“I should’ve expected you,” Mistress says. “Ash knew exactly what he was doing, didn’t he?”
My eyes are focused on her shoes. They are gilded pumps, spattered with blood. She has come here straight from the ruined reception. “Charles was stuck,” I say quietly. “He needed a push into a new emanation.”
“And of course, none of you knew anything about this because if you did, you would’ve abandoned your mission and come back to rescue me.”
I nod. “It wouldn’t have been a risk we were willing to take.”
“Letting General Panic escape would’ve been a worse risk. I’m not a child.”
I want to tell her that Caliban was still dangerous, that he killed two SSOps agents with his sting before they took him down, but she knows that, and I haven’t been asked a direct question. I would never be so presumptuous as to speak without being given express permission.
“But Ash should’ve just warned me about the assassination attempt. Did that ever occur to him? And now you’re here as his mea culpa.”
“Yes. I must be punished for our negligence.”
Mistress grabs me by the hair, makes me look up at her. She’s angry. My heart beats like a moth’s wings at a windowpane.
“Fuck that,” she says. “Get dressed. We need to make a statement to the press.”
*****
I have never been so miserable in all my emanation. Gentlemen-in-waiting tug and prod me into some semblance of a dress uniform. Usually, I won’t wear anything heavier than a t-shirt, and I can’t stand all of this fabric against my skin. Behind me, a woman is yanking my hair into a ponytail. But I use polymers to tease it into a wild mane, and now it fans out of the ponytail, stiff shocks of blue and green. I look like a deranged peacock.
“Don’t stare at your shoes,” Mistress commands. “You’re a prince, behave like one.”
We go out onto the verandah. Dozens of journalists are there. “Is it true that the assassin was a K’ntasari?” “Matriarch, is Prince Charles recovered from his heroic action?” “Highness, where were you while this was happening?”
It takes me a moment to realize that the last question is addressed to me. “Dumati,” I murmur. “Constantine captured General Panic.”
“WHAT? Where’s Prince Constantine? Did he fulfill his vow? Tell us everything that happened.” I don’t know how to respond. I don’t know exactly what Mickey wants told and wants kept secret.
“There will be a press release later this evening, but yes, it is true, General Panic is in captivity,” Mistress says smoothly. “We would prefer not to discuss the details until certain terms have been negotiated with Governor Tellick. The Brrrrrrrrrrrrvvbh have agreed to act as intermediaries in the talks. As for the princeling, my stepson, his new emanation is resting safely at home with his loved ones. He will be awarded the Blue Star of Skarsia for valor. The K’ntasari called Caliban is a known Terran collaborator. He’s been wanted for questioning since the invasion of Dalgherdia. Unfortunately, it will be a while before we get the answers to those questions since he has currently reverted into Nau’gsh form. That’s all for now. Good rotation, my beloved subjects.”
Mistress dismisses them with a curt nod and a wave. She turns her back so imperiously that I wish to stand there, stunned, watching her retreating skirts. But my feet carry me forward, five steps behind her in blind obedience.
When we get back to her stateroom, she turns on me. “I could better have used Ailann or Patrick,” she says. “Or even Cillian.”
I say nothing.
She grabs my chin, forcing me to look at her. “Would you mind telling me why you’re still here?”
“Constantine was hurt badly,” I whisper.
Mistress stops short and regards me curiously. “And?”
“We can’t grow any new branches until Goliath uses up the emanations it has. The two trees would be thrown out of balance.”
Mistress has an expression I’ve never seen before. A worried expression. It makes me feel like crying, but I won’t. “What does that mean, exactly?”
“We have to absorb the trauma without growing a branch. It will be fine. We have two big trees. It’s just that changing emanations now would be draining.”
“And Ash didn’t see fit to send me Ailann. Instead he sends you as an apology for something he regrets not one jot.”
“I’m sorry, Mistress.”
Mistress turns away, but I can see that she’s furious. It radiates off her body like waves of heat.
I focus my eyes on the ground, but silently I will it: please hurt me, please.
She yanks her curls out of the elaborate bun that had been styled for the reception. “Will you get out of that uniform?” she asks, but it isn’t a question, it’s a command. “You look absolutely ridiculous.”
I know. The entire experience has been completely humiliating. It seems such a waste to take it off, though, when I could be doing something more useful like scrubbing the toilet. I don’t enjoy humiliation nearly as much as pain, but I like to serve.
“Why do you keep playing these games with me, Ash?” She hisses the last word, like a serpent’s tongue flipping into flame. It snaps down my spine, making my knees weak. I’ve heard legends about a secret pronunciation for the name of God – perhaps that’s it.
