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Cousin Maia arrived late for breakfast, and he hugged Idra for longer than usual.
"Art well?" Idra asked. Maia nodded, as he hugged both of the girls, but he looked - not worried, certainly, but restless, twitching his ears and running a finger along the edge of the wooden box he'd brought with him.
Idra supposed it was another of his presents for Ino and Mireän. The presents were a particular secret of the family, chosen by Csethiro Zhasan, with help from her circle of friends. There had been star maps, sextants and lenses, books with gory pictures of battles, an insect preserved in amber. The girls were delighted every time, and frequently Idra would end up studying the items along with them. Even Leilis Athmaza had been fascinated by the insect.
It was a little funny that Cousin Maia himself acted as their courier. Their shared hope was that this would mean that the gifts, should they be brought to the attention of the court, would be seen as indulgent treats from elder cousin to younger, and not any indicator of what kind of women Mireän and Ino would grow into. Such speculation was inevitable, but Idra hoped to delay it for as long as he could.
Still, Maia had never looked so hesitant about anything he'd bought.
"I hope Cousin Csethiro is well," Ino said, gazing at the box hungrily. Since her seventh birthday, she'd been particularly mindful of her manners, and often talked about the importance of self-restraint.
"Did she send us something?" Though tolerant of her little sister's new passion, Mireän never attempted any such thing.
"Only her love, this time." Cousin Maia smiled. "This is from me, and not at all educational."
He opened the box, set a doll on the small nursery table.
It was a carved black figure, shining like glass, heavy and gleaming. It was the figure of a tall, thin woman with one arm lifted high, perhaps calling an army to battle or a congregation to silence. Idra, who was used to dolls made of soft fabrics with ceramic faces, was mesmerized by the intricate details of her high, woven hair, thought the ripples of her skirt looked quite natural.
"Is she a goblin?" Mireän breathed. Idra blinked. He hadn't noticed.
"Yes. I think so," Maia said. "She arrived for me this morning."
Idra considered what such a gift might mean. "From Barizhan?"
"From my aunt."
"Merrem Vizhenka?" Idra had met the lady, and knew she'd departed to see her kin.
"Ah, no. Another aunt." Cousin Maia cleared his throat. "The doll was my mother's." His voice was even, and light, but both girls drew their hands away from the doll.
Ino asked, reverently, "What is her name?"
"I don't know," Maia said. "You should name her what you wish." He indicated both of the girls, and they nodded, serious as generals receiving marching orders. "I know you will take care of her."
Idra didn't know much about the late Empress Chenelo - only ugly rumors.
"Hast learned new stories about thy mother?" he asked, hesitantly. "From thy aunt?"
"And new stories about my aunt as well," Maia nodded. "She promised to tell me more." He looked at his hands, settled still in his lap. "My mother was - very rarely talked about, after she passed."
"We thank thee, Cousin Maia," Mireän said. "May we go show her to Suler?" She had a tact of her own, because Maia seemed relieved at the suggestion, and even more so after the girls left.
"The gift was very generous," Idra told him, trying to help.
"I'm sorry, Idra," Maia said, and busied himself inspecting the untouched breakfast, jars of jam lined up by colour. "I don't know if they like it. They don't have to -"
"I think they already love it," Idra objected, puzzled. "Why wouldn't they? It is unlike anything they've had before."
Cousin Maia nodded. "I am only - beset. It will pass. I'm sorry, I disrupted breakfast entirely."
Idra recalled a long-held, traitorous, lingering observation: that Maia, like them, had lost one loving parent and then one indifferent one. Idra's father had also been rarely talked about, as Idra's mother only allowed solemn, adult reminisces about him, and only when it was convenient to her.
It was easy, though, to exaggerate the power of her censorious comments, now that she was away. Idra also remembered his own reluctance to remember his father, and his pain at the ease with which the girls bought up this happy memory or that.
"It would be an honor," he said, with growing confidence, "if thou would show us thy mother's tomb. Whenever thou wanted. Even now."
"Oh!" Cousin Maia observed him, as careful as ever. "I thank thee. We could do that - will the girls be willing to eat breakfast on the way there?"
Idra grinned and started spreading jam on brown slices of bread. Cousin Maia joined him.
The meeting of the Corazhas was moving at a turtle's pace, and His Serenity was fidgeting with his new ring. Beshelar surveyed the room for any trouble.
His Serenity was no longer under constant scrutiny from his court, as he had been in the beginning of his reign - and right now, most of the Corazhas were themselves inattentive, and perhaps would not begrudge him the same. The Witness for the Universities was making a case for increased funding, and the Witness for the Treasury refuted him at every point. Both of them spoke of sponsorship, they compared figures and quoted reports. Some other Witnesses chimed in then and now with a question about the donations of this noble house or that. But most of them seemed to have already reached a decision, and looked decidedly bored.
