrying the water jug to the far end of the field. Leaving it there under a tree for later, he turned around and walked back. The walk gave him time to look over the new vines and make sure nothing was amiss. Aleixo took a roll of twine from a nail on a post at the end of the first row and fished out his pocket-knife. Some things had to be done by hand. The vines were growing gangly and unruly. Carefully, he took each green strand and coaxed it up to the second line strung taut between the posts that made up each row. A little twine, tied loosely, would train the vine to climb. Halfway down the first row, he straightened to ease an ache in his lower back, and turned to look east. The Mercé house was shadowed by tall, old trees, their summer foliage deep green against the pale sky. It was as he remembered it, a simple square centered on a courtyard, the walls plastered white and the roof dark red tile from the riverbanks to the north. Valéry was little more than a memory in the distance, the alcazar a bright fleck that Aleixo imagined he could see on a clear day. 214

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He cut another piece of twine and got down on his knees in the soft, dry earth to coax another vine into place. The sun was hot and the wind was cool, drying his sweat on his skin and turning him and even deeper bronze. When he started working in the fields, he had burnt easily, but now he was almost as dark as the earth under his knees. At the end of the row, he stopped for a long drink, then kept going. The green sliding through his fingers, the earth under his bare feet, the sound of birds singing, and the companionable wuffle of the dog as she threw herself down in the dirt for a roll, they all kept him grounded in the world. Returning to it had been harder than leaving, learning to be a new person, to have a new face that was all his own. He still looked like a Mercé, that had been something of a relief, but now he looked like one of Parisa's instead of Sendoa's kin, and he was listed as belonging to her family. That still felt a little like being orphaned, even as he knew he was being unreasonable. The dog got up and shook herself, leaving him to dodge the spray of dirt, laughing. Barking, she took off between the rows, and Aleixo wondered if the accountant had arrived. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw nothing but there was the soft hum of a low air car beyond the trees. Probably the accountant. Visitors out here were rare. Humming a little, he set to work again, hands moving quickly to school the vines into their proper place. Aleixo wasn't what anyone would call slow, though he frustrated himself constantly. Joris may have been a genius, but death took a toll on anyone, especially following so closely the strain of nearly dying. Aleixo's reactions were still not 215

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what they had been, his memory confounded him a little now and again. It would, Joris said, improve in time. The physician had come out to the Mercé house when Aleixo had first woken. It had not been a particularly friendly visit. When Joris had pointed out that, if all else failed, he was certainly pretty now, and looking years younger, Aleixo had shown remarkable dexterity in throwing a vase at his head. After that, consultations had taken place at a distance. Aleixo was half-lost in a daydream, his mind gone off into the blue to other places and another life, and he was only aware of someone else arriving when they spoke. "Excuse me. I was told Master Mercé was out here." The voice was so familiar, Aleixo almost forgot who he was for a moment. Fortunately, his hands were busy tying a fragile green vine to the line and he had the discipline not to spin about and jump to his feet. When he did turn, he looked up and got to his feet, dusting the dirt from his hands and knees, so he could bow. Eiran was a better horseman than he, seated easily on Sendoa's bay mare, reins held loosely in his long fingers. He looked well, broader in the shoulders now under his tailored black tunic, hair shining like a star bright enough to overcome the day. Aleixo's heart clenched a little and he tried not to smile at the sight. "I think you're looking for the other Master Mercé, your Majesty," Aleixo said, keeping his voice steady. His voice was a little lighter, now, as well. 'A little shaving of the...' Joris had started to say before Aleixo tried to get out of bed to express once more his general displeasure at the idea of 216

