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The Prince of the Untheileneise Court was born at the beginning of the third month of the year, and his mother made sure that the date was observed properly every year, even before Idra himself was able to grasp the concept of birthdays. The balls held in his honor were always almost as grand as those celebrating the turn of the year-wheel at Winternight, and the courtiers were more than happy to feast, drink and dance wishing good health and happiness to the Prince whom they adored as a babe, loved as a michen, then grew to respect, too, as he matured. Everyone knew that his sixteenth birthday, when he reaches adulthood, would be truly grand and spectacular in all respects.
At fifteen, though, he wished for a masquerade.
Maia
had not learned this from Idra himself but from the urgent and secretive whisper of Ino on one occasion, after they had breakfast together. He whispered back his consent, of course, albeit frightened somewhat by the idea. Though he was able to endure the regular balls and parties, sometimes even found enjoyment in them, a masquerade was again something he had practically no idea about, except that the children found it splendid.
He asked the one he could ask anything, or almost anything, without fear of making a fool of himself because he already had, more times than it would be worth counting -- Csevet. His secretary supplied all the details he needed without any sign of disapproval; in sooth, he, too, looked delighted by the idea.
"Traditionally," he said "masquerades are open to everyone, but it was expected of the participants to make their costumes by their own hand, and the host of the ball used to reward the maker of the costume he found the most beautiful or imaginative. Of course this practice is long dead by now. What remained is the tradition to make an effort to hide one's true identity, even an one as translucent as sharadansho silk. Not even trying is considered highly offensive towards the host. Extensive use of cosmetics is practically a must, and one can see many painted faces that are artworks to behold on their own."
Artworks to behold. Maia remembered to shift his gaze one moment later than it would have been proper; he fervently hoped it looked like he was waiting for more explanation, but Csevet did not continue. A slight blush crept onto his face, almost invisible, and his ears were set just too neutral, but Maia had, in the time during which they spent practically every waking hour in each other's company grown to be able to read Csevet without words in most situations.
His secretary was embarrassed, that much he saw, but why? It was Maia who gave witness once again of his ignorance. Was that so shameful of a deficiency? Or was it Csevet's own enthusiasm he wanted to suddenly hide?
"Are you going to participate?" Maia asked, then immediately regretted it. It sounded as a request, and he knew participating would mean an unplanned toll for Csevet - either of money, were he to buy a costume, or of time, were he to make one himself. While Maia doubted the skills of his secretary not, he was very much aware that he had been taking hard advantage of Csevet already, even without expectations like this. But he needed his secretary so much, for his flawless organizational abilities as well as for his gentle guidance -- and, as time passed, more and more for his presence itself.
Csevet was clever, competent, reliable and well-informed -- not a single question had emerged as of yet to which he did not know either the answer or the person who held the answer, and that made him a perfect secretary in every respect. What made him a perfect accomplice, too, was that he saw and accepted Maia's shortcomings without judgment, spoke his mind with kindness and plain honesty, even if the situation embarrassed both of them, and though sometimes he was as visibly exhausted as Maia himself, he never once complained, never asked for one single day off duty. Maia had admitted to himself long ago that without his secretary his reign would have been nothing more than a joke in the history of the Ethuveraz -- a bad but at least short one -- and though he sometimes wondered why, he was only happy to have Csevet at his side.
Hearing the question, Csevet, unexpectedly, smiled. He rarely smiled, but when he did, Maia felt light-headed with it -- and he was not that much of an ignorant hobgoblin to not be very much aware again what all this meant.
He was also very much aware that he should not harbor such feelings towards Csevet, for several reasons, no matter what his secretary's preferences were. About that he had a fairly good idea, having been advised more than once to reconsider his choice because everyone knows the ways of the couriers, but as he was simply unable to find consistency between what he heard from Setheris and others, and the person of Csevet himself, after a time he stopped caring about it altogether. Still, for one good reason, he remembered that awkward encounter too sharply when Csevet told him about the privacy sufficient for his needs. From that night on Maia resigned himself to the thought that Csevet must have a lover, probably another courier, probably someone just perfect for him, and indeed, why should he have abandoned whomever he loved before he was sent to Edonomee? The workload Maia burdened him with was almost equal to that anyway. Besides he was sure that should his feelings ever come to light, they would destroy the trust and tentative friendship now bridging the yawning gap between them, even if Csevet dared to say no to him. If he dared, and would not give consent out of duty, or even worse, pity.
