The sweet course came and went, with a rich savory soup leavened with honey and a cluster of sugared fancies on the side. Then more of the scalding tea. The sky through the windows had turned a deep, dusky blue, and Jainan’s eyes kept going back to the encroaching dark above and the way the palace lights flickered and glinted from a few errant snowflakes. Year after year, the heartland of the Empire seemed eager to tilt its orbit away from Iskat’s star; winter came on swiftly in this part of the planet, always.
Try as he might, Jainan was losing the thread of Kiem’s conversation. It had been a long day. In the lull between crises, tiredness crept up on him like paralyzing serum, making his spine ache and his mind slip. The clink of cutlery and the candlelight reflected on the dark window was too familiar; it could have been any of the hundreds of banquets he had attended with Taam since he came to Iskat. Kiem was a stranger on the other side of the table. His features didn’t really resemble Taam’s, but right now the two of them looked more similar than they should.
And then it wasn’t just resemblance. The room blurred, and Taam was sitting in Kiem’s place, handsome and charming, speaking to an indistinct dignitary on his right. The lump of soft bread in Jainan’s mouth turned to ash; he couldn’t swallow. Taam laughed at a joke and turned back. The moment he did, the smile was gone, wiped cleanly from his face.
Let’s go home, Jainan thought. Taam’s mood would only get worse if they stayed. As if he’d heard, Taam leaned toward him and reached out. Jainan kept his hand still on the table.
“Jainan?” A brisk tap on the back of his wrist made him jump. It was Kiem, leaning over with an anxious expression. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” Jainan said, pulling his hand away. Grief worked in strange ways. He was supposed to make a fresh start with Kiem; he could not let him know why he’d spaced out. “Fine. Just tired.”
Kiem pulled his hand back immediately. “Yeah, it’s been a long day. We can skip the rest of the course—”
“No,” Jainan said desperately. He forced Taam entirely out of his mind. He couldn’t ruin this as well. “It won’t be a problem. Everything is fine.”
Kiem paused. “Right,” he said. He nodded to the footman who cleared away their teacups. “So, um. The little crest on your jacket—it’s some kind of Thean family crest, right?”
“This?” Jainan said, thrown by the change of direction. He touched the emblem sewn on the collar of his tunic.
“Heraldry and stuff is a bit of, uh, a hobby of mine,” Kiem said. “What’s the border mean?” He seemed to mistake Jainan’s hesitation for reluctance. “Or is it private?”
Jainan was so off-balance that he nearly said, Yes, that’s why my clan displays it on everything. But even if Kiem could come up with a witty remark every second sentence when he was on a roll, as he’d proved for the last hour, Jainan himself wasn’t socially adept enough to joke without causing offense. “It’s not private,” he said. “This is Feria’s emblem. The border alters depending on your position in the clan.” Kiem tilted his head, radiating interest. Jainan might have suspected him of flirting, except Jainan had watched him at the wedding, and Kiem had been like this with everyone from the journalists to the judge. Jainan kept close tabs on Kiem’s body language, waiting for signs of boredom—if Jainan had known heraldry was a hobby of his, he could have led with it.
At some point Jainan looked down at the remains of the mild course and realized he had been doing most of the talking for the last ten minutes.
Kiem followed his gaze. “Huh. We seem to have run out of food.” He propped an elbow on the table and raised his eyes back to Jainan’s. “Coffee? We could go somewhere and get coffee. Or you could come back to my rooms—uh—I mean, our rooms?” Jainan had the distinct sense that Kiem’s script hadn’t gone as planned. “I guess technically you could invite me. I mean, or we could go back and not have coffee!” He waved his hands in front of his face. “Or I could go somewhere else and you could go back—or you could, uh—”
A flicker of amusement leapt up in Jainan. “Would you like to come back to my rooms for coffee, Prince Kiem?” he said gravely.
It came out before he could think too much about it. He stopped, almost wanting to take it back, but then Kiem gave a surprised, delighted smile. Jainan hadn’t seen that smile before. He dropped his gaze back down to the table, but someone with a personality as intense as a laser cannon was focusing it all blindingly on him, and he wasn’t immune.
“Can’t think of anything I’d like better,” Kiem said, abandoning the last scraps on his plate. “Shall we?”
* * *
The euphoria from their brief accord couldn’t last. On the walk back to Kiem’s rooms, it drained away even as Kiem kept up his stream of chatter, leaving Jainan with only low-level dread. Even Kiem seemed more subdued and lost the thread of what he was saying as he opened the door, which was probably for the best, since Jainan hadn’t heard a word he’d said in the last five minutes.
The problem was hope. Against all the evidence, some part of Jainan wondered if there was a chance that he could be good enough for Kiem tonight, if they could lay the foundations for a happy, stable marriage that would hold the treaty together. It wasn’t even as if there was a logical reason for hope. Jainan knew from his grim foray into the gossip logs that Kiem had at least half a dozen previous lovers. More women than men, and every one of them beautiful, confident, looking like an effortless match for Kiem even in passing paparazzi shots. People Kiem had picked, not had forced on him. Jainan couldn’t compete.
He let go of Kiem’s arm once they were inside. Every movement he made felt awkward. He sat on the edge of a couch to stop himself from hovering and then realized that he was making things even more awkward—what was this, a wedding night or a polite visit? He couldn’t work out what to do with his hands.
The images and vids accompanying the gossip log articles hadn’t captured Kiem well: in person he had a compelling vivacity, as if he contained fractionally too much energy for the confines of his body. He turned a wall screen off, made the lights brighter and then dimmer, flashed a distracted smile at Jainan, and ended up making a beeline for the samovar. “Right! What would you like? Bel hooked up the dispenser so you can mix any flavor—”
“Just coffee,” Jainan said abruptly. His tongue felt thick in his mouth. He hadn’t meant to interrupt.
He swallowed in the silence that followed and listened to the mechanical clicks of hot water pouring. Kiem turned with a coffee cup in either hand. They didn’t match, as if he’d inherited bits and pieces from different people; one was heavy and deep brown, the other was army issue from a division Jainan didn’t recognize. He glanced up, attempting to read Kiem’s face, then wished he hadn’t. The easy smile wasn’t there anymore.
Kiem put the larger cup down in front of Jainan. “Okay,” he said. “I think something needs to be said.”
Jainan didn’t touch the coffee. He stared at the table beside it. “Yes?”