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being alive at all. Now, it didn't seem such a bad thing. "He's up at the house. He slips in the back sometimes and the servants don't know." "I see." Eiran was looking at him strangely and Aleixo realized with a bit of a start that he was stripped to the waist and barefoot, his wind-dried hair curling in worse disarray than the unbound vines. If he'd been expecting anyone from Valéry, he could have worn a shirt, if only to cover the wellfaded scars that only a few people knew he still bore. "In fact, sire," Aleixo pointed out. "You happen to be riding his mare. Sometimes I wonder about the staff. I'm sorry you wasted your time coming out here." "Don't worry about it." The wind tugged Eiran's hair about in spite of the circlet he wore, as it always did. "It's a beautiful day and there's not much chance to ride in Valéry. I'll go back and find him, thank you." "Of course." Aleixo bowed again, slightly, just enough to be polite, and waited for Eiran to ride away. Eiran turned the horse, careful not to trample the young vines, and headed back for the house. Aleixo made himself turn away, as much as he wanted to watch just a little longer. Picking up the knife and the twine again, he knelt back down and fended off the dog's enthusiastic greeting. "Cut that out," he muttered. "It's not like I went away." The dog got a lick in anyway and bounded away with a few excited barks. Aleixo ignored her—she was young and far too energetic—and went back to work. He hummed an old tune for a pavane as he worked, struggling to remember the notes 217

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to keep himself busy and to help him ignore the happy barking of the dog in the distance. "Matxin." His name cut through everything like a piece of broken glass. It was as though the world stopped for a moment and even the wind fell still, the dog fell silent. Aleixo flicked the knife shut and turned to look up at Eiran. The young king had left the horse at the far end of the field and returned on foot, his polished boots dusty now. There was a moment's silence and then Aleixo relented. The pain and uncertainty in Eiran's face was too much to bear. "Yes," he said softly, and it felt like a surrender, a terrible defeat, to say the word. "You..." Eiran took a step forward, hands clenching as his sides as though he were trying to keep them still. Whether he wanted to touch or strike out, Aleixo didn't know. "Nekane sent me out here. She said I had to ... that Sendoa..." He lost track of what he was trying to say and fell silent, looking stricken. "I didn't know." It was so hard to remember who he was right now. "Not until I woke up." He pushed himself to his feet. "Eiran...." "You planned to spend your whole life saying nothing?" Eiran's eyes flashed and color rose in his cheeks, he shook his hair back, lifting his chin defiantly. It had always been easy for him to take refuge in anger. Had he? "No." No, he hadn't. In the back of his mind, he knew that someday it would become impossible to keep his 218

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peace. It just wasn't supposed to come so soon. "Nekane sent you here? Sent?" That Nekane would send the king anywhere was hardly comprehensible. That she knew he was alive was only slightly less shocking. "She ... it made sense when she said it," Eiran said defensively, crossing his arms over his chest. Aleixo couldn't help it. He laughed. It was that or cry. "And ... my dear 'uncle' hid in the house," he said through his laughter as Eiran's face flushed further. "You don't look like the accountant he said he was expecting." "You son of a bitch..." Eiran's temper broke and he stepped forward, furious, but Aleixo caught him by the wrists, only barely, before he could strike out. "Eiran," he said gently, and leaned in to kiss Eiran on the mouth, in spite of his struggles to free himself. Eiran's lips were so soft against his own, so delicate and refined, such a change from the way they were when he had kissed them last. And then, Eiran was kissing him back. Aleixo let go of his wrists and Eiran's arms slid around his neck, his kisses growing frantic. Aleixo stroked Eiran's hair and back gently, careless of his dirty hands. "I thought you were gone." Eiran's voice broke and he kissed Aleixo again, desperately. "I came back and you were gone. You left me." "I'm sorry." He was, he was so sorry that it hurt in places he forgot he could still feel, places that had felt dead even after he had learned to walk again. He tried to soothe Eiran a little with words and kisses. "I never wanted to go. You know I had to go." 219