Still, it would be most decidedly unpleasant if His Serenity was caught playing with his jewelry during such a conversation, passionate as he was about education. Beshelar made the faintest of noises, at the back of his throat.
His Serenity stopped.
The meeting went on and on, and finally ended with both Witnesses dissatisfied and the issue unresolved. His Serenity spoke softly to each of the Witnesses in turn. He was getting better at concise soothing nothings. The Corazhas retreated.
His Serenity slumped back in his chair. He looked tired, weighed down.
He rose somewhat clumsily – had he slept well? - and fumbled with the ring that he'd held hidden in his hand the whole time.
The ring slipped from his palm, rolled away. Beshelar dove after it.
It was a small, simple band, engraved and darkened silver with a pattern of vines and sharp, five-petaled flowers. Beshelar felt very slightly foolish, swooping after the ring like a magpie seeking trinkets for her nest. But then the only thing he could think to do was slip it on His Serenity's fifth finger. It fit loosely, and seemed dulled and humbled by his other rings.
As always, His Serenity's hands were too cold.
Beshelar stood, looked straight ahead, hoped they would get going.
“I thank thee,” His Serenity said. He used informality every time they were alone now, and Beshelar felt in equal measure discomfited and grateful. “And for thy warning as well. I had lost myself in memories.”
“The ring can be re-fitted,” Beshelar said, looking ahead still. “Any jeweler would be honored - even Dachensol Habrobar himself.”
“I know,” said His Serenity. It was not a rebuff, as it might have been, only an agreement. “But, after so many years, it is – I feel like a fool, but – I would rather not part from it.”
“It was thy mother's, Serenity,” Cala said, even though a proper nohecharo should pretend not to know that which he hadn't been told directly. “If it were me, I would hesitate to have it altered in any way.”
Cala was the only son of a grand, graceful woman who doted on him. She lived alone, kept a small orchard and some livestock. She came to the city from time to time, to buy supplies and bring Cala treats, and Beshelar had met her only by accident. He'd been surprised by her sense of propriety and good sense, and even more surprised to hear she knew of him. She was as different from Cala as possible, yet they loved each other deeply, from what Beshelar had been allowed to see. As a maza, Cala kept few memories of childhood in his lodgings, but Beshelar supposed he had some keepsakes, hidden in that mess of books and robes and maps.
Beshelar preferred not to be reminded of his own family.
His Serenity slid the small ring off his finger once more.
“It is even more ridiculous than that,” he said, placing it on his palm and studying it carefully. “I would not like anyone to know about it, yet. I just enjoy having it – as a secret, between my mother and myself.” He laughed, touched Beshelar's elbow briefly. “I know what thou art thinking – it cannot stay a secret if I keep playing with it like a restless child! It is true.”
Beshelar, who had been thinking it, felt heat rise to his face.
“Serenity, if I might - ” Cala undid his queue, and produced a slightly frayed grey ribbon. His hair was always disheveled when he let it down. His Serenity offered him the ring silently. Cala tied it neatly around His Serenity's neck, and rested his hands on His Serenity's shoulders.
The ring was dark and strange on the imperial white.
His Serenity pressed it to his chest, whispered something - a prayer? - and then slid it beneath his tunic. He was ready to go on.
Csethiro's husband had steady hands, but still she took the needle from him, and held it over the flame herself.
“Art sure?” he asked, for the fourth time. “Art certain?”
“I am,” she said, reaching for a patience that didn't come to her naturally. “And thou?”
He nodded.
The earrings were fine, but created for a little girl – a pair of tiny, simple pearls, set in white gold. They would be inconspicuous against his skin, and near invisible against hers.
Maia slid down to sit at her feet, and she brushed his braids away. His ears were rigid with tension, and she caressed up the edge and down again, massaging gently until the tip of his right ear lay pliant on her fingers. She remembered her own first piercing, her sisters' wide-eyed admiration at how still she had been, how silent. How taut and unbreakable.
It would hurt Maia less now that he had relaxed.
The needle ran through the tip of his ear easily, and she caught the droplets of blood with the soft cloth she'd laid across her lap.
“Good?” she asked and he exhaled. He seemed calmer already, his breaths ran deeper and deeper. He lifted up to his knees, craned his neck to kiss the edge of her mouth. She embraced him and kissed him properly. It was becoming easy, too easy, to lose herself to him, to bracket his body with her own, just so.
It felt like the pleasure of the training field, of sunshine on a clean blade – she would not easily give it up.
But they had a plan, and she knew he was still hesitant, so she pulled away. “Return to thy place,” she said, and grinned so that he would grin back. “Or I will have to pierce thee again.”
