Chapter Text
“It’s only my hands on thine, Maia,” Csethiro teased her fiancée gently, and was rewarded with one of his delicate blushes. It had taken her a little while to be able to decipher them; under his slate-colored skin, the blood didn’t change his color so much as it deepened it, made him luminously dark instead of dull. It was subtle, but rewarding. She’d made a bit of a study of reading all his expressions, and had from the first first been charmed, but was beginning to harbor some suspicions as to why he was so delicate about certain approaches. She knew he’d been raised in isolation and darkness, and it wasn’t a leap from assuming he hadn’t had a great deal of delight in his life, before his sudden and disorienting ascent, to recognizing that he’d probably been subjected to a fair amount of pain.
But it made it that much more precious to be able to draw him out. And getting him to blush but not withdraw was an achievement she savored. He did not know how to be teased, but she was determined to teach him.
“Truly, I won’t burn thee,” she murmured, pulling herself closer against him than the dance strictly required.
“Of course not,” he said, but he was even more flustered, and completely forgot the steps. She coaxed him on a little more, and then gave up.
“Let us sit for a moment,” she said, using the plural. He retreated gratefully, but she was merciless, and sat in the chair directly next to him.
It was desire, she knew it, and it was thrilling-- normally such a thing would be distasteful, but she was to marry him, and they’d be expected to consummate the relationship in the normal fashion. Such was perfectly possible without much if any feeling on either side, but it was a rare treat among her social set to be able to think of looking forward to such a thing on its own merits. And he was, but not in an acquisitive sort of way-- he was so shy, so hesitant to ever admit to wanting something. His eyes shyly darting over her was an exquisite little gift.
“Thou’r’t nearly ready to dance at the wedding,” she said.
He laughed, and put his hand over his eyes briefly. “I don’t know about that,” he said.
She lowered her voice. No one was present except the normal gaggle of hangers-on; the maza nochecharo was tapping her fingers on her thigh in echo of the rhythm of the music they’d danced to, but guardsman nohecharis was openly staring out the window, completely absent. Mer Aisava was sitting at the table across the room, absorbed in looking between two documents and correcting one of them. “I am ready for the wedding to happen already,” she went on.
“Thou already know’st how to dance,” Maia said, a little glumly, and then caught her expression, her raised eyebrows, and blushed deeply.
“I have been studying,” she said quietly. “The… steps I don’t know.”
Maia had more or less stopped breathing, and swallowed hard. He was quick on the uptake; she’d noticed that early on, but it still delighted her, as most things about him did.“I knew not... that was... something one could study ,” he said carefully.
“There are books,” she said hastily, realizing that he might think she was telling him she’d been-- “Manuals and things, Maia, it’s not like I’m-- practicing .”
He considered that a moment, then slid a look at her, collecting himself somewhat. “I confess I have been somewhat concerned,” he said. “About. What that is, ah. Likely to entail.”
“You,” she said, and paused. The maza had stopped drumming her fingers, but didn’t seem to be paying attention, but the guardsman had stopped looking out the window and was regarding his folded hands in his lap. He wasn’t looking at them but it was much more likely he was listening.
“I have absolutely no education or experience in this matter,” Maia said, a little grimly, saving her the trouble of asking. “Only a bare summary of the facts, and little enough of that.”
“I can send thee my notes,” she said, and patted his knee innocently, but gave him a smoldering look under her brows. He swallowed hard again, and in a moment she jumped up brightly and said, “Shall we resume the lesson?”
The courier came in as Csevet was going over the notes from the last meeting of the Corazhas. He was a hire courier, not wearing the livery of any house, but the packet he was holding was too thick for the pneumatic. Csevet took it, somewhat puzzled, and thanked the courier, who bowed politely and left.
It was addressed to Edrehasivar VII, as one would expect, but after a moment Csevet recognized that it was sealed with a Ceredada seal, and it said, in a lovely strong Barzhad hand, “Pursuant to our earlier conversation,” and then under that, underlined, “FOR HIS SERENITY’S EYES ONLY,” which was presumptive, but. There was not likely to be anyone writing from the Ceredada except for Csethiro herself, so Csevet set the packet aside unopened, despite his burning curiosity.