I’m naked now. I can’t find my leathers. Lady Lorma probably put them in the wardrobe. But before I can get to them, I’m attacked.
Mistress is pummeling me, hard. It isn’t play. She’s strong. It’s like leaves being shredded by a sudden sleet storm. That only happened once on Dolparessa, when the old Archon was dying and the weather went wild. But it happens all the time on Volparnu. I think of Mistress there, during her long exile, the ice whipping her tender skin. We can never atone for that. I must atone for it. The pain feels good.
The pain feels so good.
I fall to the ground, coiled, protecting my face while she kicks at me. This isn’t the normal way she abuses me, a careful, studied torture, laced with kink. She’s really angry.
“Is that what you want?” she screams. “Is that what you want?”
She tumbles back onto the bed. I can tell that she’s blinking back stinging tears of frustration and rage. I want to comfort her, but I haven’t been invited.
My chest hurts a little when I breathe. I think she’s cracked a rib.
In a minute, she’s calm again. “I don’t understand. You said Constantine is hurt, but Ash didn’t send Ailann. But then again…if he’s hurt, why didn’t he send Jamey?”
“Jamey can only heal damage to our trees, Mistress. I absorb trauma for the emanations.”
Mistress sits up abruptly, causing me to involuntarily glance at her. She has another expression I’ve never seen before. She’s surprised. It makes me feel like laughing, but I know far better than to do that. “Callum, you’ve been emanated for almost fifteen years, and you tell me that now?”
“No one ever asked.”
Mistress throws herself back on her pillow. She rings a bell at her bedside. In a moment, Lady Lorma is there to help her undress.
Lady Lorma clears her throat. She always feels a little awkward around me. Then I realize that I’m still naked. She goes to the wardrobe, fetches my trousers, holds them out at arm’s length while averting her eyes. She’s holding them so gingerly, the heavy leathers supported only by a thumb and two fingers. It’s like she’s afraid she’ll catch something if she touches them.
I take them from her, but I don’t put them on. Mistress has not given me permission to dress.
“Callum, from now on whenever there’s something important you think I should know, ask for permission to speak,” Mistress says. Her voice is weary and exasperated.
My throat clenches. I can physically feel the fear tightening like a hand to choke me. How can I do that? How can I possibly do that? How will I know what is important?
I’d help you, says Lugh, but you never tell us anything either.
You can’t help me, I tell him. Maybe Cillian can help me. Or Lorcan.
I can help you, says Lorcan.
I wait until Lady Lorma has gone and Mistress is dressed for bed. “May I…may I have permission to speak?”
“Go ahead.”
“Lorcan says…Lorcan says that if you want to help Constantine, you should brand me.”
“Um,” Mistress says. “That’s interesting. How will inflicting more damage on you help him?”
“It’s not damage, it’s…” I can’t explain. I don’t have the words, but I know Lorcan is right. I remember the day that Mistress pierced my nipples. It was the pain, the delicious pain, yes, but more than that.
It was the feeling of being perfectly owned.
“Won’t a burn just heal, like the scars on Aran’s arms?”
“I don’t think so. My piercings didn’t, and Tommy’s tattoo worked. I think an intended body modification is a different thing from a wound.”
“Here,” she says. “Sit on the bed.” She retrieves a small utility laser from a drawer and sets it to burn-medium focus. “Spread your legs.”
Spread my legs?
She activates the laser, pressing the tip of the beam against the skin of my left inner thigh. “My first thought was to put it on your rump, like cattle. But then I decided it would be better where you could easily see it.”
A little more than a second, and it’s done. Two quick strokes, forming the letter T. I can hear my skin sizzle.
I can see it now, a raised, red welt upon my flesh. It hurts so much, but there’s much more pleasure. A rising wave of bliss. I’m hers, I’m hers, I’m safe.
She puts away the laser and rejoins me on the bed. “Come here,” she says. I rest my head upon her chest. “Did that help?”
“So much,” I say. “It helped so much.” I can’t even describe it. It feels like I’m floating out of my skin.
“I’m sorry I got so angry. I didn’t know that being Callum would help to heal Constantine. But this is what I’m talking about, Ash. Why don’t you tell me what’s going on? It’s so far removed from human logic – oh, I’ll just let my son take a bullet – it’ll be good for him.”
I can’t answer. I don’t think she expects me to. But deep inside I can feel my wings spreading, unfurling like a flower in the liquid joy of sunlight.