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Cliopher knelt at the feet of his beloved lord, the Last Emperor of Astandalas and Heart of the World, holding himself ready for the final ritual that would complete the viceroy ceremony.
They’d been preparing for this moment for over half a year. Cliopher had endured seventeen ceremonies of oath-swearing and blood-binding—one in each of the provinces of Zunidh. The last of the princes—no, Jiano wasn’t a prince; he was the Paramount Chief of the Vangavaye-ve—had only moments earlier finished swearing his oaths and his blood to Cliopher.
Cliopher would, once his lord acknowledged him, become the Viceroy of Zunidh. He would, once he accepted his lord’s blood—and with it, the Imperial magic that had once helped bind five worlds together—become the Heart of the World in his lord’s place.
He swallowed the knot trying to take up residence in his throat. He would not back away from his promise. He could do this—he would do this—no matter how much the idea of drinking blood made his stomach lurch. As much as he'd persuaded his lord to accept his offer so that he could undertake a quest to find an heir to the Lordship of Zunidh—because no one else could do that—Cliopher was not looking forward to the blood requirements of the position. He neither needed nor wanted the Imperial magic and would have been glad to see the Ouranatha dissolve it along with the taboos. But the priest-wizards had determined that nothing short of death without a bound heir would dissipate the last remnants of the Imperial magic, making a transfer the only possible option to free the Last Emperor from the necessity for blood.
“Cliopher Mdang, offer us your hands,” the Lord of Rising Stars instructed, bringing Cliopher out of his reverie.
Cliopher raised his head and met his lord’s brilliant eyes—shining, shimmering, splendid gold flecked with sparkling red. Magic spun out around them, so thick and heavy and portentous that even Cliopher could feel it. He took a long, slow breath as if he was about to dive for a pearl, then stretched out his hands.
His beloved lord's long, beautiful fingers wrapped gently around his own. A tremor ran through Cliopher at the simple touch—the press of warm fingers—the first time his lord had touched anyone since becoming emperor. But if his lord was moved as much as Cliopher was by the touch, he didn't show it. He maintained an aura of complete and utter serenity as he said, “Cliopher Mdang, we name you Viceroy of Zunidh.” There was a long pause—so long that Cliopher began to wonder whether his lord might change his mind; he’d hated the idea of burdening Cliopher with the requirements of Imperial magic on top of his other duties—but then the Lord of Rising Stars squeezed Cliopher’s hands gently. “My dear Viceroy, will you also act as the caretaker of Imperial magic—become the Heart of the World in my place until I return?”
By taking the Imperial magic in trust, Cliopher was giving his lord the opportunity to be nourished by normal food and drink, to travel and quest without fear, to have adventures the likes of which he’d never been able to have. Cliopher’s own small sacrifice was more than worth the exchange, particularly given the Ouranatha had unwound all of the taboos associated with the Imperial magic. “I will,” he agreed, looking directly into his lord's luminescent eyes.
“Are you certain, my dear Kip?” the Lord of Rising Stars whispered softly, worriedly, anxiously. “You can still say no. It would not affect your status as Viceroy.”
“Yes, my lord,” Cliopher said, pushing as much conviction as he could into his words. “I’ll be fine.”
His lord let out a soft, unhappy sigh. He stared at Cliopher, as if questioning his certainty, his sincerity, perhaps even his sanity. But they'd talked this over numerous times; there was nothing more to be said, no more arguments to make. This was the safest choice. The best choice. The only choice. Finally, the Lord of Rising Stars nodded—and in his eyes there was amazement, and gratitude, and a profound adoration that brought a flush of warmth to Cliopher's cheeks.
With ritualistic precision, the Last Emperor of Astandalas brought his left wrist to his mouth and scored it on the edge of one of his teeth. A trickle of blood immediately welled up from the wound, its colour surprisingly bright in Cliopher’s eyes despite his lord’s black skin. A shiver ran down Cliopher’s back as his lord raised his hand and wrist carefully to show the blood to their audience—to the princes and aristocrats, to the new Paramount Chief, to Cliopher's gathered family and friends who had only just started to understand what his role in Solaara had been and the role he was about to accept.
After a moment of complete silence, the Lord of Rising Stars brought his arm down; then, in the scant privacy formed by their bodies, he offered his bleeding wrist to Cliopher. “Then drink, my dear Kip, and become the Heart of the World.” His lord's expression remained nearly serene—of course, everyone in the audience could see his face—but there was obvious worry, concern, and fear in his red-flecked, magic-bright, golden eyes.
Cliopher smiled as softly as he could—trying to convey his trust, his willingness, his gladness—then cradled his lord's wrist ever-so-gently in his hands. He ran his thumbs across his lord's lustrous, perfect skin, felt his lord tremble under the press of his fingertips—perhaps nervous, or afraid, or overwhelmed at the sensation of touch.