Edrehasivar himself came in a moment later, trailing back from his weekly dinner with Arbelan Drazharan. He looked thoughtful, and perhaps a little tired, but not unduly distressed. Csevet noted with approval that the young Emperor was starting to settle down a little, not always so jumpy and nervous, and it was possible for him to grow weary without curling in on himself quite so much as when he first came here. He was still fragile, but there was hope of him growing sturdy.
He sat next to Csevet, and started to pull over the sheet of notes Csevet had just set aside. “There’s a packet for you, Serenity,” Csevet said, indicating it with a gesture of his chin.
“A packet of what?” Edrehasivar said, dubious, but pulled it over toward himself and looked at it. He noted the seal, read the note, frowned, and then blushed, suddenly and thoroughly. Csevet fought with himself over allowing a smile, and lost.
“We assume it’s Dach’osmin Ceredin,” Csevet said, “so we didn’t spy, but will we wish we had?”
“No,” Edrehasivar said, pulling the packet closer and hunching his shoulders protectively.
Csevet waited, but no explanation was forthcoming. Now he was curious, but he wouldn’t have had time to discreetly unseal it, read it, and replace the seal unless he’d stolen it away for a good quarter-hour of concentrated work, or more. He couldn’t do half a job on that sort of thing anymore; he’d been too honest for too long, and Edrehasivar was too sharp. He could have opened it blatantly, as it was not his wont to pass on correspondence unexamined, but he’d played that hand and pretending ignorance wouldn’t work henceforth.
At any rate, it wasn’t likely to be necessary; Csethiro seemed to not only be a valuable and unassailable ally, but also a kind person. Csevet squashed down his curiosity, when Edrehasivar made no move to open the packet. He could let the man have at least that much privacy, and trust that if it needed his intervention, he’d be summoned in due time. “Well,” he said. “If my advice is not necessary on its contents, I can leave you in privacy to read it.”
Edrehasivar looked up almost guiltily; he’d been lost in thought, perhaps. “Oh,” he said, and with an effort set the packet aside, “no, I’ll read it later.” He met Csevet’s eyes and bit his lip, and was clearly struggling for an explanation. It was clearly something he was excited and embarrassed about, something personal, something-- well, between a young man and his fiancée, who was a young woman of great force of personality and a keen love of mischief. Of course it was something entertaining, or fun, and something Maia Drazhar would never have encountered in his whole life. And something, most importantly, that Csevet Aisava had no claim to.
“You don’t have to tell us what it is,” Csevet said fondly. “You’re allowed to have private correspondence, Serenity.”
Edrehasivar opened his mouth, and Csevet shook his head. “Serenity,” he said, “do not explain yourself, please. Take your interesting packet and go and we will have everything in order for your review on the morrow.”
The emperor considered that a moment, looking very young and a little guilty, like a schoolboy contemplating skiving class. “You wouldn’t... mind?”
It was absurd, and sweet, and Csevet blinked at him for a moment. “Serenity,” he said, and then paused. Chiding the young man for being who he was wouldn’t be productive. Edrehasivar knew fine well he was the emperor and could command whatever he wanted, and he didn’t want to at the moment, and that was fine, in this private moment. Csevet leaned in and said quietly, warmly, “This once? I wouldn’t.”
Edrehasivar gave Csevet a look of pure, shimmering adoration, possibly the sweetest and purest thing Csevet had ever experienced in his life. He gathered the packet against his chest, folding his arms over it, and bit his lip, then said resolutely, “We will be prepared first thing in the morning to attend to all of this business. We thank you, tremendously, Mer Aisava.”
It was an absurd jump in formality, and Csevet was helpless not to beam moonily at him. It would have been embarrassing, except the boy was so clearly delighted. He put his hand on Csevet’s shoulder in a warm, goblin-like gesture, and then fled the room.
“I can’t imagine what’s in that packet,” Csevet said distractedly to himself as he went back to his work.