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"Damn you." Eiran's hands tangled in Aleixo's hair and he rubbed his cheek against Aleixo's leaving streaks of tears behind. "Don't you leave me again. Say you won't leave me now." "I won't." Aleixo pulled back a little to see Eiran's face. He was barefoot and now they were closer in height than he remembered. But the sight of Eiran's tears in his beautiful green eyes and on his flushed cheeks, that he remembered, and it still filled him with regret the way it had done when Eiran was a child. Some things hadn't changed, couldn't change. They were written into the turning of things like the path of a comet, destined to come back where they belonged. Aleixo kissed Eiran's forehead and then his mouth, tenderly. "I won't leave you," he said again, pulling back to look at Eiran's face once more, assuring himself that this was real. The prince—no, the king—was pale as his hair save for the flush of his cheeks and the red of his lips. "I love you," Aleixo said, because he could say it now, because he couldn't go without saying it again. It was true no matter what name, what life, what face he wore. "Oh." The word was little more than an exhalation and Eiran leaned up to kiss him, so softly. "I love you, too. Please don't go." "Only once more," Aleixo promised as Eiran covered his cheeks and mouth with soft, warm kisses. "Only one thing is going to take me away from you." He didn't know how it would work, only that it would. He hadn't slipped away from death twice for nothing. It would have to wait for him now. 220

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He slid his hands up Eiran's back, feeling the shifting of new muscle over bone; he was so much stronger now. "It'll have to fight me for you." Eiran's voice was soft but full of his usual defiance. He kissed Aleixo's throat and licked the sweat from his skin, making him shiver. "Eiran..." "Tell me your name." Eiran put his hands on Aleixo's shoulders and leaned back to see his face. "I want to know if I'm going to like this one." The tears were gone except for a few streaks on his cheeks and he smiled. "Aleixo." He hoped it suited Eiran well enough; he wasn't sure he wanted to change it again after working so hard to get used to it. But Eiran smiled a little more. "I like it." He leaned up to brush another kiss over Aleixo's mouth. "My defender. It suits you perfectly." He licked lightly at Aleixo's lips, sending a shiver through him again. "I've missed you so much." "And I missed you." Aleixo kissed Eiran gently and took him by the hand, leading him down toward the trees. The vines could wait one more day. "Come tell me about everything else I've missed. Tell me about Leila." "She's sad," Eiran said quietly. "She misses you as much as she misses Piran." He let Aleixo pull him down in the shade at the end of the row of vines. "I'm sorry." Aleixo leaned against the tree and offered Eiran the jug of water. "Do you think you'll ever tell her?" Eiran took a drink and handed back the jug. 221

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Aleixo drank, then set the jug aside, thinking as he did. "Yes," he said at last. "When she's older." "And how old did I have to be before you told me?" Eiran's look was challenging and Aleixo laughed. "It wasn't you that had to grow up," he explained as Eiran's expression clouded over like a summer storm was blowing in. "It was me." He held his hand out to Eiran. "How could I tell you I was still here until I knew it for sure?" Eiran took his hand after a moment's hesitation and let Aleixo pull him in for a kiss. Slowly, he relaxed in Aleixo's arms and let himself be kissed and soothed with soft touches and little endearments. "I knew it was you," he murmured after a while. "You should have asked me. I would have told you who you were. I would have reminded you." He slid an arm around Aleixo's neck and rested his head on Aleixo's shoulder, his body warm and heavy and real against Aleixo's own. "I'm sorry," Aleixo whispered into Eiran's ear, nuzzling into his silky white hair. "Forgive me?" "Perhaps." Eiran's tone was somewhat lofty, and a little amused. "I might pardon you if you convince me that you deserve it." Aleixo laughed and tumbled Eiran over in the grass so that the circlet that held back his hair fell off and rolled away, leaving him just a young man laughing up at Aleixo, as he'd always been. "Excuse me," Aleixo said, trying to feign irritation and failing to do so by any stretch of the imagination. Being happy made for poor impetus to do anything but laugh right now. "I think I remember pardoning 222