Thus Maia accepted that even as emperor of the Elflands he could not have everything he wished for, and he tried his best to keep it hidden under feigned indifference, painful as that sometimes was. Still, every morning, as soon as he rose after yet another night of shallow sleep, troubled and tormented by disturbing dreams, Csevet was there, his eyes bright -- and Maia's heart felt light again.
Csevet
was taken by surprise at the question. Until that moment it had not even seriously occurred to him that he could participate. That he could shed his manners, his appearances, don a mask or a costume and be someone else entirely, if only for a night. Someone not bound by rigid rules and strict standards, someone free to speak and act as his heart might dictate; someone who must do so, even, having no more than a couple of hours to live before vanishing without a trace before dawn. Wasn't this the purpose of masquerades, to grant freedom behind masks?
Couldst do it? Dost dare to? The mild question turned into a challenge at once.
"An we do," he answered finally with a smile to hide his true feelings, "you will never know."
As soon as he spoke the words, he regretted them. That was rude and unduly presumptuous, even though most probably true, too. Nevertheless, he let himself play with the thought, just for a moment, that the emperor would recognize him in the colorful swirl of costumes filling the Untheileian. That he would look, to begin with. That they could dance together, a couple of steps, no more, but holding hands while it lasted.
His gaze flicked to the emperor's hands for a heartbeat. They looked more tired than the emperor himself, weighed down with rings he still had not become truly used to. Csevet knew the emperor was even more self-conscious about his hands than himself on the whole. Perceptive and quick to learn and adapt as he was, he never actually realized what effect his appearance had on other people.
Never actually realized his beauty.
His fine Drazhadeise features, his silver eyes, the stunning contrast of his dark skin with the Imperial whites. His shining, luxurious black curls. This alone would have been enough for any man, even one stronger than Csevet to fall, but to crown it all, the emperor was courageous and determined -- enough so to acknowledge whenever his knowledge lacked -- while remaining compassionate, kind and sincerely caring. Many in the Court said it was nothing more than playacting, but Csevet knew better.
Art pathetic, he berated himself again. The servant pining for the lord, taking every kind word, every smile as a possible sign. Wilt go mad, an dost not put an end to this, and soon.
But he knew he would be unable to do so.
The new coins, the ones bearing the face of Edrehasivar VII, were already out, and in the testing of the new minting-presses several proofs were made out of inexpensive, reused copper. Most of them were found faulty, like the one the apprentice wore as a lucky charm when he brought forth the final varieties for approval. It had a head on both sides, and Csevet immediately knew he needed one. It was so apt for his life at the side of the emperor, seeing two faces of the same person, so similar and yet so different from one another. He could esteem both, could serve the one and love the other but could not abandon either.
He could not make advances at either, of course, for several reasons. Barring the immense gap in status between them, the emperor never gave any sign that he would be interested in another man, and besides, Csevet remembered that disastrous evening all too well when his employer arrested him again with his kindness and care and look that felt like cutting to the deepest secret parts of him - and all he could blurt out as a reply to that was we have privacy enough for our needs.
He hadn't, actually, not since he was sent to Edonomee - those short, lonely minutes before sinking into sleep surely did not count - but he didn't mind. It was not privacy he wished for anyway, and he found it not much of a sacrifice to give up an arrangement where he and his lover had been hardly more than bedwarmers for each other in exchange of the nearness of Edrehasivar.
Maia.
Salezheio and Cstheio never answered when he asked them who won the game of chess in which they moved their figures, a pawn and a king, all across the board to end up next to each other, and it did not matter anyway. He was, and would remain, the emperor's secretary. He readily shared his knowledge and ideas and gave voice to his contradictions and corrections, too, though after that one incident when he forgot himself and asked the emperor outright if he had gone mad he always phrased them very carefully. Still, every morning he woke knowing that the emperor awaited him, a whole day ahead of them that they would spend together, and his heart felt light again.