He sat back down and let her clip the earring into place. It looked lovely. Both his ears were proudly raised, and she saw nothing wrong, or vulgar, in the newly created asymmetry between then, in spite of what fashion dictated.
“I thank thee,” he said, and brushed a quick kiss on her fingertips. “Hast - ?”
“I've not changed my mind,” she said, with finality. "Get the other needle."
The other earring would be hers, placed in her left ear, mirroring the one in his right.
Eventually, their court would notice, and tongues would wag. Csethiro was fairly certain that her position was now secure enough to start a new fashion trend - but not one that was taken directly from Barizhan.
Rumors concerned her less than conspiracies did, but the two were impossible to separate. She knew that their marriage had helped Maia establish himself as properly and truly an elf, and a lot of his reputation depended on Csethiro remaining proper and true. A gesture such as this one - a foreign symbol of shared affection - might taint her in the eyes of some. Thou wilt make him one of us, dear, her father had said - and, of course, the way to do that wasn't through extravagances.
But: Csethiro wanted this.
She had been fascinated by matching earrings ever since she'd spoken to Nadaro and Vorzhis Gormened. It made sense, she had thought, as she watched their matching rubies glisten as they spoke. It was a sign of alliance worn on their bodies, more personal than any ring could be. It would never do to suggest such a thing to the emperor though. It would be presumptuous, she would seem like a fool who had seen a foreign fashion and wanted to claim it for her own, with no regard for consequences.
Then Maia received Chenelo Zhasanai's earrings, and told Csethiro of his mother. Of how she had told him about the piercing ceremony, when she was too sick to care about the ban placed upon her. She had never been allowed to have one - of course, Varenechibel had not cared about her customs. Maia still did not talk about him, but Csethiro understood enough.
So, when Maia ended his story with a hesitant question, Csethiro felt a fierce joy. Even though his reasons were different, they desired the same thing - they would share it, as equals. And so, Csethiro would make sure they would get it, and damn their court and their conspirators and their foolish fathers.
Maia took her place then and she took his, and she rested her head against his knee. He carded his fingers through her hair, and heated another needle. She wondered, briefly, whether her own mother would have thought it vulgar, or romantic, or strategic, or silly. She thought her sisters would like it, perhaps even follow her example. And her friends would follow, more pragmatically, because Csethiro's circle understood alliances better than most men did.
Perhaps a new fashion could be made after all.
Csethiro closed her eyes.
Csevet's master had given him an unexpected task, and it had taken two days to complete it.
He found the emperor in the Tortoise Room, managing his own correspondence quite well. The empress was sharpening a dagger by the fire – she greeted Csevet with a smile, as did Kiru and Telimezh. Csevet bowed to his emperor, slightly flushed. He had always been bad at concealing his pride at a job well done.
"Our mother's drawing?" asked his master, putting away what he was working on. "Have you deciphered it?"
"Yes, Serenity, as well as we were able to."
The smile on the emperor's face was a beautiful, bright thing, like sunlight on the waves of the lake Therao. "Did Oshet recognize the figure?" he asked.
"No, Serenity. He said he'd never heard of such a creature, and said that meant it was not from any song, but perhaps a book." Oshet had been disappointed he couldn't help, and hadn't asked any questions about the drawing at all. He only said that it was beautiful, and Csevet had agreed.
"So, Serenity, we went to our friend. He has an interest in stories, and his grandmother was born on the south of Barizhan."
"We remember him," his emperor nodded. "And we trust your judgement of him."
Csevet nodded back, grateful. That conversation had been a more difficult one – dealing with the curiosity of couriers had become more complicated since he was no longer one of them - but Csevet knew a thousand ways to ask for discretion.
"He did not recognize it. But he has access to Ambassador Gormened's library – there is some understanding between them, which we did not question further. He was kind enough to help us research, and we started with stories from the north.”
It had been a long and careful search, and Csevet had been hindered by his very rudimentary understanding of Barizhin. It had been frustrating, and made him decide it was time to learn the language properly. It might not be politic for an emperor to take such lessons, but still perfectly acceptable for his secretary to do so.
Csevet cleared his throat. "At last, we had found the creature, from a poem by an unknown notary. It is called the fox-star. Tcertc'va."
The emperor tilted his ears, repeated the word, but shook his head. “The name is unknown to us.”
"It is a poem for children, Serenity," Csevet said. "We are certain that the Ambassador would lend you the book, and without too many questions. But if you prefer, we will re-tell the story, as well as we can remember."
Csevet's master grinned. "We trust your memory better than our own, Csevet. Please continue. Would you sit?"
Csevet sat in his customary place, beside the emperor. It was a little odd, with no letters in front of them to pour over together. Instead, he laid the Zhasanai's drawing down on the desk.