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a certain prince at one point. If nothing else, I think you owe me one." "I'll consider it," Eiran said through his laughter. "If you prove your contrition." "And how should I do that?" Aleixo dipped his head to brush a kiss across Eiran's mouth. "Perhaps by picking up where you so rudely abandoned me last," Eiran murmured. He reached up and wound his fingers in Aleixo's hair to tug him down for another kiss. He'd left Eiran last in a pale blue bed under a dark green sky. It made sense that they should be lying in a dark green bed under a pale blue sky; everything was strangely disarranged and yet almost as perfect as before. Aleixo undid the buttons at the throat of Eiran's black tunic so he could kiss the too-warm skin there. "I'm sorry," he whispered against Eiran's skin. Eiran's hands were soft and soothing on Aleixo's hot shoulders. "Tell me again," he demanded. Aleixo unbuttoned Eiran's tunic the rest of the way and Eiran moved to slide out of it so that Aleixo could throw it aside. "I'm sorry," Aleixo said again. He kissed Eiran again and started to undo his belt, the coiled dragon buckle cool and familiar under his palm. "You promised not to leave without saying goodbye." Eiran didn't sound angry anymore, or amused, just a little lost. "I said goodbye," Aleixo said softly. "I just didn't say it aloud." He moved to slide Eiran's boots off, standing them up next to the water jug where they'd be in easy reach. While he was there, he slid out of his own pants and folded them up 223

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there as well. He helped Eiran strip off the last of his clothes and then kissed Eiran's bare belly, just below his navel. "I'm sorry." Pressing his cheek to the smooth skin and taut muscle there, he closed his eyes and whispered, "Forgive me?" "Yes," Eiran breathed, tangling his hands in Aleixo's unruly hair. "Just don't stop. Just don't ever stop." Aleixo kissed down, following the downy trail of white hair from Eiran's navel until Eiran's cock brushed his lips and he licked the head of it tentatively. The taste brought back the last time they were together and a rush of pain with it, pain and so much regret. His breath caught and Eiran's hand came to stroke his cheek. "I already forgave you," Eiran said. He sounded so much older, and only a winter had passed. Aleixo turned his head to kiss Eiran's hand and Eiran guided him gently back to what he had been doing, direct as always. Aleixo took his time, re-memorizing the texture of Eiran's skin, the sound he made when Aleixo's teeth sank into the tender inside of his thigh, the way he shivered when Aleixo curled his tongue around Eiran's balls. It was all perfect, all the same, and yet so different now. For just this moment, all they were to each other were lovers, nothing else yet decided. Finally, Aleixo took Eiran's cock in his mouth, hearing him grow impatient just by the shift in his breathing. "Oh, I missed you." Eiran's voice was ragged and he forgot himself, pushing up into Aleixo's mouth. "Please, don't stop." His hands in Aleixo's hair trembled, and Aleixo didn't make him wait. He knew exactly what Eiran liked, the way to curl 224

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his tongue to make him tense, the way to swallow him down deep to make him whine. Eiran's hands fisted in Aleixo's hair and Eiran's hips bucked; he started fucking Aleixo's mouth and, patient as always, Aleixo shifted to take it. Whispering endearments and broken curses, Eiran writhed and arched, every push of his cock over Aleixo's tongue leaving a fresh taste of him. Then Eiran was crying out, wordless and desperate, flooding Aleixo's mouth with a rush of come. Aleixo let Eiran keep moving until, finally, Eiran shuddered and was still. Aleixo moved to pull Eiran into his arms and Eiran pushed his face into the curve of Aleixo's neck. Eiran clung to him hard, arms wrapped around his neck, legs tangled with his. "I love you," Aleixo whispered. "I love you, Eiran." He wasn't sure if it soothed or not; Eiran refused to look at him for a long time, just holding on and breathing unsteadily. "Keep telling me," Eiran said at last. He pushed at Aleixo's shoulder to get him to roll over and Aleixo moved easily. Eiran pushed himself on one elbow, Aleixo's neck still cradled in the crook of that arm, and looked down at him. The sun behind him danced in his hair, he was flushed and so beautiful that it took Aleixo's breath away. "I want to hear you say it." "I love you." Aleixo reached up to touch Eiran's warm cheek. "So much." "I could never get tired of hearing that." Eiran stroked down Aleixo's chest with his free hand until he could run his fingers over Aleixo's cock, feathering touches over the head. 225