***
The monk
was not sure what kind of memories his choice of costume would evoke in those who were involved in the aftermath of Chavar's plot. However, when he entered the Untheileian he saw that besides a congregation of mazei that would have filled the Mazan'theileian twice over, all the religious orders of the Elflands had sent their members, some even more than one. His wide-sleeved black tunic, long enough to sweep the floor around his feet as he walked, his deep brownish-red scapular cinched at the waist with a plain rope and his black cowl, the hood of which was wide and deep enough to shadow his face entirely, made no spectacle. He could almost turn invisible and watch the people around him who waited for the emperor to arrive.
Only a few seemed to realize that the presence of the nohecharei -- Kiru and Telimezh, who, as means of a costume, each donned the uniform of the other, which definitely suited the maza-now-soldier better -- indicated that the emperor must have arrived already. Both Prince Idra and Lord Berenar were among them, straining their necks to find out whom the ceremonial guards, standing somewhat farther from the crowd, were watching, but seemingly in vain.
Idra was dressed as Prince Anmu, son of Anmura himself, the hero of his favorite childhood wondertale; he wore a caftan of rich, dark gold brocade, embroidered with sun-motifs and tied by a wide, red belt. Instead of a mask he had his face painted with a shining sun on both sides; his hair was gathered under a lace of gold decorated with tiny, shiny coins, so every movement of his head set off a chorus of soft, warm chimes. The Lord Chancellor had only the simplest red silk mask over his eyes that concealed nothing but showed his politeness - and judging from the way Lord Berenar turned his head from side to side, hindered his sight to a great deal.
The monk smiled under his hood, but they were not whom he was looking for. He turned away, back to the silver-and-gold, ruby-and-emerald, sapphire-and-amber swirl of the ballroom that never stilled, even as Idra, in a short but concise speech, welcomed everyone who came, gave his thanks for all the gifts and kind wishes he had received, and opened the dance. All kinds of costumes, masks and painted faces came to focus before his eyes, only to melt away again in the next moment, quicker and quicker as the music started and the whirlabout sped up. White paint on black skin, black paint on white, spiraling, tendril-like motifs and crisscrossing straight lines, heavily shadowed eyes, blood-red lips. Many wore oversized, flamboyant earrings and wigs in all possible and impossible colors, towering masses of curls and tufts or silken threads twisted into their own hair to extend it down to the floor. One young lady had hundreds of thin braids with bright beads in them flying free around her shoulders like a living rainbow. There were several kinds of animal costumes as well: mostly cats and suncats, but he counted at least four dogs, a figure in a dark cloak and an off-grey, beaklike mask that could only be a fog raven, and a tangrisha, too.
And then, in the bustle, he spotted the sailor and recognized him even before he turned around with his dance partner.
He wore an undyed, collarless, long and loose-fitting linen tunic tucked in artistic folds under a tight jerkin pieced together from various scraps of leather and closed with wooden buttons, and a deep blue, knotted neckcloth in lack of a cravat, complete with light blue breeches, dark blue hose and a white slip-on shoe. His mask, which hid his face from the forehead to the tip of the nose, was made of roughly cut pieces of finger-thick rope, dyed in shades of light blue and white, starched, then twisted, twined and glued together to a wearable shape resembling the frothy waves of the seas, with two narrow slits for the eyes and a pair of thin, white silken bands to tie in the wearer's hair. One little red wooden starfish hung on the side; it suited his red tashin sticks made from the gnarled twigs of a tree, now imitating deep-sea coral branches. He had plain steel rings in his ears and had his moonlight-white hair in simple pinned-up braids as usual; altogether, with his face mostly covered, he looked like half the people in the Untheileian. Nonetheless, his poise, his steps, the way he held his hands and head, all gave him away for the monk.
An we do, you will never know. The monk took a deep breath to calm his heartbeat and turned away. Now he knew what he wanted to know; next time when they speak he could describe what he saw in detail. As for the present, he might as well seek out Idra and reveal himself.
The sailor
twisted around holding the hands of his partner, a bear whose fur was already shedding badly; he laughed and threw back his head. A spot of black and dark red flashed away before his eyes, like a drop of night among the bright colors. He turned back jerkily to have a better look, missed a step and nearly stumbled. His eyes found the figure again, and indeed it was a monk, turning to walk away at the same moment.