"There once was a fox who fell in love with a star," he began, "when she drank from still waters at midnight. She was the wisest of her kin, and knew the difference between truth and reflection. She searched for a way to reach her beloved star, but knew it to be a long journey. So she asked for help from her friend, the owl, and the owl gave her his own feathers, so that she could fly. Then she begged help from her friend, the she-bear, and the she-bear gave her her own coat, so that she would not freeze on the way. At last, she spoke with her friend the asp, and the asp gave her his own tongue, so that she could charm the star with sweet and clever words. And so, the fox flew. Her journey was long, and she lost the beauty of her tail and the sharpness of her ears. Then she courted the star, and burned off her beautiful whiskers - but at last, she was successful. She was given a seat next to the star. And from there, she looked down."
He looked to his audience, received the smallest of nods, and continued.
"In her absence, the owl had been unable to flee from predators, and he perished. The she-bear froze to death in her cave. The asp had starved and only his skin remained. The fox-star wept, pleaded with her love to release her - she wanted to see to her friends' funerals, knowing no-one else would. But the star was moved by her begging, and lifted the fox's friends to the sky, breathed life into each of them in turn. And so they became constellations, and served her in death as they had in life."
The emperor nodded. Traced the lines of the creature - with its bear-pelt and owl wings, and it crippled tail. It was a beautiful drawing, with clear lines of ink and elaborate detail, but it was not pretty at all. The creature looked less monstrous since Csevet understood all of its parts.
"We - I thank you," said Csevet's master, and almost bowed in his seat. "Thank you for finding my mother's story for me."
He rested a hand on Csevet's, and Csevet's thumb ran across the fine skin of his knuckles - an accident, perhaps, but not one he regretted.
"Now," said the emperor, and did not move his hand away. "What do you think - where might we learn Barizhin in secret?"
To Our Imperial Nephew, Greetings.
We were startled to receive your first letter, and astonished to receive your second. We never expected such an invitation, and certainly not one that extended to our wife. We must admit we suspected a joke - or, frankly, a taunt - but our sister Nadeian has since reassured us of your good intentions. She has enjoyed her stay here, and became well-loved by our crew, but she has missed your court and her husband. We expect her to arrive not long after our letter. We hope she will reassure you of our good intentions in return, should we cause any offence - and that seems quite likely, as we have never been a skilled correspondent, and we have worked hard to forget all we have been taught about the rules of polite society.
Our wife is well, and she sends her greetings. She offered to look our letter over, and repair the gaps in both protocol and penmanship. We bring her books on etiquette from our voyages, as she has a fascination with it that will probably make her the more appropriate guest. But in this matter, Nephew, we felt it was fair to match your sincerity with our own, and send this to you unpolished.
We have something that belongs to you.
As the oldest of our father's daughters, we were expected to care for the younger ones, to guard their reputation and shield them from scandal. We were singularly ill-suited for this task. Still, we were careful to keep peace between the sisters, and to pay attention to each of them in turn. Our father's court was never a pleasant place for a young girl, and under such circumstances, there is nothing more precious than a true confidante, one who is willing to truly see, and not judge.
We were careful not to have favourites, but your mother was very dear to us. She trusted us with her secrets, stories of her faith and of her dreams. We trusted her with ours in turn. Both of us were young, and wild. Nephew, we hope you can imagine your mother as wild. She was always very good, and careful with her words and deeds, but - there was a boldness in her, and a curiosity, and our father's court would have stifled both, had they been allowed.
When the marriage was announced, we wept, and she did not. She promised us visits, and letters.
None ever arrived. We do not know whether she was heartbroken or merely forbidden to write to any of us. But then, we left our father's court soon after. We do not know if she had ever heard of that, and only hope that she did.
Before she left, she gave us some knickknacks of her childhood. She said she did not want to be forgotten, and did not want all of her to be taken away by the foreign court. She said it with a laugh – do you know the way she laughed when saying serious, forbidden things? Were you too young? She would lean forward and her shoulders would shake, part in mirth and part in rage.
We kept these things safe, sometimes through perilous circumstances. Has Nadeian told you of the mutiny we survived? And the one we started? Even for a captain, we are a disgrace, and there were nights when we fled for our life. Yet, we carried these memories with us.
It is not easy to part with them. But Nadeian has told us of your questions, and your letters, when we finally read them without suspicion, betrayed your longing for stories of her. So it would feel harder still to continue to keep them from you.
Each of these items has a story, Nephew, and when we make it to your court – if your invitation was truly not a jest – we will tell you those and others. We hope you will cherish them until them. You are the emperor – nobody in the foreign court can take anything away from you.
Our most sincere wishes for the continued health of you and your dav.
Captain Shaleän Sevraseched