Raising his lord's wrist to his lips, Cliopher swallowed back every uncertain thought, every worry, the faint thrill of panic. He needed to take enough of his lord's blood for the Imperial magic to transfer to him. He couldn't fail. He wouldn't fail. He refused to fail. Taking another deep breath, he shut his eyes and pressed the lightest tip of his tongue to the blood welling from his lord's wrist and forced himself to taste.
Love—shimmering, effervescent, adoring—burst across his tongue, blazed through him with the heat of a wildfire. He blinked and reeled back—startled, surprised, utterly astonished. He glanced up at his lord, whose eyes were wide and bright and aflame with—
Cliopher shut his eyes again, savoring the drop of his lord's blood on his tongue. It was lightning and fire, heat and power, cracking magic. It was wonder, and delight and spiraling joy. It was everything that his lord was—and he was magnificent.
Without thinking, he tightened his hold on his lord's wrist, brought his mouth down fully over the wound and drew all that his beloved lord was into himself. A glittering cascade of magic surged through him, sent him tumbling, flying, soaring until he was nothing but a cacophony of lightning and magic and his lord's startlingly brilliant emotions. Cliopher gasped silently, wordlessly, breathlessly—foundered in the flood of pure sensation, unable to find a way out, a way up, a way to stem the tide. He choked and sputtered and tried to pull back.
His Lord of Rising Stars cupped the back of his head gently with his free hand; Cliopher trembled at the touch, so beautifully stable and grounding, supportive and urging. “I'm here, beloved,” he heard—the declaration far less than a whisper yet the truth of it ringing through the magic surrounding them. “I have you. You're safe. Don’t try and control it.”
With his lord's steady presence surrounding him, Cliopher stopped trying to control the surging magic, and power, and—
***
Minutes, decades, possibly centuries later, the haze around Cliopher dissipated, the world righted itself, he came back to himself. No, not quite to himself, he realized, given the firestorm clamoring for attention at the heart of him that he knew immediately was the Imperial magic. If Cliopher was anything, however, he was a fire-tender; with a single thought, he banked the fire until it was nothing more than a small, wonderous, blazing ember. Instinctively, he licked his lord’s wrist—wallowed in the last sparks of his delight, his joy, his admiration before breaking regretfully away.
Cliopher took one breath, then another, then a third—slowly, slowly, slowly—grounding himself in the sensation of his lord's hand still clasped gently around the back of his head. Only then did he open his eyes. He found his lord watching him, expression open and tender, incredibly fond. His golden eyes shone bright, beautiful, brilliant—no less mesmerizing than they’d ever been, but clearer, more limpid, shimmering with wild magic rather than with Imperial power. What must his own eyes look like? Cliopher wondered. Surely nowhere near as splendid.
“My dear Kip,” his lord whispered, so quietly Cliopher doubted that anyone else could hear. “How do you feel?” There was more than a hint of anxiety, of concern, of guilt in the question.
“Remarkable,” Cliopher said without thinking, his entire body humming with magic that tasted like his lord. “I didn't expect it to be—” He shook his head uncertainly. His lord arched a single eyebrow. Cliopher shrugged helplessly. “I'm fine,” he said after a moment.
His lord released a huff of laughter—which seemed far better to Cliopher's mind than worry or distress or dismay. “Are you ready to go on?”
At Cliopher's hesitant nod, the Lord of Rising Stars took Cliopher’s hands again—warmly, tenderly, adoringly—then raised his head to take in the audience that Cliopher had entirely forgotten was there. “Witness this, people of the Vangavaye-ve, people of Zunidh. Cliopher Mdang of Tahivoa, whose island is Loaloa, and whose dances are Aōteketētana is our chosen Viceroy—the Heart of Our World. Cliopher Mdang, make your declaration.”
Cliopher, still kneeling at his lord's feet, bowed his head slightly. “My dear Lord of Rising Stars—I, Cliopher Mdang, swear upon my soul, my heart, my life, and the Imperial magic that I now hold that I will protect Zunidh while you are absent and return it safe to your keeping when you return.”
His lord's eyes kindled with a magic that danced across the surface of his skin—strange and unexpected but in no way unpleasant. Cliopher supposed the Imperial magic cradled at the heart of him was letting him feel his lord’s magic more fully, more vibrantly, more intensely than his magic-null self ever could.
The Lord of Rising Stars waited through what must have been Cliopher's obvious distraction before saying, “People of the Vangavaye-ve, you are his excellency’s chosen witnesses. Witness then, his oath: on his soul and his heart, his life and the Imperial magic he now holds, he will protect this world of Zunidh in our absence—for you and for us.”