Art mistaken, surely. Not that costume.
Still, he quickly apologized to the bear and hurried after the monk. Though the tunic and the cowl hid every telltale patch of dark skin, every curl of black hair, they could not conceal the familiar, carefully straight stance, the tense shoulders, the measured steps -- all things openly revealing for those who ever cared to look beyond the sparkle of the gemstones. Now he could see the nohecharei, too, as unobtrusive as possible, but never too far away, and had to hide a smile at the sight of the soldier in the clearly uncomfortable blue robes. They were watching him, too, but they were always watching everyone who approached their lord.
They did not intercept him as he stepped in front of the monk and held out his hand.
"Wilt honor me with a dance, barata?" he asked, and heard his own voice tremble. What dost thou think thou art doing, addressing him in the familiar?
But the monk nodded. "Certainly," he answered, and had the sailor any lingering doubts of whom he found among the masked hundreds filling the hall, they vanished. He took the monk's hand -- he touched warm, soft silk instead of skin, and the disappointment stung -- and led him to the dance. It followed an easy pattern, two steps forward, two back, one turning out to the side, then back and again, and if the footing of the monk was somewhat unsure in the beginning, it was only to expect from someone who lived almost his entire life in pious seclusion. The sailor led him with ease towards the fringe of the room, farther from the crowd, never showing how the silk of the monk's gloves burned his palms, and soon they danced like they had always been a pair at it. One step drew them apart but for their fingers holding on, the other pressed them close, unbearably close, and it took all the self-control the sailor could muster to not pull the monk to himself in a tight embrace, to feel him, if only for a moment. It was too much, it was overwhelming: he feared he would burst with need unless he did something, something irresponsible, something foolish.
"Be careful, barata," he whispered before the next turn could have parted them again, dizzy with his own daring. One step apart, then one step close again. "Be very careful, lest I corrupt thee before dawn.”
The monk missed the next step, stumbled, strained their clasped hands clumsily, but the sailor held on. His fingers slipped from the glove to the monk's wrist, and encircled it, tightening instinctively. The unexpected touch sent a resounding jolt through him, like his taut nerves were hit with a small, silver hammer. It was too much and it was not enough.
"I am not afraid." The monk’s reply came low over the thumping of the drums and shrill cries of the violins. Instead of pulling away, he stepped back close, and the sailor found himself unable to let go. Instead, he slowly lifted the monk's hand and pressed a kiss on the inside of his wrist, on the stripe of grey skin revealed under the loose sleeve, where it was the thinnest over the conflux of veins. The pulse fluttered under his lips like a terrified bird, and hearing the monk's almost silent gasp the sailor's own heartbeat skipped, then redoubled.
"Thou shouldst be," he murmured. Under the fine cream and powder which served to make the silk glove comfortable the scent of clean, warm skin lingered; he felt drunk with it at once. "Everyone knows the ways of the seafarers. I am no exception. Shouldst not trust me."
"I still do." The words were breathy, almost inaudible; the monk made still no effort to withdraw his hand. "An I ever..."
He could not finish. At that moment a strong, meaty hand clamped down on the sailor's shoulder, yanking him backwards, another grabbed his tashin sticks and pulled them out with a twist, tearing a string of his mask and several strands of his hair, too. One of the sticks snapped between the thick fingers.
"This is no way for a decent sailor to braid his hair," the owner of the hand, a heavily built, already more than half-drunk man dressed as something resembling a lion, sneered. He leaned in close as the sailor turned in alarm, braids falling loose onto his shoulders, his mask sliding askew from the jerk. He grabbed for the tashin sticks but the lion-man took his wrist. "What is it with thee lately, sweetheart? Doing the act like thou wert not wanting for months on end, wearing thy hair like a finicky virgin again, then picking another just like that? Haven't we agreed that thou wouldst spend the night with me? Underneath me, in sooth?"
He did not wait for an answer: he pulled the sailor to him, and before he could protest, kissed him hungrily, possessively.