Kiru Athmaza conferred with Lieutenant Bunu Telimezh in a single glance, and read that he was in a mournful mood, so she jerked her chin downward to volunteer herself to accompany Himself into the bedchamber, so that poor Telimezh could occupy himself all night staring out various windows at the moon and not feel constrained to a single chair. Perhaps she’d recommend he take up meditation, later; it might do him good. He was a sweet kid and didn’t deserve the anxiety he’d been suffering from. And it might be good for Edrehasivar to meditate with someone besides Cala or herself, whose meditation necessarily had a different aspect than his; Telimezh could learn to accompany him, and it would do them both good.
Satisfied with her own conclusions, she went in as Edrehasivar’s edocharei set to work on his clothes and hair. He had a packet of papers he’d set down on the little lap desk that tucked into his nightstand. He didn’t usually bring reading or writing materials to bed, because normally he never went to bed until he was so tired as to be unable to work any longer, but he’d used the desk for reading a time or two.
She idly patrolled the room, double-checking every window as she always did, looking for magical residues and physical signs of problems alike. The corner of the ceiling had a crack in the plaster that had been there her first day, and never grew, but she checked it every time. When she’d completed her patrol, which she never did the same way twice, she went to her accustomed seat, which gave her a view of most of the entrances, especially the door. By then, Edrehasivar had been bathed, braided, and dressed in his nightshirt. He climbed into his bed, clearly preoccupied and absorbed by the packet of papers, and lit the bedside lamp. She went and turned out the room lights, and returned to her seat.
“Goodnight, Kiru,” he said, a little absently, and she echoed it back to him fondly. He looked up, frowned absently, and twitched the bed curtains the rest of the way shut, which he normally didn’t bother with.
Hm. He must be very interested in, or very concerned about, those papers.
Kiru settled herself into the meditative watchful state she always used for this type of duty, contemplating the nature of reality, and breathing in the rhythm of the life in the palace complex, and so on. She lost herself a bit, but never lost touch with her awareness of the Emperor, who was reading intently. She could hear his breathing and feel his presence, and after a little while she refocused to pay more attention to him.
He was agitated, or-- upset, somehow. Whatever he was reading wasn’t a good bedtime story. His breathing was coming a little fast, a little shallow, and she could tell from his shadow that he was leaning forward a little, tense.
She let this persist for a time, as he turned pages, frequently pausing to put his hand to his face as if emotional. He wasn’t weeping, but his breathing was too fast, he wasn’t just reading a quaint story.
Perhaps it was an exciting story. It might be an adventure novel, copied out for him. Perhaps a manuscript not yet published, given for his perusal in hopes of some advantage.
He sucked in his breath noticeably; not a gasp, but a hitch in his breathing nonetheless. Something shocking. Kiru listened carefully: was he upset?
He let his breath out in a rush, and breathed in again, turning a page with brusque haste, and then he actually let out a little noise, a tiny half-voiced exclamation, as if he was truly upset or shocked or surprised.
She listened, and he was silent for a moment, and then breathed in deeply, and out deeply, and murmured, “I had no idea .” And then he turned another page, and hummed intently. Something shocking and fascinating, then.
Should she check in on him? She contemplated it a moment. Surely simple reading material was not going to harm him in his own bed. She could leave him be.
He fidgeted, shifting his weight, and turned another page. He was still agitated. It must be an adventure novel, or something similarly exciting. She sat and listened to him, letting her mind stray to contemplate her duties for tomorrow-- she had to sleep, but she also had to have a conversation with a friend, and oh yes, the discussion with Telimezh about meditation, yes.
Some time passed without her remarking it particularly, and then Edrehasivar gasped again, an unmistakable sharp intake of breath. Her attention had wandered enough that it startled her, and before she could recollect the situation she responded, sharply, “Serenity?”
There was a fraught moment, and then he said, “Ahh-- it’s fine, I-- I was reading something.”
“Of course,” she murmured, settling back down.
In a moment, he pushed the curtains aside to poke his face out and look at her. “Kiru?” he said.
She rose smoothly, and came over so he could speak to her. “Yes, Serenity?”