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"I'm selfish," Eiran said. He bent and brushed a kiss over Aleixo's mouth. "I want to hear that all the time. I want to look at you always. I can see you, still, I can feel you." He curled his fingers around Aleixo's cock and stroked slowly, making his breath catch. "I want to see you when you come for me." "Anything you want." Aleixo couldn't keep his voice steady and he couldn't help pushing into Eiran's hand. It felt so good, it sent pleasure through him in rushes that didn't give him time to compose himself in between. "I love you." It was so different to lie here in Eiran's arms, duty laid aside for the moment. There was nothing to think of but how good it felt, how soft and tight Eiran's hand was, how he slid his thumb over the head of Aleixo's cock and spread slickness around it with every slow stroke. Eiran's eyes were hungry and he bit his lip as he watched Aleixo's face, as though he were trying not to moan so that he could hear every little noise he drew out of Aleixo with his touch. "You are still so beautiful," Eiran said breathlessly. He kept moving, slow and steady, making Aleixo whimper and push up into his fist for more, faster. "Come for me, my Aleixo." There was no staying quiet; even biting his own lip didn't help. Aleixo's fingers dug deep through the grass and into the rich earth as he gave in to Eiran's touches. He gasped Eiran's name, eyes on Eiran's, and his body went taut. Come spattered his belly and chest as Eiran stroked him tight and fast. "I love you," he managed to say, the words unsteady with the shivers that ran through him. 226

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Eiran's smile was radiant, his eyes bright with happiness and pleasure. "I love you, too," he said. He kissed Aleixo on the mouth before moving to clean Aleixo's skin off with his tongue. When he was done, he put his head on Aleixo's chest and wound his arms around Aleixo so tightly that it made old wounds ache. Aleixo just closed his eyes and let him hold on as they drifted together for a long time in the lazy wash of relief and pleasure. **** The grass under the trees at the end of the field smelled sweet crushed under their bodies, the dappled sunlight was warm but the shade was enough to keep Eiran's pale skin from burning. Aleixo sprawled bonelessly with Eiran in his arms, barely awake, looking up at the sky through the dancing leaves. "Come back with me," Eiran said, tracing his fingers over the muscles of Aleixo's shoulder and down his arm. "Soon," he promised. He had no idea how he would manage it, and he felt a stab of regret at leaving the estate. "I need a consort," Eiran pointed out, pushing himself up enough to kiss Aleixo on the mouth. "All of Piran's have gone on; I gave them very nice new positions since they seemed to care for him very much and not for me at all. And you are everything I could want." Aleixo laughed a little and then explained when Eiran looked disgruntled. "Joris told me that if my memory and motor skills didn't come back, at least I was pretty." 227

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Eiran laughed at that and kissed him again. "He's an old fool for such a brilliant man. I didn't need you to be pretty. Just alive." Aleixo rolled them both over in the grass, kissing Eiran fiercely until he moaned and his hands clutched at Aleixo's shoulders, his body arching. "That much, you have," he promised, trying not to start everything all over again and not succeeding particularly well. "I do." Eiran looked up at him, a little dazed and flushed, but happy. "And I love you." He reached out and grabbed the gold circlet from where it had fallen and he put it on Aleixo's head instead of his own. "It suits you," he said, leaning up to kiss Aleixo again. "One thing at a time, your Majesty," Aleixo said, laughing. He didn't have to wonder what he'd gotten himself into. He knew he was already in over his head, but he was back where he belonged. -fin-

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