His mouth tasted of bad wine and bad teeth; the sailor bit him, strong enough to feel blood instead, then shoved him away with curses that would have made a real sailor proud. "The fuck art thou doing, art gone completely insane?" he hissed. "Get thy filthy hands off me, thou whoreson!" He shrugged the lion-man's sweaty palm off his back, turned out of his embrace and stepped back to be able to not break the other's nose and possibly jaw, too, as his white-hot anger would have dictated. Instead, he tore his ruined mask off his face and threw it at the lion-man. "What is this shit about us having agreed...? Seriously, Claris, an thou hast the itches, go and sit on a fucking cactus, because after this, even an we had agreed on anything, I would sooner see thy prick pickled in a jar than thee anywhere near my bed!”
With another shove, forceful enough to almost tip the other over, he passed around the lion-man and left him gaping - but by that time the monk was nowhere to be seen.
Maia
stumbled away, horrified by both the intrusion and the things he saw and heard. Thou wouldst spend the night with me, underneath me, in sooth... He felt deeply sick and miserable and wished that a void would open under his feet and swallow him whole, or that he could run and hide at least, but he couldn't. Not from this. Not even from the ball without having talked with Idra first, because his cousin would wonder and worry. He could feign a sudden illness -- he definitely felt his stomach churning with the picture of Csevet in the arms of the lion-man etched into his mind sharply -- but that would cause too much guessing and gossip, and with Kiru on duty, would not hold up as a ruse anyway.
Anyhow, thou hadst been duly warned, an only a tad too late, whispered the small, bitter voice in the back of his head. Everyone knows the ways of the seafarers. Shouldst not have trusted him indeed.
But he did, he did trust him, and not only trust: he fell for him, the gullible for the practiced liar, the prey for its predator. Csevet probably knew of his feelings all along; he might even have recognized them earlier than Maia himself, but waited, though Maia could not fathom what for? Had Csevet asked for it, Maia would have given him a signed blank sheet of paper and his signet, too, without hesitation. What more could he have hoped to gain?
Maybe one day Cstheio might bless him with true sight, and on that day he would understand, but for now, whatever it was, it was over.
He took a deep breath and looked up from his blind drifting. Everything is well, he signaled to Telimezh, who nodded back: he either believed it or not, but as long as he did not act it was past Maia's caring. Nothing was well, of course, but he couldn't show otherwise. This was Idra's fifteenth birthday, when there was no place but for merriment and laughing. Tomorrow another day would come, when everyone would show their true faces again, throwing away the worn and torn masks. Every mask. And then what - he had no idea of that. He would probably need a new personal secretary. And a new heart, too, though this one was somehow still beating.
Wilt rise tomorrow and do what has to be done. Art damned anyway, born Drazhada, so what does this add to it?
At least the costume had worked, he thought sourly. That lion-man, whoever he was, had not the slightest idea what he has interrupted. He shuddered involuntarily at that -- what a scandal he could have caused, and for nothing, even -- and trying to banish it from his thoughts he turned towards Idra. It was time to reveal himself and congratulate his cousin. With another sigh he threw back the hood of the cowl; he hardly heard the wave of gasps and surprised half-cries and waited only for Kiru and Telimezh to finally draw close, then started towards where he hoped to find the Prince of the Court.
Idra was in fact standing where Maia suspected, in the thickest part of the crowd, which parted before their ruler. Maia greeted his cousin with ears set defiantly high and a smile that hurt enough to be taken like he meant it, and warm words that he did mean. Idra returned the benevolent wishes with enthusiastic thanks, complimented Maia on the costume idea, then, without being prompted, began gushing about the gifts he got so far. His earnest excitement finally earned a sincere smile and some more questions from Maia, even though the constant chiming of Idra's headdress was beginning to truly grate on his raw nerves. At one point his control must have slipped because his cousin frowned and touched the gold lace.
"Oh. We are sorry. We do not even hear it anymore. We asked our hair to be done like Anmu's on that famous copperplate engraving of Naru Narezh but we were told it was inappropriate. Too... adultlike.” Idra gave an awkward little laugh at himself, not a michen anymore, not a grown man yet, and continued, but Maia was not listening. Something stirred in his memory at the word inappropriate. He heard the inebriated lion-man's voice again -- doing the act like thou wert not wanting, wearing thy hair like a finicky virgin again? -- only, this time the question took on an actual meaning. He felt as if hit by an unexpected blow to the head; his legs began to tremble under the tunic and he wished he could simply sit down somewhere before his knees gave out.