He looked up at her, biting his lip. “There’s,” he said, hesitating.
She knelt beside the bed so that he would not have to crane his neck to look up at her. “Serenity,” she said. “Ask your question.”
He looked down at her, now, and she could see an anguish of uncertainty behind his features. “It’s about… nohecharei etiquette,” he said.
“Yes?”
“What are you,” he used the plural, “to do on my wedding night ?”
There had been some brief discussion among them of that already. It was rare for the seconds and firsts to be able to confer, but Kiru had brought it up to Cala, and he had sprung it on Beshelar as they awaited the shift change, with Telimezh inside the bedroom still. Beshelar had colored magnificently, mortified at the mere mention of it, and the two mazei had enjoyed his discomfiture, but they had reached no particular conclusion. It was a well-known facet of a nohecharei’s duty, but as none of them had served before, it was still as-yet something none of them had directly dealt with. Kiru felt she or Cala would probably be best-equipped to handle it, for now at least. Beshelar clearly would need work. She had been reluctant to broach the topic with Telimezh; he was very young, and hard to read sometimes, and she just didn’t know what he’d make of it.
“One of us must remain in the room,” she said gently.
“The bedcurtains are no privacy at all,” Edrehasivar said gloomily.
She took her courage in her hands, and stood, then sat on the edge of the bed, so that she could look at him more on his level. “Serenity,” she said, folding her hands in her lap. “Is there any further way we can prove ourselves? None of us would-- behave inappropriately, or think less of you in any way, or--”
“I won’t know what I’m doing ,” he blurted. “It’s bad enough Csethiro has to be there for it! To think of someone else observing --”
Of course he was a virgin. Of course he was. He’d been so alone, all his life. And now he couldn’t have even a moment’s privacy.
It suddenly struck Kiru that surely he didn’t even masturbate, or she or one of the others would know of it, and would have told the others. At least as a quiet, amused warning.
He looked so miserable. She reached over and took his hand between hers. She was never so familiar, but he clearly needed it. “My dear,” she said quietly, unable to help herself; it was a motherly little endearment. He let her hold his hand, and looked plaintively up at her, his knees drawn up under the blankets and his body curled into itself, the lapdesk set off to one side with the papers shuffled neatly facedown.
Finally she said, “You know I have been celibate. But I have… seen a great deal of life. I know how it works. I can answer questions for you, if you like. And if you wish, I will be here, and you know I will never judge you. And I won’t tell the others, no matter what they ask. It is not only your privacy, Serenity, but Dach’osmin Ceredin’s as well, and I would not violate that.”
He sighed, slowly, and contemplated that. “It is true,” he said at last.
“I can advise you somewhat,” she said. “But it’s true that any of the others would likely have more concrete knowledge for you. However, they may not… know how to answer your questions. But if you like, I can find someone who could advise you discreetly.”
Edrehasivar smiled lopsidedly at her, and then reached his free hand over to retrieve the packet of papers. “I have an advisor,” he said, and flipped the packet over, turning to a middle page that bore a diagram of--
It was an unmistakable diagram of the female reproductive system, showing the external and internal parts. Kiru leaned in, with some fascination, and looked at it. “Why, so you do,” she said. It struck her as astonishing to consider Csevet providing him with any such thing. “Mer Aisava assembled this for you?”
Edrehasivar laughed, embarrassed. “No,” he said, “not at all.” He flipped a few more pages-- diagrams of possible positions for coitus, with notations explaining the different purposes of each. Kiru read the labels as much as she could, before he turned the pages-- they were practical explanations, not superstitious ones. “If the female partner has a shallow angle of the vaginal canal,” one read. “If the male partner’s member is of an unsuitably large size,” read another. And one said-- Kiru put her hand out to keep him from turning the page. “For the use of an artificial phallus, to be affixed to a harness.”
“Oh my,” Kiru said. “What-- how thorough. What expert did you find to compile something so-- scientific?”
“Csethiro,” Edrehasivar said. “She is-- she’s so clever ,” he said. “I admitted I was nervous and she said she had been studying, and she’d send me notes.”