He had some ideas before as to how marnei could make themselves visible in the eyes of one another but not of those outside the community, if they wanted -- and dared -- to, but these reached hardly farther than the fact that certain obscure signs or symbols must exist. Setheris had well-established notions about what these would be, which he disgustedly analyzed and condemned routinely when drunk, but those were so outrageous that even the fifteen-year-old Maia rejected them as implausible. Hair braiding, on the other hand...
For months or end... then picking another just like that?
He felt hot in one instant, cold in the other. Now he realized that even though those specific signs were not meant for him to see and recognize, he still has been blind, deaf and thick like a rock. And while that could not be helped anymore, there might yet be time for him to find that sailor before the tide rolled out.
He suddenly became aware of Idra’s silence. His cousin was waiting for Maia to say something, but Maia had no idea whether the last line was a question or a statement. He cleared his throat, chagrined.
"I am sorry, I haven't been paying attention," he confessed and saw Idra's uncomprehending ears lift a bit at his sincerity. "That engraving thou mentioned’st reminded me of something that I had... forgotten. What was it thou said’st?"
Csevet
ran straight into one of the lavatories: he could not say whether the cramps twisting his insides meant that he would be sick with the memory of that revolting, forced kiss or shatter into seventy-seven shards with a shriek of helpless rage. Finally he did neither. He leaned onto the edge of the washstand and bit his teeth together, letting only a small, pathetic whine escape, until that, too came to nothing. He wished for oblivion but his head was clear as ever; even more so as his blood was still boiling.
Claris had introduced him as a complete whore, making promises to one then beguiling another. A blatant, drunk lie of words and deeds and jealousy, which was enough to ruin not only any chance he might have had -- yes, how does that feel, thou wert not rejected straightway -- but any esteem and trust Maia could harbor towards him. Because surely he would have waited for an explanation, a reason, a denial otherwise? Surely he would have asked?
What incited thee to take that step at all, knowing full well there would be no way back, knowing what risks thou wert running, should thine emperor either refuse or indulge thee? he asked himself irately. How didst thou ever fancy that thou couldst keep it under control?
It was no use. With a half-choked groan Csevet impatiently swiped away his scalding tears of anger and looked up into the small silver mirror on the wall. Claris, by tearing out and breaking his borrowed tashin sticks, had disheveled his hair beyond salvation. He reached up, pulled out the pins and shook it out over his shoulders: he tried to gather it into three branches for braiding, but now that his fury had abated somewhat his hands were trembling so badly he had to lower them and brace himself on the washstand again. He felt a belated wave of panic approaching.
Get a grip on thyself, he ordered. An thou wert bold enough to try to seduce him, shouldst be bold enough to face him, too. Thou must clarify this anyway, should he want to hear thee out at all. And the sooner the better, while the Court is still deluged with the ball.
After another desperate minute he sighed, splashed his burning face with cool water from the pitcher -- rinsed his mouth hard, too, after Claris -- twisted his hair into a practical, simple braid that made his mirror image look childlike and decades older at the same time, and forcing his dread as far down as he could, stepped out of the lavatory to circle the Untheileian. He soon saw that he had spent too long in useless misery: in the meantime the emperor revealed himself. The four white tashin sticks of bleached, carved bone that held his braids tight enough to stay together even under the hood seemed to glow in the light of the chandeliers, their stark contrast both attracting the eye and showing imperial power as the emperor stood beside the Prince of the Court. They were talking animatedly -- Idra laughed at something and Csevet felt his heart lurch again. Now he could only watch and wait until the end of the ball... or until tomorrow.
Slowly, a terrible, hollow feeling encroached upon him as he watched them. He did nothing wrong, or at least nothing unwelcome, until Claris interrupted them, but would Maia believe him? Even if yes, would he now, after that moment was over, consider to accept his advances at all? What was he trying to say before Claris came, a yes, or a kind no, thank you?
If the answer is a no, there would be no tomorrow for him here. The emperor would be a fool to keep him as his secretary, and Maia was no fool. He could probably find his place in the courier fleet again -- half a year was not so long a gap -- but could he bear the questions, the pity and the gossip that his fellow couriers would inescapably pour onto his head? And most importantly, could he remain at the court at all, to see and hear and know, even without any other means to support himself?