“She is an admirable individual,” Kiru said. This was daring. It was all in a single hand, even the diagrams: Csethiro had clearly copied from several different volumes to compile it, with an expert curator’s eye. Kiru’s respect for both her intelligence and bravery went up.
“I am,” Edrehasivar said, “fortunate beyond telling.” He let her turn several more pages; there was a diagram explaining the menstrual cycle, outlining the optimal days for conception. “I didn’t… know that was how it worked,” he admitted in a moment.
“It is not widely taught,” Kiru said absently, turning the page. Now there was a list of suggested sexual acts to achieve satisfaction without any risk of conception. Some of them were things Kiru had never heard of. “This is so thorough.”
“Our fiancée is not given to half-measures,” Edrehasivar said.
Kiru had to smile at him for that, he was so proud of Csethiro in that moment. “She is an extraordinary young woman,” she said. “We’re glad you could make such a match.”
She turned the page again and there were more diagrams of possible sexual positions. Edrehasivar looked at them, and then blushed, and freed his hand from hers to gently gather the pages up away from her. “I don’t know where I’m going to hide this,” he said. “Anyone else who saw it would-- well, they would assume, and with good reason--”
“It is normal, though,” Kiru said, reprovingly. “Any who judged you for it, Serenity-- why, you are a youth of nineteen, it would be more concerning if you were not curious.” She hadn’t been, particularly, but that was beyond the scope of this discussion. And then she knew what she had to do.
She gathered herself, and stood. “My dear,” she said again, and then made her tone cooler, more formal. “Has any of this-- made you--” She steeled herself. “Interested?”
Edrehasivar blushed so suddenly and so furiously that she knew her instincts in this were correct. He had the blankets bunched around himself, as if he were hiding from her. “I,” he said, fumbling.
“It is normal, my dear,” she said firmly. “As well, it is normal to-- administer relief to oneself.” She was not embarrassed, this was perfectly reasonable, but he was so mortified it was hard not to feel the same in empathy. “Does this treatise not mention such?”
“It does,” he said, unable to look at her. Were a taper laid beside his cheek, it would kindle itself from the heat of his blushing.
“Then you should do such,” she said. “As practice. As we understand what it is you are doing, then we will know to not to listen, and to disregard any sounds we may hear, unless you call out deliberately to summon us.”
“I don’t think I can ,” he said, low and horrified.
“Nonsense, my dear,” she said. “Listen, I can’t leave the room, but I’ll get a book and light a lamp of my own and sit and read, so I won’t be able to see you and I won’t be paying attention.”
“I can’t,” he said. “Kiru-- I can’t.”
She stood back, and pulled the curtains closed. “Serenity,” she said softly, “you must. Get the treatise out and reread it, and think on your duty to your wife, and you’ll find you can forget me.”
She went back to her seat, and lit the little lamp there, digging out one of the books from the far section of the small shelf by the window, so that if he peered out, he would see she was keeping her word.
He did peer out, after a moment. “Kiru,” he said.
“Hush,” she said, not glancing up. “We shall only hear you if you call for us, henceforth.”
There was a moment, and then he let the curtain fall closed. “Goodnight,” he said softly.
Kiru turned a page loudly.
There was no sound for a few moments, and she thought perhaps he would reject her suggestion. It wasn’t like she could really give him orders, after all. But after a little while she could hear him turning the pages again, and his breathing-- ah, yes. His breathing grew shallow and harsh. It had been arousal, not agitation.
She kept her word and did not listen particularly as fabric rustled-- and after every motion, he paused for a long time, as if in chagrin, and on one occasion she loudly turned a page again and heard him let his breath out in a soft laugh.
In a little while, she heard very quiet sounds of repetitive motion, and smiled to herself. His breathing grew ragged, and she ignored it. At length he drew in a sudden deep, ragged breath, and then let it out in a quiet little series of choking exhalations.
Kiru Athmaza smiled to herself, closed her book quietly, and blew out her lamp. A few moments later, her sweet young emperor rustled some pages, rolled over, and blew out the lamp by his bed. In moments, his breath had evened out into the soft heavy rush of childlike sleep.