It was Kiru who finally sensed his gaze, of course. She turned, and for a moment, looked straight at him, then turned back towards the emperor, and as much as Csevet hoped she would not, she did signal to Maia to get his attention. Moments later Maia's searching gaze swept over Csevet without sign of recognition, but Csevet knew. Two more minutes passed until they parted with Idra: the prince was almost immediately cornered by a high noble and several more tried to pounce on the emperor, too, but he ignored them, walking toward the nearest exit.
Kiru looked back. Csevet felt his face burning again, but started after them.
The emperor stopped near the exit but still inside the hall, at one of the niches in the wall where a seat waited under a heap of colorful brocade throw pillows for courtiers who had grown tired of dancing or wanted to talk in semi-privacy. Csevet stood before him, head bowed, eyes downcast, ears pinned. He dared not to look up, but still sensed that the nohecharei turned back towards the ball, watching the people in the Untheileian and shielding them at the same time. He would have knelt or prostrated himself, but that would have caused undue attention which neither of them needed.
"Serenity..." he began, then faltered, swallowed and began again. "Serenity, we are... I am sincerely sorry for... for what happened. I never..." He stopped; he was unable to put the turmoil of his feelings into words so he turned to a simpler truth instead, one that felt like it would break him if remained untold. "Serenity, you must know one thing. Claris was lying. He was making a scene. Whatever was there between him and me ended almost a year ago, and I most certainly have not agreed with him on... any such thing. Anything at all. But as he saw me with another... " He looked up at that, into the emperor's eyes and took a deep breath. "Regardless, I am aware that my deeds were unsolicited, and I would rather leave than force my feelings on you." When, only a moment later, he realized what he had said, a new wave of mortification washed over him -- as if he could force anything on the emperor! -- but he had no time to amend once again.
"Csevet," The emperor shook his head slowly, then stepped closer, raised his hand, and laid his palm on Csevet's face. At some point he had taken off his gloves and his touch was like the highest fever of the bronchine, scalding yet chilly. Csevet closed his eyes instinctively with it. He wanted, he needed to lean into it so much but he dared not to move a muscle. A strange, flying lightness claimed him, unreal, dreamlike. He, too, lifted his hand and slowly, carefully touched Maia's as hecontinued. "You have nothing to apologize for because you haven't done anything, but, as always, made my task easier." A silent laugh. Csevet's eyes flew open. "Perceptive as you are, have you truly never seen what you mean to me?"
The world came to a jarring halt around Csevet, and so did his heart inside his chest.
"Maia," he breathed, the only thing he could say, and the world lurched into motion with the name again, and the push of it made them tumble against each other, and then they were holding on to one another, they were kissing, and Csevet did not even know who had started it, but it was every bit as sweet as in his half-remembered dreams and too-sharply remembered imaginings.
"I have never thought that thou hast... " he began, but broke off because Maia laughed anew, an almost muted, strangled sound, which made Csevet's heart clench once more.
"I have not. Thou wilt have to teach me. Again."
The words were tantalizing on Csevet's lips; he caught them in another fierce kiss and all but swallowed Maia’s surprised half-cry. "With pleasure," he whispered just before their tongues touched, and felt his emperor shiver under his hands. Sharp lust cut through him, everything he had suppressed for so long, and more; his body responded to it with an almost painful eagerness, and he had to bite back a loud moan -- but then Maia broke the kiss.
"We must stop," he said in a low, husky voice.
For a very long moment Csevet was unsure if he could stop, but then his head cleared somewhat and he realized that they were still in the Untheileian, in all but clear sight of everyone, and his arms fell away in alarm. Maia stepped back from his embrace.
"This was probably the most foolish thing we could have done," he whispered silently; Csevet read the words from his lips rather than heard them. “We must be much more careful than that."
Csevet could only nod: of course Maia was right. And what he said... what he meant by that...
"I must stay until at least Idra retreats. Maybe longer," Maia continued. "But I, too will return to the Alcethmeret before dawn. That is, I mean..." A quirk of a smile, which made Csevet feel giddy again. "Unless thou art offered yet another engagement for after the ball... wilt wait for me?